Blurbing For The Weekend: 2/23/24

For the last plenty enough years or so, I had this bit of announcing my hypothetical ballot for the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame, basing my choices primarily on my concept of their fame, rather than a personal appreciation for a musical act’s work, or my sense of their artistic value. Simply put, I'd argue which of the artists deserved to be considered a popular music icon. Nobody seemed to find the effort nearly as amusing as I did, so this year I’ll pump my opinions out in this weekly grab-bag rather than give the concept its own post.

One twist! Instead of discussing the artists in alphabetical order, I’m going to listing them from Most Worthy Of Being In The Rock Hall to Least. Thanks to a large influx of non-rock iconicity (was Jann Wenner blocking it previously or did they want to make up for his racist whoopsy-doo?), a lot more than seven of these acts deserve inclusion. And if Tribe doesn't make my imaginary ballot after all the years they would have, I’m imaginarily abstaining on principle.

Cher. Of course she belongs in there! She’s been eligible since Taylor Swift was a little baby! Without even acknowledging what she accomplished before I was born (a decade before Taylor!), there’s MTV refusing to air her thong before midnight. There’s the video with Beavis & Butthead. There’s the legit number one hit in 1999. It’s madness she’s not in already.

Ozzy Osbourne. Part of me is really embarrassed about this. Ozzy is already in the Hall with Black Sabbath. Randy Rhoads is already in the Hall in one those weird side person induction dealy-bobs. Those inductions acknowledge about 90% of why Ozzy would be in here musically. Nonetheless, there’s no denying how huge the word “Ozzy” is in hard rock, even if it’s damn near Trump-like its in empty, TV-centric branding since that Behind The Music episode. So yeah, yeah, yeah, once more, once more.

Mariah Carey. Thanks to climate change, her annual promotional blitz is now more reliable than snow.

Kool & The Gang. The irony is that, while it’s their pop era that made them inescapable, it’s that pair of hits from the funk era that have the most resonance now. But by hook and by crook, nobody asks who Kool & The Gang are.

Mary J. Blige. I once noted how impressive it is that Janet Jackson could use just her first name and still be recognized. If you give half a shit about R&B since the ‘90s, that’s also true of Mary J. Blige. And it was true in the ‘90s. She should be in there.

Sade. While it’s less impressive to get away with being “Sade” sans surname than “Mary,” the number of people who make the effort to pronounce Sade correctly means a lot. Plus the degree of respect and enthusiasm she gets for a type of music that otherwise is associated with Skinemax. Clearly a timeless, defining cultural figure.

Jane’s Addiction. Like Bauhaus, there’s not a lot of songs behind this band’s status as a major rock subculture’s epochal heroes. Jane’s two hits merged the guitars from Led Zeppelin’s third album and lyrics from The Velvet Underground’s third album with unexpected novelty hooks (steel drums on the ballad, sound effects on the comedy number), with everything else just whiny riffola strictly for their scene. But boy, did Perry Farrell make a mint off the bare minimum of output. Dude’s sold too many t-shirts not to be in here.

Sinead O’Connor. It’s tragic that death proved her iconicity, but their inclusion in bullshit industry celebrations like the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame is the silver lining of losing someone who made an all-too-necessary mark on the world.

Oasis. In England, they probably belong above Mariah Carey, if not Ozzy. Their ‘90s moment is less totemic in America, to the point where I might argue “(Anyway, Here’s) Wonderwall” deserves inclusion instead. But I bet a lot of American kids today know they were unspeakably huge in England at least.

A Tribe Called Quest. I’ve been repping for their induction for a while. I shouldn’t have to do it anymore.

Dave Matthews Band. I’m tempted to say they shouldn’t get in before Phish, but Matthews does have some forever famous hooks and ballads. So whether or not Dave is the name in post-Garcia college-quad jam-band granola, his pop outreach is impossible to deny. 

Lenny Kravitz. Fitting of somebody already the ironic exception to so many rock culture rules, Kravitz feels like someone who’s only going to be famous for as long as he’s alive. While he’s blazed a unique path, had some big hits and still gets lots of name recognition in the media, I don’t know what people are going to talk about when he’s not around to wear giant sunglasses at award ceremonies or giant scarves on the street. To be clear, I give him credit for being ersatz and derivative in so many ways he’s actually a unique avatar of multi-generational “rock” culture: who else could go top ten pop with a Curtis Mayfield homage and top ten rock with a Jimi Hendrix homage within two years? And then go top ten pop with a Bryan Adams homage almost a decade later? But take away his homages, and what’s left? Is “Fly Away” enough to hang his hat on here? That Zoolander cameo? Where death often confirms if a cult favorite has mass culture renown, I feel death would confirm Lenny’s mass culture renown comes without a cult. 

Peter Frampton. His lack of a single studio album - or even studio single - with any cultural significance is a major sticking point. Plus, when he played in the band at the Grammy’s televised celebration of the Beatles, they didn’t even acknowledge the guy on air. And he starred in a movie of Beatles songs! With The Bee Gees! But his live album has a lot of cultural significance, enough to get him memorable name-checks on Three’s Company, Wayne’s World and The Simpsons. So whether he’s remembered for being a poster boy or a punchline, his name is pretty remembered.

Eric B & Rakim. I’m tempted to say this is a perfect example of the Little Steven’s Hall Of Nerds subset of nominations: a tremendous, important act that most people wouldn’t recognize by name or noise. But I have to acknowledge that every single time they do one of those Best MCs Ever lists on TV or on the internet, Rakim has to be acknowledged in the Top 5. And he’s still alive! So while I’m dubious about how many people born since 2000 know him outside of that Mount Rushmore Of Rap context, enough might know him from that to merit inclusion here.

Foreigner. Hmm. Bad Company (if not Free) arguably deserves to get in first for defining the ‘70s classic rock template of moaning about P-in-V over casually monolithic guitar-bass-drums with zero artistic or cultural pretense. But Foreigner followed their lead so studiously well I bet a lot of Bad Company songs were credited to Foreigner on Napster. Bad Co’s Paul Rodgers says he’s repeatedly told the Rock Hall to fuck off, which explains Foreigner having a chance to get in first. But do kids today even know the difference between Foreigner and Survivor, let alone Bad Company? I’m skittish.

So that’s about eleven “let ‘em in”s, four “ehhh”s and not a single “hell no.” And for that, I’ll fully stop saying they’re getting it wrong.

I didn't see a lot of movies last week, what with watching True Detective: Night Country and rewatching the first season (as I said I likely would). But one night I did throw on Suspect Zero, a pre-Dexter thriller about a serial killer chasing serial killers I remembered finding rather miserable in the DVD era, but was curious to revisit due to the pedigree. Director E. Elias Merhige made lots of weird shorts and theater pieces before making a creepy little thing called Begotten in 1989. His 2000 film Shadow Of The Vampire was a cool twist on Nosferatu where you got to see John Malkovich as F.W. Murnau yell at Willem DaFoe as actor Max Schreck. While Schreck is portrayed as a real vampire in the movie, in real life he was way more into theater than cinema. Similarly, after the workmanlike, money-losing Suspect Zero, Merhige appears to have decided he’s done with Hollywood. 

The film involves Aaron Eckhart as a haunted FBI agent chasing Ben Kingsley, who may or may not be a refugee from a secret FBI program involving psychic murder GPS, but is definitely stabbing up a storm. The script was a Billy Ray touch-up on a Zak Penn script, and released a year after Ray’s excellent directorial debut Shattered Glass. You get the sense this wasn’t a passion project for Ray, but at least a chance to prove his structural skills. Meanwhile, Merhige is trying to get his experimental jollies in between the by-the-numbers story beats. Fuming Aaron Eckhart with a gun is fuming Aaron Eckhart with a gun, and Ben Kingsley is even more intense than he was in Dave. It’s more tolerable, less exploitive than I remembered, or maybe I’m just more inured to the style. But I definitely don’t blame Merhige for tapping out after this. Fun fact: I seriously thought (hoped?) Eckhart’s Agent Mackelray was named Agent Macrame for a minute or two. FOUR BAGS OF POPCORN.

I revisited my How I Like Electric Six playlist, and, boy, I wish I could force everyone I know to give their two cents on it. It kills me how the majority of people in my sphere have no take at all about Electric Six beyond the first album's hits. At least dismiss them with “I’ll listen to the Roxy Music not led by Jack Black” or something!