Clear Channel has so bruised classic rock it’s like an overripe peach escaped from a greedy corporate fist: “I will wring the highest profit possible out of lame programming and nationally broadcast generic deejays!” Classic rock is so over exposed that its context is irrelevant. Which is what makes it perfect.
I go bonkers on car trips longer than two hours. Hours two to four I get a little noxious, and then hours four plus I go totally off the deep end, which includes meaningless shouting, gripping the dash and rocking violently like I’m trying to shake the car, and ends with me pouting silently at the mean, nasty road. My only salvation is classic rock.
Some time around hour two, I start looking for the local Clear Channel classic rock station. Any white person can sing along with classic rock, which is why it’s so ubiquitous. Clear Channel wants me to come like they are and not fear the reaper. Okay, no problem. “Come on baby,” I’m already there.
Singing along, intentionally tunelessly, loudly and obnoxiously, I drown out the tedium of driving and the feeling of entrapment in my tiny car. Even my staunchly anti-corporate media husband plays along with the game and shouts “25 or six to four” with me. Should we try to do some more? All signs point to Yes. “In and around the lake.”
My favorite parts of automotive sing-alongs are changing lyrics to be witty or punning (“I wish I had Jesse’s squirrel”) and crazy back-up-dancing-fake-Freedom Rock-Woodstock-jamming out (Nodding head, “Yes, yes, yes—keep on rockin!” Shaking head, “No, no, no—don’t stop rockin!”).
Rock-n-roll will save my road-weary soul, Clear Channel style.
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