"Born to Be Wild" (Steppenwolf)

Once upon a time, "Born to Be Wild" was a counterculture anthem.  Its proto-metal riff was the sound of rebellion, open blacktop, Harley engines rumbling under open skies, and a half-baked Peter Fonda in an American flag leather jacket.
But in the years since 1969's Easy Rider, "Born to Be Wild" has become a lazy Hollywood cliche for badassery, which has had the effect of turning it into an anthem for what I like to call "safe-bad."
What is safe-bad?
Safe-bad is an accountant who base jumps.
It's a family dentist with a tattoo sleeve.
It's a suburban high school principal who rides an Indian chopper to work.  Every third Friday.  If it's not raining.
Safe-bad.
That's not saying "Born to Be Wild" isn't a great song or that it's lost any of its ferocity.  (It hasn't.)  It's still the same supercharged witches' brew of menacing guitar, Hammond B-3 organ, thudding bass n' drums, and John Kay's blues-soaked vocals that it always was.  It still evokes images of the open road and wind-in-your-hair, bugs-in-your-teeth abandon.
Unfortunately, for me, it now also evokes mental images of being wedged in the middle seat on a cross-country flight and being forced to watch a teenage Lindsay Lohan race Herbie The Love Bug against a creepier-than-usual Matt Dillon around suburban L.A.  (Damn you, Hollywood.)