the legends, the revolutionaries, the avant-garde, gone. those who knew better simply went away or sprayed the walls with their brains…they controlled their destiny.
then there’s the has-beens who nailed it, rode it, and didn’t take the hint. the cool and savvy got tired of their shit, only the aged of both mind and spirit kept applauding for their return.
there’s nothing more pathetic than old fucks who still think they got it and simply refuse to go away. it’s no good, it gets in the way of progress. they’re not to blame, it’s a nostalgic generation refusing to let go, throwing money at them to stay. it’s a sad state of affairs, this.
they’ll forever wonder what would have become of him, what sort of evolution would’ve taken place, what he would’ve look like. immortalized, a generation would grow from his ashes never having witnessed him in the flesh, read of his latest debauchery, or listen to his newest translation of poetry into music. it must all be fed secondhand through those who lived it, the books that published it, the music he left behind. the image of the Lizard King in tight leather pants was as relevant then as it is now. Jim Morrison is a 928.
disappearing too soon, it, like he, had to; there couldn’t be another way. the 928’s emergence was a shock; nothing else was like it. you stopped whatever you were doing to stare at it. you wanted to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination, because if it was, you’d never be able to explain it. fresh, exciting, bestial; there was promise in the air. dreams of one day sharing intimate space with it consumed you. it possessed you with its shape. its colors and textiles mesmerized. the boom of its exhaust pounding into your chest and exiting through whiskers on your neck snapped you out of it. the 928 was a sophisticated woman with a hot pussy you were too scared to approach.
in the distance loomed a threat.
a nasty, uncouth punk would underscore a movement that burned white hot. he became the champion of the disenfranchised. the face of a the anti- establishment. the snarl bolstered by terrorizing looks instilled fear into those that crossed his path. if ever there were a more perfect incarnation of Sid Vicious into steel, rubber and oil, the 924 Carrera GT was it.
Sid gave the Sex Pistols the image they were looking for. the crowds would be whipped into a frenzy during his performances. those who tried to emulate his persona failed to capture the static charge he possessed. his rawness was inimitable.
the creators of the 924 Carrera GT must’ve somehow extracted Sid’s persona and infused it into this machine. it was born angry at a world that disrespected its kind. it would prove to those who dismissed its origins as common and lacking pedigree that it wasn’t a car to be fucked with. it was serious, skipping the formalities grabbing you by the crotch and getting right to the point. underestimate it and you got punched in the face without warning.
"the 928 was a sophisticated woman with a hot pussy you were too scared to approach."
like the blinding flash of a light bulb just before it dies, Sid and the Carrera GT were victims of their own successes. although their lives were cut short, they were heard loud and clear when they yelled fuck you with a smile to the old guard.
Mick Jagger’s tragedy isn’t his age, it’s that he’s still around. he made a mockery of whatever edge he had 53 years ago by insisting to be heard long after the thrust of his movement became flaccid. there’s no message today, no point to their existence other than to continue cheating death. maybe that’s why those who follow them today can relate; they’re doing precisely the same thing…existing without a point.
equating the 911 to Mick seems a cheap shot to the gut. it’s not.
evolution is a good thing, but 50 years’ worth is far too long for a movement or a car. Dr. Fuhrmann had the right idea preparing for the 911’s inevitable death. Schutz gave it a stay of execution in the 80’s. Wiedeking should’ve said enough’s enough and bowed the 911 out with the superb 993 while building the next generation of a Porsche that should’ve done to the 911 what it did to the 356; create an entirely different species built on the same principles and assign it a different number. big risk, yes; but some of the best creations in the industrial revolution were born of such risks. the Stones putting out another insipid collection of jingles isn’t going to get people out into the streets demanding change. the newest 911 should get enthusiasts out on the street demanding change. I’d make the same arguments for the Mini, the Fiat 500, and the Beetle.
Ferrari has the right idea from the start; keep evolving by creating different models in different configurations. with each turn, the models like the company keep their edge, their uniqueness, while keeping enthusiasts on the edge of their seats wondering what’s next.
the 924 and 928 along with the 944 and 968 will forever be the legends they deserve to be. they died with some semblance of dignity leaving enthusiasts with yearning and curiosity of what they would’ve become had they gone on a little longer. they’ve become the Che Guevarra T-shirts celebrating a lost hero. don’t ever bring them back, all respect will be lost.
Mick and the 911 keep the dream alive, but it becomes much more difficult to keep reinventing yourself as you age. even more difficult is to bring in the new generations who haven’t a clue what they were all about. at that point, they’ll have become a novelty with the faithful longing for their earlier works and a time forgot.
as long as we have the artificially youthful establishment waving fistfuls of cash in the air ready to feed their nostalgic urges, we’ll always have the Rolling Stones and the 911. eventually, this forever young absurdity will die off along with the aggravating generation that fed it for so long. only then could we move on.
image sources: http://www.classicrockersnetwork.com, http://wallpapercave.com, http://www.fameimages.com, http://www.4starclassics.com, https://www.flickr.com