By Victor Davis Hanson
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Genius is often defined in myriad ways. One trusted
criterion is the ability to do something extraordinary in a field where others
could not — and doing something that perhaps will never be done again by anyone
else.
By that measure, Rush Limbaugh certainly is the genius of
talk radio, a genre in which he not merely excelled but that he also
singlehandedly reinvented as something entirely different — and entirely more
powerful and instrumental in American life — from what was imaginable
pre-Limbaugh.
Even stranger still, his ascendance coincided with the
presumed nadir of radio itself. It was supposedly a has-been, one-dimensional
medium, long overshadowed by television. Even in the late 1980s, radio was
about to be sentenced as obsolete in the ascendant cyber age of what would
become Internet blogs, podcasts, streaming, and smartphone television.
Stranger still, Limbaugh has prospered through two
generations and picked up millions of listeners who were not born when he first
went national and who had no idea of why or how he had become a national
presence.
He certainly did not capture new listeners by adjusting
to the times. While tastes changed and the issues often metamorphosed, he did
not. He remained conservative, commonsensical, and skeptical of Washington and
those in it, as if he knew all the predictable thousand faces of the timeless
progressive project, whose various manifestations reappear to mask a single
ancient and predictable essence: the desire of a self-appointed group of elites
to expand government in order to regiment the lives of ordinary people,
allegedly to achieve greater mandated equality and social justice but more
often to satisfy their own narcissistic will to power. It was Limbaugh who most
prominently warned that lax immigration enforcement would soon lead to open
calls for open borders, that worry about “global warming” would transform into
calls to ban the internal combustion engine, and that the logical end of
federal takeover of health care would be Medicare for All.
The Left — and many too who would later become the Never
Trump Right — thought that Limbaugh’s worst moment finally came after Obama’s
2008 victory, during the post-election euphoria and just days before the
January 2009 inauguration. It was a heady time, when the media would go on to
declare soon-to-be Nobel laureate President Obama as, variously, a living “god”
and “the smartest guy” ever to assume the presidency. His supporters often
compared him to iconic wartime presidents such as FDR and Lincoln. Americans
had been lectured on Obama’s divinity even as a candidate, and the evidence had
ranged from the mundane of Platonically perfect creases in his trousers, to the
telepathic ability to prompt spontaneous electrical impulses in the legs of
cable television anchors.
In answer to Obama’s promise to fundamentally “transform
America,” Limbaugh flat-out said he hoped that the new president would not
succeed: “I hope Obama fails.” Outrage followed. Was Limbaugh rooting for the
failure of America itself? In fact, he was worrying about how America might
survive the first unabashedly progressive president in over 60 years, now
empowered by an obsequious media, a House majority, a veto-proof Senate, and
Supreme Court picks on the near horizon.
Limbaugh was the first voice to warn that what would soon
follow the election was not the agenda that Obama sometimes disingenuously
voiced on the campaign trail — Obama’s ruse of occasionally sounding concerned
about illegal immigration, gay marriage, the spiraling debt, a rapid pullout
from Iraq, and identity politics — but rather a move to the progressive
hard-left.
What would ensue instead lined up with Obama’s senatorial
voting record, his prior associations with the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, Bill
Ayers, and Father Pfleger, and his occasional slips on the campaign trail: “I
want you to argue with them and get in their face,” “If they bring a knife to
the fight, we bring a knife,” and (in the pre-Netflix, pre–Martha Vineyard
estate days), “I think when you spread the wealth around, it’s good for
everybody.” Once elected, Obama was unbound. He lectured the nation about the
wages of the West’s sin: the Crusades, America’s prior role in the world, and
its own domestic woes. He instructed Americans on when it was the time to profit
and when it was not, the point at which people should concede they had made
enough money. And he listed the various reasons that he could not, as some
anti-constitutional “king,” grant unconstitutional amnesties by fiat — before
he went on to do just that.
Prior to Limbaugh’s national prominence, radio talk-show
hosts were not shapers of national culture or politics. Even the few local and
regional celebrity radio hosts had little power to influence issues of the day.
While local talk radio was more conservative than liberal, it was hardly seen
as traditional conservatives’ answer to the liberal biases of the major
national newspapers, network evening news, and public radio and TV, much less
the aristocratic pretensions of the Republican Beltway hierarchy.
So, what was inconceivable in 1988 was not just that any
one person could leap from local prominence to national dominance, but that he
could empower (rather than replace) his legions of radio subordinates. Far from
making them irrelevant, Limbaugh energized talk-radio hosts. Once he became a
national force, hundreds of others became far more effective conservative local
and regional voices, partly through the art of emulation, partly through
scheduling to lead in to or follow Limbaugh’s daily three-hour show, partly in
the general renewed public interest in talk radio itself.
Call that coattails, or force multiplication, but in
essence, Limbaugh redefined the genre as something more entertaining, more
political, and yet more serious — an “army of one” antidote to the New York and
Washington media corridor. How strange that after progressives achieved a
monopoly in network news, public television and radio, the Internet
conglomerates, Hollywood, and network prime-time programing, they sought to
emulate Limbaugh by creating their own leftist version of national talk radio,
Air America. Millions of dollars, dozens of talk-radio hosts, and Chapter 11
later, the venture collapsed in abject failure.
I wager that more Democrats listened to Limbaugh than to
Air America, in the fashion of my late Democratic father, who used to sneak
into my office on the farm and listen with me to Rush during the 1991 Gulf War.
How did Limbaugh do it?
No one really knows because few have been able to
duplicate his success, despite a number of gifted hosts who have tried. For all
the criticism that Limbaugh was crass, over some 25,000 hours of the syndicated
Limbaugh show, there were few embarrassments. And in cases where Limbaugh said
something he regretted, he later apologized. He certainly could grow animated
but seldom shouted and yelled. He talked about having talent “on loan from God”
but could turn self-deprecatory and compliment callers for insights that he
found original and noteworthy, saying, “I hadn’t thought of that.” He mocked
identity politics but at work and in life often surrounded himself with
talented people who were not white, and he seemed oblivious to any significance
of that fact other than that he’d found friends and employees who were
competent and whom he liked. He was a self-made multimillionaire many times
over and proud of it, and yet felt and acted more comfortable with those of the
Midwestern middle classes with whom he’d grown up.
Perhaps the best clue is that Limbaugh was never just a
talk-show host at all. Or rather, he redefined the talk-radio three-hour format
into something far more expansive than the critical arts of editorializing and
answering impromptu listeners’ calls. In his prime role as unyielding
conservative explicator of the daily news without the filters of the Washington
and New York commentariat, he combined the jobs of entertainer, stand-up
comedian, psychologist, impressionist, satirist, provocateur, therapist, and
listener to the nation.
Yet ultimately his audience listened because he
differentiated between two worlds. On one hand, he saw, with a skeptic’s eye,
the cosmos of progressive and liberal translators who selectively edit the
day’s events and massage their supposed importance to Americans, to present the
news in line with liberals’ preconceived agendas — under the guise that such
reporting was beyond reproach as professional, disinterested, and entirely
based in facts. Limbaugh exploded all those pretenses.
But he also saw the other world that was never reported.
He did not claim to be a traditional journalist or even an opinion journalist.
Instead, he proudly assumed the mantle and collective voice of a conservative
Everyman. Or maybe, more dramatically, his listeners saw him as an atoll of
traditional sanity in a turbulent sea of postmodern madness. His forte was
explaining why nominal conservatives were infected with a fatal virus of
wanting to be liked by the “mainstream media” and the cultural elite — and thus
often “grew” in office, moving leftward, as if they had become smarter and more
sophisticated than those who had voted for them.
People tuned in because they knew in advance that Rush
would not weaken or deviate, much less “transcend” them. There would be no
faddish Limbaugh who renounced his prior personas and positions. So his
listeners were reassured each day that they were not themselves crazy to
express doubt about what the nation was told or instructed.
The New York Times story picked up by their local paper,
the NPR segment they heard in the car, and the commentary of the ABC, CBS, or
NBC evening news anchors were rarely if at all the whole truth and anything but
the truth. Limbaugh reminded them that what was purportedly the news was
increasingly the output of a rather narrow slice of cocooned America between
Washington, D.C., and New York City, offered up by affluent progressives (the
“drive-bys”) who had come to believe that the media’s role was not to report
events per se, but to do so in a way that would not only educate the otherwise
blinkered American masses but would also improve them morally and make them
redeemable spiritually.
Limbaugh did all that, day in and day out, without any
sense of monotony or boredom, but with almost adolescent energy and excitement
about just talking to America each day. He never dialed it in. And his audience
knew it.
Limbaugh himself knew his listeners, not just by class or
locale, but through a shared skepticism about the values of coastal America and
its inability to show any correlation between proven excellence and an array of
letters after one’s name or name-dropping on a résumé. Does anyone think that a
professor of journalism, a Washington pundit, a network anchor, a Senate elder,
a president, or even a late-night TV host could host 30 hours of the Limbaugh
show without losing most of the audience?
He was the Midwestern college drop-out who had bounced
around among jobs before he found his natural place. Through that experience,
he posed an ancient Euripidean question, “What is wisdom?” The answer was found
in many of his targets: academics, editorialists, celebrities, journalists,
government functionaries, and politicos whose bromides Limbaugh made
ridiculous, and he instructed millions on how and why their ideas made no sense
in a real world beyond their enclaves. Rush was hated by the Left supposedly
for his politically incorrect -isms and -ologies; in truth, it was because he
so often made them look ridiculous.
Limbaugh sounded sane when giddy Stanford grad and Rhodes
scholar Rachel Maddow enthused about Robert Mueller’s daily
walls-are-closing-in bombshells — much as farmer and Cal Poly graduate Devin
Nunes wrote the truth in his House Intelligence Committee majority report while
Harvard Law graduate Adam Schiff’s nose grew in his minority-report reply, and
in the way that supposedly idiotic wheeler-dealer Donald Trump energized the
economy after Ivy League sophisticate Barack Obama said it would require a
magic wand.
In response to Rush Limbaugh’s announcement that he has
advanced lung cancer, millions voiced sympathy, support — and shock. Last week,
millions asked, “What are Rush’s chances?” The correct answer might be, “Not
good — if it was anyone but Rush.”
Yet one who can create national talk radio ex nihilo can
similarly beat toxic malignancy. His listeners seemed worried not just over
Rush’s health but about their own equally ominous future of the day’s events
without him.
May that day be far off.
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