Chuck Klosterman X: A Highly Specific, Defiantly Incomplete History of the Early 21st Century

by Chuck Klosterman

In 2012, Barack Obama will face a similar situation. But what will happen if his ultimate opponent provides no plan for him to refute? What if his opponent merely says this: “Have faith in me. Have faith that I will figure everything out and that I can fix the economy, because I have faith in the American people. Together, we have faith in each other”?

The guitarist swears he has no hatred for anyone, but his grudges run deep (he’s still pissed that longtime producer Ted Templeman forced him to waste an original minimoog composition for the single “Dancing in the Streets” in 1982: “The whole reason I built this studio was to shove it up Templeman’s ass”).

I cannot exaggerate the degree to which Malkmus enjoys fantasy sports; he almost seems to like it more than music.

Because TV is so simultaneously personal (it exists inside your home) and so utterly universal (it exists inside everyone’s home), people care about it with an atypical level of conversational ferocity—they take it more personally than other forms of art, and they immediately feel comfortable speaking from a position of expertise.

But fences have been mended and feelings have been felt. At this summer’s VMAs, Swift warmly presented West with the Video Vanguard trophy. She’ll probably serve as secretary of the interior when he becomes president.

Longtime fanatics have code words for all the moments that have crushed their souls. “Red Right 88” denotes the fatal play call from the 1981 divisional playoffs against the Oakland Raiders, when—trailing 14–12 with less than a minute to play, inside the red zone—the Browns tried to pass instead of running the ball and attempting a field goal.63 The ensuing end zone interception ended the season. That ’81 squad was (arguably) Cleveland’s best team of the modern era, unless you consider the ’86 Browns (who were killed by John Elway and “The Drive”) or the ’87 Browns (whose hopes were dashed by “The Fumble” in the AFC championship). There are no code words for things that went right, because those things never happen.

People wanted to figure out what “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was supposed to signify, but nobody tried that with “Loser.” You immediately knew it was about nothing.

When KISS cajoles people into paying more money than the market demands, they tell everyone they know. They give instructional interviews about how future bait-and-switch endeavors can be designed and they adopt the new model for all future undertakings. Moreover, they insist the exchange was mutual. They say the experience they offer is singular and nontransferable, and that anyone who isn’t willing to pay for the KISS experience isn’t a KISS fan (and therefore does not matter, or perhaps even deserve to exist). It’s the guiding principle behind everything KISS does: In order to “qualify” as a KISS supporter, you have to be a KISS consumer. And this is non-negotiable—it doesn’t work any other way. If you try to enjoy KISS in the same way you enjoy Foghat or Culture Club or Spoon, you’ll fail. You might like a handful of songs or appreciate the high-volume nostalgia, but it will inevitably seem more ridiculous than interesting. To make this work, you need to go all the way. And this is because the difficult part of liking KISS—the manipulative, unlikable part—is how you end up loving them.

There are multiple levels of realness, none of which are absolute. A movie is comprised of actors pretending to be other people on a set that represents a place that isn’t there, so it’s not real; the ideas and themes of a movie, if created and performed by talented artists, can be acutely, profoundly real. This fake/real dichotomy is understood by everyone. Yet that contradiction confuses people when applied to KISS.