Van Halen, "Panama"

Ever since Johnny Cash's first collaboration with Rick Rubin, 1994's American Recordings, Volume One, it seems like we see a cycle of once-great (or once-chart-topping, anyway) artists get the revival treatment, be it ironically (Pat Boone) or with great respect (Loretta Lynn). This past holiday season, you couldn't turn on a TV without coming across Michael Bolton (rescued via a very funny Lonely Island short about Jack Sparrow) pimping for Honda. And believe me, I'm glad that's over with. But now we need to ask ourselves who's next in the "gosh, we didn't realize how good you were or hey, wouldn't it be funny if we pretended to like you again" sweepstakes.

My candidate: MC Hammer.

But one name that I hope never comes up for consideration, one figure whose legacy should remain unsullied by a stab at late-career relevance, is the man himself, the epic mind behind the memoir Crazy From the Heat (one of the best punchlines on any episode of "News Radio," when Phil Hartmann gives Dave Foley a copy for his birthday without having any idea who Van Halen are). Yes, the one and only Diamond David Lee Roth should never be resurrected as a cultural icon. Because there's absolutely nothing wrong with him the way he is.

I'm not joking when I say that Roth is the last in a long line of rock and roll frontmen who would be fun to party with. Think about the rock gods that came in his wake; you think Kurt Cobain was a barrel of laughs? Of his hair-metal contemporaries (well, his stint with Van Halen predates most of that, but he certainly inspired the hair aspect of it if not the metal), Roth stands alone as a man who would never do a reality show unless it was to reform Van Halen (and even then he'd probably bail). Axel Rose would cut you just as soon as look at you; David Lee would share his cocaine with you.

That being said, I wouldn't mind partying with some of the big names in rap and hip-hop over the years, but for pure balls-to-the-wall rock and roll, I think DLR can't be beat. And that's why I don't think he should ever be in line to sell his voice by pitching for a car company.

I have a cousin who unironically loves Van Halen, especially the DLR era (some people prefer Van Hagar, but no one loves Van Cherone). Because of his love, I've heard far more Van Halen than what's usually played on the radio. You'll never mistake it for the Velvet Underground or the Who (or even the Guess Who), but as fun party-time music, it's hard to beat. What sells me on the DLR-era VH is his goofiness, even as he's trying to seduce the women in the audience. He's a clown, but he's also a rock god.

Comedians always want to be rock stars, rock stars always want to be comedians. Diamond Dave is both, and he's just so goofy that, even if you think Van Halen is not as great as all that, you can't actually hate the man behind the vocals (well, if you're the Van Halen brothers you can. See "every attempt to reunite the original line-up" if you want a lesson in how bands can go up Hindenburg-style). An un-ironic appreciation of DLR is just not what pop-culture needs. When Roth is off to that Great Titty Bar In the Sky, maybe then we can unearth lost recordings in which he tackles the great American songbook and wrings hard-won lessons from the bluesmen who came before him. But for now, let's all sit back and laugh along with Dave as he tells us he's just a gigolo. When he gets to the part about how he can't find nobody, ignore the women who still flock to his lair in the DLR abode.