Upon hearing that The Faces—the legendary, roots-rock band that lost musicians to the Who, the Rolling Stones and to the unfortunate worldwide phenomenon known as Rod Stewart—would be re-uniting this fall for a series of concerts with Simply Red singer Mike Hucknall replacing Rod Stewart, a question suddenly occurred to me.

Why?

Officially, Mr. Stewart had “other commitments,” like recording an album called Sings Selections from South Pacific, but in reality he probably asked himself the same question as above. Regardless, the concerts have been scheduled, the tickets have been sold and no one has the power to stop them.

This has happened before, and it will happen again. When The Cult’s Ian Astbury toured with the Doors in place of Jim Morrison, when Bad Company’s Paul Rodgers took over for Freddie Mercury with Queen for an agonizing spell, when that gawky blond woman became the third Chrissie on Three’s Company. The show must go on, yes, but at what cost? It’s a tragedy of universal proportions that Americans and Europeans—and for heaven’s sake the Japanese—lack the good sense and gumption to deny themselves the pleasure of something like a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert that features neither Lynyrd nor Skynyrd.

Is this really an important issue? On the surface, no. World politics, wealth disparities, war and environmental disasters are justifiably on the front burner. But, culturally, we as a population are probably suffering more than we have since, well, the Beaver Hat phenomenon of the 1950’s. Classical music radio stations are dying off, John Grisham is writing children’s books, and if Shakespeare doesn’t hurry-up and get on Kindle the whole world is going to think Kelsey Grammer wrote Hamlet.  In that sense, yes, we are desperate for a litmus test, a Cultural Grand Poo-Bah, a built-in shockproof shit detector.

Fifty years ago the collective consciousness was preoccupied with genius. In the Post-War years, once-oppressed artists—whether singers, poets, musicians, sculptors, architects or painters—had something to say, and they wanted to have a dialogue with other works of genius from the past. Teenagers had Beatles and Herman’s Hermits albums, but they also had Glenn Gould’s Goldberg Variations and Guernica posters on their walls because there was an appreciation and respect for them. Of course, communication was hobbled back then, and now the world audience has access to the highest and lowest forms of expression. Like nowadays, if you take a drive in the country you almost undoubtedly come across an art fair, displaying dozens (and often hundreds) of paintings that serve no human purpose whatsoever except to cover a white wall. Go back a few generations and try to imagine the horror of a future in which people are wantonly and willfully expressing themselves with watercolor. It’s pure hell.

This is where the Minister of Culture comes in. For many people, the very idea of a culture czar, i.e. a government official in charge of a nation’s artistic output and consumption, brings to mind World War II figures spreading propaganda for evil, murky agendas. I’m not talking about a 1,000 Year German Reich. What I’m talking about is much more terrifying. What I’m talking about is Justin Bieber.

How do I picture this Minister of Culture? Ideally he’s 55, slightly rotund, dressed in a fez and equestrian gear and strolling the halls of his expansive urban palace with a bullwhip. A drinker only on holidays, the Minister consorts with a wide range of pets, including tame but terrifying Molosser canines, exotic birds on antique brass perches and a single, steely Burmese. Every morning he takes phone calls and dictates letters to the Weinstein Brothers and Stephen Spielberg that simply say, “Denied.”

His qualifications? He digs Sondheim, he digs AC/DC. He promotes the more difficult works of Rothko, Calder and Klee while keeping Damien Hirst on a short leash. He writes Cormac McCarthy every month encouraging him to pop by for tea, and he gracefully considers the merits of the Twilight series before banning them from the nation’s cultural cannon. That is the genius of the Minister of Culture. He can stop these debilitating fires from even catching, he can prevent our nation’s youth from being exposed to terrible English accents, vacuous stories and Danny Elfman scores. He can stop Transformers 3 from even getting to pre-production.

The Minister of Culture would wield absolute power, beyond checks and balances. Will certain worthwhile works of art fall through the cracks on his watch? Of course, but at this point the earth’s artistic repertoire is so darned chock-full of culture that it is in fact devouring itself like those sharks in Moby Dick. Classic horror movies from the 80’s are being remade for an age group that never saw the originals, musicians who tried to not be one-hit wonders are going on tour to play, in entirety, that one hit album they can’t ever escape, and somehow, somewhere, the children of J.R.R. Tolkien keep finding unpublished Hobbit stories.

This is awful and oppressive, you say. But is it? Take this one case in point: Right now in a Georgia town, a City Council or a School Board is banning a book. Is it Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls? No. Is it The Collected Works of Nelson DeMille? No. Is it Who Moved My Cheese? Not even close. It’s Catcher in the Rye, Huckleberry Finn, Fahrenheit 451—whether or not you view these books as works of art, they at least inspire conversation and attempt to bring about an understanding of the human mystery. No, they do not take place at a boarding school for wizards, but that’s just the thing: Culturally, we are completely out of whack right now, twisting in the wind, up the creek without a paddle, and running out of handy clichés more and more every day. Do any of us have the guts to stand up and say to Tom Petty, who’s about to release another album, “hey, Tom, it’s been a great run but we’re done”?

The Minister of Culture does.

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B. Brandon Barker is an online media strategist with clients that include U.S. News & World Report, Time-Warner, Food Network, The Nielsen Company, Revolution Health, Entergy, Amplify Public Affairs and Dogster. His short stories have appeared in Global City Review, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror (St. Martin’s Press), Verbicide, and online at McSweeney’s. His first novel, OPERATION EMU, was the subject of a feature story in The Baltimore Sun. A graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, he now lives in rural Virginia.

Tagged in: lead singers, Minister of Culture, roots-rock, The Faces