Letter To Jimmy Page: Happy Birthday

It all started with “Dazed and Confused.” Sure, the violin bow was cool. I still remember hearing about it from my friend’s older brother. “Dude, he played with a fucking violin bow! It was fucking insane, dude! It was like watching fucking Beethoven, but if Beethoven kicked ass! And took names!” It took many years before I realized the three words that were conspicuously absent from my friend’s brother’s assessment: “it,” “sounded,” and “great.”

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Because, Jimmy, it didn’t sound great. It sounded like ass. It was a novelty. Your solos were long-winded, self-indulgent jerk-off sessions that contributed absolutely nothing to the music. Your solos weren’t soulful explorations of the dark recesses of your heart, they were boring blues riffs regurgitated for a bunch of stoned white kids. Your bow, Jimmy? It was nothing more than a big dick that you stroked, by yourself, until you came.

You made us all sit there and watch. Hell, with How the West Was Won and the remastered The Song Remains the Same, you’re still making us sit and watch. You’re like our “funny uncle” who does dirty things at Thanksgiving dinner, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it. Bad touch, Jimmy. Bad touch.

If it’d ended there, I could forgive you. But it didn’t end. You started a horrible trend. All those axe-slingin’ fools in the ’80s followed you like lemurs. That guitar solo by Jimmy Crespo during Aerosmith’s tour for Rock in a Hard Place? That was your fault. The miserable wanking of C.C. DeVille? You own that. The existence of the Michael Schenker Group? James Patrick Page, you should be ashamed of yourself.

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And it’s not just guitarists who followed you down the slippery slope. I want back the 15 minutes of my life that Michael Anthony stole from me during the summer of 1986. Yes, it’s my fault that I paid to see Van Hagar, but that bass solo was your fault. What Michael Anthony did with a Jack Daniels bottle full of iced tea wasn’t much different than what you did with a violin bow and the blues: You both spit all over your fans.

I truly do send you good wishes on this special day, because your gifts to the world outweigh the musical plague you unleashed. But I kind of hope somebody buys you one of those corny Hallmark cards that plays a song when you open it, and I hope your card plays about 300 hours of Yngwie solos.

Happy birthday, Jimmy. Now put down the fucking bow and eat some cake.