Rock 'n' Roll

What is the most concise practical working definition of Rock and Roll (no Pete Townshend dissertations)? I took a stab at it with help from brother Dave and his friend Allan:

Rock and Roll Music-

1. Is blues-, rockabilly-, skiffle-, Doo-wop-, ska-, or electronic-based.

2. Is meant to be played loudly and has a definite melody, a prominent bass line, and a strong beat (the characteristic "backbeat")

3. Is divided into songs of from 1 to 20 minutes in length.

4. Utilizes drums (or a drum machine) and at least two of the following instruments: guitar, saxophone, electronic organ, bass guitar/string bass.

Do I need to add more criteria? Or does someone have a shorter definition?

D’YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE?

Bo slumped in a chair in the corner, trying to make himself invisible. This was not easy, as he was a little taller than average and a little more handsome than average, but he tried anyway, since he also felt he was a little smarter than average. Of course, he had been in the castle many times before, more than he could count, he was sure . . . but only ever in the Great Hall, never before in this room. Unlike most of the castle, which was cold, dank, damp, and drafty, as castles are wont to be, the King’s Private Council Chamber was sunny, warm, and almost . . . cheerful. He knew, and dreaded, that he would be called upon near the end of the tedious agenda to speak for himself before the Grand Duchess and the King’s Private Council. There was a more important matter under consideration now, however, and all eyes were presently on the Grand Duchess.

The Grand Duchess was the daughter of the late King, whose name was never spoken without adding “The Great” immediately afterwards. He had reigned a long time, had been wise and kind, benevolent to his subjects and, without exception, beloved by them. He had won the Great War and brought such peace and prosperity to the country that even the most pessimistic Councilor was forced to admit that he could not forecast the day the current Golden Age might come to an end. The Grand Duchess had been a mere girl when her father died, so naturally a regent was appointed from the council to administer the royal duties until the Grand Duchess came of age. Unfortunately, the Council was less than confident in the idea of a female ruler, and the Regent had gotten a little too used to wielding such great power, and was very reluctant to give it up. So, the one chair that sat empty in the crowded room with its bright windows and fine tapestries was the King’s chair—the informal throne, made of gilded wood and satin, with just a few jewels scattered here and there on it. In point of fact, the Grand Duchess was now a mature woman, with heirs of her own, hardly the callow girl of years past. Yet, the Regent clung to power, with the Council backing him up, and some who were in the room that day swore they could see a small cobweb accenting the purple of the throne’s fine fabric.

The Grand Duchess was pleading the case for ending the interregnum, unsuccessfully again, it seemed, as Bo’s thoughts drifted off. He was from a good family, though not a noble, much less a royal one. His kin walked the line between the merchant class and the nobility without falling on either side, like a line of children playing “follow-the-leader” on a fence rail. But Bo had trouble holding up even this marginal reputation. No one ever called him a “slacker;” chiefly because the word hadn’t been invented yet. The reason for his presence among the King’s Council was that he had gotten the Grand Duchess’s daughter, the Marquessa, in a family way, or “great with child,” as they said in those days. Though he loved the Marquessa, his instinct was to run from responsibility and return to his life of drinking, fighting, gambling, carousing, and general dissipation. His friends supported this philosophy—“ace of spades before maids,” they would always say. If he abdicated this unwelcome responsibility—he would have said “buggered off” from it—she would be all right. After all, no one was more privileged and comfortable than the Royal Family, and a b-----d child was not automatic cause for shame in this kingdom. Because of his relatively low position, he could even go back to being the knavish lout he had always been with only the mildest of consequences. The alternative was to raise his hand in allegiance to the Crown and declare his intent to marry the girl. His family was barely adequate to ally with the Royal Family. There was no question of him ever being King, or more properly Prince Consort to the Queen, as the Marquessa had two elder sisters, the Princess Royal and the Archduchess. The choice was his—freedom with the slightest bit of shame and the twinge of lost love (which he would no doubt get over presently), or a gilded, nay, literally golden cage for the rest of his life.

He was getting bored, though his belly was tying itself in knots every time he thought of his predicament. His eyes fell on the symbol of the land’s religion hanging on the wall. It was a simple shape, one that any child could draw, and it hung on the walls of homes, shops, churches, and schools great and small throughout the land. He thought back to his own days of religious instruction, when he doodled the shape over and over with quill pen on his parchment while daydreaming through the lessons. He did remember some of the stories, though. There was the goat herder who became a warrior, then a general, then a king. There was the orphan girl who became queen of a foreign land and saved an entire race of people. There was the farm boy who spoke with the Almighty and found the Nine Sacred Scrolls, the basis of the whole religion, in a wheat field. There were second sons who outshone their elder brothers, and there were couples too old or too young to have children who birthed great nations. The scriptures were filled with stories of the Almighty passing over the great and powerful to entrust the fulfillment of His plans to the weak, flawed, and simply not very impressive souls of this earth. His teachers taught him that the Almighty had a plan that everyone was a part of, but that we could not know its full extent while we were on this earth. Even the famous apostate whose books were so popular among students at the University once said, “Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.” Bo knew that lots of people didn’t really believe that, or at least they didn’t act like they did, most of all Bo himself.

Then Bo thought of his own family. Great-Grandfather was a soldier, who had won a small medal for fighting in the Battle of the South in the Great War. His name wasn’t on the grand War Monument in the palace square, but his brothers, Bo’s great-great uncles were. They had fought in the Battle of the North. The Battle of the North—all the land knew of the exploits of the brave soldiers who fought in it, even the smallest schoolchild. Songs and stories, even whole libraries of books had been written to celebrate it. And of course there was the War Monument, or more precisely, “Memorial,” that Bo could just see in the distance through the large window to his left, its black marble gleaming in the sun. You see, not one of the brave soldiers who fought in the Battle of the North survived. They were glorious in their lost cause, and it was the tales of their bravery that bloody day that finally rallied the land and the King’s remaining forces to win the Battle of the South and every battle that followed until the Great War was won.

Great-Grandfather brought back a foreign bride from the wars, and they started a family. Their son, Bo’s grandfather, took after his mother. He didn’t look quite like all the other folks people were used to seeing in the land. He had big ears and spoke with an accent. His skin was even a different color from what everyone was used to seeing. But he was wise, he made friends easily, and he could speak with the power of the wind and the thunder, and did very, very well for himself, thank you.

Then Bo thought of his dear Mother. One day, when Mother was a young woman, long before Bo was born, even before she had met Father, she was out by herself hunting, for she was the sort of woman who wasn’t impressed by being told what she could or couldn’t do. Well, she almost didn’t make it past that day, for she survived being struck by lightning. “True story,” he would tell his friends. What saved her was that her beloved horse reared up and threw her off; the first time he had ever done that. A second later, he took the brunt of the lightning bolt, giving up his life to save hers.

It struck Bo, as an ardent gambler, that the odds were astronomical that he, and probably many others in the room, should have ever come to exist in the first place. And even more so for the baby his darling Marquessa was carrying, for he had met the young mother-to-be quite by accident. One of his less loutish friends came to him one day and said “Hail, friend Bo, hast thou an engagement for this afternoon?” “I have a full slab of mutton on my plate, why dost thou ask?” “Kind Bo, cancel all thy plans at once, as I shall call on a fair young maid of good family this day, and I’ve just discovered that her bosom friend is paying her a visit.” “So?” “So her friend is just as fair a maid, methinks, and of equally fine family, and will not suffer her friend to bear mine attentions, without being properly entertained by a fine young gentleman herself.” “Only for you, kind friend, only for you, but thou now owest me mightily!” Bo was surprised to find that his “blind date” was a Royal, and even more surprised at how quickly their longing glances at each other developed into the heat of young passion that is as old as time.

Which brings us back to Bo’s predicament. He thought of the last time he had seen the lovely Marquessa, her face a bit pale and tight, but her eyes smiling at him through the tears. It would be the last time he would see her until their wedding day, if he raised his hand. If he didn’t raise his hand, who knows when or if he would ever see her again? At that moment, he decided to do the right thing, partly out of love, partly out of curiosity, and partly out of the sense that he could be a part of something very much bigger than himself.

He heard his name called, and he bristled slightly as he thought he caught the Grand Duchess wrinkling her nose at him. A few minutes later, right hand in the air, his beloved became his betrothed, and the palace bureaucrats began to plan a simple garden wedding.

Bo, now the Marquis, and the Marquessa started their family, and it was happier than most, though far from perfect. His mother-in-law, the Grand Duchess, did become Queen, on her next try. She and Bo actually came to get along fairly well. Years passed, and their three children started their careers. Their younger son became a great physician who discovered a cure for the plague that had ravaged the land throughout history. Their daughter, the apple of her father’s eye, became the first woman to sit on the Queen’s Private Council, a more difficult feat even than becoming Queen, for it was earned by talent and hard work, not by right of birth. In fact, she also had the honor of becoming Regent for one of her young cousins when the Princess Royal died, and ever after had the title The Wise and Good added to her name. And what of their first son, Bo the Younger, the fruit of that night of teenage passion long ago, the one Bo worried about most because he reminded him a little too much of himself?

He became, of all things, a great religious scholar and archeologist, who had discovered the Tenth Sacred Scroll in a completely unexpected place, saving it from oblivion. The scroll was deemed authentic, and as it was translated, filled in the missing pieces of the people’s faith, tying the disparate pieces of the Nine Scrolls together into a coherent whole and igniting a new age of spirituality in the land. Bo the Younger would smile as he read, edited, and approved each day’s translation, because there was so much there that reminded him of what his father, Marquis Bo the Elder, used to tell him, worrying about how he would make his way in life: “If you get something good that you don’t think you deserve, live the rest of your life with honor, and you will eventually deserve it. None of us knows the plans the Almighty has for us.”

On the day the last of the Tenth Scroll was translated and brought to him, Bo the Younger smiled broadly and began laughing out loud, so loud that he startled his secretary, as he read the closing verse. We don’t understand the language today, of course, but the thought was neatly paraphrased by William Shakespeare in our own words:

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach us

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them how we will.