What exactly is the problem here? Is Generation X really such a mess that no one wants to take responsibility for leading it? Or are good heroes just hard to find? On the surface, at least, Gen X does seem to be a pesky, contradictory bunch. They love the Rolling Stones and poured out in droves for Woodstock ‘94. But they hated “Reality Bites” and roundly dissed those Subaru commercials with the wacko grunge kid pitching punk-rock cars. They live on computers but prefer their MTV Unplugged. They wallow in gangsta rap but have never been to a ghetto, Who could possibly be a spokesperson for all that? Mick Jagger? Too old. Snoop Doggy Dogg? An alleged criminal. That Ethan Hawke fellow has delusions of Gen X grandeur, but idiotic “Reality Bites” lines like “I’m bursting with fruit flavor” have forever cast him into the halls of unhipness. Winona Ryder used to be the undisputed queen of the territory, but lately her angelically mussed face on the cover of magazines has been wearing a bit thin. Besides, one more unconvincing turn in a period drama could do irreparable damage. Oops–did somebody say “Little Women”?
Nineteen ninety-four should have been a year rife with spokes-persons. A lot of promising things happened. Quentin Tarantino, the ultrahip filmmaker who earned Martin-Scorsese-of-his-generation kudos with 1992’s “Reservoir Dogs,” made an even better, smarter, showier film with “Pulp Fiction,” and it won lots of awards, played in the malls and became a bona fide commercial hit. Tarantino’s prefame life as a video-store clerk is already the stuff of Gen-X legend; this year another hip young director, Kevin Smith, made an edgy, intentionally low-fi homage to retail hell, “Clerks.” Most important, Tarantino is the savior who once and for all kicked Oliver Stone’s big boomet butt. Stone’s “Natural Born Killers” was based on a screenplay that Tarantino took his name off, and for all its so-called auteurism the film looked suspiciously like a Nike commercial. Maybe we should make Tarantino the spokesman for the generation* First, though, we’ve got to get him to talk a little slower, so we can figure out exactly what it is he’s saying.
At Woodstock ‘94, the much pooh-poohed media event that left a much poo-pooed field in its wake, everybody wanted to be a spokesperson. “Stop letting them call this the X Generation. Make it the exceptional generation,” said Aaron Neville of the Neville Brothers, before launching into an anthem from the other Wood-stock generation, the Beatles’ “Come Together.” “They say we’re Generation X, but I say we’re generation f— you!” blared B-Real of Cypress Hill. If the Woodstock Nation can’t agree on what to call the Woodstock Nation, what are the poor pundits supposed to do? Now, Perry Farroll of Porno for Pyros–there’s a leader* The guy invented Lollapalooza, and his previous band, Jano’s Addiction, helped put alternative on the map. On the final day of More Peace & Love, Farrell took the stage with his bare chest dripping a substance that looked an awful lot like blood and sang lines like “Everybody bump and grind” into the crotch of a fire-breathing stripper decked in devil horns, fishnets and pusties. As Farrell exited, he said, “This is your Wood-stock now–right on!” Uh, thanks.
Part of the problem, of course, is Generation X’s oft-ballyhooed lack of consensus (they don’t call them X for nothing). As you sit at home watching the “Woodstock ‘94” video (retail price: $24.95) you might find yourself asking: just who the hell are these people, anyway? Is the Woodstock Nation the guy in the SAVE O. J. SIMPSON T shirt or the guy in the F– ART LET’S KILL T shirt? Is it the drummer for the heavy-metal band Jackyl, pounding the skins while wearing purple bikini underwear? Is it the grinning Chinese food vendor pointing at a bottle of Pepsi, one of the festival’s corporate sponsors, and saying, “We love Pepsi. Everybody love Pepsi* We sell a lot of Pepsi”? Is it the horrible, morning-zoo-style emcee, bellowing inanities like “Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready to rock”? Or the cameramen who linger lasciviously over every pair of exposed breasts? How about that drunk guy mooing like a cow–is he the Woodstock Nation? Let’s face it, folks, it might have been a hell of a party, but no one in his or her right mind is going to want to hold this up as a defining moment of the generation in the years to come. It’s too embarrassing. Beavis and Butt-head–sure. Woodstock ‘94–no way.
The temptation is to conclude that there is no Generation X, but we all know in our hearts that’s not true. Somebody out there bought nearly a million copies of the new Pearl Jam album, “Vitalogy,” in its first week of release* Somebody gave the green light to that incredible Johnny Cash album “American Recordings,” a record with more punk-rock credibility than Green Day’s “Dookie.” Somebody revived Tom Jones. Somebody watches “Melrose Place.” And somebody–a lot of people–mourned Kurt Cobain, in profound, honest and deeply personal ways they will never share with anybody. Maybe the right hero hasn’t come along yet; maybe the right hero never will. It’s a hard job, and as far as this generation is concerned, nobody has to do it.
