By Benjamin Leatherman
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Troy Farah
By Roger Calamaio
By Mark Deming
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Brian Palmer
BB: Well, obviously, there are people that say, "Warrant? Jesus, give it up." What do you say?
JL: Who considers what worthwhile? It's a matter of opinion. You may actually hate Warrant. But there are also people who love Warrant.
BB: Who says I hate Warrant?
JL: But I don't care either way because I am going to continue doing what I do. If somebody doesn't like Warrant, they shouldn't waste their time talking about the band. Be positive. That was the one thing I hated about the '90s' alternative grunge scene, because it wasn't music, it was therapy. You know, "I suck; I'm a creep; life sucks; kill me 'cause I'm a loser." That's not rock 'n' roll to me either.
BB: Well, what do you tell people who say you should just quit?
JL: I don't have to deal with that because I don't talk to those people, and they usually don't want to talk to me.
BB: Nobody brings up that kind of stuff when you're doing press?
JL: What, that I should quit? No. Usually it's all kept pretty positive. Because, first of all, who can predict what will happen in 2000? Being 34, I don't think I'm walking with a walker yet.
BB: In the band's heyday, there were rumors that you guys had pissed through all of your money really quickly. What happened?
JL: What happened with what? (obviously angry) Where do you get these rumors? You sound like a guy who sits on the Internet getting rumors and taking this thing and turning it into a relatively negative interview. (Editor's note: To the best of our knowledge, Bill Blake does not have a computer. We receive his submissions handwritten on brown paper bags, the kind that normally house 40ouncers.)
BB: Nah, bro. I just want you to answer a couple of questions. This is fascinating stuff, really.
JL: Well, you are (being negative) whether you realize it or not. (calming down) What anybody did in Warrant I have no idea because we all had separate accountants. I did go through a divorce and a two-million-dollar lawsuit with our merchandise company and Sony, which, yes, did hurt me. But am I poor? No. So I don't know what you mean by pissing through a lot of money.
BB: Oh, sorry. So I heard you play golf? What do you say to people who say golf is for pussies?
JL: Now who says golf is for pussies (angry again)? I would bet you some of the guys from Limp Bizkit play golf.
BB: I hate Limp Bizkit.
JL: So, anyway, you think you got enough, bro? I gotta go. Bye.
A Love Like Ours
A lot of people have wondered what happened to Barbra Streisand and that dude she married who was the possessed and murderous dad in The Amityville Horror. Some, like me, were probably hoping that maybe the dude had an Amityville flashback and took to Streisand's torso and skull with an ax, hewing her to tiny bits that he later served in the egg rolls at his agent's kid's bar mitzvah.
(Bad Boy Entertainment)
Rap's supposed disdain for white power structure was such a load of balderdash. Current stars like Puff Daddy, Snoop Dogg and LL Cool J resemble nothing more than a bunch of pathetic, rich white dudes who parade trophy booty, puff daddy-size cigars and substantiate feeble manhoods with silly attention-seeking devices like stupid cars, hideous mansions and an improving golf game. (In fact, pop's softest, whitest underbelly, Christopher Cross, even collaborates on "Forever" -- a move that rests this case.)
What's more, Puff and the rest of rap's current Armani-clad chart-toppers have deftly defied their populace by investing in value systems that lie solely in the want of indefatigable bank accounts. It's corporate Robin Hoodism; ripping off the poor and Fed-Exing it to the rich. It's Greed Rap, the biggest and most powerful genre in pop. If Ronald Reagan were still in office, rest assured that Puff and stuff would be frequent White House guests, giving private concerts for the Gipper and his Sinatra-knobbing first lady.
What's worse is Puff and stuff have got a bunch of illiterate and ugly suburban white boys emulating them, hence the bridge of bad metal and greed rap. (But take heart in the fact that Fred Durst's premature jiggles of midlife fat, suspect hairline and bevy of tats will ensure that he resembles a 50-year-old Tennessee trucker before his 30th birthday.) Rap, like rock 'n' roll, was supposed to be an antidote for corporate cock-sucking, not its trouble-shooting handbook. In the end, it all varies little from the Backstreet Boys, just an inconsequential void from which every third-rate cliché is mined beyond reason.
While a gallant effort was made to make something of this turd, it's really just Soundgarden in dress slacks. A lot of vacant Elton John/Fab Four misses weighed down with lines like "I'm drinking dust/With eyes of rust/Tonight my tears might stain your wings/So flutter home." Titles such as "Sweet Euphoria" are tossed about like so many old Uriah Heep records. Big deal, the guy finally listened to the Beatles. Welcome to "Golden Slumbers."