So what’d they do, wait until the last minute to invite Sir Paul to be an inductor at this year’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame festivities?
“Right then, I’ll take Scotty Moore.”
Nope, sorry.
“The Moonglows?”
Spoken for.
“Oh, OK. George’ll kill me, but give me Clapton.” No can do.
“What’s left then?”
James Taylor.
“Ah, fookin’ hell.”
Yep, Lord Macca had the dubious distinction of inducting Sweet Baby James into the even more dubious Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a couple of weeks back. You’ve got to hand it to the old bastard, though. The Cute Beatle is out on the town in a big way of late. You can’t open a copy of In Style without seeing Paul at some PETA shindig with Pamela Anderson or schmoozing with Madonna at the VMAs. Last month his grizzled kisser was on the cover of the NME with the Happy Mondays’ Shaun Ryder (who, frighteningly enough, appears older than him). There’s only one explanation for all this socializing: He’s cruising for chicks. But we digress. . . .
The Hall of Fame gets on our tits year after year, but this one takes the cake. What, pray tell, does James Taylor have to do with rock and/or roll? We like nutty ol’ JT as much as the next guys, but Jeez Louise, when you look at who’s NOT enshrined, it just seems wrong. Black Sabbath: not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Steely Dan: not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Jethro Tull: not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Yes: not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Styx: not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And what about Grand Funk Railroad?! The wild, shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner? The bong-rattling bass of Mel Shocker? The competent drum work of Don Brewer? Oh man!
Look, forget your Iggy Pops and MC5s and all the important cutting-edge crap—we understand why the French-collared, ponytailed, Waldorf Astoria crowd is oblivious to, say, Big Star. But Black Sabbath? Steely Dan? Were these industry weasels so coked up during the ’70s that they didn’t turn on their radios? This year’s bash was so adult-contemporary, Teri Garr could have been the MC! After this week, Eric Clapton has been inducted three times, and on this occasion, the honor is essentially for “I Shot the Fucking Sheriff” and that horrible song about his dead kid. Here’s a simple rule of thumb for the nominating committee: Anyone who has collaborated with Babyface is out! If that means David Silver never gets in, then so be it! And speaking of Babyface, whose bright idea was it to let Natalie friggin’ Cole kick off the jam session? See, this is what happens when Springsteen goes on tour.
In a world where evil gonifs like Clive Davis are held up as paragons of benevolence, you can bet your ass they’ll induct Whitney Houston before Mott the Hoople. Genesis hasn’t even made the cut for God’s sake! Genesis! Damn the establishment! Damn Mitch Miller!
And by the way, Cleveland does not rock. Never has, never will. Ian Hunter only changed the words from “England Rocks”—which does—to make a few bucks off of stinking Americans. . . .
Closing on a political note: Now that the candidates are clear, the national discussion has turned to who’s going to be the next Veep. Our patently obvious suggestion: Rock and Roll Hall of Famer Carlos Santana. You can bet your ass Al and Tipper are already rocking out to “Supernatural” on the Gore Across America tour bus. He guarantees the Latino vote. He guarantees the hippie vote. He guarantees the 25-year-old whiteboy vote. Hell, come to think of it, who doesn’t like Carlos Santana? He’s the most popular man in America! Vote for Al Gore, featuring Carlos Santana! Who’s not pulling the lever for that?!
