Haters Gonna Hate

I recently returned from a trip to the Wisconsin Dells, which, for those of you not familiar with this Upper Midwest waterpark mecca, is a slice of Americana unlike any other I know of. I was there to spend a few days at a water park with family, as part of a birthday celebration for my nephew, Buddy. While for my daughter and her cousins the annual Wisconsin Dells waterpark trip has become a treasured part of the never-ending Upper Midwest winter, for me it's always a bit of a mixed bag. The water slides are a thrill, my daughter is in heaven, and spending time with family is a blessing. But the sight of so many beer guts and hairy backs, not to mention the gallons of unflattering body ink, is disconcerting, to say the least.

That's not what I wanted to talk about, however. Like all road trips, the 3.5 hour journey from the Twin Cities to the Dells is a fine excuse to enjoy that staple of the great American road trip, the mixed tape. (Mixed CD, Playlist, whatever you want to call it, it will always be the mixed tape. But the fact that you no longer have to perfectly time out each side has taken some of the challenge out of its creation.) Nothing makes the mind-numbing American interstate system more palatable than a well-thought-out collection of songs.

 

While I usually consider myself the master of the mixed tape, since I wasn't driving on this journey, I was captive to the musical whims of my brother-in-law, Bob, and his son Buddy. Together they had compiled two cds worth of music, alternating selections between father and son. It was, to say the least, an eclectic mix, fusing Bob's combination of 60s and 70s am radio staples, Bluegrass, and Great American Songbook with Buddy's more modern musical sensibilities. Think Steely Dan followed by Macklemore, with some Jackson Browne and Pharrel thrown in around Miley Cyrus and Ella Fitzgerald. As incongruous as that may sound, it was thoroughly enjoyable.

But it was the song that began the second CD that got me thinking about this post. It was "Hotel California" by the Eagles, perhaps one of the most iconic and recognizable pop songs of the past 40 years, and a song I thoroughly loathe, along with the rest of the Eagles catalogue.

Articulating my feelings about the Eagles has never been easy, and other writers have conveyed their hatred for the band far better than I ever will. But I'll give it a try. It's not that I think they're without talent, or that they don't deserve the reputation they've built over their many decades in the music business. As one of the best-selling bands of all time, they've clearly done something right. Everyone knows at least one Eagles song, and probably most of the lyrics to that song. Nonetheless, I've been a full-on Eagles hater for a good 25 years now. And I don't see that changing any time soon.

 

When I was in college, fully immersed in critical theory and alternative rock, my hatred of the Eagles stemmed from what they embodied: the bloated, smug, corporate, coked-up excess of 70s American rock. Though they were the offspring of the country-rock movement that began with Gram Parsons and the Byrds' landmark 1968 album "Sweetheart of the Rodeo," they ended up as far musically from that genre as Wonderbread is from a baguette. I could find no grit, no rough edge, no lyrical depth to their music. It seemed calculated for the broadest popular appeal. They were like the Dallas Cowboys, America's Band, the beautiful winners of the music world. They sold bazillions of records, and when you're an 18-year-old listening to Husker Du and the Replacements, that can only be a bad thing. Don Henley's perm and Glenn Frey's mustache didn't help either. Oh how I despised them.

Over time, my feelings about the Eagles have softened and evolved, but not enough to make me come around to them. See, what I love about music is the feeling I get from it. Name almost any song I like, and I can articulate a feeling generated by that song. When I hear an Eagles song, I feel nothing, an emptiness as ethereal as the California sunshine and women that seem to occupy all their songs. And I've always blamed them for that lack of feeling. Their music has a veneer, both musically and lyrically, that makes any attempt to find a true, authentic emotion nearly impossible. I love country-tinged rock, tight harmonies, well-structured songs, and a lyrical vision. The Eagles had those in spades, and knew how to create a winning formula from that combination. But their music does nothing for me. I've never slept with a woman in the desert, I've never seen a tequila sunrise, I've never lived life in the fast lane. They seemed to be singing about a uniquely American experience that no one has actually ever had (except for the guys in the Eagles).

 

So, in the end, is it possible to say in the same breath that I respect an artist's craftsmanship but disdain their art? We can debate that. But even if I lose that debate, you won't be finding any Eagles songs on my next mixed tape.