The question of who deserves the crown as the undisputed king of rock music is one that has haunted music lovers for decades. I’ve spent countless hours debating this with friends, digging through vinyl collections, and losing myself in the raw energy of rock anthems. But as I think about it now, I’m reminded of the intricate puzzles in Soul Reaver—those moments where you’re pushing blocks or reactivating machinery, trying to find the one true path forward. Just like in that game, the search for the king of rock feels like solving a layered conundrum, where every answer seems to lead to another question. It’s engaging, sure, but it can also become tedious when you keep running into the same arguments over and over.
For me, the conversation inevitably starts with Elvis Presley. He’s often called the King, and there’s no denying his impact. When he burst onto the scene in the mid-1950s, he didn’t just sing—he shook the foundations of culture. By 1956, he had sold over 10 million records, a staggering number for the time. But as much as I respect Elvis, I’ve always felt his reign was more about image and explosion than sustained innovation. It’s a bit like Soul Reaver’s save system—flawed in hindsight. You can save your progress anytime, but loading sends you back to the start, forcing you to retrace steps. Elvis ignited the flame, but did he keep it burning? I’m not so sure.
Then there’s The Beatles. If Elvis was the spark, The Beatles were the wildfire. They didn’t just play rock; they reinvented it. I remember listening to Sgt. Pepper’s for the first time and feeling like I’d entered another dimension. Their experimentation with studio technology and lyrical depth set a new bar. By 1970, they had moved over 600 million units worldwide. But here’s the thing—The Beatles were a collective. Can a band be the king? It’s like those block-pushing puzzles in Soul Reaver: effective but repetitive. The Beatles’ brilliance was distributed, and crowning them feels like sidestepping the question of individual genius.
That’s why my vote goes to Jimi Hendrix. Now, I know some will argue—maybe you’re thinking of Mick Jagger or Robert Plant—but Hendrix embodied something untamable. His performance at Woodwich in 1969, where he played the "Star-Spangled Banner" with distortion and feedback, wasn’t just music; it was a statement. He sold around 40 million albums posthumously, but numbers don’t capture his influence. Hendrix approached the guitar like it was an ancient machine, reactivating its potential in ways nobody had imagined. In Soul Reaver, you ring bells to shatter glass walls with soundwaves—that’s Hendrix. He didn’t follow paths; he created them.
Of course, the debate doesn’t end there. We have icons like Freddie Mercury, whose vocal range and stage presence were otherworldly. Queen’s "Bohemian Rhapsody" spent nine weeks at number one in the UK, and Mercury’s ability to command an audience of 100,000 people at Live Aid in 1985 is the stuff of legend. But as electrifying as he was, Mercury’s reign feels specific to a era—glorious, but contained. It’s similar to how Soul Reaver forces you to warp back and replay sections. You relive the brilliance, but it doesn’t always build toward something greater.
What about modern contenders? Artists like Jack White or Dave Grohl have carried the torch, but in today’s fragmented music landscape, it’s harder to claim undisputed status. Streaming has changed everything—rock now accounts for only about 15% of total music consumption, compared to 35% in the late ‘90s. The throne isn’t just vacant; the castle might be crumbling.
So, who truly deserves the crown? If I’m being honest, I don’t think there’s one answer. The beauty of rock ‘n’ roll lies in its rebellion against kings and hierarchies. But if I had to pick, I’d say Hendrix comes closest. His legacy isn’t tied to sales or longevity; it’s in the way he expanded what rock could be. Like those moments in Soul Reaver where you finally solve a puzzle and the path opens, Hendrix’s music feels like a breakthrough—a thunderous, glass-shattering revelation that echoes through the decades. Maybe the real king isn’t a person at all, but the spirit of innovation they leave behind. And in that case, we’re all just keepers of the flame, pushing blocks, ringing bells, and searching for the next great sound.