Red Hot Chili Peppers. They are pillars of the community. Icons in a city of icons. They have sponsored community programs that have given the gift of music and more to the people of Los Angeles. They are former students of Fairfax High School. They are die-hard, mother fucking LA Lakers homers! Actors, authors, fathers, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductees. You name it! I even heard Flea might be running for mayor. I know! It is not for any of these reasons that I write these words. Those reasons make this harder than it has to be.
The reason is that every single time “Tell Me Baby,” or “Snow (Hey Oh),” come on, I change the radio station as fast as possible and then slap myself for still listening the radio. It’s led to an outright auditory protest in my brain, and it’s bled over into material that I had once considered perfect. So it’s not for being bastions of goodness blood-soaked in sexual innuendo and copious amounts of narcotics, but for the shitty, shitty music of late.
This column is supposed...
