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First published in  Lonely Goat Print Magazine Volume III - #5

Into the Cultural Void: Video Hits None
By J. D. Edwards (September, 2000)

The downfall of American artistic creation is directly reflected in the vacuous wasteland of modern television. Thanks to the rise in primetime game shows, courtroom dramas and reality-based television as well as the ongoing popularity of manipulative talk shows, writers rarely have to trifle anymore with such inconveniences as creating plots, developing characters, resolving conflicts and trying to teach something universal about humanity. They can simply eavesdrop on some trendy teenagers slacking on a sofa, manufacturing drama from their personal problems, and the zombies will watch. Now, VH1 has thrown themselves headlong into the arena of exploitative television (didn't know that's what E! TV really stood for, did ya?), and the intellectual pollution seems more noxious than first thought possible.

Ironically, VH1, or Video Hits One, started out as a harmless enough idea- give the baby boomer demographic a cultured alternative to the rotating rap and heavy metal so embraced by their children on the network's sister station, MTV. But VH1 plays virtually no music at all anymore, unless they can attach some controversial bubble blurb across the bottom of the screen to prey upon the artist's personal shortcomings. MTV at least logs three or four hours of videos a day, despite the formulaic stupidity of most of them. Far from the original music television concept, we are left with the broadcast equivalent of Rolling Stone meets The National Enquirer in a rancid Hollywood dive for a month-long hedonistic orgy.

VH1's new programming has reduced the history of rock-n-roll into a tabloid soap opera with readily quantifiable component parts. With shows like The List, Behind the Music, Legends, Top 100 Countdowns, Don't Quote Me, Confidential and the Top Twenty Rock-n-Roll Crimes of all-time comprising most of their primetime programming, VH1 shamelessly caters to the most depraved element of human nature. Now, they specialize in original movies that fictionalize and sensationalize all of the pettiness and internal turmoil that has made rock-n-roll such a lasting American institution in their eyes. And luckily for them, there appears to be no shortage of self-righteous rock stars, especially the aging, washed-up variety, willing to market their brand of tragic suffering for one more shot at the limelight.

Nearest I can figure, this whole bottom-feeding concept likely originated with some industry stuffed shirt addressing a boardroom of business suits, reassuring them that Americans devour sleazy gossip more voraciously than polyurethane fast food. Then a light bulb with a dollar sign must have appeared over his head when he realized that the history of rock-n-roll contains more glamorous debauchery than a year's worth of daytime soap operas. Truth indeed is stranger than fiction. And since American viewers are salivating voyeurs who enjoy watching other humans brought down by the excesses of their personal lives, why not take advantage of the "bottomless chum bucket" of public depravity?

Least offensive but not by much, these ubiquitous Top 100 countdowns categorize every conceivable facet of immeasurable artistic creativity into easily digestible rankings that should offend anyone with a mind of their own. How dare they be so presumptuous as to try to dictate what the public should think are the best one hundred songs of all-time. Imagine the absurdity and futility of anyone ranking the greatest poems, novels, sculptures or paintings of all time. If they really cared about the music, then they would play those hundred songs in their entirety and allow listeners to form their own opinions about best and worst, instead of force-feeding them some industry approved rank and file. And the most insulting part is that these countdowns are compiled by circulating surveys to music and movie critics- the ivory towers authoritarians of personal taste who must snicker and cringe on cue for their paychecks.

Besides, many of these comparisons make apples and oranges look like molecular clones. Be real, John Lennon and Kurt Cobain barely qualified for inclusion into the same species- let alone listed alongside one another as artistic peers. But they both died prematurely amidst a swirl of sordid innuendo so they meet the minimum criteria to be VH1 legends. And then these rock-n-roll countdowns include artists like Aretha Franklin and Ray Charles or George Jones and Tammy Wynette who really weren't rock musicians and are done a glaring disservice by being listed alongside the likes of The Sex Pistols or Peter Frampton. No accurate conversion table exists to translate their musical legacies onto the same calculable chart, end of story. Although, VH1 should soon be marketing the rock-n-roll popularity software program with the equation as follows: a musician's legacy is equal to the number of groupie conquests squared times the worth of their estate divided by one over the square root of top twenty singles cubed plus years of jail time. Just plug in the variables and find out whom you should like.

As if that's not enough, some genius makes a chatty game show out of the whole artifice. Sort of like a grade-school popularity contest, The List unites cultural icons like sitcom actors, supermodels, movie stars, Playboy Playmates and the occasional musician to trivialize rock-n-roll even further with their own rankings. Does anyone care what Joe Schmoe thinks are the best make out songs or the worst rock-n-roll bad boys? Quite frankly, I'm a bit skeptical about musicians' opinions because many that I've met live in such an isolated bubble that they don't have the spare time to stay on the cutting edge of "the scene." Their own artistic obligations usually preclude them from purchasing all the newest releases or attending all the latest concerts like the everyday music fan.

However, the overwhelming compulsion to rank and classify intangible properties is but a petty misdemeanor compared to glossy gossip columns like Legends and Behind the Music that have transformed rock-n-roll into a feeble caricature of its former glory. Who slept with whom? Who's in rehab? Who should be, but isn't? Who embezzled millions? Who did time? Who has naked pictures of whom? Who in the hell cares? But obviously somebody cares and enough bloodsuckers to warrant televising each of the aforementioned affronts to decency five or six times a day. Decadence is deadly, and death and degradation make good money. And the dealers of drivel and distaste are all too happy to gorge a gluttonous public on hazardous waste, so long as a profit is made.

But if Joe Q. Public really cared what some one-hit wonder was doing now, wouldn't that person still be famous? Unfortunately, these raunchy retrospectives have become the private forum of former pop stars to disseminate their personal dirt and appear holier-than-thou for overcoming so many self-inflicted horrors. All I can do is call upon the individual discretion of viewers, take a cue from The Simpson's satirical allegory about the dangers of TV advertising: Just don't watch them, and hopefully they'll lose their power and go away. But somebody's been peeking; don't make us gouge your eyes out.

For now, we may as well make the best out of a bad situation. Struggling musicians of the world take note: forget artistic vision and integrity, don't bother with time-consuming trivialities like clever songwriting or adroit musicianship and stop touring the country in beat-up vans playing to half-interested adolescents. The real money's in the rumormongering. Just pick up a bottle and a needle, sleep with every groupie on two legs, assault a few paparazzi or a significant other and spend a fortune on fast cars and stately palaces, only to forfeit them months later to the IRS. Lay low for a few years for the exploits to exaggerate in scope, and then you too can go down in history as a VH1 rock-n-roll legend.