Rockabilly Jim, You Try Too Hard

Jay and I went to see a friend's band, White Trash Whiplash, on Friday. They were decent and all, but that's not what my story is about. No, friends, this particular rant centers on the singer/guitarist in the second band. We were at this little place down in Georgetown, see, where it was all old wallpaper and mounted animal heads. Jules Mae's, I think it was called. As country as you get in industrial Seattle, which is to say it was a rockabilly place. And standing afore Jay and I during WTWL was this dude who was so primped and pressed that I took a picture to later show my pa. Unfortunately, the snapshot didn't turn out, so pa and y'all are just gonna have to get by on a written description alone.

The dude was one of those nouveau greasers, all salon-coiffed hair and perfectly razed sideburns. His black t-shirt, sporting the name of his band on the back, was crisp and unfaded. His Levi's were a dark, untainted indigo, and I'll be damned if he didn't iron those 10" cuffs up. Not a spot of grease was apparent anywhere on him, and no thanks to the perfectly-folded rag hanging from his back pocket.
It was all so fucking STERILE and manufactured. I wanted a picture for my dad because he gets just as annoyed at these poseurs as I do- nay, moreso, since he was around to witness the original coming of their ilk. He's seen the real thing, and these cleaned-up versions of them who attempt to pay homage while dressing in spring-fresh vestiments are a paltry substitute for their honestly greasy ancestors. There's a reason they were called "greasers," after all. This new breed doesn't do the name justice. Jay pointed out that the very essence of worrying oneself into such a narrow image is intrinsically very metrosexual...precisely the opposite of what the original greasers portrayed.

Of course, this prettyboy wasn't the only one like this at the bar. There were hordes of them, men and women alike. Dare I say, the women were possibly even worse. Different, just like everyone else- as it applies to goths, so does it to the rockabilly contingent. All huge, full skirts, betty bangs, and red lipstick. It was like being at a dressup party. Granted, the girls weren't guilty of reworking their costumes into something less authentic than their mothers' fashions, but it all just rang so hollow with me. "But this IS who I really am," I'm sure would be the response to inquiries of why they try so hard to be someone other than themselves. I wanted to ask the girl with a V-8 tattooed on her shoulder if she actually knew the firing pattern of a Chevy small-block 350. Or does her boyfriend just like hot rods? Oh, her boyfriend is the one over there with hands clean as the day he was born, and with no trace of grease to be found?
Don't try to play the part until you know what you're talking about, y'all. These pristine fashions betray what you may actually know about the culture.

To his credit, the "greaser" kid did wail on their cover of Ace of Spades. "A metal nerd trapped in a rockabilly band," said my man.

And I just spilled coffee on myself. Ah, karma, ye will not stop me from being a hater.