Not that this is breaking news, but it's worth mentioning for clarification purposes: Rolling Stone has the peripheral vision of the Hubble telescope.
For the sake of the heavenly bodies impossible to see — and the black holes not worth seeing (e.g. Bono's political hoo-ha) — the famed music magazine needs to stop trying for distance and beauty and start trying for substance. Otherwise, they should stop trying altogether.
October's Rolling Stone, the annual Women in Rock issue, didn't just neglect vital females in the music biz, it plowed right over them, choosing oversexed hormones in favor of honorable music journalism.
Britney Spears was given an entire page and a third of the cover, yet The Donnas were neglected.
Mandy Moore was given enough room to plug her atrocious movies, yet Bikini Kill was limited to a single graph.
Cher wore a vile cowboy hat and Stevie Nicks dressed as Satan's bride, yet Wendy O. Williams' now-classic mohawk was noticeably absent.
Those errors are forgivable — The Donnas just undertook the major-label switch, Bikini Kill broke up long ago, Wendy O. took her own life — but, to up-and-coming women in music, the very idea of such a gushing is more hideous than obvious second-guesses.
Check in on Agent M, the 23-year-old punk queen from Tsunami Bomb (a classy rock band coming Nov. 14 to the Bash on Ash). Her real name, one she playfully refuses to release, was thrashed for a secret agent moniker more reminiscent of Bond than traditional Orange County chomp.
As a woman — boobs, vagina and the like — M reads Rolling Stone. As a woman — sharp mind, quick wit and the like — she disapproves.
In her words, "I think that it's total crap."
"It's lame that it has to be that way," she dryly purged. "It's a nice gesture, but it's also ridiculous that to get women coverage there has to be a whole issue devoted just to them."
Unfortunately, like morals and modesty, talent went by the wayside, where it was kicked to death by Shakira's knife-pointed boots, pile-driven by Christina's glistening thighs and tit-smacked by Britney. (Who knew the modern feminist manifesto consisted of two words: "Be Slutty"?)
"I don't distinguish myself as a woman singer," M dashed out. "Even though I am a woman, I write music. That's all there is to it — it's about the music. I'm proud of my gender, but it's being used against us."
No more dwelling on the negative — M never stated this, but it can be assumed she doesn't want to go into the annals of history as a massive complainer. Tsunami Bomb and its textured lead singer don't live on musical hatred. I do, but only because it fits into my personal agenda: bringing attention to music that goes unnoticed.
M and her band are invigorating music makers. They have a great new disc, "The Ultimate Escape," and are fluent in the classic punk ethic of ages past. Just so happens the lead singer is female.
If the readers of Rolling Stone are going to be deprived of a great band (and others not mentioned here) because of exposed flesh and trendy boots, then the least I could do is offer this campus the chance to tune in now.
Sometimes the best band and the best examples of women in rock aren't the brightest stars in the galaxy. They aren't the screaming pulsars or the milky ways (Christina's thighs again?).
Sometimes they're in our peripheral — obvious, but awkwardly placed.
Michael Clawson is a journalism junior. Reach him at michael.clawson@asu.edu.
