POP VIEW; The Male Rock Anthem: Going All to Pieces
By Ann Powers
Published: February 1, 1998
ANYONE WHO HAS STOOD ON A sticky sports-arena floor, watching flash pots explode as a band plays, will recognize the universal cue for a rock concert's emotional peak. The guitarist begins a pensive cadence as the lights dim. Before the singer intones the words everyone anticipates, tiny flames burst forth, one by one, from the upheld hands of fans. The song fills the room. Flickers merge into a sea of light.
Call this scene the Zippo moment, after the brand of cigarette lighter wielded by many fans. It announces the heroic tales of struggle and revelation often called power ballads. From ''Stairway to Heaven,'' the Led Zeppelin anthem that defined the form in the 1970's, to ''Jeremy,'' the Pearl Jam opus that epitomizes it in the 90's, the power ballad has spoken for the masculine heart of hard rock, uniting artists and fans in mutual catharsis. Recently, though, the meaning of the power ballad has changed as the age of heroes gives way to more conflicted protagonists.
When the Zippo moment originated, bands like Led Zeppelin descended on the scene like instant deities, flaunting images of personal and artistic excess. Power ballads allowed them to demonstrate their humanity while staying huge. They shared certain characteristics: a solemn, slow beginning; an intense musical progression; inspirational lyrics. And any novice guitarist could learn to play them.
Epic but accessible, such songs not only dramatized the passions of the artists; they also offered a sense of profundity to fans who craved it. The prevailing stereotype of the arena rocker depicted a party animal, occupying the lowest rung on the ladder of American pop culture. Even other rock fans saw them as pot-smoking dropouts who had betrayed rock's countercultural potential. Power ballads offered these so-called losers a vision of honor and strength.
''Dream On,'' by Aerosmith, preached hope to outcasts. ''Freebird,'' by Lynyrd Skynyrd, glorified the freedom of the rebel. ''Bohemian Rhapsody,'' by Queen, literally made an opera of the music. These songs employed the rhetoric of comic books and fantasy novels: low culture insisting on its right to mimic high art. A hamburger flipper still living with Mom could imagine himself a warrior in their midst.
In the 1980's, when hard rock merged with pop, the power ballad seduced a new audience. Bands like Bon Jovi released old fashioned ballads like ''Wanted Dead or Alive,'' which imagined the rock star as a modern-day Jesse James, but also expanded the genre to include love songs that borrowed from romance novels to appeal to women. The splendor of a virile singer like Jon Bon Jovi pouring his heart out to a woman assured fans of both sexes that such sentimentality was all right.
For the 1990's artists who revitalized hard rock, however, power ballads posed a problem. Pearl Jam and Nirvana may have been weaned on ''Stairway to Heaven,'' but they had rejected its pomp in favor of the raw power of punk and the humble stance of American indie rock. Indie's bohemian world view, influenced by feminism, also made them suspicious of arena rock stars' lion-maned manliness. Yet these artists and their audiences still longed for that clearly marked moment of connection.
It fell to Pearl Jam, the band most interested in salvaging rock's mythic power, to reimagine it. Its phenomenally influential song ''Jeremy'' inverted the old ballad style. Instead of a slow, phallic build, this music came on in waves, pushing forward and then falling back. The high keen of Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin was replaced by the heartfelt mumble of Eddie Vedder. Valor gave way to vulnerability and confusion. The Zippo moment, which once summoned male power, now laid open male anxiety.
''Jeremy'' told the story of a young boy driven mad by schoolyard taunts and parental negligence -- a victim, not a hero. Other songs worked a similar transformation, as songwriters scrambled to unearth their inner torments. ''The Unforgiven,'' by Metallica, defined the style's harder edge with its tale of a hell-bound soul. Alice in Chains offered the supremely alienated ''Man in the Box,'' while Soundgarden gave in to depression with ''Black Hole Sun.'' The dashing yet miserable singer for Bush, Gavin Rossdale, lamented a dysfunctional relationship with a woman in ''Glycerine.''
Arena rockers gave their male working-class fans a way to believe in themselves when others degraded them; today's alternative rockers express the doubts of young middle-class men about the power they inherit. Like the weeping patriarchs of the Christian group Promise Keepers, they consider getting in touch with one's feelings the ultimate heroic act. Very often, those feelings include anger at women for having distressed them in the first place.
THE PAST YEAR'S BIGGEST Zippo moment was generated by ''Push,'' by Matchbox 20, a sweetly frosted tirade against a lover. ''Push'' found its audience on music television, through a video featuring the puppy-handsome singer Rob Thomas emoting like mad. Female fans connected with the image and with the singer's agony. When the band played the song live, young couples clutched and sang along with its lyrics about pent-up frustration.
But what is the real message of ''Push''? ''I want to push you around, well, I will,'' sings Mr. Thomas. In interviews, he has denied that the chorus describes physical violence, and a close reading suggests that it may be the song's female character doing the pushing. Yet in the song, these nuances are overwhelmed by the belligerence of the chorus. Most people who hear it will remember ''Push'' for Mr. Thomas's gruff male voice declaring his desire to physically menace someone, presumably female, who has driven him to the end of his rope.
In ''Push,'' as in many other alternative-rock ballads, a man's feeling of being overwhelmed justifies his irresponsible behavior. The music blends prettiness with force, enhancing the passive-aggressive mood. ''I won't be held responsible,'' Brian Vander Ark sings in ''The Freshmen,'' last year's other hugely popular power ballad. The song mentions a failed romance that left the man guilt-stricken -- after his girlfriend committed suicide.
All this male rage disguised as moping makes one long for Marilyn Manson, who at least admits his anger is ugly. Yet one group has tapped into the spirit of vulnerability without turning hateful. Ben Folds Five is a trio led by the short-haired, decidedly unheroic pianist Ben Folds. In ''Brick,'' which his band mate, Darren Jesse, helped write, Mr. Folds risks real self-exposure. His piano picking out a mournful, simple line, he sings in a tone as plain as conversation about taking his girlfriend to get an abortion. She is the brick dragging him down, but the drift in his voice, its exhaustion, shows that he realizes he is the same to her.
It is hard to imagine holding up a Zippo for ''Brick''; by embracing the bewilderment that life can bring, it disqualifies itself from grandiose enactments. Instead, it expresses true vulnerability, by taking a risk that most new power balladeers don't dare. Its gesture is so simple: to let ambivalence be. ''Brick'' acknowledges that heroism is not always possible. Its quiet epiphany reveals nothing more than two people, struggling. It illuminates on its own.
Photo: PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE Matchbox 20 (Kyle Cook, left, Brian Yale, Rob Thomas, Adam Gainor and Paul Doucette) blends prettiness with force. (Andrew MacPherson); UNHEROIC Ben Folds Five (Robert Sledge, left, Ben Folds and Darren Jesse) dares to reveal its vulnerability. (Sony Music)