The Rock and Roll (Hall of Fame) Circus – An Article by Mike Stampalia

The Rock and Roll (Hall of Fame) Circus.

I have a confession to make.  I love the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

In particular, I love it twice a year: early February when that year’s nominees are announced. And three months later, when the “winners” (and, by extension, also the “losers”) are announced.

Not because I put a lot of stock in its meaning – I don’t, and you shouldn’t either. Nor because I think it’s a respectful celebration of the artists and their work – it isn’t that either. An objective way to look back with clear eyes and figure out who was better than whom?  Puh-leeeze.

No, I love it for its obliviousness.  For its tone-deafness. And for its futility.  Each year the RRHOF emerges, like a dopey hibernating bear from its Cleveland den, and proceeds to anger the entire population it purports to celebrate. And then, for good measure, they come out again three months later and do it again.  It’s exquisite in its stupidity.

Think about it. This is, at its core, an organization that presumes to examine the hard-fought and legendary careers of artists who gave their very lives (literally, in some cases) for their craft, and discern who is worthy of making the club and who isn’t.  And who decides this? A bunch of industry insiders and hangers-on. Sorry, Johnny Marr, Baba Booey from the Howard Stern Show (a real-life voter) is insufficiently moved by your work, not this year.  Maybe next year, Iron Maiden – you don’t have enough umm… err… something for Jann’s insider’s circle. By the way, have you ever tried to find out just who makes up the voting members, and how they vote? Good luck.

It doesn’t matter who they pick and who they reject, it will always be a black eye. “Getting it right,” 25+ years on, (at best) earns you a “what took you so long” or a “no shit, Sherlock” reaction. “I’d heard about the Stooges, but it wasn’t until they got into the RRHOF that I realized how great they were” is a phrase uttered by no one, ever. And that it took Stranger Things to “validate” Kate Bush enough for the RRHOF hipsters speaks volumes as to how pandering the organization is.

But every artist they fail to nominate, every nominee they fail to induct, is a slap to millions of fans whose lives they touched. How many years did you hold out – in vain – that Rush (still, after all these years) wasn’t cool enough for the club, before finally succumbing to the fear of irrelevance? And you clearly know better than, say, Kurt Cobain about the merits of the Pixies.  Keep it up, it’s a good look.

The primary sin here is not that the RRHOF isn’t good enough at “picking winners.” The sin here is the binary “in or out” structure of the Hall of Fame itself.  Why not just focus on the museum itself? Like any other museum, it should be a mix of permanent and temporary exhibits, guided by a skilled (and when needed, changing) curator.  In the museum, you don’t need to choose between Willie and Warren, between Rage and Soundgarden. There’s room for all, as it should be.  And, hey, if evolving tastes or public outcry or just self-reflection makes you realize you’ve missed someone, you can fix it the next day. It’s supportive. It’s respectful.

I get that someone is always going to be unhappy, even within the museum, but it offers magnitudes more flexibility than an arbitrary “seven a year, no more, no less” stance. It also gives you the ability to address other Hall of Fame shortcomings, like the inability to recognize journeyman artists properly. Ronnie James Dio didn’t get in the RRHOF with Sabbath, and he’s unlikely to for his solo work or for Rainbow.  But all together, that’s quite a career. Similarly, I love Reeves Gabrels, and he deserves to be honored for his guitar innovation. But shoehorning him in as a member of the Cure is a slight in my book. And there would have been a lot less handwringing over Todd Rundgren if we could just honor him as both the performer and producer that he is.

Then there’s the genre purism problem. Every time the RRHOF nominates a Dolly Parton, a Missy Elliott, or a George Michael, the “how is XXX considered rock and roll?” backlash immediately follows. Now, count me squarely on the open-door side of this debate.  I’m not sure that there’s been anything more “rock and roll” than hip-hop since the advent of punk. And if you don’t think Willie Nelson, a man who authored a book called “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die,” is rock and roll enough for you, we’re going to have to agree to disagree. But the main problem the purists have is one of space. They’re not begrudging Kraftwerk or A Tribe Called Quest, per se.  They’re upset that there are only seven golden tickets, and Willy Wenner is giving them away too freely. Get rid of the binary thumbs-up/thumbs-down paradigm, and this goes away, too.

Stop gatekeeping. I don’t need a bunch of anonymous insiders telling me who “belongs” and who doesn’t, and neither does anybody else. Rock and Roll Hall of Famer member Chrissy Hynde said it best, looking back at the “honor” and the experience of receiving it: “I don’t even wanna be associated with it. It’s just more establishment backslapping. I got in a band so I didn’t have to be part of all that,” she said. “It’s absolutely nothing to do with rock ‘n’ roll and anyone who thinks it is, is a fool.”