Steve Miller speaks the truth re RnR HoF
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in Other Music
I love this
By: Joel Rubinoff Torstar News Service, Published on Sat Apr 23 2016
Some people call him the space cowboy, some call him the gangster of love.
But after Steve Miller’s recent induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where the veteran pop rocker tore into the institution as a pop culture pockmark overseen by “gangsters” and “crooks,” it’s safe to assume no one will be calling him to sing the praises of the music industry insiders who made it happen. Miller, author of classic rock staples “Rock’n Me” and “Jet Airliner,” is the kind of prehistoric relic that barely exists anymore: a rock star who tells it like it is. He’s Bernie Sanders with a guitar, Donald Trump with a conscience, a crusty golden era survivor who sees which way the wind is blowin’ and huffs and puffs right back in the opposite direction.
Why was he so ticked off?
The usual reasons: exorbitant ticket prices ($10,000 per guest), induction by music dweebs not of his choosing (the Black Keys), infuriating demands by pompous men in suits. And the worst sin in Miller’s eyes: phonies as far as the eye could see. “All the people that were sitting in the front row tonight, like the guy that came from my record company, I wanted to pull him by his necktie and kick him in the nuts,” said the Holden Caulfield of rock. “He’s made a billion dollars off my work over the last 50 years and the motherf---er just came over and introduced himself tonight. That cheery little thing."
“This whole industry f---ing sucks and this little get-together you guys have here is like a private boys’ club and it’s a bunch of jackasses and jerks and f---ing gangsters and crooks who’ve f---ing stolen everything from a f---ing artist.” In all the years people have been complaining about this bogus institution — basically since it began inducting members in 1986 — I’ve never heard anyone deliver the “angry rock star” tirade with so much passion and pointed articulation. Usually they just rant and rave like the Sex Pistols, who posted a note scrawled in barely legible marker, calling the Hall “a piss stain” . . . “urine in wine” and crowing defiantly, “We’re not coming. We’re not your monkeys and so what?”
Or like the leaders of Blondie, the Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival, they refuse to play at the ceremony with band members they (a) have grown to despise (b) are in the process of suing the pants off. And on it goes: the shrouded-in-mystery inductee selections, allegations of vote-tampering, critical snobbery that excludes rap, reggae, disco, country, pop, progressive rock and women.
Critics love to slag the hall as the personal fiefdom of Rolling Stone editor Jann Wenner, a magazine offshoot that operates on graft and favours, and has little to do with merit. Boston, Bon Jovi and Yes have been overlooked? Motorhead, MC5 and Meat Loaf too? It’s a sham, they cry, a farce, a cosmic beer fart worthy of contempt, not adulation. And yet it chugs along, an express train to glory on the verge of perpetual implosion, honouring artists a quarter century after their heyday to preserve their contributions in amber.
Guys like Miller who rose to prominence in the ’60s and ’70s — rock’s activist heyday — would naturally have an issue with this. When they came up, rock music was current, vital, a living, breathing force for social change, an integral part of the culture. They know those days are over, that rock today is either retro-nostalgia or a steam-venting diversion for pimply kids who get kicked out of class for playing Flappy Bird on their e-cigarettes.
Then again, Miller, 72, has been rocking out for 50 years. He knows the score. He must have known how the induction process worked. None of this would have been a shock. So the million dollar question: why did he show up?
“You’d think it would be a wonderful experience,” he told the media, indicating that, on some level, this elitist, corrupt abomination matters to him. “You’d probably imagine someone from the hall calls you and congratulates you for being nominated and inducted, and tells you you’ve been voted in, and you’re invited to a series of events culminating in the actual induction ceremony. “I imagined there might be a dinner party to introduce all the new inductees to each other and the past inductees, an evening of congratulations and toasts. . . .“You might even think there might be some performances given by kids who have benefited from music lessons provided by the hall. “Then you’d be pretty surprised to find out that none of that happened.”
I feel sorry for Miller. What he’s really after — the real reason he showed up — is respect, acknowledgement from the industry’s power brokers that his music matters. And then, bam, the sudden realization: after all the hits logged, the miles on the road, the personal triumphs, the man who cultivated himself as a joker, smoker and midnight toker is still just a piece of meat. A dollar sign with a guitar.
Come on, it’s gotta hurt.
By: Joel Rubinoff Torstar News Service, Published on Sat Apr 23 2016
Some people call him the space cowboy, some call him the gangster of love.
But after Steve Miller’s recent induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where the veteran pop rocker tore into the institution as a pop culture pockmark overseen by “gangsters” and “crooks,” it’s safe to assume no one will be calling him to sing the praises of the music industry insiders who made it happen. Miller, author of classic rock staples “Rock’n Me” and “Jet Airliner,” is the kind of prehistoric relic that barely exists anymore: a rock star who tells it like it is. He’s Bernie Sanders with a guitar, Donald Trump with a conscience, a crusty golden era survivor who sees which way the wind is blowin’ and huffs and puffs right back in the opposite direction.
Why was he so ticked off?
The usual reasons: exorbitant ticket prices ($10,000 per guest), induction by music dweebs not of his choosing (the Black Keys), infuriating demands by pompous men in suits. And the worst sin in Miller’s eyes: phonies as far as the eye could see. “All the people that were sitting in the front row tonight, like the guy that came from my record company, I wanted to pull him by his necktie and kick him in the nuts,” said the Holden Caulfield of rock. “He’s made a billion dollars off my work over the last 50 years and the motherf---er just came over and introduced himself tonight. That cheery little thing."
“This whole industry f---ing sucks and this little get-together you guys have here is like a private boys’ club and it’s a bunch of jackasses and jerks and f---ing gangsters and crooks who’ve f---ing stolen everything from a f---ing artist.” In all the years people have been complaining about this bogus institution — basically since it began inducting members in 1986 — I’ve never heard anyone deliver the “angry rock star” tirade with so much passion and pointed articulation. Usually they just rant and rave like the Sex Pistols, who posted a note scrawled in barely legible marker, calling the Hall “a piss stain” . . . “urine in wine” and crowing defiantly, “We’re not coming. We’re not your monkeys and so what?”
Or like the leaders of Blondie, the Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival, they refuse to play at the ceremony with band members they (a) have grown to despise (b) are in the process of suing the pants off. And on it goes: the shrouded-in-mystery inductee selections, allegations of vote-tampering, critical snobbery that excludes rap, reggae, disco, country, pop, progressive rock and women.
Critics love to slag the hall as the personal fiefdom of Rolling Stone editor Jann Wenner, a magazine offshoot that operates on graft and favours, and has little to do with merit. Boston, Bon Jovi and Yes have been overlooked? Motorhead, MC5 and Meat Loaf too? It’s a sham, they cry, a farce, a cosmic beer fart worthy of contempt, not adulation. And yet it chugs along, an express train to glory on the verge of perpetual implosion, honouring artists a quarter century after their heyday to preserve their contributions in amber.
Guys like Miller who rose to prominence in the ’60s and ’70s — rock’s activist heyday — would naturally have an issue with this. When they came up, rock music was current, vital, a living, breathing force for social change, an integral part of the culture. They know those days are over, that rock today is either retro-nostalgia or a steam-venting diversion for pimply kids who get kicked out of class for playing Flappy Bird on their e-cigarettes.
Then again, Miller, 72, has been rocking out for 50 years. He knows the score. He must have known how the induction process worked. None of this would have been a shock. So the million dollar question: why did he show up?
“You’d think it would be a wonderful experience,” he told the media, indicating that, on some level, this elitist, corrupt abomination matters to him. “You’d probably imagine someone from the hall calls you and congratulates you for being nominated and inducted, and tells you you’ve been voted in, and you’re invited to a series of events culminating in the actual induction ceremony. “I imagined there might be a dinner party to introduce all the new inductees to each other and the past inductees, an evening of congratulations and toasts. . . .“You might even think there might be some performances given by kids who have benefited from music lessons provided by the hall. “Then you’d be pretty surprised to find out that none of that happened.”
I feel sorry for Miller. What he’s really after — the real reason he showed up — is respect, acknowledgement from the industry’s power brokers that his music matters. And then, bam, the sudden realization: after all the hits logged, the miles on the road, the personal triumphs, the man who cultivated himself as a joker, smoker and midnight toker is still just a piece of meat. A dollar sign with a guitar.
Come on, it’s gotta hurt.
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Comments
I spun my copy of "Brave New World" today and like so much of his stuff, it sounded as fresh as ever.