RIP James Gandolfini (1961-2013)

Even in my shock and despair, it's impossible for me not to comment on the death of James Gandolfini.

But what can I say?  He was a brilliant actor, but that's nothing new.  Still, it bears repeating.  And yet, let me something more--something bolder: He was one of the best actors ever seen.  Easily as good as Brando, Nicholson, Dean, Pacino, Streep, De Niro, Tracy, Hepburn, Stewart, Garbo, Bogart, and Cagney.

There are countless scenes in The Sopranos, and in his movies (True Romance, In The Loop, Welcome to the Rileys, The Mexican, and Zero Dark Thirty, among them) that bear this out.  In fact, every single scene he was in, in whatever he was in, still live as proof of this stance.  But, in particular, his casting as Tony Soprano was a miracle--a miracle that was borne out alongside his many also perfectly cast Sopranos cohorts.  The role could have gone to another terrific actor, Anthony Lapaglia, but show creator David Chase saw something in Gandolfini that made him abandon that choice.  He saw something deep in Gandofini's hurt eyes, and in his working class background.  What he saw was something that could hardly be pointed at, because it had been witnessed so few times in film and television history.  There was a truthfulness, a powerful strength, and a warm-hearted quality--the kind of quality that found something to love in every animal out there (Tony Soprano was a big animal lover, as was Gandolfini, clearly).  And yet, from the beginning, the character of Tony Soprano--which I would place right next to All in the Family's Archie Bunker (Carroll O'Connor) as the most complex character in the history of television--displayed a profound sadness as to his choices--or maybe his lack of them.  “It’s good to be in something from the ground floor," he said, in the first scene of the first episode.  "I came too late for that and I know. But lately, I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.”

Tony Soprano goes to Dr. Jennifer Melfi, in that first episode, because he knows that something is wrong with his life.  But he's now all in--he cannot get out of the business--and he therefore cannot reveal to his therapist all that he feels.  And so his therapy is muted before it starts, because truthfulness has been prohibited.   This is what the whole show, all 86 episodes, is about.  Moreover, the show is about how the habit of lying has infected almost every character we visit in it.  David Chase's comments about the series, and about Gandolfini's singular quality, prove this:



It was Gandolfini's eyes, and brains, and brawn, that illustrated this complexity for us.   His Anthony John Soprano was a fearless performance (for the records, he won three Emmy awards, and a Golden Globe for his efforts).  Gandolfini could say so much, without words, with a simple shift of his eyes, from here to there.  His every movement was telling.  In fact, I have to be more blunt here: In the end, I think, Gandofini literally gave his life for the role.  In an stultifying number of ways, this gentle and extremely shy actor crossed an unbelievable number of personal boundaries in order to portray a vibrant, violent man--a man who, in his blue-collar background, was so close to who he really was, but was yet ions away from the man portraying him.  It was the fabled role of a lifetime.  But acting is not the easiest job in the world, particularly when it's done well. In the best performances, it's hard to believe that the performer and the character are not the same person (as with Carroll O' Connor and Jean Stapleton, of All in the Family, it was a stunner to hear Gandolfini speak in his own voice). God. The stress that playing Tony Soprano must have caused Gandolfini is immeasurable, as we can learn here from Sopranos director Tim Van Patten:



It's impossible for me to put into words how stupendous Gandolfini's portrayal of Tony Soprano is.  It's the stuff of a entire book.  So, as this is a simple blog entry, I am forced to cut corners and simply offer a few clips to illustrate it.  Actually, as with all reviews, the clips do more than my words could ever do.  And the only way I could narrow this ridiculous wealth of material down is by including scenes with the main characters of this immensely huge drama:

Tony tries to discuss a move to a "retirement community" with his increasingly enfeebled (or maybe not so enfeebled) mother, Livia (Nancy Marchand) (this is the first utterance of the show's original title, "Poor You," which would pop up again and again in the series' dialogue): 


Tony and Pussy (Vincent Pastore) go out to get Matthew Belvilaqua (Lillo Brancato Jr.) after he and a cohort tried to assassinate Tony's cousin Christopher : 


Tony revisits his people, at Satriale's Pork Store, and tries to prove that, even though he's recently been shot, he's still the boss (though the whole thing is a charade made only to assert this single point; he feels so bad about it, it sends him into the toilet to throw up):  


Tony has decided that he has feelings for his therapist, Dr. Jennifer Melfi (Lorraine Bracco), and she tries to put him straight: 


Tony, mired in a bad streak of gambling luck, is angry that his wife Carmela (Edie Falco) would not let him bet some of her money (which he helped her earn) on a sports game:


Faced in the morning with his whiny son A.J. (Robert Iler), Tony tries to school him:


In perhaps the series' single best episode, titled "College," Tony culminates his trip with daughter Meadow (Jamie-Lynn Sigler), with a discussion about his true nature:


With his difficult cousin Christopher (Michael Imperioli), Tony happens upon an opportunity to steal many cases of wine, and then, afterwards, has a moment with Christopher--who's a perpetually recovering alcoholic:


Tony talks to the NYC family boss, Johnny Sacrimoni (Vincent Curatola) about a joke someone made (a joke that Tony once found funny) about Johnny's treasured, overweight wife: 


Tony contemplates killing his friend and mentor Paulie (Tony Sirico), as a result of a breach of trust Tony suspects (rightfully) that they once had in the past:


With his Uncle Junior (Dominic Chianese) suffering from dementia, Tony finds that his uncle holds a grudge that hits to the bone:


Adriana (Drea De Matteo) is at her club, the Crazy Horse, and Tony is spending way too much time there.  In the process, they almost cross the line...even though she's engaged to be his cousin Christopher's wife:


Tony faces down Ralph Cifaretto (Joe Pantoliano), with whom he's had a longstanding beef over his murder of a Bada Bing stripper (one who reached out to Tony for innocent friendship, and he turned her down), and which now comes to a head over the death of the horse, Pie-O-My, that they co-owned, but whom Tony suspects was murdered by Ralphy for the insurance money (I always thought, by the way, that this was what Tony REALLY wanted to do to Ralphy after he killed the girl; his line, during the fight: "She was a beautiful, innocent little creature.  What did she ever do to you?"):


This may be Tony's most venal moment.  Seeing that his sister Janice (Aida Turturro) has made progress with her anger management, he pushes her back to the edge of insanity, and walks away happy: 


Artie (John Ventimiglia), Tony's lifelong friend and the owner of Vesuvio's, has to confess to Tony that he's in love with Adriana, Chirstopher's girlfriend.  And Tony tries to talk him out of it:


Visiting his uncle's home, Tony finds his uncle's caretaker, Svetlana (Alla Kilouka Schaffer) (who once took care of his mother), alone, and a bond is initiated:


Carmela says she wants a divorce:


After the death of his cousin, Tony visits Las Vegas and takes peyote, alongside Christopher's old friend: 


And, of course, the series' final scene, at New Jersey's famed Holsten's--a scene like no other ever made:


This is merely a simple sampling of it all.  You can easily see how all of this must have taken a great deal out of this gentle actor.

I met James Gandolfini very quickly in 2002.  I was staying near Little Italy during a visit to NYC in 2002.  I got out of my hotel room in the early afternoon, and rounded the corner to Mulberry Street, and saw a film company shooting.  Having been a fan of the show, my mind quickly said: "Could this be what I think it is?"  And it was.   The Sopranos team was shooting an episode on that street, and I could hardly believe my eyes. My first clue was the presence of Vincent Curatola (who played NYC boss Johnny Sack).  The second was the (as yet unrevealed, on the show) presence of Frank Vincent.  I had always wondered if he would eventually be on the show, and there he was, as the venal Phil Leotardo.  And then out of a red-painted doorway came Gandolfini, and I was floored.  This was a true fan moment for me--and most people who know me will tell you, I am a slobbering fan of few things.  But I could not tear myself away from this moment.

I was lucky, too, because shooting had concluded, and for Gandolfini, this meant a simple walk home to his Manhattan space.  He was very magnanimous to his fans, stopping for autographs and pictures.  I ran up and boldly told him: "James, congratulations on your new negotiations."  He had recently upped his HBO price to a million dollars an episode.  "Can I tell you, you're giving the best performance ever seen on TV.   You're worth every single penny."   He shook my hand and said "Thank you."  It was a big meathook of a hand, and I really got the sense of how imposing the character Tony Soprano was.  I watched him as he stopped to pet a dog owned by a Little Italy denizen (and, knowing how much Tony loved animals, this struck me).  And there I got an extreme  sense of who Gandolfini--and by extension, Tony Soprano--really was.  I've met many famous people in my life...but this was easily the most memorable instance.  And, somehow, the most profound.

I ran into James Gandolfini one more time, when I was living in NYC in about 2009 or so.  I was coming home to my Village apartment, in a terrific rainstorm, after seeing Anne Hathaway play the lead in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night in Central Park.  I was on Sixth Avenue, and I saw him as he was crossing the street.  He was coming to the aid of some older ladies, bogged down with packages, as they were trying to hail down a cab.  He immediately stepped up and did something that was very difficult in the Manhattan rain: he hailed down a cab.  Of course, no one was going to fail to stop for him.  The ladies got in, and he paused for some photographs.  I stayed where I was, getting soaked in the rain, and watched him as he saw them off and then crossed back 6th Avenue.  I considered rushing up to him, yet another fan who wanted even a single moment of his time.  But I could not bring myself to do it.  As much as I loved him, I knew he wanted his time alone.  And so I watched him as he went on his way.  This moment remains to me bittersweet.  When I think of it, I want to cry.  I'm crying now.  He was obviously an artist who, in that one role as Tony Soprano, and in his many movie roles, actually gave it his all. He gave every single bit he had.

Here he as, as he really was--after a performance in his Tony-nominated role in God of Carnage, hitting the streets, greeting fans, petting dogs, and together with his son.  This puts you right there.  This is the man--bold, giving, cuddly, and straightforward: 



I add this: the MOVIE GEEKS UNITED tribute to him, with hosts Jamey Duvall and Jerry Dennis, and myself.  On the show, I'm hardly able to speak, I'm so sad about his passing:



Finally, Jamey Duvall's interview with Allen Coulter, director of 30 episodes of The Sopranos, on his remembrances of the actor:

The Summer of '76 gets some lovin' and The Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame gets a boot in the head

After reading Judith’s amazingly well-written and impassioned July 23rd plea to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to reconsider some of their long-held artistic and political stances, I felt the need as a lifelong student of the Billboard charts (and beyond) to comment on her article. But I didn’t want my reply to get lost on the comments page because I have similarly rich and strongly-stated opinions on this matter. Also I did some research regarding Judith’s complaints that I think comprise a valuable addendum to her fine and necessary editorial. So I’m posting my reply as a separate story rather than simply as a comment.

It seems that Judith (whom I’ve never met) and I are of the same age group, given her vivid recollections of the year 1976. I share like-minded memories of a great time to be a child, particularly a child (like me) aware of culture, politics, sociology, history, art, film, and music. So I also begin my piece by recalling my memories of that time in my life, in our country’s Bicentennial year, and how the craft of music continued to shape my worldview during three of those 12 glorious months. So I'm now starting to magically smell and taste
Shasta, Razzles, Icees, Cherry Charms pops, Funyuns, Funny Faces, Zotz, Marathon bars, and that Gold Rush Golden Nuggets chewing gum that used to come in a little prospector's bag. Like, I totally remember this creepy, funny Shasta commercial starring Frankenstein (here deemed "Igor," probably because of Universal Pictures' meddling), John Fiedler (Winnie the Pooh's Piglet, 12 Angry Men, Bob Newhart) and Happy Days dad Tom Bosley on voice-over!!!!


In the summer of 1976, the season from which my most vivid recollections of Bicentennial life and music derive, I was nine years old, set to hit the big ten in late October. At that time, my mother was working in personnel at a government agency and my father, a former Atlanta cop, was working for his father at a construction business the Treadway family owned. Being the grandson of a genius lawyer—my mother’s father—I had grown up listening to the volumes and volumes of classical music to which my grandfather, Mr. Pops (as I called him), was determined to expose me. This was a project of his that had begun probably as soon as I could talk. Beethoven was his chief love, then Mozart, Bach, and the hundreds of other great classical composers that lay well-played in his musty-smelling cabinet of ancient and new LPs.

I think at first a shock of fear would shoot up my spine when Mr. Pops would command me to sit down quietly and listen to the unparalleled sounds of the world’s great composers. But I know that shock disappeared when I discovered I loved this music. It was so totally new in its oldness that I was captivated. Still, I’m sure it would have irritated Mr. Pops to know that, when he he would leave his family’s post-war-designed Atlanta home on Franklin Circle, I would not often on my own continue to seek solace in the strength of Wagner, the gentleness of Vivaldi, or the energy of Liszt.

Instead, I switched on pop radio.

I had not yet started my own record collection—that would happen three years later when, after a windfall of cash came my way, I bought my first albums: The Beatles 1962-1966 (the blue greatest hits double album, printed on blue vinyl), The Beatles 1967-1970 (the red greatest hits double album, printed on red vinyl), and The Beatles (the famous White Album—yes—printed on white vinyl). Before that, though, I was lucky enough to have young parents who were, themselves, rock and pop fans. My mother, in particular, had (and still has) two 3’x 5’ sturdy wooden boxes that, at first glance, appear to be simple window seats, topped with black vinyl-covered padding on which to sit. A closer look would reveal a push button that would release the seat tops and open the wooden boxes to reveal the often still shrink-wrapped albums inside, often with yellow $1.98 K-Mart stickers still affixed to the plastic.




Some were purchased in her teens, some newly acquired. Among them: Chicago Transit Authority (the 6-album Carnegie Hall box set), Harper’s Bizarre, Herman’s Hermits, Black Sabbath, Iron Butterfly, The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Bob Seger System (“Ramblin’, Gamblin’ Man”), The Guess Who, Elton John, Cat Stevens, Paul McCartney and Wings, The Swingin’ Medallions (“Double Shot of My Baby’s Love”), Tom Jones, Bee Gees, Electric Light Orchestra, The Monkees, Percy Faith, Kenny Rogers and the First Edition (“Just Dropped In To See What Condition My Condition Is In”), The Rolling Stones, Martha and The Vandellas, The Shirelles, The Box Tops, Paul Revere and The Raiders (“Kicks”), The Eagles, Deep Purple, Jimi Hendrix, and a whole lotta classical music.
When at home, to sing along with, I would most often pull out McCartney’s Band on the Run, Simon and Garfunkel’s Wednesday Morning 3 A.M., Cat Stevens’ Greatest Hits, CCR’s Green River, ELO’s Face The Music, Rolling Stone’s December’s Child, a 1972 Easy Listening compilation with the Mamas and the Papas, O.C. Smith, and Otis Redding on it, and Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.

But, in the summer of 1976, I spent most of my days at my grandmother’s house—Chick-Chick, we called her. Or Mom. I called my mom “Lynn” and my grandma “Mom.” Go figure. Even as a kid I did things my way.

At Mom’s house, I spent my days stationed beside the big radio in the family room. When I could HEAR the radio, that is. My 14-year old Uncle Jeff has just taken up the drums so they ruled the aural environment at the house, which I'm sure accounted for a certain rivalry between my uncle (who was more like an older brother) and I. The dreaded drums were located downstairs, in the extra-cool basement with the fancy bar and the comfy beds, and the pinball machine that had long ago stopped working. There, in the corner was a twelve-piece trap kit that Jeff played pretty well. Compared to my musical tastes, his seemed largely Southern-flavored—Neil Young, The Allman Brothers, The Shorty Watkins Band, Little Feat, ZZ Top, Bad Company, Moody Blues, and The Atlanta Rhythm Section were the live acts Jeff would venture out to go see in the summer of 1976. And I would sit downstairs marveling at the Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd albums he loved to play along with (“Several Species of Small Furry Animals in a Cave Grooving Together With A Pict” was the Pink Floyd cut I laughed most derisively at). Jeff was hipper than me, though, and I loved him for it. My Aunt Jerry, then married or at least about to be, was pretty with-it, too---that summer, she went to see Manfred Mann’s Earth Band, Seals and Crofts, Fleetwood Mac, Chicago (at Georgia Tech), ELO, Neil Diamond, and the Average White Band.


Upstairs, when the drums were off, the radio was on. I would listen mostly to top 40 stations like Quixie (WQXI, somewhere around 94 on the dial). Then there was Z-93 and 96 Rock as well. But my young ears liked Quixie. Back then, top 40 radio was in the baby stages of getting as repetitive as it is now. But still there was a lot of diversity. You could hear “Convoy” by C.W. McCall, “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Barry White, “Everything is Beautiful” by Ray Stevens, “Right Back Where We Started From” by Maxine Nightingale, “Shaft” by Isaac Hayes, “Claire” by Gilbert O’ Sullivan, and “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” by Bad Company all in the same hour. On Sundays, I'd listen for hours to Casey Kasem's "America's Top 40" (all the way up to number one, unless a mall outing screwed things up). And at night: The King Biscuit Flour Hour, the trippy-sounding live concert show where you could hear Boston playing THAT album or The Grateful Dead playing THAT one. And finally, the creme de la creme: Dr. Demento at 9 pm on 96 Rock. God bless 'em, they hadda sense of humor back then, too. "Shaving Cream," "Star Drek," "Dead Puppies," "Pencil-Neck Geeks," "Fish Heads," "My Bologna," "Hello Mudda Hello Fadda," "Telephone Man," "Mr. Jaws," "They're Coming to Take Me Away Ha Haaaaaa!" (still the scariest top 5 record in chart history), "The Cockroach That Ate Cincinatti," "The Spam Song," "Dead Skunk," and "The Hawaiian War Chant" are the songs I remember hearing on this amazing program the most. Those days are over, lemme tell ya.

There were five, count ‘em, five Number One singles in the summer of ’76, from May 15 to September 1st: “Boogie Fever” by the family R&B band The Sylvers (who did some pretty cool songs the Jacksons never did, like the ultra-amazing “Misdemeanor”); “Silly Love Songs” by Wings (McCartney’s disco-influenced heavy bass obviously made everyone smile, because it stayed on top for 5 weeks); the somewhat frightening “Love Hangover” by Diana Ross (I always used to think “That can’t be Diana Ross” when she started singing “I don’t need no cure, I don’t need no cure”—I am still not sure that’s her); “Afternoon Delight” by the Starland Vocal Band (a smash of a one-hit-wonder,
who landed a bunch of Grammies at year’s end, and who made me go into a radio-station-dialing frenzy when I first heard their 45rpm confection; I immediately hadda hear it again); “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” by Elton John and Kiki Dee (a rare single-only release from Elton, who was my boyhood idol and who wasn’t known for doing many duets then; this song was the most memorable release of 1976 for me. I remember listening to it over and over again, when my Uncle Jeff, who hated the record, came up to me and revealed to me that Elton was gay. I was young so I had to ask what that meant. I was shocked when I found out, but I couldn’t abandoned Elton because of that, so I shrugged, and I’m sure my Uncle Jeff walked away worried about me. "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart" would even provide me with my first glipse at a "video." Seriously, this is the first "video" I remember seeing (the second was 1979's Blondie hit "Heart of Glass"):


On TV, I chiefly remember watching Sonny and Cher, Barney Miller, The Captain and Tennille, All in the Family, Bob Newhart, Shields and Yarnell, The Hot L Baltimore, M.A.S.H., Pink Panther, Bugs Bunny, Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Schoolhouse Rock, Soupy Sales, Fat Albert, Carol Burnett, Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and Bicentennial Minutes (my God, Bicentennial Minutes---why don’t they release those on DVD!!!! Here’s the only one I could find, with Jessica Tandy)


At the movies: The Outlaw Josey Wales (Eastwood taking the lead from John Wayne), The Shootist (John Wayne’s last movie), Survive (the airplane-crash-in-the-Andes-with-cannibalism movie, on a double bill with Roeg’s horror film Don’t Look Now), Taxi Driver (on a rare foray into four-walled theaters, during which I fell asleep), The Bad News Bears (like a documentary of my little league days on the losingest team in league, the unfortunately yellow-suited--like the Bears--Orioles), Logan’s Run (exciting!!!), Gus (goofball Disney movie about a football-playing donkey), Shoot (stunning anti-gun drama with Cliff Robertson), Family Plot (Hitchcock’s finale), All The President’s Men, Tommy (probably for the 20th time), The Gumball Rally, Silent Movie (an intro to bawdiness for me), Ode to Billie Joe, Cannonball double-billed with Death Race 2000, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (still playing after its Oscar-winning late 1975 release). Here's the amazing, strangely-Disneyfied 1976 Bad News Bears trailer!!!! All childhood summers are sublime, but the summer of 1976 was more than that for me--so much so, I can’t detect a word hot enough to describe it. For the 200th Fourth of July alone, it was stratospheric. Add the music, movies, TV shows, radio and friendships, and we're now beyond the limits of the known universe in quality-summer talk. Okay. So enuff of the memories. Thanks for them, but we move on to the deeper issue at hand, namely…

What is it with this Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

Judith’s July 23rd post tackling this issue got me to thinking. In that piece, she implored the RRHOF to consider honoring Neil Diamond, Chicago, The Doobie Brothers, Heart, Linda Ronstadt, Pat Benatar, Connie Francis, Cat Stevens, Cheap Trick, Alice Cooper, Hall & Oates, Peter Gabriel/Genesis/Phil Collins, Steve Winwood, the Monkees and Donna Summer.




Let’s get the no-brainers out of the way: The Monkees, Neil Diamond, Cat Stevens, Heart, Linda Ronstadt, Alice Cooper, Genesis, and Donna Summer all deserve immediate recognition. No arguments, just get on with it. I know one of these acts per year for the next ten years should be included. Again, screw the arguing…

The only person in Judith's original grouping I’m perhaps not familiar enough with is Connie Francis. She may make it in that Brenda Lee sort of way, but honestly, the hits of hers I know are good, but not that good. Sorry, Judith’s sister. May hafta wait a while (though maybe not that long…she did rank an impressive 6 #1 hits). Cheap Trick, Hall and Oates and Peter Gabriel may have to wait a bit longer, too. But they’ll get in, eventually, you can bet on it.

You see, being admitted into the RRHOF is largely a numbers game. You have five yearly slots, not including the specialty slots like Sidemen and Early Influences. With those five placements (which can be expanded to six or seven), if you look at the acts who have been admitted over the past few years, it seems as if the RRHOF have come up with a formula: A couple of 80s acts, one or two 70s acts (including one that had no real hits), and a 60s/50s act. One female is usually in there, as a solo or group inclusion; one or two black groups are in there; punk and post-punk is usually among the groups now; one hit-maker, if not three, is in the mix, and hip-hop is starting to claim its ground.




So one can reduce this sort of thing down to a silly math notion. But you should know something, Judith. I’ve done some research on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame--primarily by calling my Beatlemaniac friend and all-around music expert Brad Hundt, and by reading the comments of Beatlefan publisher Bill King (billking.livejournal.com)--and have since found out something quite shocking. You know how the Hall supposedly has these 1000 people voting on each year’s entries? Well, this might be the case, but did you know two people have the right to overturn any results they can’t stomach. Those two people? Their photos are looming above this paragraph: Jann Wenner, longtime publisher of Rolling Stone magazine, and snooty/brilliant rock critic Dave Marsh (Springsteen biographer and writer of two of my favorite music books: The Heart of Rock n’ Soul: The 1001 Greatest Singles of All Time and The Book of Rock Lists).

The only mention I can find of Chicago, for instance, in Marsh’s Rock Lists book is in the “Worst of All Time” categories: most chiefly, the “40 Worst #1 Albums,” in which Chicago V, Chicago VI, Chicago VII, and Chicago VIII (as well as Blood Sweat and Tears AND Linda Rondstadt’s Living in the USA) all make appearances.
Short answer: Chicago will never make the RRHOF unless there’s a jazz-inspired riot of some sort. And I love Chicago. First concert my parents too me to, before the death of Terry Kath. Loud, boisterous and fun, it was. I can still sing, by memory, “Saturday in the Park” and “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is” EXACTLY like the lead singer (I once did it for best friend/music addict Brian Matson and he blanched at how dead-on my imitation was). It’s wrong to leave Chicago out of the mix, no matter how much you despise them, Dave Marsh.

And who gave you and Jann the right to come waltzing in to overturn any democratically-arrived-at results, you insolent, outdated MFs? That’s cocky bullshit, if you ask me. That’s like having Academy Awards president Sid Ganis come in on a whim and say “Oh, God, not No Country For Old Men. Please!! How about American Gangster instead?” If news of this sort of thing came out regarding the Oscars, they’d be absolute hell to pay. And even if he does have a distaste for Linda Ronstadt (Which he must, given she's not in the RRHOF yet), why would've Jann Wenner placed her on the cover of Rolling Stone seven times? That doesn't make a whit of sense! She should be in the RRHOF tomorrow!!!!

As for Pat Benatar and solo Steve Winwood, they hit the airwaves around 1980 or so. That would mean that, given the 25-year wait before induction, they would have started being eligible in 2005. Often, if you notice, acts like The Mamas and the Papas have to wait ten years into their eligibility before their induction. So look for Benatar and Winwood around 2015. Again, this is a numbers game.

Judith had some wounding comments about the induction of many of acts that she found lacking. Her article encouraged the reader to look at the induction list. So I did. And, surprisingly, I agreed with almost everyone on the list, I have to say. The only ones I could see leaving off the 22 lists delivered since 1986 are Jackson Browne, the Righteous Brothers, Solomon Burke, Bonnie Raitt, The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Young Rascals, and Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers. And I would leave these guys off only because I have other inductees I’d have included. These acts are still landmarks of the business.
I close with my choices for the 30 acts that I THINK should be inducted into the RRHOF, now or when eligible: KISS (I hear Jann and Dave hate them, too; they're not my faves, but are indeniably the cause of an entire generation of young boys getting into rock n' roll), T-Rex, The Minutemen, Chicago, Electric Light Orchestra, The Monkees, Neil Diamond, Ringo Starr (maybe as a sideman), Wire, XTC, Burt Bacharach, Barry White, Run DMC, Public Enemy (I’m sure they make it on in a year or two), Frank Sinatra, and Tony Bennett (as early influences), Linda Rondstadt, Edgar Winter, The Carpenters, The Cars, Black Flag, Jim Croce, Cat Stevens, George Jones (I think there’s plenty of early blues repped; now how’s about some more early country), Leslie Gore, Joe Meek (as a producer), The Fleetwoods, Conway Twitty, The B-52s and...what the hell? Dr. Demento (or dj Barry Hansen, if you prefer).

Now I gotta listen to some records and look through my collection of these!!

Dean's List: My 100 Favorite TV Shows (#60 - 51)

And on up the list we go, all the time gettin' better and better...


60) Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1955-62) It’s Hitch himself who propelled this show to its place on the list. I think that ol' Alfred still remains the world’s most recognized director largely on the basis of his droll intros and outros for this delectably morbid anthology series. As far as the stories themselves, peopled with an incredible array of movie and TV stars, well, the series would find its way here simply based on the episode titled “A Perfect Murder.” I won’t spoil things by recounting this segment’s story; those of you who know what I’m talking about will agree, and those of you who don’t have a clue, well, this let's you know you have something to look forward to catching on the tube.



59) Iron Chef America (2005-present) The excitement I feel as this quicksilver approach to TV cooking shows begins each week is heart-stopping. Two teams of culinary pros are assigned to concoct a full meal, in an hour's time, with each course having to include one surprise ingredient. Even if I know who’s gonna win (and it’s like that most every time), I still gobble up the rush I get watching the unbeatable Mario Batalli whipping up some kinda ice cream with rhubarb in it, or some wannabe Iron Chef sizzling a fillet of sole with a delicate sweet potato garnish. It’s perfect TV—a
combination critique, game show, and cooking show! My foodie friend Tom Georganakis and I gorged on it every time we whiled away the late-night hours looking for something good on cable; coming upon this show, the decision as to what to watch was always certain. The Japanese counterpart from which it sprung is good, too, but I feel distanced by its cultural stick-to-it’veness ("The secret incredient is what now? Some kind of slimy bean pod? Ewwwww...") Give me the American version of Iron Chef, which we all can enjoy with relish and, hey, can I get a some onions with that?


58) Saturday Night Live (1975-present) When I was nine years old, this NBC show slammed onto the late-nite airwaves like nothing else before it or since has ever done. Back then, I looked forward to going over to my cousin Greg’s house every weekend to watch it, and I still remember being with him in the darkened TV room, staying up later than any pre-teens had the right to do, drinking Pepsi and withstanding the barrage of oh-so-naughty adult entertainment being thrown at us. Given our age, of course when Walter Williams’ Mr. Bill came on the air (invariably towards the end of the show), me and Greg went absolutely apeshit, we loved it so! Thinking about it now—where the couch was in the room, the position of the TV, the light coming in from the streetlamp outside, the silences as the show came back from station breaks--my heart still races!

I recall reacting in so many different ways to Saturday Night Live’s offerings: I was puzzled and intrigued by “Bad Theater” with the unctuous Leonard Pinth-Garnell; cruelly fascinated by The Nerds (Gilda Radner, Bill Murray and Jane Curtain in full goofball, so-unhip-it’s-hip territory); totally creeped out by Buck Henry as the pervy uncle who comes to babysit for Radner and Larraine Newman, taking pictures of them in suggestive poses as they were joyfully unaware of his real intent (could this skit even be done today?); weirdly touched by the longing tones of the Scotch Tape store sketches, with their quietly funny doodlings of a sad, inevitably failed commercial enterprise; struck dumb by the legendary Star Trek skit, where TV execs came in and stripped Spock of his ears and Kirk of his command; comically horrified by Dan Ackroyd’s Julia Child, heroically keeping on with the show as her life’s blood drained away from a nasty knife wound; extremely hopeful when Lorne Michaels offered the Beatles $4000 to reunite on the show (turns out, Lennon and McCartney were then watching the show in NYC, toying with the idea of hopping a taxi to 30 Rock so's to take Michaels up on the offer—oh, how close we came); sent zooming into outer space by the glorious dance that Steve Martin and Gilda Radner did together as desperately lonely people who exchange glances in a crowded bar (still my favorite moment of SNL's run); deliciously confused by the then-new idea of spoofing TV commercials so well that you couldn’t tell whether they were real or fake until the optimum moment. These memories, and so many more, have become an inextricable part of me, and if the series had ended at its sixth year, this show would be way higher up on the list. I don’t have to tell you what happened; mediocrity and even plain sludge sometimes intervened.

Don’t get me wrong: I still love Will Farrell and Cheri Oteri’s cheerleader bits, Harry Shearer and Martin Short’s indelible synchronized swimming, and absolutely anything that Eddie Murphy, Phil Hartman, Amy Pohler, Tina Fey, the great comic poet Jack Handey, and unofficial cast members Steve Martin and Christopher Walken have contributed. I find that almost every episode, even today, has at least a few laughs in it (I'm really starting to like Kenan Thompson these days). But will Saturday Night Live ever reach the heights it reached in those first few years with Chase, Belushi, Newman, Ackroyd (the series’ single best performer), Curtin, Murray, Radner, Morris, and company? No way. No matter. I love SNL still, and hope it never goes off the air.


57) Knowing Me, Knowing You with Alan Partridge (1994-95) Ahh-haaaaaa! Yes, it’s Alan Partridge, making his way through bottom-of-the-barrel entertainment drudgery with as much enthusiasm as his nervously toothy grin could muster. Even if most of us stateside have no idea of what this show is, this BBC phenomenon--a spoof of British chat shows--was the Seinfeld of its time and place, the comedy that everyone in the UK was talking about the next day ‘round the teapot. And with good reason. Steve Coogan’s desperate alter-ego is a big ol’ guffaw in the face of the present day tomfoolery surrounding the entertainment biz. I love how he has his bandleader WAYYYYY up in the rafters, a hilariously comic misfire of art direction, as he tries to communicate with him as well as he can. I revel in Alan Partridge's fawning over bigger names (Roger Moore?) supposedly coming to join him as the lesser guests sit uncomfortably on the couches next to him; and his guests are always on to his game, giving him as much crap as he deserves. The brilliant Steve Coogan deserves to be a big star worldwide and I hope he gets that prize ASAP.


56) M.A.S.H. (1972-83) Has any other series, drama or comedy, led double lives like this one? I get just a little bit tired when I hear someone say “Oh, I like the earlier funny episodes.” Well, I like them all. Head writer Larry Gelbart and second head writer Alan Alda did incredible work transforming Robert Altman’s landmark movie into a television show—so much so that I’d bet most people would identify M.A.S.H. as a TV series before they’d note it as a film, too. Now, looking back on it, if Robert Altman had wanted to return to his TV roots, I think he would’ve easily pegged this as a TV-friendly enterprise and jumped on the wagon with it. As it stands, this CBS series, following a group of doctors patching up the wounded during the Korean War, has much more life to it than the very great movie that birthed it. Alda’s Hawkeye was a funny but pained, longing-for-home presence, and when dedicated family man B.J. Hunnicutt (Mike Farrell) entered into his tent, that
longing became much more intense. That’s why I can accept the seriousness of the latter-day entries, when home became some place the characters just couldn't wait to return to. I can recall being a teenager and, biting my knuckles, witnessing the program’s greatest episode: a battle for a single soldier’s life, with a ticking time clock at the bottom of the screen to keep us informed of the situation’s gravity. I’ll never shake the black-and-white documentary episode, with its heartbreaking frankness about the costs of war. I treasure the characters in the show, particularly Gary Burghoff (the only veteran of the movie to make it to the TV show) as the gentle Corporal O’Reilly and Henry Morgan as the stern but understanding Col. Sherman Potter. And never has there been such hoopla surrounding what is still the single most watched episode of any TV series in history: the shattering finale called “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen.” Yes, I revere the laughs the show provided but, in the end, I think I really prefer the more serious M.A.S.H., the one without the laugh track but with a beating heart to it. But I’m thankful for the series as a whole, and it really, to the core, affected America and its politics for the better. Here's a great fan-vid, set to the original song "Suicide is Painless," brought to YouTube by CrazyDiamond1966.



55) Get A Life (1990-92) Whoa! This wackiness was DETERMINED to make you laugh, whether you wanted to or not. Late Night with David Letterman refugee Chris Elliott assayed an incredibly irritating hero as Chris, the housebound, childlike “paperboy” who’s ignorance of the world outside comes up to bite him on the be-hind when he decides to venture out and see what it’s got in store for him. Elliott’s singular style hasn’t found an outlet yet like this one, truly one man’s doggedly warped vision of bringing as much silliness into households as he was allowed by FOX to transmit. I find it very poignant that he gets to play alongside his father, the legendary Bob Elliott, who has just as many laugh lines as his son. Thinking about the series now, I can’t get the image of Spewy, Chris’s vomiting alien friend, out of my mind. If you’ve never seen Get A Life, this clip will let you know what you are in for: unbridled chaos.



54) Pee-Wee’s Playhouse (1986-91) I have to admit, I’ve seen precious few episodes of this incredible kid’s show that takes its place alongside Soupy Sales, Romper Room, Bozo, and Howdy Doody as the premier TV clubhouse where little ones come to run rampant. But that doesn’t stop me from placing this expertly produced CBS program so high up on the list (I’m GLAD I haven’t seen so many episodes—so much more for me to enjoy in the future). I don’t need to see any more than what I’ve already taken in to know that this is one of the finest kid’s shows—hell with it, SHOWS--ever made. The direction, writing, editing, art direction, animation, acting, photography—everything is top-of-the-line in Pee-Wee’s world of play, where adulthood looms just around the corner. Thanks, Paul Reubens, for all you’ve done to bring childlike joy to grown-up hearts, and vice-versa.


53) Extras (2005-present?) At first, I was skeptical. Imagining Ricky Gervais as anyone but the unforgettable David Brent from The Office was a hard sell for me. The first three episodes sailed by on HBO without me giving in to its charms. But then the last three hit me, and something was afoot. When the second season hit, I was hooked, because the show had an arc: What do we do if we want to become famous, and then get what we want? This is why Extras exists. In it, Gervais, as ambitious actor Andy Millman, and his lovely cohort Ashley Jensen as the equally hungry Maggie Jacobs, try to find their way towards success in the most demeaning job imaginable: as movie extras. I find their friendship (and IT IS a friendship, not a boring ol’ love affair, as far as we now know) to be one of most finely illustrated relationships of its kind in TV history. They have an indelible affinity for each other that not even accomplishment can come between, and I find that stirring in the truest, most un-corny sense.

I marvel at the show’s second season, where Andy achieves a success of sorts as the goofy star of a dumb British sitcom (actually, a pretty funny one), and is still unhappy. The Extras Christmas season finale is one of the best hours you’ll ever spend watching television—the tears it brings are true drops of glowing happiness, stung with the bitterness of failure in success. With Extras, Gervais and his new counterpart Jensen (so endearing as she valiantly struggles to maintain her dreams) proved to me that, amazingly and appropriately, there are still excellent actors out there for me to root for. I have to mention here my favorite joke in the show: Andy Millman, in his sitcom guise, doing a series of spit-takes, then going to take another drink to do it again, and finding there’s no more liquid in the glass. How friggin’ funny is that? So, here, against my better judgement (and for those who haven't seen the series, don't watch this because it's a big payoff) is my favorite scene from the series. It's not the funniest bit, but it's the most important.


52) Roots (1977) I have revisited ABC’s Roots only once since its premiere back in the late 70s, when I was riveted for weeks taking in its revelations. Watching it in the mid-80s, I was still struck by how engrossing and important the mini-series was (and I've still never
caught its sequel, Roots: The Next Generation). This is the work that made the idea of a “mini-series” a viable option. But that is a minor point, really. May I just recount a partial list of remarkable cast members here to help transmit the import of Roots? Levar Burton (still unforgettable as Kunta Kinte), Maya Angelou, Louis Gossett Jr., Ben Vereen (in the show’s stand-out performance as Chicken George), Cicely Tyson, Thalmus Rasulala, Moses Gunn, John Amos, Raymond St. Jacques, O.J. Simpson, Scatman Crothers, Olivia Cole, Roxie Roker, Richard Roundtree, Leslie Uggams, Laurence Hilton-Jacobs, Yaphet Kotto, Todd Bridges, and Alex Haley (author of the novel on which the series is based) himself. An amazing collection of black talent who were given the best
material ever with which to work. I now dare to wonder if Roots could be considered the apex of the Civil Rights movement. Not at all to denigrate Dr. King and X's obviously monumental contributions, but Roots really spoke to all of America--at just the right time, when we were all truly ready and starving for it--regarding the most shameful episodes in our history. It still speaks to each of us, reminding white America of something black America has known all along: while Europeans can uncover their family heritage, African-Americans still have yet to, and unfortunately may never, discover their true background. Can a television effort get more consequential?


51) Soap (1977-81) Up to, and ever since this ABC series hit the airwaves, I've been mystified by the appeal of soap operas. I just don’t get their deal. It’s the same thing over and over again—who’s screwing who, either in the bed- or the board-room. It’s not for me (maybe it’s a guy thing). I used to get headaches listing to the drony dialogue of As The World Turns or General Hospital as they polluted the airwaves, and still to this day wonder why my mother and her mother before her--like so many mothers around the nation--put so much stock in this unneeded, ungainly drama. It was such a relief
when 4:00 pm rolled around and we were on to better programming. So when Soap debuted, I was glad there was at least one group of people who found this TV fascination equally as puzzling. The thing is, Soap turned out to be the soap opera for me. In the time of the uproar over Dallas and Who Shot J.R., I was more interested in who killed Peter Campbell (Robert Urich) in the first few episodes (now that I think about it, this came before the J.R. stuff, so I wonder how much of an influence Soap had on Dallas). And when it came time to unmask the killer, I was spellbound, and was so for the entire run of the series. There were no boundaries to where this program would travel. It could get quite outlandish, as when the unbalanced Burt Campbell (the incredible Robert Mulligan) felt he was possessed by an alien power that could make him invisible at will. But then there would be real drama as we followed his wife Mary (Cathryn Damon) and her sister Jessica (an amazing performance from Kathryn Helmond) as they sincerely tried to make sense of all that the world was putting their families through. Add to the mix certified laugh-getters Robert Guillaume as the fed-up butler Benson and Jay Johnson as Campbell brother Bob and his dummy alter-ego Chuck, and I was an unqualified fan.