Music as a profession is different. Accounting, doctoring, lawyering -- you have to be qualified to do those jobs. Meanwhile, any yahoo with stars in his eyes or a bootmark across his broken heart can pick up a guitar and start practicing chords, pose in the mirror and begin fancying himself the next big thing. It's what makes music magical. And shitty. Because sometimes aces pick up the ax, and sometimes douchebags do. Fender and Gibson don't discriminate. So when whiny jocks unable to cope with Mommy and Daddy's slap-fights rebel against the other linemen on their football team by piercing their brows and penning angst-ridden acoustic numbers about the dumper their life is in, the end result is always a mountain of suck so tall Edmund Hillary is like, "Holy shit!" Staind, Taproot, P.O.D., Fred Durst, Papa Roach, Korn -- in their infinite wisdom, the rock trend gods have escorted just about all these ex-jock/dysfunctional family bands out the door. Now it's up to you: Either invite them back into the house or give them one final kick and then bolt the fucker shut! For those who choose the latter: We! Sa-lute! You!
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