I watched the premiere of Dancing with the Stars on the DVR the other night. Yes, I know, by admitting this I’ve just edged one step closer to eternal hellfire, but my wife was watching and I wanted to see how John Ratzenberger did.
What song did the producers choose to open the show with? None other than “Ballroom Blitz.”
Now, Wikipedia might insist that the song was first released by glam rockers Sweet in 1973, but God Himself on his Golden Throne has decreed that the definitive version of “Ballroom Blitz” was recorded by heavy metal giants Krokus in 1984. He will brook no argument on this. It’s not a particularly good song (in any incarnation), but back in the early ’80s it had a certain drive, power, and yes, even a little bit of anarchic menace to it.
The Dancing with the Stars band absolutely butchered “Ballroom Blitz,” like they butcher just about every piece of music that’s put in front of them. It’s actually fairly interesting to watch C-list stars try to tackle ballroom dancing, but listening to Dorky McWhiteington and His White Band massacre song after song is excruciating. (Especially given that Dorky McW is black.) Turning “The Power of Love” and “Let’s Hear It for the Boy” into schmaltzy, bar mitzvah band pop that’s even too bland for Grandma is no difficult feat, but leeching every last bit of soul out of “Chain of Fools” takes real talent. Somewhere in Guantanamo Bay, I’m convinced, there are CIA interrogators watching Dancing with the Stars and taking notes.
I find this all extremely ironic. Twenty-three years ago, when I started growing long hair and hanging out with the heavy metal kids (we were called “baggers” back then, Lord knows why), this music was scary. Judas Priest, AC/DC, Krokus, Iron Maiden, Ratt, Ozzy Osbourne, Mötley Crüe, W.A.S.P. — there was a time when parents were so worried about the influence of these bands on their children that Tipper Gore managed to make a big stink of it on Capitol Hill and cause the record industry to self-apply warning label stickers to their albums.
I’m sure that in the middle of some drunken high school or junior high school evening, my friends and I must have blasted our heavy metal music at full volume and laughed ourselves sick at the specific idea of prime time cheeseballs opening a schmaltzy variety show with a Krokus song.
Which leads me to the question: Is it possible to sustain “coolness” indefinitely? Should we even try? Or should we just accept the fact that the edgy, alternative hip-hop/electronica/garage band mashup you’re digging today will eventually be schmaltzified by Dorky McWhiteington and His White Band on Dancing with the Stars?
As I grow older, I’m watching rock stars who were once the epitome of cool for me either fade into the woodwork (The Kinks, Pearl Jam), sell out to the point of absurdity (The Rolling Stones, Metallica), or get a new lease on their careers through camp and/or self-parody (Ozzy Osbourne).
What performers from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s have managed to maintain their coolness? I suppose there’s Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley, and Janis Joplin — who died young enough to not have to worry about selling out. (Although this whiff of martyrdom that seems to surround the three of them is more than a little nauseating. Two of them OD’d, and one died for refusing to get his cancerous toe amputated. Not exactly glamorous, or undeserved, deaths.) But even early death is no proof against loss of coolness. Witness Jim Morrison, whose star diminishes further with each passing day. Does anyone really think his music is going to outlast the Boomer generation? (Okay, Mike W., you obviously think so.)
More often, you see coolness sustained because it was never really discovered in the first place. Witness the otherworldly talent of Nick Drake, a folk singer-songwriter who never sold more than a few thousand copies of any of his three albums during his lifetime, but who has become a major figure in retrospect some thirty years after his OD at 26. Witness the Velvet Underground, of whom it’s been said that they only had 200 fans while they were together, but every one of those fans went on to start an influential band.
You see more and more musicians and pop stars who have turned that observation on its head. They seem to run obsessively from coolness specifically as a way of maintaining coolness. The Beatles were perhaps the first modern rock band to turn away from the guaranteed millions that A Hard Day’s Night II, III, and IV would have brought them and gravitate instead towards avant garde compositions like “Revolution #9” and “A Day in the Life.” Prince expressly forbid his record company from doing anything to promote Around the World in a Day, his follow-up to the über-smash Purple Rain. Beck tries to distance himself from his last album almost as soon as it hits the airwaves, and sometimes it seems like Jack White is working hard to not be so famous anymore.
So whatever happened to “rock ‘n roll will never die”? Whatever happened to the attitude that rock music was going to save the world?
Nobody thinks that anymore, except perhaps Bono. Pete Townshend and Mick Jagger are just cashing checks, Springsteen has quieted down, and Dylan never really gave a fuck what you thought of his music in the first place.
Pop culture dies, and it’s a depressing spectacle to watch for those who stick around to see it. I just hope I live long enough to see Eminem peeled and filleted by Dorky McWhiteington and His White Band on Dancing with the Stars. Or even better, he’ll actually be dancing on the show hoping for a comeback. That might be fun to watch.