I think I would call my supergroup Savage Animal, since Sebastian Bach never did get to use the name (it rolls off your tongue, man). VH1 shoved Bach, Ted Nugent, Scott Ian, Evan Seinfeld and Jason Bonham into a house, made them write music together, and called it SuperGroup. This was genius (though VH1 does really love to shove celebrities into a house together…it was just a matter of time), but not exactly super. They may have been a pretty super metal collaboration, but to live up to the name SuperGroup, it should have been way more super. I’m talking mind-blowingly super super.
Rollingstone.com recently featured a news story on a supergroup poll held by a new venue in the UK. According to the poll, Freddie Mercury, Elton John, Jimi Hendrix, and Phil Collins would be the ultimate supergroup of supergroups (in second, was Clapton, Bono, Ringo, and Stevie Wonder). This got me thinking; what really makes a supergroup? These results seem sort of…expected. I found that assembling my own supergroup was a very complicated process. For example, do you go with who is widely perceived as the most talented at his or her respective instrument (let’s say…Eddie Van Halen on guitar), or do you actually pick your favorite guitarist, regardless of his or her stature in the music world (Johnny Buckland, hands down). Then I wondered, if the musician isn’t really a superstar in his own right (Johnny Buckland of Coldplay, if you’re still trying to figure that out), how can he really be a member of a full-fledged supergroup?
I thought of recent supergroups – Velvet Revolver, Audioslave, Supernova – and it occurred to me; I hate all of these bands. Not so much because I have a bias against massive hard rock supergroups (the world can never have enough, if you ask me), but because I didn’t see how they created anything truly worth the title of “super.” The results seemed pretty run of the mill for my taste. The bigger deal was the fact that it was Tom Morello and Chris Cornell in the same band more so than the fact that the music was far inferior to that of either Rage Against the Machine or Soundgarden. Velvet Revolver is normally regarded as the most super supergroup yet assembled, but there was no Paradise City to be found. There was certainly no welcome to the jungle (more of a half-assed hello wave). Should the collective efforts of the supergroup surpass that of what they were capable of in their own bands? I would like to think that Clapton, Bono, Ringo, and Stevie Wonder would fart out the greatest song of all time in their fucking sleep. Isn’t that what a supergroup should do? Or is it simply a matter of putting the biggest names together and just enjoying the show?
With that said, is a band like The Good, The Bad and The Queen a true supergroup, regardless of the fact that the “superest” member isn’t truly a superstar on his own (Clash bassist Paul Simonon)? Is it more important that the album was incredible? What about The Raconteurs? The second this band announced their existence, the word “supergroup” flew around more freely than bottles and woman in the SuperGroup house (followed by a backlash of people wondering who has actually ever heard of anyone in the band besides Jack White). Sure, White is a superstar. No one will argue that, but does the equally talented yet mildly popular Brendan Benson (edit: more talented) defunct the band’s supergroup status? Being that Benson is the second most popular member (and that the other two were in the virtually unknown indie-rock outfit The Greenhorns), you really have to question the validity of such a claim that The Raconteurs are, in fact, a supergroup. A great band? Yes. A supergroup? Not so much.
On March 4, 1966, John Lennon proclaimed that The Beatles were more popular than Jesus. As a result, the world spiraled out of orbit, crashed into the sun, and burst into flames; Then everyone threw all of their Beatle records on top of it. The reason that this was such an outrage was not because it was a blasphemous comment (though it was probably one of the most profound observations a pop star has ever made in an interview, if you got his meaning), but simply because he was merely a Beatle. His comment would have been completely true, and completely acceptable, if he had been a member of Arctic Monkeys.
Arctic Monkeys are way…way bigger than Jesus. I ask you, what other band’s debut album could be placed at #5 on The NME 100 Greatest British Albums Ever list before it was even recorded (and before lead singer Alex Turner was even born)? OK, that was an over-exaggeration. He was in diapers. Anyway, the answer is “No other band.” Not even The Beatles (#9); Not even Bowie (#14); Not even The Clash (#8); Not even Led Zeppelin (in fact, 86 Pulp albums are on the list before anyone even thinks about getting the Led out). If Jesus himself came down from Heaven, learned guitar, and formed Jesus and The 11 Disciples (No Judas), they would be lucky to open for Arctic Monkeys on the Australian leg of their world tour.
At first, I thought I may be able to blame NME for single-handedly causing the Arctic Monkeys hysteria. I recently perused the Arctic Monkeys archive on the website, and came across an interview with the band discussing how they may have promised too many people guestlist privileges for their show at Lancashire County Cricket Ground in Old Trafford, Manchester. “Arctic Monkeys Expect Too Many Guests at Old Trafford Shows.” This was news. We see this sort of thing in America all of the time; “Paris Hilton Paints Nails Electric Purple,” “Britney Spears Drives Over Pacifier,” “Lindsay Lohan’s Father Has Irregular Bowel Movements,” etc. That, coupled with the fact that the review for Favourite Worst Nightmare was roughly 3,000 words, and more in depth than the TIME Magazine cover story on Stem Cell research, proves that my accusation may be correct.
Further research would show that it is not only NME who bestows ludicrous amounts of praise onto the Sheffield indie band (awarding them Best Track, Best New Band, and Best British Group at the NME Awards in 2006…a month after the album was released). Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not sold 363,735 copies in it’s first week, and subsequently became the fastest selling album in UK chart history (thanks to a buzz that was allegedly created by their fans on the Internet). The album went on to win the 2006 Mercury Prize, and album of the year honors from Q Magazine, TIME Magazine, and of course…NME. They won Best British band and Best British Album at the 2007 BRIT Awards, as well as Greatest Humans in the UK at the UK Human Awards.
Favourite Worst Nightmare is well on it’s way to becoming just as successful as it’s predecessor, debuting at #1 on the UK charts (naturally), and peaking at #1 in 6 other countries. An interesting side note: Every single song on the album was simultaneously in the Top 200 of the UK Singles Chart. That’s 12. 12 Singles. Did I say 12 already? The album was also shortlisted for the 2007 Mercury Prize, which will surely result in the first consecutive win in the award’s short history. It sold a lot of albums. Not as many as Whatever, but a lot. It was compared in the NME review to Blur’s sophomore release Modern Life is Rubbish (#6…damn), and is already being hailed as the 2007 Album of the Year…by everyone.
Very few people could release a book of five year old magazine articles about musicians and athletes and still have it be a relevant contribution to the world of pop culture. Not only has Chuck Klosterman accomplished this, but it may be the most relevant contribution in a while. In Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas, he over examines and over analyzes the words and actions of celebrity figures in a way that most of us only do in the privacy of our own brain. He does it in such a way that it makes you realize how important it really is that Jack White hates rap music, that we figure out who the 10th Beatle really was, and that we understand what it means for Journey to be playing a rock ‘n’ roll Carnival Cruise.
While reading, it occurred to me that Chuck Klosterman is to pop culture what Michael Moore is to politics. Much like the War on Terror and the health care system, the cultural and social significance of Billy Joel’s love life and Britney Spears’ wardrobe is undeniable. Britney dodges Klosterman’s questions about her impact on young women in America and her provocative dress in a way that would make many a politician very proud. A 200+ word foot-note disputing Britney’s comment on the evolution of Friends makes it all too clear that though it may seem irrelevant, it isn’t. Chuck Klosterman knows this. He loves it.
In an interview with Bono, Klosterman tries to decipher whether the U2 frontman’s generosity and his overall Messianic persona is in fact real…or bullshit. He repeats this thesis many times through-out the article, and in the end, seems to come to the conclusion that Bono is just as important to the world as he thinks he is…and that he has every right to be. Truth be told, someone like Bono is just as important to society, if not more so, than the President of the United States…or the Pope. Bono is well aware of this fact. Klosterman – as he describes a ride in Bono’s car with three mind-blown U2 fans, all getting a preview of Atomic Bomb months before release – is as intrigued as the rest of us. As he describes the looks on the fans’ faces as they listen, you can tell that he knows exactly how they feel. He doesn’t write about it because he knows people will be interested. He writes about it because he himself is interested. This is what makes it relevant.
Klosterman is desperately looking for deeper meaning in all aspects of pop culture the way most people search for God. Though, he would probably prefer to write about heavy metal bands all day, the fact that his assignments are so diverse keep him asking questions that mo
st (some) of us want to know and that even less have the means to get the answers to. In his unedited article for The New York Times about The Streets’ Mike Skinner, Klosterman tries his best to uncover a greater purpose to Skinner’s relentless use of the word “geezer,” that it actually works. Skinner starts out seemingly uninterested in the interview, and by the end is making nonsensical metaphors about removing a beer tap on demand and questioning his existence as a whole. At the end of the article, Klosterman’s lyrical reference/quip of “Geezer’s don’t need a reason. Geezer’s need excitement,” reminds you that maybe he’s right. Maybe even the simplest of things aren’t that simple at all.
Klosterman attempts to explain Advancement Theory, a pop culture theory invented by a couple of anti-hipster psychology students, which is described as a cultural condition in which a true genius creates a piece of art that 99 percent of the population perceives to be bad, simply because they are not Advanced. This does not include artists who do the opposite of what is expected of them. This is defined as being “Overt.” Klosterman attempts to break down this theory, and sites examples such as Sting (he admits he does not understand Sting at all), KISS (for their soundtrack to a non-existent film – he is unashamed to mention them as often as possible), and Lou Reed (his most advanced work being the song “The Original Wrapper”).
