THE NEXT NIRVANA

They are out there somewhere, in a rehearsal space someplace like Atlanta or Boston–a town which has always threatened to give us the Next Big Thing, but has never actually delivered.

Their sound is rooted firmly in the blues, though you can hear influences of country and punk as well. Their lead guitarist (yes, they certainly have one) is a major Stevie Ray Vaughan/Clapton disciple with a penchant for playing baleful solos in the middle registers, solos that sound like a good bourbon tastes. The bassist and drummer lock together like nobody since Duck Dunn and Al Jackson, creating swirling, supple grooves that would make your uncle Clifford sound like Wilson Pickett.

The band is fronted by a female singer/songwriter with a voice that could collapse brick walls. She’s plain-looking and given to modest dress, but her sound is filled with passion and tension. She cites Tori Amos, Tracy Chapman, and Joan Osborne as influences, but the critics will all compare her to Shelby Lynne and Maria McKee.

They’ve already written the song that will make it happen. It’s a story song (there’s that country influence) about a teenage girl in the suburbs who’s grown tired of living a life that’s pleasing mostly to adults. But when she tries to act out, she finds that the only sort of rebellion available to her among her peers is partying, celebrity worship, and “hooking up.” This doesn’t really appeal to her, either. The song ends with her deciding it’s better to be alone with a clear conscience than to compromise yourself just to fit in with people you don’t really have much in common with anyway. It’s a story that’s been told many times before, and honestly, it’s been done better, but it will connect with those precious Millenials who are just now exploring the concept of rebellion, those who don’t want to be overachievers, but aren’t looking to be in the next “Girls Gone Wild” tape, either.

At first you’ll be able to get it for free on the Internet. After all, this band isn’t even especially well-known wherever they are, so at this stage, charging money for a download seems like a bad career path. But sooner or later somebody will notice that this song is being downloaded as much as songs by established artists. The bidding war begins, followed by the obligatory media frenzy. The difference this time is that the band is so good, the song breaks out of its demographic box. It’s not just angry and angsty; it swings and people want to hear it over and over.

Eventually it makes it onto the radio, and not just on the college stations. Once that happens, all kinds of weirdness breaks out: Every band from their town which can claim some sort of tangential connection to them gets signed. Fringe artists remake themselves in this new, hip image. Blues-rockers who have been struggling for years finally find the record companies interested. Those pushed into the background start writing songs about how much they hate the new trend.

When the debut album comes out, the critics will be on it like cry on an onion. The hit single, in a new, cleaned-up version will be there, but listeners will discover that every song is just as good as the one they already know. They’ll take potshots at Boomers for starting a revolution they didn’t have the guts to finish, and at Gen X for waiting around forever for their “real lives” to begin instead of just going out and claiming the moment. Everybody from Blender to the Village Voice will call it the album of the year, maybe even the decade.

When it happens, you are permitted to enjoy watching the careers go “splat” against the wall. Britney will run off to Hollywood where she’ll be forced to make bad movies with J-Lo and the Olson Twins. Christina will have a big adult contemporary hit with some sappy Diane Warren love song, then disappear for a decade or so, waiting for her critical rehabilitation. (She’ll get it.) The boy bands will vanish, collapsed by their own irrelevancy to this new self-affirming, generation-challenging aesthetic.

But it won’t just be teen schlock that changes. Say goodbye to pop-punk, say goodbye to country-diva crossovers, say goodbye to John Mayer, the Goo Goo Dolls, maybe even Eminem. When this song hits everything–everything–is instantly going to sound old. Just like when the Beatles broke. Just like when Hendrix broke. Or Jackson Browne. “Born To Run.” The Sex Pistols. Prince. “Welcome To The Jungle.” And, of course, Nirvana.

The next one is out there, and it’s long overdue. And when it comes, it’ll be bluesy, it’ll be rebellious, and its face and voice will be female.