ROCK 'N' ROLL NEWS

ROCK AND ROLL NEWS

Ann Arbor whizzes, the SRC, are now formerly SRC. Their new nom de roll is Blue Scepter, conjuring up latent greaser images.

The band will shortly put out their first Blue Scepter single on their own label, Vulcan. According to business head Pete Andrews, Vulcan is conceived more as a production company though and thus the first release will probably be available only in Michigan — at least until a distribution pact is made.

Frijid Pink have broken up, with lead singer Kelly Green and lead guitarist Tom Beaudry splitting for the road due to management disputes. No word on keyboard monster Harry Phillips’ plans though.

The MC5’s third album, which has been rumored ready for release ever since, November, will. finally be out, they say, in early May. Despite the delay, the title will not be Let It Be. According to inside sources, and much to our surprise, the new Five album has “something for everybody” — the monster cut is supposed to be/‘Sister Anne”, a story of nun-rape or the like.

Brownsville Station are in the process of recording their second album. Meantime, they’re touring on a package called “Detroit I” with Alice Cooper and Amboy Dukes. According to the local booking monopoly, DMA, the pa'ckage will be recharged \every three months or so with new acts, and sent out cross-country as “Detroit II”, “Detroit III”, etc.

The Sons of Champlin have reformed as the “New Improved Sons (of champlin)” despite the suggestion of some that they call themselves merely “of” thereby becoming the first rock band to have a preposition for a name. No takers yet — how about the In or Out or Over? Under? Beside? Atop?

Moby Grape are back together in their original configuration, after having threatened to do so for the last eighteen months; they’re being produced by Fillmore Corp.’s David Rubinson, who is also working on an album by Cold Blood’s Lydia Pense and just finished one with Taj Mahal.

Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen are making A Triumphal Return to Ann Arbor on April 17th. With tickets priced at $1.50 - $2 - $2.50 if you happen to be anywhere within a hundred miles or so qf the Motor City that evening, you ought to bop on by.

And despite rumors to the contrary,, Cody and the Airmen are NOT signed to Atlantic records. Or anybody else. Yet.

We found this in Walrus, a tip-sheet that goes out to progressive rock radio stations, and thought it might be of some interest:

THE FCC AND DRUGS:

TWO WEEKS LATER

“The core of the real problem is that, as Nicholas Johnson stated, the agency which prepared the original report to the Commission on lyrics was the Pentagon. That’s right folks. . . just watch that Defense Department budget go into a detailed evaluation of every rock and roll song ever written. Further, the real desires of the Commission are revealed in the first sentence of the FCC edict; ‘There is a serious and pressing problem: speech about illegal drug use . . .’ It’s the speech the Commission and the Pentagon are concerned about. The strict constructionists don’t want you to say anything about drugs in spite of their First Amendment. That’s what is really going on . . .

“ . . . the Commission is vague. They have too little power to outright ban certain songs, which obviously, is what they would like to do. Therefore they are reduced to a wishy-washy statement which, like, the agencies entire history, says far too much and yet, doesn’t say enough. There is strong sociological evidence that shows exactly what happens under conditions of ambiguity. When the dictator is vague, those who make decisions based on his vagueness take the most conservative tack.

. . . Hence the current situation. The Commission is vague and broadcasters react in the most paranoid way possible.”

Mitch Ryder has recorded his first new material with his band, Detroit. They’ve done five tracks with Nimbus Nine (Guess Who) producer Bob Ezrin, who also did Alice Cooper’s new stuff. The cuts include the Chuck Berry stomper; “Let It Rock”, the old Wilson Pickett jam; “I Found A Love”, “It Ain’t Easy”, which is nothing like it ever was before, “Oo-La-La”, the Cat Stevens number (rhythm and bluesed) and a Ryder original; “Long Neck Goose”.

The Doors probably won’t be doing any more concert gigs for quite awhile. According to Jim Morrison, who is on sort of a semi-sabbatical in Europe, “For me it was never really an act — those so-called performances. It was a life and death thing; an attempt to communicate, to involve many people in a private world of thought. I no longer feel I can best do this through music, through concerts. The belief isn’t there.”

Douglas Books, which is owned by Alan Douglas, who also owns Douglas Records (The Last Poets, Devotion by John McLaughlin, a good Lenny Bruce set and an Eric Dolphy album that was recently re-released due to Richard Walls’ review in these pages) is to be the publisher for John Sinclair’s first book.

The book is to be entitled Guitar Army: Street Writings/Prison Writings 1968-69. John is more together in lots of ways than ever. He’s working on a poetry anthology, Hard Core, which will include his Artists’ Workshop Press Meditations, “This Is Our Music” and the heretofore unpublished Leni Poems and Bridgework, most of which stems from the period 1964-69.

Douglas will also be doing a book by White Panther and former LNSer David Fenton, a collection of his photography called Shots. Release for the Sinclair book is tentatively September but hopefully CREEM will be bringing you some Sinclair material in the next couple of issues.

As long as we’re on the subject of publishing, Fusion has its first book which is rumored to be dynamite (we still haven’t seen a copy — the mailman must of ripped it off) and Jazz & Pop is publishing one called Music and Politics which is a collection of articles by Bob Levin and the aforementioned John Sinclair.

Big west coast flashes this week include: Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kidz, with greaser rock revived, and CREEM columnist John Mendelsohn’s farcical Christopher Milk.

Records are about to take the existential leap in price from $4.98 to $5.98. As if it isn’t bad enough, though, that the public (that’s us) gets fucked in front, we’re also being shafted sideways. The deal is that the price to the retailer on $5.98 product goes down a dime, which still gives the record company more money since they would’ve sold the same record for a buck less last month anyway. And thus the store makes more money. How convenient. But where it really hurts is that the product that is considered “marginal” — Captain Beefheart, say, or the Stooges or maybe just your fave obscure artist — is gonna be real hard to find, because the records still cost more to the retailer. And that means its gonna be even harder to find important, less-thanmillion selling discs.

The Chicago 7’s contempt sentences will probably be thrown out of court, due to a government request. Federal attorneys asked that the sentences be reviewed after the Supreme Court ruled that a judge who is the target of personal attacks can’t impose contempt sentences at the end of the trial.

What a Way to Run a Railroad

If live rock has any purpose beyond entertaining it’s that it makes ah audience realize, its inherent power. The Dead accomplish it by transcending the music. Elton John and The Stones approach it from the same angle, but they also employ a lot of showmanship. Grand Funk Railroad succeed by bypassing the music. An evening of Grand Funk means high-powered sound, and believe me, the audience realizes its power. They appeal to a young audience, the average age being about 18, but with a high percentage of 14 and 15 year olds. Quietness isn’t expected and isn’t received; during the break prior to Grand Funk’s set, “Ride My Seesaw” bounded out of the sound system at a volume bordering on physical pain. The Moody Blues at such intensity was ludicrous, but it set the tone for the evening.

After 15 minutes or so of mind numbing recorded music the lights go down, everyone starts clapping and stomping just like on the live album,' and Grand Funk comes on. They plug in and the first blast roars out, an almost atonal bulldozer of sound constituted mostly of rhythm. Occasionally Farner will slip in a melodic run, but it’s lost or distorted in the feedback and volume. (He also has the habit of playing the organ by holding notes that are painful.) Terry Knight says the band is nearly deaf, a big price to pay to become millionaires.

They play for an hour, no-one calling out requests, quite happy to receive what the band gives them. Then comes the obligatory drum solo. Brewer’s method is to start very slow and soft on one drum, slowly pick up speed and volume, reach a crescendo and stop, start all over again and repeat for about five minutes before switching to another drum and repeating. He has great strength and carries on for a good 20 minutes before the other two join him for a tolerable percussive jam that predictably has the crowd up and jumping.

The interesting thing about presenting rock in a concert environment is that it stimulates the audience’s energy. Not being able to move around as in a ballroom creates a situation where the need to jump up and boogie becomes much more urgent. And on this particular night the management had decided that no-one was to stand; do so and you would be thrown out. So here are three guys laying down a beat, which, although unspectacular, is an excuse to respond, which the crowd does. The guards wait until the song ends and then herd everyone back. But the audience has tasted its power and it is merely a matter of time.

In fact, it is the band’s ignorance of the mechanics of Showmanship which keeps the audience from rioting. Brewer has as much onstage flash as Ringo, and Mel Schacher is content to walk between the front of the stage and his amps all night. Only Farner makes any attempt. Although he knows how to handle his chest length hair and facial expression, he is still developing the facility with which Mick Jagger and Pete Townshend control a stage. It is only a matter of time until he develops this facility and that’s when an audience is going to break loose. Meanwhile, he has learned to start a rhythm and then walk across the stage humping to the beat. It gets a lot of reaction.

Eventually they draw to a close. There is thunderous applause and they Charles Auringer return for an encore, which Farner introduces as “the national anthem of our generation”: “Gimme Shelter”. It’s performed devoid of - The Stones’ musicianship but with an intensity that equals, if not overshadows, the original. They walk off with clenched fist salutes, the people in the expensive seats replying with peace signs, the cheap seats with fists. The applause doesn’t die. People are coming down onto the main floor, filling the aisles. 20,000 strong, they chant and yell for more, carrying on a good five minutes without let up. The equipment is being dissembled but they still want another encore. It’s similar to a Dead or Stones concert, but the younger audience has much less respect for authority. Whereas a Dead or Stones crowd will leave, Grand Funk’s crowd is prepared to fight.

After a long time the band comes back out, amazed at the intensity of the response. They break into a number and the guards start pushing people out of the aisles, forcing them to crowd onto the seats. People shove back and the guards start grabbing. Fights break out. The band finishes, the crowd renewing their applause. After 15 minutes they’re still screaming and stomping, with no sign of abating. It is just shot away.

Jonh Ingham

For Immediate Release

NEW YORK — John McLaughlin came home last month. He’d been in natal home England three months touring with the Tony Williams Lifetime. Was successful, too. “Incredible, absolutely incredible,” was how he described it.

Jack Bruce (currently with the Lifetime) being something of a cultural hero in England, the Lifetime played SRO many nights, but the audiences left with an entirely different perspective than they came with . . . mainly, that the Lifetime is not a transplanted Cream.

McLaughlin, born and raised in England, now lives in Queens with intentions to stay. His trip is a very spiritual one, his personal committment having been made to spiritual master and guru Sri Chin Moy, whom he sees and serves.

McLaughlin has gone through many changes this past year — like six months ago, at his guru’s request, slicing beard and hair. Now, dressed in plain business pants/shirt, John gives the physical appearance of young assistant administrator rather than Downbeat’s No. 2 guitarist.

John’s long droning guitar lines have marked the grooves of literally a dozen important albums over the last six years, but his name had been a quiet secret (in America, at least) except to more knowledgable jazz buffs. His upfront solo introduction to the States incarnated as Devotion, released last year by Douglas Records.

The earliest recorded McLaughlin can be heard op Solid Bond (Warner Brothers), recorded in ’64 with Jack Bruce & Ginger Baker as the Graham Bond Organisation.

McLaughlin & Bruce keep popping into each other’s lives and music — currently both members of the Lifetime, they’ll be in the studios together in February cutting with Tony & Larjry Young. They came together in ’66 as well — recording Bruce’s jazz album Things I Like, which was just released on Atlantic.

John has also laid into albums such as Experiment With Pops, by the Gordon Beck Quartet, Hair, by Sandy Brown And His Friends (Phillips), Super Nova, by Sonny Sharock (Blue Note), and Infinite Search, by Louis Miroslav Vitous (Embryo Records, dist. by Atlantic).

You can’t forget McLaughlin’s English solo deck, Extrapolation, on the Marmalade label, which was recently re-released in England on Polydor. Never released here, Extrapolation was Melody Maker’s No. 1 jazz album in 1968. John also appears on tapes with Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Miles and Dave Holland, which are floating around somewhere, hopefully to be made available, either as bootlegs or on an honest-to-god label with cover art and shit.

Here in the States, McLaughlin has scored as guitarist on Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew and In A Silent Way, and with Tony Williapis on Emergency! and Turn It Over. (It was Bob Christgau, in the Village Voice, who first pointed out the irony of McLaughlin, young-white-English, being same guitarist for both Williams and Davis).

* * * *

McLaughlin will certainly be staying with the Lifetime for touring and recording. But he will, during February, be cutting his second album for Douglas.

“The group,” he explains, “is the most important thing to all of us.

“In our heart of hearts each of us knows this,” he answered a probe regarding rumors of ego trips and splits going down within the Lifetime.

“We do have our day-to-day fallouts . . . but then, when we plug in . .. and start playing ...”

Surfs Up (Slight Return)

SANTA MONICA, CA. . - The Santa Monica Civic, surf movie capital of the world. The horn players and the extra bassist and pianist have been tuning up for the past ten minutes and the crowd is getting restless. Unison hand clapping and screaming break out sporadically. Finally the lights go down and they walk out. Bruce looking his collegiate best, Dennis in his double-breasted au couture suit (but without a tie), A1 in white flare slacks and sport shirt, and the two peacocks: Mike in his blue bells with matching shirt and suspenders, set off by a cowboy hat and ankle-length scarf, and Carl, barefoot and in black, with gold sequined cannabis leaves a la Nudie spread across his shirt. Collectively, The Beach Boys.

The Beach Boys! Those chroniclers of the early-60s teenage myth, the five beach blondies who used to appfear on stage in white slacks and pinstripe shirts when they weren’t cruising the Frosty stand on Main Street in Hawthorne. And that’s where we left them, part of the myth they had so lovingly recorded. We were dropping acid and freaking out at the Avalon, but it was impossible to accept that the Beach Boys might be doing the same. As far as we were concerned Brian and the boys would always be cruising the beaches for the perfect wave. But here they were, looking like hip capitalists rather than hip performers, playing in their Home Town to a sellout crowd ecstatic with joy.

But while the audience was off and. running, the group wasn’t. They opened with “Heroes and Villians” and it was a mess. The harmonies lacked that overdubbed fullness, likewise the instrumentation. Then “Help Me Rhonda”, which Mike Love rather hypocritically explained had been “updated to 1971,” meaning that a piano was added and the harmonies weren’t as full. They played for about an hour without really getting it together, the crowd loving it all the same. The Beach Boys are great entertainers. Their use of the stage is excellent, and between song/chatter is both lengthy and humourous. But they are lazy and complacent, quite content with an evening of golden oldies, never bothering to explore the harmonic possibilities or the instrumental complexities or subtleties. Instead the horn section creates volume without texture, within which the band works as a rhythm unit. Through all this only Daryll Dragon’s piano work provides *any musically excellent quality.} But although we didn’t hear any songs from their album in progress there! was some experimentation. Carl sang “Caroline No” with acoustic guitar accompaniment, and Bruce Johnston soloed on piano with “Tears In The Morning” and “Your Song”, intended as a tribute to Elton John. Also, the vocals were frequently altered via reverberation and echo to match the sound of the recordings.

Finally they got to “Good Vibrations” and it clicked. Mike pulled out his theremin, played a “theremin sonata for all you classical theremin music freaks,” and then they were into it. They sang like they really believed it and Carl finally began to rise up onto his toes the way he does when he’s getting off. It ended and they were offstage, the audience in utter pandemonium. After a couple of minutes they trooped back on, Mike making a crack about how they hadn’t expected an encore. They worked their asses off for the next half hour. They still couldn’t care less about musical complexities, but they were pouring out so much enthusiasm that it was impossible not to be affected by it. People were bouncing up and down, grinning as though they had just found that perfect surfer girl (or boy), even holding hands and making out on the slow numbers. (And when was the last time you saw that at a concert?)

It was mostly hard rocker time: “I Get Around”, “Riot In Cell Block No. 9”, featuring an incredible driving sax solo by Joel Peskin, “It’s About Time” and finally “Johnny B. Goode”, which simply crackled. The horns were really pushing, Daryll Dragon was off on some Jerry Lee Lewis runs, A1 and Bruce were doing some choreographed steps for guitar and player, and Mike and Carl were running around the stage in efforts to create even more frenzy. They may be a myth of our time, but they are a very vital and exciting myth. And after ten years and 65 million records that is more than enough.

John Ingham

People Are Funny

VIENNA, ILL. - Paul Powell’s body lying in state atop the bier that once held the coffin of Abraham Lincoln at the Capitol Building in Springfield, Ill. says more about America than anyone — revolutionaries, Middle Americans, right-wingers — would care to admit.

You see, Paul Powell was, until his death, Illinois Secretary of State. Which, in itself, would not automatically rule out his pretensions to Lincoln’s catafalque. What did make the resting place of his bones so ironic was the fact that Paul Powell was perhaps the biggest shyster in the history of Illinois politics. Honest Abe must have turned over in his grave.

Paul Powell’s life was so American for, he had taken dead seriously its boasted word: The Land of Opportunity. And he certainly made the most of his opportunities.

In January Paul Powell’s name made newscasts and newspapers coast-to-coast when it was revealed that after his death $750,000 was found crammed into a small closet in his home, most of it in $100 bills,, much of it stuffed in old shoe boxes, part of it in a bowling bag, and some of it in envelopes, including one that contained just 49£. Most news reports left out the more personal items discovered at the same time: 49 cases of whisky, 14 transistor radios, 154 shirts — and two cases of canned, creamed corn. (A payoff from the creamed corn lobby?)

The worth of his entire estate is now estimated at $ 3-million. His highest salary as Secretary of State was $30,000.

Then where did the money (and the 14 transistor radios) come from?

Ah, but before we answer that, let’s examine the human element. What kind of man was America’s richest Secretary of State?

Some rather hilarious antedotes concerning Paul Powell have come to light recently.

*His hotel doorman said the secret millionaire tipped him $2 each Christmas, (not a penny less)

*Mrs. Eva Murdock, the Black maid who cleaned his rooms for years, claimed that she once asked him for a donation to a fund-raising project at her church. “I guess I can spare a dollar,” he said as he whipped out a wad of bills and tore off a single. Perhaps still not satisfied that he had done enough, he added: “Eva, why don’t you take this piece of fruitcake and enjoy it with my best wishes.”

“My gosh,” Mrs. Murdock remembers, “Mr. Powell had already taken two bites out of that piece of cake!” (“A natural leader who never lost the common touch,” Mayor Richard J. Daley of Chicago said of Paul Powell after his death)

*The janitors who worked in the State Capitol wore his name stitched across the back of their shirts, bowling team fashion.

*Friends recalled that his favorite targets were “hippies,' yippies, dippies and all other long-haired animals.” (“Most of all he was a man of deep compassion who truly loved people,” Illinois House Democratic Whip Clyde Choate eulogized.)

*In a recent campaign Paul Powell erected huge billboards that boasted:

“The world’s richest person is the one who can say: I AM AN AMERICAN.” But ah, many commented, some are richer than others ....

“There’s only one thing worse than a defeated politician, and that’s a broke politician,” Paul Powell said before his death at the ages of 68 last Oct. 10, and to make sure that neither condition overtook him he extorted money from dozens of sources, state, Federal and private investigators charge.

For example, he was fond of throwing testimonial dinners for himself at which lobbyists paid large amounts for tickets. The last one netted him $100,000. Another source of funds was his sale of low-number license plates, running up to $1000 a piece. Of course, he kept No. 1 for himself. And Illinois car owners were not forced to make their checks out to some super state agency when paying for their plates. No, their checks were made out in a more personal manner: to Paul Powell himself.

As secretary of State he controlled patronage appointments numbering 5,000, and was the state’s most influential office holder to contractors, lobbyists and other interested parties. He steadfastly aided the horse racing tracks by keeping taxes low and profits high (for them) — and his estate showed more than 23,000 shares of stock in various race tracks, much of which he had “purchased” at 10£ a share. One block alone (Chicago Downs) is worth $600,000. In addition Irwin (Big Sam) Wiedrick, who had done a couple of years time in New York for fraud before becoming boss of Chicago racing, had such a high opinion of Paul Powell that he split his annual take with him. Questioned by the Illinois Crime Commission about this, Powell replied that there was nothing wrong with this “unless there’s some prohibition about making money.”

(Gov. Richard Ogilvie: “He was above all a man who demanded of himself a sense of honor that stood the test of service spanning four turbulent decades.”)

Yet Paul Powell did not overlook the little things. Ever wonder whatever happens to the coins collected in the vending machines in government buildings? At the Illinois Capitol, all the nickels, dimes and quarters from the 18 Coca Cola machines where turned over to Paul Powell: $20,000 during his five years as Secretary of State.

The Better Government Association, an independent investigatory .body, and the source for much of the information related here, also charges that Paul Powell received great sums of cash* from the trucking industry. However, this did not stop him, they add, from pressuring truckers to buy expensive tires from several concerns — also linked to Paul Powell.

Many other deals would undoubtedly have come to the surface if some 37 cartons of files and other material hadn’t been secretly removed from his home shortly after his death. If there is still some question of exactly where he got his money, there is no question of how he earned his fortune. (Michael J. Howlett, state auditor and fellow Democrat: “He must have saved his money when he was young.”)

Yes, this was a real American. But now he’s gone. However, his legend will live on. In a supreme act of philanthropy, Paul Powell left most of his fortune to the Johnson County Historical Society in his home town of Vienna, Illinois — to preserve his home as a museum and shrine.

The will also stipulated that poinsettas be bought every Christmas for the shut-ins in the country, but “are not to be purchased” from the floral shop of Guy Bellamy — a lifelong jRepublican.

This last sentiment is best expressed, however, in another portion of Paul Powell’s will, in which he described what he wanted chiseled into his gravestone. As he intended, the message cogently sums up his life — and perhaps politics and America in general.

The words: “Here lies a life-long Democrat.”

The New Comics: Great Caesar’s Ghost!

NEW YORK — Lois Lane standing up for women’s Lib? Jimmy Olsen exposing slumlords in the pages of the Daily Planet? Firebrand announcing that “Anything the Man puts up, I’m ready to tear down!”? Green Arrow developing into a flaming radical? What is this?

This is the new relevancy of the 15c comic book; tame, still, in comparison to Zap and other underground “comix”, yet radically different from anything presented before in the straight pulps. If the last comic book you read was Archie, circa 1962, you’ve missed quite a lot. For instance:

*Lois Lane bitching at Perry White after he declares she can’t cover a dangerous story. “That’s not fair, Perry. You’re discriminating against me because I’m a woman! I protest!”

* Jimmy Olsen and a group of angry blacks dumping a bunch of rats and roaches mak slumlord’s front lawn.

A&LONOe is FITTEO ov&z HSRBUAOC HAIR AND NOW SHE is READY TO FACE THE WORLD AS THE CRIME - BUSTING BLACK CANARY

*Gre8SP*Arrow and Green Lantern getting mixed up with a Manson-like family in California and going on trial for “conspiracy” before a mad judge, who certainly resembles Julius Hoffman.

*Batman and Superman helping to clean up the cities, and Robin becoming a campus activist.

*Submariner leading the fight against pollution.

*And Spiderman, that most popular of Marvel Comics’ superheroes, finally casting aside his worries about acne and getting involved in campus demonstrations.

What caused this great transformation of the comic book psyche? “I was bored sick with what we were doing,” Marvel’s editor Stan Lee says now. Several years ago he started making the Marvel stories more topical, but the real radicalization of the funnies didn’t occur until last year. The innovators have been Marvel and DC Comics, the leaders in an industry that sells more than 300 million comic books a year under approximately 200 titles.

Marvel’s superheroes (the Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk, Captain America, Spider-Man, dozens of others) had been underground favorites (long before R. Crumb) at many colleges for years, not because of their politics but rather because of their vulnerabilities and very “un-super” qualities; many could identify with Hulk’s loneliness and Spider-Man’s troubles with acne and grades and girls.

DC’s characters (Superman, Batman, Aquaman, Green Arrow, etc.) always were more distant, less human, really super superheroes, not bothered with personal or political problems. That has changed now. Even Superman’s getting turned on (to topical issues, not dope^ of course). In a recent issue, Superman naively asked the operator of a ghetto storefront: “You mean you left college to bury yourself in this slum just to educate these hoodlums?” If the Man of. Steel hadn’t been so indestructable his ears would have literally burned with the reply:

“These slum kids have auto dumps instead of playgrounds, fire hydrants instead of swimming pools. People here have to scrounge around for a bare existence! While you’re off preventing disasters on remote .worlds, who prevents disasters in your own backyard? It’s time you did something for these people!” Filled with remorse, Superman promptly demolishes a block of abandoned tenements and initiates a little super urban renewal.

Green Arrow and his buddy, Green Lantern, were transformed in a likefashion last spring. While arguing the merits of rescuing a white slumlord from some angry kids (one of the “new comics” favorite topics) they were confronted by a black man who told them: “I been readin’ about you. How you worked for the Blue Skins. And how on a planet someplace you helped out the Orange skins! Only there’s skins you never bothered with — the Black skins! How come?” Green Lantern, who previously had dubbed the kids “anarchists” managed only a weak: “I . . . can’t!”

I n another issue Green Arrow instructs his colleague: “Listen, forget about chasing around the galaxy, and remember America! It’s a good country . . . but terribly sick!” Eventually they end up in a Chicago Conspiracy trial of their own before “the presiding judge of Intergalactic Court, Genocide Division,” who sentences them to die after a circus of a trial during which they are bound and gagged, (as a sign of their times, DC now labels the duo’s comics: “All-New! All-NOW!”)

Over at Marvel, the cover of last December’s issue of The Avengers featured Black Widow and Medusa standing astride some fallen men, with one of the ladies saying: “All right girls — that finishes off these Male Chauvinist Pigs! From now on, it’s the Valkyrie and her lady liberators!” Firebrand is just that, the modern comics’ most eloquent black militant. “I sat in for civil rights, marched for peace and demonstrated on campus,” he relates, “and got chased by vicious police dogs, spat on by bigots, beat on by ‘patriots’, choked by tear gas and blinded by Mace, until I finally caught on . . . This country doesn’t WANT to be changed! The only way to build anything decent is to tear down what’s here and start over!” Later Firebrand shouts: “The people won’t wait any more! We’re not waiting to have the world handed to us! It’s, ours for the taking!” I

There are several other Marvelous blacks —-T’Challa, the Falcon — and even an American Indian, Red Wolf. Marvel’s resident “capitalist pig” is Iron Man, who travels the world (and the U.S.A.) fighting Commies. (“Lucky for you, I’m not a Red — I can’t '^continue to attack a helpless enemy.”) Another very un-super hero — Spiro Agnew, who makes frequent appearances in several of the comics, and usually comes off the object of ridicule. 1

This is not to say that all of comicland has become infested with topicality. There’s still Jughead, and Disney comics, and the war stories, not to mention the dozens of “True Romance” comics and even several in the DC and Marvel lines. But something is happening here, something almost revolutionary. What is more American than the comic book?

Marvel’s Stan Lee calls the new comics “fairy tales for grownups.” It’s possible that the advent of Zap and othqr alternate “comix” helped push the establishment pulps to the left, but Lee, a tall, bearded veteran of 30 years in the industry, points out that his work started becoming more political many years before Zap’s creation. (“The world is a little more liberal now.”) Also, Spider-Man and Firebrand have a different audience than the Furry Freak Brothers, though the gap is closing now, fast.

Both Lee and DC Director Carmen Infantino hope to go further in the future, dealing more candidly with sex and drugs. “I feel very strongly about this,” Infantino says. “I don’t believe in hiding your head in the sand.” It was thought for a time that they had, perhaps, gone as far as they could — the Code of Comic Magazine Association of America sets strict standards for the little magazines, restricting obscenity,, nudity, sex, mention of dope and many other things. (Its “seal of approval” was that jagged little thing you always saw on the comic book’s cover.)

Then, dramatically, early in February, Stan Lee decided to violate the hitherto unchallenged Code. Naturally, it was the beloved Spider-Man comic that did it. Marvel’s May issue of Spider-Man carries references to hard drugs, until now a no-no in the comic world. “Why did I do it? It was precipitated by a letter from the Department of Health Education and Welfare,” Stan Lee explains. “They said, ‘Being aware of the influence of Marvel Comics, we hoped you would include some mention on th£ dangers of drug addiction I agreed, and decided

to do the story.

“I thought the Code made no mention of drugs. Turns out they stuck to the letter of their law. So we decided to publish the May issue without the seal (of approval) — and also the next two issues. It’s a three-part series.”

No one seems to know what penalties may be in store for Marvel because of this, and few feel that the Code will be liberalized to any significant degree in the near future. Although a great number of the “new-now” comics’ audience is college age, apparently the industry is still to be regulated by standards protecting only sub-teens.

Still, the straight comics have come a long way, finding an audiefice open to “fairy tales” relevant to their livesj an audience far larger than the underground cartoonists could ever dream of. And imagine the possibilities in the future: Lois Lane pondering the pros and cons of an abortion (for herself!) . . . Batman as an urban guerilla .,. . Jimmy Olsen as the editor of an underground magazine . ...

And maybe even eventually: Uncle Scrooge as a philanthropist for liberal causes . . . Archie as a high „ school revolutionary ....