Updated
August 13, 1998.

© 1990-2006, Alceste

The Inquisitor

Stop the Seventies

From The Wall Street Journal

We blame Bill Clinton. He started it, resurrecting gratefully dead Fleetwood Mac for his Inauguration's festivities. Ever since, there has been a stealthy emergence of the undead: the 1970s. Stop it, we plead.

Some cite the Fifties as the worst. Wrong. In all of history, there may have been no dimmer decade for pop culture, fashion, economics, politics and general tackiness than the one that saw Watergate, WIN buttons, the 55-mile-per-hour speed limit, the swine flu vaccine, wage and price controls, the fall of Saigon, gasoline lines, metric conversions in the U.S. (hah!), the Cultural Revolution and "Feelings."

Fleetwood Mac we could live with a little, and we're glad Steely Dan has surfaced from their isolation ward to start reeling in the years again. But the Bee Gees? You can tell by the way we use our talk that we're not keen for another bout of "Saturday Night Fever." And please, hold the self-indulgent videos from these ancients.

Seventies signs are flying everywhere. From Hong Kong to New York, one notes the clop-clop-clop of platform shoes, possibly the least attractive footwear ever designed. Hip-hugging bell-bottoms with multi-colored stripes are again, incredibly, de rigeur, in the out-on-the-edge fashion set. No sightings yet of leisure suits with white piping, but anything's possible nowadays.

Imagine the Seventies icons that could come back to torture us all. There has already been an off-Broadway "Brady Bunch" parody; no doubt the producers are even now plotting "Brady Bunch: The Grandchildren." Mood rings, the Bay City Rollers, pet rocks, "Jonathan Livingston Seagull," Peter Frampton––get ready for it all.

Fighting these tides, we admit, is pointless, so a modest proposal: In return for all the Seventies horrors likely to be disinterred, a quality act should be restored. Maybe we could live with more Angst from Janis Ian if Elvis (preferably after Slim Fast) would return as well. If baseball retains the designated hitter, it should also guarantee a rerun of the 1975 World Series––or better yet, give poor Washington, D.C., a team again. Yes, do a sequel to "Love Story," but only if you can somehow resurrect Walker Percy. We wouldn't find Woody Allen so miserable if he were still making Seventies classics like "Sleeper" and "Annie Hall."

Fortunately, some major Seventies forces have faded from prominence and show little sign of coming back to haunt us––Erich Honecker, streaking, the Gang of Four, Donna Summers, "You Light Up My Life," Jimmy Hoffa. Mere memories.

The thing about the undead, though, is that you can never tell when they'll creep back. Maybe Bill Clinton will offer a helping hand.

Mr. President, forget the Seventies. They're not coming back. Boating with Teddy is passe. This is the Nineties. Turn off the oldies-but-goodies stations. Instead of listening to your scratchy Fleetwood Mac collection, you could be hearing the same thing brought up to date on a 10,000 Maniacs CD. Don't let the name scare you; ask Chelsea. In fact, here's a deal: You light a fire under the culture of the Nineties, and we won't even think of bringing up the Sixties.

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