Best 245 quotes in «rock and roll quotes» category

Because some things in life just hurt so much that you need to feel physical pain to start to heal from it.

But as we all know, rock ‘n’ roll will never die, and education too, as Henry Adams always sez, keeps going on forever.

Does he know you’re with me? Does he know about me? Does he know we fuck each other in our dreams every night? ~ Ripp Collins

Decadent self-expression has no place in rock and roll.

Don’t beat yourself up, son. I’m sure there is a culture on this spinning ball of dirt where you can be pretty. If not, do rock ‘n roll, or practice words. That shit’s pretty as well.

Even more than music, rock-and-roll is sex.

Graham: Rod told me I needed to cut out half of my solos. Said they were interesting for people that loved technical guitar work but boring for everyone else. I said, "Why would I play to people who don't care about good guitar?" He said, "If you want to be huge, you gotta be for everybody.

Groupies will give you Chlamydia, Edward.” “Right, Virg. Groupies throw underwear on stage. They don’t throw flowers.

He shook his head at her question. Did women really think men cared about that stuff? Did he care if she did this all the time? Definitely, definitely not. He could honestly say he did not give a flying fuck whether this girl dragged guys home every other day to have her way with them for seven hours. He was just glad as hell she’d decided to do it with him. Today. And hopefully maybe again. Sometime.

I bet if cancer of the penis was more prevalent there’d be a cure for this fucker. I bet if dicks were being amputated or dropping off left, right and centre there’d have been a cure decades ago. There’d be a whole fucking government dick department dedicated to it.

He would return again and again to the same themes over the years, with different details and different emphases, but always with the same underlying message: the inherent nobility not so much of man as of FREEDOM, and the implied responsibility - no, the OBLIGATION - for each of us to be as different as our individuated natures allowed us to be. To be different, in Sam's words, IN THE EXTREME.

If I've got a Dad, and his name is Wormwood Rot, and he's in some heavy metal rock band called Grave Dirt . . . then I'm definitely meeting him! She stares at me awkwardly, and I'm about to ask again—maybe even insist—when she says, "Honey, why do you think he's on the news? Wormwood, I mean . . . your father? Becca, he's . . . dead.

But tonight, this is what I can give you. I can offer you the vault of heaven, the firmament of the stars in the sky, and me

I'm forty-two," he said. "That's eighty-four in musician years.

I remember when Elvis died. I wrote my sentiments with words of a little girl in my dear diary, "Many people wanted to see his body. They literally wanted to dig his bones out just to make sure that he was being buried. And I could not understand why. Why people could not leave him alone and let his soul rest in peace." I couldn't get it. I didn't grasp it at that time. In a head of a little girl it was hard to believe that there were mysteries to be solved. That there ruled a conspiracy theory that people thought it was odd that he was buried and the casket was never opened. They didn't believe he was dead! Oh yes. Elvis Lives! And as the world needs his songs, his words, his thoughts, his love, his light more than ever before.

I don't know how music works, I'm just glad that it does.

It never was about the musician or the instrument - it was about the laser notes in a hall of mirrors, the music itself. It was going to change the world for the better and it has. Maybe not as fast or as much as we wanted, but it has and it still will. Whether your name is Mozart, or Django Reinhardt, or Robert Johnson, or Jimi Hendrix, or whoever is next; who you are doesn't matter so long as you can open that conduit and let the music come through. It is the burning edge, whatever it sounds like and whoever is playing it. It is the noisy, messy, silly, invincible voice of life that comes through the LP on the turn-table, the transistor radio, or the Bose in your new Lexus that makes you want to get up out of whatever you are stuck in and dance. It is Dionysus and the Maenads all over again. No one can control it and I pity whoever tries. I am old now and only a house cat sunning herself in the window - but I was a tigress once, and I remember. I still remember.

I had tried marijuana several times, but in the words of my friend and longtime assistant Janet Stark, “When I smoke pot, it makes me want to hide under the bed with a box of graham crackers and not share.

I soaked my soul in Rock and Roll

I suppose I took comfort in the illusion that I could go back. But I'd been around long enough to know history is sealed and unchangeable. You can move on, with a heart stronger in the places it's been broken, create new love. You can hammer pain and trauma into a righteous sword and use it in defense of life, love, human grace and God's blessings. But nobody gets a do-over. Nobody gets to go back and there's only one road out. Ahead, into the dark.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a sure-fire way to impress this girl, who was as cute as hell but wound tighter than one of his father’s antique clocks.

It was a crypt where music played to masses of the dead, and McJagger was their desolate pharaoh, a walking mummified king. I remembered it well.

It's theology. Were you expecting sex, drugs, and rock and roll?" "One out of the three would be nice.

I want to walk inside a Van Gogh sun, and see a better world all different and new. I want to live where there are no shadows, of all those stupid things we both know that we used to do. I want to walk inside a Van Gogh sun, I want to see the world exactly like you do. I want to live where the past doesn’t matter, Whatever it takes I will never give up on you.

It’s like George always says: being in a rock ʼn’ roll band is very sexy, even when you’re only the keyboard player and your idea of the perfect Saturday night actually amounts to a bubble bath, a Richard Curtis boxset and a seafood linguine.

Kid's little binges, his forays into intoxication were affecting everyone now. They were affecting their goals and dreams. They were affecting Natasha. She was probably drinking just to deal with him.

Look,’ she said, sidling a little closer to him in the lift. ‘I understand this wasn’t what you bargained for when some cute girl at the café dared you to jump out of a plane with her. You were in it for thrills and sex and you got breast-cancer girl, her terrifying friend and her flaky mother. That’s above and beyond. And I totally get you’re here because you’d feel like some louse if you left her now, but it’s okay, she’s going to be fine, I’m going to take good care of her.

Julia had been angry most of her life. She may have grown up in wealth and privilege but she’d had to fight to be heard and seen. To be validated. To be something other than a piece to be moved around her parents’ Monopoly board. Rage had given her a voice against their manipulations and the guts to walk away. But it had also become ingrained. There were times when she’d contemplated therapy for it. Right now, she was pleased she hadn’t. If anything could kill this cancer it would be the weight of Julia’s wrath.

Nothing the Rolling Stones ever did was more important than the respect they showed to the music that had inspired them.

Lyndon Johnson bared his scars, American. . . stars 'n bars.

Just hold on.

Jo mūzikas radīšanas pamatā jābūt cilvēku saskarsmes vai atgrūšanās spēkam vai sāpēm. Vai arī visiem kopā. Jo savā dziļākajā būtībā mūzika ir sekss. Trubadūri zem logiem dziedāja, lai pievilinātu daiļavas ar savās vīrišķīgajās iekarotāju balsīs dziedātajām sirdi plosošajām serenādēm. Sievietēm ir radītas seksīgas balsis ne jau tādēļ, lai tajās lasītu pārtikas receptes vai deklamētu pantiņus par dzimtenes nodevību. Lai gan - kāda starpība, ko sieviete deklamē vai dzied, ja viņa spēj ar vienu skaņu, parādīšanās mirkli vai gaistošām smaržām modināt vīriešos iekāri! Mūzikas skurbulī cilvēki metas dejā un sadalās pa pāriem, lai pret rītu iegūtu viens otru. Vismaz viens no abiem to vēlas vienmēr un melo, ja saka pretējo. Pasaulē valda viens vienīgs sekss, apreibināšanās un rokenrols.

Oh I bet you’re sweet as under all that posh.’ And he looked at her in a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn’t talking about the way she might move on the dance floor. If he mentioned honey pots she was going to pour her vodka shot over him. ‘You’ll never know,

Now, some guys' five minutes are worth other guys' fifty years, and while burning out in one brilliant supernova will send record sales through the roof, leave you living fast, dying young, leaving a beautiful corpse, there is something to be said for living. Personally, I like my gods old, grizzled and here.

Murry Wilson, to be sure, was a driving force in the Beach Boys' early success, but his greed and vindictiveness deny him any tribute. The most forgiving thing I can say about him is that he was simply an inheritor of his own father's cruelty. My mom, for her part, was always loyal to her brother, as she was grateful for how Murry had protected his siblings against the violence of their father. I wasn't going to sully my mom's devotion to that brother with an explanation of his betrayals against his own family.

One day maybe you'll get a chance to meet her.

punk is about being an individual and going against the grain and standing up and saying 'This is who I am

Our lives are lived between madness and secrets... Our secrets make us who we are." - Derek Quinn

Quentin wasn’t stupid, despite living what his father called ‘a lifestyle unworthy of yourself’.

Quentin flicked a quick glance back at her again. Poppy. This girl had the wrong name. She should have been Rose. Great face, lots of prickles.

Quentin had told Spike that inking ‘percussion’ across your knuckles was kind of lame. It takes more than ten letters to make a badass knuckle tattoo. That was the problem with drummers. They didn’t listen. But they always seemed to get laid anyway.

Rock and roll is music," said Vanya. "Prokofiev is music, Stravinski is music, Tchaikovski and Borodin and Rimski-Korsakov and even Rachmaninov, THEY are music. Rock and roll is smart boys with no respect, YOU are rock and roll.

Poppy Devine did not deserve cancer. Poppy was sweet and industrious and careful and measured and always, always did the right thing. If anyone deserved cancer it was Julia. Julia was loud and opinionated and disagreeable. Rude, some might even say. She went out with bad men, took unnecessary risks, pushed people to their limits, swore like a sailor and flipped the bird more than any female in the history of the world. It should be her number coming up in the cancer lottery.

Rock and Roll can never die.

Our eyes met and locked as the song came to a halt, followed by a screaming conclusion from the crowd, girls around us pressing me into the stage, forcing all the air out of my lungs, but I’d forgotten about doing anything so basic as breathing.

Rock stars have many of the same qualities as athletes—millions for doing what they love, fans, easy pussy, fame, status, the ability to do whatever they want when they want. While what they do is still cool, the main difference is that it’s less masculine. You connect with your fans in this intense, intimate, emotional way that is less about you and more about them, how you make them feel. When you’re an athlete, it’s all about you. They cheer you on. When you make music, you cheer them on, provide the soundtrack to their little lives, and all they do is cheer you back to say “Thanks.

Sex, dr... inking and rock'n'roll.

She’d never met someone so young who was so damn cocky. Most twenty-year-old guys she knew were either gauche or monosyllabic in her presence, but not Spike. There was a directness, a confidence in his inky-blue eyes that a lot of men never mastered. Cleary Spike was getting laid far too easily.

Rock is not dead, but it is The Walking Dead, with a few groups still trying to survive in a zombie apocalypse of musicians or fringe and splintered groups.

Sometimes a song is more than just a song. First the fire...then the rain.