Worst. Vibe Shift. Ever.
I'm not getting anything that I want from this cultural reckoning
How do you measure a vibe shift? That’s something I’ve wondered for a while. And I’ve finally settled on a definition: You measure vibe shifts based on the hotness of people in underwear ads. Below, I submit definitive proof that wokeness is dead:
The anti-woke backlash promised many things: Better superhero movies, less-tortuous HR trainings, and social excommunication for people who put their pronouns in their Twitter bio. Despite not being on board with the entire anti-woke agenda, I welcomed some of the changes heralded by the backlash. After all, I’m of the opinion that not every movie, TV show, breakfast cereal, article of clothing, toothpaste, radial tire, and 220-grit sanding sponge must contain a powerful message about systemic racism.
But the anti-woke backlash has not delivered the things I wanted. I was promised sexier cartoon rabbits; I’ve gotten an aspiring authoritarian president who is bumbling his way into a recession. That’s a pretty big item in the “con” side of the ledger. Meanwhile, the benefits of this vibe shift haven’t materialized. If this vibe shift is going to win me over, below are some things that I’d like to see happen, and soon.
The return of the guitar solo
When did we, as a nation, lose the ability to righteously shred? You used to not be able to swing a pair of rhinestone-studded pants without hitting some highly dexterous dude eager to show off his tasty licks. Our TV screens used to be chock-full-o’ long haired guys shoving their guitar down the camera lens trying to finger-tap their way to Guitar God status; our dorm rooms were once brimming with wannabe Jimmy Pages hoping to score some under-the-shirt action by scuffling their way through “Black Dog”.
Now? Leather-clad dudes with their face forced into a tight-lipped grimace as they sustain a string bend on the 15th fret are nowhere to be found. I can’t even remember the last time I saw someone hit a distortion pedal, step forward, and musically say “prepare to have your fucking minds blown” — the last time might have been Prince at the 2004 Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame ceremony. That’s a more-than-twenty-year drought of guys putting their foot up on a floor monitor, pointing the neck of their Les Paul Custom to the sky like King Arthur wielding Excalibur itself, and summoning rock manna from the heavens. It seems like someone should do something about that.