salomeU2000
The Fly
[SIMG]http://bonovox.interference.com/experience/rhhofthumb.jpg[/SIMG]
by Devlin Smith
Jim Morrison was a Cub Scout, that?s probably the most startling thing I learned at the Rock ?n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Jim was my hero, role model, soul mate when I first entered high school. He was strange and brilliant, the awkward duckling who grew into a beautiful black swan, I loved so much about him.
Over the years, though, Jim became more of a memory than a presence, very nearly a phase I went through then outgrew, but somehow he?s always been with me. So as I rounded the exhibits on the hall?s lowest level this tiny, slightly worn Cub Scout uniform hanging on the wall caught my attention. Whose could it be? In the case below was a birth certificate, son of Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Morrison, James Douglas Morrison.
?Oh my God, Jim Morrison was a Cub Scout!!? I called out to my friend. That little uniform coupled with drawings, childhood photos, report cards (young Jim had trouble with self control) all the way through Jim?s will and Parisian death certificate - a life so neatly summed up, from precocious child to awkward teenager to rock shaman to cautionary tale, all told in one case no more than eight feet long. I nearly cried, truly, my nose itched, I got a lump in my throat.
How did it happen? How did a toe-headed Cub Scout called Jimmy wind up a nearly-washed up 27-year-old rock star who for all intents and purposes took his own life? Then, too, how wasn?t it any of the rest of us?
There?s so much joy and artistry and magic housed in the Rock Hall, but all of it is tainted with melancholy. Watching the video on the inductees cemented that darkness, with so many names belonging to people no longer with us. Elvis. Janis Joplin. Jimi Hendrix. Dennis Wilson. Cass Elliot. Keith Moon. Jim. All these brilliant, energetic people who gave so much, who did so much, who honestly should still be here making records, raising teenagers, welcoming grandchildren, all gone.
It?s such a heavy thing to hold inside a building as bright and airy as the Hall of Fame, but it?s just there. Kurt Cobain. Shannon Hoon. Lisa Lopes. It?s not just the inductees, it?s simply everywhere, the question of why, the feeling of so much unsaid, undone. It makes heads tilt, eyes cast down, hands clutch. Rock ?n roll, for all its chest thumping and loudness, its energy and exuberance is deep down a sad business.
Except on the top three levels housing In the Name of Love, a U2 retrospective. Shown here are photos, letters, promotional items, clothing, lyrics, magazines, CDs, tapes, albums and videos, all related to U2. There are so many reasons why this collection had to come together, U2?s size, its influence, talent, reach, appeal, the knowledge that in 2005 Bono will most likely take the stage at the Hall of Fame?s induction ceremony not as presenter but as co-inductee.
But beyond all that I know U2 needs to be there as the exception to the rule, the light in the dark. Towering above the bittersweet sight of Janis? car, Jimi childhood photos, Elvis? suit is a huge photograph of four middle-aged rock musicians who have succeeded, thrived, survived it all. Somehow U2 has managed to build up from all these predecessors and master genius without alienation, to climb without crashing down, to grow without imploding. The band has stayed in tact, in Dublin, on speaking terms, on the charts for nearly 25 years with little or none of the controversy, tragedy or general malaise most of the artists on every other floor of the Rock Hall have suffered. It?s miraculous, it?s hopeful; it should be studied because it may never happen again.
On the ride back from the Hall of Fame I scanned back over the experience, from Jim?s Cub Scout uniform to Edge?s spangled jeans, and I was grateful for those few floors dedicated to U2 and my appreciation of them, grateful that in my 20s I?ve found heroes more grounded than I had in my teens, heroes who give me hope, charge my faith, challenge my intellect, heroes who have grown up and gotten older, heroes who reassure me that I can do the same with minimal damage. A band that makes being an adult look cool, that separates fame from destruction, indulgence from meltdown, how un-rock ?n roll of them, they must be punk.
by Devlin Smith
Jim Morrison was a Cub Scout, that?s probably the most startling thing I learned at the Rock ?n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Jim was my hero, role model, soul mate when I first entered high school. He was strange and brilliant, the awkward duckling who grew into a beautiful black swan, I loved so much about him.
Over the years, though, Jim became more of a memory than a presence, very nearly a phase I went through then outgrew, but somehow he?s always been with me. So as I rounded the exhibits on the hall?s lowest level this tiny, slightly worn Cub Scout uniform hanging on the wall caught my attention. Whose could it be? In the case below was a birth certificate, son of Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Morrison, James Douglas Morrison.
?Oh my God, Jim Morrison was a Cub Scout!!? I called out to my friend. That little uniform coupled with drawings, childhood photos, report cards (young Jim had trouble with self control) all the way through Jim?s will and Parisian death certificate - a life so neatly summed up, from precocious child to awkward teenager to rock shaman to cautionary tale, all told in one case no more than eight feet long. I nearly cried, truly, my nose itched, I got a lump in my throat.
How did it happen? How did a toe-headed Cub Scout called Jimmy wind up a nearly-washed up 27-year-old rock star who for all intents and purposes took his own life? Then, too, how wasn?t it any of the rest of us?
There?s so much joy and artistry and magic housed in the Rock Hall, but all of it is tainted with melancholy. Watching the video on the inductees cemented that darkness, with so many names belonging to people no longer with us. Elvis. Janis Joplin. Jimi Hendrix. Dennis Wilson. Cass Elliot. Keith Moon. Jim. All these brilliant, energetic people who gave so much, who did so much, who honestly should still be here making records, raising teenagers, welcoming grandchildren, all gone.
It?s such a heavy thing to hold inside a building as bright and airy as the Hall of Fame, but it?s just there. Kurt Cobain. Shannon Hoon. Lisa Lopes. It?s not just the inductees, it?s simply everywhere, the question of why, the feeling of so much unsaid, undone. It makes heads tilt, eyes cast down, hands clutch. Rock ?n roll, for all its chest thumping and loudness, its energy and exuberance is deep down a sad business.
Except on the top three levels housing In the Name of Love, a U2 retrospective. Shown here are photos, letters, promotional items, clothing, lyrics, magazines, CDs, tapes, albums and videos, all related to U2. There are so many reasons why this collection had to come together, U2?s size, its influence, talent, reach, appeal, the knowledge that in 2005 Bono will most likely take the stage at the Hall of Fame?s induction ceremony not as presenter but as co-inductee.
But beyond all that I know U2 needs to be there as the exception to the rule, the light in the dark. Towering above the bittersweet sight of Janis? car, Jimi childhood photos, Elvis? suit is a huge photograph of four middle-aged rock musicians who have succeeded, thrived, survived it all. Somehow U2 has managed to build up from all these predecessors and master genius without alienation, to climb without crashing down, to grow without imploding. The band has stayed in tact, in Dublin, on speaking terms, on the charts for nearly 25 years with little or none of the controversy, tragedy or general malaise most of the artists on every other floor of the Rock Hall have suffered. It?s miraculous, it?s hopeful; it should be studied because it may never happen again.
On the ride back from the Hall of Fame I scanned back over the experience, from Jim?s Cub Scout uniform to Edge?s spangled jeans, and I was grateful for those few floors dedicated to U2 and my appreciation of them, grateful that in my 20s I?ve found heroes more grounded than I had in my teens, heroes who give me hope, charge my faith, challenge my intellect, heroes who have grown up and gotten older, heroes who reassure me that I can do the same with minimal damage. A band that makes being an adult look cool, that separates fame from destruction, indulgence from meltdown, how un-rock ?n roll of them, they must be punk.
