Let’s begin with Prince. This past summer P. Rogers Nelson reaffirmed his status as the sexiest man in music during a 21 shows stint at the historic Forum in Inglewood, wooing audiences that encompassed all race, colors, ages, and creeds. Over the course of several weeks, Prince turned everyone on—the retired African American church ladies, the potbellied middle-aged Mexican dudes, the gay Asian teens, the awestruck Eastsiders. Four thousand people from all walks of life packed each and every show and sang “Purple Rain” in cathartic unison. 

    But the highlight, the pinnacle, the climax, of these performances, came when (to the crowd’s unbridled hormone-addled glee) the stadium screen cameras focused directly in on Prince’s tight and sculpted ass, as it shook and swayed to a sweaty, primordial beat. First left. Then right. Then left again. 

    Pop music and sexuality have dovetailed from the start, since the very early days of Jelly Roll Morton’s smutty innuendo, on into Elvis’ infamous pelvic thrust, and beyond. Sex simmered under Chuck Berry’s strut, fed the white heat of James Brown’s primal screams, fueled the reptilian slouch of a leather-panted Jim Morrison, and emanated from the tongue-flicked fellatio of Jimi Hendrix. It was sex that formed the cornerstone of the orgiastic stadium rock of the 1970s, the cocaine glitz of disco, and the goofy androgynous horniness of 1980s cheese metal, where men with teased hair and turquoise eyeliner boasted of groupie conquests and backstage blowjobs. 

    But what exactly happened to that electric undercurrent of sexuality in rock ‘n’ roll (and in pop, hip hop, and dance music)? Where are the prowling Iggy Pops, the pouting Mick Jaggers, the heat-packing Robert Plants? Where is the rock idol who just wants to get laid? Don’t you miss nitty gritty dirt rock and dry humping to Led Zeppelin? 

    Let’s take a closer look at today’s mega-label chart-toppers, the pop and hip hop superstars who dominate and define: Kanye is not sexy. Kanye is fashionable. Eminem plays Donkey Kong all day and worries about his weight. Beyoncé is married. Lil’ Wayne is in love. Lady Gaga is an alien. Katy Perry is candy-coated, and also married. Justin Bieber? Please. 

    Shall we head into the underground? Which is not really “indie” any more, but whatever. Here we have the neo-garage/punk Vice Records kids, bands that definitely embrace traditional rock ‘n’ roll hell-raising traditions, yet reek of adolescent sloppiness, premature ejaculation, and vomit. Bands like the Black Lips—raucous, hard partying, undeniably fun—are fond of pulling out their genitals on stage, sloppily tongue-kissing each other, and routinely destroying their guitars. While it could be sexy, somehow it isn’t. 

    Then we’ve got the indie rockers, the shoegazers, the mopey, the doughy, and the bespectacled. ‘Nuff said. And the freak-folkies, whom can occasionally be sexy in a delicate, feminine way, but usually aren’t.

    Let’s not even include DJs in this mix, because anyone standing behind turntables/computers is inherently unsexy. Electro, admittedly, has a kind of early-‘80s, Robert Palmer-type sensuality to it, a big shoulder, pastel suit-jacket strut, all Brian Ferry smooth and Brian Eno perfect. But it doesn’t perspire. And it doesn’t grind. 

    On the retro scene, we’ve got bands like Mumford & Sons, paunchy Brits storming the already overloaded Americana bandwagon, playing sensitive, twangy, Dylan-inspired numbers that, while pleasant, are certainly not sexy. Dylan was blue-eyed and brooding, undoubtedly hot despite (or perhaps due to) his misanthropy. But this new breed of Americana is without anger or cocky defiance. It’s about nostalgia mostly, wood smoke and steam trains and mustache wax. There is something in it that is just too precise and thin-skinned and melancholic to be sexy. 

    Basically, it has no balls. 

    It begs the question: where did all the balls go? 

    The real reason behind rock’s castration might have to do with events specific to both Generation X and Y. These include being raised in a near-fascist environment of political correctness, which frowns (rightly) upon misogyny of any kind; the biggest population of young men reared by single moms in the history of the world; and, of course, a universal obsession with technology that tends to negate the body. 

     Also, in a very basic sense, it’s not “cool” right now to be sexual. Instead there is a celebration of sensitivity and ambiguous metrosexuality, as well an embrace of the residuals of New Age touchy-feely-ness which has birthed a kind of hip, shamanic ennui. Bands are gazing into crystals or computer screens instead of connecting to their music through their crotches.

     The result has been an influx of SNAGs in rock ‘n’ roll, SNAG being an unflattering term coined for the evolving hordes of “Sensitive New Age Guy.” One can almost hear the collective sigh of frustration from all those futilely looking for beefcakes who will pick them up and throw them onto the bed. Acts like Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros perhaps define this term, exactly the kind of long-haired, yoga-pants types that would rather read your aura and give you a really great back massage than get to rammin’. 

     There are exceptions, of course. New Orleans drag queen Big Freedia makes a lusty, gutsy, dance music called “Bounce” that requires an inordinate amount of big butt bootyshaking. His/Her live shows (complete with onstage big butt bootyshakers) are quickly becoming legendary. Of the garage rock crew, there’s No Bunny, who performs Ramones-ish party tunes clad in leather jacket, bare chest, skin tight denim…and a rabbit mask. The idea presumably being that rabbits (and No Bunny) really like to fuck. Kansas City eccentrics Ssion take sex and warp it, stretch it, turn it inside out, and make it into art.  

     And there’s Prince of course. Past 50, and still making us wet, after all these years. Perhaps Prince will lead the revolution, as he’s always promised, and take our New Millennial ambi/metrosexuality and thrust it into the future. 

     Lord knows we need it. We need it because all those kids groping in humid rec rooms and high school gyms around the globe need something to make out to, to sweat to, to slow dance to; they need music which will lead them up and out and into their own sweet, individual, evolving sexuality. 

     So, what do you say? Let’s go crazy, shall we? Let’s make babies with Prince.