There’s one obvious point to the Rock Hall that needs to be mentioned. Like the definition of Rock itself, the Hall is pretty much all encompassing. But let’s be honest, the “Pop Music Hall of Fame” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Then there’s the whole debate as to why a city like Cleveland would be considered a suitable home to the Hall itself. You’ve got the notion that disc jockey Alan Freed coined the term “Rock & Roll,” but that’s a debate in itself. I say: give the town a fucking break. Over half the city’s population has left during the latter half of the 20th century and, admittedly, there’s not a lot of draw left to potential tourists. So fine, put the Hall on the edge of Lake Erie in a town that’s otherwise known for the Browns, the Indians, the Cavaliers, and not much else. Detroit may be the only other city in America that’s probably more deserving of self esteem boosting museum draw, but studies have shown that the majority of Americans think of Detroit as the place where people go to get shot at. So Cleveland it is and it is Cleveland that I went on vacation.
Let’s get to the point of this: if you are a fan of rock music (we’ll use this generalized term) you need to visit the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Seriously, devote a weekend (Cleveland deserves at least a weekend) to go there and explore this very meticulous shrine to a musical form that was considered to be nothing more than a novelty for the first decade of its existence.
Speaking of: there’s plenty of novelty housed within the Rock Hall, I’m guessing to accommodate the youth that pass through the doors alongside the parental units (Boomers) that pay the twenty bucks a head to validate the music of their own generation. As any fan of rock will tell you, there’s really no need to “validate” this era at all. Its importance is obvious. It’s the righteousness of this generation that really needs checked, but the Hall does a fairly decent job of conglomerating the phases of popular music while avoiding a “holier than thou” preference on one particular decade. The criteria of requiring an artist reaching the quarter-century mark before being eligible for induction does leverage the playing field a bit, but we don’t really need to hear, nor believe, that the importance of Green Day has been fully realized, do we?
So the kids have their interactive Ritalin exhibits, their Christina Aguilera costumes, and their references to 90’s “old school.” But the real find is for anyone with a hint of musical knowledge and, as expected, a treat for anyone that houses more than the usual amount of rock pedigree.
I image that if you fall into that latter category, the Hall can be a little overwhelming, particularly if you’re with someone who has less interest in you. Consider this observation from a family; I put the married couple to be in their early forties, and their pre-teen daughter and early-teens son. The Dad was completely taken with the artifacts and understandably wanted to take every moment in. The young daughter, on the other hand, really had no interest whatsoever in learning more about the importance of Les Paul and the development of the electric guitar. She started to fidget and whine. The father’s frustrations became obvious. “Why don’t you want to see this?” he asked, literally dumbfounded at why his daughter was bored. He finally reached a point where he didn’t care “why” his daughter was becoming winded. As any real fan of rock music would do, he stopped caring, declaring “I want to see this!” before letting his wife handle the child-care duties. The Mother and daughter went elsewhere to entertain themselves, leaving the son in Dad’s care. He took him to the exhibit that showed the progression of music technology, from Edison cylinders to Jobs’ Ipods. I heard the father explaining the concept of 8-tracks to his son. The son looked confused, and he had every right to be.
The 8-track tape player defies all logic.
If you’re a fan of both rock and guitars, then you’re doubly occupied. The Hall is overrun with them, to the point where you’re exhausted just trying to keep up. There are those that require some comments: the end result of “London Calling” coverboy Paul Simonon smashing his Fender bass, Howlin’ Wolf’s electric guitar, virtually all of Jerry Garcia’s Doug Irwin guitars, and countless others. There are some glaring omissions (we get Michael Anthony’s Jack Daniels bass but not one Eddie Van Halen six string) but give the Hall credit for not throwing up a bunch of autographed shit and calling it memorabilia. You can get that at any local Hard Rock Café.
There was a couple of special exhibits while I was there: a section devoted to Roy Orbison (pretty cool, particularly Roy’s handwritten action plan for himself, detailing what he was going to do with his career from that point forward) and another one for Bob Dylan’s “American Journey”, documenting his life from 1956 to 1966. This one was a tad mediocre, overflowing with interactive spots that essentially mirror the “No Direction Home” documentary and provide little additional insight. It was, however, somewhat eerie seeing Woody Guthrie’s Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital t-shirt that he wore while housed there, dying from Huntington’s disease.
Other notable artifacts (for me) included John Lennon’s handwritten lyrics to “In My Life,” childhood drawings from Jimi Hendrix, the mangled airplane skin from Otis Redding’s last plane ride, Jim Morrison’s report card (where he received a “D” in citizenship) and, fuck it, there are way to many things for me to list here.
Whatever your feelings about Jann Wenner, Dave Marsh, Cleveland, or that the whole idea of a rock and roll hall of fame is indeed a “piss stain,” you will find yourself humbled and attentive once you make amends and go there.
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