By Rand Bishop

Back in the innocent Eisenhauer ’50s, we kids had no trouble choosing which character to root for. It was always the cowboy in the white hat: The Lone Ranger, Kit Carson, or squeaky-clean, gosh-and-golly Roy Rogers. Then, in 1957, a pockmarked dude named Paladin rode into town to obliterate the line between TV hero and villain. Flashing his “Have Gun. Will Travel” business card, this high-priced, Western mercenary became an instant hit for CBS. That’s when, for me, things got a whole lot more interesting.

I’d already developed a fascination for the film-noir gumshoes of the ’40s. Those inhabitants of a mysterious, urban underbelly were not devout churchgoers. Sam Spade and Mike Hammer drank hard liquor, chain smoked, and womanized. But, to this kid, an edgy private eye personified manhood, with his bent-rimmed fedora, cig dangling from a permanent snarl, and two fingers of straight whiskey in a chimney glass. Still, even with their devilish ways, these cats usually ended up on the side of right. In this day and age, right is not quite so clear-cut.

Episodic comedy, too, has featured its share of scoundrels. Ralph Cramden is the first TV cad I recall. Self-absorbed, short-sided, even abusive, this blowhard blustered his weekly threat to wallop Alice “to the moon!” Yet, at the end of the day, the endearing brute always embraced his tolerant, supportive spouse, with a contrite, “Baby, you’re the best.”

Nowadays, sitcom characters don’t learn their lessons in a tidy half hour. Seinfeld sidekick George Costanza set the bar for hilarious egocentrics. Ricky Gervais took Costanza four steps further by creating the bizarrely self-involved Michael Scott and Dwight Shrute of The Office plus Andy Millman and Maggie Jacobs in Extras.

Now, cable dramas make the black-Stetsoned Paladin look like an Eagle Scout. My newest favorite TV hero, Dexter Morgan, is a meticulous serial killer. Go figure. The critically acclaimed Breaking Bad features a fatally ill meth dealer. Edie Falco portrays cheating, drug-addicted Nurse Jackie, and in Weeds, Mary-Louise Parker brings a pot-peddling housewife onto our 50-inch flat screens. The list of sociopathic TV leads could fill an entire page. What it boils down to is this: with literally hundreds of channels and a plethora of programming to choose from, it’s pretty much impossible to find a white hat anywhere. And, I have to admit, that’s part of what keeps me switching on the tube.

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Rand Bishop is a Grammy Nominated, BMI Award-winning songwriter, and the author of Grand Pop, a darkly comic novel/mock-memoir penned from the point of view a modern anti-hero (Eloquent Books, 2010, ISBN 978-1-60860-629-0). Other Bishop books include Makin’ Stuff Up, “a songwriting course wrapped in a memoir” (Weightless Cargo Press, 2008, ISBN 978-0-61523-165-5) and the forthcoming Absolute Essentials of Songwriting Success (Alfred Publishing, 2010). For information go to: http://www.randbishop.com

By Rand Bishop

“I’m gonna be a grandfather.” No pronouncement has a bigger “Awwww” factor. These five words deliver an absolute guarantee of warm, sincere hugs — often from perfect strangers. However, this exact declaration, nearly always spoken with smug pride and joy, can also convey a less-than-jubilant sentiment.

Introducing a contrary brand of baby-boomer granddad: the “Reluctant (Peter Pan) Grandpa.” According to Grandparents.com, this cat clings to his vanishing youth with all ten claws, insists that his grandkids call him by his first name, smells of Axe Body Spray, plays Guitar Hero, camps out at Bonnaroo, adores Vegas, and only visits his children’s offspring on major holidays.

Now, let’s imagine Reluctant Gramps as a real-life guitar hero, the rocker who actually struts across arena stages, bare-chested, pierced and tattooed, screeching lyrics of teenage defiance over power guitars and monster drums. This arrested adolescent’s entire self- and public image depends on maintaining his sexually charged, bad-boy mystique. Who could blame him for dragging his grampa shoes?

The press can be brutally unkind to those whom Reuters unaffectionately coined “wrinkly rockers.” Wrote German critic Sebastian Gierke of a “farcical” Ozzy Osbourne concert: “He kept screaming ‘I can’t f—ing hear you!’ over and over again. You felt like shouting back, ‘Buy a —damn hearing aid and maybe you’ll realize you’re singing everything off key.” Ouch!

A middle-aged rock star parading his kids’ kids around publicly could spell a career death wish. Google “Grandpa Rockers” and you’ll get more links to Amish furniture makers than articles on hard-rockin’ granddaddies — even with an ever-growing contingent of still-creative, 50- and 60-something rockers, from Petty to Bon Jovi, Springsteen to Tyler.

Alice Cooper and longtime spouse Sheryl Goddard have two grown children and one just about to flee the nest. However, the long-in-the-tooth shock-rocker’s Wikipedia “personal life” mentions nothing whatsoever about grandkids. Whether the macabre metal maven is a granddad yet or not, I can’t help but imagine a typical Thanksgiving at the Coopers’: “No, Max,” eldest daughter Calico corrects her confused toddler, “Alice is your grandfather!”

About the Author

Rand Bishop is a Grammy Nominated, BMI Award-winning songwriter, and the author of Grand Pop, a darkly comic novel/mock-memoir written from the point of view a fictional, reluctant-grandpa/rock star (Eloquent Books, 2010, ISBN 978-1-60860-629-0). Other Bishop books include Makin’ Stuff Up, “a songwriting course wrapped in a memoir” (Weightless Cargo Press, 2008, ISBN 978-0-61523-165-5) and the forthcoming Absolute Essentials of Songwriting Success (Alfred Publishing, 2010). A former major-label recording artist himself, Bishop’s son Dustin will make him a first-time grandfather in November, 2010. For information go to: http://www.randbishop.com

By Rand Bishop

In 1995, after 19 productive years working in the L.A. music scene (as a recording artist, songwriter, producer, and record company exec), I set up shop in Nashville. I was 46 (in Hollywood years, that’s 322). Stigmatized by my advancing age and the time that had passed since my last chart success (“What have you done lately?”) I felt like I was being ushered to the city limits and booted eastward with a stern kick in the rear end. Youth rules in Tinsel Town. And with hiphop and grunge dominating the mid-’90s airwaves, L.A. offered few opportunities for a “senior-citizen” songwriter like myself.

On the other hand, the decades of journeyman industry experience that had branded me “over-the-hill” on The Sunset Strip gave me real market value on Music Row. The move to Tennessee not only made it possible for me to extend my creative life, it opened the door to the biggest success of my entire career, so far (“My List,” a five-week Number One for country superstar, Toby Keith).

Flash forward a decade. A gaggle of fresh, teen starlets were appearing in a seemingly endless marathon of formulaic, laugh-tracked Disney and Nickelodeon sitcoms. It seemed that every one of these precocious, teenaged divas was crankin’ out squeaky-clean pop tunes for her legions of youthful fans. No radio play necessary. These kid acts were moving scads of units through a combination of high TVIQ and the savvy, muscular marketing machines of Disney and Nick. Every Children’s Section in every Borders displayed a life-sized cutout of Hillary Duff and/or The Cheetah Girls next to a rack of hot-selling CDs.

The last couple of years brought us the Miley Cyrus/Hanna Montana explosion, followed by Demi Lovato, and the Jonas Brothers, all selling oodles, and now even getting millions of spins on terrestrial and satellite radio. Ever wonder who helps these talented youngsters write many of their songs, produces their records, and guides these projects along? “Over–the-hill” 40-, 50-, and even 60-something songwriters, producers, and record company execs, that’s who: John Lind, Tim James and Lindy Robbins, to name a few. These are my peers, the ones who stuck it out in Smogtown after my extradition to the cozy environs of Middle Tennessee.

Would I love to score a big ol’ Miley Cyrus hit? You betcha! My friend, 40-ish Nashvillian, John Mabe (along with beautiful and gifted Jesse Alexander) accomplished just that with Miley’s biggest smash yet, “The Climb.” Would I be willing to dive back into the megalopo-swamp of Southern California for the chance? No-sirree! Not in a million Hollywood years. (Btw, that’s an average lifetime here in wholesome Tennessee.)

About the Author

Rand Bishop is a Grammy Nominated, BMI Award-winning songwriter, and the author of Grand Pop, a darkly comic novel/mock-memoir penned from the point of view an egocentric, aging rock star (Eloquent Books, 2010, ISBN 978-1-60860-629-0). Other Bishop books include Makin’ Stuff Up, “a songwriting course wrapped in a memoir” (Weightless Cargo Press, 2008, ISBN 978-0-61523-165-5) and the forthcoming Absolute Essentials of Songwriting Success (Alfred Publishing, 2010). For information go to: http://www.randbishop.com