I arrived at the Orioles-Twins game a few Sundays ago just in time for the singing of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” A young grungeball named Edwin McCain, with hair all the way down his back, was standing in front of home plate, groaning as if drunk, “Orra ramparts we warrrrrshed . . .” Apparently that was his style: singing only on the consonants. When he got to the end he held the word “free” until he ran out of breath. Usually the expression is “held the note,” but in fact Edwin didn’t hold the note. He didn’t even keep it in his general vicinity. It surprised me a bit to hear that he’s a young folk- rocker whose records are selling like hotcakes. He stank.
But then the national anthem almost invariably stinks. Hearing it at a ballgame used to mean a lot to me. Now it turns my stomach. In fact, it may currently be the most painful thing about attending a sport that gravitates almost instinctively to innovations that cheapen it, from rock music between innings to monster TV screens in center field to cheering instructions (” Noise! !”).
The “Star-Spangled Banner” first became a ballgame staple during the 1942 season, as a gesture of solidarity with the hundreds of thousands of young men — including the vast majority of major league baseball players — who suddenly found themselves fighting fascism an ocean away. It was a queer American custom that foreigners found incomprehensible, even risible, and like many such customs, it was one of the things that distinguished us as a reverent, civilized, and superior people. Americans knew it, and that’s why the custom continued after World War II. The anthem was played by either a band or an organist, and everyone — meaning everyone — sang.
The anthem became an occasion for political protest in 1968, of course, when Tommie Smith and John Wesley Carlos raised their fists in a Black Power salute at the Mexico City Olympics, after taking the gold and bronze in the 200-meter dash. But it wasn’t until a year later, when Jimi Hendrix played an acid-rock guitar solo of the tune at Woodstock, that irony and outrage invaded the song itself. From then on, the national anthem would became a poor man’s “Piss Christ,” with performers competing for who could sing the longest or the weirdest or the most ironic national anthem, even changing the words. That’s how it’s sung at roughly half the games today. It has become impossible for the crowd to sing along, but that’s no longer the point.
The anthem had enemies besides the unpatriotic. It became a plum, to be traded for political influence or sold off as a commercial spot. In the mid- 1970s, North Carolina State basketball coach Norman Sloan arranged to have his wife Jo Ann sing the anthem before every game — and who was to gainsay him? At the 1986 World Series in Boston, that music-rich city ignored its local talent in favor of a now-forgotten starlet acceptable to NBC, which — what a coincidence! — was broadcasting the World Series that year. In 1995, Barbra Streisand was reportedly passed over for the Super Bowl anthem because commissioner Paul Tagliabue had promised it to Kathie Lee Gifford, wife of his bosom friend Frank. And nowadays, it seems most basketball games begin with the anthem sung by some lucky youngster, often as not the daughter of a megabucks donor (if it’s a college game) or the son of some big-city political heavyweight (if it’s the pros).
The two strains — the anti-American and the exploitative — came together when Roseanne Barr grunted the national anthem, grabbing at her crotch and spitting, on Working Woman’s Night at Jack Murphy Stadium in 1990.
And together they remain. Edwin McCain’s groaning and gurgling and prancing was followed by something even more revolting: an outright promo spot. “In honor of Edwin’s visit,” the public-address system began — causing considerable confusion among those of us who somehow thought we’d endured his performance to honor America — “he’ll be signing autographs outside the main concourse. His new album, featuring Edwin singing favorites from Hootie and the Blowfish and John Michael Montgomery, is available at Waxie Maxie’s. And look for Edwin’s first release, “Honor Among Thieves,” at record stores everywhere.”
Last month, Denver Nuggets guard Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf was suspended for not standing during the anthem. He claimed he couldn’t participate in a ceremony that honors the United States. If only that were true! As currently performed, the anthem has nothing to do with honoring the United States and everything to do with nepotism, p.c., and the commercial piggery of franchise owners and television networks. Helping some talentless neo-longhair sell records wasn’t part of the deal that sports teams made with their fans and their country in 1942. As it stands, maybe the first franchise that decides to drop the anthem altogether will be doing everyone a favor.
CHRISTOPHER CALDWELL
