The appeal of Red Hot Chili Peppers was that it is punk enough to be cool and mainstream enough to be popular.
There it lay in all of its pre-faded glory, comfortably nestled among piles of graphic tees. This was what I’d sought out, not its Chuck Norris-themed counterparts. No, I sought an ideal, one far superior to the “cool story bro” lax pinnies middle schoolers so frequently don.
I was 15 and about to buy a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt.
A little self-validation — that’s all I was after. The Chili Peppers were cool; the shirt was cool; ergo, I’d be cool. That iconic red asterisk was a one-way ticket to Awesometown — population: me.
I’m not sure if Anthony Kiedis and co. shed a few tears when I picked the T-shirt off the Kohl’s novelty rack, but I’m fairly certain the irony of their merchandise’s proximity to Fergie’s clothing line and the Justin Bieber fragrance display wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.
Don’t take that anecdote the wrong way — I was no faux fan. Sure, the band’s breakthrough album, 1991’s Blood Sugar Sex Magik, dropped nearly three years before I was born. And by the time I coalesced into anything more substantial than an embryonic blob, its eponymous debut seemed about as far-removed as Lance Armstrong’s last Tour de France victory.
But for myself and countless others who spawned after the band’s meteoric rise, the Red Hot Chili Peppers continued to offer something indefinably — there’s just no other word for it — cool, neatly gift-wrapped in an undeniably catchy musical package.
Whether it laid in the link the band provided to the vestigial realm of old-school rock ‘n’ roll or that it left it nursing blackened eyes in the wake of its brash mix of punk and funk, I’m uncertain. In any case, the Red Hot Chili Peppers delivered unique tunes with its signature rock-star panache, churning out hits like it was their job (which it was).
Admittedly, by the time I donned the T-shirt, it would’ve been slightly out of place in the underground scene where its creators cut their teeth. About 15 years after they penned the likes of “Sir Psycho Sexy,” the bandmates had since traded in their unapologetically hardcore sound — and drug habits — for a more melodic approach, crafting such mainstream hits as “Dani California” and “Snow (Hey Oh).”
Fast-forward from there and here we are: Kohl’s, second only to a Walmart Supercenter in suburban appeal. Incidentally, both carry RHCP merchandise.
It’s a duality the band has trouble escaping. Put on the T-shirt and you’re just punk enough to rub shoulders with the kid sporting a Black Flag leather jacket. Yet simultaneously, you’re still not too edgy to eat lunch at Olive Garden or maybe listen to some Counting Crows on the sly.
Perhaps this is what led to the Chili Peppers’ superstardom in the first place. I’ve never really been able to identify with the revolution the band’s punk predecessors preached. I lived 10 minutes away from the aforementioned Kohl’s and Walmart Supercenter, and I boasted a feeble two detentions in high school. In short, rebellion wasn’t really my style.
That’s where the Chili Peppers — and that T-shirt — came in. The band was punk, at least initially — there’s no disputing that. But its adulterated message focused more on the classic rockstar lifestyle than any notion of organized revolt. Its songs predictably cataloged a mix of bad life decisions, and its enviably sordid Californian locale that somehow never grew stale. Its message and sound were accessible, an ideal only misguided teenagers like myself could hope to understand. At least that’s what we thought.
Somewhat improbably, the Chili Peppers have risen to become one of the most popular bands of the last 25 years. It appears almost to have transcended mere flesh and blood, becoming simply an idea in the process. An idea that ultimately led me, and its merchandise, to Kohl’s.
And with the Red Hot Chili Peppers headlining much of this summer’s festival circuit, who knows? Maybe it’s time to dig my T-shirt — and the ideal it once represented — out of my dresser drawer.
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