“The new generation of bands, they’re all nice boys,” chirps a boutique hotel owner (“Just Call Our Band the Model Guests,” David Brown, New York Times, 11/25/07). Articles such as this appear from time to time--obviously based heavily on press releases from the hotel industry—trumpeting the end of hotel-trashing behavior. For you see, the guys from Led Zeppelin and the Who need walkers to get around these days, and the new generation of “rock stars” are more interested in gyms and spas and high-speed internet access.
As the article/press release says, these days one is, “. . . unlikely to encounter many bands with larger-than-life personas.” Which makes me wonder why anyone would give a rat’s ass about them. The function of rock stars in society is cathartic: to live the lives of speed and excess that the rest of us can 
only dream of—and that includes, obviously, throwing TVs from hotel windows. Of such behavior, a drummer from an obscure band with the hateful name of the Editors even goes so far as to say, “It’s not. . .respectful,” causing both John Bonham and Keith Moon to roll over and vomit (or dry-heave at least!) in their graves.
The purpose of such articles is twofold: 1. to promote the false worship of American-Idol-type stars, manufactured by the record companies because they are easier to control than actual, talented musicians, who inevitably carry the requisite baggage of inner demons to be exorcised; and 2. to sound the death knell of quirky old hotels with actual character, together with the ascendancy of sterile, soulless boutique hotels.
To the later point, the article contains the requisite predictions of the death of the Chelsea (which it calls a “party palace” and a “sleaze-rock emporium”), together with—something new—a bit of gloating over the fact that one of their own damned and demented breed, BD Hotels, has seized control of the revered counterculture Mecca.
Regrettable as that is, however, BD has not quite managed to snuff out our legendary life-force as yet, and so the real rock stars--albeit perhaps without major label support--will continue to make the pilgrimage to the Chelsea for as long as they can still slip in undetected. Though the new flat screens don’t have quite the POP! of the old tube TVs, they will still provide quite a spectacle when they come crashing down onto the newly gentrified 23rd Street.
And as for all those fancy-schmancy new boutique hotels: the fixtures will become old in time, and perhaps even develop some character; and because the lure of sex, drugs, and Rock and Roll will forever remain strong, with the power to corrupt even studio-manufactured lip sync-ers and air guitarists, the fine art of hotel trashing will rise Phoenix-like from the ashes of its own too-hastily predicted demise. To this day our illustrious proprietor Stanley Bard will tell you that Sid Vicious was a nice boy too. -- Ed Hamilton
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