Marilyn Monroe Returns

On December 3rd, I got an e-mail from "abba-dabba," a business partner of the Marilyn Shrine artist Kabbaz.

I thought that art book had slammed shut, but with one small message, I knew more chapters were being written. Turns out "they" have heard of my interest in the work, gave me a link to the updated Kabbaz website, and wrote that if I liked what was done in the past, I'm really going to like what's coming up.

I was simply thrilled that they had made contact, and knew how much I loved the silent art gallery. But then with the promise of something new to come? Is this a holiday miracle?

Today, I drove by the store front and SHE'S BACK! And in fitting tribute to coming back from the dead, it's a replica of her LIFE magazine cover! Some faux marble painting was done to the display window, and when peeking in the front door, there's another painting! At the entrance there appears to be a mural of a squatting Marilyn from the remaining footage of her last (aborted) movie, Something's Got To Give.

Will it be a Marilyn Shrine Coffee House in competition with the Starbucks across the street? A restaurant? A full-blown art gallery for an artist-in-residence?
I'll wait patiently for the answer. I'm just grateful that Kabbaz and Marilyn are back. Santa came to town a little early this year.

Truth Floats Away

Early Thanksgiving afternoon, I pick up a friend who tells me about seeing one of the floats crash into a light pole during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. We then riffed on how everyone is secretly waiting for something to go awry... In the very early 1970s, I remember watching the Underdog float fly headfirst into the side of a building. It both frightened and excited little kid me. I also remember waiting for more crashes in subsequent years, and being bored when all went as planned.

At Thanksgiving dinner, my mother brings up the wayward float that crashed into a light pole, and how 2 sisters broke the fall of the light fixture.

Early this Saturday morning, I learn the story of NBC not covering the biggest news at the very parade their network sponsors. That even though Couric, Lauer and Roker knew something was up when the M&M float didn't cross the finish line, they bantered over 2004 M&M float footage. "There was no further comment on air at that point in time because we did not have further information," said Cameron Blanchard, a spokeswoman for NBC's entertainment division, which is responsible for the parade broadcast.

These people are globally wired within an inch of the universe, yet can't convey information taking place within a quarter mile of where they were stationed? They have satellites in space but not a walkie-talkie?! Did they not have cell phones?

Richard Huff, of the New York Daily News writes:
"If it was possible for NBC's cable network, MSNBC, to report the accident - before NBC's own parade coverage ended - then someone should have gotten a word to Lauer and Couric."

Turns out my friend and my mother knew about the incident before Lauer and Couric did, and the friend doesn't even have cable TV.

This Parade Coverup reminds me of the White House somehow not knowing about the on-coming threat of Katrina, or the immediate devastation in its wake, while everyone else in America who even walked past a media outlet knew about it all in full detail. Yes, the White House is so primitive that they still have dial-up speed internet and an antennae on the roof that sometimes lets them pick up PBS...

The White House is currently inhabitated by a batch of unconcerned liars, so I'll just let go of my incredulity over their "Katrina? What Katrina?" response. But NBC?

Our American media is far too technologically advanced to ever play the dumb card. They are too deep into too many things that aren't their business to ever pretend they don't know about something that is their business. And trying to squirm out of this by implying that NBC's entertainment division just didn't think the injury-inducing incident was worth mentioning is a really bad move. It confirms that the tail is wagging the dog, that the line between news and entertainment has been utterly erased.

These types of lies reveal the truth, and when NBC - and the White House - don't even bother to pretend to be upset about it, the truth has horrifying consequences.

Goodbye, Norma Jean

On Tuesday, October 18th, Billy Idol disappeared from the window, and excitement brewed when I saw signs of renovation (above). I saw lamp shades; will Kabbaz add lighting to the Marilyn Gallery? I looked forward to the revamped unveiling of a new Marilyn.

Signs say the candle burned out long before the legend ever did...
This afternoon, the black curtain backdrop has fallen to reveal freshly painted red walls, light fixtures, tables, chairs and a man busy on a ladder. Someone has taken over the storefront.
That's not surprising. With major new retail across the street, these old storefronts are now desirable property. If I could sit in the Starbucks' drive-thru and stare at Marilyn paintings, it would make sense for a business to take advantage of that kind of visability.

I should have knocked on the door and peppered the Ladder Man with questions, but I was too sad and too shocked to do so. I walked away with a funeral dirge in my head and a heavy heart.
So was Billy Idol's rebel yell Kabbaz's comment on being evicted?
He didn't even have time to place one final Marilyn?
Will a new shrine/gallery spot be found?
How do I mend my broken heart?

Marilyn's Rebel Yell?

Present political problems and dire future trends for our country had me in a dour mood as I drove to work. Usually, a quick glance at the MM Gallery is good for a brief respite. But not on this parituclar morning...
...the sound of a needle dragging violently across the vinyl...
It's bloody Billy Idol in the Marilyn window?!?!?!

Previously, Kabbaz has put another in the sacred window shrine: Maria Callas.
And I know he paints portraits of other artists that mean something deep to him.
Maria Callas, Janis Joplin, Billy Idol...
To quote Sesame Street, "one of these things is not like the other/one of these things just doesn't belong..."

Not that I have anything against Billy Idol. He's always been GQ Punk, and I truly think there's a need for that. Plus, his guitarist Steve Stevens was always an entertaining glam pop guitar shredder. But what deeper meaning does he have for an artist like Kabbaz?
Is the sneer a social or political comentary (as it was for me that particular morning)?
But when a sneer is someone's trademark schtick, does it count?
Kabbaz has pulled me ever-deeper into his mystery.

D'Ya Think I'm Sexy?

A fictional imagining about THE decisive moment in the downturn of Rod Stewart’s career.

Early Summer 1978, a Los Angeles recording studio
Most of the band Rod Stewart had assembled for last year’s album and tour – Footloose & Fancy Free – is tuning and picking, awaiting the arrival of drummer Carmine Appice, and Rod himself.

The new album they’re working on, Blondes Have More Fun, is about 80% done, with Rod writing all the original tunes in partnership with either of his guitarists, Jim Cregan or Gary Grainger. Earlier in the week, Rod called all of them to say there was a brand new song to add to the list. They are now gathered for the purpose of hearing and learning the new song.

There are cheerful hellos as Rod and Carmine stroll in.
“So, what have you been up to this week?” bassist Phillip Chen asks Rod.
As he fiddles with a reel-to-reel tape, Rod says, “Well, we did the photo shoot for the album cover. Got Claude Mougin for the session, a Playboy photographer…”
“How’d you manage that?” asks guitarist Billy Peek, a little too excited.
Rod cues the tape and answers offhandedly, “Oh, Alana knows him. She set up the shoot, was one of the models.”

Grainger, Cregan and Chen exchange quick looks of concern. George Hamilton’s ex-wife, Alana, is Rod’s new “steady” gal. The fallout from his Britt Ekland years still dogs Rod, and while Britt was movie star glamour, Alana Stewart is garden variety Hollywood excess. While she was a good choice for social climbing in Beverly Hills, including her in musical doings was not a good idea.

Thinking of Ekland’s flawed palimony suit against Rod, Grainger clears his throat before cracking, “Putting a girlfriend on your record was kinda messy in the past.”
Rod crushes the empty Styrofoam cup in his hand and shoots back, “Yeah, well ‘Tonight’s the Night’ was Number bloody One for 8 fuckin’ weeks! Famous birds sell records, mate!”
He walks away to the engineering board in a slight snit, saying over his shoulder, “Plus, I’m only putting Alana on the cover. She’s not singing, you know. Think I’m mad or something?”

Rod fiddles with some knobs, and walks back to the band with an expectant smile on his face. He flings his arm about the shoulders of Appice and says, “OK, boys, we’ve got a new song. Carmine and me wrote it.”

There’s no hiding the spontaneous shock of this news. Appice had never written a song in his entire life! He's a drummer for hire, for chrissake. While Rod beams at Appice, everyone else stares at the drummer with their mouths agape.

Rod chuckles. “OK, boys, your eager anticipation is noted. Without further ado….”
And he clicks on the demo tape. A throbbing bass with a simple drum machine (what?) beat comes over the studio speakers.

“It sounds like the Stones ‘Miss You,’” says Cregan, 8 bars in.
“That’s exactly what I want,” says a beaming Stewart.
A keyboard swirl repeats twice, and Chen notes, “Wait. That’s the riff from ‘Taj Mahal!’ The Brazilian soul man’s song.”
Appice tries to hide his pride in having stolen such a cool riff. Songwriting is really fun.
Then comes Stewart’s scratch vocal, words sounding close to a typical Rod Stewart Story Song:
“She sits alone waiting for suggestions
He's so nervous avoiding all the questions
His lips are dry, her heart is gently pounding
Don't you just know exactly what they're thinking”

THEN comes the chorus.
Even though not a one of them is drinking any kind of beverage, Chen, Cregan, Grainger & Peek erupt into a spit take.

The rest of the demo plays out, punctuated by intermittent chuckles and head shakes. The last cheesy keyboard riff fades into the studio abyss. The silence is broken with a quick pick of the chorus to “I Was Only Joking,” on Grainger’s guitar.

Yes, it’s Grainger’s editorial comment on what they just heard, but it also happens to be a song he and Rod wrote together, a huge hit song currently in heavy rotation across the country, probably playing on the radio of cars passing by the studio, right now, at this moment.

Laughing heartily, Cregan points to Appice, “You wrote a disco tune? Hilarious “I Was Only Joking,” for sure!” Rod notes Carmine’s feeble attempt at hiding his hurt. He also notes the band’s failure to grasp the seriousness of the issue.
“OK, boys, there is sly commentary on disco life in there. A slight joke. But in the main, it’s the song we’re learning today, and if all goes as well as expected, it’ll be the first single.”

“But it’s a disco song!” blurts out guitarist Billy Peek.
Now, Peek is most grateful for the gravy train that is his gig with Rod, and would never say anything to rock the gravy boat. But this new song? It could be fine as a one-off joke album track, but a single?! The stink eye from Rod makes him instantly regret his outburst.

The plastic cup holding Rod’s gin & tonic is thrown across the room, and in a voice straining to conceal anger he says, “Everyone’s doing it – The Stones, Cher, Diana Ross, KISS. Know why they’re doin’ it? Because disco sells. Know why I’m doin’ it? Because disco sells. This song is going to move copies of the album, and when I sell albums, I make money. When I make money, you all make money, too. Right? And disco sells.”

Since he'd already tossed it across the room, Rod can’t take a pull off his drink, so he starts yanking at his rooster hair (which, the band curiously noted, had just been bleached full-on bombshell blonde). Chastened, the members of the band who aren’t Appice quickly try to make amends.
“So, what’s the song’s title?” asks Chen.
In unison, Stewart & Appice answer, “D’Ya Think I’m Sexy?”
Cregan averts any negative cracks with, “Well, if you’re looking for that ‘Miss You’ vibe, we can do that. Easy. It’s just gonna be a fine line to walk, ‘cos if it gets too cheesy, man, the music press will eat you alive.”

With an angry sigh and the tossing of his scarf, Rod says, “The music press, bah! They’ve been doggin’ me since Smiler. And the more they hate me records, the more my records sell. Why should I spend quality time writing tunes that please only rock writers and the people who read them? My bank manager pointed out something known as a financial glass ceiling, and if I bust my balls to try and come up with material that Woody would approve of, then there won’t be a pay raise.”

Just as the album’s producer, Tom Dowd, walks in the door, Rod finishes with, “I want butts in seats that buy records, and if playing to the cheap seats is how to make the monthly mansion house note, then that’s what I do. I’ve been poor, and I will not ever do that again. I’ll sing bloody Gershwin, if it comes to that!”

Rod stomps away to greet the man who has produced all of Rod’s albums since Atlantic Crossing. Dowd was now listening to the “Sexy” demo.
All members of the band stare at the floor, uncomfortable in the tirade’s aftermath.
Chen, Cregan and Granger listen in silent disgust as Dowd and Rod discuss the song’s arrangement… keyboards and congas and strings…
Peek wonders if there will be any guitars on the track.
Appice wonders if he just unwittingly sold his soul to the devil.

Aftermath
On Christmas Eve 1978, “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” was released, and by late January 1979 was #1 for 4 weeks. The album sold 15 million copies worldwide.
Even before the album came out, Rod’s gal Alana was pregnant with his child, so they got married. Regular readers of People know how his career as a Hollywood Husband plays out.
Chen, Peek & Grainger recorded one more Stewart album, Foolish Behaviour. During that album’s tour, a disgruntled Rod fired all 3 of them at one time.
In the 21st century, he financially resorts to singing 4 volumes of “The Great American Songbook.” He doesn't do near as much Gershwin as you’d think, because it’s got a lot of sophisticated notes that require some effort to sing.

How Much Is That Marilyn in the Window?

The new Marilyn in the window is here! An ode to swimming pool weather, a still from Marilyn's last (uncompleted) film which also serves as commentary to the St. Louis heat wave: Something's Gotta Give.
The backstory is here.
The Marilyn previous to the above is here.

An extraordinarily gifted photographer friend of mine has been enthusiastically following the Marilyn Shrine since being introduced to it. Upon seeing this latest exhibit, she wondered how the artist could stand to work in such anonymity and solitude, for artists thrive on the experience of others viewing their work, commenting on it, and (hopefully) buying some of it.

While I do wish Kabbaz would come forward and answer a dozen questions, I'm in awe of the seeming integrity of his mystery. His love for Marilyn is shared in a consistent and heart-felt way, and because of the very public nature of his solitary art gallery, he has a potentially bigger audience than most any fine artist. His work is in a high traffic area, but it sits back quietly, waiting for the true believers to find it, ponder it, keep an eye out. All of this goes on without the artist ever knowing or caring. It's merely his expression of adoration, unsullied by any modern standards of artistic commerce and publicity. While alive, Marilyn let herself be bought and sold, but these paintings of her are not for sale because love is priceless.

Memorial Monroe

A new Marilyn in the window for the Memorial Day weekend.

Robert Plant

I’ve now watched Robert Plant’s Conan O’Brien appearance 5 times. His new record, Mighty Rearranger, is so flawless that it will only sell about 3,000 copies. As great as the album is, Robert Plant and the Strange Sensations are magnificent on stage; there is no currently-touring rock band that even comes close to their dynamic perfection. That Plant is so much better live than on record is a delicious reversal of his Led Zeppelin days.

Zeppelin’s live album, The Song Remains The Same, just sucks, as do any live bootlegs I’ve heard. The studio albums are like a full-tilt, amphetamine orchestra, while the live album is like reducing the orchestra to only tympani and clarinet, with the clarinetist going on for hours! The band was adamantly a 4-piece on stage, thus making it impossible to recreate that album sound, so they took it in a different direction, honoring the distinction between studio and stage. Many wax poetic about seeing Led Zeppelin live, but it just didn’t translate well past that moment.

That makes sense, though, because Jimmy Page was a Studio Merlin the Magician. He’s remembered as a Guitar God, but I think many confuse his brilliant production work with his guitar prowess. Those indelible images of his skinny body arched back from the Gibson banging at his knees are the silhouette of an ax slinger, and I’m not questioning his 6-string authority, but when thinking of Zeppelin, we think of the way those albums - those songs - sound, and no one has ever sounded like that.

Each Zeppelin track was an expansive, elaborate production, with Page weaving a mad web of sounds that had nothing to do with a blues rock outfit, and everything to do with moving the Phil Spector Wall of Sound into the macho world of hard rock.

“Four Sticks,” from Led Zeppelin IV, is a prime example of his studio wizardry. The central riff and vocal line is a standard blues wallow until you double the speed, throw in a jungle beat and a loose, liquid bridge. That’s Page arranging. Triple track and condense the electric guitars until they buzz like hornets, fatten up the bass sound like Kirstie Alley, round out the drum so it sounds like tomcats fighting inside a velvet bag, and nudge the pitch control ever so slightly every time Plant careens into a squeal, and that’s Page producing. Break down the basic parts of that song, and it’s nothing special, but after Page stirs the ingredients, it becomes a vital piece of music that still sounds fresh and unique to this very moment.

Page turned the extraordinary into something extraterrestrial. Think of the opening drum riff on “When The Levee Breaks”: Jimmy knew how to make it sound like Bonham was beating sequoia trunks against the floor of the Grand Canyon. No way did it ever come across like that live, but who cares? Jimmy knew it was more important to get the ultimate sound recorded for all eternity rather than worry about acoustics in cement hockey arenas.

That he was such a production genius is not a surprise, considering his studio-musician-for-hire background. That he is usually over-looked for being a production genius is entirely his doing. You’d think the band was being charged a dollar a word for album liner notes because they were so scarce, and it concealed the less glamorous mechanics of the band while contributing to the mystery. Jimmy Page fully understood the yin and yang of the Zeppelin legend, and instinctively knew that the ponderous technical details of studio yin would seriously muss the aggressive Zeppelin yang, so he kept it quiet. Hell, he’s still quiet about being one of the greatest rock producers of all time, almost as if he doesn’t realize it was his greatest talent, his surest shot at immortality.

Page dried on the vine after Led Zeppelin disbanded, and Plant blossomed. He has successfully explored varied forms of musical expression with humor, grace and dignity. He works only when he feels impassioned to do so, and having no financial worries, can maintain the quality standards of his musical pedigree by hiring only the very best musicians.

One of his greatest achievements is giving the Zeppelin catalog proper live treatment by giving it full-bodied instrumentation. In the mid 90’s, he dragged Jimmy Page out of his hermit castle for a triumphant rethink of their musical partnership on the Page & Plant tour. In 2002, we saw him and his other-worldly band blaze through a spellbinding show. The personal highlight of that set was a version of “Four Sticks” so thunderous and primal that it literally knocked me back in my seat.

Robert Plant conjures and improves the magical Led Zeppelin album sound, and it’s not the reason for his being, but rather another reason he is a master.

Marilyn Monroe

There's a secret Marilyn Monroe shrine on the South Side of St. Louis City. It's on one of the busiest streets near one of the very busiest intersections (3723 South Kingshighway, 63109 for Mapquest purposes), and even though countless cars pass by 24 hours a day, no one notices an ever-revolving series of paintings in an abandoned storefront window.

I first saw it the summer of 2003. While stuck in gnarly traffic, a swirl of psychedelic pastel colors caught the corner of my eye, and there was Marilyn blossoming brightly within a sea of blackness. To verify what I saw, I investigated on foot a few days later.

This side of the street still retains its very early 20th century urban mass; shop fronts at ground level with apartments above. Marilyn was next to a corner tavern, encased in a display window painted flat black, with black curtains blocking any view into the shop, and one fake tree for ambience. There was no display lighting, dust covered all surfaces, and a small bullet hole pocked the glass near dead center of Marilyn's viewing area.

The painting was florid and evocative on its own, while its odd display made it captivating. Even though I stood on the sidewalk of a mad street, the loud sounds of traffic pounding behind, I felt magically isolated in another's adulation.

There was no signature on the painting, and nothing to indicate if it was for sale. Who was the artist? Why is it here? Does he /she live upstairs, in that room behind the zebra-stripe curtains? I took pictures to show other South Siders what we'd been overlooking, and looked forward to visiting Secret Marilyn every time I drove by.

Then a new Marilyn painting appeared! Turns out this space was the quietest art gallery in the city, and save for a brief portrait of Maria Callas, was dedicated solely to Marilyn Monroe. Fine artists usually work themselves raw for recognition, trying to attract gallery interest to attract patrons. But here was an artist who tucked their work into the background of urban chaos, loyal to the muse, silently consistent and seemingly content to pick up distant, random patrons.

Were these paintings for sale? Does one push a note through the store door's mail slot, hoping the artist finds it and contacts you? Or are they not for sale, just for love? When they place a new painting, where does the old one go? And, for the 25th time, who is this person?!



Finally, in the bottom corner of "Marilyn in Tears" (I name each one for documentation purposes) was a name!!
KABBAZ
A Google search gave up Janis Joplin, and the artist's very own website! It answered some of my questions about the artist and his muse, but brought up new questions to add to the unanswered pile.

For instance, why doesn't he sell them? The first painting that I noticed - plus subsequent works - had been floating in his collection for years. Does he still paint? And while he used to actively show, what's the story behind this current form of solitary display?

While he's had relatively few visits to his site, someone is still paying the hosting fees. Since he listed it, I e-mailed him. I never got an error message, or a response. All signs indicate he doesn't want to be bothered, so I won't. But my final question is: Do I love the mystery behind the Marilyn paintings, or the work itself?

Along with the anticipation of each new Marilyn in the window, I admired the work because of the unceasing dedication that propelled it. Now that I know some back-story, I love the work. Kabbaz quietly carrying the torch for Marilyn is no different than Joe DiMaggio consistently sending roses to Marilyn's grave while he was alive. Both men courted public attention because of her, but ultimately eschewed the spotlight to preserve their bond with her. Rather than another artist milking the iconic aspects of, Kabbaz appears to truly and deeply love Marilyn, which makes his some of the most genuine art I've ever seen.

Burt Bacharach & Angie Dickinson

If you were to find the very cotton-candy center of my unblemished, romantic heart, you’d see this:

I vividly remember the first time I heard Dionne Warwick singing Bacharach & David’s “Do You Know the Way To San Jose.” Oh, enchantment! My little tyke self instinctively understood what was spelled out in those rhythms, that glide, that smooth. I conjured images of cars gliding down LA freeways, a butterscotch lollipop against an azure sky, gas stations where stars pumped gas with white plastic sunglasses pushed atop blonde hair glowing in the sun… 

I bought into the California way of life without even knowing they were selling.

At that tender age, I also bought into the entire catalog of the Bacharach way of life. I knew nothing of lifestyle choices of the modern era, of suburban cocktail parties in green and aqua rumpus rooms. I understood nothing of Bacharach’s musical blending of jazz, classical, pop and rock, or Hal David’s seemingly light yet incisive lyrics, the two men a modern-day George & Ira Gershwin. I hadn’t even equated that all the songs that stirred the very core of my tiny tot being came from the same men, or that their vision was perfectly expressed through the voice of one or two women. 

I only knew that certain songs transformed the very moment within which I heard them. I could be absorbed in a coloring book when suddenly:
…bohm, bohm, bohm, bohm (kick and snare)
“Oh, L.A. is a great big freeway
Put a hundred down and buy a car”

I was transported into a new world of die-cast precision scenes that came not from any personal experience, but from tuning into the frequency created by Bacharach & David. Their wave-length could physically spin me like a top as horns and strings pounded madly at the end of “Promises, Promises” or skip me lazily through a gentle downpour of “Raindrops Keep Falling’ On My Head.” A sorrowful, insistent piano riff stopped my breath as a bank of ladies in sequined gowns chanted “Don’t stop/ Don’t stop” as a Garland-esque glamour girl wobbled past wailing:
“So walk on by
Make believe you never see the tears I cry.”

From Bacharach & David, I developed distinct notions that kissing boys gave one pneumonia, that the Lord would give us no more meadows until we got more of the love we needed, and that a lad named Alfie had all the answers but refused to spill the beans. 
I was perfectly content with this world view.

A little time passes, a grade-schooler distracted from homework by a TV commercial… Burt Bacharach at the piano with Angie Dickinson practically in his lap, frisky from both the vermouth and how utterly amazing they are. From that moment on, my ideal of love was based on the rosy glow surrounding Burt & Angie as they billed and cooed:
“Martini & Rossi on the rocks
Say yessss.”

Rather than sitting in our tiny little apartment in my polyester PJs, I wanted to be on the set with Burt & Angie, sitting on the hearth of that roaring fire, humming to the vibration that perfect love emits. My parents had just divorced, but Burt & Angie were together, perfect and gorgeous, the look of love was in their eyes.

I wasn’t yet sure what sex was, but I knew that “sexy” was Burt & Angie lounging by their Beverly Hills pool. I wanted a house near theirs, so they’d be my neighbors and come hang by my pool. In the afternoon sun, a massive stone BBQ pit smokes while a purring blender makes us frothy pink drinks with aqua paper umbrellas jutting out of the foamy crest. We all laugh as Burt tosses the tiny umbrella into my deep end…
”Together forever
That’s how it must be
To live without you
Would only be heartbreak for me.”

Being a musical genius married to a TV policewoman eventually spelled disaster for Burt & Angie, because by late 1978 they were separated and divorced by 1980. One can’t help but notice that Bacharach’s 15+ years musical winning streak also came to an end around this time. The spell had been broken and I lost my symbol of Ideal Love at that very moment when Kid Crushes grew into Going Out, a cut-rate Angie auditioning a row of Bacharach-less.

To my mind and soul, any Bacharach & David tune equals the sound of love. Unrequited or passionate, serious or casual, brand new or faded, they have a song for and about it. For every Burt there is an Angie, and then there isn’t…
“and so for at least
Until tomorrow
I’ll never fall in love again.”

Teeny Bop Magazines

A magazine rack is like my Encyclopedia Britannica. It stems from being deposited in front of them at grocery stores while my mother did her kid-free shopping, and I’ve gleaned, easily, 50% 0f my knowledge from this life-long habit. I also use magazines as comfort food; if I’m feeling blue, I’ll cruise through an issue of MAD magazine. A recent magazine expedition unearthed the ultimate comfort food, my macaroni and fish sticks, TIGER BEAT!!

I was shocked that it still existed, figuring it bit the dust around the same time as 16 Magazine. What’s even more shocking is that it’s still published by Laufer (1970s: The Laufer Company. 2000s: Laufer Media Inc.). Did I hold in my hand a nearly-unchanged concept, the key to a brief return to a more innocent time? I gladly paid $4 for a thrilling return to yesteryear (though I went to self-checkout, what with me being an adult buying a teen magazine and the whole Michael Jackson trial thing).

Did I overly romanticize the Tiger Beat return? Certainly.
It’s a whole new generation of pre-teen Prosti-Tots, and magazines wanting their abundant allowance money have to keep pace. On first read-through, the difference between today and yesterday issues is much like Victrola vs. iPod.

DIFFERENCES
The only punctuation mark used in the Old TB was the exclamation point. In these more somber times, the New TB uses them sparingly.

Old TB strived to help you connect with your favorite, with details on where to find him, how to dress and act to get his attention. New TB has put the kibosh on such tips due to stalking, celebrity murders and illegal underage sex issues.

Vital statistics (including neck, in-seam and shoe sizes) and questionnaires (What’s Your Favorite Cereal?) with handwritten answers were the backbone of the Old TB. The New TB would court lawsuits with questions like “What habit would you like to break?” and thus avoid it completely.

Old TB had few paid advertisements proper, and all other ads were for items directly related to the stars within (posters, paperbacks, pillows, fan clubs, etc.). New TB has just a few more paid advertisements, but obviously gets revenue from copious product placement within stories, a la In Style magazine.

Old TB offered endless contests that let the winner meet her favorite (“Fly To Hollywood & Kiss David Cassidy!”). New TB? See “illegal underage sex issues.” Now contains lots of “quiz-o-ramas,” personality tests and Jesse McCartney palm readings.

2 to 3 pages worth of wordy articles on the most popular favorites filled out every issue of Old TB. The New TB follows the short-attention-span format of lots of pictures with extended cutlines. Articles consist of very large pictures and up to 5 paragraphs of text.


SIMILARITIES
Tragedy befalling our hero remains a pre-teen staple.

Be it Susan Dey or Hillary Duff, all past and present female teen stars hate something about their physical appearance, yet persevere.

No matter the decade, teen stars with no musical background or talent continue to make records.

No matter the decade, all faves are assigned elaborate and poetic quotes that never once sprung from their lips.

Generic snail mail addresses are listed, and as always, the letters go directly into the dumpster behind the building it was sent to.

2-sided centerfold posters, pin-ups and a plethora of photos.

And posters would be the only reason these types of magazines still exist in today’s instant-access world. All major teen stars have elaborate web sites. DSL and satellite beams in any song, show or movie they want at the time they want it. But the typical 8 year old’s need for a large quantity of Ryan Cabrera photos on her bedroom wall cannot be met by Dad’s $75 HP printer. Tiger Beat, J-14, Bop, etc. are still the only way to create the perfect photo collage on your closet door.

The teen magazine publishers and editors know this, and thus, have let the rest of the content fall to sub-tabloid levels. Not to say that “Bobby Sherman – The Loneliest Day of His Life” was worthy of The New Yorker, but it was a lengthy, meaty article, giving a girl something to contemplate. Today, teen magazines provide only G-rated, watered-down rehashes of what Star and The National Enquirer reported 2 months ago. And what other choice do they have? When your media-savvy 7 year old discusses Tara Reid’s terrifying nip slip with her friends, J-14 is really not out of line printing a safe version of such. Child-like innocence is such an antiquated concept that thumbing through the old teen magazines is now akin to reading ancient fairy tales. It was once easy to keep the sordid reality of Leif Garrett and Andy Gibb off the pages of SuperTeen. But when your kids already know about Mary-Kate Olsen and Lindsay Lohan’s barely-disguised substance abuse, should teeny-bop editors blatantly ignore that information for the sake of childhood innocence? No, because they are money-making publishers, not parents. The current teen magazine industry can rest easy in knowing it has no power to set trends, only follow them.

Though, there is one grand tradition still in play, and perfected, for the 21st Century. The trick of the completely fabricated personality and talent that was once the exclusive rights of the rarified world of teen magazines is now a profitable multi-media concept.

Yesterday: Only after Leif Garrett had cemented his grassroots appeal did he earn the right to make records full of massive pitch control and compression. He was a real boy whose natural charisma allowed him to live a lie. Today: Ashlee Simpson is a lie that bought the right for the media to manufacture some charisma for her. Yep, seems even the creation of a falsehood was more organic in the old days.