EMPTY AMERICA: Cleveland

There were 5 cities I definitely set out to document and experience on this journey: New Orleans, New York, Chicago and San Francisco. As I began the drive, more of the “story” started to morph in my head. The joy of not pre-planning is that sometimes when you make it up as you go, the journey shapes itself.


On the way from Boston to Chicago I realized that Cleveland is just a quick jump north from the intended path. Why not see what the virus had done there? Had it cleaned out downtown? My bigger question: Had the pandemic stopped the music of America?


I decided to see how the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame and surrounding areas were faring.


I’ve been to the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame before. Say what you want about their selection process and what’s considered “rock” all you want, it is still a wonderful encapsulation of the evolution of music through the past 100 years. Yes, at it’s very worst, it’s basically a giant Hard Rock Cafe with less food and more exhibits, but, hey, it’s the only one we got and, if you don’t like it, build your own (my main retort against complainers of any kind).


I pulled into Cleveland and found ample parking downtown. Of course.


To be fair, this was the weekend, so maybe it’s always like this. 


The HoF was indeed unattended. Quiet. Perched like a statue on the shore of Lake Eerie with the ironic sign out from “Long Live Rock.” Not if this virus has anything to say about it.


That building next to the football stadium had an ominous sense of what was, maybe what will be again. I suppose it’s fitting that they are both bordered by Lake Eerie, the Patron Saint of Everything I’ve Experienced.


The rest of downtown was just as empty. Public parks: desolate. Traffic: non-existent. A church sign read: “Closed Until Further Notice. Join us for our Live Stream.”


This virus is powerful! It not only shut down popular music but pushed religion into modern-day technology.