Soon the scene is awash with
G N R derivatives; you can’t
move on The Strip for clones
of me or Slash. The other guys too.
Suddenly every hustler under the
age of 40 has grown their hair,
got some leathers. And the bands
…the bands are fucking terrible.
They’re everywhere, playing every
venue, banging the same strippers who
wouldn’t touch us in the past, getting
comped at all the clubs we’re barred from.
And the music – the music is bullshit:
lightweight, blow-dried, perfumed
plastic punk, over-wrought
and all over the radio and TV:
Mr. Big and Warrant
Winger and Tesla
Slaughter and Ratt
White Lion, Bad English ,
Cinderella and fucking
Poison. Sometimes I can’t
help but wonder: is this
shit our legacy to the world?