serfs up

serfs up

Imagine, if you will, that you are in a rock group and you just got a big recording contract and you’ve got an album to do. Now you can play well enough and all that, but you just haven’t been, together long enough to have really developed an original style, you haven’t really synthesized all these other styles into, something of your own. So you go into the studio to record and try to cover it up.

You record “Like a Rolling Stone”, like the band would have because you can’t really improve on Dylan’s original. Then maybe you do an English bar room song ala Procol Harum because it fits with the Dylan, Big Pink sequence. And maybe you take most of your horn arrangements from the early Blood, Sweat, and Tears, nice but not too far out. Then, maybe, you can open side two with something really neat, say combine the Stevie Wonder composed “I’m A Man,” with the Bo Diddly composed song of the same title and playing the whole thing like the Yardbirds of “Over, Under, Sideways, Down”, vintage would have. Far Out. And maybe throw in some jazz, a little improvozational jamming With everybody taking turns coming to the front.

And when you’re all done you can call yourself the Serfs, though your record really sounds like it should be A1 Kooper’s next, a collection of unreleased tracks by all the groups you like. A good record but nothing to get up arid rave abput.

Bob Stark

Tom Wright

Yesterday I had a short interview with a reporter for Time Magazine. He was — quote — doing a thing on where music is really at today — unquote. His first question ... “What do you know about Janis Joplin???” Well, what does anyone know about J. J.; I guess we know about as much as her advertising men tell us; not that this has anything to do with music today, but it is a great example of how much type, red tape, paper work, PR, and general bullsh-t that camouflage whatever is really going on — like, its a real project picking out which record to buy; or which concert to go see, for fear of being conned. Anyway, in rapping at this reporter, I found things coming out surprising me ‘cause they were words instead of vague thoughts in the back of my head. When I first came to Detroit, I was managing the Who (barely managing — a briefcase and ulcer scene) and we had just completed three of the most hectic months of touring you could imagine, e.g.: Friday — Philadelphia Saturday — Seattle Sunday — Miami

When we got to Detroit, everyone was shot. I mean we had done the big deals, right? San Francisco, NeW York, LA, and now Detroit felt like stepping out of the shower and washing one’s hands. At the motel, I was making arrangements for%ll the penicillin shots necessary so everyone could go home with a clean bill of health at least. I tried calling the promoter, and got a psychedelic recording and gave up instantly -1 just didn’t have any more energy.

Coming to the Grande for the first time was like dozing off in class and waking up in Times Square at five in the afternoon, and realizing you’re on acid. The place was jammed. They had played bigger audiences, but not so close together — people were stuck to the walls. It was evident that the tour was not over, not by along shot. On stage it was Who-Heaven, complete with i people massed right within range, Victorian rug, mediocre lighting — (which makes the Who look sensational), and an audience that knew as much about “Can’t Explain” as the rest of the country knew about “Happy Jack”. I have never seen the Who try harder. Halfway thru the set till six in the morning, I was hassling and being hassled over how many in fact were stuck to the walls. We ended with a truce and the Who reluctantly left Detroit.

After the tour, they went back to England (I can’t go because of an old bust rendering me an undesirable alien to the crown, etc.) and I went to tiie West Indies to lay in the sand anj let my head heal. From there, Detroit stood out as a phenomena. The vibes were like England six years ago, and/or like the reports Jfrom San Francisco(?). Wheq I got back to New York, I tried to tell Eye what was going on in Detroit, and fell in line with the clowns talking about Boston, Denver — everybody is so busy telling each other where its at that I found it easier to just get on a plane and set out to take pictures or write about Detroit. Whatever my intentions as I stood in the rain, stoned out of my mind, watching my camera sink softly into the Oakland mud, all I knew was that I was back in Detroit, and there were thousands of freaks, smiling, soaking wet and smashed, and smiling, and — music!

— one group after another all day

and right up to midnight — each new to me and one mind blower after another. What was happening? They told me this was the corn belt back home, where did everybody come from,... Neal, not another one of those, what if this is quick sand ... Racing back to. New York, I was ready to spread the word and tell the world about Detroit, but when I got back to my apartment all I could think about was how awful New York really was — everything I owned, from underwear to telephoto lens was ripped off — I was burned, robbed, just wiped out, — in fact, they stole everything but my bill for the months rent. I played cops and robbers for a few'days and got back on a plane for Detroit:1* THERE IS NO HOPE FOR NEW YORK. Arriving without a gig, no money and muddy cameras, I threw myself at the mercy of Russ and his physcadellic telephone and got a gig at the Grande. Setting out with an unlimited budget of zero, to make the Grande as cool as the Grande people, to feel as good to the eye as the music is to the ear, myself, AJ (Keeper of the Stash), Zak (Chairman), Dave Miller, (Speaker of the House), Bill Robins (Minister of Finance), Zenny Chairman of the Bored), . Aligator, and Palmbird (Mark the Wizard) are up to our assholes sweeping up yesterday’s dixie cups, scraping up bubble gum and painting walls, etc, etc, and there is just one thing that m akes it all worth.it - MUSIC*** DETROIT MUSIC — an atmosphere that brings out the essence of what a band has (or in the case of Steppenwolf, doesn’t have). This summer will bring the ..bands the warm kinds of recognition they deserve and it is our goal to get the Grande physically in shape to take its rightful place as the Taj Majal of music-pause — —

— belch-let us pray.

DONOVAN: The Immaculate Deception peter McWilliams

Donovan has one of the most incredible credibility gaps around.

His songs range from “Retard Writer In The Sun” to “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” with not much transitional material in between. (Shades of Doctor Donovan and Mr. Leitch!). He preaches “love9’, but his latest “epic” on Epic records, DONOVAN’S GREATEST HITS, /proves he cares more for the almighty dollar than the Almighty. (“Don’t buy drugs——buy my albums!”) He’s wearing Ills love like heaven all the way to the bank, as Liberace woiild say. DONOVAN’S GREATEST HITS has no point in being—except to make money — piles of it. But then, what more can we expect of a Leitch from Scotland ^ (I can’t knock Donovan’s money-mongeriqg too much—after all, he has a father to support!)

As to the album: The title itself is absurd. If we are to take it literally we must assume that Donovan will never have another hit. The least they could have done was label it DONOVAN’S GREATEST HITS VOLUME ONE. What are they going to do with that new “hit” he has out, something about “Susan on the West Coast Masterbatirig”? The album, by virtue of it’s title, is already obsolete.

The packaging is insulting. It is aimed at the minds of one of those fourteen-year-old girls he mentions in “Mellow Yellow.” The cover, and half of the “eight page color photo section”, are skin-shot ts of the malnutrition-ridden minstrel.el.. .and we all know skin sells (especial to fourteen year old masterbaters who arc waiting for Donovan to make them Mrs. Leitch.. .or just make them). There is even a front nude shot(at age two) taken by his father with,a Polaroid. (How can the second Saviour' be uncurcumcised?!)

As to the record and the selection of songs: If you have a good cross section Of Donovan albums, this one would no doubt bore the hell out of you. If you are without even one Donovan, album, don’t get this one.

Get LIKE IT IS or MELLOW YELLOW. These songs make great singles, but they make a rotten album. They are taken out of context, and thrown together in some orderless array. And the most irritating part of listening to these songs together is the drastic variance of recording quality. Some sound as if Papa Leitch recorded them on a wire-recorder, and other as if there were too many flowers in front of the microphones. The few that have decent fidelity sound out of place.

The only people who could benefit from this album are Disc Jockeys. Now they don’t have to go scrounging for a 45 of “First There Is A Mountain” during Golden Oldie Request Time.

But I’m not knocking Donovan.

He is a musical genius. I just hate to see record racks cluttered with junk, and people waste their money on re-runs, when there’s so much good stuff around. I urge you NOT to buy DONOVAN’S GREATEST HITS. If it sells well it - will prove the gullability of Donovan fans. If that happens the Capitalist's Christ will shove up our asses all kinds of sales-oriented, minimal quality shit.

For example:

♦DONOVAN’S GREATEST HITS, VOLUMES II, III, IIII,V,VI, ad infinum (ad nauseum)

*THE BODY IS THE TEMPLE OF THE SOUL, a monthly magazine of Donovan skin shots.

♦WEAR YOUR CLOTHES LIKE HEAVEN, a fashion magazine featuring the world’s most persistent Flower Child at his flowery best.

♦SUNSHINE SUPERMAN LEITCH BEACH UMBRELLAS, for all you retard writers in the sun.

*THE DONOVAN MEAT GRINDER, for hurdey gurdey men who like to grind their organs.

♦THE DONOVAN MELLOW YELLOW BANANA, but, please, don’t smoke the peel!

♦SEASON OF THE WITCH SEASONINGS, featuring parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Also witch hazel.

And maybe even:

♦THE DONOVAN PRAYER BOOK, let us pray:

Hail Donovan, full of it, Mickey Most is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst folk singers, and blessed is the fruit of thy mind: records. Holy Donovan, father of love, prey on our centers, now, and at the hour you become a billionaire,

amen.

Our Donovan, who art in Scotland, hallow be thy records, songs, posters and concerts. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth, as it is a Epic Records. Sell us this day our daily song, and deliver us from Laurence Welk. For thine is the kingdom, and the Flower Power, and the Glory Hole of Insight, forever, a woman.

peace—where applicable.