Reunions involve tough choices. KISS’s 1997 reunion involved the
choice to not perform “Lick It Up.” Last year’s Van Halen reunion
involved the choice to not invite Gary Cherone. New Kids on the Block,
newly unified under their original banner, have yet to make the choice
of their adult careers: Shall they be old New Kids or new New Kids? Old
New Kids would adhere to the spirit of 1989, re-creating that innocent
time before grunge and gangsta rap evicted them from the garden of
bubblegum. A true reunion—New Kids Classic—would see the
original fad five cheerfully don their ripped stonewashed denim and red
leather V-necks and black leather porkpies, willingly re-gel and
re-shellac their boy-hive hairdos, gladly wax their chest hair and dab
on the latex acne. No one seems to miss the scowling adults of the
rebranded New Kids. Supply and demand favors the New Kids when they
were still as sparkling whistle-clean as a freshly scrubbed toilet
bowl. America craves nostalgia.
In the current economic climate, it would be irresponsible to
discuss New Kids on the Block without mentioning Lou Pearlman. Pearlman
was a mere shifty Florida businessman until a chance encounter with
“Hangin’ Tough”–era New Kids sparked his imagination. Within five
years, he’d established himself as the Fagin of the early-’90s boy-band
craze, transforming Orlando into the mini-Motown of Tidy-Bowl boy pop.
It was his Trans Continental Management that gave the world *NSYNC,
Backstreet Boys, and Aaron Carter, indirectly establishing New Kids as
vanguards of a much larger trend. Unfortunately, such organizations
require vast sums of cash to fuel their legions of choreographers,
producers, stylists, photographers, and talent scouts—and
Pearlman funded his particular organization through a massive stock
swindle. Last year, he was convicted, sentenced to a quarter century in
the clink, and fined $200 million. Seen in the light of the subprime
meltdown, it is easy to view Pearlman’s bands, and perhaps all of
boy-bandom, as yet another pernicious form of subprime consumer
fraud.
New Kids predate this mess, making them the stable Goldman Sachs to
Backstreet’s Freddie Mac and *NSYNC’s Fannie Mae. And yet it was from
New Kids that Pearlman allegedly derived his magic formula for
Y-chromosome pop megastardom. Gauged by units moved, it is a durable
recipe: Take a Wild Guy, a Shy Guy, a Sweet Guy, a Heartthrob, an
“Ethnic”; add a generous fatty zone of management and trainers; cross
your fingers; and presto! You’ve sold 70 million albums!
But where do the New Kids fit into the formula? Donnie Wahlberg was
the wild one, the counterpart to Backstreet’s A. J. McLean. He could
pop off at any moment; that much is clear. Vulnerable, tender little
Joey was once the band’s sweetheart, the same rank as *NSYNC’s Lance
Bass. But was Danny Wood, with his simian charisma, supposed to be the
ethnic or the backup heartthrob? Who was the Joey Fatone? And what of
the shy one? Can a band that gyrates and flapper-dances in front of
20,000 screaming girls have a shy member? (Jonathan Knight, who
did suffer from crippling anxiety and panic attacks, doesn’t count, on
account of this information was cynically concealed from America during
the band’s prime). Maybe the formula is more fluid than previously
assumed.
More to the point, what is the current formula for the Middle-Aged
Man Band? Who’s the Remorseful Guy? Which one is the Gum Disease Guy?
Guy Struggling With an Addiction to Online Pornography? Guy Who Lost
Money in a Bad Restaurant Investment?
Their new album, The Block, only complicates matters. Like
1994’s Face the Music, no smiles greet the buyer. On this most
recent cover, the band have replaced frowns with furrowed brows and
stern gazes. Danny and Joey seem particularly concerned, flanking the
scene and peering outward as if surveying some immense catastrophe. It
is sobering, mature packaging. And yet the lyrics play out like a
child’s take on acting grown-up. The word “sexy” appears eight times,
but there’s not a single cuss. Every song (13 total, 17 on the deluxe
edition) documents a stage of getting or shunning a bit of tail. It’s
boring and a little weird.
New Kids live may be a different story. Arenas seem to transform the
new songs—widely panned as remote, technological, and a wee bit
Timberlakey—into occasion for joyous cavorting. Jordan can
apparently still hit his falsettos. Those of you who were too proud to
pay your respects in 1990 can now indulge your sweet tooth under the
cover of adult nostalgia. Cupid still roams the cheap seats. Every word
of the band’s name is a lie—but it’s a harmless, reassuring lie.
Barring a time machine, or some Menudo-style boy-
replacement
program, this is the closest you will get to the new old New Kids.
