Ok, so I know that there have been many out there who have claimed and conjured thoughts of Rock being dead.  Every generation, it seems, has some fat, greasy Comicbook-Guy-esque glutton lit only by the faint glow of his computer screen typing away his manefesto on how the new music killed the music ten years ago.  Then, at the end of his thesis, proudly proclaims, like many before him, that Rock Is Dead!  And, these theories, as self-righteous as they were, were all true.  Rock has always been an Ouroborosian creature, a gigantic Snake God eating it's own tale/tail.  Jazz killed Blues, Rock and Roll killed Jazz, Disco killed Rock and Roll, Punk killed Disco, etc and etc.  But now, looking and listening to the world around me, I realize how grave our situation is.  Rock is not just fresh dead, it's puss-filled and rotten, the white lilly's left on it's grave have long withered and died.  As I lie here in my room, filled with Tweny-something mal-content, engourging myself on Stephen Davis' 'Jim Morrison: Life, Death, Legend' I realize that Rock really died that summer of '71.  The Rock God shone in Morrison, spoke through his voice, used his shell as an avatarian centre, a vortex, a language all it's own.  Then, spiralling out from Morrison; Presley, Hendrix, Joplin, Jones, McKernan, etc, the Rock Gods and Goddess all left this place, floated up in a mass migration to Mount Olympus, leaving empty thones, baren petistills, fans sobbing and begreived.  No one could fill this skism, no one could carry the war sheild, the thunderbolt.  The freedom caused by the sixties generation, the years of fighting off squares and militant closet-cases washed down the drain by '75.  Now, before I start to bad mouth greats like The Grateful Dead, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, and David Bowe, these were all just demi-gods.  Herculian though they may have been, they didn't have the crazed, raw energy of the predecessors.  They mimiced only their style and swagger, mixing it with tidbits of their own narciccism, packaging it as brand new.  Punk, though great in it's own right, rebelled not to social restraint and personal conformaty, but against the afroed out poly-blends of the Disco generation.  Then, Rock really died.  The hair bands of the Eighties, well, enough said on that.  Then came a revival, a Messianic comeback from the dead, the Ninties.  Illuring princes of pronouns like Trent Rezner and Marilyn Manson turned people back on to Rock.  Goddesses like Tori Amos (I know, I'm biast here) and Lisa Lobe, called like sirens to youth, poetry was back in song.  But, now that the Ninties have long been over, these protean Daemons sank away into the darkness, like Lestat into the swamp.  They were not beams of light, but a conglomeration of sparks, illuminating, the fading into the background.  But now, gosh, what has this generation got?  What poet laureate, what Keuroac to guide them?  The flash-dance beats of emo-inspired riffs are great for now, but three months hence will be forgotten, lost in the Attention Disorder of America.  What's worse is that they don't know the Greats, the Gods, the Spring from which every performer draws.  Every dark lyric Morrison created will be soon erased from the social mindset.  All the promises and freedoms their grandparents won have all fallen.  People get high now, not to reach Enlightenment, but to escape reality, slipping away into the black wasteland of Forever Purgatory, never coming back with anything useful.  Who will be the next Rock God?  Will they come in my lifetime?  Maybe everything has been done? Maybe everything has been created?  Every inch discovered, every stone turned and investigated?  Some still wait though, bastions of hope for our Rock Messiah to resurerect Music.  But, is it too late?