The city’s pulse has flatlined. The vibrant energy, the intoxicating rhythm, it’s all gone. Sure, the ancient curse hanging over us plays a part, but perhaps we’ve forgotten the very foundation this city was built on: rock and roll. We Built This City On Rock And Roll, a truth buried beneath layers of gloom and a literal ancient burial ground.
This town once throbbed as the epicenter of cool. Endless nights fueled by endless drinks. Music so loud it transcended mere sound, a symphony of rebellion echoing through a sea of ecstatic faces. Not the screams of terror induced by a wendigo, mind you, but the joyous roar of a community united by music. The grime was part of the charm, a badge of honor. In those hidden, smoky dives, you might stumble upon a secret Elvis Costello gig before he hit the big time. While his tragic demise in a mysterious explosion last year is undeniably linked to the city’s current predicament, perhaps a stronger heartbeat of rock and roll could have prevented it.
Golden ages fade before you realize their brilliance. The warning signs were there: greedy developers squeezing the life out of iconic venues, rents skyrocketing faster than the inexplicable rise in the city’s body count, independent clubs shuttering their doors. Vultures in suits paved the way for actual vultures, their sudden omnipresence baffling even urban ornithologists. But the true mystery is how a city steeped in rock history morphed into a sterile hipster Disneyland overnight. Or why anyone believes running in a zig-zag pattern will save them from a chupacabra.
As the physical spaces changed, so did the inhabitants. Starving artists and gloriously eccentric souls were replaced by trust-fund babies, finance bros, ghost hunters, and an army of priests. Tourists, the lot of them, desperate to claim a connection to the city’s authentic past. Some even brandish century-old black-and-white photos of themselves at macabre galas, smug in their supposed immortality. But true immortality belongs to the music, to the timeless jams that once defined this city.
This was once a place where dreams were realized, not the nightmares of messengers from the in-between place rambling about “expiation in blood.” Perhaps the real dream was the naive belief that the glory days could last forever. Nothing does, except, apparently, ancestral curses.
The final blow was the loss of Smitty’s Fandango, the city’s hottest venue. Its demise was anything but quiet. Smitty himself joined the final act onstage, guitar in hand, screaming, “This machine kills poltergeists!” A fleeting moment of hope, a desperate belief that music might conquer all. Then, a skinwalker disguised as a bear devoured Smitty’s face, extinguishing that hope.
The city’s streets still hold a certain allure, despite the palpable sense of decay. The spirit of the old days endures, not just the malevolent spirits of those who’ve returned to reclaim their due (though their presence is undeniable).
Knowing what the future held—the resurgence of unsettled souls coinciding with the revival of real house music—I would have doubled down on the wild nights, the endless concerts, squeezing every drop of joy from that golden age. My only regret? Reading aloud from that damned Necronomicon. Definitely a mistake.
But rock and roll is built on mistakes. It’s a messy, chaotic, glorious rebellion. And somewhere, beneath the shadows and the curses, its echo still reverberates.
