Bob Horner “Mr. Ho Mah”
Bob Horner never had career angst. He was born to use his hands and arms to strike objects with tremendous force. I suppose he could have been a great boxer, though that risks personal injury. Had he been born abroad, maybe he would be known today as the greatest cricket player of his generation. I guess he could have been the MVP of a building demolition outfit. Those were all possibilities. But when you’re born in Kansas in the late 1950s, and you look like the love child of Babe Ruth and Kenny Powers, there’s really only one job for you. It was unthinkable that he would do anything else with his life other than hit home runs and make terrible hair decisions.
Golden Earring “Keeper of the Flame”
Rock and Roll is littered with one hit wonders and spectacular flame outs. But Golden Earring were neither of those things. They had two, massive hit singles, both of which have oddly endured as canon. Decades after their prime, they were still superstars at home, in The Benelux, where their faces adorned postage stamps. But, as far as I knew, they had disappeared around 1983, soon after “Twilight Zone,” the four minute MTV mystery that altered my young life. What happened? Where had they gone? It all had a whiff of semi-Nordic true crime. Information was scant, especially in The U.S., where Golden Earring were the coldest of cold case files.
“Far From Over” (Frank Stallone) vs “All I’m Think’ About” (Bruce Springsteen)
In the early 70s, a million to one shot from the swamps of Jersey emerged as the “next Dylan.” Around that same time, less than a hundred miles away, a lesser known songwriter was fiddling with a keyboard, dreaming of the day that his older brother would include his music in the ultimate underdog movie. These two long shots, so near to each other but so completely divergent, demanded comparison. We pitted the nasal falsetto of Bruce Springsteen’s “All I’m Think’ About” from 2005 against Frank Stallone’s epic, 1983 Jazzercise jingle “Far From Over.” Who wins — The Boss phoning it in past his prime or the critically derided brother of Rocky during his graciously brief prime?
Jane’s Addiction “The Great Escape Artist”
By 2011, hell had frozen over enough that we began to expect the return of every legendary band. The Pixies, The Replacements, My Bloody Valentine, Pavement. The list was practically endless. It was simply too costly for those bands not to reunite. So, news of another album from middle aged Jane’s Addiction was kind of ho hum. For many, it was a curiosity, at best. At the core of this presumption was the belief that the great, unsustainable version of Jane’s had died in 1991. That they would return made only commercial sense. That they could recapture any semblance of their original brilliance made practically zero sense.
Air Supply “The Vanishing Race”
In retrospect, Air Supply seems unfathomable. Graham Russell looked like an overgrown Jeff Daniels with feathered hair. Russell Hitchcock was tiny, with a massive perm. Together, they looked like a Saturday Night Live sketch for a Hallmark ad about roller-skating buddies who loved cats. They were the naked, bawling men of Soft Pop who sang songs for exhausted, dejected, lovelorn ears. But, between 1980 to 1983, they scored eight consecutive top five hits, a feat only matched previously by The Beatles. By 1986, they were gone, off to redesign their Quaalude Rock for middle age and to celebrate their second career in the Philippines.
George Brett “The Bellagio Story”
At spring training in 2006, the greatest player in Kansas City Royals history told two minor league journeymen about the time he pooped his pants at the Bellagio, underneath the world’s largest installation of Dale Chihuly blown glass. The story is well known among Youtube diggers, Brett enthusiasts and, perhaps, baseball-inclined gastroenterologists. The mystery of this great story is not what plagues the Hall of Famer’s colon or how it relates to his Pine Tar Homer or whether it is even true, but rather why George Brett was so proudly insistent on the matter of his incontinence.
“Two Princes” (Spin Doctors) vs “Remedy” (The Band)
In 1993, The Spin Doctors gave MTV the winter hat plus hacky sack vibes the network sorely needed. Their unavoidable mega-hit, “Two Princes,” topped the charts and introduced Jam Band culture to the suburbs. Meanwhile, that same year, The Band reformed without frontman Robbie Robertson to make “Jericho.” One of the few originals from that album was “Remedy,” which charted nowhere and is remembered only by the most loyal of devotees. So, here’s the question: What’s better — an unforgettable song by a critically derided band in their prime or an unexceptional one from a beloved artist well past their prime?
Beck “Hyperspace”
Since we finally met Beck, the grown up man, on “Sea Change,” a lot has happened: He got married. He had two children. He got divorced. He released seven albums -- most of them appreciated, and a couple beloved. He stayed in California. He stayed thin and pretty and a little weird. To the casual observer, he barely aged. But, with each successive album, he impressed less. There were no more “Odelays” or “Midnight Vultures.” In fact, to some fans and many critics, Beck became kind of boring. In 2002, I had firmly concluded that Beck could never be uninteresting. By 2019, however, I was less sure.
Eddie Murray “Steady Eddie”
To this day, it still bums me out. It’s been twenty five years, longer than Eddie’s playing career. I’ve had plenty of time to let things go. But not this. I can’t quit it. At least twice a year, I have dreams where he’s still playing. I see him on TV up at the plate, no batting gloves, adjusting his belt, glaring at the pitcher. They called him “Steady Eddie” because he was exactly that. He wasn’t the most prodigious power hitter or the slickest fielder or fastest runner. But for the first half of his career, he was the most complete hitter in the game. But then, in 1997, at the age of forty-one, he was demoted to the minors before finishing out his great career with a whimper. I am certain that he’s moved past the indignity. But, I have not.
KISS “Psycho Circus”
As success stories go, Kiss’ is perhaps the most unconventional. They’ve had thirty Gold albums, more than any band before or since. A 1977 Gallup poll named them the most popular band in America. Gene Simmons is reportedly one of the twenty wealthiest living musicians. To me, however, they were barely a band. They were comic book ghouls. They were a pinball machine. They were the faces that embellished a demonic laundry bin that my mother one day deposited in my bedroom, without explanation. In 1998, having recently reunited, Kiss made it very clear: Their product was still heavy and basic. And their mission was still profit.
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion “Meat + Bone”
Right after Nirvana, but just before Radiohead, the Blues Explosion were the band that all of New York City wanted to happen. They emerged from the grime to make “Art&B” that was initially greasy, then sweaty and, eventually, glistening. But, slowly, and unexpectedly, the buzz quieted down. The albums got safer or weirder. A decade after their debut, they’d been market corrected by The White Stripes. In fact, they practically disappeared. But then, in 2012, they pulled the cover off the old muscle car, put the keys in the ignition and waited to see if the engine still ran.
Steve Balboni “Bye Bye”
Steve Balboni’s body so exquisitely matches his surname that one would expect a rough Italian translation for Balboni to be “husky designated hitter.” Perhaps there is a village—maybe a small timber community in Northern Italy — where prosperous, mustachioed Balbonis have swung felled trees since time immemorial. Plus, to a seven-year-old in 1985, the name sounded a lot like a combination of Baloney and Bambino — which, frankly, just made sense. As a child, it was unspeakably obvious what “Balboni” signified. Today, as a grown man, it is almost frighteningly unclear.
Toto “Mindfields”
Toto was a lab accident. Obviously, not a tragedy, like Chernobyl. More like Bruce Banner getting exposed to Gamma Rays and becoming The Hulk. Back in 1982, they sounded both hulkingly awesome and completely normal. They won Grammys. They sold over ten million records. They were proof that Rock music could be sonically pristine and exceedingly popular; that musicians could look just like regular guys -- or worse -- and still be stars; and that Pop music could be “all encompassing” (“in toto”). However, like many great experiments, over time, the evidence proved less conclusive.
Luther Vandross “Luther Vandross”
Luther was the most polite Soul singer to have ever lived. We always knew that Al Green was grooving with euphemisms. We knew Smokey Robinson was being a little too cute. Even Michael Jackson tried to convince us that he was “Bad.” But Luther did none of those things. He was more interested in holding hands and gazing into our eyes over a candlelit dinner and a glass of Chablis. He built his career around silky vocals, a cherubic smile and good manners. But, in 2001, at the age of fifty, he lost half of his body weight, slapped expensive beats on his tracks and started to flirt like a grown up.
David Kilgour “The Far Now”
What’s it like to be a treasure, buried deep inside an island halfway around the world? What’s it like to be a semi-legend who cannot make a living doing what you are revered for? What’s it like to be a middle-aged artist who means so much to so few, but absolutely nothing to so many. Eventually, David Kilgour, the darling, Kiwi uncle of Indie Rock, gave up worrying about these sorts of things. “The Far Now” is his exhale — the sound of sunrise and sunset.
Waylon Jennings “A Man Called Hoss”
In 1987, off drugs, but stuck with a six pack a day habit, Waylon decided to make an “audio biography.” That lovable, but lightweight album was more like a Disney amusement park ride than the proper autobiography he would finally write ten years later. Taken together, though, they taught me what I needed to know about Waylon Jennings. That he wasn’t just an outlaw. Wasn’t just the guy who played bass for Buddy Holly. Wasn’t just a Highwayman. He was all those things. But, most of all, he was the guy with the perfect Country voice who screwed it all up, so that he could make it all right again.
Allman Brothers Band “Hittin' the Note”
All these years later, I don’t regret the Leftover Salmon jokes or the Disco Biscuits cheap shots. For decades I used the term “Jam Band” pejoratively. It was hypocritical, to say the least. Bands that I loved — Television, Yo La Tengo, The Feelies — loved to jam. But, it was obviously not the same thing. They weren’t “Jam Bands.” And so, I simply would not apologize for my snark. The one thing I did regret, though -- the thing that has gnawed at me since I was a teen -- was the fact that I never gave the Allman Brothers Band a fair shake.
The National “Sleep Well Beast”
In 2017, after a decade being carried in the arms of cheerleaders, The National were understandably disoriented. There was the scary new President. There was their unexpected stardom pushing up against their middle-aged domesticity. There was even a small, but vocal, backlash accusing them of sameness. And, possibly, smugness. “Sleep Well Beast” was the band anxiously experimenting their way through the quagmire. Meanwhile, I listened and wondered: can we ever go back?
The Moody Blues “Strange Times”
Although they are considered pioneers of both Psychedelic and Progressive Rock, The Moody Blues always sort of defied classification. Their music frequently sounded either too slow or too fast. They were once Classical in Modern times. Then, they were the oldest of the New Wave. In 1999, after an eight year hiatus, they returned to the world of Limp Bizkit and The Backstreet Boys. And, as always, they seemed both timeless and time-less.
The Feelies “In Between”
If ever there was a band that was born to disappear, it was The Feelies. They were the cult band that, for over forty years, were not a band much more than they were a band. They were R.E.M. without the feelings and Yo La Tengo without the romance. They wrote songs about nothing. They made four albums between 1980 and 1991 and then faded like Halley’s Comet. But then, twenty years later, they returned. And, even though they had already said everything that there was to be said about nothing at all, they kept on saying it. Same chords. Same mumbled words. And it was still perfect.