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THE ROCK AND ROLL HALL OF FAME: NOT IN THE NOT IN HALL OF FAME LIST

Not in Hall of Fame has recently posted its updated list of artists not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and I was privileged to be asked to help rank that list. But as I was assiduously assessing all of the more than 500 of the artists under review, it occurred to me that there were several artists missing from that list.

Let's be clear: I wasn't digging deep down into the weeds for obscurities. In other words, I'm not bemoaning the omission of Trotsky Icepick (despite the coolly arcane historical reference in its name) or John Trubee and the Ugly Janitors of America, whose bitter, wildly uneven, and ultimately mediocre 1984 album The Communists Are Coming to Kill Us! once graced my collection but, alas, has been thinned out over time.

Quite the opposite. Of the 500 artists on the current list, my optimistic view is that at best the first 100 even merit any kind of hypothetical discussion. More pragmatically, I narrow that down to the first 50—if not just the first 25—as having a realistic chance of being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In fact, I have written extensively on this site, in a series of "audits" of the Hall's current inductees (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5, with Part 6 in the works—really!), that the Hall has been much too generous in its inductions—there are too many artists already in the Hall not deserving of enshrinement.

No, listing 500 artists is, in my view, only an acknowledgement of the artists and their contributions to the music. They made a mark that was more lasting than many, but except for the first few on the list, it isn't going to be enough to earn them a spot in the Hall of Fame.

To that end, make no mistake: None of the more than 50 artists listed below are a "find" that somehow mysteriously eluded discovery until now and should be put on the express train to Cleveland. However, these artists have, I believe, equivalent credentials to the 500 artists on the recently revised list, whether those artists are near the top of the current list, somewhere in the middle, or buried near the end of the list.

So even though I do not think that any of the artists I have listed below are likely to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a few could warrant at least polite discussion while all of them could easily supplant artists already on the current list. My point is to underscore just how broad and deep is the pool of artists from which we make our acknowledgements, considerations, and final assessments.

Presented in alphabetical order.

The Alarm. In the early 1980s, Rolling Stone dubbed them "worried men with worried songs," and these worried Welshmen's first full-length album, Declaration, did contain enough earnest social consciousness ("Sixty-Eight Guns," "Howling Wind") to suggest what the Clash would sound like as a folk-rock act. Then they got a U2 injection for Strength, which bought them US airplay ("Knife Edge," "Strength") even as they found themselves tagged as imitators.

Gregg Allman. The Southern rock Man of Constant Sorrow has kept a solo career going alongside the band he formed with dearly departed brother Duane, one long enough to merit the greatest-hits collection I saw recently in a bargain bin. After ratting out the Allmans' road manager on a drug charge and a quickie marriage to Cher in the 1970s, Gregg produced the fine confession "I'm No Angel" along with his own take on "Midnight Rider" and other notables.

Argent. All anyone remembers now is "Hold Your Head High"—and for good reason: it's moody, atmospheric, and encouraging without being overbearing. Leave that to "God Gave Rock 'n' Roll to You," although "Celebration" and "Thunder and Lightning" show that the band wasn't a flash in the pan—keyboardist Rod Argent (late of the Zombies) and singer-guitarist Russ Ballard (later of the solo hit "Voices") provided Deep Purple-like firepower.

Art of Noise. Producer Trevor Horn's ubiquitous presence in the 1980s shouldn't overshadow this out-of-left-field outfit's blending of synth-pop, light prog-rock, and early electronica. Art of Noise got Tom Jones to deliver a pretty decent version of Prince's "Kiss" while nuh-nuh-nodding to avant-television's Max Headroom (kids, ask your parents) with "Paranoimia" and taking the nostalgic route—with twangy Duane Eddy, no less!—on a swanky, swaggering "Peter Gunn."

Be-Bop Deluxe. It's tempting to call guitarist Bill Nelson the English Todd Rundgren with his double barrels sporting both technical flash and wistful romanticism—just check out the marvelous "Life in the Air Age" to hear what can make a robot cry. True, prog-rock was about to face the firing squad when this Nelson-led combo raised its polished head, which doesn't make "Sister Seagull" or "Sleep That Burns" any less endearing.

Big Brother and the Holding Company. You could say that the Hall has this one covered with Janis Joplin already inducted, and I would hardly argue that the 1960s is underrepresented in Cleveland. On the other hand, some of Janis's biggest numbers were done fronting this half-hard, half-sloppy proto jam band—it made "Down on Me," "Summertime," and "Piece of My Heart" that much more memorable, although "Combination of the Two" might be the sleeper whooper.

Big Country. Just when the early 1980s seemed awash with synthesizers, this Scottish post-punk quartet not only brought back wailing guitars—they sounded like bagpipes! Pitch transposers and E-bows aside, Big Country peaked early in the U.S.—1983's "In a Big Country" was the band's biggest Stateside hit—but the riff-happy "Wonderland," the winsome "Look Away," and even the bluesy screed "Republican Party Reptile" showed continued growth.

The Blackbyrds. Like the Crusaders and the Meters, this jazz-R&B band skirted the funk-rock-soul periphery although they charted big in 1975 with the infectious "Walkin' in Rhythm," with "Happy Music" the Blackbyrds' only other splash on the pop charts. But sinuous stuff like "The One-Eyed Two-Step" is for the adults while the percolating "Do It, Fluid," "Blackbyrds Theme," and other tasty treats proved to be prime sampling fodder for many latter-day hip-hoppers.

Blackfoot. These guys could make Lynyrd Skynyrd sound like genteel Southern gentlemen—Blackfoot veered closer to 1970s metal than any Dixie-rock outfit on roaring blasts like "Gimme, Gimme, Gimme," "Rattlesnake Rock 'n' Roller," and "Too Hard to Handle." Yet they slyly played to country corn with "The Fox Chase" and their signature anthem "Train, Train" while giving a fair shake to the often-overlooked Free gem "Wishing Well."

Bonzo Dog Band. How hard is it to combine music and humor? "Weird Al" never got past parody while Frank Zappa channeled Igor Stravinsky for credibility. These English looners sounded like a musical Monty Python—no surprise as Bonzo mainstay Neil Innes is known as "the Seventh Python"—on deathless tunes like "Can Blue Men Sing the Whites?," "I'm the Urban Spaceman," and "Death Cab for Cutie"; yes, the indie band took its name from that.

The Call. Perhaps a little too earnest at times—although "Oklahoma" remains refreshingly manic—the Call established itself in the 1980s with a edgy mix of the secular ("Blood Red (America)") and the spiritual ("I Still Believe (Grand Design)"), concocting a tough yet atmospheric sound that garnered heavyweight support from Peter Gabriel and the Band's Garth Hudson and Robbie Robertson. "Everywhere I Go" and "Let the Day Begin" endure.

Clarence Carter. Not to evoke how low the Hall of Fame bar has fallen, but Carter is just as good a Southern soul singer as Percy Sledge is, and Carter has the cheese factor down cold—just check out his half-salacious, half-creepy cheatin' rap at the top of "Making Love (At the Dark End of the Street)." That shtick also worked for his nostalgic hit "Patches" while "Slip Away" became his other cheatin' anthem, with "Too Weak to Fight" splitting the difference. I think.

The Chi-Lites. Maybe because they came from Chicago instead of 1970s soul hotbeds Memphis or Philadelphia, the Chi-Lites get overlooked despite lead singer Eugene Record's memorable pleading on the group's biggest hit, "Oh, Girl," as well as his equally winsome heartbreak on "Have You Seen Her." The Chi-Lites weren't shy about adding a little social commentary in the form of "(For God's Sake) Give More Power to the People," either.

Circle Jerks. This, er, seminal L.A. hardcore band has its bona fides—singer Keith Morris came from Black Flag, and guitarist Greg Hetson split to Bad Religion—but its on-again, off-again romance with itself kept it from getting consistent traction. Too bad, because "World Up My Ass," "Coup d'État," and even "Exhaust Breath" remain prime underground fodder—and these guys played the lounge band in Alex Cox's terrific film Repo Man. That's punk.

Bruce Cockburn. Whether it's because this compelling folk-rocker is Canadian, Christian, or politically progressive—or any or all of those—Bruce Cockburn never became the star he should have been despite committed ("If I Had a Rocket Launcher"), wistful ("Wondering Where the Lions Are"), and simply gorgeous ("Lovers in a Dangerous Time") songcraft. Meanwhile, "Call It Democracy" crosses Noam Chomsky with Joe Strummer for a scathing social science lesson.

Bootsy Collins. True, this infectiously elastic bassist is already in the Hall as a member of George Clinton's whole Parliafunkadelicment thang. But Bootsy was practically the only one with the chops and the charisma to make it solo. True, he was still playing da funk with the same Parliafunkadelicment characters. But how can you resist "Psychoticbumpschool," "Bootzilla," and especially the irresistible "The Pinocchio Theory"? I know I can't.

The Crusaders. Had they kept the original "Jazz" modifier in front of "Crusaders" and kept with their straight-ahead sessions from the 1960s, I could see not mentioning these guys. But they got funky right around the time of Sly Stone—check their bravura take on "Thank You"—and proceeded to lay down some Grade A grease through the 1970s, including "Put It Where You Want It," the appropriately named "Greasy Spoon," and the infectious "Stomp and Buck Dance."

Bill Doggett. Granted, this soul-jazz organist had one claim to genuine rock and soul fame: the timeless instrumental "Honky Tonk," which became a huge hit in 1956—although it was actually the faster, peppier "Pt. 2" that was the ticket. But this isn't another Dave "Baby" Cortez here—Doggett delivered a series of appetizing sax-and-organ pieces, both slinky ("High Heels," "Slow Walk") and sprightly ("Leaps and Bounds," "Ram-Bunk-Shush") in a long career.

The Fabulous Thunderbirds. Oh, they've gigged forever, and bigger stars from Eric Clapton to Carlos Santana have always sung their praises, but the T-Birds just have never taken off despite singer-harmonica player Kim Wilson's engaging earnestness and a string of hotshot guitarists including Stevie Ray's older brother, Jimmie Vaughan. Still doesn't take anything away from "Tuff Enuff," "Wrap It Up," or even "Look at That, Look at That."

fIREHOSE. When he died, there was no way to replace D. Boon in the Minutemen, so survivors Mike Watt and George Hurley went the low-key route with singer-guitarist Ed fROMOHIO, spawning a stylized new name in the process. Which means that only the Minutemen are Hall of Fame-caliber, but fIREHOSE is still an appealing gusher of alt-rock, with three good indie albums (especially if'n) and one not-really-sellout major-label job (flyin' the flannel).

The Fixx. Speaking of the Minutemen, they once asked, "Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Truth?" With the Fixx, you got a little of both. This lean synth-rock outfit mixed vaguely urgent social warnings ("Red Skies," "Stand or Fall") with chichi social observations ("One Thing Leads to Another," "Saved by Zero") throughout the 1980s. You were never quite sure what they meant—"Less Cities, More Moving People"?—but it sounded pretty good.

John Fogerty. As the linchpin of the whole Creedence Clearwater Revival operation, hoarse 'n' wailin' John Fogerty seemed set for a bright solo career and a possible second Hall induction because of it. That never panned out for various reasons, but in the mid-1980s, after a decade's absence following the hit "Rockin' All Over the World," Fogerty emerged triumphant with Centerfield. And got sued by his label for plagiarizing himself. Talk about a bad moon rising.

Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Look, if Gwar manages to get onto the list of 500 either because the Committee Chairman wants to hear their acceptance speech or because Beavis loved them, then surely Frankie's fifteen minutes deserves a mention. Leaving aside the videos and T-shirts and even the not-bad "Relax," Frankie's eight-minute opus "Two Tribes (Carnage)," despite its end-of-the-world portentousness, is a driving, burning, compulsive highlight of the 1980s.

The Gap Band. All right, the album titles were as creative as Chicago's, and the Gap Band couldn't look much further than sex and partying, which ultimately limited their musical inspiration too. But even if this Johnny-come-lately funk band tried to keep it rolling on the dance floor (wink, wink), it still served up a delight or two with "Burn Rubber on Me (Why You Wanna Hurt Me)," "Party Train," and—you guessed it—"You Dropped a Bomb on Me."




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!
Last modified on Thursday, 22 March 2018 01:53

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