For anyone living outside of Ohio, Drew Carey's “Cleveland rocks” contention may seem a little tongue-in-cheek. But on a recent visit, I found a vibrant city with a variety of quality entertainment options, great restaurants and nightlife, a collection of fine modern museums, and—the crown jewel—the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

It's hard to imagine actually losing consciousness because of the presence of a rock star, without the use of any kind of mother's little helper, that is. But although I can't say there was any swooning, I did feel the jittery excitement of a kid on a magical mystery tour as I entered the hallowed hall. These were my idols, my icons, contributors to the soundtrack to my life. None of these people ever put their pants on more than one leg at a time, but let's face it: they were, and are, larger than life. And there may be nothing more dissonant than standing before the classic Jim Morrison photo—shirtless, longhaired, Messiah-like—juxtaposed with his Cub Scout uniform and a school-age picture under glass.

Like most visitors I was curious about how the inductees were chosen. (The Bee Gees! Who let them in?) Performers become eligible 25 years after their first recording. Each year a committee selects nominees and an international body of over 1,000 “rock experts” votes on them, granting induction to those garnering more than 50 percent of the vote. This has led to some bickering and bewilderment; for example, the formidable KISS Army has marched on the museum in protest of the band's ongoing snubbing.

The Hall of Fame Foundation was established in 1983 and began inducting members in 1986, but the museum didn't open its doors until 1995. Designed by architect I.?M. Pei, the building is a work of modern art resembling half a glass pyramid. (Pei clearly has a pyramid fetish; he also designed the controversial glass pyramid at the Louvre.)

With so many kitschy artifacts inside, the museum could have been nothing more than a glorified garage sale. But it's not just a display of Beatles' lunch boxes and Madonna's underwear. This is serious social history. The exhibits trace rock music back to its roots. Musicians such as Delta-blues player Robert Johnson and jazz legend Louis Armstrong were inducted for their influence. A whole exhibit is dedicated to electric-guitar pioneer Les Paul.

There's also space given to the social controversy the genre has inspired over the years. A hall of quotes and black-and-white, wall-size photographs is a reminder of the extremism of self-righteous “moralists”. Printed over a photo of Frank Zappa testifying passionately before Congress are the words “My God, rescue the tender young ears of this nation from this—this rock porn…” No, it wasn't an example of 1950s puritanism; this was U.S. Senator Ernest Hollings's 1985 demand for censorship.

Nor does the hall of fame ignore the broader picture of rock's evolution. So much depended on one Ahmet Ertegun taking a chance on a young Ray Charles. Cleveland DJ Alan Freed, who first called the music rock and roll, was a preacher in his pulpit spreading a new gospel. Journalists, songwriters, backup musicians—the museum brings many unfamiliar names out of the shadows.

There are sombre moments as well: reminders of Marvin Gaye's death at the hands of his own father; a piece of the wreckage of Otis Redding's plane, pulled from a lake in Wisconsin; the story of starvation in Bangladesh and the performers George Harrison brought together in 1971 to raise money and awareness.

In the theatre, I was riveted by three massive screens that played documentary footage. Slipping into the past, I started to feel what it must have been like before classic rock, when these were the newest songs on the radio, by some upstart icons swivelling their hips or banging their heads. Of course, rock 'n' roll's not over yet, and the On the Charts exhibit keeps things fresh with material from the latest celebrities.

With such a breadth of material, the museum can be a personal experience. Some will be wowed by Roger Waters's reconstruction of The Wall. Others will find fascination with Jimi Hendrix's scrawled lyrics or a note from Hunter S. Thompson to his editor at Rolling Stone. How about the Sex Pistols' handwritten letter (complete with grammatical errors) in response to their 2006 induction: “Next to the Sex Pistols, rock and roll and that hall of fame is a piss stain. Your museum. Urine in wine. We're not coming. Were [sic] not your monkey…”

Inductee Bob Marley once sang, “If you know your history, then you would know where you coming from.” Does Cleveland rock? Yes, it does. I know it's only rock and roll, but I like it.

ACCESS: The writer visited the museum as a guest of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, which is located at One Key Plaza, 751 Erieside Avenue, Cleveland. Admission is US$20, and it's open daily from 10 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., with a late closing of 9 p.m. on Wednesdays. For more information, see www.rockhall.com/