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Church of Zeppelin

I'm not an atheist in the traditional sense, but I'm an atheist when it comes to Christian Rock. Those two words just don't fit together. They oppose each other, like Dubstep Unplugged and Amish Casino. As far as art forms go, Christian Rock is more painful than extreme body piercing.

Now, before it seems like I'm updating my resume for admittance into hell, I should note that I'm biased on the matter. I live entirely too close to a progressive church, and so I am subjected against my will to Christian Rock in my own residence. Every Sunday morning, disagreeable music seeps through my floorboards, walls, and windows. My bed becomes engulfed in a plodding death march of drums, instruments too stricken with guilt to express joy, and redundant, gravelly testaments about everything from God to the Supreme Being to Our Heavenly Father.

Furthermore, I'll gladly admit that some faith-based music has merit. Oddly enough, a few summers ago, I lived in a place beside a church on the north side of Chicago. When that choir's renditions of “Amazing Grace” and “This Little Light of Mine” carried into my bedroom, my emotions were stirred. I became less of a grouch. The choir's tone was one of perseverance, of overcoming our struggles to find love and hope all around us, and they sang with galvanizing soul.

Christian Rock has soul, too, I guess, but it's the soul of an adult who demands to be scolded after tripping down a flight of stairs and accidentally blurting the “s-word.”

On a philosophical level, Christian Rock is confusing. If God is truly, perfectly virtuous, wouldn't that make Him supremely HUMBLE, too? After all, the word of God preaches humility, not arrogance. (“Blessed are the meek,” yes?) If God doesn't endorse egotism, why would He demand that we all constantly stroke His divine ego? He wouldn't require an entire genre of music that's entirely obsessed with commending Him all the time. My understanding of God is that He'd probably be content with a simple “thanks” and an occasional tribute of “Amazing Grace” on holidays.

If I'm wrong about that, and God is the most adamant supporter of Christian Rock in the universe, I'm in trouble, sure, but we'd all be in trouble, the members of Third Day included. God as a Christian Rock aficionado could actually be terrifying. It's got to be impossible for mankind to match God's ability to criticize, or to compete with his love of Himself. What if God, the Christian Rock fanatic, and an infallible one at that, voiced his displeasure to the players at Life Fest in their dreams?

“Terry! Thou hast disappointed me.”

“Wha? Whatever do you mean, Lord?”

“Sigh. Your debut recording, Infinite Praise, was a double album, but your latest album, Neverending Worship, was only one disc. That's two full hours of telling Me how awesome I am down to a measly 45 minutes of telling Me how awesome I am. What, do you suddenly love Me less?! Did I get a lot less awesome between the years of 2012 and 2014? Because that is the impression I get from your erroneously titled Neverending Worship.”

“Oh, what have we done?” Terry cries. “Lord, I speak for the entirety of Rage Against the Pagans when I beg for your forgiveness. You see, there was pressure from the record company to make the album divinely concise...”

“Silence!” God bellows. “I decree that you begin work immediately on a TRIPLE album! And until the deed is finished to my approval, I shall torment you by giving you nightmares about gay hippies.”

“Nooooo!” Terry howls with righteous despair.

Amen.

With that horrific scene gone from our lives forever, I'd like to reiterate that I'm not opposed to faith or religious music entirely, but I do sincerely wish the church in my whereabouts stepped up their game tunefully. The solution calls for some sacrilege, perhaps, but my alternative to Christian Rock in church would still uphold causes such as offering food drives for the hungry, free counseling for troubled souls, and a spirit of togetherness. My prospective church would mostly be different due to its preference for secular music and harmless hints at “false idols.” Plus swearing is allowed and you can be upfront about having a hangover. This idyllic place of worship would at least be a better representation of Rock—if not the Christian part. If not me, somebody needs to found a Church of Zeppelin.

A few pillars of the Church of Zeppelin are as follows: No mass on Sundays. We know better than to try competing with the NFL. That's basically like the programmers of a TV Land rerun of Murder She Wrote expecting to get higher ratings than the Super Bowl. It's ridiculous! And we don't have early morning masses, either, since the music of Led Zeppelin clearly favors the night. The Church's masses are held once a month. We don't want to overdo it! We live in an insanely busy world with overfilling dates in our calenders. The Church of Zeppelin would therefore congregate at 8 pm on the first Tuesday of every month.

We're not going to be sticklers about attendance. Parishioners who find themselves stuck in an ongoing communication breakdown with the Church of Zeppelin are welcome to return on any given first Tuesday of the month to cleverly admit, “It's been a long time since I rock and rolled.”

Opening sermons could begin with the cryptic words, “Many times I've wondered how much there is to know...” Brief remarks would be made by the preacher, whom we refer to as the Hed Zeppelin Honcho, who would quote insightful scripture such as, “I'm telling you now, the greatest thing you ever could do now, is trade a smile with someone that's blue now.”

After that, the congregation would pretty much just mingle and visit nicely with one another while rocking out to Led Zeppelin for 45 minutes. There is no penalty for leaving early, but if doing so causes you to miss seeing a group of smartly dressed beautiful ladies swaying in unison as they sing along to “Fool in the Rain,” it's your loss, pal.

No topical guidelines are imposed while socializing and enjoying Zeppelin, but if you'd care to discuss the songs and legacy of perhaps the best band ever, you're welcome to do that. Consider “Your Time Is Gonna Come.” Is it about a scandalous lover or Jesus? I don't know, discuss! For an even longer conversation that could easily verge on endless, ponder “What Is and What Should Never Be.” Even if you've got claptrap theories about Robert Plant being the reincarnation of Bilbo Baggins, feel free to ramble on.

Now, to be entirely forthcoming, I'm too lazy and easily distracted to found the Church of Zeppelin. There's got to be a lot of paperwork and financing involved in an enterprise like that, so count me out. But somewhere in Fond du Lac County, or wherever this gets read, maybe I could act as the muse for a living loving maid whose dazed and confused state of mind becomes enlightened by the potential of the Church of Zeppelin. Yes, there are two paths she can go by (one that dismisses this story as nonsense and the other that gives it some thought) but in the long run, there's still time to change the road she's on. I can almost see her pretty face now, biting her lip and nodding reflectively, then searching for rental properties online, making a phone call or two, and opening her checkbook...

And she's buying a stairway to heaven. 

Nick Again Lists His Favorite Albums

Where introductions are concerned, I am a writer of few words.

...

All right, then.

15.Jimi Hendrix—Are You Experienced? (1967): Judging by the plethora of singles that bolster this album, you'd think it breaks my rule of excluding Greatest Hits collections. Incredibly, though, “Purple Haze,” “Fire,” “The Wind Cries Mary,” “Hey Joe,” “Foxy Lady,” and “Manic Depression” are all included on the Jimi Hendrix Experience's debut. Hendrix was so talented that he could provoke baffled accusations of cheating from rock-and-roll mortals, and more than 40 years later, it's still stunning to consider the abundance of great songs that resulted from his first recording session with the Experience. Hendrix would later release Axis: Bold as Love and Electricladyland before his untimely death in 1970. Not even the Beatles accomplished so much in such a limited window of time. He wasn't cheating, but it sure seemed that way.

Hendrix announces his presence at the party during rock's golden age with the psychedelic strut of “Purple Haze.” He wonders if he is “happy or in misery,” considers it a moot point either way, and translates to his listeners the spell his muse puts on him. Within the span of the incantation, images are conjured: tire tracks smeared across the backs of loose groupies who play hard-to-get, jealous lovers with blood on their hands fleeing for the border with embattled resolve, traffic lights about to turn the color of loneliness—all told by a weird gypsy who straddles an ignited Stratocaster as he charms and beckons the flames. Hendrix captivated with searing riffs without resorting to as much macho fluff as Jimmy Page. At times, he was as poetically engaging as Dylan or Lennon, and his feats of virtuosity on the guitar were of course unrivaled by either one.

He was such an extraordinary talent that it seemed like he was cheating, but in reality, that was never the case. Jimi Hendrix just set his own rules to play by.

14. The White Stripes—Elephant (2003): Judging by the album cover, which portrays two strikingly pale indie-rockers sitting on an amplifier, both stricken with despair, the White Stripes did not seem especially plussed by the widespread buzz wrought by 2001's White Blood Cells. Such trepidation may have been valid on some level, but Elephant, the duo's follow-up to the hype they generated for the garage-rock revival scene, marks a bold claim of their presence as an upper-echelon band in popular music. Elephant is less a salute to well-crafted trashiness, more indicative of the group's fondness for Led Zeppelin as opposed to Iggy and the Stooges, a stunning achievement of mainstream acclaim that never compromises Jack and Meg's core goal of maximizing the potential of minimalism.

The first track, “Seven Nation Army,” is the most duly overplayed single since “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The 14th and final track is a cloying debacle. Aside from those extremes, Elephant leaves nothing to complain about. Among others, “Black Math,” “Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine,” and “Hypnotize” scintillate with the Stripes' straightforward and biting approach. “I Want to be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart” and “You've Got Her in Your Pocket” showcase Jack's nearly outdated pangs of sincerity. “Ball and Biscuit” is a bluesy odyssey of snide self-empowerment that finds a great guitarist who tends to favor simpler chords in the mood to puff out his chest and rip a few mesmerizing solos. In “The Hardest Button to Button,” Jack tartly makes amends with childhood squalor, as though he'd like to flaunt his middle finger to the whole world with the flippancy of fellow Detroit native Eminem...if only he wasn't such a gentleman.

Jack admits that he doesn't consider himself a genius in “The Air Near My Fingers.” Fair enough, but he sure is brilliant, and he chose a worthy sidekick (plus I'm a fan of her hooters). Brilliant minds still get bored sometimes—as he indicates earlier on the same track—but the notion that said boredom has to translate to the audience is as misleading as, say, an album cover that portrays two seemingly distraught indie-rockers who really didn't mind the spotlight all that much. The White Stripes told an occasional fib.

13. Weezer (the blue album) (1994): “What's with these homeys dissing my girl/ Why do they gotta front?” Front-man Rivers Cuomo begs this question at the start of his band's splendid breakthrough single. Similarly, there is no cause for derision of Weezer's debut because of the letdowns Cuomo and Co. have released for much of the past decade-plus. Chuck Klosterman, a more accredited writer on rock music, contends that Cuomo's songwriting skills have not diminished; rather, his persistent earnestness has become incompatible with the counterculture's increased longings for irony. I disagree. I never want anything to do with Dungeons & Dragaons, but when Rivers Cuomo began to favor his KISS poster “In the Garage” to his 12-sided die, Weezer's sound suffered. It's okay to blend KISS-like, pop-metal hooks with gnashing, Pixies and Nirvana-inspired angst; that is, in fact, what made Weezer such an appealing band in the mid-90s. The backlash against Weezer started when Cuomo—the Harvard graduate with horn-rimmed specs, an accidental founder of the Emo scene—adopted the overly simplified lyrical approach of KISS. The horribly embellished “Weezer Problem” has little to do with irony and much to do with wasted intellect.

That stated, the blue album stands as the first album I bought—on cassette, which would have presented the tedious issue of having to fast-forward (rather than skip) a track not worth the listen. Thankfully, the blue album is without a second of filler material; from the power-pop wallop of “My Name Is Jonas” to the extended, brooding trance of “Only in Dreams,” the geek-rockers find an exquisite balance of alternative sounds light on self-loathing and radio-friendly sing-alongs that are actually thoughtful. Cuomo somehow charms as a jealous and controlling boyfriend in “No One Else.” He convinces his listeners of the plausible nature of riding a surfboard to work. More candidly, he offers a quiet/ loud indictment of drunken stepfathers that serves as a generation's go-to anthem for the children of divorced parents; “Say It Ain't So” probably surpasses even Nirvana's “Serve the Servants” in that regard.

Which is saying something, when you consider that Cobain is remembered by many as the premier songwriter to emerge in the '90s. And who cares about all those post-Pinkerton letdowns?* Make Believe they were only nightmares, for “Only in dreams, we see what it means.”


12.The Strokes—Is This It (2001): An electric guitar mimics the sound of short-circuitry, drums thump a lax tempo, and then—with the conviction of a weary malcontent—Julian Casablancas pleads, “Can't you see I'm trying?/ I don't even like it.” Fittingly, the Strokes' rise to fame seemed nonchalant, as though they were resigned to ambition, already burned-out by partying and groupies in their early-20s yet doggedly set on going through the motions of stardom. Their debut LP garnered glowing reviews, inspired rock critics to employ the metaphor about “lightning caught in a bottle” ad nauseam, spelled the demise of goatee metal-rap, and redefined something obscurely known as the “cultural zeitgeist.” The Manhattan quintet foretold their response to such hype in their debut's opening/ title track: “Is this it?”

This album yielded three terrific singles. As is the case in “Last Nite,” the raucously tuneful strums of dual guitarists Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi interlace and build dynamics until the former exclaims with a solo perhaps too trashy for arena-rock but at least befitting of a much larger garage. “Someday” finds Casablancas longing for freedom via childhood nostalgia and subverting the Pink Floyd principle: “Together we stand/ Divided we fall.” (“Alone we stand/ Together we fall apart.”) “Hard to Explain” envisions space-rock without the hippies and relays a conversation between an adoring boyfriend and a skeptical father.

“The Modern Age” is a flourishing jaunt for slackers that verges on questioning if all relationships are doomed. “Barely Legal” comes across as a sloppy nod to surf-rock re-envisioned with NYC grit. And with lyrics such as, “I should have worked much harder/ I should have just not bothered,” it's easy to see that the Strokes are not easily appeased. Which hardly matters; their appeal lies in upbeat and unkempt musings on eternal dissatisfaction. The human condition has rarely sounded so infectious.

11.Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy (1973): Disregard the album cover. Dwelling on it inspires reactions such as, “Artistic, I guess...but mostly REALLY creepy” and “That avant-garde pederast really had a VISION.” If the whim strikes you, feel free to skip past “No Quarter,” a compelling but mismatched dirge that has Led to countless acid-induced horror shows. It is then feasible to regard Houses of the Holy as Zeppelin's finest, and less equivocally, their most vibrant. Houses then qualifies as my most-treasured album when I'm in the mood to appreciate life. Zeppelin's fifth offering finds the hobbits returning home safely from the darkest depths of Mordor. With the glowing support of their families and community, the group rejoices and gets down to mending the levee that broke at the conclusion of IV, rebuilding it with wizened minds and abler hands.

The musical chops of Page, Bonham, and Jones are unmatched by pretty much any other band you can think of. Robert Plant is not one of my favorite singer-songwriters, but the man undoubtedly 1.) has awesome pipes,** 2.) OWNED his role in the spotlight of the biggest band of the 1970s, and 3.) should in no way be denounced as a liability. Bonus: He sounds decidedly less sleazy, not as easily parodied on Houses.

“D'yer Mak'er” is the Zeppelin tune I catch the most guff for loving. In the ensuing sentences I will be defending my opinion in transposed pro/ con fashion. Con: The words “mad,” “bad,” and “sad” are perhaps rhymed gratuitously. Pro: “D'yer Mak'er” delivers an eargasm. Con: It's an eargasm induced by a blatantly simple groove that serves as Zeppelin's answer to the missionary position. Pro: Missionary can still deliver an eargasm, so shut your ugly face, naysayer. Get yourself a blog so you can tell me how much "D'yer Mak'er" sucks. I dare you!

ELSEWHERE, the rickety structure of “The Crunge” hints that the same blokes responsible for “Stairway to Heaven” have a penchant for farce and levity, too. “Over the Hills and Far Away” and “The Ocean” are jubilant blasts of arena-rock that even fussy cynics can embrace. If you take into account the “No Quarter” exception I mentioned before, the most somber sentiment on this glorious LP can be heard in “The Rain Song.” “Upon us all, a little rain must fall.” Just a little rain? I can live with that. 

*I will allow that 2002's Maladroit is a fine album.
** It's a good thing I pluralized "pipe." I was one Freudian misspelling away from raving about Robert Plant's "awesome pipe."

The Danger Zone Mix

Me: If the Danger Zone referenced on the Top Gun soundtrack was a literal, tangible place instead of a metaphor, which vehicle would you drive on your journey on the Highway to the Danger Zone?

Willy: Hold on. I won’t answer that question until you clarify a few things for me. In the first place, why would I voluntarily travel to a place called “The Danger Zone”?

Me: For the sake of thrill-seeking, maybe.

Willy: But I’m not really a thrill-seeker. I mostly seek paychecks and relaxation and sex. When I get done with work, I spend time with my wife and daughter. Sometimes I spark a joint in the basement and then put on NetFlix and fill out a crossword. Maybe get laid, if we can get the baby to take a nap. It’s a pretty tame lifestyle, based on routine, but I kind of prefer it that way. I’m not the Danger Zone type. I have no reason, no inclination to take a trip to the Danger Zone.

Me: Well, what if circumstances forced you to drive to the Danger Zone? What if you had to enter the Danger Zone in order to rescue your wife and daughter?

Willy: Then I’d call my wife on her cell phone. I'd be like, “I thought I told you to stay away from the Danger Zone. And you brought the baby along with you, too? What the hell? That’s pretty weak, honey.”

Me: Okay, okay. What if evil forces from the Danger Zone kidnapped your wife and daughter?

Willy: What kind of evil forces?

Me: Let’s see...How about a coalition of al-Qaeda zombies and black bears armed with bazookas?

Willy: Those creatures don’t exist. You know that, right?

Me: Of course I do. But the entire question is hypothetical in nature. The Danger Zone doesn’t really exist, either. It’s imaginary; therefore, it harbors imaginary things.

Willy: Well-played, nut-job. All right. So, the question you’re asking me is as follows: If al-Qaeda zombies joined forces with bazooka-shooting black bears and then kidnapped my wife and daughter and stole them off to a place known as the Danger Zone, which vehicle would I drive on my journey to rescue them?

Me: Yes, that’s it. Exactly.

Willy: Okay. I’m tempted to opt for a souped-up squad car or something flashy, with plenty of gusto, like an Escalade, but because the question itself is fantasy-based, I had better squash that rational instinct. Something invincible and deadly, such as a tank, seems like a good answer, but then again, tanks aren’t exactly designed for highway driving, are they? A monster truck comes to mind, but those are reckless vehicles, and I’d probably destroy a dozen or so cars accidentally on my way to rescue my wife and daughter. And that’s no good. I don’t need my conscience terrorized by the deaths of innocent strangers I was responsible for, just because I had the balls to command a beast like the Gravedigger on the highway. So forget about the tank and the monster truck.

Me: Will do. The tank and the monster truck are now dead to us.

Willy: What about the DeLorian from Back to the Future?

Me: On the surface, it’s an alluring choice, considering the appeal of ‘80s nostalgia, but keep in mind, if you exceed 88 miles per hour in that thing, you’ll be going back in time rather than saving your wife and daughter from capture in the Danger Zone.

Willy: That’s a valid point. Also, you really should talk to chicks more often.

Me: Neither here nor there but noted. Do you have an answer to the question?

Willy: Yeah, I think so. Staying true to the appeal of ‘80s nostalgia but excluding the time machine factor, I’m going with KITT from Knight Rider. That car is conditioned for danger. Plus it’s incredibly fast and nimble, perfect for highway driving, and if I drove the black sports-car from Knight Rider back to safety with my family in tow, I guarantee I’d have sex at least twice that night.

Me: All right. That was a clear and thoughtful answer, and I respect it.

Willy: What about you? Which vehicle would you drive along the Highway to this Danger Zone?

Me: Oh! It’s a no-brainer. The Batmobile.

Willy: Okay. I’ll go along with that. Which Batmobile?

Me: The one that Batman rides in, stupid.

Willy: Oh, my. How flabbergasting. No, I mean which incarnation of the Batmobile? Adam West’s muscle-car from the late ‘60s? Michael Keaton’s sleek and aerodynamic ride? The phallic-shaped version from Batman Forever? The militaristic vehicle with the escape pod motorcycle from the Christopher Nolan flicks...

Me: Got’cha. My bad. Allow me to clarify. I’d go with Michael Keaton’s Batmobile. My hunch is strong that, of all the Batmobiles, Keaton’s showcases the best balance of style, giddy-up, armor, weaponry, and handling.

Willy: Fair enough. So, I’d drive KITT along the Highway to the Danger Zone, whereas you’d go with the Batmobile from the original Batman movie. Are we through here?

Me: Not quite. We’ve established the cars we’d drive, but an additional question to consider is as follows: What kind of music would you listen to en route to the Danger Zone?

Willy: Aside from the obvious choice of “The Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins?

Me: Preferably, yes. That pick doesn’t require much imagination. Plus, in this hypothetical scenario, your journey to the Danger Zone is long enough to include exactly ten tracks of your choosing. It would be trite and agonizing to listen to “The Danger Zone” ten times in a row.

Willy: Hey, that’s debatable. It’s clear you don’t have much respect for the soundtrack king of the 1980s. “I’m Alright” doesn’t put you in the mood to take off your shirt and run around a sprinkler with a bottle of champagne in hand? I’m worried about you.

Heavily rewritten with better results, this one appears in my eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. 

Van Halen and Potato Salad

This essay marks the start of a new era for me, in that it’s the first thing I’ve written since the roster was set for my upcoming book. In the interest of progressing rather than regressing as I wander into a different phase, I’m becoming more interested in the why as opposed to the my. The why, which involves an effort to explain the reasons behind the truth, has more universal value than the my, expressing my opinions—which is little more than a necessary evil. The trouble is that everyone’s got a better grasp on their own viewpoint than the actual truth. I’m more likely to fail when I explain the why as opposed to the my, but in the rare instances in which I succeed, the reward is greater. That is why, with this essay, I will try to refrain from asserting that Van Halen sucks, and the same goes for potato salad.

Allow me to explain. Not long ago I had a discussion with my friend Matt about music, which evolved into a discussion about food, and later on, we found similarities between taste in music and taste in food. Music and food were on our brains for some reason.

I told Matt that the primary reason I don’t like Van Halen is because of the band’s lead singers; the cheesy egotism they share is repellent. Matt allowed a grain of truth in that indictment, but countered with the following.

“I see what you’re saying. There is an element of unabashed dick-waving to Van Halen, an element of sleaze. But sometimes I’m in the mood for that type of music. And more importantly, sometimes women are in the mood for that type of music.”

“Sure. People embrace Van Halen because they’re decadent and self-assured, and their music constantly reminds the listener that sex is a whole lot of fun. I get that. The problem is that their lead singers bother the hell out of me. Both of Van Halen’s lead singers, and never mind the third one, were bozo showmen with lackluster voices that make me cringe.”

“Cringe? Really? Well, neither one is in the same league with singers like Stevie Wonder, McCartney, or Steve Perry,* but...the vocals really make you cringe?”

I nodded to confirm that I did not care to retract what I had said. Seconds passed by, and then Matt offered a tangent about potato salad.

“The lead singers are probably the weakest links in the band, but it’s like potato salad. One of the ingredients in potato salad is celery. In and of itself, celery doesn’t taste good to me. I would never eat a stick of celery on its own. Gross. But then the celery is mixed with ingredients that appeal to me, and somehow the celery compliments the potatoes, onions, and salad dressing. And I love potato salad, and I’m not going to stop eating it because of one ingredient that I’m not crazy about. If someone offers me potato salad, I’m not going to turn it down because there’s celery in it.”

I gathered what he was saying.

“Okay. So Roth and Hagar are like celery. Just as you’d never buy one of their solo albums, you’d never snack on a stick of celery. And Van Halen is like potato salad, which hardly requires an explanation at this point.”

“Right.”

“Well, that all makes sense, but I’m not fond of celery and I can’t stand Roth or Hagar. And because of that, I hate both potato salad and Van Halen.”

We had gained an understanding of each other, in agreement about the why and not the my. We drove to Tucker’s and split a six-pack of cheeseburgers and had nothing left to talk about for quite some time.

###

All too often, one foul-tasting ingredient ruins the whole experience for me. I am the fussy malcontent who shuns a plate of potato salad kindly offered to me at a party. Likewise, I am the hyper-discerning snob who changes the radio station in the midst of an intense hard-rock overture, fueled by Zeppelin-infused precision, as soon as I hear one of Roth’s trademark girlish yowls. I hate things because of their components. Matt loves things in spite of their components. Clearly I am the one who could benefit from some reform.

Conor is an old friend who played guitar and sang along with Matt in a band called Reveal. When I asked Conor to provide a modest 50 to 100 words explaining why Van Halen rocks, he was thrilled. In no time, he let it known that his prose tribute to Van Halen would exceed 400 words, since he truly wanted to expound on the group’s awesomeness. Once his reply came, I parsed through what he had written, in the interest of citing an opinion to challenge my own. What follows explains why some people love Van Halen.

“My idea of a great rock band is a synergy of talent that 1.) makes unusual backstage demands, 2.) doesn’t get along, 3.) innovates, 4.) rocks, and 5.) destroys hotel rooms.”

1.) Van Halen’s most notorious backstage demand was that a jar of M&Ms, absent of all brown shells, be provided for the band before the start of every show. I was under the impression that the band did this for the sake of haughty mischief, or perhaps latent racism, but Conor informed me that this was not the case. In actuality, the bizarre request was made as a roundabout way to ensure safety at the workplace for their crew members.

“Van Halen added addendums to their contracts that required the venue to perform specific tasks, but they found promoters were not taking the demands seriously; sometimes conditions were still hazardous for the band's crew. The solution was an additional demand within the safety section of the addendum that required the venue to provide a jar of M&Ms in the band’s backstage area, with all the brown-colored candies removed. If the jar wasn’t backstage when the band showed up, they knew those safety standards had not been met.”

Sweet Jesus! Do you realize what this means? It means that it’s not insane to compare Upton Sinclair to Van Halen. In 1906, Upton Sinclair published The Jungle, a scathing exposé of the meat-packing industry that prompted a demand for more stringent standards of safety in factories across the nation. Nearly 80 years later, Van Halen sought similar advancements in basic human rights for roadies. It was wrong and inexcusable when a 15-year-old boy had his hand hacked off by a faulty meat grinder in 1906, and the same goes for old T-Bone Willis when he got blinded by a pyrotechnics mishap at a Ratt show in ’82. Both Upton Sinclair and Van Halen led crusades against negligent power-holders whose intent was to maximize profit and dehumanize the working class. With this in mind, it is also not insane to claim that Rage Against the Machine could have learned a thing or two from Van Halen. It’s amazing. Who knew cock rockers could have such virtuous motives?

The glaring qualm that I have with this bit of enlightenment is that it doesn’t enhance Van Halen’s music in any way. The group’s music never coincided with their progressive reforms for roadie safety. Van Halen never recorded a ballad to lament the plight of a roadie who was poisoned by Alice Cooper’s python, or had his eardrums ruptured while loading explosives into Keith Moon’s kick-drum. What separates those who enjoy Van Halen from those who don’t is this: Van Halen devotees are thankful the group never put out “The Ballad of Gordy the Roadie.” ** On the other hand, I’m convinced that such a song would have enhanced the group’s creative range.

But true Van Halen fans realize that a ballad about an oppressed roadie would stray too far from the core message of the band. Here is an approximation: “We want hot sex, nervous parents, and mounds of cash.” Van Halen critics bicker that this message is delivered with narrow-minded redundancy. Those who love Van Halen will contend that aside from getting hot sex, making parents nervous, and acquiring mounds of cash, genuine rock and roll doesn’t really have much else to say.

Both arguments are sound. If you’re still on the fence about whether or not to embrace Van Halen, consider the lyrics to their hit song “Jump.”

“I get up, and nothing gets me down.” If you like that lyric just the way it is, then clearly, you adore Van Halen. However, if you would prefer, “I get up, and nothing gets me down...except for the shameful treatment of stagehands as perpetrated by greedy concert promoters,” then Van Halen will always leave you longing for more.

2.) As evidenced by the three lead singers the band employed during its reign at or near the top, the members of Van Halen tended not to get along well with each other. Lurid stories of internal strife abounded throughout the group’s history. According to Conor, the combustive clash of egos that hounded Van Halen validates them as a great band.

“A band without conflict is boring. Modesty and stability don’t always propel a band to legendary status, or create good songs. I want to listen to a band with drug problems, lineup changes, and megalomania. I want a lead singer who is completely delusional.”

Without question, it is true that a band without conflict lacks a certain appeal. But the conflict can be expressed in one of two ways: within the band itself or within the songs themselves. A band such as Van Halen expresses conflict in life as opposed to art, whereas a band like Radiohead is the exact opposite. The five members of Radiohead have played together since 1985, without any lineup changes; in that regard, they embody stability. But Radiohead’s songs are mostly about neurotic chaos in a senseless world, constant discontent, and sorrowful longing. In contrast, Van Halen rarely dealt with chaotic and morbid themes such as mental illness, third world misery, and baleful technology. Van Halen lived the searing conflict but chose to create songs about frivolous and joyful things. Radiohead choose to craft songs searing conflicts, within the confines of a stable group foundation.

Van Halen are the embittered and combative couple on the verge of divorce who, despite openly hating each other, throws rowdy parties and entertains guests with tales of their bawdy trips to exotic locations. (Including Panama?) Radiohead are the contended couple at a party who will probably remain intact for many years to come, yet insist on steering all conversations into gloomy topics ranging from Orwellian forebodings to global warming to the brutality of the Karma Police.

Of the two unions in question, whose party would you rather attend? Do you prefer a happy presentation with chaotic undertones to a morose presentation with stable undertones? Conor does...but I don’t.

3.) Mike Campbell is my favorite guitarist of the 1980s, and up until ten minutes ago, I didn’t even know his name. He plays lead guitar for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. While we’re on the subject of premier ‘80s guitarists, the Edge deserves a mention, too. But I rarely listen to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers or U2. I think the ‘80s were a shaky decade for music.

He’s certainly not my favorite, but Eddie Van Halen has got to be the greatest guitar player the ‘80s produced. I am not crazy about the tune “Panama.” I can’t understand why Diamond Dave invokes the name of a country in Central America in the chorus, and trying to pin his motives seems pointless. Apparently “Panama” is an ode to Roth’s luxury car, but that hardly matters; the song deserves a listen because of the riff provided by Eddie Van Halen. It’s an awesome riff, charged by metal lust with hints of glam, that must have left Jimmy Page and Mick Ronson kicking themselves and wondering, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Conor is more effusive in his case for Eddie.

“Eddie Van Halen revolutionized guitar playing. He constructed his own guitar, known as the ‘Frankenstrat.’ Before writing the song ‘Eruption,’ tapping was only used to play the Chapman stick, a stringed instrument that was tapped instead of strummed. It was such an unknown way of playing the guitar at the time that Eddie would perform this method with his back to the audience to prevent everyone from figuring out what he was doing and copying him.”

Nobody should deny that Eddie was an innovator...but he sure was a snob about it. They say a great magician never reveals how to do his tricks. I say, “Have you ever noticed that all great magicians come across as vain assholes?”

If, by some miracle, I was to come up with the invention for a fully functional Hoverboard, inspired by Back to the Future 2, I would feel that sharing my knowledge with my new peers in the world of science was essential. I’d be obliged to clue in my contemporaries on how they could make Hoverboards a reality. But if Eddie Van Halen invented a real Hoverboard, just as he did with “tapping,” he would bask in glory but keep his knowledge to himself. He was more interested in the expansion of his ego than the betterment of his field at large. And perhaps that is what all the best rock stars are in it for...but dude, turning your back on the crowd to coddle and protect your precious secret is downright weird.

“Get over yourself.” Such advice applies to everyone—virtuosos, geniuses, and innovators not excluded.

4.) Does Van Halen rock? Short answer: Yes. Long answer: Yes, but they do so in dumb fashion, even by the standards of rock music. Conor supports the short answer but would quibble with the long answer, and I would do the inverse. A case can be made that only impotent losers care about the intellectual merit of a song, especially when the music boasts raw sexual power or an irresistible groove. My musical appetites for raw sexual power and irresistible grooves that don’t require much thought are pretty much sated by Led Zeppelin. Conor isn’t as easily sated on these two fronts; he craves infectious sleaze from more than just one band. That’s another reason why he loves Van Halen and I don’t.

5.) The claim that a great band must routinely destroy hotel rooms is one that I reject. Using power tools to mount all the furniture to the ceiling in a lavish suite in no way ensures that your next album will merit a four-star review from Rolling Stone.

My dad and my brother Dave have amassed almost 40 combined years of service on the police force. This means that, surprisingly, traces of cop instincts speckle my D.N.A. Among these cop instincts is the lame conviction that it is wrong to commit acts of vandalism. Van Halen peed on drapes, rammed surfboards into TV sets, and tore down ceiling fans with the following thought in mind: “Some poor piss-ant is going to have to clean up this mess.” And more than once, I’m sure, the worker whose job it was to tend to the ruinous squalor left behind by Van Halen was the same guy who bought a copy of 1984 the day it was released. Come on, Conor...do you really think that shit is cool?

What ever happened to the Van Halen from 20 paragraphs ago, the band that showed respect for the working class? I really put my ass on the line asserting that Van Halen can be likened to Upton Sinclair. And now I seem like a fool and Van Halen reek of hypocrisy. Splendid.

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As a coda to this essay, I asked for Conor’s thoughts on potato salad. Here is his reply.

“Eggs? Celery? Potatoes? Whose idea was this? It’s freakin’ potato salad and it tastes good. It’s freakin’ Van Halen and it rocks.”

There you have it. In matters of food and music, you can’t argue taste-buds...but for some reason, I will always try to, anyway.




*Steve Perry, nicknamed “The Voice,” is the lead singer of Journey. When I offered Matt a footnote to briefly explain why Journey’s music so massages his soul, he shouted, “I wipe my ass with footnotes, Olig! Don’t include Van Halen and Journey in the same essay.” He nodded thoughtfully and then added, “All I will say on the matter is that one band rocks like a bull while the other rocks like a China Shop.”

**When I asked Conor if he would like Van Halen more or less had they recorded a tribute to their roadies, he said it would all depend on the quality of the song, which remains hypothetical. Fair enough. He added that Roth would never hazard into such sentimental territory, but Hagar just might. The Red Rocker is more emotive. Hagar sincerely wanted to know why this can’t be love, whereas Roth didn’t seem to care much about that sort of mush. Roth was happy as long as the local strippers brought him Big Macs to eat at midnight, then treated him to dessert.