To recap briefly, I have indeed evaluated the 186 performers who have been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame since 1986, in this audit and in five previous installments, each covering a five-year period:

Part 1 covers the first five years of induction, from 1986 to 1990.
Part 2 cover the next five years, from 1991 to 1995.
Part 3 covers the years 1996 to 2000.
Part 4 covers the years 2001 to 2005.
Part 5 covers the years 2006 to 2010.

Debates about the various Halls of Fame are legion and have existed as long as Halls have existed; they certainly continue today: Will the Baseball Hall of Fame ever recognize players associated with performance-enhancing drugs? Will Ray Guy finally gain admittance to the Football Hall of Fame in 2014? Is the Hockey Hall of Fame ever going to show some love to Dave Andreychuk?

However, unlike the sports halls of fame, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame faces specific challenges. First, the very term "rock and roll" is nebulously defined and has proved divisive to many listeners and fans. (By contrast, you know what sport you're getting at the Basketball Hall of Fame.) Second, the Hall itself uses vague criteria such as "musical excellence" to indicate its standards for inclusion. Third, and related to the previous point, there are no objective metrics—"stats"—that can be used to impartially evaluate artists. Fourth, the Hall has made some arbitrary and dubious choices over the years. Fifth, and related to the previous point, not only have those choices prompted denunciations from listeners of all stripes, but those very listeners, harkening back to the first and third points, have specific biases regarding just what "rock and roll" is and which artists are deserving of enshrinement.

All of which prompted me to undertake an audit of the Hall. This, as noted, is not only a foolhardy task but possibly an arrogant one as well, but—hey, baby—that's rock and roll. I have no insights or wisdom not available to the average listener willing to develop a basic understanding of how popular music has evolved in the West since the 1950s. I do have the following baselines, though.

First, at the end of any assessment, the artist either is or is not a Hall of Fame act. I don't subscribe to relativism or contingency, the idea that an artist may be a Hall of Famer but that another artist needs to be inducted first. It is either Yes or No. Now, I do use the term Borderline Yes, but that is to indicate only that the artist must have the case made for inclusion as that artist may not be universally accepted as a legitimate Hall of Fame act. Otherwise, I consider the artist to be qualified for the Hall.

The criteria for inclusion (or not), as indicated above, is ultimately subjective; however, I use what I call Defining Factors to help me evaluate each artist:

Innovation. The artist has invented or refined one or more aspects of the music.
Influence. The artist has made a demonstrable impact on the music of either contemporaries or succeeding artists.
Popularity. The artist has achieved an appreciable measure of commercial or critical success.
Crossover appeal. The artist is recognized and appreciated outside the artist's primary arena.
Legacy. The artist's accomplishments have lasting impact and appeal.

To be considered a Hall of Fame act, I think that an artist must rate as highly as possible in as many Defining Factors as possible. Again, this is a subjective assessment, but these Defining Factors help to form the basis of each argument.

But even with the problems the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame faces now, it is only going to get worse as time marches on.

"Who Knows What Tomorrow May Bring"?

As we move forward into potential nominees for 2014 and beyond, and as the list of eligible candidates grows to include artists whose first recordings were issued in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the title to that 1968 song by Traffic becomes ever more salient: The pool of candidates becomes both wider and deeper. This can only force reappraisal of what we consider to be "rock and roll" along with reappraisal of the criteria that determine whether an act is worthy of the Hall of Fame. Simply put, we don't know what tomorrow may bring because that "tomorrow" is becoming more expansive, more diverse, and more diffuse—and that makes it harder to know what the "fame" in the "Hall of Fame" really signifies.

The start of the 1980s was informed by the punk-rock explosion of the late 1970s, which was a schism in the development of rock music as profound as the advent of the Beatles and even Elvis Presley himself—it relegated the existing order to the past as it announced a new order. Punk itself was too abrasive and too limiting to survive for very long in its raw state, but its commercially successful—and, frankly, more adaptable and appealing—cousin New Wave heralded the birth of modern rock. And as we will soon see, punk itself soon submerged—and soon flourished in various guises.

The late 1970s also saw the birth of hip-hop, which also saw the transformation of soul music into hitherto unexplored territory. Simply put, punk stripped down rock music to its primitive roots and salted it with social expression. Hip-hop, though, encompassed an array of musical elements that had been isolated, extracted, and recombined into a new form: In lieu of instruments, DJs manipulated records of existing artists, primarily funk, soul, and disco records (although not exclusively: Africa Bambaata's seminal "Planet Rock" was built on a bed made from proto-electronica Kraftwerk's "Trans Europe Express"), while MCs rapped over the musical underpinning, with rapping derived from Jamaican "toasting" and even the tradition of "the dozens" from African-American culture. That rapping, at first confined largely to party and sexual boasts, soon extended into extensive social and political commentary.

Not only did punk and hip-hop help to broaden the range of rock and soul, but advancements in technology and media distribution, to pick just two elements, combined with the relatively accessible "do it yourself" attitude of both musical styles to produce a quantum change in rock and soul.

The 1980s heralded both the "Great Expansion" and the "Great Bifurcation" in popular music. The Great Expansion, which we have touched on already, is the broadened range of rock and soul as new hybrids and offshoots of existing styles and genres developed, and it does not need much more elaboration in this summary. However, the Great Bifurcation is much more intriguing—and it has even more problematic ramifications for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

What I mean by the Great Bifurcation ("bifurcate" means to split into two distinct branches) is that not only did significant sectors of rock and soul develop and transform, but that many of those sectors split from the mainstream branch and developed "underground." And not only did they develop—they flourished, or at least remained viable. The upshot was the establishment of two realms of popular music: the mainstream, or "overground," with exposure on commercial radio and MTV (itself part of the concurrent technological and media changes), and the "underground"—what we now call "independent" (or "indie") and "alternative"—with much less commercial exposure yet with its own growing outlets, for example, a growing number of college radio stations, leading to yet another label, "college rock."

Furthermore, the underground did not need as much overground support to thrive. For example, pop-metal (or "hair-metal") bands (Def Leppard, Poison, Ratt, Skid Row, and others) had the commercial exposure that was not afforded to harder heavy-metal subgenres such as thrash-metal (Anthrax, Megadeth, Metallica, Slayer, and others), yet those bands developed and thrived without traditional promotion. The flourishing of independent record labels and advancements in home-recording technologies meant that musical acts were becoming less dependent upon major labels and their studios for creating, recording, and distributing their music.

As the 1980s went on, the underground continued to blossom as its own entity, although crossover was inevitable: R.E.M., for example, started on the I.R.S. independent label but the band's popularity grew to such proportions that it signed with Warner Bros. in 1988 (although its I.R.S. records had been distributed by another major label, MCA Records). Nirvana, too, began on Seattle's Sub-Pop independent label before moving to Geffen Records.

Arrangements became variable—sometimes the indie labels were seen as the "farm teams" grooming talent for the major labels; sometimes acts preferred to stay on their own smaller labels and just make distribution deals with the majors. Moreover, a growing contingent of acts embraced the underground designation as both an ethos and, having proved its viability, a business model. They and their also-growing legions of followers sneered at their brethren and sistren who "sold out" and went the major-label route.

"You Can All Join In" (and Be Divided)

By the 1990s and the invention of the World Wide Web, another two barriers previously held by music labels, promotion and distribution, were taken down as artists used the web to market themselves directly to audiences. Listeners not only could receive updates from artists but could download the artists' material directly as bands such as Pearl Jam, Phish, and Radiohead, to name just three, made extensive, often exclusive material available to fans without needing to release it through the traditional channels.

Indeed, music downloading and the evolution of devices to support digital forms helped to spell the end to what had been historically the sole outlet for music acquisition: the record store. (And by "record store" I include record sections and departments in stores that sell other goods as well.) Those "brick and mortar" operations began to collapse as listeners could order and download music from internet-connected devices without having to go to a specific physical location. (And the demise of the local record store should be seen as a casualty in the overall revolution in retail shopping prompted by the internet.)

Into this environment came the ever-widening circles of musical styles and genres—and sub-genres, sub-sub-genres, and sub-sub-sub-genres as hybrids begat hybrids. By the 1990s and certainly into the 2000s it became a full-time job just to keep up with all the trends and variants going on in popular music. The obvious upshot to this will be: In the not too distant future, what will the "Fame" signify in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Popular music has become so expansive, so diverse, so diffuse that it is much more difficult for an artist to seize the dominance, the influence, the presence to signify the "Fame," at least as it is currently understood.

I've maintained for a while that we will probably never see an artist like the Beatles or the Rolling Stones again. That is not because either of those bands was so supremely talented and innovative that no one could hope to approach their legacy. It is because it is highly unlikely that the environment in which they established their fame will ever present itself again.

When the Beatles and the Stones came to prominence in the early 1960s, rock and roll had weathered its tumultuous birth in the mid-1950s, withstood the backlash, and despite a perceived abatement during the first couple of years of the 1960s, came roaring back stronger than ever; rock and soul have remained the pre-eminent musical forms ever since. (In the final installment of his sweeping documentary series Jazz, Ken Burns cites the ascendancy of rock, and specifically the rise of the Beatles, as being the event that pushed jazz, which had been at the forefront of American popular music since its inception in the early 20th century, permanently to the margins.)

Furthermore, other factors contributed to the keen attention paid to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. The pool of rock and soul acts was much smaller at the time, with that pool to become much larger even a decade later, let alone the Great Lake, if not sea, it is today. Correspondingly, there were much fewer major producers and distributors of music than there are today. Professional recording studios were primarily in the hands of the recording industry, and even though local acts (at least in the United States) had been able to walk into a "mom-and-pop" recording studio and make recordings since before the advent of the Rock and Soul Era, the overwhelming majority of those never achieved more than regional fame. (Elvis Presley famously cut his first single ostensibly as a gift for his mother, although his having chosen Sun Records in Memphis, a professional label, lends credence to the supposition that he wanted to be discovered on a national scale.)

To gain widespread fame required promotion and exposure. There may have been many local or regional recording labels, but there were a relative handful of national or international labels, with the smaller labels usually acting as feeders to the larger ones. Getting discovered required hard work and luck over and above the talent necessary to be noticed. Even in the United States in the 1960s, there were only a handful of national television networks while each municipality had only a few radio stations, overwhelmingly AM radio as FM radio was in its infancy at least with respect to rock and soul. Not only was the pool of talent smaller than it is today, but the production, distribution, and promotion channels were narrower. And for audiences, there were limited outlets to learn about new music from either new or existing acts, which is why attention focused on the major acts, particularly sensations such as the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, was magnified during this time—there simply were not many alternatives to diffuse that attention.

By contrast, listeners today have many alternatives beginning with an enormous pool of musical acts to choose from before getting to the wealth of media alternatives available—the internet and cable and satellite television and radio—choices that dwarf what was available in the 1960s, when the Beatles and the Rolling Stones were both at their peaks. (And although the Beatles were done by 1970, the Rolling Stones' peak extended at least to 1972's Exile on Main St.)

The problem we face now is that with so many artists, styles, and genres available to us through so many different channels, it is difficult to establish that widespread exposure—that "crossover appeal"—unless an artist chooses to pursue the overtly commercial pop route and hope to become a household name such as Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Lady Gaga, or Justin Beiber.

"Rock and Roll Stew"

All of this means that as we move into the future and more acts become eligible, it is getting harder to assess artists' qualifications for the Hall of Fame. This greatly expanded range of artists makes it harder for any artist to establish dominance in the marketplace in general or in the ears and minds of an equally diverse, diffuse listenership in particular.

And as the pool expands with the corresponding lack of dominance—the conditions that fostered the Beatles and the Rolling Stones no longer exist—individual biases and limitations will only become more pronounced: To be truly conversant about so many different areas of popular music will require ever-increasing effort—these are the limitations—and as the music becomes more diverse, what one listener considers to be "rock and roll" is ever more likely to diverge from what another listener calls "rock and roll"—these are the biases—making it difficult to come to a consensus on whether an artist is worthy of the Hall of Fame.

Every year's addition of eligible artists only expands the "rock and roll stew" even as it seasons that stew with a greater array of popular music. However, that also forces more explicit definitions of "rock and roll" and of "fame" itself. For example, hip-hop and electronica, just to pick two forms, have developed extensive infrastructures over the last few decades, which might be all but unknown to devotees of industrial or heavy metal, and vice versa, even as elements of all four can be found in any of the four—and even as those definitions become more ambiguous: Is Massive Attack hip-hop? Electronica? Both? Is Ministry industrial? Heavy metal? Both? Does it matter?

These are just a few of the questions that will continue to inform the always-lively discussion about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, whose selections are bound to alienate at least as many as are delighted by them.

Using the baselines I described above, I hereby present my audit for the Hall of Fame's selections from 2011 to 2013. As noted, my conclusions are ultimately subjective, and are informed by my own biases and limitations.

2011: Slim Pickings

5 Inductees: Alice Cooper, Neil Diamond, Dr. John, Darlene Love, Tom Waits

Yes: None

Borderline Yes: Alice Cooper, Tom Waits

No: Neil Diamond, Dr. John, Darlene Love

By 2011, the Hall of Fame had been inducting artists of the Rock Era for twenty-five years, but on this silver anniversary the inductees for this year couldn't help but give the impression that the Hall had had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. Yes, Neil Diamond had been a pop icon for nearly twice that time, while Alice Cooper enjoyed notoriety among the hard-rock and shock-rock factions. But Dr. John and Tom Waits had always been on the fringe of popular consciousness even if both were respected and influential among musicians and the cognoscenti, while Darlene Love, an archivist's wet dream if no one else's, lurked even more deeply in the historical shadows.

Of the inductees who genuinely deserve enshrinement, Alice Cooper exerted an influence, such as it was, that lasted long after the band's early 1970s heyday, and Waits, plowing his own furrow from the start, eventually accumulated enough recognition and industry respect to nudge him past the gate. But Diamond, despite his stardom, had yearned to be an artist from the start but had always fallen short—think of him as another Billy Joel—while Dr. John and Darlene Love simply do not have the presence or influence to be in the Hall of Fame.

Schlock and Arr: Alice Cooper, Tom Waits

Hardly two candidates for a "separated at birth" speculation, both Alice Cooper, the band and the singer, and Tom Waits sported off-kilter showmanship, Alice Cooper with garish theatricality that almost overshadowed some fairly strong, if conventional, rock chops, while Waits drove his grizzled-beatnik pose through the heart of Saturday night on his way to a burgeoning musical proficiency, albeit one with a distinctive bent. Neither are obvious Hall of Fame candidates, but neither are they gratuitous choices.

Alice Cooper: This is "Alice Cooper" the band that was inducted into the Hall of Fame, although lead singer Vincent Furnier also called himself "Alice Cooper" and subsequently embarked upon his lengthy solo career under that name. That is appropriate as the "Alice Cooper" that deserves to be inducted is the band—although just barely. Despite early encouragement from Frank Zappa, Alice Cooper struck out with its first two albums and appeared headed toward obscurity until it hooked up with producer Bob Ezrin and released its first hit single, "Eighteen," an archetypal youthful cry that ushered in a string of hard-rock hits in the early 1970s that included "Under My Wheels," "Elected," "No More Mr. Nice Guy," and "Billion Dollar Babies," although the greatest of them was "School's Out," a roaring, ringing blast with a defiantly droll verse—"We got no class/And we got no principles/And we got no innocence/We can't even think of a word that rhymes!"—hinting at the brains behind the hard rock that showed surprising fealty to bygone styles.

In fact, what earned Alice Cooper its lasting notoriety wasn't its dexterous, if hardly original, music but rather its outlandish showmanship. This band pushed stage theatrics to a new level of garish spectacle. Furnier's early androgyny was embellished with mock-pantomime of torture and execution, a pounding Grand Guignol that delighted fans and outraged parents while exerting an influence on post-punk felt from White Zombie through Gwar. However, it didn't take long for the shtick to lapse into parody, and when Furnier went solo in 1975 he was already experiencing diminishing returns ("Welcome to My Nightmare") although he did develop a balladic touch—despite the potentially scatological title, "Only Women Bleed" was a lot more sensitive than you might expect from the man cavorting onstage with fake blood and a boa constrictor, and who was destined for the gallows at the climax of the show.

Those hard-rock gems from Alice Cooper the band still hold up today, providing the sturdy underpinning for a performance legacy that introduced grandiose showmanship into rock concerts for good. It's a shaky premise for a Hall of Fame induction, but in the history and development of the music, it is still a noteworthy one.

Tom Waits: Coming on like the bastard child of Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski, Tom Waits writes and sings as if he's splayed out on Skid Row swilling Thunderbird from a greasy paper bag while gleaning insights from a tattered copy of The Subterraneans as the ghost of Thelonious Monk wafts woozily from a nearby manhole cover. Beginning his career with Elektra in the 1970s, Waits often strained to personify the beatnik wastrel ("The Piano Has Been Drinking") even if a couple of his early songs have gained mass acceptance: The Eagles popularized the wistful "Ol' 55" while Bruce Springsteen embraced "Jersey Girl" hard enough to make listeners think it's one of his.

Waits's first few albums were a search for style and voice, beatnik ("(Looking for) The Heart of Saturday Night," "The Piano Has Been Drinking"), amphetamine (the huckster-capitalist gem "Step Right Up"), or otherwise ("Ol' 55"). He honed this approach with Foreign Affairs (the noir-by-way-of-Mose Allison "Burma Shave," the noir-as-duet-with-Bette Midler "I Never Talk to Strangers") and Blue Valentine, on which the cover of "Somewhere" (from West Side Story), the sprightly "Whistlin' Past the Graveyard," the surprisingly affecting "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis," and the late-night blues of "Wrong Side of the Road" effectively wedded their musical arrangements to Waits's lyrical ruminations. That trend continued with Heart Attack and Vine ("Jersey Girl," the title song) even if the sentiments seemed familiar.

Waits's move to Island Records started with the superb 1983 set Swordfishtrombones and emphasized his increasing musical complexity; at times he recalled Captain Beefheart ("16 Shells from a Thirty Ought Six," "Gin Soaked Boy"), while the piano instrumental "Rainbirds" echoed Thelonious Monk, although "Frank's Wild Years" was a vintage late-night caffeine ramble, and "Swordfishtrombone" belied its bounce with another hard-bitten tale. Rain Dogs contained "Downtown Train," a big hit for Rod Stewart, while Frank's Wild Years expanded on the song with help from artist wife Kathleen Brennan. Waits's albums became more sporadic as he branched out into film and soundtracks, but like Van Morrison and other icons outside the mainstream, his every action generates interest. A cult figure with some general visibility, Tom Waits is not an obvious choice for the Hall of Fame, but neither is he an unwarranted one.

Too Much Fame or Not Enough: Neil Diamond, Dr. John, Darlene Love

The biggest name here is Neil Diamond, but like Billy Joel's 1999 induction, being a pop superstar is not an automatic ticket to the Hall of Fame, particularly if, like Joel's, Diamond's music rarely cut below the surface sheen. Dr. John has the opposite problem of being a supporting star for decades while enjoying only a brief stint in the popular consciousness. And although Darlene Love might have been held more obscurely than she deserved, that glory period was so brief regardless that it's hard to justify her inclusion.

Neil Diamond: A fixture in pop music since the mid-1960s, singer and songwriter Neil Diamond has yearned for the kind of artistic recognition accorded to his contemporaries from Carole King to Paul Simon to Bob Dylan but despite his best efforts—and Diamond has made extraordinary efforts throughout his career—he has never been more than a competent craftsman, both as a performer and as a songwriter. Granted, Diamond's songs have spawned a fairly broad array of cover versions, from the Monkees ("I'm a Believer") and Deep Purple ("Kentucky Woman") to UB40 ("Red Red Wine") and Urge Overkill ("Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon"), and he has scored a passel of hits on his own. But Diamond's instincts have always been Brill Building, if not Tin Pan Alley—his starring in the hoary 1980 remake of The Jazz Singer epitomizes this tendency—and his catalog has consistently lacked the depth and resonance of the artists to whom he has always aspired.

Diamond got off to a decent enough start with the spare mood of "Solitary Man" and the rollicking "Cherry, Cherry," while the Elmer Gantry manqué "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" feinted toward both sly humor and lyrical substance. But the success of 1969's "Sweet Caroline," his highest-charting hit in the U.S. to date and his first British hit, presaged the soft-rock schlock that would dominate his output in the 1970s ("I Am . . . I Said," "Song Sung Blue," and "You Don't Bring Me Flowers," his duet with Barbra Streisand) although he could still kick out a jaunty gem like "Cracklin' Rosie" every now and then, even if "Forever in Blue Jeans" was one of those finger-snappers that could go either way. He kept his streak going through the early 1980s—both "America" and "Heartlight" found Diamond unafraid to make big statements both social and personal, although the former echoed the ersatz significance of The Jazz Singer, from whose soundtrack it was taken, while the latter was inspired by the overweening sentiment of another film, Steven Spielberg's E.T. ("America" did subsequently develop some cachet when it was included on Clear Channel Communications' hysterically misguided memo of "inappropriate" songs following the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.)

By the 1990s, Diamond was coasting on his reputation while charting occasionally with covers of pop and traditional standards, his sought-after artistic acceptance still a mirage. His career is that of the survivor and, were he a professional athlete, that of the compiler, piling up stats because he has managed to hang in there for so long. That's not an insignificant feat, but neither is it a Hall of Fame-worthy one.

Dr. John: Singer, pianist, and songwriter Mac Rebennack, better known as Dr. John (or Dr. John Creaux, or even Dr. John, the Night Tripper), is by now a part of Rock and Soul Era history, having begun in New Orleans as a studio musician while still a teenager in the late 1950s before lighting out for Los Angeles in the following decade. A disciple of New Orleans piano legend Professor Longhair, whose signature song "Tipitina" he eventually covered, Rebennack developed his Dr. John persona in L.A., and by the late 1960s he had begun releasing a series of psychedelic-gumbo records, especially the 1968 classic Gris-Gris, that were easily among the trippiest in a period of decidedly out-there music—even Roky Erickson and Syd Barrett combined couldn't conceive of anything as grandly, hauntingly bizarre as "I Walk on Gilded Splinters."

In the 1970s, Dr. John even notched a hit single with the funky "Right Place, Wrong Time," which has cropped up on a number of movie soundtracks (including a version by B.B. King and Bonnie Raitt for Air America), while the follow-up "Such a Night," which had just missed the Top 40, gained further exposure when Dr. John performed it for the Band's 1978 valedictory concert film The Last Waltz. But that was the extent of Dr. John's popular peak, even if he has won a number of Grammys starting in 1989 with the nostalgic and traditional musical approach he began emphasizing by the late 1970s. A studio stalwart for most of his career, Dr. John would have been a shoo-in for the Hall's Award for Musical Excellence (formerly the Sidemen) category, but inducting him as a performer is not warranted as his record as a performer is neither strong enough nor long enough to justify such a selection.

Darlene Love: In an ensemble that largely stressed anonymity, singer Darlene Love stood out among producer Phil Spector's Wall of Sound cast of characters thanks to her surging voice with its capacity to convey a range of emotions. Indeed, Love emerged as a solo star on the legendary 1963 Christmas album originally titled A Christmas Gift for You from Philles Records. However, the album, which has become arguably the greatest Christmas album by any artists associated with the Rock and Soul Era, sold poorly initially—it was released the same day President John Kennedy was assassinated and thus was overshadowed by that landmark tragedy. Although reissues eventually gave the album its now-exalted status, it seems to echo Love's own fate—and suggests why her induction into the Hall of Fame is problematic.

In addition to the unfortunate timing of the Christmas album's release, Love was also the sometime-lead vocalist for the girl-group the Crystals—she's the lead on their hits "He's a Rebel" and "He's Sure the Boy I Love"—as well as a lead- and backing vocalist for another Spector singing group, Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans—she duets with Bobby Sheen on "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah"; thus, Love's accomplishments are partially obscured by Spector's seemingly arbitrary accreditation system. Love is credited as the solo artist on three hits: "A Fine, Fine Boy," "Today I Met the Boy I'm Gonna Marry," and "Wait 'Til My Bobby Gets Home." She gets the spotlight on Christmas Gift with "White Christmas," "Winter Wonderland," and especially "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," which has become her signature song.

After her early-1960s flurry of fame, Love worked as a back-up singer, quit the business to raise a family, and then returned to performing on the nostalgia circuit, which although it remembered her warmly, is hardly enough to push her into the Hall of Fame. Should the Crystals, a borderline candidate and one of the few girl-groups to merit induction, ever be picked for the Hall, including Darlene Love in the selection would be the right action to take.

2012: Modern Acknowledgement, Classic Over-Representation

6 Inductees: The Beastie Boys, Donovan, Guns 'N Roses, Laura Nyro, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Small Faces/Faces

Yes: The Beastie Boys, Guns 'N Roses

Borderline Yes: Red Hot Chili Peppers, Small Faces/Faces

No: Donovan, Laura Nyro

By the time the Hall inducted the six artists for 2012, the dividing line between classic rock and modern rock had been sharply drawn. (In 2012, six acts were retroactively inducted into the Hall; they are discussed in the separate section below.) The three artists from the modern (post-punk) period—the Beastie Boys, Guns 'N Roses, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers—are among the most significant names since the mid-1980s, and although the Chili Peppers have never been truly accomplished musically, their pioneering fusion of styles transcended their artistic limitations. On the other hand, the Beastie Boys quickly transcended what could have been novelty status to emerge as one of the more considered musical forces in the last three decades, while Guns 'N Roses, which burst forth as one of the most explosive hard-rock acts of any time, deftly, even slyly, straddled the line between classic and modern rock.

However, the three (or is that four?) artists from the classic period—Donovan, Laura Nyro, and Small Faces/Faces—continue the Hall's persistent backfilling with ever-diminishing returns. Donovan may be emblematic of his day—but how many more folk-rock and psychedelic-rock acts not already inducted are truly worthy of the Hall? Nyro is problematic because she may indeed belong in the Hall—but as was done with Carole King and as should have been done with Isaac Hayes, as a non-performer. And unless Small Faces and Faces are linked by a common rhythm section into a unified package, neither act had the impact and influence individually to make the Hall.

Latitude and Attitude: The Beastie Boys, Guns N' Roses

Both the Beastie Boys and Guns 'N Roses exploded into prominence in the 1980s, and while GNR self-destructed fairly soon afterward, the Beasties kept it alive into the 21st century. The Beasties made a genuine effort to merge hard rock with hip-hop, not simply using one to flavor the other, and although it may not have been wholly successful it was innovative and influential. Guns 'N Roses combined a classic hard-rock approach with contemporary attitude to forge a new template for a hard-rock band, and had been expanding its musical range even in the relatively short time it was together.

The Beastie Boys: Not merely showing that white boys could rap, the Beastie Boys more significantly effected a union of rock and rap that echoes Sly Stone's wedding of rock and soul a generation previously—it was a hybrid that softened the distinctions between the two forms even as it heralded an exciting new direction. Not that the Beasties' 1986 debut album Licensed to Ill, released after a handful of nondescript singles, necessarily suggested such a momentous event as it remains one of the greatest adolescent boasts of the Rock and Soul Era. Producer Rick Rubin channeled the (somewhat privileged) urban attitudes of MCs Michael "Mike D" Diamond, Adam "MCA" Yauch, and Adam "Ad-Rock" Horovitz into a series of brash, often hilarious vignettes—"Girls," "Paul Revere," the rock-hard "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn," and the sophomore anthem "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party!)"—that sampled everything from AC/DC, Kool and the Gang, Led Zeppelin, and War to the 1960s sitcoms Green Acres and Mister Ed.

Which makes the band's next album, Paul's Boutique, all the more remarkable because its lyrical and musical sophistication, including a burgeoning social conscience, underlined the Beasties' ambition to develop a viable rock-rap merger and not merely use elements of one to garnish the other. That approach didn't spell commercial success—only "Hey Ladies" showed significant singles action—and Check Your Head, despite the compelling "So What'cha Want," offered tired, cliché efforts instead ("Gratitude," "Pass the Mic"). However, 1994's Ill Communication announced the Boys' maturation in no small measure, from the sinewy funk of "Root Down" to the stripped-down exhortations of "Sure Shot"—although the rap-metal crunch of "Sabotage" became a Beasties touchstone, thanks in part to its 1970s-crime-drama-inspired music video directed by Spike Jonze.

Indeed, by the time of Hello Nasty (1998), the Beastie Boys had achieved their synthesis (for example, "Intergalactic" could fall into hip-hop or electronica space), although as popular music entered the 21st century, it had absorbed so many stylistic influences that trying to delineate or categorize much of it could become a fool's errand. And even if a newer track such as "Ch- Check It Out" harkens back to old-school approaches, another one, "An Open Letter to NYC," informed by post-9/11 realities, suggests that the inclusive, cosmopolitan approach the Beastie Boys had been trying to establish was finally here. That's a long way from the snickering silliness of "Brass Monkey," but that path led eventually—and unreservedly—to Cleveland.

Guns 'N Roses: Once you strip away the charisma and the controversy, the balls and the bluster, what is most remarkable about Guns 'N Roses is how it upheld the classic-rock tradition while updating it for contemporary sensibilities. The specter of the Rolling Stones surrounds this band in attitude, approach, and style even as its frank, sometimes graphic drug- and sexual imagery blasted away the slick glitziness of 1980s commercial hard rock and replaced it with an edginess all the more powerful for its believability and candor. The kicker was the insight, if not outright empathy, that lay at the heart of the band's often astute observations, although lead singer Axl Rose's penchant for pugnacity and prejudice sullied GNR's reputation at times.

Nevertheless, the band's scintillating debut album Appetite for Destruction was undoubtedly the biggest hard-rock introduction since Jimi Hendrix's Are You Experienced? two decades before. Just as Hendrix captured his zeitgeist, Guns 'N Roses chronicled the urban blight amidst it in "My Michelle," "Rocket Queen," and especially in the anthem "Welcome to the Jungle" while the unabashed drug odes "Nightrain" and "Mr. Brownstone" were impressive ripostes to Ronald and Nancy Reagan's Just Say No to Drugs national climate. However, GNR landed its biggest blow with a ballad, "Sweet Child o' Mine," whose touching lyrics put the band leagues ahead of the competition.

For Appetite alone, Guns 'N Roses merits serious Hall consideration, but even though its follow-up EP G N' R Lies prompted accusations of bigotry for "One in a Million," the band delivered a pair of aces in Use Your Illusion I and Use Your Illusion II. Criticized at the time for their simultaneous release—although fans quickly put them both at the top of the charts—they stand as twin pinnacles of the near-original band with their array of songs that encompasses not just notorious sexism ("Back off Bitch," "Pretty Tied Up") and trademark truculence ("Right Next Door to Hell," "Get in the Ring") but auspicious power ballads ("Estranged," "November Rain") and, in a nod to classic rock, covers of Bob Dylan ("Knockin' on Heaven's Door") and Paul McCartney and Wings ("Live and Let Die"). In fact, the band's addition of keyboards to its attack suggested the stylistic expansion of mid-period Rolling Stones, and as the pre-eminent hard-rock act of its day, Guns 'N Roses looked set for the long haul.

So what happened? The group's combustibility fed its appetite for self-destruction only a few years after its meteoric rise, with Rose and lead guitarist Slash—the Mick Jagger and Keith Richards of the time—falling out not long after having recorded the Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil" (used on film soundtracks including Interview with the Vampire). The band effectively ceased operations as a front-line unit, although Rose's promise for another blockbuster album, Chinese Democracy, which eventually arrived in 2008, was the modern rock equivalent to Brian Wilson's assurances that the Beach Boys' mythical masterpiece album Smile was, like prosperity during the Great Depression, just around the corner. (Wilson did release a version of Smile in 2004.)

But despite what might seem like a short reign, Guns 'N Roses redefined the hard-rock model while upholding the classic-rock tradition. Those are Hall of Fame credentials.

Hybrids of Differing Stripes: The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Small Faces/Faces

Both examples of the various ways hybrids have formed during the Rock and Soul Era, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Small Faces/Faces represent two different aspects. The Chili Peppers are pioneers, having been the first successful act to combine various genres into a recognizable funk-metal style. Other succeeding acts may have refined or expanded the approach but the Peppers sustained a career while influencing others by doing so.

The Small Faces and Faces merger is another kind of hybrid reminiscent of how Funkadelic and Parliament were combined into one entity for induction. As with those two bands, both Small Faces and Faces shared some of the same personnel although unlike those two bands, Small Faces and Faces did not exist during the same time. In any event, doubling up seemed to work because neither Small Faces nor Faces were Hall-worthy on their own.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers: Slam-dancing lustily at the intersection of punk, funk, hip-hop, and heavy metal, the Red Hot Chili Peppers have always had difficulty translating their boundless street-level exuberance into effective songcraft. Right up through 1991's Blood Sugar Sex Magik album, sheer attitude and energy couldn't always obscure the Peppers' penchant for skeletal song structures and sing-songy melodies. Yet the band's approach was undoubtedly influential—Fishbone might have been funkier, Primus might have been quirkier, and Faith No More might have been grander, but the Chili Peppers put this hybrid style on the musical map and have held it there since the 1980s under the guidance of band mainstays singer Anthony Kiedis and monster bassist .Flea.

The first three albums, recorded largely with guitarist Hillel Slovak, found the band thrashing for its voice through exhortation ("Get up and Jump," "Fight Like a Brave"), homage (a cover of Sly Stone's "If You Want Me to Stay"), locker-room lasciviousness ("Catholic School Girls Rule," "Special Secret Song Inside"), and offbeat observation ("True Men Don't Kill Coyotes"). Slovak's overdose death in 1988 brought the band sobering reflection and a new guitarist, John Frusciante, whose metal-edge playing ignited Mother's Milk ("Knock Me Down," "Stone Cold Bush," Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground") and fired up the band for its breakthrough album.

Produced by lean-and-pristine Rick Rubin, Blood Sugar Sex Magik solidified the Peppers' punk-funk attack ("Give It Away," "Suck My Kiss," "Naked in the Rain") while a ballad, "Under the Bridge," ushered the band into the mainstream (and Kiedis gets off a nice ode to Slovak in "My Lovely Man"). However, four years elapsed before the appearance of One Hot Minute, with Dave Navarro (Jane's Addiction) replacing Frusciante, and its relative disappointment, along with recurring drug problems, set the Peppers on choppy waters. But although it took four more years, 1999's Californication, with Frusciante back in the fold, spotlighted a mature band with its chops still functioning (the hit title track and "Scar Tissue"), reasserting the band as exemplars of the style it had pioneered, an impression bolstered by the continuing growth on 2002's By the Way although the Peppers still lacked the musical ability to make it convincing.

While the concept of the Red Hot Chili Peppers has always been stronger than its actual execution, its influence on rock since the 1980s is unmistakable, which is justification enough for the band's induction into the Hall.

Small Faces/Faces: Would Small Faces and Faces (purists insist that the definite article preceding the proper noun is unnecessary) have made it into the Hall as separate acts? Probably not, so they get the Parliament/Funkadelic treatment, and thanks to the diminutive rhythm section core common to both groups—keyboardist Ian McLagan, bassist Ronnie Lane, and drummer Kenney Jones—both groups are inducted as a package deal.

Name branding aside, the two bands sported distinctive, and separate, personalities. Led by singer and guitarist Steve Marriott, Small Faces itself had a few phases, beginning as the best exemplar of the Mod movement this side of the Who while recording for Decca in the mid-1960s. Then, following a change in labels to Immediate, Small Faces dabbled in late-1960s psychedelia (the trendy "Itchycoo Park" became the band's best-known song in the States) before returning to the earlier harder-edged style that presaged Marriott's approach in Humble Pie. As singer Rod Stewart and guitarist Wood brought a similar hard-edged style from their stint with Jeff Beck, Faces also became a hard-rock band, albeit a sloppy one in part due to its reputation as a hard-drinking outfit best known for the driving rocker "Stay with Me."

The early Small Faces combined the raw power of the Who ("E Too D," "It's Too Late," "Own up Time") with the lyrical immediacy of the Kinks ("All or Nothing," "I Can't Dance with You," "Sha La La La Lee") to emerge as a top-flight Mod band—and Led Zeppelin fans listening to "You Need Lovin'" will get a nasty shock of recognition. Moving to Immediate, the band's writing and arrangements became more complex as Marriott's singing grew in confidence, exemplified by the first-class singles "Itchycoo Park" and "Tin Soldier" and the classic album Ogdens' Nut Gone Flake ("Afterglow (Of Your Love)," "Lazy Sunday," the title track), while "Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am" previewed Marriott's upcoming boogie gig with Humble Pie.

Faces' output amounted to a handful of early-1970s albums, and Stewart's concurrent solo career quickly overshadowed the band's efforts. Still, following a tentative start ("Flying," "Three-Button Hand-Me-Down"), Faces roared to life with Long Player ("Bad 'n' Ruin," "Had Me a Real Good Time") and especially A Nod's As Good As a Wink . . . To a Blind Horse, which sported the razor-sharp hit "Stay with Me" along with "Miss Judy's Farm"—just as hard as "Stay with Me" and a tad nastier—and the Allman Brothers-like "Debris," while the band established a reputation as a raucous live attraction. However, Ooh La La was desultory, and the band broke up soon afterward.

After Stewart and Wood left, Marriott rejoined but the moment had passed. (Jones took over the drum chair in the Who after Keith Moon's 1978 death.) Although neither Small Faces nor Faces would merit the Hall on their own, linking their careers through shared personnel results in combined credentials sufficient to gain them all admittance to Cleveland.

Misguided and Mis-Categorized: Donovan, Laura Nyro

An earnest folkie before he became an earnest hippie, Donovan Leitch was a dreamy-eyed poster boy of the 1960s, but although he might be a mite more substantial than the Lovin' Spoonful, he, just as that band, loses luster beyond the context of his era. And just as the Lovin' Spoonful shouldn't be in the Hall of Fame, nor should Donovan. By contrast, Laura Nyro is one of the great unsung talents of the Rock and Soul Era, largely because it is her songs performed by other artists that define the convincing portion of her legacy. Nyro is a worthy Hall of Fame talent—but as detailed below, not as a performer.

Donovan: In Don't Look Back, D.A. Pennebaker's brilliant documentary film about Bob Dylan's contentious 1965 British tour, Dylan is introduced to Donovan Leitch, already being billed as "the UK's Dylan," who plays Dylan one of his songs before Dylan summarily dismisses him. Although the new-Dylan label was perhaps unfair to both, Donovan did seem derivative before he moved into psychedelia later in the 1960s, which brought him his greatest success and largely defines his legacy.

The Scottish singer, guitarist, and songwriter couldn't help but brook comparisons to Dylan with his earliest hits as even his inflections in "Catch the Wind" and "Colours" held a familiar twang and drawl, while his cover of Buffy Saint-Marie's "Universal Soldier" echoed folk's social conscience. And although Donovan was becoming established in the British Isles, he was yet to prove popular in the United States as all three songs, all Top Five in the United Kingdom, failed to crack the US Top Twenty. But like Dylan, Donovan was restless and ambitious, and he soon embraced the burgeoning psychedelic sounds of the mid-1960s, with which he is most closely associated.

Not coincidentally, Donovan's hippie period is also his most successful commercially—both "Sunshine Superman" and "Mellow Yellow" became huge hits on both sides of the Atlantic in 1966, putting him in the forefront of the psychedelic movement, while "Hurdy Gurdy Man" and "Barabajagal (Love Is Hot)" continued the string.

In addition, album tracks such as "The Fat Angel," written about Cass Elliott of the Mamas and the Papas, gave him cachet with psychedelic rockers such as Jefferson Airplane, which is mentioned in the song, and which covered the song on its live album Bless Its Pointed Little Head, while the Allman Brothers used "There Is a Mountain" as the basis for their live opus "Mountain Jam." Indeed, decades later Donovan's halcyon songs began to crop up on film soundtracks including Goodfellas ("Atlantis"), To Die For ("Season of the Witch"), and Election ("Jennifer Juniper"), lending him retro-chic prestige.

But as the 1960s closed, Donovan, significantly, did not catch the wind for the singer-songwriter boom of the 1970s, and his hits and popularity had effectively dried up by the time punk rock arrived to render hippies quaint anachronisms. Donovan was part of the cultural landscape of the 1960s, and his keynotes may be remembered fondly decades later, but his overall body of work, earnest if derivative folkie to patchouli-scented troubadour, does not rise to the level of the Hall of Fame.

Laura Nyro: For a time in the late 1960s, Laura Nyro helped to shape the course of pop music through the plethora of songs she wrote that became hits for artists from Blood, Sweat and Tears ("And When I Die") to Barbra Streisand ("Stoney End") and Three Dog Night ("Eli's Coming"), and especially by the Fifth Dimension, with whom Nyro was most closely associated ("Stoned Soul Picnic" and "Wedding Bell Blues," among others). Combining a Brill Building approach to songcraft infused with soulful feel, Nyro proved to be influential on an array of artists from Jackson Browne to Joni Mitchell to Todd Rundgren with her guileless songs filled with impressionistic allusion and naked emotion.

In fact, Nyro's career has a loose parallel in Carole King's—and that illustrates the crux of the problem with Nyro's induction as a performer: King was an actual Brill Building inmate before becoming an archetypal singer-songwriter in the early 1970s; her 1971 album Tapestry was an influential blockbuster hit that established her solo career. King was rightly enshrined in the Hall of Fame in 1990—as a non-performer, in the category now called the Ahmet Ertegun Award. Yet King has a better case than does Nyro to have been inducted as a performer, as Nyro's handful of albums through the early 1970s enjoyed at best only modest commercial success; much like Leonard Cohen's, they served as sources for other artists seeking cover material. However, Cohen has remained a performer for several decades, and his recording and performing record has combined with his songwriting influence to merit inclusion as a performer.

As a performer, Nyro appeared at the landmark 1967 Monterey Pop Festival leading a soul revue, and then announced a retirement from music in 1971 around the same time as her release of a delightful collection of soul and R&B covers, Gonna Take a Miracle, with Labelle backing her winsome if undisciplined lead vocals. Nyro returned to action in the late 1970s, acknowledged—though not nearly enough—as an influence on numerous artists even as her absence had pushed her further into the background. Laura Nyro is certainly an important if sometimes overwrought ("Save the Country") and abstruse ("When I Was a Freeport and You Were the Main Drag") songwriter whose accomplishments and influence deserve recognition by the Hall of Fame—as an Ahmet Ertegun Award recipient as a non-performer, not as a full-fledged performer, as her track record does not warrant such recognition. This is the same verdict reached previously for Isaac Hayes, although Nyro's approach was as understated as Hayes's was overblown.

2012: Rectification: Retroactive Induction of Backing Bands

6 Inductees: The Blue Caps, the Comets, the Crickets, the Famous Flames, the Midnighters, the Miracles

Yes: The Crickets, the Famous Flames, the Miracles

Borderline Yes: The Blue Caps, the Comets

No: The Midnighters

In 2012, the Hall of Fame also inducted, retroactively, six backing bands for artists who had been inducted in previous years. United at last with their respective leading figure were the Blue Caps (Gene Vincent), the Comets (Bill Haley), the Crickets (Buddy Holly), the Famous Flames (James Brown), the Midnighters (Hank Ballard), and the Miracles (Smokey Robinson).

Evaluation of the backing bands mirrors each of their leading figures: None of the backing bands change the original evaluation of the leading figure in either a positive or negative manner; in other words, no backing band is deficient enough to degrade the original assessment of the leading figure, nor proficient enough to improve the original assessment of the leading figure, which would be a factor only in the case of Hank Ballard—the addition of the Midnighters isn't enough to change Ballard's status to being worthy of the Hall.

Inducting the backing bands is certainly a laudatory acknowledgement of their contributions to the leading figures' success and credentials for inclusion in the Hall of Fame. After all, making music is overwhelmingly a collaborative effort; more on that below. This of course, though, begs the question for the retroactive inclusion of other backing acts, such as Bob Marley's Wailers, Bob Seger's Silver Bullet Band, and Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band. At what point did the leading figure stand alone as a Hall-worthy talent in the first place?

What about occasional backing acts? For instance, does Crazy Horse get to ride, retroactively, Neil Young's coattails into the Hall? Young has recorded several albums with Crazy Horse, but some of his best-known albums were recorded without Crazy Horse, which had its own largely undistinguished career separate from Young—is that career worthy of enshrinement merely because of the band's association with Young? Speaking of which, the Crickets, for instance, sustained a recording and touring career long after their break from Buddy Holly—does their now-Hall of Fame career reflect that status too?

Now, from another tack, comes the argument that, at least in most cases, these are not really "backing bands" at all—they are the bands whose most famous member had been initially recognized and the rest of the band had been initially ignored. Certainly in the case of the Crickets or the Famous Flames, the two leading figures, Buddy Holly and James Brown, respectively, had collaborated with the rest of the band in a collective manner so that their contribution is intertwined with the others'. But in the case of Brown, does it slight his later solo career to be associated with the Famous Flames? Or does that entail a separate induction?

All of which highlights the complex dynamics that underlie evaluating Hall of Fame talent. Once you begin to tinker with the assessments, will that prompt re-evaluations of previous inductees?

First-Line Support: The Crickets, the Famous Flames, the Miracles

Considering that the front men for these three backing bands—Buddy Holly, James Brown, and Smokey Robinson, respectively—are three of the biggest names that emerged from the first decade of the Rock and Soul Era, their backing bands themselves hardly merit controversy. The hair-splitting comes from deciding just who from each band—the Crickets, the Famous Flames, and the Miracles—was significant enough to be included in the unit that was actually inducted. Those thorny questions are explored below.

The Crickets: Although Buddy Holly's ambition exceeded that of the rest of the Crickets, leading to Holly's break from the group in 1958, the Crickets were unquestionably a vital component of Holly's initial success, and thus they are integral to the development of early rock and roll. In fact, the collaboration showed by the Crickets with Buddy Holly provided the model for subsequent rock bands, not the least the Beatles, who not only ultimately mirrored the two guitars-bass-drums instrumental lineup of the Crickets but chose an insectoid name to honor the Crickets. And although singer-guitarist Sonny Curtis, included in the induction along with drummer Jerry Allison, bassist Joe B. Maudlin, and rhythm guitarist Niki Sullivan, did not technically join the Crickets until after Holly's death—calling into question again just what is entailed by this retroactive recognition—Curtis did write the proto-punk anthem "I Fought the Law" and, endearingly, the theme song to The Mary Tyler Moore Show ("Love Is All Around," later covered by Joan Jett).

The Famous Flames: How many Famous Flames can dance on the head of a pin, and during which time frame? Epitomizing the hornets' nest that gets stirred up by these retroactive admissions, the Famous Flames refers only to the best-known version of the vocal group that initially included James Brown before he quickly became its most prominent member. This does not mean that any of the instrumentalists who played with the Famous Flames at this time are Hall of Famers (officially, that band is the James Brown Orchestra), nor are any of the replacement Famous Flames hired by Brown during disputes with the best-known variant—Bobby Bennett, Bobby Byrd, Lloyd Stallworth, and Johnny Terry—included in the induction, and nor does this explain Brown's status once he finally broke with the Famous Flames for good in 1968, even if Byrd briefly rejoined Brown in 1972. Whew! We need an organizational chart here!

The issue began early, with the release of "Please Please Please" in 1956, and the eventual pressing of the single with the label James Brown and the Famous Flames instead of the initial credit only to the Famous Flames. This appears to be the start of a raft of conflicts, many of them revolving around money owed to whom, that turns this into a soap opera. Suffice to say that without the ensemble vocals and the choreography supplied by the Famous Flames from the mid-1950s through the late 1960s, James Brown would not be the James Brown we know and love, and the "Famous Flames" deserve to be recognized. But what about the JBs, the band with whom Brown helped to pioneer funk in the early 1970s? Uh, oh . . .

The Miracles: Perhaps the one clear-cut case of a "backing unit" getting the initial snub, the Miracles made it possible for Smokey Robinson to have been inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1987 in more ways than one. The first, most obvious way is that the ensemble singing of the Miracles behind Robinson is inextricable from the bounty of timeless gems the group recorded at Motown primarily in the 1960s. But the more technical aspects include these: Robinson's solo career did not begin until 1973, which is well below the 25-year threshold required by the Hall at the time of Robinson's induction, and Robinson's solo efforts, while including some fine moments, are not worthy of the Hall divorced from his association with the Miracles in any case. And if Robinson's induction involved his protean work at Motown as a writer, producer, and A&R man, which are legitimate qualifications, they are nonetheless those of a non-performer. So, this is the least complicated, least controversial of the retroactive inductions: Belated congratulations to Pete Moore, Claudette Rogers Robinson, Bobby Rogers, Marv Tarplin, and Ronald White.

Close-Knit Ties: The Blue Caps, the Comets

Much the same issue that marked the three backing units above pertains to this pair that supported Gene Vincent and Bill Haley, respectively. However, even the full names of their bands makes the association that much stronger.

The Blue Caps: Many sources insist that the proper name of the band is Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps, a proprietary distinction that both subordinates the band to the lead singer and weds singer and band into a unit. Known primarily for the deathless single "Be-Bop-A-Lula," Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps are often considered to be a one-hit wonder; they did chart other singles, and the body of work they created in the 1950s was part of the seedbed from which rock and roll sprang. Lead guitarist Cliff Gallup in particular proved to be an influence on countless guitarists including Jeff Beck and Eric Clapton. Some Blue Caps remained with the band for only a brief time, but Gallup, Tommy Facenda, Dickie Harrell, Bobby Jones, Johnny Meeks, Jack Neal, Paul Peek, and Willie Williams are all inducted. Is it worth arguing at this point? No.

The Comets: Just as many insist that the proper name is Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps, sources too aver that it should be Bill Haley and His Comets. Of course, the number of Comets, "his" and otherwise, has gone into triple digits in the six-plus decades since Haley changed the name of his backing unit from the Saddlemen to the Comets in 1952. But as Haley's heyday was the mid-1950s, only the Comets from that period have been inducted: Joey Ambrose, Franny Beecher, Danny Cedrone, Johnny Grande, Ralph Jones, Marshall Lytle, Rudy Pompilli, Al Rex, Dick Richards, and Billy Williamson. Cedrone, who died in a fall in 1954 at age 33, is an interesting case: Although his involvement with Haley dates back to the Saddlemen days, Cedrone never actually joined either of Haley's bands in a proper, full-time capacity as he opted to do session work while he led his own band. However, it is Cedrone's guitar break on "Rock Around the Clock" that launched him into immortality—even if it is essentially the same break he played on the Saddlemen's "Rock the Joint."

Right Idea, Wrong Decision: The Midnighters

Of the six backing units inducted this year, the Midnighters, united at last with Hank Ballard, inducted in 1990, are in one sense perhaps the most deserving: For most of their relevant career in the 1950s and early 1960s, they were known simply as the Midnighters. It wasn't until their first release of "The Twist" in 1959 that they were credited as Hank Ballard and the Midnighters although Ballard had been the group's lead singer at least since 1953 and their first success on the US R&B charts with "Get It"—and that was officially credited to the Royals, the group's original name, which had been changed by 1954 to the Midnighters to avoid confusion with the "5" Royales. (Scoring only on the R&B charts in its original issue, "The Twist" was re-issued in 1960 and this time it peaked at Number 28 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart—although Chubby Checker built a career on his chart-topping cover version.) The point is that it wasn't until later in the group's career that Hank Ballard was singled out for specific mention; they were simply a collective until then.

None of which matters as the group with or without Ballard, or his name appended to the group's name, rises to the level of the Hall of Fame. The Midnighters introduced a refreshing ribaldry to the early Rock and Soul Era—all three songs in the "Annie" saga ("Work with Me, Annie," "Annie Had a Baby," and "Annie's Aunt Fannie") were banned by the Federal Communications Commission, which didn't stop them from conquering the R&B singles charts—but they should be seen as one of the multitudes that helped to shape the music during its tumultuous inception rather than as a lasting influence. For the record, Henry Booth, Cal Green, Arthur Porter, Lawson Smith, Charles Sutton, Norman Thrasher, and Sonny Woods were all inducted, although the group's founder Alonzo Tucker was mysteriously omitted. Interestingly, four men who were former members of the group or else had some bearing on their career had been inducted separately from the Midnighters: Little Willie John, Johnny Otis, who discovered them in 1953, Levi Stubbs, inducted as the Four Tops' lead singer, and Jackie Wilson.

2013: Transitional Backfilling

6 Inductees: Heart, Albert King, Randy Newman, Public Enemy, Rush, Donna Summer

Yes: Randy Newman, Public Enemy, Donna Summer

Borderline Yes: Rush

No: Heart, Albert King

Of the six inductees in 2013, all but Public Enemy reflect backfilling from the 1970s and 1980s. These are artist who have been eligible for some time, and three of them do represent the transition from the classic period to the modern period that occurred in those years.

Blues guitarist Albert King and singer-songwriter Randy Newman are the most traditional inductees. King's style and approach proved most amenable to rock and soul fans, but his appeal was his most notable feature as his talent and track record do not merit inclusion. On the other hand, Newman has been overlooked year in and year out for two decades. Not just his sterling songwriting but his understated performances have formed an influential thread in the Rock and Soul Era.

Heart, Rush, and Donna Summer all exemplify the transition from one mode to another with Rush and Summer, in their respective genres, actually helping to effect that transition, Rush with its wedding of hard rock/heavy metal with progressive rock, and Summer with an eclectic approach that transcended 1970s disco and anticipated dance-music styles of the 1980s and beyond. Both efforts make them Hall of Famers. Heart managed to thrive in two careers, first as a hard-rock band in the 1970s and then as power-balladeers in the 1980s. Moreover, Heart was the first successful hard-rock band to be led by women, sisters Ann and Nancy Wilson, a notable accomplishment. However, Heart the band followed the trends of those two phases and was not distinguished or innovative; that does not rise to the level of the Hall of Fame.

Public Enemy represents the only modern (post-punk) rock and soul artist in the class of 2013. Its impact and influence extended beyond hip-hop and into popular music, combining a complex musical bed with an astute, committed lyrical outlook. Ironically given its forceful and sometimes controversial stances, it is the least contentious candidate of 2013.

Last year, I did a detailed evaluation of all 15 artists who appeared on the 2013 ballot including, obviously, the six who were elected from that ballot. So, if some of the arguments below seem repetitive, it is because I've covered this territory within the last year.

Ecumenical and Eclectic: Randy Newman, Public Enemy, Donna Summer

The three definite picks for the 2013 Hall of Fame class—Randy Newman, Public Enemy, and Donna Summer—help to symbolize the diverse and diffuse path the Rock and Soul Era has taken: Newman is a quintessential classic-rock singer-songwriter (admittedly hardly an underrepresented genre) with a decidedly singular approach while Public Enemy not just vital to the development of hip-hop but to popular music in general, and Donna Summer, the "Queen of Disco" whose style and approach transcended the genre, is similarly an influential artist in popular music. An unlikely grouping, but one that underscores how diverse and universal the Rock and Soul Era is becoming.

Randy Newman: The fact that it took 15 years for Randy Newman to get on a Hall of Fame ballot from when he first became eligible in 1991 sums up this singer, pianist, and songwriter's career in a nutshell: Newman has always been around—he just doesn't get noticed. His songs do, though, and they had been getting noticed early and often. Newman had begun penning hits for artists such as Jerry Butler and Gene Pitney in the mid-1960s before he released his first album in 1968. That was a modest precursor to a string of more successful albums—and even a hit single, "Short People"—through the early 1980s, when Newman began to concentrate on film scores. And although Newman was nominated for 2005, it took another eight years, until 2013, for him to appear on another ballot. Fortunately, he made it—and it is about damn time.

Why is Randy Newman's a legitimate induction? I could go on at length—and in fact I have. Not only did I make Newman's case in my evaluation of the 2013 ballot, but I presented an extensive case for Newman's Hall inclusion in 2011—to date the only article I've written for this site that concentrates expressly on one artist only.

To summarize, then: Apart from his film work, Randy Newman is best-known as a singer-songwriter, one like Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, and Joni Mitchell, whose compositions proved to be as successful for other artists as for themselves. But Newman was poles apart from that openly confessional style, his terse, understated, but finely-drawn observations, overwhelmingly in the third person, concealed his droll irony until after the final note evaporated; this left the listener to turn around to gape at the sly songster already halfway out the door. Newman's best albums are 12 Songs ("Suzanne," "Lucinda," "Mama Told Me Not to Come") and Sail Away (the title song, "You Can Leave Your Hat On," "Political Science"), both essential rock albums, and many of the rest from this period are not too far behind.

As an artist whose songs have been covered by acts from Three Dog Night to Joe Cocker to Linda Ronstadt to Bonnie Raitt to Harry Nilsson (who recorded an entire album of Newman's songs), Newman himself as a performer has provided the wryest commentary on the Rock and Soul Era than anyone else. In fact, his strength as a performer pushes him past Isaac Hayes and Laura Nyro and even Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits, all artists whose songs often overshadow them. And although I stated at the top of this article that I don't subscribe to the relativist idea that an artist might be worthy of the Hall only if another artist is inducted first, Randy Newman really should have been inducted before any of them because he made their inductions possible in the first place.

Public Enemy: It is hard to overstate the importance of Public Enemy, not just as one of the greatest hip-hop bands but as one of the great bands of the Rock and Soul Era. Hip-hop had discovered its social and political consciousness by the time Public Enemy arrived on the scene in the late 1980s, but PE combined a social and sonic message that exploded from the speakers and established it as the premier commentator on the scene. Chuck D was one of the most commanding MCs to rock the mike, with Flavor Flav a canny comic foil, while DJ Terminator X supplied imaginative cuts and scratches in a rich, resonant production atmosphere generated by Hank Shocklee's peerless Bomb Squad.

PE's debut Yo! Bum Rush the Show was as much pose ("Sophisticated Bitch," "Miuzi Weighs a Ton") as promise ("Rightstarter (Message to a Black Man)," "Timebomb"), but It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back cashed in that potential to become an essential album not just of hip-hop but of the post-punk period. It bristles with brilliant manifestoes from "Don't Believe the Hype," "Bring the Noise," and "Prophets of Rage" to the tremendous "Rebel without a Pause" and "Party for Your Right to Fight." Meanwhile, "She Watch Channel Zero?!" was not only a scathing media critique, it was built on a heavy-metal sample (Slayer's "Angel of Death") that continued the cross-pollination of hip-hop and metal. ("Bring the Noise" was later re-done with Anthrax.)

Even better was Fear of a Black Planet as the production was richer and more intricate, bolstering the white-hot tracks "Burn Hollywood Burn," "Who Stole the Soul," and "Welcome to the Terrordome," and culminating with "Fight the Power," the keynote to Spike Lee's superlative film Do the Right Thing. By now, Public Enemy was being lauded and reviled in equal measures depending on which side of the street you stood; the sound snippets that lace Black Planet provide an incisive commentary on its circumstances and on the social climate overall. The follow-up Apocalypse 91 . . . the Enemy Strikes Black kept the streak alive, particularly on "How to Kill a Radio Consultant"—continuing the media critique from Black Planet—and the pounding "By the Time I Get to Arizona."

Then PE lost its broad pulpit by the mid-1990s as subsequent albums found the group preaching to the converted, although the group kept its intelligence and integrity intact. However, Public Enemy had already established itself as one of the guideposts for the Rock and Soul Era with its rich blend of sonic impact and social commentary. Its induction into the Hall is a foregone conclusion.

Donna Summer: A conspicuous face—and a pleasing one—in a genre, disco, that thrived on faceless anonymity, singer Donna Summer was never a great singer but she was decidedly an effective one who helped to define pop music in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Thus, it is a lasting indictment of the Hall that Summer, eligible since 2000 and a nominee in four of the last five years before her 2012 death, had to be inducted posthumously.

But although Summer may be known as the Queen of Disco, her approach actually transcended such narrow categorization as she combined elements of rock, rhythm and blues, and burgeoning electronica with the basic disco template to create dance music that was more varied, more lasting—and often more soulful and spiritual—than the typical formula.

Despite this, Summer nearly pigeonholed herself early on when, with German producers Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte, she released a racy novelty in 1975, the lengthy "Love to Love You Baby," which featured Summer's steamy moans and groans. Although a shortened version became a huge single, it took Summer a couple more years before she had a hit that big again, but when she did strike gold with the ahead-of-its-time "I Feel Love," the floodgates opened: "Last Dance," "MacArthur Park," "Heaven Knows," "Bad Girls," "Hot Stuff," "Dim All the Lights," "No More Tears (Enough Is Enough)" (her duet with Barbra Streisand), and "On the Radio" were all chart smashes that established Summer's supremacy; several of those were from Summer's 1979 album Bad Girls, the greatest disco album this side of the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever.

As the 1980s began, Summer showed her range and adaptability. Having reconnected with her Christian beliefs, she injected that sense of spirituality into a flavor of synth-pop that she, Moroder, and Bellotte had anticipated with "I Feel Love," yielding hits with "Cold Love," "The Wanderer" (both from another strong album, The Wanderer), and "She Works Hard for the Money," a giant hit in 1983 whose class and gender themes were especially conspicuous during the Reagan years.

Although Summer's career cooled after that, she had been a workhorse for a decade, her collaborations with Moroder and Bellotte paving the way for electronica and subsequent dance-oriented styles. Summer rightly takes her place as one of the pop divas of the Rock and Soul Era—and her inclusion in the Hall of Fame is marred only by her not being alive to see it.

Atlas Smugged: Rush

In a sense, Rush suffered a double whammy in its quest for the Hall: This Canadian power trio has featured the heavy-metal crunch since the beginning of its career, while the band quickly assimilated the lyrical and musical complexity of progressive rock. Neither genre has been warmly embraced by the Hall, and not only does the combination compound that indifference, but Rush's own technocratic elitism also conspired against it.

Beginning as meat-and-potatoes sluggers with blue-collar sensibilities ("Working Man"), Rush soon added drummer Neal Peart, whose instrumental expertise upgraded the band's skills, but it was his lyrics that began to set Rush apart from the hard-rock pack. A devotee of the philosophical and social ideas of Ayn Rand (as he noted in the liner notes to 2112), Peart introduced a libertarian bent to Rush's songs, initially tinged with science-fiction themes—the titular half of 2112 outlined a future society in which music was banned and transgressors punished (beating Frank Zappa to the punch by a few years). This may have given the band intellectual cachet but that soon evolved into smug elitism and social engineering.

With guitarist Alex Lifeson and singer-bassist Geddy Lee also honing their instrumental chops, Rush reeled off a string of technically polished, lyrically sophisticated albums from the late 1970s to the mid-1980s that contained mounting evidence that the band was stipulating a social order that positioned it on top: "Closer to the Heart" (from A Farewell to Kings), "The Trees" (Hemispheres), "Freewill" (Permanent Waves), "Tom Sawyer" (Moving Pictures), "New World Man" and "Subdivisions" (both from Signals), while "Limelight" (from Moving Pictures) whined about the perils of rock and roll fame. Listeners didn't seem to mind, perhaps because Rush's pounding dynamics wedded to its cool technical expertise became a progressive-metal touchstone, and because songs like the thoughtful "Red Barchetta," the compelling "Distant Early Warning," and the whirling "The Spirit of Radio," one of rock's great radio songs, exemplified both the band's brains and brawn.

All of them garnered Rush a devoted fan base, and the band has continued to play to that base, updating its sound while maintaining its core approach, ever since. Moreover, Rush's inclusion strikes two blows against the Hall's biases against hard rock and progressive rock. By-Tor and the Snow Dog!

Better in Concept Than in Execution: Heart, Albert King

With the induction of Heart, the Hall had its, er, heart in the right place—the band is notable for its female leadership, all but unknown in 1970s hard rock—but examination of the band's track record finds that it was a dogged survivor and not an innovative leader. Blues guitarist Albert King sported a flashy style that was attractive to rock and soul audiences, but his substance was not exceptional. Neither act should be in the Hall.

Heart: There is no disputing that, right from the start, hard rock has been a boys' game. So, for the Wilson sisters, singer Ann and guitarist Nancy, to not only have fronted Heart but to have been its driving force is undeniably noteworthy. But is it Hall of Fame-worthy? Only if the accomplishment is that the Wilsons led a hard-rock band to commercial success without recognizing that Heart in either of its two phases, an arena-rock act pounding out rockers in the 1970s and an arena-rock act pumping out ballads in the 1980s, was hardly exceptional or innovative.

In the 1970s, Heart's folk-metal approach found the band tagged as "Jethro Zeppelin," with "Dreamboat Annie" and "Silver Wheels" taking the acoustic approach while "Crazy on You," "Barracuda," and the supple, muscular "Magic Man" turned up the volume. In truth, Heart did have a hard time transcending its derivations—the band's live version of Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll" is a too-faithful reproduction, while "Dream of the Archer" borrows conspicuously from Zep's "The Battle of Evermore." Nevertheless, rockers such as "Even It Up," "Kick It Out," and the droll "Bebe le Strange" had no problem mixing it up with other classic-rock staples.

Reviving its flagging market share in the 1980s, Heart discovered the power ballad, and helped by Ann's strong voice, it unleashed a string of hits starting with "What About Love" and moving through "These Dreams," "Alone," and a number of others, while songs like "Who Will You Run To" aimed for arena-rock grandeur. The band's polished production was similarly a departure from its previous lean attack. By the 1990s, women in rock were much more prevalent although the pioneering efforts of the Wilson sisters seemed to have been overlooked until now.

Thus, the questions remain: Is Heart in the Hall of Fame because it was the first commercially successful hard-rock band led by two women? Or is it in the Hall because it is a distinguished hard-rock band regardless of gender composition? The former seems more likely, and although the Hall has been fairly diligent about recognizing the distaff influence on the Rock and Soul Era, for good (Brenda Lee, Patti Smith) and not-so-good (Darlene Love, Laura Nyro), this is a gratuitous inclusion. Sometimes being first is not enough.

Albert King: Much like Buddy Guy, Albert King is a blues guitarist who had been embraced by rock fans and musicians. Indeed, with King playing his signature Gibson Flying V guitar left-handed and in a flashy style, he seemed more in sync with rock and soul than with blues. On his keynote Stax album Born under a Bad Sign he was backed by Booker T. and the MGs, and three standout songs soon gained currency among rock players: "Born under a Bad Sign" spawned versions by several artists from Cream to, er, Homer Simpson; Eric Clapton covered "Crosscut Saw"; and "The Hunter" became incorporated into Led Zeppelin's "How Many More Times."

Furthermore, even though he was actually two years older than his namesake B.B. King, Albert King didn't earn significant success until the Rock and Soul Era. But despite the flash and acclaim from the rock crowd, King seldom rose above the sum of his influences, which ranged from Lonnie Johnson to T-Bone Walker to B.B. King; after hearing B.B.'s "Three O'Clock Blues," Albert King Nelson dropped the "Nelson" from his name and went with "Albert King" as his stage name. King's blues-playing could be fiery ("Killing Floor," "Why You So Mean to Me?") if derivative, but when he ventured into rock and pop, such as on a string of albums for the Tomato label (Albert, Truckload of Lovin'), King seemed out to sea, awash in the ornate arrangements—unlike B.B. King, who brought his stylistic flourishes firmly within the framework of the blues.

Albert King might have been a favorite of rock players from Mick Taylor to Stevie Ray Vaughan to Joe Walsh, but like them, King was a high-powered guitar-slinger looking for something to say. And that is not the résumé of a Hall of Fame artist.

2011 – 2013: Coda

In the last three years of selecting inductees, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inducted 17 artists. The table below shows those 17 categorized as noted previously: Yes, Borderline Yes, and No. (I am not including the six backing bands inducted retroactively in 2012 as they are associated with artists already inducted.)

Breakdown of Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductees, 2011 – 2013
Year	Yes	Borderline Yes	No	Total Inductees
2011	0	2	3	5
2012	2	2	2	6
2013	3	1	2	6
Totals	5	5	7	17
Pct. of Total	29.4%	29.4%	41.2%	100%

In the expansive scenario, that the Borderline Yeses are justified, 10 out of 17, or 58.8 percent, of its inductees are worthy of induction, with 7 out of 17, or 41.2 percent, not worthy of the Hall. In 2011, the Hall did not have a sure-fire inductee, with only 2 inductees even Borderline Yeses.

In the exclusive scenario, that the Borderline Yeses are not justified, a mere 5 of 17, or 29.4 percent, are worthy of the Hall. Given the smaller than usual sample size, these percentages appear more extreme.

1986 – 2013: Reprise

In 28 years of inducting acts into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a total of 186 acts have made it into Cleveland. The table below shows those 186 categorized as noted previously: Yes, Borderline Yes, and No. (Again, the six backing acts from 2012 are not included.)

Breakdown of Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductees, 1986 – 2013
Year	Yes	Borderline Yes	No	Total Inductees
1986	10			10
1987	7	5	3	15
1988	5			5
1989	4		1	5
1990	3	3	2	8
1991	3	3	1	7
1992	4	3		7
1993	6	1	1	8
1994	4	3	1	8
1995	6	1		7
1996	4	2	1	7
1997	2	4	1	7
1998	3	1	2	6
1999	1	4	2	7
2000	0	3	3	6
2001	3	3	2	8
2002	2	1	3	6
2003	3	0	2	5
2004	2	2	3	7
2005	2	1	2	5
2006	3	1	1	5
2007	2	3	0	5
2008	1	1	3	5
2009	2	0	3	5
2010	1	2	2	5
2011	0	2	3	5
2012	2	2	2	6
2013	3	1	2	6
Totals	88	52	46	186
Pct. of Total	47.3%	28.0%	24.7%	100%

If you are in a generous mood, meaning that the Borderline Yeses are indeed worthy of the Hall, then the Hall doesn't look too bad: A tad more than three-quarters of the 186 acts, or 75.3 percent, are justifiably inducted. So, for all the complaining fans have done bemoaning the Hall's selections, it has made the right call three out of every four times. That's a passing grade, and a pretty respectable one at that—that is as long as you accept that all those Borderline Yeses, 28 percent of the total, are justified.

Those Borderline Yeses are of course open to interpretation, and that interpretation is understandably broad, which means that the in exclusive scenario, in which none of the Borderline Yeses are justified, the number of legitimate artists drops to below 50 percent. That seems to correspond to the general dissatisfaction that many listeners have with the Hall of Fame, that it has snubbed so many deserving acts while granting entrance to undeserving ones.

And if you think that these conclusions, whether for each of the six periods examined separately or for all inductees in aggregate, are predicated on subjective supposition, you are absolutely right: These are my assessments and conclusions, and they will not align with yours. (I thought about qualifying that last statement, but the odds are so remotely slim that even one other person will agree exactly with my conclusions. In fact, I'm not sure that I agree with all my conclusions myself.)

In truth, the range of percentages will change with each individual's perception of which act is or is not a Hall of Fame-level artist. The Borderline Yeses will provide the greatest variance as so many of the artists truly are judgment calls, or are at least subject to much greater debate. In previous audits, I listed as Borderline Yeses Solomon Burke and Sam and Dave, both of whom could have been Nos, but listed as a No Wilson Pickett, who could have been a Borderline Yes; similarly, I said No to Buddy Guy when he may be a Borderline Yes.

It is to be expected that the Borderline Yeses should be contentious, and I've given the Borderline Yes nod to ABBA, Leonard Cohen, Miles Davis, Brenda Lee, and Patti Smith, among others—some quarters will argue that they are at best on the periphery and at worst not "real" "rock and roll" in the first place.

But more significantly, my assessments of the inductees that are unequivocal to me—the Yeses and Nos—are sure to be disputed by listeners across the board. Among my Yeses, meaning that there should be no dispute about their legitimacy, are Michael Jackson, Elton John, Madonna, the Stooges, and the Velvet Underground, and all can be derided as being too pop or too punk, respectively.

Among the Nos are Ruth Brown, Eddie Cochran, and Carl Perkins—vintage Rock and Soul Era enthusiasts would argue that they are essential; Neil Diamond, Billy Joel, the Righteous Brothers, and Dusty Springfield—pop fans will protest; AC/DC, Queen, and ZZ Top—hard-rock diehards gnash their teeth and howl; and Eric Clapton, John Mellencamp, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers—surely they are the epitome of classic rock?

To all of that I say: Yes. When the bottom line in an assessment is subjectivity, then any conclusions, no matter how well-reasoned, are open to interpretation. I tried to give every artist a fair hearing—literally and figuratively—and in doing so I encountered a number of surprises.

For example, when I did my initial sort of the inductees into the three buckets (Yes, Borderline Yes, and No), I had ABBA, Leonard Cohen, and Brenda Lee marked as Nos. But while listening to their songs and reviewing their historical record, I realized that their contributions were significant enough to be included in the Hall of Fame. Listening closer to Dusty Springfield, I fell in love with her voice, but I still felt that her contributions were ultimately not substantial enough to merit inclusion.

The Dusty Springfield example underscores a key point: Liking or not liking an artist should be independent from an impartial assessment. I've had AC/DC and ZZ Top records for ages because I like their music, but I do not think either band is significant enough to be in the Hall. And historical impact is another vital consideration. I had both Alice Cooper and the Red Hot Chili Peppers initially pegged as Nos, but in examining their contributions and the impact they had on the development of the music, I had to reconsider that assessment and recognize their importance to the Rock and Soul Era.

In that respect, one laudatory aspect to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is that it does require that 25 years elapse from the release of an artist's first recording before an act can be considered eligible for induction. That allows sufficient time for a considered examination of the artist's legacy.

Not that the Hall's processes and rationale for which artists are to be included cannot be faulted. At the end of the day, I find that one-quarter of the 186 artists it has inducted into the Hall should not be there, and this is just an examination of the artists who have been inducted. The artists who have not yet been inducted is a separate issue . . . or you could check out a website such as this one . . .

Fade Out: Does It Matter?

All through the course of preparing these six audits, I regularly asked myself, Does it really matter who should or should not be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? This was particularly true in the year between the last audit, Part 5, and this one as I worked on this most recent audit in fits and starts, pushing it onto the back burner as other articles—other subjects of interest—came and went.

But even as I procrastinated, the question still ambled through my head. Leaving aside the larger philosophical and existential considerations, I have decided that it does matter which artists are inducted into the Hall of Fame.

First, the Hall of Fame is a museum, a repository of the history of the music, and the induction of each artist into the Hall of Fame announces that that artist is an example of the most significant artists in the history of the music. A qualified inductee answers questions such as, Is this artist one of the best examples of a style, genre, or period? Did this artist make a significant impact or have a lasting influence?

Second, music is an intensely emotional experience; it has the power to move us with more immediacy than perhaps any other art form. It is also an intensely personal experience, but that experience can be easily shared with others. As a result, music becomes a part of who we are, a reflection of who we are, which may be why the inclusion or exclusion of an artist from the Hall of Fame can provoke such heated reactions—it can seem like a personal affront. And for the last six decades, that music that moves us so much has been predominantly rock and roll. Or rock and soul. Or primarily Western popular music since the mid-1950s. And we're back to how to define it, but you know what I mean.

Finally, it is that collective experience of the music that has the most important impact because that music has had a pronounced influence on our society and indeed on our civilization. That is not an overstatement. Music of the Rock and Soul Era has become woven into the fabric of our personal and public lives. One of the prevailing clichés of the 1960s was that rock music could change the world; that generation is alternately known as the Woodstock Generation, named for the landmark rock festival that epitomized the zenith of the age—while the Rolling Stones' infamous free concert at Altamont six months later represented the nadir of that age. Later, punk and hip-hop became vehicles for social and political expression.

And it wasn't just in the West that music of the Rock and Soul Era had an impact. Recently, I watched a documentary about the impact of rock music behind the Iron Curtain during the Cold War. It was not especially good—I can't even recall its title—but it reinforced previous observations about how rock music represented hope and freedom of expression to those in authoritarian and repressive societies. Following the collapse of the Soviet Bloc, Czech playwright and politician Vaclav Havel related to the West how he had been inspired by the Velvet Underground and Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention during the decades that then-Czechoslovakia was under communist rule. (Zappa later became an unofficial cultural attaché to Havel's government.)

More recently, the Russian punk-rock group Pussy Riot enacted protests against Vladimir Putin's government, with three of its members eventually imprisoned. Meanwhile, regimes from Iran under Ayatollah Khomeini to Afghanistan under the Taliban have expressly banned rock music as examples of Western "decadence."

These are just a few quick examples to demonstrate the impact that music of the Rock and Soul Era has had around the world. The bottom line is that the music does matter, and what else matters is how it is presented and celebrated in what is currently the only central repository of that musical record, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

The Kinks once said it was "only jukebox music." The Rolling Stones once said that "it's only rock and roll." But I like it because it is a reflection of who we are and who we can be. It does indeed matter.

Now if only we could define it.