Enough Whining! Let’s Get Back to a Little Rock ‘n’ Roll : Commentary: Sure, the stoned, sex-starved anthems of the ‘70s became ridiculous, but the self-importance and deep inner pain of today’s lyricists is out of control.

“I would rather run, but I can’t walk,” sings Eddie Vedder on Pearl Jam’s “Vitalogy.”

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“I’m a liar” and “I want to disconnect myself,” heaves Henry Rollins on his last album, “Weight.”

“I am trampled under the soles of another man’s shoes,” howls Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots. “Guess I walked too softly.”

“I want to rock and roll all night, and party every day,” sings KISS on “Dressed to Kill.”

It shouldn’t be hard to guess which of these lyrics is not from the ‘90s, but here’s a clue: It has more to do with pinball and beer than pain and self-scrutiny.

Yes, it’s KISS, the only one of those bands that seems to be having fun.

It’s the ‘90s, and the party’s over.

Rock is now in its post-hangover, sober-up phase. After all, when there are so many emotional afflictions to whine about, who has time for fast cars, sex and parties?

Ever since fans perceived Nirvana’s isolation and pain as virtuous, rock’s party-hearty attitude has been replaced by a purge-and-you’ll-feel-better vibe. Legions of sensitive-yet-irritable boy bands can’t stop singing about how tormented they are, how lost they feel, how disconnected they’ve become. It’s as commonplace for lyricists to be pained and problem-filled now as it was to be stoned and sex-starved in the ‘70s.

What did you expect from a generation raised on therapy and self-help books?

Cathartic rock wasn’t always this annoying. At first it proved a much-needed relief from the brain-dead shrieks of big-haired metal dudes, and seemingly put some substance and honesty back into rock.

Kurt Cobain conveyed true feelings, and his lyrics actually had some relevance beyond his own misery--he was able to make his personal feelings universal rather than assume he was the center of the universe.

But many missed those finer points. Now leagues of less talented bands mistake agony for artistry. Just turn on MTV or FM radio: From Live to Better Than Ezra, pained singers spill their stories of social alienation and pent-up pain over mediocre guitar riffage and bland pop. Their songs, though more self-aware, feel as pointless and predictable as yesteryear’s odes to Jack Daniel’s and axle grease.

It’s not that emotional outpouring is necessarily weak--it has obviously charged some of the best rock around. But now writing from deep-seated trauma seems as trendy as buzz-cuts and goatees, and should have a name: How about therapy rock?

It’s just as hard to buy the notion of totally black, endless pain as it was to believe in the endless party. Think of the whining relative who calls daily with the same grievance; after a while, the complaints become so commonplace that they lose their impact. This is when you put the phone down and go make toast.

All this introspection has also seemed to drain the sexuality from rock. Instead, sex is presented in relation to artists’ fear and trepidation. Just listen to any number of songs by Trent Reznor’s Nine Inch Nails. They aren’t sexy, they’re afraid.

In the end, how egotistical and self-involved is it to constantly wallow in your deepest woes? Eddie Vedder’s reluctance to be a rock star is not exactly at the center of the universe’s problems, but judging by lyrics like “I moved the rock, I just don’t want to talk about moving the rock,” he seems to have taken on a mantle of importance in his own mind. Maybe it’s about time someone reminded Eddie, Henry, the Pilots and all the other utterly tortured artists that it is only rock ‘n’ roll.