Index
Gloria Gaynor. It is of course entirely fitting that Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" has indeed become a cockroach of a single, able to withstand a nuclear blast without missing a beat. But this journeywoman singer already had another self-empowerment story ("(If You Want It) Do It Yourself"), a lust rap ("Casanova Brown"), and—best of all—a winning disco-medley strategy (the smoking first side of Never Can Say Goodbye) before that legacy bestowed itself.
David Gilmour. Pinpoint guitarist Gilmour let his hair down on his rocking first solo album while possibly expressing his claustrophobia with Pink Floyd ("There's No Way out of Here"), although he stayed and Roger Waters split. Gilmour's next effort had 1980s slickness, but—lo!—his late-middle-age On an Island reaffirmed his popularity. And then he acquitted himself rather nicely with the Orb on Metallic Spheres. But maybe they're dinosaurs now too.
The Golden Palominos. Led by drummer Anton Fier, with support from tireless bassist Bill Laswell and early appearances by Fred Frith and John Zorn, this avant-rock collective wears its guest stars like badges—Jack Bruce, Michael Stipe, Matthew Sweet, Richard Thompson—although singer Syd Straw made her auspicious debut here too. Sounds and textures change like New England weather even from song to song, but it keeps them from being too artsy-fartsy.
Robyn Hitchcock. Syd Barrett didn't go into seclusion after founding Pink Floyd—he just became Robyn Hitchcock. Of course, he formed the Soft Boys before going solo. Like Barrett, Hitchcock evinces plenty of childlike whimsy that can conceal more mature observations ("Balloon Man") along with a dreamy wistfulness ("Madonna of the Wasps"), gentle mocking ("So You Think You're in Love"), and even sighing resignation ("She Doesn't Exist").
The Holy Modal Rounders. It's the karmic balance of the universe—if the Fugs make the top 500, then 1960s relics the Holy Modal Rounders should as well. Besides, the Rounders made it onto the Easy Rider soundtrack and the Fugs didn't. This is what Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger would get up to if someone slipped them a mickey of LSD and crystal meth at a Disneyland church revival. I can't even begin to explain "Indian War Whoop" or "My Mind Capsized" . . .
Ian Hunter. The man behind the shades wanted to be a rock star so badly that even when his first vehicle, Mott the Hoople, stalled, halfway to Memphis or elsewhere, he turned out to have a pretty substantial solo career. I like the slow burn of "Bastard" best, but he's better known for "Once Bitten, Twice Shy," "Ships" (a hit for—wait for it—Barry Manilow), and a song used as the theme to The Drew Carey Show that points to where Hunter wants to be: "Cleveland Rocks."
James Gang. Speaking of Cleveland rockers, Joe Walsh's first outfit has got to be more worthy than . . . Uriah Heep? Dr. Hook? Walsh masterminded the James Gang's trademark hard rockers ("Funk #49," "Walk Away," "The Bomber"), but he also shone with the more intricately arranged "The Ashes, the Rain, and I" and "Tend My Garden," ideas that he later developed in Barnstorm. Then the Eagles happened, and maybe all that cocaine finally did him in?
King's X. This melodic hard rock act's first album as King's X was released in 1988, recalling the Nirvana dilemma as to whether the band is truly eligible. It's not on the list now but it should be in subsequent revisions. The harmony vocals seem too sweet for hard rock—they take a moment to get used to—but King's X kicks out a dexterous, layered sound ("Fall on You," "Lost in Germany") that can really build up a head of steam in "Moanjam" and elsewhere.
Nils Lofgren. Already a teenage wunderkind when Neil Young used him on his 1970 After the Gold Rush album, Nils Lofgren seemed set: He soon formed his own band, the accessible if provincial Grin ("Moon Tears," "Lost a Letter"), before earning early solo acclaim ("Back It Up," "Keith Don't Go"). Alas, he soon lost his way for the rest of the 1970s; he joined Bruce Springsteen in the 1980s, but his moment for greatness passed. Such rich potential, though.
Maria Muldaur. Although this folk-blues singer's "Midnight at the Oasis" was both her biggest hit and a target for worst-song lists, Maria Muldaur was hardly a one-shot artist. After cutting her teeth in the 1960s folk scene, she established a folk-pop career in the 1970s that saw her lace her approach with some bawdy blues ("Three Dollar Bill," "Don't You Make Me High") before fading into the nostalgia circuit. C'mon, Prefab Sprout never had a hit as memorable as "Oasis."
The Neville Brothers. Part of New Orleans soul-R&B aristocracy for years, the Neville Brothers put meat on the funky bones laid down by the Meters (brother Cyril was a Meter) topped by the aching throb of brother Aaron's voice. The band whipped up a rich Crescent City gumbo ("Fiyo on the Bayou," "Hey Pocky Way") while developing a social conscience ("Let My People Go," "Sister Rosa"), all delivered with peerless appeal and musicianship. A pretty obvious omission.
The Outlaws. Critic Alan Niester nailed this synthetic Southern rock band as "the Sara Lee banana cake of rock & roll," but it really wasn't that dire. "Hurry Sundown" and especially "There Goes Another Love Song" were as engaging as Marshal Tucker and .38 Special, "(Ghost) Riders in the Sky" worked up a Skynyrd head of steam, and "Green Grass and High Tides" was the band's Allman Brothers opus. All right—it's banana cake. Still tastes pretty good, though.
Ray Parker, Jr. Although he's pegged as another worst-song candidate for the Ghostbusters theme song, this versatile soul-R&B impresario was actually a fairly imaginative practitioner. Parker led the mysterioso Raydio ("Jack and Jill," "You Can't Change That") in the late 1970s before going solo with the terrific rock-R&B blend "The Other Woman," the wry S&M follow-up "Bad Boy," and, yes, "Ghostbusters." Which you know you love, anyway.
? and the Mysterians. Not to play the equivalency card, but if the Kingsmen ("Louie Louie") and especially the 13th Floor Elevators ("You're Gonna Miss Me") make the list, then ? and the Mysterians and their awesome "96 Tears" deserve recognition as proto-punk cornerstones too. The good news is that the Mysterians' organ-fueled excursions "Don't Tease Me," "Midnight Hour," "Smokes," and "You're Telling Me Lies" are just as memorable as "96 Tears."
The Residents. Somewhere in the universe is a bizarro parallel Earth where Captain Beefheart is Justin Timberlake and the Residents are Pink Floyd. On our planet, it's tough to convince listeners that Eskimo or Third Reich Rock 'n' Roll are essential opuses because they defy conventional expectations, and even accessible nuggets like "Bach Is Dead," "Constantinople," and "The Electrocutioner" remain challenging. But on another world far, far away . . .
The Rivingtons. Long before Frank Zappa's affectionate parodies, the Rivingtons were already taking the mickey out of doo-wop's melodrama with the tongue-in-cheek pleas "Cherry," "Deep Water," and "I'm Losing My Grip." They could cut loose, too—"Kickapoo Joy Juice," "Love Pill"—but the Rivingtons' lasting absurdity is this: Their manic "Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow" and "The Bird's the Word" became the Trashmen's "Surfin' Bird." That's qualification enough.
The Roches. These deadpan singing sisters—Suzzy, Terre, and sardonic songwriter Maggie—were indie-irony inspirations years before college-educated slackers began whining and strumming in overpriced coffee houses. From '60s pastiche ("Another World") to winking David Byrne impersonations ("Nurds") to begging for your old job back ("Mr. Sellack"), the Roches were low-key, acute, wry commentators who deserved greater recognition.
Rose Tattoo. You think AC/DC are tough-rocking Aussies? Angus Young does the schoolboy shtick, but Angry Anderson's crew with its slide-guitar bite burst out of reform school ready to tear your head off. That seething class resentment gives social sting to "Scarred for Life" and "Branded" while "We Can't Be Beaten" is street-level resilience, "The Butcher and Fast Eddie" is switchblade opera, and the bounce of "Sydney Girls" is bawdy compensation.
The Screaming Blue Messiahs. A prime entry on the "Whatever happened to . . . ?" list because Messiahs front man Bill Carter burst from 1980s England as a left-field cross between Joe Strummer and Joe Jackson. The Messiahs' lean, biting, post-punk attack enlivened off-kilter blasts such as "Jesus Chrysler Drives a Dodge" and "Killer Born Man" while "Bikini Red" and "Wild Blue Yonder" promised depth and texture. Call the Missing Persons Bureau.
Social Distortion. Not just another high-energy purveyor of 1980s Orange County skatepunk, Social D. had a few stories to tell thanks to leading light Mike Ness. Borrowing plainspoken narrative from classic country—the band's cover of "Ring of Fire" wasn't merely affectation—Ness painted scenes of suburban disaffection in "So Far Away," "Ball and Chain," and "Bad Luck" while he and the band generated a hard, fast, heavy haymaker of guitar noise.
Edwin Starr. Don't peg this middleweight slugger as a strident one-hitter ("War") because although Edwin Starr lacked nuance—"Stop the War Now" was "War"'s carbon-copy follow-up—he split the difference between Motown's classic second generation (the playful "Agent Double-O Soul" and "S.O.S. (Stop Her on Sight)") and its funky third (the propulsive "Time" and "Twenty-five Miles"). Starr was a bit more than simply a one-"War" pony.
Al Stewart. This Scottish folk-rocker stretched "troubadour" to an overweening extreme, precious and eager to please while bent on displaying his arcane historical view ("Nostradamus," "Roads to Moscow"). Articulate without having much to say, he still scored with "Time Passages" and especially the Casablanca-inspired "Year of the Cat," with "Song on the Radio" epitomizing his engaging vapidity. Oddly, he got better as he became gradually forgotten.
10,000 Maniacs. Singer Natalie Merchant's alluring yet sexless purr blended with the band's friendly alt-rock like a jigger of cooking sherry in a wheatgrass shake—10,000 Maniacs was mildly exotic without being edgy, and it was supposed to be good for you ("Gun Shy," "What's the Matter Here?"). The band did seem made to cover another pointedly earnest voice, Cat Stevens, although something like "My Sister Rose" was still pretty darn winsome.
Pat Travers. Epitomizing "journeyman" in its most positive sense, this hard-rocking Canadian guitarist actually had a thing or two to say ("Life in London," "It Ain't What It Seems") before he made a brief flurry in the States ("Snortin' Whiskey," Little Walter's "Boom Boom (Out Go the Lights)"). He even tore off a hot lick or two before he outsourced the flash to Pat Thrall. Time was unkind to this archetypal classic rocker, but Travers deserved better.
Voivod. Starting as an agile speed-metal act from Quebec that strained for fearsomeness—Killing Technology sports both a "Killing Side" and a "Ravenous Side"—Voivod soon folded progressive rock into its dynamic formula. Nothingface stressed a bright, clean sci-fi angle with "Pre-Ignition" and "X-Ray Mirror" while its take on Pink Floyd's "Asronomy Domine" presaged a later cover of King Crimson's art-metal touchstone "21st Century Schizoid Man."
Roger Waters. Boy, did this guy need his old band, if only because it imbued this borderline misanthrope (and misogynist?) with needed humanity. Which is ironic because this brains behind Pink Floyd actually continued to examine the human condition in acute, sometimes insightful detail. The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking had some unsettling dreams but Radio KAOS was a serene nightmare; meanwhile, Floyd tottered on like a headless body. Brain-dead, meet brainy.
Wet Willie. Not a reference to former President Clinton's notorious trouser appendage but what the J. Geils Band might have sounded like had it had cut its teeth below the Mason-Dixon Line. Wet Willie could jam like proper Southern rockers ("Everything That 'Cha Do," "Lucy Was in Trouble") but Jimmy Hall's expressive vocals led a funky groove in "Dixie Rock," "Grits Ain't Groceries," and "Red Hot Chicken," among other delights. Unfairly overlooked band.
Peter Wolf. And speaking of J. Geils, I remember being blown away by the electro-funk shock of the band's fired lead singer's first solo album. "Lights out! Uh-huh! Blast blast blast!" Keeping his showman's spiel, Wolf had embraced the future while his erstwhile mates were sinking in the present. And "Mars Needs Women" was actually pretty funny! Faye Dunaway's former squeeze soon returned to his métier but he proved who supplied Geils's vital chemistry.
There you have it—more than 50 artists that did not appear on the list of 500 acts currently ranked on this site as not being in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Again, my list contains only artists that I think have equivalent records and qualifications to those on the current list; in other words, I'm not bemoaning the absence of, for example for 1960s fans, It's a Beautiful Day or Lothar and the Hand People, or, for 1980s fans, D.O.A. or Government Issue. All right—I bemoan the absence of D.O.A. a little, which underscores just how many musical artists there are and just how do we evaluate their relative legacies for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
But what about you, dear reader? Which artists have you not seen listed, either in the site's official list or in my addendum, that you think deserve mention? Let us know!
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