The question of who deserves the crown as the undisputed king of rock music history is one I’ve wrestled with for years, much like the moral dilemmas in the game Banishers: Ghosts of New Eden. In that story, you face a pivotal choice—letting Antea’s soul ascend or sacrificing the living to resurrect her. At first, my decision seemed straightforward: I chose to let her move on. But as I delved deeper into the lives of New Eden’s inhabitants, my convictions wavered. Similarly, in rock music, our initial picks for the "king" often shift when we dig beneath the surface. We start with obvious names—Elvis Presley, The Beatles, maybe even Jimi Hendrix—but as we explore their legacies, influences, and controversies, the answer becomes far less clear-cut.
Let’s talk numbers for a moment. Elvis Presley, often dubbed the "King of Rock and Roll," sold over 1 billion records globally and starred in 31 films. Impressive, right? But then you have The Beatles, who, according to the RIAA, have moved around 600 million units worldwide, with Abbey Road alone certified 12x platinum. And let’s not forget acts like Led Zeppelin, whose Led Zeppelin IV has sold over 37 million copies. These stats matter, but they don’t tell the whole story. Just like in Banishers, where surface-level morality gives way to nuanced character arcs, rock’s throne isn’t just about sales or chart dominance. It’s about cultural impact, innovation, and that intangible "it" factor that makes an artist timeless.
Personally, I lean toward artists who reshaped the genre rather than just dominated it. Take Jimi Hendrix. In his brief four-year major label career, he released only three studio albums, yet he revolutionized electric guitar playing. His performance at Woodstock in 1969, where he played "The Star-Spangled Banner" with distorted fury, wasn’t just music—it was a political statement. That kind of innovation reminds me of Antea’s transformation in Banishers: she becomes what she once hunted, forcing players to see the world from a new perspective. Hendrix did the same for rock, blending blues, psychedelia, and raw emotion in ways nobody had imagined.
But then there’s the argument for longevity and influence. If we’re talking sheer staying power, The Rolling Stones have been touring and recording for over six decades. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards defined rock swagger, and their 1981–82 tour alone grossed over $50 million—a staggering figure for the time. Yet, as I played through Banishers and faced choices that made me question my initial morals, I realized that longevity alone doesn’t crown a king. The Stones borrowed heavily from blues pioneers like Muddy Waters, and while they perfected a certain sound, they didn’t necessarily invent it. That’s where someone like Chuck Berry comes in. Berry’s guitar riffs became the blueprint for rock and roll; John Lennon once said, "If you tried to give rock and roll another name, you might call it Chuck Berry." His influence is embedded in the DNA of the genre, yet he’s often overshadowed by later icons.
Let’s not ignore the elephant in the room: the rock canon has historically been dominated by white male artists. When I think about who truly deserves the crown, I can’t help but wonder about pioneers like Sister Rosetta Tharpe. She was playing rock and roll guitar in the 1930s and ’40s, blending gospel with fiery solos that inspired everyone from Elvis to Hendrix. Yet, she’s rarely mentioned in the same breath as her successors. It’s a lot like the settlers in Banishers—their stories are buried until you take the time to listen. Tharpe’s omission from mainstream narratives says a lot about how we define "greatness" in rock music. If we’re judging by innovation alone, she might just be the unsung queen.
Of course, there’s also the commercial vs. critical divide. Bands like Queen, led by Freddie Mercury, achieved both. Bohemian Rhapsody spent nine weeks at number one in the UK, and their Live Aid performance in 1985 is often called the greatest live show in history. Mercury’s vocal range spanned four octaves, and he commanded stages with a theatricality that’s still unmatched. But does commercial success equate to royalty? In Banishers, choosing to resurrect Antea requires sacrificing settlers—a morally messy decision that trades lives for desire. Similarly, crowning a rock king based on sales feels like ignoring the ethical complexities of their careers. For instance, Elvis’s rise was built on rhythm and blues traditions pioneered by Black artists, a fact that complicates his "king" status.
Then there’s the grunge era, which brought us Kurt Cobain. Nirvana’s Nevermind (1991) sold 30 million copies worldwide and essentially killed off ’80s hair metal. Cobain’s raw, angst-filled lyrics resonated with a generation, but his career was cut short. Does a shorter, more explosive impact outweigh decades of consistent output? It’s like the choice in Banishers: do you value a peaceful afterlife or a second chance at life, no matter the cost? I’m torn here—part of me admires Cobain’s authenticity, but another part wonders if a king needs to reign longer than a few years.
In the end, I keep coming back to the idea that rock music’s throne isn’t meant for one person. The beauty of the genre lies in its diversity—from Little Richard’s flamboyant piano pounding to Bruce Springsteen’s working-class anthems. Each brought something unique to the table. If I had to pick, though, I’d give the edge to artists who not only defined their era but also paved the way for others. For me, that’s David Bowie. He sold over 140 million records worldwide, but more importantly, he constantly reinvented himself—from Ziggy Stardust to the Thin White Duke. He embraced ambiguity and change, much like the shifting loyalties in Banishers. Bowie didn’t just play rock; he questioned what rock could be.
So, who truly deserves the crown? Maybe it’s not about finding one ruler but acknowledging the many voices that built the kingdom. Rock music, at its best, is a conversation—a debate that evolves with each generation. And just like my experience in Banishers, the answer might change the deeper you go.