Hard Rock Cafe A Total Misnomer
I don’t think that Kelly Clarkson can be considered hard rock. Neither can Sugar Ray vintage 1998 when Mark McGrath got down on his knees to deepthroat VH1. But that’s just my opinion. Obviously it should be left up to the experts, and when the Hard Rock Café decides to loop these “hard rockers” on TVs all over the downtown monstrosity, who am I to argue?
I would never choose to just meander into a Hard Rock Café, but when word hit the street that Denver’s own had just received a new shipment of “memorabilia,” I thought I might swing by, you know, ironically. It was horrible. First I sat down and had a beer and a plate of fries. Ten fucking dollars. I don’t know who these people think they are, but charging $5.50 for a pint is stupid, I don’t care how many gold statues of Elvis it comes with.
Second, whoever is in charge of deciding what crap goes on the wall apparently thinks that Denver is the '80s-hair-band capital of the world. There were so many rhinestoned jumpsuits, the glimmer started making me dizzy. Between Motley Crue and Bon Jovi, the Hard Rock could blind a nation.
And finally, according to the plaques accompanying the rock detritus, Red Rocks is the only venue that has ever existed in Colorado. No one ever played anywhere else in Colorado besides Morrison. Good job with the research fellas.
So I said goodbye to the glamour of rock’s past and hope to never return. Leave it to the tourists I say, and the bastards who think it is entertaining to drink Bud Light out of an aluminum bottle while ogling a wife-beater that the bassist from Maroon 5 once wore. Totally hard rock, man.