It is often said that the pen is mightier than the sword. And few people could wield a pen better than Michael Kelly, the first American journalist to be killed in Iraq.
A new book called Things Worth Fighting For is a compilation of Kelly's extraordinary body of work. Read the following exerpt from the book.
…Visions of America
…King of Cool
Do not blame it on the bossa nova. Nor on rock-and-roll nor soul nor jazz nor rhythm and blues. It wasn't Elvis or the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. It wasn't Washington or Hollywood or the Upper West Side. It wasn't Ted Kennedy and it wasn't Richard Nixon. It wasn't the Years of Rage or the Me Decade or the Decade of Greed. It wasn't the Commies or the Beats, or the hippies or the yippies, or the Panthers or the druggies, or the yuppies or the buppies, or the NIMBYs or the DINKs, or even the ACLU.
No, if you want to finger any one person, place, or thing for what went wrong with America, you need look no further than that accidental one man validation of the great-man theory of history, Francis Albert Sinatra, 1915-98. Yes — The Voice, the Chairman of the Board, Old Blue Eyes, the leader of the (rat) pack, the swinger in chief — he's the culprit. It's all Frankie's fault.
American popular culture — which is more and more the only culture America has, which is more and more the only culture everyone else in the world has (we live, as the gormless Al Gore keeps chirpily and horrifyingly reminding us, in a global village) — may be divided into two absolutely distinct ages: Before Frank and After Frank.
Sinatra, as every obit observed, was the first true modern pop idol, inspiring in the 1940s the sort of mass adulation that was to become a familiar phenomenon in the '50s and '60s. One man, strolling onto the set at precisely the right moment in the youth of the Entertainment Age, made himself the prototype of the age's essential figure: the iconic celebrity. The iconic celebrity is the result of the central confusion of the age, which is that people possessed of creative or artistic gifts are somehow teachers — role models — in matters of personal conduct. The iconic celebrity is idolized — and obsessively studied and massively imitated — not merely for the creation of art but for the creation of public self, for the confection of affect and biography that the artist projects onto the national screen.
And what Frank Sinatra projected was: cool. And here is where the damage was done. Frank invented cool, and everyone followed Frank, and everything has been going to hell ever since.