Frank Mullen dares to speak what we only think.
The Flip-side of Forever
by
Frank Mullen III
To: St. Peter
From: Director of Internal Investigation
Re: Problems in Rock 'n Roll Heaven
Dear Sir,
As I sit here in the front row of the auditorium, it is difficult to remember how peaceful Rock 'n Roll Heaven was when it was first created as an abode for Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper following their fatal plane crash in 1959. After a brief period of shared billing, these three artists became involved in a battle for the spotlight. As a consequence, Buddy has been on stage, singing 'Peggy Sue' in those geeky horn-rimmed glasses for close to half a century now, while simultaneously, the Big Bopper is droning his way through 'Chantilly Lace.' Time has not mellowed the effect of 'Ooh, Baby, you knoooww what I like!' On the rare occasion that either of them takes a short break, the lights come up on Richie Valens, who dives headfirst into 'Ba-da,-ba-da, La Bamba.' You'd think that after all this time, he'd learn the words. Woodstock was more organized than this.
From its inception, it was never clear whether Rock 'n Roll Heaven was intended as a private club for the original residents, or whether membership was open to every three-chord guitar player who died in an airplane accident. Aircraft of the early '60s tended to get where they were going, so the issue never came up. But in 1967, Otis Redding died in an air crash, forcing the admissions committee to address entrance requirements.
Two camps emerged. The Emotionalists, who couldn't tell blues from bubble gum, cared less about the mode of a performer's death than the quantity of tears shed by inconsolable fans. In opposition, the Purists decried the corruption of rhythm and blues into the caterwauling of bouffant-headed girl-groups and adolescent beach bums, and they became entrenched in their insistence on tragic death by aerial misfortune.
Eventually, a touching moment occurred that is still remembered by those who were there. When debate reached the heights of acrimony and personal slander, someone put Otis Reddingís 'Try A Little Tenderness' on the turntable. By the time the rhythm section kicked in, tears were flowing, everybody was hugging each other, and an agreement was reached: artistry and grief would be the primary consideration for admission, but special preference would be given to those who suffered aeronautical demise. Otis was welcomed, and in 1973, after another fatal crash, Jim Croce was admitted, despite 'Time In A Bottle.'
But compromise endures no longer in Eternity than it does in less permanent climes. The Emotionalists became particularly unhappy with this system of special preference for airplane death that gave Ricky Nelson the keys to the kingdom, but left John Lennon waiting on standby. It was no comfort to them to hear the Purists insist, 'A plane crash is a plane crash.'
Which is exactly what Dino Martin said in 1987. He demanded entry, and the committee was once again at war. Both sides agreed that Dino, Desi and Billyís contributions to rock 'n roll could fit in a Pez dispenser, but Dino's death had overtones of nobility--he had become an Air National Guard pilot, and had gone down with his jet. The Purists were swept up in a patriotic fever, while the Emotionalists uncharacteristically responded by playing the No-talent Card.
After bitter infighting, the committee decided that Martinís would be the last case of aeronautical demise to make the cut. Death by airplane crash would henceforth become a cause of complete disqualification from entrance to Rock 'n Roll Heaven.
Immediately, Marvin Gaye appealed his earlier rejection. His 1984 death had been singularly tragic--on the day before his birthday, his father had shot him. Clearly, most families would have simply jumped out from behind the furniture and yelled 'Surprise!'
Gaye was admitted, and his success threw open the floodgates to scores of big names who had earlier been turned down. Every Jimi, Janis and Elvis got the star treatment, and it was Standing Room Only in the aisles of Rock 'n Roll Heaven. Then, the unforseen occurred: the British Invasion.
The virtual elimination of admissions standards allowed entrance to any lisping Brit with flyaway hair, dental problems and a hit record. In addition to Beatles, Rock 'n Roll Heaven is now crawling with Yardbirds, Who's and Rolling Stones. Speaking of which, is Mick Jagger dead yet? I saw him on Letterman last night, and I didn't think he'd make it through the last commercial.
The result of this immigration has not been celestial harmony, and there is not likely to be a reunion of deceased Beatles anytime soon. George Harrison is still not speaking to John Lennon, but then, Lennon is rarely seen anymore. With a cluelessness that eluded him in life, he roams the heavenly byways, smiling beatifically at Angels and Archangels alike, blessing them and suggesting that they 'give peace a chance.
The backstage area is now crawling with suicides, heart attacks and idiots who forgot to use the turn signal. The clumsiest of oafs merits a Passport to Immortality--everyone is aware that Sonny Bono is here not because he can sing, but because he can't ski.
The complete debasement of this once-placid Land Of Rest is experienced when one steps into the Ladies' Lunchroom, where the lowest, crudest aspects of Rock 'n Roll Heaven are on display. The visitor finds himself thrust into a raging food-fight among Shirelles, Supremes and Shangri-las; Mama Cass stomps from table to table, scarfing down everybodyís else's chow--the babe is big--while Janis tosses f-words like hand grenades into the melee. Poor Karen Carpenter is down to about eleven pounds now, crying because the Singing Nun won't stop with the French vibrato . She has a point--eventually, 'Domanica, nica, nica' is no better than 'Ba-da, ba-da, La Bamba.' /P>
Rock 'n Roll Heaven is bursting at the seams of its sequined jumpsuit, and standards for residency need to be established, and quickly. It is no secret that Neil Sedaka is turning sixty-five and could walk in at any time, sit down at the piano and start whining 'Come-a come-a down, dooby-doo, down, down' with that Gomer Pyle smirk on his face. Neither is Petula Clark getting any younger--the thought of the two of them alternating sets is not causing Peace in the Valley.
I could provide further details, but it is becoming impossible to concentrate. Jimi has begun the opening riff to 'Purple Haze,' David Seville is tinkering with an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, trying to recreate his famous Chipmunks sound, and Jim Morrison, Dennis Wilson and Elvis are arguing over whether it is more heart-wrenching to drown in a bathtub, a marina, or a pool of your own vomit.
Sir, something has to be done. I know it won't be easy, but if anyone is thinking of simply reviving the idea of special preferences for airplane crashes, I have two words of warning:
John Denver
Copyright 2003, Frank Mullen III. Originally published by Suite101.com.
Frank Mullen III is Suite101's Baby Boomer Humor Contributing Editor.
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