by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR

Ever see those Molson commercials displaying styles throughout the ages? The ’60s psychedelic cats sport outlandish boots and paisley. The ’70s scene features a skinny, spaced-out hippie lying on the grass (yeah sure… Mr. Wimpy’s really sucking back the brews). In contrast, today’s young beer drinkers all wear white T-shirts and button-down shirts.

Are we that friggin’ dull?

Then there’s the ad with the Toronto briefcase fogey who can’t play tennis with his Flock of Seagulls haircut. Hey! The Flock rule, end of discussion (I’m partial, partly because they slept in my building on Overdale, a historic spot that Mayor Doré later had demolished).

The message is that we’re no longer foolish. In the present we’ve finally mastered wisdom and rational thought. It’s a common assumption. When I ruminate on my many mistakes, I blame my former stupidity, even if it’s a blunder I made five minutes ago.

Anyway, since the ’70s, when folks started adulating the ’50s, the nostalgia industry has learned to mine and resell the best stuff from 20 years ago. Two decades back is perpetually chic because young consumers want to recapture the fuzzy, happy moments of their early childhood.

So with the ’80s now slated for a full-bloom reprisal, here’s the for-your-eyes-only lowdown: the ’80s was the ultimate manic depressive age. The first half rocked. Downtown was jammed with punks, new romantics, mods, goths, all seemingly involved in an Important Subversive Project. An endless stream of clever, disposable charismatic bands from ABC to Adam Ant onwards played the brilliant soundtrack from the times.

But a certain suckitude crept in midway through the decade. A dull torpor fell over the city as the joy and energy were sucked out. Everybody suddenly became stern and cranky. The music became melancholy and preachy, from Three O’Clock Train to New Order and R.E.M., and the depression lasted through the self-important grunge era.

Why’d this happen? I’m not sure, but the rise of AIDS clearly scared the shit out of young people rather suddenly. The spirit of individual rebellion was no longer automatically celebrated and collectivist notions of solidarity for social improvement seemed suddenly legit. The pressure to conform, to pitch in, to reform the world’s ills was palpable. If you weren’t part of the solution, you were part of the pollution.

Marc Lepine murdering innocent women didn’t help matters. In a colossal leap of logic, many blamed men in general for the hideous and reprehensible act. At a memorial speech, Andrea Dworkin blatantly counselled women to physically attack men. When I rose to question her logic, several dozen unfriendly eyes in the crowded UdeM auditorium glared at me. I quickly shut up and scanned for the nearest exit.

For a few dark years the sanctimonious, self-righteous, humourless people were everywhere, relentlessly whining, suspecting the worst of others and ready to take maximum offense at all times. The incredulous stare was frequently employed to defuse anybody questioning self-evident truths.

Eventually, however, the great wall of orthodox political correctitude vanished. Some of its practitioners died off. Others lightened up. Some got medicated. More immigrants moved here with their own set of concerns and the Internet enshrined the legitimacy of open discussion.

The spirit of any era is the result of an organic process of ideas pushing and pulling against each other. The pendulum swings back and forth. Perhaps as a backlash against political intolerance, dumbass frat boy chic now appears to be king.

So 10 years ago it was all about the single mother. Now it’s all about the single motherfucker. We’ve donned the coat of consensus culture tailored for a boyish naughtiness, a harmless, impotent testosterone, devil-may-care rebellion.

Nintendo, gangster rap and lap dances might be strangely celebrated these days, but I think we’re humouring young males, as the demographic trends—specifically their massive refusal to partake in higher education—makes young dudes tomorrow’s underclass.

The ascendancy of laddish vulgarianism might not be great news, but it’s probably more tolerable than the mass neurosis that we suffered through from the mid-’80s.

Comments? kgravy@openface.ca