Looney Toons

As David ventures forth into the western world of California he graciously leaves me the task of filling the void created by his absence. I’m not replacing him or his unique spirit (I won’t pretentiously pose as his ghost writer) — that is obviously impossible since his brilliant inestimable talents are irreplacable, but we decided the article must go on — “There’s no business like ...” And I’m as likely a dupe as any (if not more so). However, that topic will not be dealt with. I definitely decided this would not be the first installment of my review of The Female take up the typewriter.

This decision came about in a box office while finding refuge from the mobs of undulating Alice Cooper fans ecstatically listening to the first group POW (while sitting on their asses). The conversation began with the carelessness of current revolutionary politics and drifted to the lead, singer who was either a reincarnation of early Jim Morrison or the dying process of Iggy Stooge. Anyway, her style was becoming more subtle and the influence of a subdued Rob Tyner was evident. It isn’t odd that David should compare her to these male vocalists: of course, there are no female rock and roll singers since The Shangri-la’s.

From that interruption we naturally continued discussing rock and roll. A thought that struck me either in its mere mention or its ramblings was the producer of Sky, nbt as in Saxon, The Seeds and “Pusliin’ Too Hard”, but as in Sky Day, American British accents and . . . was it Mick Richards and Keith Jagger or Epstein Jones and Brian Brian, I mean Jones Jones . . . On that sombre note this thought comes to an end (none too soon) and creates another vicious cycle, or is it a symptom — I know it’s definitely not a virus ’cause their catchy and Sky may be infectious but hopefully not contagious.

I remember hearing them last year doing Shirelles hits and old Beatle tunes {that’s the same thing) and then they went Crosby Stills and Nash and finally Badfinger (“If you want it . %. ”). But enough’s been said about the fall of the Fillmore empire. In fact, enough has been said about the death syndrome which is permeating this article for some strange subconscibus’reason. Life to the life culture! as they say.!

Upon suggestion and I’m sure on popular demand, a word should be said about Dave Marsh. Although that is a continuing saga as with everyone in the Creem complex, this is the space for his utterings every month so it’s only fitting to fill you in on some details about the maniacal Marsh — a few clues you might not have gleened from between the legendary lines of his inimitable prose. For instance, who else would name his dog after the Shadow of Knight’s hit or more likely, Them’s recording — “Gloria” (almost as exciting as “Fi-Fi”). For those of you who have noticed the mellowing of David’s ravings, this may be due to in part to the organic influences of watching the sun set and rise on Walled Lake, in the loving company of Gloria, his d a 1 m a t ion-beagle. This recent move from the soot-screened Motor-City to this bucolic beyond-suburbia has effected all those of the staff who now live on the farm.

That’s Rock and Roll culture. As much as Howdy Doody, brown rice, (or is it “Brown Sugar”?) and being exiled are R&R, so are the writers fundamental in the musical/political aspect of the culture. Barry in Morocco, Lester in Detroit, and David in L.A. — they’re earning their reputation as Traveling Cultural Heroes too.

Dave will tell you all about the nuts and fruits next month if the tremors don’t scramble his mind or the sun doesn’t bake his brain on the trip. I wonder who’ll feed Gloria?