I like rock and roll, especially Bob Seger, Bob Dylan, and Ray Charles. My son Freddy, 10, also likes rock and roll, especially R.E.M, FIootie and the Blowfish, and Blues Traveler. So when we went to Cleveland in September to see an Indians-Red Sox baseball game, we dropped by the just-opened Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for a tour. The ballgame was better.
The museum itselfthe building, situated downtown, beside Lake Erie — is breathtaking. Architect I. M. Pei delivered the goods. And that’s the problem. The building (cost: $ 92 million) is too grand for what’s being celebrated inside. Rock and roll doesn’t warrant such exalted treatment. Sure, it’s pleasantly distracting to listen to in the car. It’s also fun to dance to (I’m guessing here, since I don’t dance). It provides nice background noise for teenage parties and beach outings. But it’s primitive music, mostly. And in the scheme of things, rock and roll isn’t very important, musically, socially, or politically.
Skirting this fact by elevating rock and roll, giving it gravitas, transforming rock stars into musical statesmen — that’s what the museum is all about. Also, it’s an attempt to puff up a segment of the recording industry that’s notorious for unbridled greed, drug use, and corruption.
The glossy program (cost: $ 10) says rock music has been “maligned as an art form by critics.” True. Rectifying this is the museum’s job: “Since its inception, it has been the desire of the Board to make the Hall of Fame a dignified and serious home commemorating the people who created this music.”
I suspect the Board feared the Hall wouldn’t be dignified and serious enough if only rock performers were honored. So they added other categories. One is “early influences” — everyone from Woody Guthrie to Hank Williams to Leadbelly. Heck, Beethoven or Burl Ives would be eligible for this category. Another is “non-performer.” This gives rock producers and deejays a chance to claim equal status with rock stars. Dick Clark is an inductee.
The actual Hall of Fame is on the sixth floor, and it’s not easy to reach. You have to climb a spiral staircase that brings you to a room in almost total darkness. The only things illuminated are plaques on the wall honoring inductees that include talents like Dylan and Buddy Holly but also mediocrities such as the Allman Brothers Band, Eddie Cochran, and the Grateful Dead.
I didn’t examine the plaques dosdy. The room was packed, and all I could think about in the dark was keeping hold of Freddy. How would you explain losing a child in a museum?
Freddy, by the way, was unimpressed by the shrine-like atmosphere. The only thing he remembered from the entire tour was the mannequin, on the second floor, of reggae singer Bob Marley. “It was funny looking,” he said. So were the mannequin of Sid Vicious and the four of Michael Jackson.
The truth is there’s not much to see at the museum. The main floor is dominated by wardrobes of the stars: John Lennon’s leather jacket, sneakers from Run-DMC, Keith Moon’s elevator shoes. This stuff wasn’t interesting, and the crowds moved quickly by. There are old posters from rock concerts. Wow! There are plenty of guitars. Freddy insisted on strumming one. And there’s lots of silly artifacts. My favorite was the high-school yearbook from Wink, Texas, of Roy Orbison. I liked Roy Orbison’s singing, but this didn’t add to the pleasure.
What about hearing the music? Well, there are several theaters with short films of rock musicians performing, along with chatter about rock’s social and political significance. It once had significance, but that came and went with the 1960s. Now rock concerts inspire teenage boys to grovel in the mud. They’ll grow up. By age 25, most people have relegated rock and roll to a small corner of their lives. They listen to oldies stations. Other things, many, many of them, are more important.
Freddy didn’t want to sit through any rock films, but I made him. He wanted to hear R.E.M. We went to one of the computerized devices with earphones in which you’re supposed to be able to pick out the performer you want and punch up the music. We tried. Maybe we didn’t follow instructions carefully enough. We heard nothing.
FRED BARNES
