All the wrong reasons

The 2000s were a strange time. We knew the music we were listening to sucked ass but we listened anyway.

Of course I have fond memories of it all. Whenever Shinedown, Hinder, or Three Doors Down come on the radio, I think back to the days of sitting on someone’s dirty floor in their shitty apartment while playing Halo. It was godawful music, I knew it, but it always held a special place in my heart.

Then there’s Nickelback. Obviously they’re a punchline nowadays, but it’s hard to believe just how big they were. It’s embarrassing to be honest. No one in their right mind…even then…would have considered them a great (or even GOOD) band, but somehow All the Right Reasons became one of the best selling albums of all time.

Upon reflection, it pisses me off. Because Nickelback is now considered “classic” rock, they’re still trying to shove this bullshit down our throats. No one wants to listen to this crap on their morning commute. We’d be better off sitting in rush hour traffic sulking in our own despair.

Just read these shitty lyrics from Rockstar:

I want a brand new house on an episode of Cribs
And a bathroom I can play baseball in
And a king-size tub, big enough for ten plus me
(Uh, so what you need?)

I’ll need a credit card that’s got no limit
And a big black jet with a bedroom in it
Gonna join the mile high club at 37, 000 feet
(Been there, done that)

I want a new tour bus full of old guitars
My own star on Hollywood Boulevard
Somewhere between Cher and James Dean is fine for me
(So how you gonna do it?)

I’m gonna trade this life for fortune and fame
I’d even cut my hair and changed my name

‘Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars
And live in hilltop houses, driving 15 cars
The girls come easy, and the drugs come cheap
We’ll all stay skinny, ’cause we just won’t eat

And we’ll hang out in the coolest bars
In the V.I.P. with the movie stars
Every good gold digger’s gonna wind up there
Every Playboy Bunny with her bleached blond hair and, well

Hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar
Hmm, hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar

I wanna be great like Elvis without the tassels
Hire eight body guards that love to beat up assholes
Sign a couple autographs, so I can eat my meals for free
(I’ll have the quesadilla, haha!)

(Full credit, of course, goes to Nickelback for writing this monstrosity)

Did the trauma from 9/11 knock our shared belief in good taste? How was this possible?

We need answers before zoomers try to convince us that this was actually good music.