John Cena has everything wrestling promoters revere.  He’s well-built, good-looking, has a ton of charisma, and delivers in big match situations.   He sells a ton of merchandise, is an ambassador for the business, and goes out of his way for charity.  He should be the biggest babyface in the 40-year history of World Wrestling Entertainment, but he is reviled by half of the audience.  Why?

The answer is simple: John Cena is a superhero.  Every month he has a new enemy to vanquish.  He’ll get beaten down, but he’s never in peril.  You know that even though Mark Henry or Kane is booked to be a monster, Cena will hit him with the Attitude Adjustment and move on.  This goes against the most basic principle of professional wrestling.

A babyface is supposed to be a normal human being under extraordinary circumstances.  He is the blank slate for the fans to project their hopes, dreams and desires.  If you can’t identify with the hero, then the heel’s ultimate defeat is meaningless.  Fans cannot identify with John Cena, because he has no flaws.  He doesn’t get distracted by the cheers of the crowd, he never bleeds, and he has no discernable ego.  There is no reason for anyone over 12 to get behind him.

Dusty Rhodes is the polar opposite of John Cena.  He’s middle-aged, fat and has a speech impediment, yet he is arguably the greatest babyface in the history of the business.  I’ll let him explain why.

Every young babyface should be forced to watch “Hard Times” at least once a day.  Rhodes gives his entire reason for being in three and a half minutes.  He is a family man that doesn’t particularly care to fight anymore, but Ric Flair and the Four Horsemen have pushed him to his breaking point.   He admits that he is not perfect, but he will do his best.  This line is key:

“I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN THE LOVE THAT WAS GIVEN TO ME, AND I WILL REPAY YOU BY BECOMING THE WORLD’S HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION.”

Rhodes wants the title so he can repay the fans for their kindness.  While the babyface doesn’t need to be entirely selfless, the fans are always their motivation for getting into the squared circle.  For of all of Cena’s talk about his Chain Gang, he has never been able to connect with his audience on an intimate level.   If he can do that, the catcalls will disappear.

The reason professional wrestling has survived for a century is because human beings have an innate need to see good conquer evil.  With all the changes in the pop cultural landscape, that one trope remained constant, from Bruno Sammartino to Steve Austin.  If the babyface is replaced by Superman, this American art form will cease to exist.   Without conflict, there is no drama.

Freak of the Week at Ram\’s Head Live

In 1999, Butch Walker’s power pop band, The Marvelous 3, scored a top five hit with “Freak of the Week,” a song about an indie band getting a taste of fame.  When the song fell off the charts, the band was promptly forgotten by their label, and left to wallow in Buzz Ballads purgatory.

When Walker played “Freak of the Week” during his acoustic set at Ram’s Head Live, the crowd roared.  Not because it was the song they came to hear, but because it has become a rarity.  Butch Walker is no longer the lead singer of The Marvelous 3, but his own man.  The Marvies and Left of Self-Centered certainly introduced some of the crowd to Butch Walker (myself included), but nobody was there to huddle under a warm blanket of nostalgia.

Butch Walker has a few well-known songs, but not a signature.  Because of this, he can play what he wants. He can open the show with an acoustic set, or he can storm the stage with his Les Paul blazing.  Like any artist with a robust body of work, there are a few songs you can generally count on, but nothing is a sure thing.  That is what makes a Butch Walker show special.  Even “Cigarette Lighter Love Song,” the closest thing he has to a signature song, gets played with.  The first time I saw him, he did it with a full band, like on the album.  The second time, he was on the piano.  At Ram’s Head last week, he scrapped the instrumentation entirely, performing the song a cappella.

Hardcore fans often lament the fact that Butch Walker isn’t a bigger star, that he should be selling out theatres instead of playing clubs.  He should.  However, watching Butch at Ram’s Head, I realized that if he had a huge hit single, he would have to make certain concessions.  The loose, freewheeling structure of his show would be gone.  He would have to play the hits, and concentrate on what the fans of that single wanted to hear.  They wouldn’t want to hear the evolution of Butch as a songwriter, which is what the crowd at Ram’s Head was lucky enough to get.  They didn’t get a Butch Walker show, they got his musical history; from the guitar duel of “Freebird”, to the Marvelous 3, to The Black Widows.  Butch wouldn’t have it any other way.

Clarence Clemons is dead.  I never thought I’d type that sentence.  Clemons’ enormous personality made him seem immortal.  When the notes poured out of his saxophone, he was no longer a person, but a force of nature.  When I saw The Working on a Dream tour in the spring of 2009, he was clearly in pain.  He sat down for most of the show, rising only when his horn was needed.  When he put the sax to his lips, his physical problems disappeared.

I discovered Bruce Springsteen late in my musical life.  My parents were never fans, so I only had exposure to what I saw on Pop-Up Video, which was limited to “Glory Days” and “Dancing in the Dark.”  Both of them are good, but they aren’t a proper gateway.  It wasn’t until I bought Born to Run my junior year of college that I understood why Bruce Springsteen was so revered.  I felt the way his characters felt; isolated, confused and desperate to seek new horizons.  The sound was so grand, so huge.  Human emotions were blown up to cinematic proportions, which is a perfect snapshot of being in your early 20s.  You are technically an adult, but you are still searching for an identity.

Born to Run is Clarence Clemons’ finest hour.  His solos provide the hope in the bleak landscape Springsteen created.  His characters are stuck in a dead-end Jersey town, committing petty crimes that will put them in jail or kill them, but when the sax comes in, everything is going to be all right, even if it’s only for a few seconds.  Clemons often told stories of fans telling him that his solo in “Jungleland” saved their lives.  I don’t doubt it.  In my opinion, it is the most uplifting piece of music ever committed to tape.  I’ve heard it a million times, but I still get a lump in my throat.  Things are going to get better.

When I saw the E-Street Band perform, the thing that struck me was that they genuinely seemed to like each other.   The love and respect Bruce and Clarence had for each other was on full display.  When Springsteen introduced The Big Man in his over the top way, it wasn’t a rote piece of business, but because Clarence was the core of the E-Street Band sound.  As Bruce put it, “With Clarence at my side, the band and I were able to tell a story far deeper than those contained in our music. His life, his memory and his love will live on in that story and in our band.”

Many blogs have speculated whether or not the E-Street Band will continue.  Frankly, it’s not my place.  I’m grateful for the music that they gave us, and thankful that I got to see Clarence Clemons in person.

God bless you, Big Man.

There comes a time in every rock critic’s career where you have an Almost Famous moment. A moment when your naïve vision of what rock journalism is like comes true.  Mine occurred at the inaugural M3 Rock Fest in 2009.   People who stared at me from album covers and posters my entire life became living figures, walking past me, riding golf carts and sharing beers with each other. Dee Snider was laughing with Don Dokken.  Ron Keel was reminiscing with Mark Slaughter.  Stephen Pearcy was shaking hands with Gary Cherone.  It was a high school reunion with leather pants.

Every 20 minutes, a white van with tinted windows would pull up and someone would get out.  Around 2:30, ex-Warrant singer Jani Lane arrived.  His red, puffy face and engorged belly was far removed from the lithe rocker he once was.  He was immediately surrounded by his peers, who slapped his back and told him how good he looked.  Jani was all smiles, lapping up the attention.

After the crowd thinned out a bit, he approached me.

“How are you, Jani?” I asked.

“I’m good, man,” he said, clearly jazzed that I knew who he was.  “I’m really excited to be here! I can’t wait to get out there and rock! Are you ready to rock?”

“Always, dude.  It’s been a great day so far.” I said.

“That’s great, man! I love to hear that! What’s your name, bro?”

“John.”

“NO WAY!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my name too! Awesome!  So what do you do, John?”

“I’m a writer,” I said. “I’m covering this event for my blog, Rant n’ Rave With John.  May I interview you?”

“YEAH!” he enthused.  “I’d love that.  Maybe we could do it after my set or something.  Are you going to watch my show?”

“Definitely. “

“Awesome.  Is there a song I can play for you?” he asked

“Could you play ‘I Saw Red’?”

Jani’s eyes grew wide.  He took a step back.  I thought he was going to burst into tears, but he composed himself.

“I’d fucking love to play that song for you,” he said, and then went into the inner-sanctum.

Jani Lane was no longer an A-list rock star, but he hadn’t forgotten how to command an audience.  He had them pumping their fists in the air and chanting every chorus.  He was embracing the past that he had run from for so long.  After a rousing rendition of “Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich,” a roadie handed him an acoustic guitar.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I’d like to dedicate this next song to my new friend, John.”

He took a deep breath and began to play “I Saw Red.”  As he played the opening chords, Jani Lane disappeared.  He was replaced by John Oswald, singer/songwriter.  We were no longer in Meriwether Post Pavilion, but a small club.  He finished the song to a wave of applause.  Oswald put down the guitar, and bowed.  When he came back up, his guitarist played the riff to “Cherry Pie.”  Jani Lane had returned, but for three minutes, we got a glimpse of what he could have been.

An hour after his set, Jani came running over to me.

“Hey, John! I’m glad you’re still here! I wanted to make sure I signed a picture for you!”

“Thanks, Jani!” I said.  “I really enjoyed your set.  You sound great.”

“Thank you so much, dude.  I’m really glad you came,” he said, scribbling his signature on an 8×10 glossy.  “Did I do the song justice?”

“If Elvis Costello had written ‘I Saw Red,’ Rolling Stone would be creaming themselves over it.  It’s one of my favorite songs of all time.”

Jani smiled and handed me the picture.

“That means the world to me, John.  Thank you.  I’m going to go do a meet and greet and then we’ll do our interview, OK?”

“Sounds good, man.”

He gave me a hug and got onto a waiting golf cart.  I never saw him again.

Teenagers have a habit of revealing too much about themselves.  In the twenty minutes my friend Clyde and I had been in line for the Virgin Mobile FreeFest, we learned the following things about the freshly scrubbed young people behind us.

• The young man looks less trashy without his faux-hawk.
• The girl with braces wants to take Jake to homecoming, but still needs to work up the courage to do it.
• The girl with Lisa Loeb glasses is turning eighteen next week, but still feels ten inside.
• The young man threw up last weekend.  It felt good.

The kids talked about every aspect of their lives, except for the festival they were about to see.   I was seven years their senior and I couldn’t shut up about it.  Pavement and LCD Soundsystem for free?  It was a mind boggling bill.  The show didn’t come up until the line started to move.

“I really wanted to see blink-182 and Weezer,” the young man said. “The bill isn’t as good this year.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

“What about Pavement and LCD Soundsystem?”  I asked.

“I’m here to see Ludacris and Jimmy Eat World,” he said.

The teenagers were not alone in their sentiments.  Clyde and I ran into several people we knew, all of whom lamented that the bill wasn’t mainstream.  I brought up the presence of M.I.A. and Joan Jett, who had achieved mainstream success

“Yeah, but blink-182 played last year.”

I saw blink-182 last year.  I enjoyed their set, but there was nothing surprising or challenging about it.  They opened with “Anthem” and closed with “Dammit.”  It was fun, but it was like looking through a high school yearbook.  The nostalgia was thick and comforting, but I didn’t want to go back.

LCD Soundsystem’s set wasn’t nostalgic, it wasn’t comforting, and it certainly didn’t feel familiar.  The set began with a single spotlight on James Murphy.  He was wearing a pair of cargo pants and a short-sleeved plaid button-down.  His hair was a mess, and the stubble on his face indicated that he hadn’t shaved in several days.  He held the microphone too close to his mouth as he sang.  His eyes were closed, as if he was afraid of rejection.  The keyboard played behind his singing, always the same riff.  And then the crescendo.  The mood instantly shifted from introspective to unabashed glee.   The single spotlight became a mass of swirling color, turning the pit into a rolling wave of humanity. It was a release instead of the usual call and response.

Although LCD Soundsystem lacks recognizable hits, their message is simple enough that a casual music fan could be turned on.  If they didn’t care for Murphy as a singer or frontman, there were the beats.  If they didn’t like the beats or Murphy, there was the swirling palate of lights.  If they didn’t care for the lights, the mood of the people around them was so infectious that they had to react.  The best music has the ability to release you from your constraints, even if it’s just for that moment.  LCD Soundsystem achieved this feat on the hardest stage to do so; a festival.

As we left Merriweather Post, I thought of the teenagers behind us.  I hope that kid took his mind off his hair long enough to check out LCD.  His faux-hawk would have wilted under the weight of awesome.

“My favorite band is Aerosmith.”

When I hear this sentence, I cringe.  Not because I dislike Aerosmith, but because I can recite the coming exchange word for word.

“Cool.  What’s your favorite album?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Pump.”

We have another one.  I plaster a smile on my face and then respond.

“That’s cool.  I’m partial to Rocks.”

The young Aerosmith fan gets a quizzical look on his face and asks, “What’s Rocks?”

What is Rocks?

In my younger and more vulnerable years, I lashed out at that question.  How can someone be an Aerosmith fan and not know what Rocks is?  Aerosmith’s entire reputation is based upon this record. Toys in the Attic has “Walk This Way” and “Sweet Emotion,” but Rocks is the pinnacle of the classic Aerosmith sound.  Joe Perry and Steven Tyler are at each other’s throat, but they don’t let it get in the way of the product.  They are snorting half of Peru, but the cocaine is a muse rather than a burden.  It’s the moment before the wing completely fell off the plane.

In the mid-70s, Aerosmith was reviled by the rock press for ripping off The Rolling Stones.  While The Stones’ influence is obvious, Aerosmith had two things that The Stones didn’t: Volume and Steven Tyler.  Rocks is Steven Tyler’s coronation as one of the definitive frontmen of the 1970s.  He showed charisma on the early Aerosmith records, but when he hits the first note of “Back in the Saddle,” he sheds his skin as a Jagger clone.  Robert Plant could scream, but his screams were more sensual.    He would have sex with random groupies sure, but he would treat them like ladies.  Tyler has no time for such pleasantries.  He needs to evacuate some liquid kids, and he needs to do it right now. He could seduce, but the result is always the same.

While Tyler howls, Joe Perry provides the sweet talk.  His guitar slithers and slides, drawing the listener in with every hot lick.  Many guitar heroes were able to do this, but the volume and the assistance of Brad Whitford gave Aerosmith their metallic edge.

Aerosmith’s sound is the key to their success, but the lyrics keep Rocks grounded in reality.. A year had passed since Toys in the Attic and Aerosmith was now one of the biggest bands in the world.   Their music was blasting from every Trans-Am in America.  It should have been an album of supreme triumph, but it isn’t.  Tyler sums it up in one of the most overlooked lyrics in the history of rock n’ roll:

“Walkin’ on Gucci wearing Yves St. Laurent/They barely stay on ‘cause I’m so goddamn gaunt.”

Tyler delivers the lyric with just the right amount of exhaustion.  Many bands who tried to copy the formula forgot that Aerosmith doesn’t glorify the lifestyle.  For every “Last Child,” there is “Sick as a Dog,” in which the Toxic Twins completely withdrawal.  Rocks depicts the rock n’ roll lifestyle, warts and all.

Aerosmith would self-destruct after 1978’s Draw the Line.  Joe Perry and Brad Whitford left the band, while Tyler kept Aerosmith going.  When the original lineup reformed in the mid-80s, the raunch was still there, but the consequences weren’t.  Harrowing tales of the road were replaced by living it up while going down.  Rocks is not that record.  If you are hearing it for the first time, you will need to take a shower afterwards.  Trust me.

Photo Credit: AMC

Who is Don Draper?

Don has been asked this question dozens of times over the course of the series, so he gives the reporter the same oblique answers he’s given everyone else.  He looks him dead in the eye, takes a couple seductive drags on his cigarette and waits for the reporter to bask in the glow of mystery.

When the article comes out a few days later, he finds out that the reporter hasn’t fallen for his ruse.  Instead of coming off like a suave man of mystery, he seems aloof and arrogant.  His colleagues at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce are appalled, chiding him for wasting an opportunity to promote their still fledgling firm.  A client calls and cancels his account, upset that Draper didn’t mention his business.  Don is baffled.  Even when his personal life was in shambles, he was always in control of his professional destiny.

Mad Men’s fourth season opens in November of 1964.  The ‘60s as we know them are finally coming into view.  The colors are a bit brighter, the world is a bit faster and the young people are staking out their place in the world.  Don Draper is desperately trying to hold onto his. He is feeling more like Dick Whitman than the master of the universe he created out of thin air.

In a lesser show, the viewer would be blasted with obvious symbolism and long expository speeches about Don’s adjustment to life without Betty and the kids.  Instead, Draper looks at himself in the mirror while preparing for his date.  He runs his fingers through his meticulously Brylcreemed hair, as if he is trying to summon the Draper of old.  The date goes reasonably well, but it’s clear that the girl isn’t under Draper’s spell.  This is an entirely new experience for him, as women have been dropping their panties from the moment the series began.

In the car, Draper turns on the charm and the woman turns him down.  He gives his address to the cabbie in a state of disbelief.  On Thanksgiving Day, he hires a prostitute for company.  Unlike his other sexual encounters, this was desperate.  He seemed totally out of control, meekly asking her if she could slap him.  He is in the same place Roger Sterling was before he married Jane.

At the end of the episode, as Don was giving his punched-up biography to the reporter from The Wall Street Journal, he talks the talk, but the conviction isn’t quite there.  He got to where he is by not saying anything, and now he must reveal everything.  The era of mystique has come and gone.  The strong silent type is fading into history, being replaced by brash young punks who pour Pepsi in their breakfast cereal.  Draper is adapting for now, but he won’t be able to keep the charade for much longer.

Cheap Trick’s At Budokan has one of the greatest album covers in the history of rock n’ roll.  Lead singer Robin Zander and bassist Tom Peterson are standing next to each other, grinning from ear to ear.  They are smiling the type of smiles that only come once or twice in a lifetime.   They aren’t smiling out of cockiness or arrogance, but because they can’t believe their luck.   If At Budokan was just a picture on a piece of cardboard, it would still be one of the greatest albums ever made.

At Budokan was released during the golden age of the live record.  Kiss and Peter Frampton had strong followings before they released Alive and Frampton Comes Alive, but the success of those two records made them stadium rock demi-gods.  Cheap Trick was in the same situation that Kiss and Frampton were in two years earlier, except they were full blown teen idols in Japan.  To capitalize on their success in the Far East, Epic Records recorded their sold out gig at the legendary Budokan sumo arena and released it for the Japanese market.

The album was released in Japan in October of 1978.  The raw sound created a buzz in the United States, and At Budokan became a strong seller on the import market.  Epic noticed this and released it stateside in 1979.  After years of critical acclaim but little commercial success, Cheap Trick became the rock stars they deserved to be.

At Budokan stands in sharp contrast to the bloated live albums of the late ‘70s, which were bogged down by endless drum solos, rambling banter and “extended” versions.  At Budokan contains only ten tracks.  With such an abbreviated setlist, Cheap Trick had no time for frivolity or error.  They come crashing out the gate with “Hello There” and rarely give the listener a chance to breathe.

The dynamic between hard and soft is the basis of Cheap Trick’s sound.  Guitarist Rick Nielsen goes for the jugular, banging out power-chords at a dizzying pace.  He embellishes the garage rock simplicity with bombastic bursts of soloing. The solos only last for a few bars, hinting at the virtuosity spewing beneath his trademark baseball cap.  Bassist Tom Peterson and Bun E. Carlos work behind Neilson, creating a steady rhythm section.  Carlos’ drumming is directly influenced by The British Invasion, simple but swinging.  Peterson’s bass is the melodic texture, melding with Neilson’s guitar to create a richer sound.

While Nielsen, Petersen and Carlos provide the power and the rhythm, Robin Zander adds the melody.  Although Zander is from Illinois, his voice is straight out of the British Invasion.  Zander has the ability to make every chorus sound huge.  He never screams or embellishes, but he has an innate sense of pitch.  He never gets out of breath or misses a note.  He makes being a frontman look like the easiest job on earth.

The setlist is all killer, no filler.  It’s exhilarating to hear “Come On, Come On” followed by “Lookout” followed by “Big Eyes.”

The atmosphere drives the album over the top.   The moment the album begins, the listener is greeted with the orgasmic screams of several thousand Japanese schoolgirls, who react to every single thing the band does.  Robin Zander sounds like a kindergarten teacher as he slowly introduces the band’s latest single, a little ditty called “Surrender.”

My favorite part of At Budokan is towards the end.  The band is tearing through “Clock Strikes Ten,” and Bun E. Carlos starts playing a brief solo.  After he pounds out a few beats, Zander introduces him, “ON THE DRUMS! MR. BUN E. CARLOS!”  Carlos follows the intro with a spectacular drum roll while the girls scream with glee.  I never get tired of hearing it.  There is such joy in those screams.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, it took me a while to process the day ahead.  Eleven hours at Sonar.  I took a deep breath, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and rolled out of bed.  I was drained from the night before, and I’d only gotten my feet wet.   I arrived at Sonar a little after 1:00.  I ran into a couple I met during the Flamingo Nosebleeds’ set.  They were eating pizza and drinking Slurpees with the same glazed look I had.  The girl had only gotten three hours of sleep and blisters on her feet.  She took one last slurp and then went inside.

The setup remained the same as the night before, except the hamburger stand moved into the alley.  The only way to get to the alley was through the back of the lounge, which was up three steps.  A security guard had to get my food.  This was a minor hiccup, but it was slightly annoying.  They should have had one stand inside and one in the alley.  The burger was decent; hot and fresh with melty cheese.

Before we get to the music, I have a confession to make.  After the Beatnik Termites’ set, I went to the lounge to see Deep Sleep.  I went to a vacant corner of the bar, where I promptly fell asleep.  I woke up to a middle-aged woman offering me a brownie.   It was delicious…I think. Thank you.

I moved around more on the second day trying to see as many bands as I could.  Here are the ones that made the biggest impression.

• The Beatnik Termites: The Beatnik Termites are technically a punk band, but not really.  Electric doo-wop would be a much better term.  Simple songs about the joys and fears of teenage romance played at maximum decibels.  Their set was a ton of fun.
• Zapoteks: These guys weren’t on my radar until I met the drummer backstage.   We had a conversation about cricket.  I still have no idea how to play it.  It’s interesting to note that most bands on the bill had a distinctly American sound and sensibility.  The Zapoteks were British, and they sounded like it.  The riffs weren’t slow, but they weren’t delivered in a rapid fire pace either.  The singer had a Cockney affectation, and they whooped like a pack of soccer hooligans.  It was a nice change of pace.
• Blacklist Royals: Fast tempo + big choruses + ‘50s retro vibes = Awesome band.

• Teenage Bottlerocket: The first headlining band of the evening.  Teenage Bottlerocket were four superballs let loose.  They jumped, ran and hit their guitars with a childlike zeal.  The crowd responded by slam dancing and stage diving..  Kids ran up onstage and dove into a pulsing sea of humanity.  It got dicey a few times, but nobody got hurt. When the band and crowd are feeding off each other, it always creates magic.

• The Smoking Popes: The crowd was drained after Teenage Bottlerocket, so it took a little while for them to warm up to the Popes, but the more relaxed atmosphere suited the band.  One of the things that I admired about their set was how unpretentious it was.  They got onstage and they played their songs.  Again, there was no disconnect between the band and their audience.

• Less Than Jake: The headliners.  Less Than Jake are really good at what they do.  They have fun songs and tons of energy.  However, my tolerance for ska is limited, especially when I am exhausted.  I stayed for half their set and decided to beat the crowd.  They brought it though, and they are worth seeing live.  I would have enjoyed it more if it wasn’t 1:00 in the morning.

Overall Thoughts: The main thing I took away from Insubordination Fest was the feeling of community.  Everyone was there to have good time and support each other, which is the complete opposite of the average corporate rock fest.  If you are a fan of punk rock and have never experienced it, grab a couple friends and be prepared to mosh.

Author’s note: I would like to personally thank Chris Thacker of Insubordination Records for hooking me up with VIP passes.

Yesterday afternoon, I was proofreading the first positive essay about modern professional wrestling that I had ever written.  In it, I lauded the WWE for their brilliant handling of the WWE-NXT Invasion.  For the first time in ages, I sat agog as the rookies systematically destroyed the Monday Night Raw set and annihilated John Cena.  I completely suspended disbelief and couldn’t wait for next week.

On Friday night, WWE.com reported that NXT leader Bryan Danielson had been released from the company.  I thought it was kayfabe, so I didn’t think anything of it.  My friend Brandon messaged me on Facebook about it, and I told him to watch the show on Monday.  I finished writing my essay and went to 411Mania.com to see if any new developments had sprung up.  I found out that Danielson had been fired for real.

Apparently, Danielson had gone above and beyond the WWE’s new PG rating when he choked the ring announcer with his tie and spat on John Cena.  Allow me to put this in perspective.   Aggravated assault with a sledgehammer is fine, but a logical gesture of hatred sends the sponsors running.  Professional wrestling has to have some violence, or else the inherent conflict between good and evil is pointless.  Danielson was not choking Justin Roberts for no reason.  His character was unhappy with his spot and was willing to do anything to get the attention of the front office.   Spitting on Cena was the exclamation point.

It worked.  For the first time since Cena was anointed the WWE’s top hero, he seemed vulnerable.  The vulnerability of the hero is the most crucial element of a wrestling angle.  If you don’t believe the babyface is in danger, you have no reason to see the heel get his comeuppance.  Even if you didn’t like John Cena, you had to feel some sympathy for him.  Why throw all that heat away?

I don’t think the PG rating is a bad thing.  I grew up in the days of Hulk Hogan, The Ultimate Warrior and Randy Savage.  Chair shots were rarely used, sledgehammers were non-existent and nobody ever went through a table.  On the rare occasion they used “violence,” it was to escalate an angle.   This sporadic use of violence was the catalyst for my fandom.  Sgt. Slaughter attacked Hulk Hogan, locking him in the Camel Clutch while General Adnan waved an Iraqi battle flag in his face.  It was completely believable.

By firing Danielson, the WWE has cut the legs of its most interesting angle in years.  They have also fired an extremely charismatic performer who has a moveset beyond the WWE style.  This is Vince McMahon’s biggest blunder since the WCW invasion a decade ago.  I would have paid an obscene amount of money to see Cena clash with Danielson, and now it looks like I’ll be skipping Raw again.

If McMahon were reading this humble little essay, he’d probably give me his tired spiel about how the WWE is in the entertainment business and not the ‘rasslin business.  This may be true, but the hardcore wrestling fans built your entertainment business.  We were there in the fallow period of 1995-96, when your “superstars” struggled to fill 1500 seat arenas.  We were there after the death of Eddie Guererro and after the Benoit tragedy.  We have endured countless insults, but we remained because we love the artform.  You might not need us right now McMahon.  You have the little kids in their Rey Mysterio masks and John Cena dogtags.  But one day, those kids are going to grow up.  You can belittle the hardcore fans all you want, but you can’t afford to lose us.