Douglas Coupland's 1991 book, Generation X, opens with a description of a young woman. In retrospect it seems nothing more than pure Coupland, but at the time it felt a little, well, extreme. Her hair was "totally 1950s Indiana Woolworth perfume clerk"; her dress "early 1960s Aeroflot stewardess"; her makeup "Perfect 1970s Mary Quant". She is described as having really "caught the sadness - she was the hippest person there. Totally."
Of course, these days Coupland writes stuff like this in his sleep, for Wallpaper magazine among others. Everyone in Coupland's world trails vintage perfume such as Amarige or the scent of Perma Tan behind them. Everyone wears shades, a la Jackie, sips ironic, Dean Martin-style cocktails while listening to Jose Feliciano, or making important deals on an aeroplane.
Back in 1992, when Generation X was first published in Ireland, the notion of a constant plundering of the past seemed a little unlikely and a little unnecessary. It was funny and it was smart, but in those days we were sure of the future. We may not have known what clothes we would wear, or what music we would be listening to, but we felt pretty sure it would be new and shiny. Coupland's hyper-nostalgic, irony-bound heroes were anachronistic. In 1991 and 1992, the future existed in a way it doesn't now.
Dublin is constantly being name-dropped as a young and vibrant city. Cranes fill the skyline, as more and more apartments and hotels are built to accommodate a young population and the hordes of tourists who have chosen to believe the hype. Why then, in March alone, were there at least 11 tribute bands cluttering up our music venues? Why does practically every nightclub in Dublin have a 1960s, 1970s or 1980s night. And why does Tony Bennett, among others, see fit to drag himself on-stage here once more?
Surely such a young and vibrant city should be bounding toward the future, listening to music that sounds like machinery and angels? At the very least, we might pay lip-service to the present. And yet on the evidence of any listings magazine, we are in thrall to the past - any past - and can only embrace an idea if it is familiar.
Even Tony Bennett is probably more easily explained than the phenomenon that is the tribute band. For starters, he was good the first time around: Frank Sinatra described him as "the best singer in the business, the best exponent of a song" and he has, relatively recently, had a new lease of life, winning a Grammy in 1995 for MTV Unplugged.
He's an old trouper, a survivor, and besides, he's a likeable chap: he has sung duets with Kermit the Frog, and Elmo, describes Judy Garland as having been his favourite person to hang out with, and had never heard of Prozac until 1996, when asked in a Celebsite interview had he tried it. The National Concert Hall, where he is due to play, expects a capacity crowd - capacity, incidentally, is about 1,500 people. Although credit card bookings make it impossible to gauge the average age of those buying tickets, Aiken Promotions' advertisements for the concert have been geared toward a cross-section. And since Bennett played here in 1997, one can presume that for Aiken and the NCH, he is not exactly a gamble. But box-office certainty or not, isn't Tony Bennett a little past his sell-by-date, now just a well-preserved contemporary of first Frank Sinatra, then Kermit the Frog?
Yet perhaps this is his chief appeal; many would argue that Bennett possesses something a lot of modern musicians lack, namely style. In the absence of real jazz clubs, where you can smoke a cigar and swirl your brandy, Bennett represents a rare chance to tap into the iconographic glamour redolent of gangsters and Vegas. It is an escapist pleasure.
Nostalgia would appear to be the most obvious reason behind the recent rash of tribute bands - Depeche Mode, Bob Marley, Abba, Marc Almond and The Monkees have all inspired tribute bands. The philosophy behind these bands, as outlined in the Tribute Band Mania website, is that "groups can't last forever, but people can continue to celebrate their songs as long as tribute bands keep them alive". Of course, this doesn't explain the anomaly of ageing rock stars who just won't go away, or worse yet, tributes to bands that still exist. In the former category are The Rolling Stones (with a combined age of 233), The Bee Gees and The Eagles, in the latter are bands existing to "celebrate" the songs of George Michael, U2, Oasis and Elton John - all of whom are alive and well. Revivals and tributes have reached critical mass; we are in an absurd situation where we could probably catch the original band plus maybe two of their tributes on the same night.
I listen to the music my parents enjoyed - Sinatra and Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald and Peggy Lee. Yes, there were tunes in those days, some of which were soaringly beautiful. And yes, you could hear what the singer was singing.
The films and music of the 1950s and early 1960s, meanwhile, revel in their own modernity, name-checking cars, clothes, holiday destinations - all the indicators of intense now-ism. Crucially, one of the things that defined my parents' generation was its faith in the future, its faith in the ability of technology to enhance our lives. Unfortunately, we do not acquire such optimism simply by adopting their music.
The longevity of this particular fad is one of its most surprising aspects. Another is that no-one feels obliged to use irony as an excuse anymore. But then, that too has been appropriated as a tool of commerce. For this scattershot nostalgia to have lost its wry humour, however, is a sorry reflection on the generation that practically invented it. Are we really so apathetic as to agree with our parents on those things that have traditionally been a point of rebellion - namely the music we listen to and the way we have fun? Surely it is time to cut the apron strings and forge our own identity. Dublin is a young and vibrant city. Believe the hype. Better yet, justify it.
Tony Bennett plays the Waterfront Concert Hall, Belfast, April 30th, and the National Concert Hall, Dublin, May 1st.
