The Songwriters Hall of Fame is sputtering at this point.
Today they announced a list of potential inductees to be voted on. Most of them have been on the ballot since I was on the nominating committee more than a dozen years ago.
You’ve got to feel bad for a lot of these people. They’ve been around for years, deserve the accolade, and haven’t gotten it. David Gates of Bread fame, Stevie Winwood, Tony Macaulay (he wrote “Build Me Up Buttercup”). Some have died like Sonny Curtis. Others like Walter Afanasieff (he wrote Mariah Carey’s hit including “All I Want for Christmas”), Steve Barri and PF Sloan, Dennis Lambert and Brian Potter have just been waiting a lifetime.
It’s embarrassing. I don’t know how the committee can sit and discuss the same names for decades without gasping for air.
This year they threw in Eminem and Sheryl Crow. They’ll get in because they’re current and their music publishers will pay for tickets at the SHOF gala. Maybe Boy George this time. Maybe Tommy James (he’s also a perennial).
And what is the Songwriters Hall of Fame? It’s not a physical place, you can’t go there. It’s just a way to back slap and throw a dinner. In its heyday, the SHOF event was also good for a live show produced by the late Phil Ramone. But he’s gone, and so are the number of songwriters who are eligible.
“Songwriter” is now a fungible term. Most pop songs are sampled or interpolated from material of long ago. Most “Songs” are “written” by teams of producers and writers. A lot of singers get credit for changing a word. The days of Goffin and King, Bacharach and David, Lennon and McCartney are way in the rearview mirror.
But for God’s sake, this time give to Gates, James and Winwood. This is a joke that they’re not in.
