You gotta hand it to Terry Knight. He never lost his touch Two weeks before the event, full page ads ran in most of the New York entertainment sections, announcements of the impending occasion with big Sold Out's plastered gleefully on top. Within five minutes of each new development, everybody knew that the tickets had gone within seventy two hours; that kids had camped before the boxoffice days before their scheduled openings; that extra lines had to be added all during the first morning; that the ticket sellars had “never seen anything like it in all their years” o,f working at Shea.

And, lest it might have been missed in the wake of the usual round of strikes, murders, Paris negotiations, and controversy about the DeMartino family’s epic battle to keep baby Lenore, that a press conference called by Terry in late May to announce Grand Funk’s big date had a grand total of six attendees, with one leaving in the middle as if to prove an obvious point. “It’s the grossest case of nonrecognition in the history of the business,” he wailed to (among others) W. Stewart Pinkerton Jr. of the Wall Street Journal. “How do we get press on a group that doesn’t drop their pants or get busted?”

Terry should only worry. After all the gold that’s rolled through his fingers, after all the sold-out engagements and top twenty albums, after not quite two years of watching Grand Funk scream inexorably to the top of American pop, he still paradoxically seems to be concerned with justification. Why else would so much emphasis have been placed on July 9th being a historic occasion? Why else would he have exuded so much concern over a negative and surly press, when the greater portion of it obviously backlashed in favor of himself and the group? Why else would he have set up a press conference where — if all

one hundred fifty invitees had really shown — he would have been proven golden, and if — as was the case — nobody came, he still would have to come out on top?

Why? ’Cause aside from any of the other diverse factors, Terry Knight knows what he’s doing, each sly-as-shit step of the way; and if you want to give credit where credit is due,, you have to say that he’s the only one yet who’s had the skill and foresight and insight to pull it off.

By the end of June, they were selling Grand Funk T-shirts in the hip clothing stores up around Lexington Avenue. BlUe colors on white fabric. So you could go to Shea Stadium in style of course.

The phone woke me somewhere in the nines. It wanted to speak to Jeff.

“No, Jeff doesn’t live here anymore. I took over his place, he’s up in Vermont now. Can I help you or something?”

“Uh, my name is Albert Maysles and we wanted to get in contact with him ...”

“Well, I have his phone number up there . . . hold on a sec, I’ll get it for you.”

“Thanks a lot, I really appreciate it.”

Shuffle around a bit, looking for the scrap of paper that might’ve been any number of places but probably wasn’t. Jeff’s a filmmaker who does some work for the Brothers at times, and I figured this was one of them.

‘‘‘Here it is, blah blah blah, and take it easy, okay?”

“Right, thanks again.”

That was it. I had wanted to casually ask him where he’d be that night, whether Grand Funk was going to do for “Mean Mistreater” what the Rolling Stones did for “Gimme Shelter”, but I

never did. To be up in the bleachers is one thing, to get just a minor glimpse of Mark astride his organ wringing every possible combination of sound out of his well-worn ax while Don and Mel create avalanches of mayhem under him. But to be actually three feet from the stage, filming every fast rivulet of sweat as it drips off his arm bracelet, down his elbow, slithering around each hair on his forearm to silently rest between the third and fourth finger before being callously brushed to the floor . . .

It wasn’t much more than a typical day, at that. I stayed home most of the time, listening to the .radio, flipping a station on and letting it lie there for a while, rummaging the dial from AM to FM and back again. True to form, you couldn’t hear Grand Funk played once in air those hours. In fact, if you hadn’t been particularly looking for it, you might never have caught the brief announcement along about six when some lesser official from the great Queens Po-lice department came on WABC to say that they’d have about two hundred men at the “festival” (yep, that’s what he called it), and that no infractions of the law would be tolerated. I divided two hundred into fifty five thousand and decided that maybe a lot of infractions of the law would be tolerated.

And in that light, the ride out on the subway was extremely promising. Whatever you do or don’t do in New York,, one of the more sacred taboos of the city is that you never smoke in the subway. You can jaywalk, amass any amount of parking tickets you like, even commit armed robbery now and again with little fear of reprisal. If, however, you want to get busted in a quick and efficient fashion, you have merely to light up anytime after you put your token in the turnstile, and from there, it can be guaranteed that the^long arm of the law will wind you in within a mere thirty seconds or so. )

But all the way out to Shea, through the factory wastelands that border the East River, up the elevated and into the residential repetitions that cover most of this great borough as it paves the way toward the splendor of Long Island, the passengers on the Flushing Special sat in little clusters, scarfing smokes like they’ve done in school bathrooms from time immemorial, cigarettes cuffed in their hands and smoke exhaled proudly into the air. A lot of the guys wore headbands, hair pulled down to cover as much of their ears and necks as possible; the girls eschewed high-fashion hot pants for the more practical garb of simple jeans and prominent belly buttons. There were a lot of peace symbols in the air: sewn on jackets, hung around necks, carved into watchbands. The vanguard, you might say, of the American revolution.

The car emptied itself out at the Stadium, and everybody followed everybody else for a while. It wasn’t hard to figure where you were going. Shea stands alone in the midst of what legend tells us was once a huge meadow in the heart of Flushing, surrounded by miles of superhighway and the ominous remains of the ’64 World’s Fair, and as you come up on it, it has that capacity to look mighty impressive. Big, Monumental, if you like, since that is exactly what it was designed to be. And there haven’t been many groups in the history of rock ’n roll who have been able to fill it.

The Beatles once did, on a night in the summer of ’65 (and again in ’66) that I still hear in my mind as a hi^hpitched keening of hysteria, impossible to understand except for the moment and even then worth a second look. You couldn’t hear them (at all: speaker technology was still in the primitive stages), you could barely see them, the few girls that broke through police lines to get at them seldom made it to much more than center field. But it was a strange and somehow indisputable spectacle, curiously cleansing and awe-inspiring, and I don’t think anyone else in the world could have done it in quite the same way.

Surely not the Stones: even then, their darkness meant that the type of fans they would attract would be hysterical in a different sense: a touch of the sexual, perhaps, with deeper and blacker passions. More loyal, as might be expected, but definitely smaller in number. Nor could have a string of the British second-level, such as Herman’s Hermits and/or the Hollies. Too young, all too studiedly pop-star pretty and faceless. And, though there were great bands running around America during this time — topped by the Beach Boys in the west, and the Four Seasons in the east — most of them would have had trouble filling up a medium-sized theatre, not to mention a collossus like Shea.

The Beatles made their move at a perfect time, however, as their initial primary appeal not only cut across more lines of popularity than any of the other above groups, but they signed up at Shea when they had literally touched the peak of that popularity. The Moment was impeccably chosen. After more than two years at the top — and they’d never yet fumbled it, never yet made a wrong move which would have held them down for even the littlest of whiles — they’d begun to move toward a

new audience, a more sophisticated one, a step which would one day signal the start of a thing called pro-gress-ive rock. On the other hand, it was before this growth descended from true eclecticism into sort of stereotypical try-ons of musical style, with a similar lack of success. In short, then, they were right in the middle of their most creative period, and they couldn’t have maneuvered it any better if they’d tried. Shea filled slowly (a little over seven weeks, and that should tell you a bit about how far we’ve come), but it was packed to the gills by the time John, Paul, George and Ringo made their dash from the left field dugout.

Who would, or could, fill it today? Count ’em on the fingers of one hand. There are the Rolling Stones (almost the very same), for sure, since three Madison Square Garden concerts equal one Shea Stadium show anytime. Maybe a double bill of Black Sabbath — James Taylor (the “Black/Jack Show” run by Warners-Reprise?) Maybe Led Zep. Maybe the George Harrison Bengladesh Show. Maybe a full-scale presentation of Jesus Christ, Superstar with the original cast. Maybe. But so far, and Terry Knight will be more than happy to tell you this in triplicate, the only American group to sell out Shea Stadium has been/is Grand Funk Railroad. In seventy two hours. No more, no less.

The crowd moved peacably and even a mite happily toward the gates, and far from what anyone might have expected, there was little confusion. Hawkers were down to a minimum, the police — many of whom had their hair discreetly on the long side — were mostly young and friendly, and ticket scalpers were nonexistent. Somebody was selling glossies of Mark, Don and Mel, but he didn’t exactly seem to be doing a land-office business. There were no programs; not even a souvenir booklet. Maybe Terry figured these people knew who they had come to see.

There was some inkling of trouble at the gates, where the police were confiscating contraband wine bottles and telling kids to put on their shirts, but it all seemed to be taken in good humor and nobody appeared to mind much. Up a couple of endless escalators, where a good system of hand-me-down ushers took everybody to their seats with a minimum of fuss and bother, and then you could first relax and look out over the field, with that sense of seeing it for the first time, brighter and shinier than the tv image, in real full color life with a platform set squarely over second base like a squat frog, flanked by a truly crushing set of speakers. Enough to tell anybody that they’d gone just about as far as they’d ever have to go. The sign on the scoreboard said “Welcome from Mark, Don, and Mel”, and to echo those sentiments, out bounded WNEW-FM (local Metromedia) disc jockey Scott Muni. “Brothers and Sisters,” he said, a long way from the days when he used to ride the Electric Pogo Stick at 570 on the dial, and then proceeded to introduce his radio team. Happily, none of them talked or played records, and they got a pretty nice response from an enthusiastic crowd. WNEW, it might be noted, has been the only New York station to consistently program Grand Funk, and it was clear they were reaping the benefits of this here tonight. Muni then gave a little razzamatazz and waved his hand for Humble Pie, who took the applause up one better when they broke from the dugout.

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With it all, though, it was not a particularly momentous opening. For one, the concert had started on time. It had been scheduled for eight, and that’s precisely when it began, which meant that it was still fairly light and unmysterious out. In addition, the stadium was as yet only half-filled, and the large amount of empty seats gave one a little more pause to wonder whether there actually would be enough bodies to fill them. Action outside the gates had slowed to a minimum.

Humble Pie are from the anguished school of British rock, a lot of striding about and wrenching at the microphones, an intense hang on every single note and mannerism. Maybe they felt that because of the large playing field, they had to exaggerate even their exaggerations; maybe they really knew that if they made a hit here, all those second and third billings would miraculously turn into firsts. Whatever, despite a good amount of effort, they never really "'put it over. Steve Marriot’s claim that “It’s our job to get this intimate little gatherin’ rockin’ ” seemed to vanish in the midst of an endless variety of dragged-out blues, and the group just managed to dissipate an already-low energy level due to the sweltering heat and humidity. For a time, a short-lived rain shower added a touch of urgency to their set, and they used it to move into a version of Dr. John’s “Walk Oh Gilded Splinters” which got the crowd clapping along; but in the end, nobody cared much if they took off their shirts or not (which they did). The cries for “More” which followed them off sounded less for pleasure than ritual, a sad note when

you think that Humble Pie has all the makings of being a mighty superior twofisted band. For any number of reasons, though, they’ve just never been able to put all the pieces together in the right place, and at Shea, it appeared that it just wasn’t their time at all. As a grand finale, drummer Jerry Shirley flung his sticks out to the crowd. Too bad: with the nearest fan a whole baseball diamond away, there was no one around who had even a remote chance of catching them.

Intermission rock revolved around Alice Cooper, Johnny Winter, and a

heavy dose of Sly. The scoreboard flashed “Goodbye, Jim, We’ll Miss You” to sustained applause, then turned to “Give Peace A Chance, Love Conquers All, Get Funked”. No foolin’. An announcement from the stage advised those who were -throwing firecrackers to please stop: “It may not affect you in the same way it does me, but one of those might go off and end up near somebody’s ears ... I couldn’t work if I lost mine.” It was greeted by a succession of loud explosions and cheers.

Meanwhile, people had begun noticing the flashing lights of a police car surrounding a black limousine behind a gate over in left field. A line of ushers (kids, mostly) moved up in double file toward the stage, forming a long pathway. The gate swung open and the limousine moved through, stately in its elegance, heads swiveling along its route, toward the stage, finally disappearing behind it. The stadium, suddenly filled to capacity, went politely off the wall.

You gotta hand it to Terry Knight. No way to avoid it. He takes something that would seem incredibly shlocky in | the hands of just about anyone else, something so corny and melodramatic and obvious that you would never imagine someone would have the actual balls to do it, and then he simply does it. Just like that. And probably chuckles his ass off in the process too.

Here’s the set up. They’ve turned out the lights, giving Sly room to sing his simple song to the fade, and after, letting the air hang silent and heavy for a while. The stage is sculptured beautifully, white lights on the side framing a hulk of amplifiers, each graced by a series of unblinking red glows. A long pause, the kind that is best referred to as “pregnant”. Then, at top-volume, splitting the air and gathering force like a thunderclap, comes the opening majesty of “Thus Spake Zarathustra”, the well-worn theme from Space Odyssey: 2001. As it crescendoes, the lights of Queens rising eternally over the moon that is the outfield fence of Shea Stadium, three figures break into the gloom of the stage, hands up in peace signs, getting met with a giant roar of approval from the assembled pack.

“Back From Europe and the Whole World! Grand Funk Railroad!” (Cup your hands over your mouth, open wide, and exhale hotly and noisily from the back of your throat: get the picture?)

There they are. God damn: They lose a bit of momentum tuning up, but with 8,000 watts of amplifiers kicking behind them, quickly regain it with the opening slash of “Are You Ready?” They’re loud, much louder than the other times I’ve seen, them, but also richer, not as ear-splitting and trebly. A volume you can live with, can thrive on, just over the threshold of distortion, and Terry Knight, up on a stand not far from the stage, playing with a set of mixed Controls, is seeing that it stays that way. The first lead of the night is greeted by a major cheer, like a pledge of allegiance to a band that has proved themselves more a part of the people than the people themselves ever thought they

had a right to expect.

They don’t stop for a second. “Are You Ready?” slams to a close, and Farner sheds his guitar. Grand Funk are a show band, first and foremost, and one of the finest parts of their on-stage ritual is the moment when Mark takes off his shirt, lightly chucking it behind an amplifier. The crowd’s been waiting for it, primed by countless publicity stills and fond memories (some real, some imagined), and when he slips it from his shoulders, it’s like a signal that the real gettin’ down is about to begin. Covered by the uproar, he moves to the organ and the next song is launched into the air. “Hello everybody,” he adds as introduction. “We’re going to have a goooood time.” Obviously, to judge by the answering clamor, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The thing which is surprising me through all of this, however, is not the flood tide of response the group is receiving. I’d expected that, having seen it happen more than a couple of times since the first, when I caught them in a suburban shopping center cinema in Teaneck, New Jersey, casually blowing the boogie of Canned Heat off the stage and into the parking lot. No, and it seems almost strange to be talking of Grand Funk in this light, what’s setting me back now is how far the group has come musically, how much broader the shape of their instrumental powers has become. They could still use some good material, since most of what they do is so supremely ordinary as to be instantly forgettable, and they do manage to touch "on every cliche in the book at least once during a given night. But Don Brewer’s drumming, far from the helpless flailing that might’ve been his lot at one time, is hard-nosed and rhythmic, and Mel Schacher’s bass, gruff and simple and to the point, is near-perfect. Together, they lay a solid foundation for Farner to work from: his guitar work avoids most lead exhibitionism in order to simply play strong back-up chords. It makes for a peculiarly powerful mixture, a totality of drive, and as they move from song to song, you can feel them easing into the experience of playing at Shea, warming to it, building from it in a natural rise that never loses their rapt command over the audience.

Like clockwork, they can do no wrong. The opening chords of “I’m Your Captain” are greeted with a loud ovation, as well they might be. It’s possibly their most pop-oriented song to date, with good, non-bullshit lyrics, and a well-defined, simple melody: a side to the group which has been kept hidden to an extent, perhaps more by design than chance. They move through , the

final choruses, sliding the whole construct neatly into the next track, sharp and precise, a little philosophy for the masses:

I don’t care who you are

I love the human race . . .

In the stands, the crowd is following their every move. A dozen or so kids have jumped up to the top of the visitor’s dugout and are dancing there, waiting for the inevitable moment when the police come to throw them off. Most everyone is on their feet, heads bobbing rhythmically, hands held in readiness for the moment when Farner asks them to clap ’em together. No doubt; there’s a lot of enjoyment going down at this show.

But if they’re enjoying it, poking each other and nodding whenever one of the Big Three makes a particularly fine move, it still has to be admitted that there’s a definite lack of hysteria in the air, a feeling that the whole night has still not passed beyond the bounds of control. Despite the rumor that a black belt karate guard stands ready to fortress the stage should any major rush develop, there seems to be little danger of such a prospect. Grand Funk’s fans are Still at a concert, are still watching a show, and though they’re rapturously in love with every out-a-site minute, catching the fragments in each new song and using them to build a new high fulfillment, they haven’t once stepped over the edge. Here, as everywhere, almost doesn’t count.

The drum solo begins like a sudden cut in the instrumental texture, and Brewer is off and charging. They love him, this heir-apparent to Ginger Baker, and he keeps it going for a long time, working the rhythm different ways so that it breaks nicely into the next set of waves. He’s got a good start, and he doesn’t lose the chain for a second, stopping for some towering applause, then blazing back where he left out. There’s only one brief moment when he falters, dropping off for a little flash, and then he’s returned to the beam, steady; waiting for Schacher to join him on the bass. The latter does, and they whiz through some nifty bits of simultaneous playing, following a complex progression that jerks to a halt after every series of phrases. It’s so calculated that it’s perfect, and suddenly the bleachers start shaking with the sound of stomping cadenced feet.

Farner holds it back, though. “Can we have it quiet for a second?” The clamor cools down a bit. “We’d like to play this next tune for one of our brothers, Jimmy Morrison!” There is a sustained, respectful applause, almost reverent in its warmth and honesty. Most everybody there, wherever they had gone after that unique time, owed a large debt to Morrison; he was one . of the first, and one of the biggest, and in his own way* one of the best. It was nice to. get a chance to say some of those kind of things to him.

“The next tune” is Grand Funk’s reworking of “Inside Looking Out”, and its reception as the universally acclaimed all-time fav-o-rite of Grand Funk live performances, wires everything into the socket. The crowd knows all the words, and sings them along without urging as Farner aims each one through the sound system. He moves from the microphone up to the organ, steps to the bench, steps to the top, and stands there, scraping away at his guitar. A picture worth several thousands of Words.

Back down to the stage, Schacher riding a runaway bass line, not letting if stumble for a moment. “You know something?” (roar. .) “You people make lis feel daaamn good!” (louder roar). '

“Now I wanna know . . . Do you feel Alright?” The answer rebounds back in a flash.

“Then Clap Your Hands!” _

There’s no stopping ’em now. The kids are in their glory, up on the chairs, leaning over the fences, joining in for all they’re'worth.

And then the lights go on. Not little spots, as had been running over the audience all night, or lights in the aisle, so you Wouldn’t trip over any loose bodies there. No, this is all the lights, the big stadium blinkers, a million little suns erupting into glory, all focused on fifty five thousand who are rippling along like so many seas, a huge mirror reflecting the suddenly-small three people on stage, a true notion of where the party has been all along. An old trick, but it’ll do it every time.

The song builds to . a climax, turned up on full, pulling everything out as far as it will possibly , go, then brought up close at the end. They make moves! to leave the stage, but nobody’s about to let that happen.

Farner comes back to the microphone. They’ve been on a good hour and he seems a little dazed and out-ofbreath. “Y’know,” he starts out saying. “We’re going to Tokyo, Japan, to play the Olympic Stadium there ...” The crowd thinks this is just fine. “I know I said this at Madison Square Garden . . I’ve said this before, but when it?s the truth you can’t help but say it again.”

He stops for a secondhand then: “You’re The Best Fuckin’ Audience In

The World!”

This is a truly great band. After that kind of encore, even “Gimme Shelter” and the Space Odyssey reprise that follow have to be somewhat beside the point.

The ramps are packed on the way down, dozens of little conversations all centered about the same thing. Weren’t they fuckin’ great? Did you see when Mark/Don/Mel. . . ?, A couple of firecrackers resound in the distance, but nobody seems to pay them any mind. The crowd is relaxed, energetic, and playful. Not drained, not even noticeably tired; rather, they seem pleased with themselves, bubbling over, noticeably quite happy. It’s as if they’ve gone through an experience which allowed them to prove themselves to themselves, gave them a bit of reassurance that maybe what they were doing is right, is not as depressing and sick and tiresome as it so often turns out to be. Maybe their lives hadn’t been changed, and maybe they hadn’t been taken beyond the boundaries of time and space out to some other o-zone; but for once, they had been solidly treated to a good time, a time when no one was out to get them, to take advantage of them* to treat them like shit. It was their night, and no others. Something to savor, to* take home and press into the Survival album cover for future use.

•It’s easy to extract a moral out of Grand Funk Railroad, simply because they’ve set themselves up as an extremely moralistic band. They give the people what they want, surely, and they’re wise in this because (I think), they feel it’s the only way to teach people what they need. Which is, among'other things, that you should do anything you want, as long as you don’t do anyone else harm in the process, including yourself. Stay off hard drugs, “We love ya just the way you are!” Dig yourself, without fail, any and every time. The solutions they offer are clear-cut. They don’t deal in abstracts; whenever a situation comes up, they always plant themselves on the side of Right, each set of circumstances judged oh its own. And they put it over, no hints of hypocrisy, mainly because they believe in what they’re saying themselves; not because Terry Knight told them to, but because they’re the living embodiment, the proof which seals the promise.

Rock ’n roll is built on a myth. That being a guitar flash or a wizard drummer or a laid-back bass player is better than being anything on this earth. That the American Dream didn’t fade away when

we ran Out of West to conquer. That it doesn’t take brains, or money, or position, or anything, really, to have that golden chance to go all the Way. A realization that Elvis, or Buddy Holly, or Frankie Avalon, or anyone else you could care to name (John Fred and his Playboy Band?) started out just like you or me, and maybe, one of these days, just about as soon as the gettin’ gets good, it’s our number in the sweepstakes that’s gonna come Up next.

Grand Funk are from the midwest, the pit-bottom home of all this, from the urban clump up north that sits as one of its most prominent features. If you were a kid living there during its grey years, you weren’t given much to believe in except for the everpresent fads. and fancies of teenage America. Check out a particularly nice job of rolling and pleating in any fifties car magazine, and the address would be located somewhere outside of Gary, Indiana. Hear an especially trashy song on the radio, one just made for not more than eight transistors, and it’s likely the group and its label would hail from the western edge of Ohio. If you cared at all about anything, and in those years, there were a lot who couldn’t even get it up for that, this was where your hopes would lie. More often than not, that’s where they’d stay: the big money was in the east, especially New York, the action out in California was equally distant. You could be lucky, but that’s about all.

So Question Mark was lucky. Mitch Ryder was lucky. The Castaways were close but not real lucky. And Terry Knight, who had the best chance of any of ’em, who led his own group and made some fine music and was once rumored to be joining the Rolling Stones, he wasn’t much lucky at all. His records would look strong, become regional hits, and then never move that extra inch which would have spelled the difference between failure and success. Left him with not much more than a lot of nice plastic and an album cover from which you can pick out a babyfaced Don Brewer. Taught him, in no uncertain terms, the rules of the game. How to move and when to jump. Made him a bit crazy, wary and driven, but I guess that’s the price you pay as you pick up the necessary tools of trade.

Grand Funk knows all this, and if they’re not totally aware of their position in the myth, they certainly sense it subconsciously. Their strength doesn’t lie on the stage, in their instruments, in their 8,000 watts of power. Their strength lies with their audience, who’ll stay with them as long as the group remains true, as long as the group refleets a part of where they want to be, and then will split at the first sign of betrayal. It’s a chancy proposition, to live totally within the expectations of your fans, letting them call your shots, trying to keep ahead and make your own directions while still keeping them in sight. But Grand Funk have chosen to live this, way, to be one step ahead of the law at all times. Now that they’ve built it on a towering scale, have played the first of what obviously is destined to be a series of historic concerts, the question becomes where do they go from here?

For they have to go somewhere. When you reach that level and stop growing you become an institution, and institutions are meant to be thought of kindly ajid then put aside. Grand Funk isn’t ready for that. Terry Knight isn’t ready for that. So what they do is maybe write better songs, or plan a movie, or put together a concept album. Or, and here’s a choice from the other side, maybe they don’t do anything. Maybe they stay in the same spot and keep on repeating where they’ve been, falling backwards as the stream of time moves on. That’s a flow of sorts, no? Shea Stadium was as far as the Beatles went, and that ain’t a bad average.

Well, no, that’s not really it, either. For Mark Farner has been giving red, white and blue garbage cans to his home city of Flint (not to mention a pair of polar bears donated by the group to the Central Park Zoo). Pretty soon, accord-

ing to an interview with Terry Knight in Crawdaddy, Mark will begin publishing his own newspaper called Freedom Reader. There are Grand Funk buttons and T-shirts already, and who hasn’t got a Madison Square Garden poster of the group’s last show secreted somewhere in his room? Will kids soon be able to buy a Mel Schachner model Fender guitar? Don Brewer drums (for those who like more than a little . . . )? Mark Farner autographed armbands?

Grand Funk isn’t a rock ’n roll band:

They’re a big fan club. The best fuckin’ fan club in the world.

And why not? Grand Funk never disappoints, unless you happen to be looking for things that just aren’t there. They’re always square-shooters, on the level, up front and together. They believe wholeheartedly in their “brothers and sisters”, instinctively think of their audience in that light, and this in turn means that they will never treat their fans badly: never step on them or scorn them or take them by the heels and shake them until the last little bit of change falls out of their pockets. They realize that given another time and place, they might’ve been down there rather than up here; a sobering thought — for any musician. And if, in the end,, it may come to mean that they’ll never be able to rise so far above themselves that they levitate a crowd beyond any of its other awarenesses . . . well, what the hell: rock ’n roll is only rock ’n roll, and it ain’t too many who get to find

God in a I-1V-V progression.

Even with all this, they haven’t hit their peak yet, and I’ll t^ll you why. They’ve saved the best for last, those sly li’l devils. You’ll see: one of these days, they’ll be finishing up a concert in some out of the way place; Nauvoo, Illinois, or something. The closing bars of “Inside Looking Out” will shudder to a stop, and they’ll leave amid cries for more. After only a matter of seconds, though, they’ll be back in their places, excited and energized, like kids who are about to receive an unexpected surprise.

“This is a very great moment for us,” Mark will say, his guitar slung down to one side. “We’d liketo introduce someone to you who’s been with us from the very beginning. . . Some people call him the fourth Funk, but we ... we call him our Brother.”

Realization strikes the crowd and they begin to cheer madly.

The band drops back, striking up the opening chords to “I (Who Have Nothing)”;

He moves from the shadows behind the wings of the stage, casual, unhurried, the air of a man who has never missed once over the past two and some years and who doesn’t expect to start now.

• As the first spotlight touches him, they begin to scream, a shrill pierce never to stop throughout the rest of the night.

Terry Knight, man. You just gotta hand it to him.