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Bosworth
Magazine Archives
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The Rock and
Roll
Hall of Shame
By Matt Lavin
“Dear guys in the band. I am sorry that I yelled at you. I am
not saying that Steppenwolf is a bad band. As a matter of fact, I like
them a lot. I was simply trying to indicate that U2 is also a good
band, with many hit singles and many hit albums. ‘The Joshua
Tree’ is particularly good. Check it out if you get a chance.
I’m also sorry that I called you guys old, and that I said
you were so old you couldn’t remember who U2 was. The comment
about your arthritis medication was also uncalled for. I really enjoyed
hearing you play. Good luck in the future. Love, Matt.”
I can imagine a group of gray haired, middle-aged hipsters reading this
note suspiciously. Surely, they remember the guy who wrote it. Beard
and long hair. Skinny. Drunk. Annoying. But why the note? Why the
apology? And why write it on the back of an ATM receipt from Key Bank?
I’d been visiting the bay area with friends for a few days.
We stayed in Berkeley the first half of the week and became anxious to
see downtown San Francisco. Taking BART to the center of town, we
wandered around for a time and eventually ended up at a small tourist
bar. Red carpets coated every floor, ornate fixtures dangled from
ceiling, and black paint ornamented every restroom wall. It boasted
maybe ten tables at max and was almost completely full.
A couple who worked for Anheuser-Busch had struck camp in the center of
the establishment, and my friends and I sidled up to them eagerly. A
few thong-crazy Australians also joined the table, and a classic
drink-fest ensued. Ad then the band began to play.
I won’t lie; the guys were old. They all looked like Doc
Brown from “Back to the Future” and played songs
like “Hot Blooded” and “Nights in White
Satin.” A keyboard played a prominent role in most of their
songs. The interplay of beer guts, guitars, and in-grown hairs shocked,
soothed, and mesmerized us.
“I don’t know if you all heard, but the Rock and
Rock Hall of Fame voted tonight to induct U2 during their first year of
eligibility,” the lead singer said at the end of their first
set. “We all just think it’s a total travesty that
those bastards got in when Steppenwolf STILL hasn’t been
inducted.”
“What?” The words escaped my mouth before I had a
chance to think, and they escape at an alarming volume.
“What do you mean, what?” The lead singer looked
angry. (And kind of old.)
“Are you f-cking crazy?”
“No, man, we’re not f-cking crazy.”
“Steppenwolf? The band that does ‘Born to Be
Wild?’”
“Man, they do a lot more than just that. They’re a
great band.”
“You realize that U2 has like ten great albums,
right?”
“Man, how old are you? Twelve? You don’t know a
god-dam thing.”
“How old are you? A thousand? Maybe you’d like U2
better if you turned in your hearing aides.”
Etcetera.
The note was an after effect. A regret. A shot at redemption. A photo
opportunity. A gulp of Pepto Bismal after a eating a giant chili pepper
on a dare. It soothed my conscience. And yes … I wrote it on
the back of an ATM slip, because it’s the only peace of paper
I had. So sue me. So arrest me. So ship me off. My heart was in the
right place. I tried to make peace.
Did I succeed? Who knows? I just hope the print on the note was large
enough for them to read it. |
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