By T. Perry Bowers
I’ve got a confession: I don’t think I’m rock and roll enough. Scratch that—I know I’m not. And maybe that’s why my rock bands have never hit it big.
I played it too safe.
I never pissed off the side of a stage. Never spit at an audience. Never got arrested (not for anything rock and roll, anyway). I never blacked out drunk and still showed up to perform. Never cheated on my girlfriend with a groupie backstage. Never flipped off a cop just because.
I’ve always wondered: does any of that even matter? Or was I missing something deeper?
Because here’s the only truly rock and roll thing I do—I listen to the muse. When I strap on my guitar in the practice space, I’m not just playing; I’m channeling. On good days, something creative moves through me—through my voice, through my fingers—out into the ether.
It’s the same with writing, like now. The title of this blog hit me while I was making tea. I didn’t overthink it; I just followed the flow. That’s what being rock and roll is: tuning into something bigger, louder, messier than you.
A few days ago, I had coffee with a friend—a bona fide Minneapolis rock star. He told me story after story about following his muse, doing whatever the hell it told him to do. He didn’t stop to ask for permission. He didn’t give a damn about playing it safe or living by someone else’s moral standards.
And honestly? That’s what the world needs. Playing by the rules is fucking boring.
Because rock and roll isn’t just a genre; it’s a spirit. A god that demands offerings. It’s not weird or fringe—it’s the most normal thing in the universe. The problem is, we’ve been conditioned to think a cookie-cutter, white-picket-fence life is normal. We’ve been trained to please our parents, our bosses, even our kids.
But being rock and roll doesn’t mean being reckless or irresponsible, either. Sometimes, the most rock and roll thing you can do is max out your 401(k). You ever meet a 46-year-old goth tattoo artist who’s got enough in the bank to retire? That’s the real punk move.
In an interview with Rick Beato, Sting said he wants to be surprised by music in the first 30 seconds. I get it. Sometimes I hear the pop songs my teenage daughters listen to, and yeah, they sound great. The production is slick, the vocals are fire—but there’s nothing surprising. No edge. It’s a perfectly polished box with nothing inside to grab onto.
That’s where stage presence can bridge the gap. Take Kiss, for example: their music is simple. Fun, but simple. Without their theatricality and larger-than-life imagery, they’d never be the legends they are.
So here’s the question: what’s your magical rock and roll concept?
I’ve been chasing that idea since college, back when I started my first band. I wrote the lyrics, which made me the nucleus of the band’s identity.
At the time, I was neck-deep in meditation, spiritual pursuits, and books channeled by aliens. (Yeah, I know.) My music reflected that—paranormal themes, enlightenment vibes, all of it.
One gig at the Fine Line Music Café, my guitarist and I literally did three sun salutations before taking the stage. It’s embarrassing to think about now, but at least we were trying to connect with people who wanted more than just drinking and hookups. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I grew up on Alan Parsons Project, Steely Dan, and Rush. Their fans were nerds, straight up—people obsessed with audio innovation and lyrics that made you think. Those were the folks I wanted to reach. I’ve never fully succeeded, but I keep trying.
Because here’s the truth: you have to surprise people to reach them. Sure, you can write tight, polished songs and sound great. But if you’re not saying something real and raw, you’re just part of the noise.
And no, you don’t have to tear up hotel rooms or OD in a gutter to be rock and roll. But you do have to reject the mainstream script.
I’ve seen too many bands sell out—politically, artistically, spiritually. Bands I loved in the ‘90s turning into corporate lapdogs. If that’s authentic for them, fine. But if you’re just pandering for approval, you’re not rock and roll. You’re a commercial jingle with a distortion pedal.
By the way, I’m not anti-money. I’m a capitalist at heart. In fact, I think making money as an original musician is one of the purest forms of expression. When you create something so authentic that people pay you for it—that’s the full cycle: create, connect, earn, repeat.
But here’s the kicker: does your music move people? Does it nudge them out of their white-picket-fence fantasy? Does it make them feel alive?
Did your song inspire some kid to steal their parents’ car, hit the beach, and skinny-dip at 2 a.m.? Did it make someone call their guitar-playing friend to start a band?
What does your music inspire?
What does your life inspire?
Maybe today, you need to tell someone to fuck off. Or spend that money you’ve been hoarding. Maybe you need to confess to the person who friend-zoned you that you don’t just want to be friends. Or fire that toxic employee. Or finally give your wife the attention she’s been craving.
Because that’s what rock and roll really is: living your truth. Not your parents’ truth. Not society’s truth. Your truth.
Right now, as I write this, I’m tapped into the void. And the void is calling. It’s telling you to do something raw, real, and unapologetically you.
Can you hear it? Will you listen?
