A Foreigner in a Strange Land

Let's play a psychic guessing game.  Think of all rock bands.  Now, think about the greatest rock band of all time.  Now think about yourself in middle school, wishing you could be in a rock band.  Now, blend all of this together, the highs and the lows, and come up with the most average rock band of all time.  This is a band that you have definitely heard of, you know they have had hits, in fact you hear them on the radio. Then you turn the station. You have never been motivated to buy an album by this band or see them in concert, nor do you know anyone who has.  You wonder who really likes/liked this band.  Concentrate on the name of this band.  Concentrate...okay!

You are thinking of Foreigner, aren't you.  Yes, you are.

Now, this exercise is not meant to be disrespectful to this English American rock group, formed in New York in 1976 (thanks wikipedia!).  Far from it.  Instead, I bring this up because Foreigner is a great example, I think, of the sad relationship between fame and the artist, or artists as it were.  Bear with me here. 

Not long ago, I was listening to the radio as I drove across town, and a Foreigner song came on.  A reflex brought my hand up to change the dial, because this band is on "the list".  I do not mean an actual written list.  I mean my wife and I, living in a town that has horrible choices on commercial radio ("Everything that rocks!", or "The rock you grew up with!", or "The biggest rock library in town!", or "The newest rock station in town!") have formed an informal mental list of artists that we agree not to listen to while we drive in the car.  Making it to "the list" could mean that an artist or band has stupid lyrics, has very sexist lyrics, has unimaginative musical arrangements,  or only has fans with confederate flags on their pickup trucks.  Now, "the list" can  have subtle rules that make interesting exceptions.  Sometimes being so far out of style and oblivious to your uncoolness can make you cool, like Poison.  And sometimes being too cheesy and earnest can make you great, like Journey. Anyway, as I sat there that day with my hand poised to flip the dial, it occurred to me that Foreigner was undoubtedly on "the list", but it was kind of sad that they were.  For a minute or so, I thought about the group as real guys with a real history. I considered the years of practicing, jamming, networking, auditioning, failing, soul searching, and finally recording and touring that each member had been through.  They were lucky, I guess, because they actually made it.  And then I thought about the phrase, "making it."  What does that mean for these artists, really?  I mean, all that work, all that persistence over all those years, and how many Foreigner songs can I name without checking wikipedia? Four, maybe five?  You could argue that the band was simply popular before my time since I was born in 1978, but that just makes it even sadder as it points out how short lived and fickle fame is.  Maybe it is precisely their pursuit of fame that has relegated this group of artists to such dullness, to such averageness, such blahness that they belong on "the list."  Maybe the pursuit of fame and the pursuit of art are necessarily very different things.  Maybe art should be a Foreigner to fame.  Maybe this why I had to change the station.

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