Chuck Klosterman X, page 30
The calculation of these five categories is how the so-called Gross VORM is generated—you take one member of any random band and figure out how many points he or she warrants. So let’s do that right now; as our stylish guinea pig, we’ll use Strokes guitarist Albert Hammond Jr.
Gross Rock VORM & Adjusted Rock VORM (Part II): [Subject—Albert Hammond Jr.]
Here’s how Hammond scores within the five categories we just outlined:
Songwriting (6 out of 40): On the early Strokes albums, vocalist Julian Casablancas wrote almost everything (J.C. would probably get a career score of 25 in this category). But the most recent Strokes album (Angles) gives songwriting credits to all five members equally, and Casablancas wasn’t even in the studio (he mailed in his vocal tracks electronically). Albert is now a registered factor. Hammond also made two solo records that sound like decent Strokes facsimiles, so one assumes he must play a role in the creation of actual Strokes songs. As such, he gets 6 of the remaining 15 points that didn’t go to Julian.
Sonic Contribution (3 out of 20): The two most distinctive aspects of most Strokes tracks are Casablancas’s woozy-sloth vocals and Fab Moretti’s precision drumming. Moreover, one could argue that Hammond is the second most important guitar player in a band with only two guitars. He only gets 3 points here, which hurts.
Visual Impact (4 out of 10): In the past, I would have given Hammond 6 points here, as he’s traditionally been “the most Stroke-like” Stroke. That will remain true over time, since the image of the Strokes we’ll all inevitably remember is how they looked in 2001. However, Hammond recently went to rehab, lost a bunch of weight, and cut his hair; this costs him two points of visual impact. He gets a 4.
Live Performance (6 out of 10): When you watch the Strokes perform live, Hammond is usually the only person who seems excited to be there. He supposedly selects clothing that makes dancing easier, and he sometimes makes jokes during interviews that are authentically funny. He gets the lion’s share of these points.
Attitude (1 out of 5): All the Strokes get 1 point apiece. In this regard, they are equal.
Intangibles (7 out of 15): Hammond’s father recorded at least one song (“It Never Rains in Southern California”) that’s probably better than any song the Strokes have ever made. Al Jr. wears three-piece suits on warm days, holds his guitar like Buddy Holly, is pictured smoking (!) in the liner notes for Is This It, and has not dated Drew Barrymore. In a broad sense, Hammond’s role in the Strokes is inherently intangible; as a result, he dominates this category.
We now have Albert Hammond Jr.’s Gross Rock VORM: 27 (this is slightly higher than two of the other three Strokes, but lower than the irreplaceable Julian, who pulls down a 41). Yet this is only his gross score; since there are five members of the band, we need to divide by five. This is how we establish the Adjusted Rock VORM (ARV).92 Hammond’s ARV is 5.8, which denotes how much more valuable he is to the Strokes than any random rhythm guitarist they could pull off the streets of lower Manhattan. We work from the premise that our hypothetical replacement musician would earn an ARV of 1.0, which means Hammond’s is 5.8 times better.
This statistic, however, only tells us how Hammond performs in comparison with his own group. How does he compare to the world at large? That’s more complicated, which brings us to Part III . . .
Calculating the “Real” Rock VORM (Part III)
Since every band starts on the same 100-point scale, the GRM and the ARV only allow us to measure a group against itself, which generates a logic gap (certainly, the 19 points Morrissey gets for being the principal lyricist in the Smiths doesn’t accurately compare with the 19 points Pete Wentz gets for being the principal lyricist in Fall Out Boy). In order to calculate someone’s “Real” Rock VORM (RRV), we need to multiply their personal ARV by the “established value” of the group itself. A group’s established value encompasses all aspects of its existence (musical and otherwise). All bands are ranked on a scale of .01 to 1.0, with the Beatles representing the 1.0 designation. Due to space limitations, I can’t list the established value of every single band who has ever existed—but here’s a partial list:93
1.0: The Beatles
.989: The Rolling Stones
.98: Led Zeppelin
.97: The Jimi Hendrix Experience, the Beach Boys, the Velvet Underground, Pizzicato Five
.929: Black Sabbath, CCR
.914: Steely Dan, Bad Brains
.91: The Replacements, the Smiths
.909: The Stooges, the Carpenters
.86: Thin Lizzy
.825: Pavement, Radiohead, the Grateful Dead, the Police
.81: R.E.M., godheadSilo
.78: Nirvana, Parliament-Funkadelic
.71: ZZ Top
.7099: The Pixies
.685: Queen, NRBQ
.642: The Faces, Fleetwood Mac, Cheap Trick
.635: Oasis, Sleater-Kinney, Rush
.6: The Drive-By Truckers, Sleep
.59: Sonic Youth, Mötley Crüe, the Go-Go’s
.55: My Morning Jacket, Rancid, Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments
.543: The Fall, Journey
.53: The Chills, the Eagles, the Stone Roses, Cinderella
.47: Metallica, U2, Soundgarden, Japandroids
.469: REO Speedwagon, Hüsker Dü, Wings, Best Coast, Slade
.444: Sweet, Poison, Crosby Stills & Nash, Depeche Mode, Supergrass
.39: Ra Ra Riot, Cornershop, Dokken, Roxy Music
.345: Aerosmith, Styx, Paramour, Black Oak Arkansas
.32: Uriah Heep, Grizzly Bear
.3: Spacehog94
.28: Rage Against the Machine, Rilo Kiley, the Doors
.24: Primus, Black Flag, Yngwie J. Malmsteen’s Rising Force
.2: The Dave Matthews Band, Wavves, Foo Fighters
.18: April Wine, the Black Eyed Peas, Joy Division
.15: Incubus, Spoon, Gaslight Anthem, Iron and Wine
.1: Porno for Pyros, Kaiser Chiefs, Bat for Lashes, Asia
.05: Crash Test Dummies
.025: Green Day, Alabama
.01: The Fabulous Thunderbirds
I will concede that some of these rankings are debatable. The scores themselves are also fungible and constantly evolving: In 1995, Elastica would have received a .61 (on par with the likes of My Bloody Valentine); today, Elastica would get a .35 (somewhere just below the Moody Blues). Regardless, these scores are what we use to establish any specific individual’s “Real” Rock VORM—we multiply his or her ARV with the preexisting established value of his or her band.
So let’s conclude our look at Albert Hammond Jr.: His “Adjusted Rock VORM” was 5.8. As a band, the Strokes’ overall value is .51 (roughly in the same neighborhood as Fugazi and Britny Fox). When these two factors are multiplied, the final product is 2.958. And that, my mathematical friends, is the worth of Albert Hammond Jr.: His “Real” Rock VORM is 2.958, which means he is better than any rock musician with a lower RRV (and worse than anyone whose RRV score is higher).
Problem solved. Next problem.
—some random afternoon in 2011
Advertising Worked on Me
1.
I love writing about KISS. I love it too much, probably. I’ve written about this band semi-constantly for the past twenty years, sometimes for reasons that weren’t justified and sporadically with motives that weren’t justified and intermittently with logic that wasn’t justified. But KISS goes into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame this week, so today I’m Timothy Olyphant.
2.
The New York–based rock and roll group KISS formed in 1972, when two workaholic Jews (guitarist Stanley Eisen and bassist Chaim Wits) aligned forces with two irresponsible boozehounds (drummer Peter George John Criscuola95 and guitarist Paul Frehley). Their adopted stage names are household, unless you are very young, crazy old, or not interested in loud music: Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons, Peter Criss, and Ace Frehley (the latter adopting “Ace” because “the band didn’t need another Paul”). The group was spawned upon the dissolution of Simmons and Stanley’s previous band Wicked Lester, a folk-rock five-piece Simmons likes to compare to the United Nations (due to their mixture of ethnicities and non-uniform physical appearance). Wicked Lester scored a record deal with Epic, but most of the music was never officially released. Some of the tracks would fit on the soundtrack to Hair.
From the standpoint of how instantly recognizable they are to people who barely care, KISS is among the most famous rock bands in the history of the idiom. This is a function of their initial nine-year decision to appear in public only as theatrical characters allegedly representing their inner natures, once categorized by critic Chuck Eddy as “a cat, a bat lizard, something with one black star on one eye and something with one silver star on each eye.” Soon after inception, the band knocked out three albums in the span of twenty-four months, all on the ill-fated, drug-enriched label Casablanca. None sold particularly well; combined sales were fewer than 300,000 units. KISS responded to this failure by counterintuitively rerecording many of these unsuccessful songs in concert and releasing a double live album, titled Alive! It charted for 110 weeks. KISS fans classify KISS as the best live arena act of all time, almost to the point of utter obviousness; those who hate KISS will usually concede they were (once) a competitive live act, but only if you were in middle school.
Throughout the last half of the ’70s, KISS operated as the biggest band in the world—although not because of record sales (groups like Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles sold way, way more). KISS just sort of declared that their enormity was reality and reality elected to agree. They were popular enough for every member of the band to release a solo album on the same day and to have their actual blood mixed into the ink of Marvel comic books; they were popular enough to star in one of the most structurally irrational movies ever made and to sleep with the likes of Diana Ross. They were popular the way Pepsi is popular. But somewhere around 1979, a lot of odd and foreseeable things started happening in persistent succession: They made a disco album, Peter was fired, they made a concept album, Ace quit, they took off the makeup, they fired the guy hired to replace Ace, the guy who replaced the guy who replaced Ace got a bone disease, they sued a record label, they temporarily rediscovered popularity, the drummer who replaced Peter died from heart cancer, the original quartet reunited for $144 million, they created a 3-D concert experience (despite the fact that life itself is already three-dimensional), Peter quit twice, Ace quit again (replaced by a guy who once painted Paul Stanley’s house), Gene blamed the Internet for ruining music, Paul played the lead in Phantom of the Opera, and every original member wrote an autobiography. And now it’s today, and KISS is still my favorite band, for reasons I incessantly attempt to articulate to varying degrees of imaginary success.
3.
In his essay collection The Disappointment Artist, Jonathan Lethem writes about his insecurity over analyzing the legacy of Philip K. Dick, an author whose best work had already been chronicled and whose worst work is relatively awful. Early in the piece, Lethem sums up his feelings with a lyric from Bob Dylan: “I’m in love with the ugliest girl in the world.” I strongly relate to this sentiment, particularly since that’s literally what Gene Simmons resembled in 1986.
KISS doesn’t make it easy for fans of KISS. There’s never been a rock group so effortless to appreciate in the abstract and so hard to love in the specific. They inoculate themselves from every avenue of revisionism, forever undercutting anything that could be reimagined as charming. They economically punish the people who care about them most: In the course of my lifetime, I’ve purchased commercial recordings of the song “Rock and Roll All Nite” at least fifteen times (eighteen if you count the 13-second excerpt used in the introduction to “Detroit Rock City” on Destroyer).96 Considered alone, this is not unusual; there are lots of bands who capitalize on the myopic allegiance of their craziest disciples. In 2009, Pavement announced a reunion tour and asked their most dogged fans (myself included) to purchase tickets a whopping fifty-three weeks in advance. Every decision was premeditated for maximum fiscal impact. “Instead of one announcement mapping out the entire tour itinerary,” noted The Washington Post, “concerts have been announced one by one, in a fine-tuned sequence seemingly designed to maximize profits in every possible way.” It was savvy business, and almost no one complained. Yet Pavement would never brag about this level of calculation. They would rationalize their actions, or they’d remind the media that they never explicitly said they wouldn’t add extra shows, or they’d chuckle about the swindle only when no one else was around. Pavement would still take the money, but they’d simply (a) say nothing, (b) feel bad about it, or (c) pretend to feel bad about it.
But not KISS.
When KISS cajoles people into paying more money than the market demands, they tell everyone they know. They give instructional interviews about how future bait-and-switch endeavors can be designed and they adopt the new model for all future undertakings. Moreover, they insist the exchange was mutual. They say the experience they offer is singular and nontransferable, and that anyone who isn’t willing to pay for the KISS experience isn’t a KISS fan (and therefore does not matter, or perhaps even deserve to exist). It’s the guiding principle behind everything KISS does: In order to “qualify” as a KISS supporter, you have to be a KISS consumer. And this is non-negotiable—it doesn’t work any other way. If you try to enjoy KISS in the same way you enjoy Foghat or Culture Club or Spoon, you’ll fail. You might like a handful of songs or appreciate the high-volume nostalgia, but it will inevitably seem more ridiculous than interesting. To make this work, you need to go all the way. And this is because the difficult part of liking KISS—the manipulative, unlikable part—is how you end up loving them.
4.
This Thursday, Nirvana will also be inducted into the Rock Hall, in their first year of eligibility (it was the fifteenth try for KISS). No one disputes the validity of this inauguration. Coincidentally, a pre-famous Nirvana covered a KISS song in 1990, performing “Do You Love Me” on a compilation titled Hard to Believe. Nirvana historians care about this because it’s one of the only Nirvana recordings where forgotten ex-guitarist Jason Everman plays in the studio; KISS historians care about this because it gives credence to the theory that KISS directly influenced Nirvana (and should therefore be credited as rightful progenitors of grunge, not unlike Black Sabbath and Neil Young). I’m not sure how sincerely one can take the latter claim, since (a) Nirvana seems to be making fun of the song as they play it, and (b) it’s often impossible to differentiate between what Kurt Cobain liked, what Kurt Cobain mocked, and if his mockery had any relationship to his actual feelings. (KISS is also Pearl Jam’s Mike McCready’s favorite band, which might have been enough to make Cobain hate them at the time.) My gut feeling is that Nirvana covered “Do You Love Me” because they thought it was comically masculine. But there’s one moment in their cover version that I always think about: It’s the moment where the singer is directly addressing the song’s female antagonist, an opportunistic groupie obsessed with the trappings of fame and success. Among the various things she likes is “all the money, honey, that I make.” But Nirvana was singing this song in 1990, when they were broke and unknown. This being the case, they changed the words: Instead, they sing, “All the Mudhoney that I make.” Which, I suppose, was intended as a funny little in-joke for Mark Arm not to laugh at. But twenty-four years later, that joke feels different. When I hear it today, it seems like Nirvana was both fascinated and amused by KISS. It seems like they liked the structure of the song, viewed the lyrical details as ironic, and enjoyed the process of recording it. But the idea of directly talking about how rich they were—even before they actually were rich—was just too unnerving for them to accept and replicate, even sardonically. It was so counter to what they valued (or—more accurately—what they aspired to value) that they felt more comfortable making a joke about the word “honey.”
They couldn’t even force themselves to pretend to talk like the band they were pretending to honor.
5.
Here’s a statement only a fool would contradict: There’s never been a band inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame whose music output has been critically contemplated less than the music of KISS, at least among the people who voted them in. I can’t prove this, but I’d guess 50 percent of the voters who put KISS on their Rock Hall ballot have not listened to any five KISS records more than five times; part of what makes the band so culturally durable is the assumption that you can know everything about their aesthetic without enjoying any of it. That perception doesn’t bother me, and I certainly don’t think it bothers the band. In many ways, it works to their advantage. Still, I definitely disagree with anyone who thinks these albums are somehow immaterial. It’s traditionally hard to get an accurate appraisal on their value, because most people who write about KISS either don’t care at all or care way too much. The fact that I’m publishing this essay arguably puts me in the latter camp (and that argument is not terrible). But it doesn’t feel that way. I know what I know: A few of these records are great, most are okay, several are bad, and some should be buried in sulfur. An objective person could assess the Kinks’ catalog with identical language. I, however, have not listened to all thirty-five Kinks albums enough times to properly do so. But I’ve listened to all these KISS records enough to do this . . .
