It’s a hot day in July and I’m driving into Cleveland, Ohio. I’ll be staying at some nameless and faceless motel in the big-box suburbs, out there with the Home Depots and Olive Gardens. It reminds me of an old song by The Beautiful South – “[t]his could be Rotterdam or anywhere, Liverpool or Rome.”
Cleveland used to have a reputation for being ubiquitous. Tennessee Williams once said that “America has only three cities, New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. “Everywhere else,” he explained, “is Cleveland.” In 2018, though, it seems like it would be lucky to keep even this non-distinction. Now it’s just a nearly abandoned crater, surrounded by suburbs full of white people who love their racist baseball team.
And oh yes, the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame. They have that too. I can see dingy signs demanding that I take exit 195A and pay $23.00 for the chance to see some of Keith Richards’ clothing. Or perhaps a moving tribute to the “giants of the blues” or whatnot. Lifetime achievement awards to the bands of the baby boomers. And, more recently, Bon Jovi.