#19 - I Got A Rock

"I Got A Rock" (Or is that "I Gotta Rock"?)

2/1/04 (#19)

It seems to be the nature of our media to paint a portrait with as few proverbial brushstrokes as possible, to simplify the details until we're presented a mere caricature of the person. This is done on a daily basis, most evident during election seasons: If a candidate possesses a resume of 100 essential elements, various depictions can be created by selectively presenting only a few of these facets, creating a picture as flattering or foolish as necessary to underscore the artist's point. In the end, a candidate can be reduced to a single sound byte of an ill-conceived scream (Dean), and an incumbent can be mocked for a simple linguistically-challenged statement such as, "A tax cut is really one of the anecdotes to coming out of an economic illness." (Bush). (Though it should be noted that Dean only once released his now ubiquitous bellow; Bush has a list of personal malapropisms so extensive that choosing an exemplary bon mot is like selecting a single grain of sand to illuminate the expansiveness of the beach.)

While I do not mind when a politician is portrayed as a buffoon for his shortcomings, I was gravely alarmed when I discovered that Charlie Brown (of Peanuts^TM fame) was a victim of the same slanderous oversimplification.

Chuck is the quintessential loser: He endlessly falls for Lucy's baiting when it comes to kicking (or not kicking) footballs; he can cost the team the baseball game with a single slow-arcing "fast" ball; He picks the worst tree for Christmas, he gets rocks for Halloween, and he exemplifies the hapless chump whose best intentions cannot overcome his own inept actions.

Yet he's completely funky on the guitar.

That's right, Charlie Brown rocks.

I have played guitar since I was 15 years old, and while my armor of musical theory has more chinks than protection, I take pride in being somewhat of a savant in the realm of rock and roll history. I perused The Encyclopedia of Rock with the urgency of a student cramming for the next day's essay exam; I read album liner notes repeatedly, connecting producers and players with the discipline of a genealogist; I found friends whose fervor matched mine, endlessly exchanging the minutia culled from years of focused interest. Since the day I heard the reverberant strum of my first Yamaha acoustic guitar, even dissonant fumblings possessing a gorgeous resonance, I have sensed the potential of the instrument and admired those who can make the difficult task seem easy, even effortless. Playing guitar is a noble artistic aspiration, and playing well is a glorious exhibition of our innate desire for beauty in our lives.

So imagine my surprise when the Cartoon Network^TM presented an episode featuring the Peanuts gang trying to persuade the Beethoven-devoted Schroeder to play in their rock band. In an effort to demonstrate the infectious joy of rock and roll, a style Schroeder has consistently resisted, a band is assembled: Pig pen on drums, jazz-influenced Snoopy on bass, and Charlie Brown on guitar. The trio romps through a danceable blues number, and Charlie sidesteps the histrionics common to young players in favor of a rich variety of complex chords and contrapuntal strumming. In short, he was the bomb.

The scene ended 40 seconds later, and Charlie Brown's exploits were never mentioned again. Soon, it was back to "You blockhead!" and "Charlie Brown is so wishy-washy", the brunt of most jokes, the poster child for talentless ambition.

The reason I can abide the mockery of Dean, Bush, Dan Quayle, Bill Clinton, and politicians ad infinitum is that by their career decisions, they have volunteered for this roasting. If Bush thinks that people in Mexico speak "Mexican" (as if "Spanish" is a language contained within the borders of Spain) then he deserves to be parodied in political cartoons nationwide; if Dean lacks the savvy to recognize the error in calling the immeasurably important realm of Foreign Policy "a hole in my resume", then there is nothing suspect in asking him what language they speak in that country south of Texas.

But Charlie Brown is an innocent child, in the awkward stages of adolescence where kids seek out areas to excel, arenas in which they can battle the forces of the world and, in victory, claim a piece of themselves as the prize. It is understandable that the predatory children of that fictional town would ride Charlie Brown like a birthday pony for his failings, as that is the essential nature of children. But if we imagine the Peanuts gang as presidential candidates, all vying for attention, all attempting to shine despite a similar history and upbringing, then the misrepresentation is to be blamed on the media. And the media in this strip is Charles Schulz. He glosses over Chuck's prowess as a musician as if it were a meaningless trait, and focuses instead on his regular athletic failures as an indication of his abilities.

Peanuts is unrivaled as a favorite American comic strip, a daily part of the American psyche for 50 years, and its impact upon that psyche is immeasurable. Over the past few decades I have watched as children who dream of being musicians are encouraged to "be more realistic", yet high school athletic stars are treated like royalty, aspiring to attain the lucrative pro contracts and endorsement deals that have been represented to them as validation of success. I have witnessed schools cutting music programs from the curriculum, its value reduced to a simple figure on a balance sheet, while NCAA football and its "March Madness" media blitz became an economic juggernaut for networks, advertisers, and the schools themselves.

I wonder what might have happened if a generation ago, Charlie Brown had simply said, "Rats, I can't pitch my way out of a paper bag. I'm going to go home and jam with Pig pen." What if Snoopy had been too busy channeling Mingus to be a famous World War I flying ace? Frankly, it's not hard to imagine that if baseball had been taken out of the equation, Peppermint Patty and Marcie might have been the world's first Riot Grrls.

Good grief, if only we could know.

©2004 wpreagan