HAVE A NICE DECADE

There are no two ways about it. The ten-year period known as The '70s was the tackiest decade in history. Certainly there were other ages of questionable taste, but this particular consecutive stretch held so much social silliness and cultural curiosity that the world is still scratching its collective head in puzzlement over the entire era. When Father Time ushered in 1970, it was as if the whole world was waiting to exhale. The previous decade had been full of turbulence and unrest, politically and socially. The growing pains society had experienced hit an excruciating peak at the end of the '60s as war was raging, past values and morals were overturning, and everyone was ready for a rest. Not surprisingly, the years that followed would take all of the changes and progress of the past ten years to an illogical extreme. The '60s credo was "peace and love." The '70s took that sentiment and turned it into "I'd love a piece." It is no wonder that the '70s are now referred to as the "Me Decade." It was a time of hedonism and brainlessness out of sheer necessity. By the time of the Kent State tragedy in May of 1970 (where guardsmen killed four antiwar protesters and wounded nine more) everyone was begging for change. A new icon grew out of this unhappy time: the ever-grinning, unflappable "happy face." Coupled with his catchphrase, "Have a happy day," this spherical symbol would usher in the new times with unyielding cheerfulness. The happy face was originally designed in the late '60s for University Federal Savings of Seattle, which used the line "Open a savings account and put on a happy face" along with little yellow lapel pins designed to incite good will and happy banking. Since the bank didn't copyright the image, other institutions in the area began passing out pins of their own, using the same image. The little yellow visage spread like a virus across the entire marketing community, and soon virtually every business in the country used the icon in some way in their packaging or advertising. "Have a happy day" soon mutated into the "Have a nice day" greeting that has become such a cliché in American culture that today it is virtually a reflex to say it. It couldn't have happened at a nicer time, either. Overnight society stopped wearing natural fibers, hippie-influenced tie-dyes and psychedelics and zoned in on polyesters and wash-and-wear. The first part of the 1970s saw a fashion revolution that had Carnaby Street gasping for air. Some of the bold and beautiful images of the mod era managed to survive, but the new mainstream interpretations were remarkably gaudy and uninspired. Earth Day was a newly manufactured eco-holiday, and earth tones were what we were treated to in our clothing: browns with blue stripes, avocado and burnt orange. And this trend wasn't exclusive to clothes. The pastels of the past no longer graced our kitchens and living-rooms. Earth tones invaded every crevice of our living spaces -- wall paper patterned with big orange daisies and green leaves and forest-green carpeting supporting every brown Naugahyde-covered, La-Z-Boy recliner. And homeowners used every imaginable linoleum pattern to enhance the early '70s kitchen and bathroom floors while stirring up images of a synthetic Great Outdoors. New terms began to creep into the culture at an alarming rate. Watergate, which until 1971 was just a hotel in Washington, D.C., became a word to describe the biggest political foul-up in history. Recession was introduced to explain the unsettling state of finances in this country, and energy crisis came to describe the oil embargo of 1973 that left the masses stranded in long "gas lines." "Are you odd or even?" was not some flip insult, but a reference to what days you were allowed to buy gas. The shortage of petroleum products was oppressive, but it became a way of life. Habits acquired then are still around today, and survivors of the '70s are easily spotted by their devotion to locking gas caps, economy cars, and 68-degree-maximum thermostats. Our central heating may have been set low, but our feet were kept warm with the toe-socks craze. Rainbow-colored stockings with an individually knitted socket for each digit were must-wear accessories for the feet of the energy-crisis generation. Open-toed platform shoes were already a fashion staple, and elephant bells finished the perfect ensemble. Another early '70s fashion fad was the mood ring, a heat-sensitive adornment that changed hue when warmed by the wearer's skin. A summer hiatus in Hawaii for one of the nation's top teen idols was responsible for the biggest trend in necklaces: When David Cassidy of television's The Partridge Family returned from the islands wearing a necklace made of puka shells, he changed the look of the world's necks for years to come. His feathered hairstyle also was the leading coif for young men who were by this time wearing tight-knitted tops and Levi's wide-bell cords. The Partridge Family was one of the most popular television shows of the era, as is evident by how its star led fashion trends, but the influence of other shows would also seep into the mass consciousness. Catchphrases from top TV sitcoms were on our lips and chests in the form of T-shirts. "Dy-no-mite" from Good Times; "It's Not My Job, Man"; from Chico And The Man, and "Meathead" and "Dingbat" from All In The Family were among the multitude of phrases uttered for the first time in the '70s. TV inspired many to discover their Roots and learn Kung Fu. The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Rhoda taught audiences that it was okay to be female and independent, and Cannon, Ironside, and Longstreet showed that it was okay to be handicapped and tough. This was slightly left of center from the previous cathode offerings of cowboys and nuclear families. The middle of the decade hit with a thud. The backlash from Watergate contributed to a malaise that made people mad as hell -- and they weren't going to take it anymore. Gerald Ford, the default President, tried his best to keep the malcontents in line with "Whip Inflation Now" badges, but they wouldn't have the same impact as their smiley-faced forebears. And even though he provided some much-needed comic relief with his klutzy maneuvers, Ford was replaced at the first opportunity by a kinder and gentler president, Jimmy Carter, in the 1976 elections. Emotionally beat, the American psyche was in the need of some cultural Prozac, and history would provide the best-ever patriotic shot-in-the arm with the Bicentennial celebration. Beginning in mid-1975, the populous was treated to the biggest national hype it had ever experienced. Arba, the Bicentennial Eagle, was unveiled as the country's new mascot, and every man, woman, and child was encouraged to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the birth of our nation in every way imaginable. "Bicentennial Minutes" were presented in between CBS's TV programs; red-white-and-blue clothing was in every store, and communities began planting time capsules all over the place. Years from now, after the great cataclysm, future societies will puzzle over artifacts like Pet Rocks and hats made of aluminum beer cans knit together when they find them packed in the countless canisters buried for posterity. The accumulated excitement for the bicentennial was exhausted by the time of its passing on July 4, 1976, but the patriotism endured. The timing was perfect for Rocky, the underdog fighter in the film by Sylvester Stallone, to become America's next big hero. Rocky delivered a KO punch to the box office, one so intense that the character became an instant institution. America couldn't get enough of the punchy pugilist, and by the end of the decade audiences were cheering for Rocky II. Something in those stars-and-stripes boxer shorts captured the enthusiasm of the nation, and a superstar was made of both Stallone and the character he created. Although not the first film to spawn a sequel, Rocky went on to define the genre with a seemingly endless stream of follow-ups and an even longer list of copycats. A global mellowing began to take place and a cultural explosion was brewing as townies repainted their patriotically decorated fire hydrants back to yellow. The first half of the decade may have been hopelessly devoted to the notion of having a nice day, but a brave, new icon descended, right around the time the Republican administration was collapsing into a vat of Billy Beer. This is when the giant mirrored ball began spinning, and the Disco Era was born. Many stayed at home, watching Saturday Night Live or yapping on their CB radios as the change was happening. For the younger set, skateboard fever was enough of a diversion to miss the initial rumblings, but the rest of the decade was steeped in glitzy, bright lights and the incessant beat of the rhythm machine. Polyester was now spandex, and nightclubs and watering holes were transformed overnight into discotheques. At first the change was gradual. It started with the natural evolution of the sexual revolution combined with changes in popular music. The dance craze The Hustle was fueled by a massive hit single that catapulted dance culture into Middle America. Everyone wanted to do the dance, and disco lessons became more popular than baseball. The masses began putting on their boogie shoes and going out to shake their groove things on the weekend. They would continue doing so for years to come as the craze grew until it touched every corner of civilization. Even the nearly dead roller-skating industry had a revival as some brilliant souls convinced Discomaniacs to go mobile and participate in splinter-fad "roller-boogie," giving new life to the decaying rinks around the country, which hadn't seen business in years. An article called "Tribal Rights Of The New Saturday Night" in New York magazine, which detailed the booming East Coast dance scene, was adapted into a movie that escalated the fad into a phenomenon. Saturday Night Fever defined the entire era and made a superstar out of John Travolta, a burgeoning actor who was winning the hearts of teenage girls by playing airheaded Vinnie Barbarino on Welcome Back, Kotter. The Angel's Flight-suited disco dancer who Travolta portrayed in the film became the most recognizable image of the decade, and his Oscar®-nominated performance was nothing short of brilliant. The film premiered in December 1977 and spawned the top-selling soundtrack album of all time, thanks to the musical genius of the Bee Gees and their unbeatable custom-crafted disco score. The trend grew to such unruly proportions that the inevitable cultural fallout that ensued resulted in a backlash so intense it would rival the explosion of Mount. St. Helens. A great deal of the antidisco sentiment emerged from the growing punk rock movement and disgruntled traditional rockers who wanted nothing to do with the extremely commercial venture that disco had become. As with any product, the early disco output was cutting-edge, high-quality, producer-driven material. Because it grew at such a phenomenal pace, a lot of slapdash offerings gave disco a bad name in its middle years. In addition, the blatant, mindless, drug-and-sex culture it spawned appalled a sizeable portion of Middle Americans who cluelessly wore silver coke spoons on chains around their necks. The music industry responded to the backlash by applying the moniker "new wave" to the fresher dance material that was coming forth. In most cases new wave music applied the same rhythm and beat but was less obvious in its approach. Tube tops and lace-up pants had been a fashion statement during the middle of the decade, but by the twilight years of the '70s, the same garb was geared for the night life and made of sparkly materials and adorned with garish sequins. Tight, stretchy clothes were the order of the day for showing off your hard body. The disco scene introduced a new narcissism to the public, and they reveled in it. Although the health and aerobics craze was a child of the '80s, it was conceived on the dance floors of the nation as self-conscious barflies spun wildly in front of the mirrored walls of their favorite dance palaces, checking out one another's form. Homebodies in the late '70s had their eyes on the forms of TV's Charlie's Angels, while a whole new spate of "jiggle" programming was born. Jaclyn, Kate, and Farrah became a national obsession with the couch potato populace, who were transfixed by the tube waiting to see what scant outfits the Angels would wear this week, or which one of them would be the next to get wet. Posters of the Angels were massive sellers, and a nipple-popping portrait of Farrah became the biggest-selling cheesecake shot in history. For giggling and jiggling, viewers tuned in to Suzanne Somers on Three's Company, making her the next pinup girl of choice for sitcom stars. The ladies weren't forgotten, as himbos from Starsky And Hutch and CHiPs also got the beefcake treatment. More sophisticated socialites at this juncture were checking out the treasures of ancient Egyptian pharaoh Tutankhamen (aka King Tut). Lines longer than those to get into Star Wars wrapped around museums wherever the international traveling exhibit settled its scarabs. The fashion industry attempted to cash in on the trend by introducing Tut-themed clothing patterns, and decorators went wild converting the homes of the rich and famous into Egyptian palaces. In one of the silliest rituals of the decade, "pyramid power" became a buzz phrase, and countless hoards tried to harness the mystical (and mythical) energy of the geometric shapes by placing them over their heads. When that whim passed, some wise huckster invented the pyramid game, in which you conned as many friends as you could into investing in a gambling scheme that left early gamesters rolling in greenbacks and their former friends with holes in their pockets. When the Egyptian craze started to subside, sophomoric crowds from far and near went Roman as toga parties became all the rage on college campuses, as well as attending multiple viewings of the film that inspired them, Animal House. Others with a penchant for hanging out in public places in their underwear went uptown to midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a version of "Singin' In The Rain as seen dimly through a Quaalude," as the film's star, Tim Curry, once said. The Rocky Horror experience was an outpouring that could only have emerged in the '70s. The concurrently hedonistic and inspirational message of the film, "don't dream it -- be it," inspired thousands weekly to dress up in glittery makeup and lingerie and to act out scenes from the movie, yelling back at the screen in a ritual that invented the "audience participation film." "Disco sucks, let's do the Time Warp" became a rallying cry of the disenfranchised followers of the cult movie that drew its crowds from night-crawling misfits everywhere. Misfits of other kinds would have self-help organizations to show them how get "it." Early in the '70s, Primal Scream Therapy (where you sat in a big box and screamed and cried until your problems went away) was the way to go. Later, est would be the trend in self-help groups. There, you would learn how to throw away all the baggage of the past and become a new you . . . for a flat fee. If you didn't have the money, a copy of the bestseller I'm OK, You're OK would do just as well. The decade that had entered with such serious concerns went out with a laugh. The '70s were born of strife, war, and conflict, and were laid to rest with much simpler goals: prosperity and a better me. For this reason, the '70s will remain a historically unique era. The fads, fashions, and tastes that emerged in the decade grew out of the tensions of change, and during those ten years, everyone seemed to go berserk. Then, as as things quickly got out of hand, the citizenry of the U.S. regained its composure by returning to the Republican party and the pendulum swung back to conservative values when the clock struck midnight on December 31, 1979. The goofiness of the past decade was suddenly an embarrassment and virtually everyone wanted to dust off [put off??] the memory of recent happenings and move forward. But time does heal all wounds. Finally, with the '70s long behind us, it is acceptable to look back with a nostalgic glow-- as long as you take no responsibility for it all. It has been said that those who remember the (drug-induced) '60s weren't really there. Up until recently, it was safe to assume that those who claim to remember the '70s couldn't have been there -- they'd never admit it. But no more. The fashions are back, the music has returned, and the happy face is smiling at us once again. Our polyester roots are showing, and we're actually better for having had the experience. All is forgiven now, and it is all right to replant that garden gnome, take our Pet Rocks out for a walk and, once again, have a nice day. -- Lisa Sutton

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