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For Unlawful Cuomo Knowledge: Van Halen vs. Weezer
I think the biggest mistake my generation ever made, aside from casting aside funnyman Norm MacDonald once he was fired from Saturday Night Live, was believing from day one that Weezer was just kidding around about all those ’70s hard rock references. Oh, those jokers, we thought the first time we heard “In the Garage.” No 
way do they have KISS posters on their walls. It’s probably all Frank Black collages. We were similarly tickled when the Weezer logo was unveiled: a giant W that aped the famously flashy symbol of party metal gods Van Halen. Finally, Generation X had taken a direct shot at those Dutch assholes, and it felt so good. The Cobain spirit would live on thanks to these four plucky, underfed nerds who looked more like library volunteers than musicians. We praised the alterna-gods and looked forward to numerous years of classic rock mockery.
A decade later, you’d be hard-pressed to find a Weezer fan from way back when who isn’t infuriated by the trajectory their career has taken. The quirky little bubblegum grunge band behind such heart-on-the-sleeve anthems as “Say It Ain’t So” and “Tired of Sex” has become an arena-filling Top 40 machine, authoring vapid hits like “Beverly Hills” (the video of which was filmed at the friggin’ Playboy Mansion!) Shame on them for selling out? No, shame on us for not realizing the sickening truth much sooner. Weezer’s prime directive never had anything to do with earnest songwriting or anti-rock stardom. This slick, LA-born band wasn’t mocking Van Halen when they added those wings to their massive W; they did it because they wanted to be Van Halen. If you ask me, they came pretty damn close.
Ultimately, the confusion stems from those wacky, irony-drenched ’90s, in which every reference to any pre-1980 person, place, or thing could be construed as an eye-rolling poke to the ribs. The line was forever blurred when K.C. himself appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone wearing that famous “Corporate Magazines Still Suck” t-shirt. The Janeane Garofalo mindset had officially taken over. Everything—from breakfast cereal to bowling to Bob Barker—was at least partially lame. That was 1994. We elected a President two years earlier in part because he played a crappy saxophone solo on a syndicated talk show hosted by the guy from Coming to America who wasn’t Eddie Murphy. I think that just about nails it. Thus, we couldn’t help but smirk when we saw pictures of Judas Priest in the Weezer CD booklet. Sure, guys. Livin’ after midnight. Guffaw.
Talkin’ Atomic Punk Blues
The long and sordid history of Van Halen is one of those sweeping American epics where interwoven plots and ever-changing allegiances carom like billiard balls on felt. Writers of such tales will often speak of a “jewel center,” a central idea or image to which the story should always return and revolve around. In this turbulent, decades-spanning saga, that jewel is a Diamond.
David Lee Roth, or “Diamond Dave” as he affectionately refers to himself, is one of the most polarizing figures in all of popular music. Apologists will point to his string of classic recordings with Van Halen between the years of 1978 and 1984, as well as his energetic and often ridiculous contributions to the burgeoning medium of music video, as excuses for later, more inconsistent behavior. Others may consider that his public indiscretions and sometimes laughable creative decisions have tarnished the reputation founded during his early career. Whatever your opinion, it is an inarguable fact that Dave is a consummate entertainer, eager to please and aching to be adored.
In fairness, it isn’t really appropriate to apply the same standards to DLR as one might use to evaluate other iconic personalities. By his own admission, he’s a song-and-dance man, a point made abundantly clear in spirit, if not in content, during this interview from the latter days of his tenure with the mighty VH. Enthusiastic to the bitter almost-end, the Beat-like torrent of spontaneous talk-prose punctuated by a wheezing cackle indicates that if you’re not a fan of Dave’s music, he most likely has a bridge he could sell you.
Hot Sauce Possibly Tore a Great Union Asunder
by: James Greene Jr.
The aforementioned mysteries, however frustrating, pale in comparison to the ultimate riddle plaguing our great land at the moment. It concerns a group of artists from the West who rose to prominence in the early days of a period I like to call “Bonzo’s Time.” Their product was complex in architecture yet simple in delivery; occasionally, it was clad in spandex and soaked in beer. It pleased many, though, like a sweet-smelling rose or warm open-mouthed kiss from a teenage runaway in the bathroom of a Wichita bus station. A few years ago, this group cast out one of their own for reasons unexplained, leaving him to roam California’s purgatory with nothing more than his stylish mullet, ever-present five o’ clock shadow, and novelty bass guitar shaped like a bottle of Jack Daniels.
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by: James Greene Jr.
published: November 1, 2009
in column: Over a Beer
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