THE BEAT GOES ON

David Griffth

THE BEAT GOSE ON

Rock Stars Get Fizzed

Possibly the most disarming experience I’ve had in the past few months was the moment in which I accidentally peered into the bottom of my halfempty can of 7 Up, and discovered the bulbous face of Guess Who drummer Gary Peterson staring back at me through the bubbles. Needless to say, the resultant shock was enough to send the half-consumed can hurtling across the back seat of the car I was passenger in, wherein the sticky stain doubtless stands testament to this day.

That was my introduction to the latest in the business-meets-rock syndrome (the old greens/teens/jeans ploy) — the 7 Up Rock Star Caps contest. It’s one of those standard contest affairs in which the gullible consumer is asked to collect all the constituents of a certain sub-strata (usually Presidents, letters of the alphabet, or national flags etc.) in order to win exciting prizes. Only this time, of course, the valuable objects d’art are hideous ink-drawings of Canadian rock personalities. For collecting the mugs of the stars, ranging in success from the Guess Who right down to April Wine (a little known Montreal group), the lucky winner can receive anything from a trip to London to meet the former, or a super-fab-undoubtedly psychedelic poster of the latter for his or her own bedroom wall. And naturally, there’s a compendium of greater and lesser prizes sandwiched in between.

Lilce all other contests of this ilk, it’s nearly impossible to find certain stubborn missing pieces. Think of the poor sap who attempts to drink his way through all eleven members of-Lighthouse in order to win a Datsun. Chances of probability being what they are, the only prize the lucky winner would eventually want or need would be a stomach pump at worst, or a year’s supply of PhisoHex at best.

And then, of course, there’s the little fact that the members of .Crowbar seem to turn up under every other cap, and yet the band hasn’t been either seen or heard from in such a long time that they threaten to make that part of the Uncola’s escapade something of an Uncontest.

As for myself, I’ve given up after one Edward Bear, two Crowbars, and a Guess Who. I don’t need any of that stuff bad enough to be turned into .an Uncola junkie.

Alan Niester

Whatever Happened to the Transilvania Twist?

The president of The Count Dracula Society, Dr. Donald A. Reed,, was recently approached by an admirer dying to join the Society, exclaiming he ‘‘adored Dracula, witchcraft, black magic and the devil.”

“Well,” the horrified Doctor told him, “I’m Catholic! My interest in Dracula isn’t occult. Gothic movies and novels have deep spiritual significance and a philosophical basis. They are medieval morality plays in which good triumphs and evil is punished.”

“Don’t you even believe in vampires?” the heathen asked.

“No, I don’t believe in vampires, but they scare me.”

An extraordinary character, Dr. Reed’s number one love in life is movies and writing about them. Examples include his book, The Vampire on the Screen and two he’s currently working on, The Films of Robert Redford and The Films of Rouben Mamoulian (Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde). He presently makes a living as a librarian. But he also has a Law Degree to pay for an incredible book collection containing volumes on many subjects from Gilbert & Sullivan to Calvin Coolidge. On top of it all, Reed’s a History Prof. Walt Disney once demanded of him, and I quote, “Teach these kids to love this country.”

Several other diverse credits and obsessions occupy his free time. In Hollywood, Dr. Reed is regarded as the world’s leading authority on horror movies. He’s the founder/ leader of the 11 year old Count Dracula Society, whose 500 members (and growing) are devoted to the serious study of horror films and Gothic lit.

The group attends special premiers of horror movies impressively adorned in their capes and Batpins. The Batpin is a 14K gold skull and crossbones with a black bat whose red eyes first twinkled in Abbot and Costello meet Captain Kidd. The Doctor received 170 pins from Bud Abbot and immediately adopted them as the organization’s official emblem.

The $10 ($7 for students) yearly dues to The Count Dracula Society entitles the member to a subscription to The Quarterly, invitations to the organization’s various activities and a membership card.

The fun starts with intriguing meetings, movie screenings (old and new), and The Big Event L an annual Banquet presenting the Mrs. Ann Radcliffe Awards for the best in cinema, TV and literature with lots of celebrities present. Among honors given this year: William Marshall for his Blacula role, “The best since Bela Legosi.. . he lent such dignity to the roleRobert Wise won the Cinema Award and Fay Wray (remember King Kong’s captive?) was presented with the International Cinema Award.

When I spoke with Dr. Reed, he informed me that I had just missed a “joyous meeting in which Cave of the Vampire was shown.” He also told me about a fabulous dinner he hosted at The Castle Club in the Houdini Room for Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Lee, the first Honorary Chairman.

If you’re interested in joining The Count Dracula Society write to 334 W. 54 St., Los Angeles, CA 90037. I must warn you of the grave, oh excuse me, I mean earnest nature involved — the members truly study the art form. It’s not a frivolous terror trip with silly spooks, satanist fanatics, maniacs or monsters. This group’s namesake is the historical figure popularly known as Dracula. He was actually the 15th century Prince of Rumania who fought the Turks by impaling^, all their heads on spikes in his Banquet Room and through the countryside.

Robbie Cruger

The Legend of the Spanish Wolfman y

“Weel-son Peek-ett. ‘L^nd of 1000 Dances.’ Si, Weel-son.” Sweat is dripping down Constantino’s cheeks and around his moustache as fie introduces the record. His feet are pumping up and down, his hands are banging the table. He is carrying on like a Latin Wolfman Jack as he suddenly' thrusts a finger toward the ceiling and leans back into his mike to count it down with the Wicked Pickett: “One two three. One two three.”

Then, as the record plays on, he leans over to me and motions toward the control room. “We have big people here. . . the big bosses are here tonight to see how we do it. . . so you know we are a little up-tight.”

Sometimes it’s not easy to be a rock disc jockey in Spain, but Constantino Romero is not one to let that bother him. After all, he was the first one ever in that country — began his show eight years ago — and is still numero uno in anyone’s book, easily outdistancing the imitators who have come up since. The fact that the big bosses are here at Radio Barcelona tonight isn’t even a bad sign; they are trying to decide whether or not to syndicate the weekday show Constantino shares with another jock. If they do, it will be carried on 54 stations all over Spain, like Constantino’s weekend show already is.

Compared to the average Spaniard, Constantino has it made. He earns good money on hi$ radio show, and he also writes magazine articles, reads TV commercials, and dubs in Spanish the voices of American movie stars for Spanish TV. He has been Clint East-’ wood’s voice in every Eastwood flick except Paint Your Wagon, and when he got the chance to be Johnny Cash’s voice in Gunfight, he spent' a week practicing so he could do justice to the bassy growl of his idol. So it’s not a bad life, but then he’s been working for it since he was a child,

Constantino grew up around la Mancha (Don Quixote’s turf). Like most Spanish families of the timer, his had just enough money to purchase what they needed to get by plus a radio. What was on the radio was seldom spectacular, but Constantino kept his ear pressed to it anyhow. And even though he tried teaching for a year after he got out of university, he knew it was radio or bust. So he took a job with the blue network school, Spanish radio’s minor leagues, where he read commercials and announced the time for almost no pay.

The blue network is owned by the Falangists, Spain’s sole political party, fascists. Then there are the national stations, which are owned by the state; the difference between these first two classes is rather nebulous. Finally there are commercial stations, like Radio Barcelona, which was the first radio station in Spain and the third in Europe.

After six months with the blue network, Constantino was offered a job with Radio Barcelona, doing an FMtype show of classical and opera. Then he was given an hourly AM-type show. “But I didn’t have the nerve to play rock at first,” he says in the fluent English that he learned mostly from his California girlfriend. “You had to be pretty brave to do that, so I stuck to Spanish songs and stuff like Connie Francis.”

But when Revolver came out, Constantino felt that rock had to be heard in Spain. It was his own first love, and it was pointless to keep that a secret any longer. So he came out of the musical closet, and brought his Wolfman Jack style with him.

“They said I was crazy. The first week was a disaster,” he recalls with a grimace. “The other jocks condemned me, the bosses said nasty things. There were many complaints phoned in.” A New York deejay named Goldfinger came down to watch Constantino’s show one night, and he brought about 35 friends with him. They sat on the floor of the recording studio, spellbound, while Constantino went through his routine. Henceforth, the show became a tourist attraction for young American travellers. Positive telephone calls began to outnumber the negative ones. Constantino was given free reign... to the extent that that’s possible in Spain..

Generalissimo Franco, Spain’s crusty dictator, has never been known to harbor any fondness for rock and roll. There is a list of songs which can’t be played that is sometimes longer than the master list of 200 singles from which jocks are supposed to draw up their playlists. Spanish jocks are not allowed to mention Franco’s name; they Qan say nothing good or bad about him. For 23 hours of the day, he simply does not exist. For 30 minutes in the afternoon and 30 at night, all stations must link directly into the national network, which force-feeds news and propaganda. (But what would happen to you if you did mention his name? “I wouldn’t. I just (wouldn’t. I don’t talk about politics.”)

Young Spaniards do like rock and roll, and Constantino is a culture hero to them. But the record business itself ignores Spain, and Spaniards have left little imprint on the pop scene. Los Bravos, who had a big punkadelic hit with “Black Is Black” are about the only ones to make the breakthrough, and what a sad story that is. Though formed by Radio Barcelona, they were a bona fide group — played their own instruments and all that. But after “Black Is Black,” the organist died in a car wreck on the resort island of Majorca. The station replaced him with a mystery man who wore a mask on stage, and they ran imitation pop “Who is he?” contests around the country. (“Yeah, it was kinda creepy,” Constantino shrugs, suppressing a smile.) Despondent over the loss of his buddy and the subsequent tasteless charade, a second member of the group committed suicide. End of Los Bravos. But have faith —x lead singer-songwriter Mike Kennedy has just cut, you guessed it, a solo album which contains a remake of “Black Is Black.”

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In spite of the difficulties, Constantino perseveres. His own style has changed. “That AM-type screaming I’m doing tonight, that’s n-bt really me anymore. My weekend show is a more real' thing, and I like that better. I do this other thing because I have to. The bosses like it, and it’s a job,” he remarks. On his FM-type show, as he calls it, Constantino talks calmly. He translates into Spanish the lyrics he considers important. He plays tapes of interviews. He might do a whole afternoon show mixing blues with flamenco. It’s the kind of free form radio that FM was in America a few years back, and it’s good.

Tonight’s show is wrapping up now. Constantino plays “You’re So Vain,” wiping his brow as he sings along, and then segues into Dr. Hook’s “Carry Me.” As soon as the show is over, we are going to go grab a burger and beer and talk some more. But first the big bosses, overfed men in gray suits and red ties, come down to have a word with Constantino. I can understand only a few words, but they seem impressed. Even they know a good thing when they see (and hear) it.

John Morthland