Sometimes we relate to pop-culture differently over time, not because it’s changed, but because we have. Maybe it’s something we grew into and matured enough to appreciate. Maybe it’s the opposite, and nostalgia has made that pop-culture represent something to us that it didn’t have when we first encountered it. What pop-culture did you come to appreciate over a long time period?
Tasha Robinson
When my younger sister and I were kids, she was deeply into Bon Jovi and Poison. She had their albums, she had posters of them, she actually went to a Bon Jovi concert long before I ever went to a live show. And I mocked her relentlessly for it. I listened to country, folk, and showtunes, like our parents; all that rock and hair-metal stuff sounded silly to me, and I was scandalized by how much the members of Poison looked like girls, with their makeup and froufy hair. Kids are dumb; they have limited experience with the world, and often anything outside that experience is a little threatening, so they mock it in an attempt to downplay its popularity. Especially if it involves their siblings. It wasn’t really until I got into Rock Band, and more recently, karaoke, that I realized how often Bon Jovi’s ’80s songs come up, and how much fun they are. They’re still cheesy, but in a Journey-like, everybody-sing-along way. “Livin’ On A Prayer,” “Dead Or Alive,” “You Give Love A Bad Name”—they’re all great, rousing sing-alongs. And everyone I know knows the words. And we gravitate toward them every time we have a Rock Band get-together. I owe my sister a retroactive apology. And I wish I’d been less dumb and blinkered as a kid. We could have been singing along with those songs together decades ago.
Josh Modell
This question is so well timed for me, so thank you Tasha. Just last night, I was writing the liner notes for the upcoming reissue of Archers Of Loaf’s 1998 swansong, White Trash Heroes (#humblebrag, sorry). I remember at the time reacting to the album the way many fans did—with confusion and something less than immediate love. The band, in the last throes of its original existence, went dark and weird, and left a lot of its traditional sound out of the equation. But the intervening years have been kind to White Trash Heroes; the album makes more sense in the context of what singer-guitarist Eric Bachmann would later do as Crooked Fingers. It still ain’t easy listening, but it’s never a bore, that’s for sure.
Kenny Herzog
Jim Ross, a.k.a. “Good Ol’ JR,” was involved in pro wrestling for decades before cementing himself as the primary color man for WWE’s Monday Night Raw in the mid-to-late ’90s. That run coincided with the company’s hallowed “Attitude” era and my own college years. Before long, GOJR became a hotly impersonated figure for my roommates and me. Exams weren’t just grueling tests of intellect, they were “slobberknockers.” Parties that veered out of control were forever remembered for devolving into “hell, fire, and brimstone.” We admired Jim’s “intestinal fortitude,” but his approach to calling matches bordered on hysterically old-fashioned. However, after wholly re-immersing myself in WWE archives via Netflix instant streaming, I’ve developed an entirely new perspective on JR’s craft. Even after suffering bouts with Bell’s Palsy, he remained a booming, rumbling, articulate orator with wit and gravitas. It often seemed like Ross was the only person in attendance who didn’t realize the in-ring action was fake, but that was part of his appeal. He’s like the uncle who still gets in character as Santa every year, even though his teenage nephews are too cool for Christmas. JR delivers his own spectacle in the booth, and he’s riveting when he talks about the toll wrestlers put their bodies through, even if the wins and losses are scripted. Ross is in the WWE Hall of Fame, but deserves to be considered among the great commentators in modern sports.
Jason Heller
Ian MacKaye of hardcore pioneer Minor Threat and post-hardcore pioneer Fugazi has become a subcultural icon, and for good reason. I’ve been listening to his music since I was in high school in the late ’80s, and it’s always been immediately accessible, with a high impact. That said, like many Ian MacKaye fans, I’ve long underappreciated his younger brother, Alec MacKaye. The funny thing is, I’ve been listening to Alec’s bands almost as long as I’ve been listening to Ian’s. Both brothers recorded for Ian’s legendary Dischord Records, so the connection has always been blatant, and Alec’s groups over the past 30 years—The Untouchables, The Faith, Ignition, and The Warmers—are by no means hard to track down. But there’s been an unspoken Dischord pecking order that dictates Alec’s underdog status, one that’s only heightened by his best-known release, The Faith’s 1982 split LP with Void. To this day, the Void side of that LP is considered not only superior to The Faith’s side, but one of the greatest slabs of hardcore every recorded. Both those claims are true. That doesn’t mean that The Faith’s half of that record isn’t good—although, honestly, it isn’t half as good as Subject To Change, The Faith’s incredible 1983 record, a savage yet inventive mini-masterpiece that helped set the stage for the legendary proto-emo band Rites Of Spring (formed by The Faith’s guitarist, Eddie Janney). The band of Alec’s that’s taken the longest for me to warm up to, though, is Ignition. I’ve always liked Ignition, but only in the last couple years has the late-’80s outfit really become one of my favorite bands of the era. Not arty enough to be post-hardcore like Fugazi, which was just coming together at the time, Ignition’s music is dark, smoldering, oddly metallic, and intensified by Alec’s craggy, garbled, perpetually unhinged vocals. And therein lies my love of his voice: Where Ian’s vocals are always piercing, barking, and almost trumpet-like, Alec’s are murky and ambiguous. I guess the older I get, the more I appreciate that. It doesn’t hurt that Alec’s first band, the blazing, high-school hardcore group The Untouchables, has a major fan in the form of Sonic Youth—who recorded a faithful cover of The Untouchables’ corrosive anthem “Nic Fit” for its 1992 album Dirty. Sonic Youth asked Ian MacKaye to guest-star on that cover version. But not Alec, who was actually in the band responsible for the original. Sigh. Once an underdog, always an underdog.