Guest Column
August 3, 2000
Sex, Drugs, Visa 'n' Mastercard
A journey into the heart of darkness at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
by Mike Tilford
'The Rock Hall … is kind of like the Smithsonian got stoned and had an illicit love child with the Hard Rock Café'
In Cleveland yesterday, I came to the awful realization that I was in Cleveland yesterday. If you are in Cleveland, of course, you don't expect much. Sure, you could take the popular "See Where the Infamous Torso Killer Left Chunks of His Victims" tour. But after an hour or two of wandering around to various sodden riverside garbage dumps while an 80-year-old woman points and says, "... and that's where they found the elbow ...," your attention wanders and you start yearning for new thrills.
Which brings us to Cleveland's latest premiere exhibition. After some 50 years or so, the city's burgomasters decided that, hey, this rock 'n' roll thing is not blowing over and -- what the heck -- there might be a buck or two in it. Attaching itself to the bloated corpus of rock like a malformed Siamese twin, they scraped around and settled on the concept that a semi-obscure local radio jock -- Alan Freed, who had a slight taste for pissing off the establishment and a penchant for hanging around with disreputable elements -- was the progenitor and moving force behind the unwieldy bulk of the cash heifer that is rock 'n' roll.
Municipal bonds and dollar-shaped irises firmly in hand, they set about constructing a gigantic glass diamond on the shore of Lake Erie and pestering the general populace with the notion of the "Rock and Roll Hall of Fame." Referred to by locals -- with, to their credit, some contempt -- as "the Rock Hall" (they don't have to take the kielbasas out of their mouths for as long that way), it squats, airy and overblown, in the windiest section of the Northern hemisphere. Cabs take you to within 12 billion yards of the entrance and then you walk across an endless concrete tundra while somebody's idea of classic rock blares at you from a scrawny cluster of shrubs positioned in the center. During my half-hour windblown stroll, the hedge treated me to Elvis Presley singing … um ... one his songs, I guess. My grasp of Elvisiana is tenuous at best.
My ticket stub -- proof positive that I survived the Rock Hall
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Once inside, everything is open, breezy, sunlit, and tame -- everything that the California Pizza Kitchen is and rock is not. Admittedly, the I. M. Pei-designed building is unique and identifiable. In fact, it's actually trademarked, or copyrighted, or patented, or whatever it is you do to the shape of a building so no other larcenous culture leeches can steal it. They actually sued a photographer who had the audacity to put a picture of it on a "Landmarks of Cleveland" poster with a bunch of other buildings. Four million taxpayer dollars later, the Rock Hall lost the case. Still, the ubiquitous notices that it is "protected" remain prominently posted.
Another thing about this place: The higher you go in the building, the more it tapers. This means that while the bottom floor is infested with more Rockabilia than you can shake a Styx-frontman-Dennis-DeYoung's-hairpiece-from-the-Mr. Roboto-tour at, the top floor is about as big as a family-sized bottle of Janitor in a Drum and houses only a small curio chest containing some of Lou Reed's scabs.
Essentially, the Rock Hall is kind of like the Smithsonian got stoned and had an illicit love child with the Hard Rock Café. One has to feel for the people who slaved over the exact positioning, lighting, and caption to be placed under a pair of Neil Young's tennis shoes.
The Rock Hall is also a little VH1, if you get my drift. Aside from the fact that inducting Eric Clapton is apparently some kind of annual event (he is in for the Yardbirds, Cream, as a solo act, and I believe next year they are entering him again in the ' ... and one to grow on ...' category), the place is rife with soft-rock princesses, Rolling Stones paraphernalia, and unbridled adoration of the '60s hippie scene. For instance, a single photo in a glass cabinet dedicated to "The Seattle Scene" is all that represents Nirvana, a band of overwhelming influence in the '90s. On the other hand, everything that the Quicksilver Messenger Service, a semi-obscure Haight-Ashbury-era band, ever touched -- guitar picks, toothpicks, rectal thermometers, foreskins, pizza crusts, amplifiers, fringed boxer shorts, tubes of Preparation H laced with Owsley's acid, eviction notices, tie-dyed codpieces, stool samples, you name it -- can be found scattered throughout the place. In fact, I believe there was a glass case containing the ancient, actual members of the Quicksilver Messenger Service grumpily lounging about and wondering when they were going to get paid.
This Rock Hall wristband is somewhat crinkled, having resided in my computer case for long weeks. I don't really know why I saved it, aside from wanting a souvenir of the whole ludicrous experience |
On the plus side, there is quite a bit of good audio and multimedia stuff to be found. Almost every floor has some kind of faux Watts Tower construction with numerous monitors welded onto it that flash diverse video clips in the accepted MTV, petit-mal-seizure-inducing style. It is also interesting to view the costumes up close and note that they are far cheesier than the usual television or stadium concert viewing of them would lead you to believe. Plus, Mick Jagger might be rich, but there is a certain satisfaction in finally having proof that his drug-wizened limbs really do have a circumference of about three inches and an even slightly brawny toddler could snap him in two. Other rock stars whose costumes reveal anorexic configuration would include Michael Jackson, Prince, and Roger Daltrey.
In general, though, it is the paltry nature of the displays that goaded me into leaving. One can only look so long at a safety pin that was actually in Johnny Rotten's nose, the huge collection of unused floss given to the Pogues over the years, Michael Hutchens' first Halloween costume (big surprise, he went as Jim Morrison), the roll of electrical tape Wendy O. Williams used to cover her nipples, manure from Paul McCartney's macrobiotic garden, one of Axl Rose's actual restraining orders, an empty tube of Backstreet Boys-brand chest Nair, and a large fog-filled crystal sphere supposedly containing all of Iggy Pop's memories from his first 50 years as a rock star. It's not a real big crystal sphere, but Iggy's had a rough life.
Anyway, I finally bid adieu to the Rock Hall after purchasing a lighter that has one of the various and sundry trademarked, patented, copyrighted logos on it; I shall hold it aloft and wave it should I ever find myself at an Eric Clapton concert.
Right before I shoot myself in the head.
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Mike Tilford is a writer, playwright, and comedian who spends most of his time touring with the political satire troupe, the Capitol Steps. He is the co-author of a musical version of It's a Wonderful Life, which can be enjoyed far too occasionally at theatres nationwide. He can also be seen performing with the Capitol Steps off-Broadway at the Fairbanks Theatre through Labor Day, 2000, and at many other fine venues around the United States, simultaneously. Not a bad trick, really. |
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