We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-A)

I don't mean to boast, but not long ago, I made practical use of a status on Facebook. This is a relative claim, of course; I'm comparing the question I posed to the likes of 1.) “My ex-girlfriend is a vile harlot”* and 2.) “man im so high right now!”

Now, I can't prove the status I submitted was more worthwhile than either of those two offerings, but mine garnered over 50 responses, whereas no one had much to say to the jaded lover and the non-discrete stoner. The point is not that I am therefore cooler than anyone else, but rather, that my hunch about posting something relevant on FB has been supported by evidence. This essay functions in much the same way. I seek validations for what strikes me as truthful, but I don't offer very many indisputable facts. Considering the following question that I posed...how could I?

“I have a question about music. OBJECTIVELY speaking, it can be stated that either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones are the greatest British rock band. (Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd can't quite match the magnitude of their predecessors.) Which band best qualifies as America's greatest? Not necessarily your favorite, mind you--and please dear God nobody say Fish (sic). ”**

My hypotheses are that 1.) the indisputably iconic rock bands from Great Britain are vastly easier to acknowledge than their American counterparts, and 2.) America's most influential and monumental musicians are all solo artists. Less vitally, it's also fairly simple to identify the solo rockers from Great Britain who have left the most culturally significant legacy. The greater question that I want an answer to is this: Why does it seem so laughably and inherently dubious to try to name the American rock band that truly resonates the most? I can't even compile a plausible Top-5 that would be remotely satisfying—which is vexing since I'm inclined to do such a categorical thing. Why is that?

I received plenty of solid answers and, predictably, very few great answers. Some replied facetiously. (“Cheeseheads with Attitude,” “America, for fuck's sake,” and “If only Nickelback were born in the U.S.A....”) Others provided sincere replies that strike me as ludicrous. (“Rancid—debate over,” “The Strawberry Alarm Clock...no contest,” and “The Grass Roots?”) Not everyone gave an objective rather than subjective response. (You're one of my favorite people, Hootie McBoobs, but that band who rocked us so thoroughly at Summerfest, “the Black Keys”...they're just not a viable answer to the question.) One person answered, “The Beatles, obviously,” and I don't know her well enough to tell if she was serious or kidding. I got a kick out of another comment, “Definitely Grand Funk Railroad, now that I think about it,” because that would be Homer Simpson's answer and Grand Funk were at least effusively proud when they proclaimed themselves an American Band. Aside from Fish (sic), I was relieved nobody mentioned bands I think are both lousy and poor answers to the core question. (Sticks***, REO Speedwagon, and Bon Jovi.) I was rueful when bands that don't appeal to me but nonetheless merit consideration were brought up. (Journey, Aerosmith, and Van Halen.) The most rational and insightful contributor included in his Top-5 Sonic Youth—a discordant indie-band that has mostly disdained mainstream appeal since their emergence in the mid-80s. This baffles me as much as it validates my initial hunch. I couldn't believe Lynyrd Skynyrd, R.E.M., and KISS were nowhere to be found in the debate. These three American rock bands combine for nearly 8-million “likes” on Facebook.**** Astonishingly, Metallica is more popular than all three of those bands combined on the same site—and they were likewise absent. Maybe I need new digital pals to better reflect our culture's classification of a truly great American band. Maybe I should offer superficial friendship to a random weirdo solely because he has a Gene Simmons tattoo on his chest. These are the fake problems I conjure to make life even more troubling.

My premise that Led Zeppelin can't match the magnitude of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones was disputed. This is a minor quibble and a tangential challenge. Regardless of whether you preferLed Zeppelin to the Beatles and/ or the Stones, don't overlook the fact that the Misty Mountain Hoppers were not a part of the British Invasion—probably the most momentous development in the time-line of rock 'n' roll. I will gladly concede that, in terms of impact, Led Zeppelin vaulted over less iconic British Invaders such as the Who and the Kinks. Led Zeppelin may very well earn the bronze medal in the debate across the Atlantic, and—all things considered—that is an astounding achievement. But no matter how much you adore raunchy but sometimes sentimental hard rock that verges on heavy metal, please, don't shit yourself: Led Zeppelin mean a lot, but the Beatles and the Stones unequivocally mean more. As the time elapsed after the watershed moment of said Invasion, the limitations of cultural impact became more restrictive. (This also helps explain why Black Sabbath, Queen, the Clash, and Cream—while superior in impact to the vast majority of American bands—aren't the most sensible answers, either.) Perhaps I should have restated the premise this way: In an encyclopedia that chronicles a slew of rock bands, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones must have the longest, most thorough entries. Which American band warrants the longest, most thorough entry?

And by the way, I do realize that equating sexy things like rock 'n' roll and Robert Plant's acid-washed pants-tent to scholarly things like encyclopedias and footnotes sort of reduces the appeal of what I'm trying to embrace. What can I say? Don't be like me. Hell, I can barely pull it off. It's a daily challenge.

The second problem people had with my premise was far more exasperating. Vance Flerny, among others, completely disagreed with me that Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley qualify as solo artists. After I commented that both are subject to a different (and less ambiguous) debate, he retorted with the following:

“That's weak. They both played with bands. Neither one just hung out by himself and played on-stage. I would hate to be the one to tell the 'band' backing a so-called solo artist that they actually weren't a band at all—that the only person considered to be the artist was the front-man.”

To my chagrin, Richie Chipworth concurred.

“Yeah. Why are solo artists disqualified? It seems like an arbitrary distinction.”

I spewed an exhausted sigh and tried to explain that there is a clear difference between bands and solo artists with backing bands that typically features a revolving cast of players. What a lost cause that turned out to be! And so allow me to elaborate. Being in a band is not the same as having a band. While the former designates a partnership, the latter implies prestige for one and the subordination of the others. Chuck Barry is the easiest to dismiss since he never had a definitive backing band. He required interchangeable bassists and drummers, but, in essence, the man behind “Johnny B. Goode” played with his own Ding-a-Ling. As for Elvis, Bob Dylan, and Johnny Cash, consider their album covers for tangible proof. No mention of the Jordanaires, the Band, nor the Tennessee Three, respectively, is printed on any of the studio album covers they collectively released. This was reflected by charts that marked record sales and radio play. Credit, acclaim, and fortune came to them in vastly unbalanced proportions compared to what their backing bands received. Prestige for one and the subordination of others. Hence: the King, the Voice of a Generation, and the Man in Black qualify as solo artists.

Beyond that, it's senseless and grammatically incorrect to say something akin to, “Johnny Cash was such an iconic band.” Or: “The Beach Boys are my favorite musician.” Sweet Jesus, people. If I have to explain to literate adults the difference between singular and plural nouns, I'll be forced to pursue a career as a merchant of suicide machines.

Votes were cast for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers as well as Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. This is where it gets especially tricky. Explicit signs of prestige and subordination apply to both, but the line-ups of the Heartbreakers and the E-Street Band alike have remained mostly intact for over 35 years. Petty and Springsteen may be glory-hogs, but I think that's a major part of their American appeal, and furthermore, both are loyal glory-hogs who prefer not to play with interchangeable musicians. Does either qualify for the debate?

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were marketed and therefore qualify as a band because three crucial words, “and the Heartbreakers,” were printed on the record sleeves of You're Gonna Get It!, Damn the Torpedoes, Greatest Hits, etc. Bruce Springsteen, on the other hand, did not acknowledge the E-Street Band on the covers of Born to Run, Born in the U.S.A., Darkness on the Edge of Town, etc. The Boss also played every instrument on 1982's Nebraska, which is widely regarded as his best (and undoubtedly saddest) album. The E-Street Band are only recognized in print on live albums.

Therefore, the poor neurotic schmuck trying to clarify this clusterfuck deems that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are in fact an American band. Bruce Springsteen is ultimately an American solo act, though. If I was assert that the distinction lies in the album covers, would anyone believe me? Vance Flerny and people of his ilk would not; I can only hope to sway others.

Maddeningly enough, though, Tom Petty released a few solo albums. In fact, three of his biggest singles, “I Won't Back Down,” “Runnin' Down a Dream,” and (oh, sweet lord, how the gruesome plot thickens) “Free Fallin'” are all included on 1989's Full Moon Fever. By my logic, those hits would have to be stricken from the band's legacy. Infinitely worse, Wildflowers was marketed as a solo album, too. That album featured “You Don't Know How It Feels” and “You Wreck Me.” I type infinitely worse because—get this—ALL THE HEARTBREAKERS, except for the drummer, played on Wildflowers.

The man whose alias is Dick Willy is my best friend. He warned me about what I was getting myself into:

“I can't get with this question. Too much red tape. Splitting hairs between 'band' and 'solo' seems beside the point and really hard to do. That said, I can't say this question isn't interesting.”

And I can't say I don't want to thank you for the feedback, Dick Willy.

Too much red tape? You bet. I started out aiming for a track length comparable to CCR's “I Put a Spell on You” (4:32) and now it appears I have “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” (11:06) to wrap my mind around. I have become like what I typically despise: A jam band. But I will labor on until the end of side-A's rigmarole.

The Rat Pack was suggested. They were certainly iconic and American, but they don't at all count. They were lounge singers, crooners—not rockers. What's more, they openly disliked rock 'n' roll, partly because they were all born before the Great Depression and partly for the same reason cock-rocker Vince Neil hated Kurt Cobain and grunge music. Rock 'n' roll made crooning seem antiquated to a lot of Baby-Boomers. There was a time when only backwoods yokels and blues-howling black people played the guitar. The six-string used to be widely derided as an unsophisticated and boorish instrument. There was a time, believe it or not, when a fucking clarinetist stood a much better chance than a guitarist of seducing gorgeous and horny socialites. Rock 'n' Roll changed that, though. I'm glad. To hell with the clarinet and so much for the Rat Pack.

Some folks will really resent me for stating this, but the Jimi Hendrix Experience doesn't count. The front-man's drummer and bassist were born in Great Britain. You can't be an American rock band if two-thirds of your group refer to trucks as “lorries.” And Hendrix was not technically a solo artist, either, since his album covers credit his band-mates. Hendrix is thereby in no-man's land and it hardly seems fair. If it's any consolation, Hendrix is one of the greatest musicians to appear on this planet in the past century.

Fish** (sic) and Rancid are stylistically disparate, but they are weak responses to my big question for the same reason. Both are inherently indebted to their American forefathers in the jam and punk genres, the Grateful Dead and the Ramones, respectively. Again, as time elapses beyond a moment of historical innovation—the emergence of the San Francisco-rooted counterculture in the late-'60s and the impact of the “fuck all, play fast,” CBGB's scene in New York—bands with similar sounds almost always mean less than their influences.

Pearl Jam and Nirvana verge on viable answers, and not merely because I like their music. (My favorite American rock band, FYI, is a toss-up between Cake and Spoon, but I realize those are both terrible answers to the question I posed.) Grunge had its downfalls—enfeebling despair, Messiah-complexes, that creepy Alice in Chains video with the guy who had his eyes sewn shut that gave me nightmares as a kid, Alice in Chains in general now that I think of it—but it marked a legit cultural phenomenon. Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain were prodded by the media in the way cops bark into a megaphone to contact a criminal with hostages in his living room: “What are the demands of Generation X?!” Both felt beleaguered by the likes of Time magazine circa 1992. Vedder waited out the conflict, stopped appearing in music videos about a decade before MTV stopped showing them, and came to peaceful resolution. The same cannot be stated about Cobain.

Grunge probably stands as the most recent game-changer of major significance in American rock music. As for later developments such as rap-metal and garage rock revival, in terms of their cultural clout, Cobain is the man to quote: “Oh well, whatever, nevermind.”

All this is to say that I have turned away a lot of unworthy candidates and granted a minority entrance into the debate. This is the closest I will ever get to working as a bouncer at a popular nightclub.

And so, here is my restated premise. More so than any other British rock band, the Beatles best-qualify as the consensus #1. The British solo acts (assuming you don't reject the very notion of a “solo act”) are slightly tougher to determine, but manageable. David Bowie is my favorite and he might be in the Top-3, but he doesn't appeal to nearly as many people as Elton John or Eric Clapton. If it's a tossup between Elton and Clapton, I'd be satisfied but nonplussed with favoring Clapton. It doesn't matter that I'm nonplussed about it, though. Clapton prevails, albeit with less competition than his Yankee counterparts. America has a plethora of iconic solo artists. It's almost criminal to belatedly give credence to Buddy Holly and Ray Charles, among others. They're not the most satisfying answer, though, and neither is Bob Dylan. The King is unparalleled in magnitude and influence; the Beatles idolized Elvis Presley, not the other way around.

But I still have no clue which American rock band duly ranks as our most significant. It feels like an impossible answer to declare, just as it did thousands of words ago. Don't worry, though. The thought-market is saturated—and restless, too. With the Beach Boys, Credence Clearwater Revival, the Byrds, the Grateful Dead, the Ramones, the Doors, Van Halen, KISS, Aerosmith, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Metallica, Guns 'n' Roses, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Nirvana, and a few others to discuss, I should be able to scrape something together.

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go until then. Maybe more. It's high-time I gulp down a Lexapro. Maybe it'll make me sleepy. At this point, “I Wanna be Sedated.”

* This quote has been severely paraphrased.

** Here is today's installment of what could be the most infuriating thing about the band in question. This quartet has been known to close concerts with a Capella, barbershop-style renditions of songs such as “Hello, My Baby.” They're all much better musicians than singers, and yet, at the very end of certain live-shows, they put aside their instruments and focus all their energy on a component of their music that is even worse than the endless noodling and the mind-numbing lyrics. Barbershop isn't what you're cut out for, Vermontian millionaires. Just because you love The Simpsons and there are four of you does not mean you should try to emulate the B-Sharps.

***(sic)

****The professed “likes” of Talking Heads are comparatively piddling, which is hard for me to understand. Stop Making Sense is, after all, an American live album for the ages. I think their popularity is skewed and diminished because so many of their fans may try to log onto Facebook only to say to themselves: “How do I work this?”