Stuck In The 80s Again

Nowadays of course I wish most of that “classic rock” would go away, because if Lawrence Welk was still around he’d be covering Kinks tunes, but I felt it was important to make a stand for it back in the day. The old bands may have been all played-out (arguably; most of us didn’t think so at the time). Perhaps, but they weren’t nearly as plastic as the new bands that aspired to replace them. The fact that Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird” is still one of the most requested songs on “classic rock” radio whereas compilations of stuff like Adam and the Ants are primarily Not Sold In Stores! has little to do with white-trash demographics. These classic-rock stations make money. Obscene piles of it, whereas Adam is going to need a real job the day he runs out of old pirate outfits to auction away.

True Confessions: I could be locked in a closet with “Antmusic” or “Goody Two Shoes” for hours and survive, but “Freebird??” It’s unthinkable. The only thing that could possibly be worse would be a cover version from Nelly Furtado. Who in their right mind would take ten minutes out of their day waiting for a DJ to pick up the phone and take their request for “Freebird?” They could dump the CD into their own damn boombox in that amount of time without inflicting it on the rest of us. What the hell is wrong with these people anyway?

As for my band, in the end we found ourselves needing real jobs as well. Our originals sucked, but we prided ourselves on our Pink Floyd and Zappa, not to mention Jon-Luc Ponty and Captain Beyond. The other guy’s band prided themselves on their originals, and those in fact were pretty good for what they were. But since they covered things like the Scorpions and Foreigner and Molly Hatchet, it hardly matters today what their originals sounded like, even though their name (The Hostages) was trendy. Back then any name with a “The” in it was trendy. Our name was Area Code--nondescript, hmmmm? Nowadays it’d be alternative. (I’m always ahead of my time. So be scared. Be very scared.) They were stuck in the 70s and I was stuck in the earlier 70s (which is where so much of 90s “alternative” was coming from anyhow), but my bro thought they were a happening thing while I was in imminent danger of being left behind unless I were to get with the program.

Since I’ve never been very good at getting with anybody’s program, this was not an option. But you can’t tell me we didn’t have balls--for a bar band to go onstage at that time and place and do Zappa material--gawd, I used to love to go into new places just to see the jaws dropping. If we’d been playing Ramones we would’ve gotten points for being so daring (like this band called Stiff Mitten, say. They played nothing but covers, but it was all The Jam and The English Beat, so they felt they were really outrageous. “Bringing New Wave to the suburbs!!!”, etc. etc. *snort* As soon as New Wave hit the suburbs it turned into crap like Cyndi Lauper)--but we were true nonconformists. We probably didn’t get laid as much as the Hostages either, but in our own way we struck a blow for freedom.

The Hostages? They forged their own chains. They ended up giving away their best song to a local radio station for use in a promo LP. I’ve seen it at the flea market for $1. Their gigs dried up as my neighbor’s alcoholism worsened... although as I recall, in their heydey they were very condescending about a little dive they swore they’d never return to, called the Schuper House. They could’ve been the house band (the owner had the hots for the bass player), but they felt the gig was far beneath them. To be honest, so did we (even though she felt our rhythm section had...potential). So the Schuper House was forced to look elsewhere. They wound up with a ratty little college band called 10,000 Maniacs.

Area Code? We were offered a national tour as a Doors clone band, but our lead singer felt this was beneath him so he proceeded--onstage--to ruin it for the rest of us and the offer was withdrawn.

Hey, whatever, I’m not crying in my beer over it--my point is that this is what the 1980s were: Ennui. Vacuity. Sleaze. Stupidity. Boredom. Lost potential. A vast waste of time. And when you gaze upon the face of that spoiled little brat on the cover of the Johnny Hates Jazz album, you’re staring straight into the eyes of the Decade of Ugliness.

There’s no other reason for me to pick on Johnny Hates Jazz. They and dozens of similar bands are pretty much interchangeable. The last time I heard their silly little song (“Shattered Dream,” from the Turn Back The Clock LP, there's my excuse for all the nostalgia) I even vaguely liked it. There’s just something about the sour puss on that effete snooty wee-wee boy on the cover that makes me hope and pray that his band went so far in hock to the record company he’s been “taking it like a man” from the good people at Citibank ever since. How bad of a day was he having when they took that picture? He looks like he just discovered a rust bubble on his brand-new BMW, and it’s all your fault.

That particular brand of clichéd bitchiness is infinitely more played-out than anything in the Lynyrd Skynrd songbook. I could never figure out why it’s the schtick-in-trade for people whose very livelihood is directly dependent on their alleged attractiveness. It entails going out of their way to typify the character traits everybody despises in real life. The sneer was de rigeur for models back then, and even worse in the 90s--“heroin chic” was the term of art. It’s about time we outgrew it; we miss out on a lot of fun that way.

A friend of mine has made a hobby of nude photography, and the world’s a happier place for it because she’s so utterly scrumptious--and so utterly sunny, too. She mentioned once that this is not exactly an asset in some quarters.

“What would I have to do to myself to make some of those facial expressions? I suppose I could bite into a lemon just before they started shooting...?”

I asked her, “So we’re talking about a brilliant modeling career nipped in the bud by a terminal niceness of disposition?” Her reply--“exactly!”

This is considered utterly moderne, but in truth it’s a throwback to the 19th century. If you go into the antique store and rummage through the tintypes, you’ll find most of the people in fancy dress that makes them look uncomfortable and ugly. Invariably, they never smile. The reason: having your picture taken was an incredibly formal occasion, and they didn’t want to be seen smiling, lest future generations think them frivolous. So they wound up looking ridiculous to future gens instead, with no chance of rectifying it because they wouldn’t be photographed ever again.

Which brings me back to my little brother, because I recall one conversation in particular wherein he tried to lay down the law to me on what the 80s would be all about, and I ended up defining the decade for him instead--an era of one-hit wonders, confined to one hit because they didn’t have the talent to write two good songs (or any songs at all in some cases), and even if they did the record companies would cut them off at the knees before they even got to make their next record. With so little substance in the music, we need ever-fresher and fresher faces on the cover of the product. Falco, Taco, Animotion, Aldo Nova, Kajagoogoo, Wall of Voodoo, Saga, A-ha, Thompson Twins, Toni Basil, bong, bong, bonnnnng...ask not for whom the bell tolls. In the words of Frank Zappa, “ultimately, who gives a fuck anyway?”