Checking out one of Cleveland’s greatest hits: The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame - The Boston Globe (2024)

With more than 60,000 Stones fans of all ages descending on the city for this summer’s “Hackney Diamonds” tour stop, the nearly 30-year-old Rock Hall was a churning mosh pit of visitors on a hot Saturday afternoon. We began our walk-through, per the flow chart, on the basem*nt floor, past the CBGB facade and the Ahmet Ertegun Main Exhibit Hall — named for the late music industry executive who proposed the museum’s concept.

Temporary installations included tributes to hip-hop’s 50th anniversary, the rebel girls of rock, and the historic roots of rock ‘n’ roll (gospel, blues, country, R&B), as well as nods to the cities that helped shape the music: Memphis, Detroit, Liverpool, San Francisco, LA, Seattle. As the story goes, the Rock Hall landed in Cleveland after Ertegun and his team invited various US cities to state their cases as the home of rock ‘n’ roll. Cleveland got the gig based on the local disc jockey Alan Freed’s early promotion of the music, not to mention a $65 million commitment from city officials.

Level 2 is known as The Garage. It’s a series of fully outfitted practice spaces enhanced by some notable artifacts, such as Les Paul’s electric guitar prototype (the “Log”). In the main rehearsal room, a group of ringers took on Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs.” With help from a teleprompter, the regular-looking guy on the microphone absolutely nailed new solo inductee Ozzy Osbourne’s lead vocal: “Oh, Lord, yeah!”

On the third floor, a bottleneck of visitors filed politely past the New Inductee display cases, which still featured memorabilia from the class of 2023 — a Rage Against the Machine banner, DJ Kool Herc’s twin turntables, a matching set of the Spinners’ flashy dinner jackets. (Soon, guests will see relics from the Class of 2024. A bedazzled bodysuit from Cher? Peter Frampton’s talk box? The wallet that A Tribe Called Quest left in El Segundo?)

Beyond the New Inductees exhibit lies the heart of the Hall of Fame. All the acts that have been enshrined over the years are represented on glistening walls of glass plaques, each of which features the engraved signatures of every officially recognized band member.

One oddity of this tradition: the more members included upon your band’s election, the bigger the real estate the band receives. When the freaky funk collective Parliament-Funkadelic was inducted, the Rock Hall curators had to make room for 16 musicians’ names. By contrast, fellow Class of ‘97 honoree Joni Mitchell inhabits a solo space about the size of an iPhone.

After you’ve meandered through multiple floors of dank windowlessness, the Hall of Fame gallery is flooded with natural light, creating heavenly crossbeams. Fans can gawk at videos of classic performances and take turns perusing playlists at listening stations. Dads, of course, pointed out the names of their classic rock heroes to dutiful children.

I paused to consider the legacy of the Class of 2006, a good one (Blondie, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Miles Davis, the aforementioned Sabbath) subverted by the ever-anarchic Sex Pistols, who were inducted into the Rock Hall despite their sneering rejection of the institution. “We’re not your monkeys,” the quintessential punks wrote in an open letter. (Strangely, the signature of the late nihilist Sid Vicious, who dotted his i’s with cheerful, cartoonish circles, looks like Walt Disney scrawled it.)

The upper reaches of the Rock Hall include a generalized tribute to the “Legends of Rock” — Joe Strummer’s battered Telecaster was one highlight — and a specific piece of overwhelming kitsch: the huge stage design from a production of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” as it appeared in Berlin in 1990. The garish inflatable characters from the band’s bombastic concept album have been part of the Hall since the place opened in ‘95. They’ve outlived their usefulness. But it’s hard to imagine a suitable replacement for such a big, wide-open space. (Kanye’s ego?)

All visitors exit, naturally, through the vast gift shop, back on the first floor. Encompassing nearly as much square footage as that Pink Floyd spectacle, it’s stuffed with yards and yards of concert T-shirts, posters, books, and overpriced vinyl.

Besides this golden opportunity to burn some discretionary income, the escape route offered one more glimpse at the oversize object that, for me, will remain lodged in the brain as the defining visual souvenir of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Suspended in midair above the atrium is a steel-and-foam theatrical prop designed to look like — no joke — a giant hot dog. Decorated with a snaking line of mustard, a few dollops of relish spilling over the sides of the bun, this ridiculous artifact is too implausible for Spinal Tap’s wildest dreams.

Is it an uncredited nod to Led Zeppelin’s “Hot Dog,” their ill-advised, late-career attempt at a hillbilly stomp? Is it a Pop Art tribute to Dr. Frank N. Furter, the alien transvestite from “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”?

In fact, it’s a 15-foot airbus concocted to carry the members of Phish over their audience, first called into service at a 1994 New Year’s Eve show in Boston. The Great Frank showed up at the Rock Hall back in 2000 and has been absurdly greeting visitors ever since. It’s been on display in Cleveland even longer than some of those hot dogs on the rollers at your local convenience store.

Sufficiently rocked and rolled, we bid farewell to the cacophony. Or so we thought. Outside on the plaza, a Stones cover band began to play. Under the blazing sun, the unmistakable riff that kicks off “Start Me Up” rang out across downtown Cleveland. And fans continued to line up to have their pictures taken alongside the large letters that read “LONG LIVE ROCK.”

James Sullivan can be reached at jamesgsullivan@gmail.com.