The epicentre of thousands of buttock-clenchingly embarrassing formulaic ‘rock’ moments, the immensely popular JBJ has spearheaded the radio-friendliness of the genre for almost three decades, in all this time managing to contribute nothing new, exciting or groundbreaking to it. Rather than push the envelope, he’s firmly sealed himself inside it. It’s almost as if the young Jon Bongiovi Jr. sat down when he was 15 and read an encyclopaedia on how to be a rock star, producing singularly unimaginative song after song, performance after performance. Being the finest exponent of cock rock in the business is nothing to be proud of. It’s rock by numbers.
John’s prescription for success runs thus: Big hair? Check. Leather jackets with tassels? Check. Bombastic singalonga choruses? Check. Loud guitars for the boys and a smile and a wink for the ladies? Check. Referring to a motorbike as a “steel horse”? Fucking check. He’s spent half a lifetime producing music for mongs and is so outdated, he’s even coming back into fashion again. He’s the ultimate conservative rock star. While true artists bare their souls and bleed for their music, Jon has nothing more than Dairylea running through his veins. And Dairylea Light at that.
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