Lenny Kravitz Covers "The Block" Magazine (Issue 25).

Rock might not be dead, but its stars are fading fast. Most rock stars still alive hardly look it, and their heirs? The new guitarmen and women might play something called rock, and they might be stars, but rock stars they are not. Once, rock smashed rules and mores and was larger and louder than life, and so were the dudes (Jagger, Cobain, Iggy Pop) and babes (Patti Smith) who made it. They were glam, rude, addicted, ill-behaved, unabashed, often un-hip and thus eternally cool.

Hooded sweater, Yigal Azrouël; Trousers, Robert Geller; Necklace, Pamela Love; Belt, Artemas Quibble; Boots, Rick Owens; all other jewelry (worn throughout), Lenny’s own

Today there’s an actual “rock” hit called “Every Teardrop is a Waterfall” and the hardest-core band I listen to is Fucked Up. People will go on and on about Fucked Up, then stop and say, oh, but Damian Abraham is such a nice guy. But I don’t want Damian Abraham to be a nice guy. I want him to be Fucked Up.

Still, holes make the theory, and there are holes in mine. There are the Strokes, older now and rehabbed, but nonetheless proper Manhattan assholes in leather jackets. There is, admittedly, Dave Grohl. There’s Pete Doherty, but is he even making music? There was, until recently, Amy Winehouse.
And there is Lenny Kravitz.
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