The criteria: 1) The song must be over four minutes long. Anything shorter is just a pop song. Pompous Arena Rock Songs require length for that epic quality, man. 2) The song must have been played in an actual arena by the original band. This is how we can disqualify songs like Hey Jude and All Along the Watchtower. 3) The song must generally follow the formula of a slow, preferably acoustic opening (lending to the artist’s cred as a virtuoso), leading to the the sudden machine-gunning on the distorted guitars. This is the ROCK OUT. 4) The artist must be absolutely sincere that the song is an Important Piece of Work. Any hint of irony disqualifies it (think Spiñal Tap).

But enough of my yakkin’— Let’s boogie!

10. Don’t Stop Believing, Journey
Journey sucks, no matter how hard so-called rock historians try to “re-assess” their works in a post-Sopranos world. This song brings its pomposity to the table right with the new-agey preaching title, and wraps it in a bow of Steve Perry wailing.

Lyric of Pomposity: Some will win, some will lose / Some were born to sing the blues

9. Dream On, Aerosmith
Opening with the literally self-reflective warble of Steven Tyler, Dream On dares the guy in the Loge to not start flailing his head when the screaming commences on the verse. This song was written in Aerosmith’s hard-core Hell’s Kitchen heroin days, but that doesn’t excuse its pretension.

Lyric of Pomposity: Half my life is in books written pages / Live and learn from fools and from sages

8. Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin
Yes, it makes every list. Hell, it’s probably on the list of “Top 10 Tourist Destinations in Belgium”, but the standard-bearer of arena rock pomposity cannot be denied. Framed by the medieval fret-harmonics of the opening and wistful “oh by the way, remember it started slow?” ending, Stairway throws down the gauntlet to all who dare challenge its throne.

Lyric of Pomposity: And a new day will dawn for those who stand long / And the forest will echo with laughter

7. Free Bird, Lynyrd Skynyrd
Skynyrd, the Rolling Stones to the Allman Brothers’ Beatles, suffered from a career-long inferiority complex next to their long-haired Southern Rock bretheren. It’s no wonder then, that they turned up the amps in compensation. Many a shoulder-sitting concert going woman raised her shirt to this song, but that doesn’t excuse 20 minutes of guitar mashing to about three lines of actual lyric. For all its nouns and verbs, the lyrics of Free Bird are shockingly free of actual content.

Lyric of Pomposity: Lord knows, I can’t change.

6. Hotel California, The Eagles
We may never learn if Henley meant “colitas” or “coitus”, but it hardly matters. With Hotel California, the Eagles graduated from the hemp-hoodie wearing troupe who sang Seven Bridges Road to the coke-infused Arena pomp-peddlers in the fast lane. The closing guitar duel is so ingrained in our heads, we go into convulsions waiting to hear the “whoop”.

Lyric of Pomposity: Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends / She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends

5. More than a Feeling, Boston
In 1978, you couldn’t take a dump without hearing the opening guitar riff of More than A Feeling. This signaled the dudes to do bad air guitar and the girls to sing it at each other. And yet for all its pomposity, MTAF is as cold and programmed as Tom Scholz’s Rockman. Boston fancied themselves the Stanley Kubricks of rock, releasing one meticulously-crafted album per decade, but the uniform, derivative blandness of their works makes them more like the Brian DePalma.

Lyric of Pomposity: When Im tired and thinking cold / I hide in my music, forget the day

4. Thunder Road, Bruuuce
With each passing year, as Springsteen morphs closer to his Woody Guthrie ideal, his earlier works stands out as all the more transparently phony. Was he really that Jersey kid of myth, hanging out on the hood of his Chevy, making out under the Asbury Park phosper glow? Not likely. Thunder Road’s pomposity comes not so much from the ROCK OUT, but for having a lyrical density surpassing that of a white dwarf star.

Lyric of Pomposity: All the redemption I can offer, girl is beneath this dirty hood

3. November Rain, Guns n’ Roses
Guns n’ Roses had it all: fame, fortune, hot and cold running groupies. That all came crashing to the ground with the release of November Rain, perhaps the most pompous of arena rock songs released in the 1990s. When Axl Rose first took seat behind that piano, the Whiskey wept.

2. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen
Rocking out at the end doesn’t make up for the byzantine lyrics and operatic harmonizing, guys.

Lyric of Pomposity: Galileo / Galileo / Galileo / Galileo

1. Come Sail Away, Styx
It is rumored Come Sail Away was constructed in a lead-lined bunker deep within the bowels of NORAD as a Defense Department skunks-works project. It is mathematically impossible to turn on CSA without arriving in the middle of one of the endless opening piano stanzas, the net result being the listener is forced to brave their way through the entirety of this soppy mess just to get relief when the ROCK OUT finally appears.

Lyric of Pomposity: “I thought that they were angels, but to my surprise / They climbed aboard their starship and headed for the skies.”

An old friend from high school, Paul Gaykowski, has co-authored a wonderful new book, The Bridges of Central Park. Nearly two-years in the making, it chronicles, in a “then and now” format, the popular, hidden, nifty or just plain ignored bridges that dot Central Park. The book is printed on a substantial coated stock, overflowing with rich duotone photographs, and is layed out in a format that invites you to jump around and discover the bridges in a manner not unlike a real walk through the park.

If you love bridges, the Park, or are just a plain old geek for vintage photography, this is a great read.

In 1977 or so, the South Mountain School 6th Graders staged a production of Annie Get Your Gun. At that time the idea of letting children enact gunplay or portray ethnic stereotypes (nevermind its sexual politics) was far from considered inappropriate. But fairness was in the rule-book, so students from the younger grades were drafted to be in the show as extras in the chorus, either as “townsfolk” or, inevitably, Indians. As a 3rd (or 4th?) grader, I was one of the lucky chosen to wear the honored feathers of an Indian. I was excited to play such an exotic character, and looked forward to the elaborate costume that being an Indian would afford.

Students were responsible for their own costumes, so my mother outfitted me in period-accurate attire; red and blue dyed feathers, a leatherette vest and belt, and of course stripes of war paint under my eyes. To round out the ensemble, we went to the Livingston Mall and bought a small toy drum at K-B Hobby. The drum, a colonial-style shiny red affair, didn’t have the correct “Indian-esque” look, so my mother purchased wood-grained contact paper and wrapped it around the drum. Now it was authentic!

The teachers planned a grand opening for the show; after the overture ended, the townsfolk would enter the auditorium through the rear doors chased by us Indians with tomahawks a-choppin’, drums beating and war cries hollering. As we ran them down the aisles, the townsfolk were to scream, “Indians, Indians!” in fear. The chase was to lead us all onto the stage, where everyone would break into song. The problem was, it was never actually rehearsed; we probably got the direction all of one time an hour before the show.

So with no clear idea of how this would proceed, we were herded into two lines behind the closed auditorium doors in the front hall of the school, townsfolk in front of Indians. We hopped in place anxious with excitement, knowing our parents inside were ready to see their darlings commit to a whooping entrance. The overture played out and the cue came; the auditorium doors swung open and we burst into the aisles. But with our pent-up enthusiasm and lack of rehearsal, not only did the townsfolk scream “Indians, Indians!”, but us Indians screamed “Indians, Indians!”, wholly forgetting to beat our drums and yell our war cries, completely misunderstanding the intent of the direction.

I’m sure the audience didn’t noticed this innocent gaff, nor the weird irony of Indians yelling at themselves (it was years before even I thought about it beyond the mechanics of the incident). Nevertheless we made it down the aisles, up the steps and onto the stage, and began singing songs about the old west and guns and businesses that are nothing like show business.

Last year on this site I wrote a little essay about The Pinewood Derby. Since writing it, nagging thoughts persisted; what had happened to my school since I was last there, nearly 30 years ago? Is it as I remembered? Is my grafitti still on the bathroom wall?* My foray into answering these questions led me down a tangential route; the intruiging and mysterious story of the architect of this, and most all the schools in my hometown of Maplewood, New Jersey, James Oscar Betelle.

My research is voluminous (and, I like to think, interesting) enough that it merited its own website to track my detective work. And thus, I present James Betelle, Where Are You? If you have even a passing interest in architecture, civic history, the machinations of suburban school politics or perhaps Russian royalty (??), the site is worth a look.

*I will address this eventually…