In case you
hadn’t heard – and how can you read this blog and not be aware of this? – the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame just
announced its 2014 class.
This might be
the most frabjousisical of all the frabjous days (calloo callay), because get a
load of the induction class: Nirvana, Peter Gabriel, Hall and Oates, Linda
Ronstadt, KISS, and Cat Stevens, along with the managers Brian Epstein and
Andrew Loog Oldham.
To put this in
some sort of perspective, this class unites the creative forces behind Mama Bone Jakon, “Shock the Monkey,” “No
Brain, No Pain,” “Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle,” “We Will
Rock You (Lullabye Version),” and “Plastercaster,” in one bright dung-wrapped
package.
In terms of
hall-worthiness (and forgive me for using that term in connection with an
institution where the deck is listing 70 degrees to aft and the band is playing
“Nearer My God To Thee”), I would rank the class as follows: Epstein, Loog
Oldham, Nirvana, Ronstadt, KISS, Hall and Oates, and Gabriel, with Stevens trailing
the field.
I am never
perplexed at anything the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame does, since that would
require being in a state of perpetual perplexedness, like if the Adam Sandler
character from 50 First Dates had to
listen to My People Were Fair and Had Sky
in Their Hair... But Now They're Content to Wear Stars on Their Brows first
thing every morning. However, I do find some of the selections especially
curious.
Starting with
the most worthy, Epstein was the Branch Rickey of the British Invasion (if Branch
had been gay and owned a boutique) and Loog Oldham was his Walter Alston.[1]
Nirvana was epochal; I don’t care for their music in the same way I find the
Sex Pistols indigestible, but I was never married to someone who uses lipstick
the way Chris Hovan used eyeblack, and my drummer never picked up the guitar
and formed a much more successful and longer-lived band.
Ronstadt
epitomized the California country-rock sound better than anyone, she had
incredible taste in music – introducing the McGarrigle sisters, Karla Bonoff,
and Ry Cooder to millions of listeners – and she looked better in a halter top
and cutoffs than any of the Eagles.
KISS represent the
triumph of crass commercialism, theatricality, and loud guitars over art and
taste (bad or otherwise), which makes the RnRHOF want to clutch them to its
I.M. Pei-designed bosom. Plus, they’re one of the few modern acts to have
tribute bands comprised of midgets. It’s so amazing they weren’t part of the
inaugural class.
Hall and Oates
were the most successful blue-eyed-soul duo in history. So what if their songs
had the depth of a screen protector? As mentioned many times before,
hall-worthiness is not dependent on artistic avoirdupois (though woebetide you
if you’re a lightweight, and good luck figuring out the line of demarcation).
Gabriel’s solo
career was short but adventuresome. He had the career everyone except Sting had
hoped Sting would have.
Stevens I know.
My brother had every Cat Stevens album from Father
and Son/New Masters on, and since he was older and controlled the record
player, those records were pounded into my brain with a diamond stylus and a nine-pound
hammer. I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming, “Oh very young,
how will you leave us this time?”
Stevens was
Gilbert O’Sullivan with poorer diction[2].
Here’s a challenge for you: Listen to Teaser
and the Firecat and Richard Thompson’s Hand
of Kindness and tell me which one was done by a Hall of Famer. Oh, also:
Thompson has 10 albums just as good. Teaser was the best Stevens could do.[3]
As we’ve said earlier, complaining about the
Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame changes nothing. Conversely, nothing the hall can do
can make it relevant.
Right about
here is where the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame diverges from its sporting
counterparts. The sports halls honor the significant, substantial aggregate of
many small events, pass upon pass, pitch upon pitch, goal upon goal; the rock
hall immortalizes artists for a few large accomplishments (“few” as in “one,”
in some cases). Dwight Clark made The Catch; Patti Smith made Horses. No one’s making a case for Clark
as a Hall of Famer, but Smith’s already in, and grinning like a fool at Dave
Van Ronk and Phil Ochs, whose ghosts are sitting with their ectoplasmic noses
pressed against the glass.
If the RnRHOF
really wanted to be like the sports halls and acknowledge that song-after-song
accomplishments are more important than lightning-in-a-bottle moments, there’d
be a few changes made. NRBQ would be in the next class, along with They Might
Be Giants, Graham Parker, Richard Thompson, Doug Sahm, Warren Zevon, Hüsker
Dü/Bob
Mould, John Hiatt, Emmylou Harris, Fela, John McLauchlin, Iron Maiden, Anthrax,
Edmunds/Lowe/Rockpile, Black Flag, and many others you name in your hearts.[4]
But to bring
this back to football, as we inevitably do, and this particular HOF class, who
are the football counterparts of this year’s class – or put another way, if
these acts are in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, who would the Pro Football
Hall of Fame need to put in to keep pace?
Fun stuff.
Let’s jump in.
Brian Epstein: We need a non-player who
had phenomenal success over a relatively short time period. Looking good in a
Nehru jacket is nice but not a prerequisite. So how about Don Coryell? His career was 14 years long – nothing in coach years
– he had a couple of mod seasons there at the beginning, he was an offensive
innovator almost without equal, and he did some amazing things with marginal
talent. A 111-83 record doesn’t exactly match up with being the brains behind
the best band ever, but what else you got for me? Besides, you have to save
some room for …
Andrew Loog Oldham: Brian Epstein Lite,
but with staying power. The time frame doesn’t exactly line up, but let’s go
with Buck Shaw. He coached two fewer
seasons than Coryell and won 21 fewer games, but he lost 28 fewer. More
importantly, in a league dominated by Giants and Lions and Browns he
consistently brought home winners, including a 1960 Eagles team that won it
all. In a small, concentrated league where every team had a couple of Hall of
Famers, that’s an amazing accomplishment.
Peter Gabriel: This only seems hard
until you consider the attributes: Long career as part of something important
and famous, short career in the spotlight apart from that group-slash-team … we
could go Ed Reed here or even Dwight Freeney, but I prefer James Harrison. Harrison was a system
guy with the Steelers, a five-time Pro Bowler who was in truth not as good as
all that, though he’s been better than the numbers indicate with the Bengals.
Oh, and he’s a marginal Hall of Famer who will likely get in based on his
Steelers ties and not his innate ability (more on that topic later). He doesn’t
do performance art, though.
Hall and Oates: Here we dive into the
really-successful-but-not-really-beloved end of the ocean, and while there are
some obvious candidates bobbing around waiting for someone to throw them a line
– Jerry Kramer, Dick Schafrath, Ken Anderson, LaDanian Tomlinson, Marvin
Harrison – I’m going with Charles
Woodson. There’s talk that Woodson is not a sure-fire HOFer, even though
he’s an eight-time Pro Bowler, three-time first-team All-Pro, two-time
Defensive Player of the Year, a true shutdown corner, and a player who above
all has been able to change with the changing times. He’s the first- or
second-best D-back[5] in
an era where cornerback/safeties are up there with rush end as the most
important defensive position. Will Woodson make it to Canton? Probably. Will he
have to wait longer than he should? Probably. Is this a travesty? Probably –
though “travesty” and “Hall of Fame” probably shouldn’t be used in the same
sentence.
Linda Ronstadt: Now things get
interesting. Talented as Ronstadt was, and setting aside the 20-year crush I
had on her, she was also pretty darn lucky. Her career was spent surrounded by
A-plus-list talent, from Jackson Browne and John David Souther to Peter Asher
and Andrew Gold to the McGarrigles to Emmylou Harris to Nelson Riddle. Maybe a
dozen other singers could have done what Ronstadt did, and while that doesn’t sugarcoat
the fact that Ronstadt was the one who actually did it, it points up again the
inestimable value of circumstance. And no NFLer has benfitted more from
circumstance than Wes Welker. Ya
gotta admit, spending your career as the safety valve of choice for first Tom
Brady and then Peyton Manning is the choicest of choice gigs. It’s like getting
to be Jerry Rice for a few years, then switching teams and getting to be Ray
Berry. So while there’s no question Welker has been incredibly productive,
there’s also no question that Austin Collie or Julian Edelman or Danny Woodhead
or someone else was capable of doing 98 percent of what Welker did.[6]
Nirvana: The whole short-career thing
is a problem for football unless you want to go old, where Don Doll and Don Colo,
among others, are waiting. But it doesn’t feel right to go old with Nirvana,
and there’s the problem again. So while there aren’t many good football comps
for Nirvana, there is one: Sterling Sharpe. Sterling was on his way to being
the decade’s dominant pass receiver before his neck injury. He was well-nigh
superhuman, and the fact that he caught 90 passes in 1989 and his quarterbacks
were Don Majkowski and Anthony Dilweg ought to be more than ample proof of
that. If Shannon Sharpe can make it without ever catching more than 87 passes
in a season, his better, bigger brother can get in for being more productive in
less time.
KISS: Let’s see: show over substance,
shallow, spotlight-seeking … I’m thinking wide receiver. Terrell Owens is the
obvious choice, except for one thing: Owens is good. He deserves pretty much
what he thinks he does, and that includes a spot in Canton.[7]
Moss is out for the same reason, and after that the wide receivers (except for
Sterling Sharpe) are Jimmy Smith/Rod Smith/Harold Jackson types – productive,
but modestly talented and not truly disruptive.
Much as it
pains me, we need to leave the wideouts to their mirrors and touchdown dances
and throw open the competition to all the ego-heavy, sass-over-substance players
from the NFL’s recent past. And looky here: Donovan McNabb. McNabb was a quality quarterback, but he was never
as good as he thought he was, or people thought he was going to be, or fans
expected him to be. McNabb bore his burden with a little bit of humor, a fistful
of arrogance, and a whole lot of Kabuki-inspired face paint. Wait; scratch
that. Face paint – something with stars on it, preferably – would have helped
McNabb adopt an alter-ego, one that could complete clutch passes and not
alienate his playmakers.
The numbers say
that McNabb threw more than 30 touchdowns in a season only once, never led the
league in a significant passing category, and led fewer game-winning drives
than Jake Plummer, Drew Bledsoe, Kerry Collins, Vinny Testaverde, or Brad
Johnson. On the other hand, he gave Michael Vick something to live up (or down)
to and he is the namesake of one of the mushiest Hall of Famers, regardless of the hall or the fame.
(Somewhere
right now McNabb is going, “Geez – what is this? Even after I retire?” Yes,
Donovan: Even after you retire.)
Cat Stevens: And now, the one you’ve
all been waiting for: The Cat Stevens of the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
Let’s be
honest: Most HOFers and prospective HOFers are not climbing over each other for
this honor. While no self-serving football HOFer wants to be paired with a female
artist (Don Maynard, ladies and gentlemen – the Laura Nyro of the Pro Football
Hall of Fame!) Cat Stevens is sort of the bottom of the barrel as
football/rock-‘n’-roll enshrinee comps go.[8] So
the challenge is to find someone wholly undeserving of enshrinement, and I know
just where to look: Pittsburgh.
It’s no
accident that many of the least deserving Hall of Famers from John Henry
Johnson and Bobby Layne forward hail from Pittsburgh. For better (Chuck Noll)
or worse (Bill McPeak) Pittsburgh has been a system team. The whole has been greater
than the sum of its parts, except when those parts were Joe Krupa and Lou
Michaels. Starting with the Noll years, the number of truly brilliant Steelers
that weren’t coaches starts with Joe Greene and ends a couple degrees south of
Joe Greene, at Rod Woodson. (Moderately brilliant: Mike Webster, Franco Harris,
Jack Lambert, Dermontti Dawson; occasionally brilliant: Mel Blount, John
Stallworth, Jack Ham, Terry Bradshaw; rarely brilliant: Lynn Swann).
Two more names
are preparing to join the ranks of the overrated yet nonetheless immortalized: Hines Ward and Troy Polamalu.
It’s hard to
decide which one gets Cat Stevens and which one either gets retrofitted with
Donovan or has to wait around for the Moody Blues. Polamalu has half of
Woodson’s stats, better hair and more concussions; Ward is ninth on the
all-time receptions list but 21st in receiving yards, has no hair
whatsoever, and never led the league in anything. Ward’s closest career comp is
Derrick Mason, and last I checked the Derrick Mason Canton Express was empty. But just you watch: Hines Ward is
going to be in Canton long before Marvin “What Gun? What Car Wash?” Harrison
and maybe even T.O.
While it’s
hard to choose between Polamalu and Ward, I’ve gotta go with Polamalu. Rarely
has a player with so many weaknesses in what is supposed to be the core part of
his game – pass coverage – been so revered. In general, and accounting for
instances of moderate brilliance, Polamalu has been a modestly talented
linebacker playing another five yards behind the line of scrimmage.
So there you
have it. Troy, next time you’re sitting at the piano, how’s about banging out a
few bars of “Tuesday’s Dead”?
This is way
longer than I thought it was going to be, and I apologize, especially because
we didn’t get anywhere. That’s how it
goes with Halls of Fame, though. Just when you think you’ve figured out who
belongs, they start playing “Peace Train” on the Muzak and the balloters get
all misty-eyed, and there you are, screwed again.
At least until
next year rolls around.
[1]
Though if Epstein and Loog Oldham are Hall of Famers, where’s Colonel Tom
Parker? Subtle he wasn’t, but his impact on rock ‘n’ roll is still being felt.
[2] I
am particularly stumped at the case for Stevens as a HOFer. His career
consisted of 11 albums from 1967-78, three of which went platinum, and 24
singles, two of which went to No. 1. He was idiosyncratic but not a pioneer in
any genre. For those who scoff at the Gilbert O’Sullivan comparison, Stevens’
closest career comp is – oh, looky – Christopher Cross, who is nothing but the
American Gilbert O’Sullivan. The American who came closest stylistically to
Stevens, Dan Fogelberg, was actually more commercially successful.
[3] I
am not cherrypicking. This also works for Roy Harper, John Hiatt, Warren Zevon,
Graham Parker, Mark Knopfler, Kate and Anna McGarrigle, and a host of other
artists.
[4]
Not all of these performers are personal favorites, either. I’m not a metal guy
and I find Mould preternaturally difficult, but facts is facts.
[5]
His competition: Champ Bailey and Ed Reed.
[6]
You also can’t ignore the Pro Football Reference player ratings. Among active
players, Welker trails Jahri Evans, Brian Waters, and Matt Hasslebeck, among
others, and those numbers absolutely do not lie.
[7]
Which begs the question: If you had to choose one receiver to make a big catch
in a crucial situation, who would you pick: Randy Moss or Terrell Owens? Even
though Moss had moments of otherworldliness that T.O. and anyone else on the
planet couldn’t match, if you threw a jump ball to Moss you weren’t always
certain who would come down with it. There was never that doubt with Owens.
[8]
Though it would have been interesting if Alex Hawkins or Sonny Jurgensen or
somesuch had commented to Lindsey Nelson, after watching Lynn Swann go through
his paces, “You know who he reminds me of, Lindsey? Cat Stevens. Really soft
and hard to figure out. Nice jacket, by the way.”
