Yup, that’s right: Bull riders are the new rock stars.
They’ve got style, threads, fan clubs, tee shirts, mainstream media coverage, national and international tours (in some of the same venues you’d see concerts), videos, songs, even (sadly) groupies (“Buckle Bunnies”).
The main difference: no drug or drinking problems. You don’t climb aboard 1800 pounds of dynamite, holding on with one hand, and expect to survive.
If you’re a fan of extreme sports, check out bull riding. There’s nothing more extreme. They’re not kidding when they call it “the toughest sport on earth.”
And FYI: the bulls are not harmed in any way. There’s nothing attached to their genitals, as so many people think. The cowboys’ spurs are as blunt as a spoon; the spurring action is just to score extra style points.
Bulls are valuable breeding stock. They buck because they’re bred and trained to buck from a young age… and because they’re annoyed by the cow bell suspended on the bull rope below them; they just want to get the annoying cowboy off their backs as soon as possible. Only cowboys get hurt.
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4 Responses to Bull Riders Are The New Rock Stars
Well, Kris, you know that some segments of the public (not to mention some of the musicians we covered) considered us rock critics as veritable “bull writers,” so this may be a natural progression.
I haven’t worried about the bulls’ working conditions thus far, as I’ve been more concerned whether the members of the Hair Metal bands of the 1980′s had something attached to their genitals to make their pompadours stand up like that. It’s a Story That Needs To Be Told.
This may be digressing already, but I’ve always liked we (mature?) Americans’ use of the slang term “bulls” to refer to police officers. Richard Meltzer employs it very effectively at several points in his impressive canon.
“Only cowboys get hurt” sounds like a sequel to Tom Robbins’ “Only Cowgirls Get the Blues” — has it been optioned yet?
You’re hilarious. Can’t say I blame the public for calling us names, though. I used to gag laughing at some of the pretentious crap cranked out by my fellow scribes. One of my all-time faves was Peter Knobler’s opening line of a Crawdaddy piece on Springsteen; I don’t remember the exact wording, but it went something like, “Bruce has been hurt…” Well, DUH, genius– ya live long enough, you’re gonna get hurt. Especially if you went to Catholic school.
I once was going to use a male pseudonym and submit a “Fill In The Blanks” piece to Rolling Stone, written in their Writer-As-Center-Of-Story-That’s-Supposed-To-Be-About-Rock-Star style.
The lead: “I’m sitting in [blank]‘s hotel room, waiting for him to show up. He’s two hours late. The ash trays are full; a half-empty bottle of Jack sits on the night stand. I hear voices in the hall, and suddenly [blank] is standing in front of me. The man who made me want to be a rock star when I was 12, and then a rock critic when I discovered I had no talent, is unshaven, rail-thin, a rock and roll spectre–and frontman for [blank], possibly the most significantly misunderstood band of our time. He shakes my hand. “Hey, man…” I hand him a cigarette, and start the tape rolling…”
…followed by several pages of blather about the junkie-of-the-month who managed to release a record and squeeze into leather pants, the deep significance of his minimalist lyrics, e.g., “I took a piss. I flushed the toilet. No more piss”
and his searing impact on my consciousness and ultimately on the entire planet, though of course he will die unsung.
But I didn’t think they’d get the joke.
When I took Kiss to the Museum of Natural History and had them photographed with the dinosaurs, nobody got that joke, either.
Bulls? I thought it was pigs. I must’ve slept through that class. I personally never called them anything but cops. And assholes. And motherfuckers. But not long ago at 2 a.m. I was stranded at the train station in my river town and the only taxi was a half hour away, so I called the local cop shop and they sent a nice lad to drive me home. I called him “Officer.”
The secret of how the Hair Bands made their ‘dos vertical: petrolatum–the main ingredient in heavy-duty pomade by Antenna, the trendy London salon. Alternatively, shoe polish (Rod Stewart and Ron Wood’s original hair dressing of choice) and/or Krazy Glue. Although if they went for the Krazy Glue, their hair would still be standing on end now.
Some fool did make a movie of Robbins’ book, and all I remember was the opening hideous close-up of gigantic thumbs waving in the breeze… a literal interpretation of the first line of the book. The rest of it sucked so bad my mind completely erased it. Along with 1971.
But seriously: watch a bull riding event on the Versus channel some time (it starts up again in August)–or in person, if the PBR comes out your way–and tell me you don’t get a little thrill when Guilherme Marchi dominates a 2000-pound monster and then jumps off and pounds his chest like a cartoon alpha male.
As a fellow recipient of a complimentary Lester Bangs missive, pleeeeze do me a solid and post something on my bull riding blog:
http://BullRidingMarketing.wordpress.com
You don’t have to know a damn thing about the sport–ask a question, whatever. It’s all part of my dastardly plan to make the PBR notice that women watch bull riding.
I’ve had to amend my usual “I love bull riding” statement after the ninth friend said, “Where are you going bull riding??”
Note: not “You’re riding bulls??!!” just, where am I doing it. I got tired of explaining that no woman in her right mind would get on one of those beasts, though apparently most people I know think I would.
No way. I can’t imagine what all that bull slobber would do to my hair.
Bull slobber! — That may be what the Hair Metal guys used to keep their coifs erect. Either that, or it’s the title of an esoteric ZZ Top outtake jam . . .
Your archetypal I’m-so-cool-I-can-hardly-stand-myself Rolling Stone reporter must have gone on to interview General McChrystal.
Speaking of the Versus channel, I just discovered that that’s who’s carrying the Indy Car races (other than the 500 itself) this season. What’s worse, I’ve evidently had Versus in my cable package all along, but didn’t know it, as Time-Warner didn’t bother to list the Versus schedule in their monthly booklet. I’ve got some catching up to do, as my late father inculcated a love of watching open-wheel auto racing in me in my youth (he’d raced cars and then powerboats in his own.) Now I’ll be Versus-ready in any case.
As for commenting on your bull riding blog, that will be another WWLD (What would Lester do?) moment . . .
Maybe this will make you realize Lester would say WTF and post about bull riding even if he didn’t know a damn thing about it: the new Indy CEO is none other than Randy Bernard, the CEO who brought the PBR (that’s Professional Bull Riding) association from nowhere to Versus. He just switched vehicles early this year.
P.S. How about that Paul McCartney, huh?
oh god, did I really just do a smiley face??