The Paradox of the Ripped Rockstar –

There’s something dissonant about that recent image of Yungblud and Taylor Momsen – both shirtless, abs gleaming, posturing as though they’ve just come off a wild night of self-destruction and stage sweat. The visual is meant to make you see nothing but sex appeal and rebellion, a tableau of rock chaos frozen in time. But behind that photo lies something far more sterile: planning, brand management, calculated image-making. There’s no shame in an artist being healthy, but there’s an odd tension in selling the rock and roll myth of mess and danger while being in pristine, chiselled shape.

The rock image has always been commodified to an extent, but what we have now is a full-scale cosplay of rebellion. These bodies, these personas, these snapshots are as carefully crafted as any fashion campaign, sold to us with the promise of rawness. And we buy it – maybe even more eagerly than we should – because the industry has convinced us that chaos can be curated, that danger can be marketable, that rebellion is just another product on the shelf.

Rock fans celebrate the bodies that would leave an Olympic God green with envy, while skin sacks rival the grime on a rat fresh from the gutter, but we ignore the blueprint behind them. We ignore the invisible dieticians, the insecure nights, the contracts that demand you look perfect even when you want to feel broken. Maybe what we need is to stop consuming mythologies and start letting artists be unfiltered, uninvented, unglossed. But haven’t we always idolised mythology? We couldn’t see Ozzy as just a musician; he had to be ‘The Prince of Darkness” instead of a fumbling wreck of a man who killed cats.

The Aesthetic of Suffering: How Abs Became Essential

We used to see rock stars as rogues who wrecked hotel rooms, drank until dawn, and decorated the Sunset Strip with needles and vomit. Their faces had grime, their clothes were stained and cigarette burned, and their lives seemed on fire. Their image reflected their lifestyle. Now, that image is being appropriated in a way that doesn’t just have to look messy, it has to be messy in a way that will make libidos scream.

Seeing Yungblud and Momsen posing as though they’ve just stepped out of the gutter – while looking like they’ve stepped out of a fitness magazine – is its own contradiction. This isn’t a criticism of them wanting to look good or being in control of their lives; it’s a reminder that the raw, unfiltered danger of rock culture has been replaced with something far cleaner, safer, and easier to sell. The middle fingers and staged sweat are just another brand asset.

Authentic Rock vs Cosplay: What Does Real Mean Now?

When the image of rock becomes a costume, we get into murky territory. Ripped jeans, scuffed boots, messy eyeliner – these were once signals of an actual lifestyle. Now they’re a dress code, something an artist puts on in the morning like an accessory. The problem isn’t that Yungblud is playing rockstar, it’s that the industry is pushing that image as authentic. There’s an entire machine working to convince us that this curated vision is the natural successor to the Sunset Strip, when in reality it’s a corporate-approved update that trades in danger for digestibility.

This is where the idea of cultural appropriation creeps in – not of a race or culture, but of a lifestyle. The rockstars of the past really did live on the edge, often to their own detriment. They burnt out because there was no PR team smoothing over the chaos. When modern artists borrow that aesthetic without living any of the danger behind it, we end up with cosplay rebellion, a hollowed-out version of rock and roll that looks good on TikTok but doesn’t shake the walls.

Looks, Money and the Industrial Gears of Fame

In the music industry, image sells. From album covers to Instagram posts to video clips: what you look like often moves you further than what you sound like. Agents, labels, and promoters understand this. They finance photoshoots. They insist on certain bodies, certain skin, certain lighting. The trajectories of careers are shaped by how “on brand” someone is visually. And of course, that includes physical attractiveness, muscle, and sex appeal. Yungblud and Momsen aren’t alone in this. It’s everywhere: touring acts needing the physique to fill merch stalls and sponsorships, too. The demand for spectacle, for “look”, adds pressure. Musicians aren’t just judged on setlists or originality any more. They’re judged on their abs, their tattoos, their lash lines. Money flows where image entices. But that means artists constantly negotiate between their internal selves and the external gaze. The gap between persona and personal becomes a kind of schism.

The Cost of Curated Chaos: Mental, Physical, Emotional

To get the ripped body under dim lights takes more than crunches. It takes discipline. It takes sacrifice. It takes rejecting certain foods, working out even when exhausted, and pushing when rest is what’s needed. The physical toll: overtraining, maybe injuries, and body image anxiety. The mental toll: constantly seen, constantly judged, constantly edited. The emotional toll: knowing your audience expects certain performances not only on stage but in your selfie game. For all the talk of rock icons as unhinged and free, many modern rock stars are bound by contracts, style expectations, and brand deals. They are their own product. If they slip, gain weight, show blemishes, they risk being told they’re not “rock” enough or not “sexy” enough to sell. It’s ironic enough that to sell rebellion, you must adhere to a rigid, unseen system. The mess is styled. The rebellion is ordered. The body is calendarised.

Conclusion: Seeing through the Rockstar Spectacle

The point isn’t to demand a return to heroin chic, trashed hotel rooms, and early graves. Nobody really wants that. But maybe we should stop pretending that this new polished chaos is the same thing. Maybe we should start admitting that the rebellion we’re sold is just another brand strategy. There’s power in looking at an image like that of Yungblud and Momsen and saying, “I see what this is.”

We deserve art that feels like it has teeth, even if those teeth are clean and white from a sponsored whitening kit. We deserve honesty about what we’re looking at, not just sex appeal packaged as authenticity. And maybe when we start demanding that honesty, we’ll stop getting cosplay and start getting something closer to the real thing again – whatever that looks like in 2025.

Article by Amelia Vandergast