In the wake of an event like the one that took place on September 11, we like
to think that there are guidelines in place for mourners, bystanders, and
particularly rescue workers and the media to follow. The parade of
university-trained psychologists who were marched on and off camera for quick
"It's healthy to cry if you feel like crying but please remain calm"
reassurances was there to make us all feel that the experts were on duty. But
the rub, in a culture built so strongly on the notion of precedent, was that
there's never been an event remotely like what took place on that Tuesday
morning. Going all the way back to British common law, precedent plays an
enormous, vital role in our culture. You know it's okay for the president to
send troops to Afghanistan without a formal declaration of war from Congress
because his dad did the same thing in the Middle East. In a criminal trial,
it's okay to introduce certain types of evidence if you can show it's been done
before. It's even okay to show glimpses of a bare-assed actor on television
because the maverick police drama NYPD Blue broke through that
barrier.
But September 11 sent precedent out the window. And for those who like to take
the pulse of the country by following the machinations of the media, the period
following the disaster was a fascinating one. When, for example, would the
three (or four) major networks dare return to commercial breaks (which are,
after all, the lifeblood of television)? When was the Food Network -- which
deemed it inappropriate to give us boisterous chef Emeril Lagasse bellowing
"Pork fat rules!" while rescue squads worked round the clock to locate
survivors -- going to come back on the air? And when was the increasingly
beleaguered-looking Peter Jennings, who'd long ago discarded his tie and
jacket, finally going to catch a couple of Z's? I was beginning to worry about
him.
In the realm of radio and music, the questions were no less pressing and
vexing. September 11 couldn't help but change the meaning of certain songs, or
the way we hear the lyrics. "New York, New York" may never have the same
celebratory ring to it; certainly in the short term, it has been saddled with
the weight of the thousands still missing. And September 11 put rock and roll
in a particularly awkward position. Rock has always been about transgression --
ignoring taboos, rejecting social constraints, disobeying rules governing
proper behavior, ignoring precedent. From the first time Elvis shook his
scandalous hips to the last time Kurt Cobain planted a big wet kiss on Krist
Novoselic's lips, the music has been defined by its willingness -- no, its
compulsion -- to break on through racism, sexism, homophobia,
etc. . . . Yet here was a situation in which transgression might
not just mean breaking with the flag-waving yahoos who'd latched on to
September 11 as an excuse to indulge in some of the crasser forms of
nationalistic behavior (threatening and/or harming Americans of Muslim heritage
in the name of patriotism is a perversion of everything this country stands
for). It might also be interpreted as a sign of disrespect toward the victims
whose families had not even had the chance to identify the bodies of their
missing loved ones. The ice socio-politically progressive artists skate on
doesn't get much thinner than that.
So rather than risk whatever backlash might have resulted from releasing their
forthcoming album with artwork that depicted an exploding World Trade Center,
the Oakland-based politicized rap group the Coup have put it on hold while they
come up with a more tasteful cover image. That was a wise move -- regardless of
what the Coup's motives might have been in choosing that image, the likelihood
that it would be taken as support for terrorism was just too great. Not even a
disclaimer could have solved that problem.
But a far more controversial and absurd situation developed around Clear
Channel Communications, a giant company that owns more than 1000 radio stations
broadcasting in 47 US markets. In the days following the tragedy, word leaked
out that a company directive had been circulated among Clear Channel stations
instructing program directors to refrain from or at least think twice about
playing songs that might be deemed offensive or make the radio station seem
insensitive. The long list included the Bangles' "Walk like an Egyptian," the
Pretenders' "My City Was Gone," Alanis Morissette's "Ironic," Led Zeppelin's
"Stairway to Heaven," Van Halen's "Jump," U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday," Carole
King's "I Feel the Earth Move," Peter, Paul and Mary's "Leavin' on a Jet
Plane," anything by Rage Against the Machine, and no fewer than seven AC/DC
tunes, among them "Shot Down in Flames," "Highway to Hell," and "TNT." Never
mind that most of these songs have only the remotest of connections to
September 11, or that I can't remember the last time I heard anything by the
Bangles other than on a VH-1 Behind the Music special. The real shame of
the Clear Channel directive is that it suggests people (both programmers and
listeners) can't figure out for themselves what is and isn't appropriate
listening material in the wake of a disaster.
Clear Channel is now doing its best to distance itself from the list. And
anyone who thinks such a directive constitutes censorship is way off base --
just because Clear Channel declines to play a song doesn't mean you can't hear
it somewhere else. No, the problem with what Clear Channel did is that it
rejects one of pop music's most valuable contributions in times of crisis.
Songs are a universal vehicle for the healthy sublimation of difficult and
painful emotions. Even the cheesiest Top 40 ballad can have a restorative
value, can make people feel connected to others who've had the same experience.
So it would seem counterproductive to limit the kinds of permissible sonic
catharsis. Some may gain comfort from singing "America the Beautiful," but
there are others who seek solace elsewhere, in the music of Nirvana, Nine Inch
Nails, P.O.D., even the Bangles and AC/DC. And there's nothing wrong with
that.
There's another problem inherent in the zeal to protect people from insensitive
or offending art in the wake of a crisis like the World Trade Center bombing:
not only does it belittle our emotional strength, it also risks making a
mockery of a grave situation. I mean, "Leavin' on a Jet Plane"? Is that song
really so dangerous? And could "Shot Down in Flames," an amusing rocker about
an unsuccessful attempt to pick up a girl at a bar, really be that upsetting?
The very notion that either of those might have made it onto a list of songs to
stay away from is, well, laughable. And this really isn't a time for
laughing.
Issue Date: October 12 - 18, 2001
