The 2022 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Nominees

Some Reluctant Opinions

I visited the "Rock & Roll Hall of Fame" in 2019; my daughter Liz married a fine man with a large Cleveland family, so she had a bridal shower in Ohio for our new in-laws in the Potash clan. We stayed for the weekend, and it is a wonderful city, with a first-rate art museum, terrific restaurants, and a populace so rock and roll loving that even the average person on the street could talk to you about the Michael Stanley Band, which still gets played on the radio. Not everyone got my sense of humor: at an excellent Japanese restaurant, I asked if they had walleye sashimi from Lake Erie, and some of our companions were aghast.

The Hall of Fame was worth an entire day visit. The gift shop is excellent and not as overpriced as it might have been. The building is beautiful. It has elevated the pride of Cleveland, adds millions to the city's coffers, and that is no small accomplishment. “Have you been to the Rock Hall?” is the way natives greet visitors.

The institution has not always been so lovely, especially the internal and opaque politics of its leadership (until a few years ago, when he detached himself, Rolling Stone founder Jann Wenner could be credibly accused of imposing his biases). I was a recipient of a critic ballot for perhaps two years in the 1980s or 1990s. Otherwise, I've never voted, had no relationship at all. I find it farcical to even write about with any seriousity [sic]. Because after the first 10 or 15 years, all the undisputed hall of famers had been included. And rock music is not like baseball, where new generations of stars earn their entry to Cooperstown every year.

I did cover the Hall's induction ceremonies when they were in New York, including the first one, at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. I saw Chuck Berry sitting alone during the cocktail hour, so I duck-walked up to him and asked: "Mr. Berry, when you were writing 'Johnny B. Goode' and 'Roll Over Beethoven,' did you ever imagine there would ever be a 'Rock & Roll Hall of Fame'?

Berry looked at me with that gunslinger's slit-eyed stare and replied: "I have no imagination."

=======

Here are some thoughts on this year's nominees, which will be whittled down by the Hall politburo, with ceremonies in Los Angeles in fall 2022. I've boldfaced my choices.

A Tribe Called Quest. All the great things hip-hop could have been: jazzy, beatnik, low-key, and cool were embodied by ATCQ, which had its moment in the 1990s when it looked like young black hipsters including Digable Planets and De La Soul might carry rap to the next level. That music stands up well. It's still refreshing to go back to the and watch Quest videos, usually mixing color and black and white, came from St. Albans, Queens. "Can I Kick It?” Of course you can. An oddball factoid: In the video of their most famous song, they have to go back and forth across the country because either Q-Tip or the late Phife Dawg was flirting with a waitress and lamented: "I Left My Wallet in El Segundo." Which is now where the Los Angeles Times is located, out in El Segundo. Harry Bosch would be relieved to not have the Times so close to LAPD headquarters. Most Quest action takes place in or around Linden Boulevard in Queens, close to my heart.

Beck: Since his alt-rock debut hit "Loser," I've found Beck's music uninteresting. Others think of him as versatile; I find the little repertory I pay attention to rudderless. After Mellow Gold (1994) and Odelay (1996), he fell off my radar. Not entirely his fault, because between 1995-2000 I took a hiatus from music and wrote mostly about food. But the acclaimed Sea Change (2002), which David Fricke of Rolling Stone called with uncharacteristic carelessness Beck's "Blood on the Tracks," bored me like no other so-called "five star" album has bored me. A lot of time has gone by since he was the voice of a new generation based in boho Brooklyn and slacker Silver Lake. He's 52 now and I have not chosen to voluntarily play an album or CD or playlist of his music at home for many years. I just don't hear it, but that's a matter of taste, but this is all about taste, and Beck's not mine.

Pat Benatar: She has a great rock and roll voice, had more than a moment of fame, and sustained a hit-making career over a longer period of time than many of her peers. Also, when she began her career, I heard her trying to make it as a cabaret singer from Lindenhurst, L.I., at the trend-setting Greewnich Village boite Reno Sweeney. She was really good with the standards, but when she threw her left hook--a cabaret version of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven"--it seemed obvious that she could make it in rock if she hit it with her best shot.

Kate Bush: A British icon whose popularity and influence never translated much on this side of the pond. But over there? My god, her words sometimes get mistaken for the Magna Carta. For a British person to conceive of a R&R Hall of Fame without Kate Bush is to imagine it without Paul Weller . . . Well, okay, Paul Weller isn't in the hall, but he is on the cover of one of the monthly music mags at least twice a year, as is her Kate-ness. Her distinction is in her distinctiveness: She imitates no one, she influences every woman who has ever stepped up to an open mic night in a Midlands pub on a Friday night. She is not my taste, but she really is an influencer and an original, so I say yes.

Devo: Loved them once for a year or two, as we all did: for one album, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!, (Warner Bros., 1978). Their advantage is their early head start. Even while punk was still pogoing along, this Akron-band's quirky humor and danceability allowed "new wave" to develop as a categorical imperative. And as representatives of Akron, Ohio, they carried the torch for one of the most fertile small-city scenes (Rubber City Rebels, Tin Huey, the Bizarros, the much loved label Clone Records). My St. John's University colleague Dr. Susan Schmidt-Horning, a history professor, played bass in one of Akron's women bands, known as Chi-Pig. Since the Hall of Fame is just up the road in Cleveland, and because I experienced the spiritual significance of Akron when I stopped for pilgrimage to the small museum at the former home of AA co-founder Dr. Bob Smith (others call themselves "Friends of Bill"; I consider myself a "patient of Dr. Bob") the Akron scene deserves recognition. And no one else could represent it better than Devo.

Duran Duran: They were pretty on MTV, popular on new wave radio while it lasted, but it didn't last long, did it? If you asked me to name a Duran Duran song now, I would say "Hungry Like Like the Wolf" and . . . that's about it. Beyond nostalgia value for those nostalgic for this, not much.

Eminem: If a critter from another planet came to Earth in 1999 and said, "take me to your greatest rapper," you'd take the critter to Eminem. Not best white rapper, no conditions apply: In his moment, Eminem was the best rapper. His content was problematical. Hello! What rapper's words are not problematical? (Well, not A Tribe Called Quest's, but they're the exception.) Coming out of the mid-1990s gangsta takeover punctuated by the very real gunshots that took the life of both Biggie and Tupac, rap was not for the faint-hearted, for the sensitive soul. He broadened the market for rap music because he was great, and handled the pressure of being the great white hype by mocking it. In "White America," from The Eminem Show (2002), his State of Dysfunction address, he places his superstar frame in context: "Let's do the math: If I was black, I would have sold half." And if Dr. Dre hadn't produced him, he would have sold one-tenth. I still think he's among the best wordsmiths the genre ever produced. His his internal verbal syncopation, rhyme schemes, alliterations, and pop-pop-pop aggression made him, in his prime, the Abel Ferrara of hip-hop auteurs. Like all aging rappers, he needs to figure out what he wants to say in middle age, but I hope his investment advisor steered him right if he decides to never rap again. Which won't happen soon, since he is co-starring on this Sunday's Super Bowl halftime show with Dre, Snoop Dogg, Kendrick Lamar, and Mary J. Blige. Wonder if they'll cuss much.

Eurythmics: Think about how good "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" is. Then close your eyes and imagine Hi Records studio in Memphis, Willie Mitchell leading the band, Al Green singing. Open your eyes. That was amazing, right? Annie Lennox put it in reverse, with her version of Green's "Take Me to the River," a song so great that her version is the second best cover, behind the late Syl Johnson, another Hi/Mitchell artist. Annie Lennox: impeccable style, impeccable stylings. Plenty of first-rate songs. I'd put Annie in alone for her (solo) version of "Train in Vain," best cover of Clash song ever. In fact, I would put Lennox in alone for her work on that solo album, Medusa (1995). But Dave Stewart and Annie as the Eurythmics cut enough great tracks to count in that skepticism-ridden 1980s new wave category.

Judas Priest: Another Anglo-American fault line. Here, Priest falls in the middle of the metal pack. In England, they are the standard by which all other metal bands except for Motorhead are judged. British steel, forged in Sheffield, bro!

Fela Kuti: Flexible and variable and genre-expansive as the HoF seeks to be, we have to acknowledge Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musician, as part of the past (African roots) and future (Afrobeat or Afropop) of this thing called rock & roll. But he can't come in until the Nigerian godfather, King Sunny Ade crosses the threshold, which is way overdue.

MC5. Oh yes. When every other band that was supposed to entertain our troops during the 1968 Battle of Chicago copped out, the MC5 showed up. The power cut off by The Man, they plugged in to a hot dog stand outlet to power their amplifiers amid the police riot outside the Democratic convention in Grant Park. They gave the entire year its theme song, its living meme: "Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!" If they fought the law and the law won, at least they inflicted some serious pain. They're the band that made Detroit "Rock City." And they could cover Sun Ra.

The New York Dolls. Of course the Dolls, are you serious? They were so misunderstood. As qualifiers, they were the link between garage rock and punk, came from Staten Island with lipstick, rouge, and high heels, and wore them with swagger. How did they do that? Because the charismatic and versatile David Johansen (aka Buster Poindexter in a solo career) was the greatest cultural ambassador Staten Island ever had; they represented the conquest of downtown Manhattan by the bridge and tunnel and ferry crowd from which they emerged. And, as Johansen once told me, and I couldn't agree more, they were really a ramshackle rhythm and blues band: I hear them as a sort of white Dyke & the Blazers, mating with Archie Bell and the Drells, stoned on Bo Diddley's "Pills" and made crazy by Agent Orange. The writer and record exec, the late Paul Nelson, signed the Dolls to Mercury Records. He bet his job on it and lost. That doesn't mean he wasn't right.

Dolly Parton. Of course she wasn't rock and roll, but she is undeniably a sui generis "rock star," making her eligible for any hall of fame, any category. I consider "Jolene" a rock and roll song, and I have never met a waitress or bartender or physics professor named "Jolene" that I did not fall in love with for 10 minutes just because of the name and song. Whitney Houston's signature song "I Will Always Love You"? Dolly Parton wrote that. (It's on the Jolene album.) And you know Dolly's great bluegrass song, an indelible part of her repertory, "Travelin' Prayer"? Billy Joel wrote that.

Rage Against the Machine. They're noble for sure, bringing a politically progressive message to rock arenas around the world. Rage was also the platform for guitarist and activist Tom Morello, a Harvard grad who has worked with both Bruce Springsteen (E Street Band) and Sen. Alan Cranston (D-California). And he just finished 12 weeks as a contributing columnist (October 20, 2021-January 5, 2022) for the New York Times opinion page. These are credentials, not disqualifiers. But I can't think of a RATM song that rocked my corner of the world. Maybe I'm missing something, but you can't miss what you never had, so no.

Lionel Richie: Someone on Twitter mentioned that on a popular syndicated oldies show Kenny Rogers and Lionel Richie's "Lady" had just been played, so it was safe to go back to the radio. If Lionel had stayed with the Commodores, or even, without the Commodores, did 10 more funk tunes as good as "Brick House," I'd say maybe. As it was, he went where the money and his talent for ballads took him, which was pop so far from the other side of rock that I'd prefer to vote for Rogers and his band the First Edition for "Just Dropped In (to See What Condition My Condition Was In)," (Jackie Treehorn mix). Plus, during the 1986 Mets/Red Sox World Series, I assigned myself to cover Lionel at Madison Square Garden, performing on the Monday night, a day after the series was supposed to have been over. But Sunday's game was rained out, so instead of seeing game 7, I was at the Garden watching Lionel Richie. After I had enough songs in my notebook to write a review, I tore across the street to Toots Shors' to watch the last two and a half innings, and the Mets win, with a delirious bar crowd. But I will never forgive Richie for having a concert on game 7 of a Mets World Series, even if it was because of a rain postponement, so I will never endorse his entry into the hall of fame. Any hall of fame, not even the Lionel Richie Hall of Fame.

Carly Simon. I met Carly Simon once. She invited me to her apartment to . . . well, let's put it this way, she was going to call her biggest hit "You're So Wayne," but I humbly suggested that "Vain" might be more of a universal enigma. No, that last part is a total lie. I did go to her apartment circa 1981 to interview Andreas Vollenweider, the Swiss electric  harp player whose first album, Behind the Gardens, Behind the Wall, Under the Tree... I liked, and she was his patron. During the course of an hour, Carly walked into our interview three times, wearing a different color wig each time. It seemed like one of those "don't ask" situations, so for once, I didn't.

Dionne Warwick: As the voice for the impeccably constructed songs of Burt Bacharach (music) and Hal David (lyrics), Warwick's run of hits that satisfied both sides of the fine line between pop and r&b has not really been matched. No matter what else was on the radio, Warwick cut through the noise, weaving through traffic on intoxicating melodies from "Walk On By" to the strange but addicting "Do You Know the Way to San Jose." A song almost impossible to write, it had to be harder to sing. Always on soulful point, never square: History will remember the trio of Bacharach, David, and Warwick, because they were never better when writing for her, and she was never better singing their songs.

For independent information about the Hall, try the Future Rock Legends website.