THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

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Ode to Manny's

Dr. Hook had it all wrong. While the rock star may want to make it to the cover of Rolling Stone, the ambition of the rock musician is to make it onto the wall of Manny’s, a music store on West 48th Street in New York. Manny’s is undoubtedly the most famous music store in the world; musicians passing through New York make it a point to stop there; in fact, musicians come to New York from all over precisely to visit Manny’s.

The present Manny’s is a huge, new store at 120 W. 48, which from opening to closing is filled to overflowing with salesmen, stockboys, customers, parents of customers, gawkers, unpacked shipping cartons, guitars, amplifiers, stars and friends of stars. Almost $5 million in musical instruments changes hands there every year.

But the thing that catches your eye, even more than the shiny Gibsons and Fenders, are the photographs. Thousands of photographs reflecting 40 years of musical history. Photographs of the great, the near-great and the downright obscure, stacked in endless rows towards the heavens, or the ceiling at least, smiling at the goings-on below. All the photographs are signed; some even have inscriptions. Most are so high up they are impossible to see. Some are grey with dust, some are brown with age, but they’re there. There to remind you that just about every musician of note in the last 40 years, every musician who means anything to you (or your parents) has passed through those doors.

Well, not exactly those doors.

* * *

In the early 30s, the corner of 48th Street and Broadway was a hangout for musicians. You could usually find some in the Miami Restaurant, or in a nearby pool hall. So it was natural that the big musical instrument companies had retail stores there. The early 30s, you may recall, was the era of band instruments, and the electric guitar was only an experimental idea which nobody wanted to produce. Selmer. had a store there, as did Conn. The first retail store which wasn’t a factory outlet was Terminal, which arrived in 1932 or ’33 (it’s still there). In addition there were the pawn shops on 6th and 8th Avenues, repositories of lost dreams.

One of the salesmen working at the Conn store was Manny Goldrich, Goldrich was a musician, having dabbled in violin, but his first love was selling instruments. Manny traveled to Harlem when no one else would go there. Manny sold on credit when no one else would take the chance. Soon Manny, working on commission, was making more than his bosses, and in 1935, opened up his own store on the 6th Avenue side of 48th. That was the original Manny’s.

The first time I walked into the old Manny’s was about six years ago, not long before they moved. If you can imagine the frantic activity of the present store crammed into an aHeyway with a five foot ceiling, then you have some idea what the place was like. The whole store was off one aisle, so you had to turn sideways to let someone pass.

I made my way tentatively to the back, where I saw a young man, besieged by three other young men. The young man, who was obviously a salesman, was involved in a debate as to whether the then recently reissued Gibson Les Paul was as good as the old one. This was my introduction to this age old rock and roll debate, which occurs almost any time guitarists get together, often for hours at a time, often boring to death anyone trapped in the room who doesn’t know the difference between a Humbucking Pickup and a Dodge Power Wagon. It was also my introduction to the salesman, Stuart Moskowifz.

We briefly discussed the merits of a Gibson jazz guitar with built-in pickups versus a Gibson acoustic archtop with a DeArmond pickup installed. Stuart recommended the latter, and I, being about $500 short to buy an L-5C, thanked him and left. I had one foot in the door.

In the years since then I have always gone 'to Stuart with my questions and problems, and although our verbal communication has been somewhat limited (example: Q: “Stuart, do you have any RotoSound flatwound bass strings, long neck?” A: “Sure.”), I feel we have come to understand each other. Stuart has a great memory and knows all the prices by heart, even the price of such inconsequential items as the metal saddles for a Gibson Tun-o-matic Bridge. Go and ask him the price of anything — you’ll be amazed.

Recently I talked to Stuart about the history and lore of Manny’s. He informed me that the photograph tradition started in the beginning. All photographs must be signed. Certain walls are arranged thematically — such as British groups, or “hot” groups.

Many people have told me that Manny’s is cold and impersonal, and that you’re ignored unless you’re famous. I have personally felt unwanted at times.

“It’s natural that stars get more attention,” Stuart explained, “but 90% of the time they don’t. Most of them don’t want to be fussed over. Some like it, some don’t.” \

It’s a long hard road to the wall of Manny’s. But once you’re on the wall nothing and no one can tear you down. It’s the beginning and the end, it’s the birth and death of it.

No more scuffling to get Stuart’s attention, no more worry over whether you can affort it, you’re on the wall of Manny’s! Gloria in excelsis Deo! G-L-O-R-I-A, Gloria! ~ ., D

David Reitman

Steve Stills In Mid-America

Milwaukee. The name conjures images of rotund bratwurst-ingesting matrons, urban sprawl, Sunday morning polka telethons, and crushing boredom. The armpit of the Midwest. It is rumored that the sun never cuts through the monotonous haze of the town that made Jerry Lee famous again. So, as you may imagine, this antedeluvian city bieeds bizarre inhabitants. Milwaukee may be the only major city in the world whose teens politely wait for the flashing green WALK sign with absolutely no traffic in sight, then file into a rock concert and proceed to tear down the barbed-wire fence and use the wooden bunches for a gigantic teenie-roast on opening night of a ten-day music festival.

Summerfest, a ten-day combination of World’s Fair and Livestock Show, was designed to lighten the load ,of the average grindstoned Milwaukeean. It’s a week-long Midwestern cultural oasis where farmer’s daughter and brewery worker’s son can come together and create a separate reality, basking in the amplified sounds of their favorite rockstar while knee-deep in 75 cents catered brats and 50 cents tap beer. Started in 1968 as a pacifying agent of sorts, it was Mayor Maier’s pet project and was seized upon by every bank president, brewery official and itinerant PR man as their own safe Midamerican crosscultural Woodstock.

This year Summerfest hosted some of the wildest beer bottle hurling, bonfire burning, fence stomping, concession stand liberating orgies this side of Chicago, culminating in 613 arrests, making this city-sanctioned event the largest civil disturbance since some blacks attempted to tear up the city in 1967.

Lilian Roxon Dies: Brian Wasn't The Only OneWith Asthma

Real bad air in New York, real bad. If you think it’s bad in L.A. you oughta come to New York (with a gas mask). Killed Lillian Roxon. Air was really really bad the day Of August nine and it murdered her. She had miserable asthma and the goddam air just did her in. Knocked down the door and she was dead. Place was a mess so the cops suspected foul play but that’s just the way she lived, a real good excellent mess like juniors always have when the grownups let em get away with it. Lots of dust too which didn’t make breathing any easier. Plus she didn’t get her air conditioner fixed which would’ve helped her breathe cause she didn’t want repairmen seeing her mess which she was embarrassed about when strangers were involved (a vulnerable person).

Roaches in the mess too (Germaine Greer even mentioned em in her dedication of The Female Eunuch to none other than Lil) which she used to get exterminated every once in a blue moon like the time Liza Williams was comin in from L.A. a couple years ago. Liza was gonna stay at Lillian’s place across the street from a real big police depot and next door to a gun store so she got it exterminated jusft for Liza. But Liza changed her mind without telling and stayed at Raeanne Rubinstein’s instead, breaking Lillian’s heart and back as well. Lillian kind of had it in for Raeanne after that, taking it out on her finally at the opening of The Trials of Oz (Oz’s Richard Neville like Germaine and Lil was from Down Under and anything remotely Australian that hit town used to stop at Lillian’s first including the Royal Australian Ballet which Lillian threw a party for featuring a map of Aussieland which she made out of oranges, apples and grapes). Lillian made up the guest list on that one and left Raeanne off but she got some tickets off of that other Lillianite John Wilcock and there she was. So Lillian hit her in the face. WHAM! And again. BAM! Damn good show {Great Moments in Lillian) but she felt bad afterwards.

Cause it was real unlike her cause she just plain liked everybody so much (some people’re like that but they don’t usually live in New York). She really loved em to smithereens (she was as rare as a 9-leaf clover). She musta loved more actual people on the planet earth than the legendary Jesus Christ. Another Lillian discovery Craig Karpel once wrote a thing in CREEM comparing J.C. and John Sinclair (whose photo incidentally was next to Lil’s in Esquire’s “Heavy 89” of 1971), should’ve been about her and J.C. instead. All this brother/sister flowerpower bee-ess be damned, she was un-phonus-balonus as it ever gets.

Lillian carried her own goddam salon with her wherever she went and she must’ve encouraged 50 times as many upstarts, with-its and over-the-hillers alike as the much-vaunted Gertrude Stein ever did on the European highculture scene of whenever that was. Including Germaine when she was a struggling waitress in Melbourne or Sydney or wherever and that other Aussie Helen Rieddy when she was living with the rats and the junkie's at the Albert Hotel and young photog hussler Linda Eastman before she left for that last voyage to Beatleland (all three qf em now zillionaires while Lillian had to fight for the royalties she was owed on her Rock Encyclopedia so she could pay her phone bill).

And including of course every rock writer she ever happened across, regardless of the potential returns. Like she once sent perhaps CREEM’s biggest hotshot rocko a button she made up with his picture on it, sent it to him special delivery so he’d get it at his hotel in New York (a lonely town) during his weekend stay even though he was once heard to mutter nasty things about her while on LSD (because he figured she just had to be no good on account of her tolerance for people he couldn’t stand). She was toleraat as hell and she even had an occasional kind word for the infamous J Marks, could be she was the only one who ever did. Liked A1 Aronowitz too — and for non-political reasons too cause she liked him even before his firing from the Post became a Nat Hentoff cause celebre. And in terms of me personally she once got a bunch of “Meitner Power” pencils made up for me once when I was feeling lousy, and matchbooks too I think, she got me out of the dumps singlehanded more than once.

Plus all those thousands of amateur fanziners and letter-writers from the sticks and everywhere else who she personally invited in from the R&R periphery and into the R&R mainstream she had access to, whole networks of teenos created by her from folks who’d have been on the outside looking in at the pros if she hadn’t interceded in their behalf. When Iggy finished his first night at Max’s not long ago he sure was tired and he hid in a corner to avoid the crowd but not too tired to call over Lillian who he knew to be all reet and she brought over a little crowd of her own and introduced every last one of em to the Ig. Lots of young gawkers and each and every one of em got their chance to meet a genuine star firsthand compliments of Lil.

And compliments to Lil on her top two favorite faves: 1. Little Stevie of the Easybeats; 2. the drummer of Influence (ABC Records & Tapes). If they’re reading this now they know, she used to talk about em all the time and she once threw the I-Ching to see if the Influence guy liked her too. And if you’re reading this now Lil boo-hoo and wah-h-h-h (tears of genu-wine grief and with you gone maybe it’s time to move out of the city after all).

R. Meltzer

It’s opening night, Friday, July 13th, and 40,000 beer-guzzling humanoids have jammed the stage area to have their brains seared by Stephen Stills. But as soon as he takes the stage, it becomes evident that Manassas, a noble attempt to subdue Stills’ monster ego, has reached the end of its collective rope. They listlessly plowed through sections of the first two albums with a brief bluegrass interlude featuring Chris Hillman’s amazing mandolin skills. What’s pathetic is that, a talented band like Manassas is forced to play a totally subservient role to Stills’ ineffectual meanderings. No matter what he did, playing his guitar or dabbling at the piano, he was miked up and the band was mixed all the way down. This went on for about two and a half hours, climaxed by a haphazard acapella encore of some unmemorable spiritual that slips my mind. By this time the heathens were aroused and the first gigantic bonfires lit the area. It was like an Atilla the Hun outtake with the barbarians * whooping it up as they snakedanced through the roaring flames.

Meanwhile, Stills’ entourage was hightailing it back to the Holiday Inn for a night of carousing. Hillman joined us for a drink and we proceeded to implore him to leave Stills’ clutches. As one of the most creative Byrds and the guiding light behind the now-legendary Burrito Brothers, Chris has been reduced to lackadaisically plucking the same four rhythm chords, Stills song after Stills song. Even A1 Perkins, former Burrito and steelplayer extraordinaire, wasn’t allowed to steal the spotlight from Steve.

Right now, at the other end of the Inn barroom, Stills’ ego is being fed its fill by a willing small circle of friends, sycophants and fellow travellers. The talk at the table turned to Watergate, and Stills became sage and animated. “I dig what the Select Committee is doing,” he intoned authoritatively, “except for those two wimps, Gurney and Inouye.”

After a few hours of this babble, Stills’ entourage had shrunk to his road manager, one or two local sycos, an equipment boy and a star-dazed reporter for an obscure Chicago weekly. The road manager was regaling the tight circle with stories of horror and brutality on the road: “And then I told him, ‘Listen, first I ask you, then I tell you to leave, then I punch you out.’ ”

With this, the equipment boy checked Stills’ reaction and launched into his own tale. “Boy, you should have seen the look on the face of the guy who stuck his head up over the fence after I decked him.” Everyone laughed self-consciously, Stills was being amused, and as we departed I pitied the poor Burrito Brothers left.

Larry Sloman

Is AbbyA Fink?

“Dear Abby,

“Gosh I never thought I’d be writing you with a problem, but here I am,” the letter started out. “Some friends of mine and I are working and playing hard at educating people about the war, imperialism, capitalism, police brutality and the attitudes which foster these evils; we are also trying to develop alternatives on the local level.” The letter, which was also sent to Ann Landers, strongly implies that some of the writer’s friends are currently fugitives, living underground, and that the government would like to know where they are.

“Investigators have been sent around to visit us and try to get information about our friends, but hell, I have personal obligations to my friends, don’t I? So my question Dear Abby/ Ann Landers is, what should I do when the FBI calls?

signed/DISRAUGHT RADICAL”

The two high priestesses of modern etiquette replied rapidly. “Sorry, but your question is not within the scope of my column,” responded Ann Landers. “Consult with a lawyer about your rights.”

Abby took no such position. Her answer in full:

“Dear???:

“My,feeling is that honesty is always the best policy... and while you’d like to be loyal to your friends, I think you owe it first to the U.S. Government.

“SINCERELY,

ABBY”

Joe Crater

Emmett Grogan Stops Lying

If you were asked to pick out a fake representative of the Counter Culture, would you be able to do it? Would you be able to pick out two? Well, how about if you were asked to pick out Emmett Grogan on To Tell The Truth?

That’s right, Emmett the comet, gadfly emeritus amongst the splashily camouflaged iconoclasts boring a way out of Exploi Babylon for all the kinder floundering in their vicarious media deploys. Armchair Samsonics. Emmett Grogan who was the Oh-fishal carte blanche carrying El Hombre Invisible for the whole Haight Scene (remember those mimeographs they used to hand out: “And LOVE LOVE LOVE in slop buckets!”), who almost singlehookedly founded the Diggers and became a legend in his own season by the brilliant strategem of pretending he didn 7 want it, i.e. here’s this honcho charismojo rooster and if you collar him on the corner he sez “Emmett Grogan? Whodat?" He was real cool, cooler than (in his rather sophomoric lingo) Jerome Rubin or Abbott Hoffman, he outcooled everybody by pulling a pale and thorough lam till resurfacing last year with a turgid though, readable tome called Ringolevio, all about what else the strutting glory and macho cool of his days as a cock emeritus of the Haight Street walk. It was an interesting Book, especially useful for the more assiduous counterculturologists, but in the end he came off like a hipped-up frat (and then I balled this chick and it was the best she ever had and then I split “later baby” to go off this creep had crossed me and then I hopped a plane cuz I knew they needed help getting the age of aquarius rolling out frisco way...) and the essential difference Was that whereas previously he copped gadfly emeritus by dint of his unstinting el hombre invisibledom, he now was breastbeating all over the galleys to the tune of “HEY! LOOKA ME! I’M A GADFLY EMERITUS!’’ Which is okay too, lots of toxicity under the bridge since first he spurred, so much toxicity in fact that even six months after his book came out the mention of his name is still liable to bring a “Who?” wherever particular people congregate. Like we thought of a great new way to pick up a broad in the street: just get yourself one of those Pmdelton IRA type caps with a brim that snaps, walk up to the likeliest looking honey and say “Hi, I’m Emmett Grogan!” You might think you’d be home free but no, not even the raunchiest bramble-scalped hippie annie oakley palms you a glint of recognition, it’s a lost cause.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 76.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 22.

So if such a bonafide representative of Emmett’s spawned Street Culture draws a blank, there’s no point in expecting more of that snippety Ann Landersian gargoyle Kitty Carlisle. She couldn’t even pick him out from three likely hunchin’ hirstute prospects, even though he was the tallest and the sardonicest and his eyes looked like aggies or prize marbles as you may remember from your sandlot days. Neither could Bill Cullen.

But Peggy Cass nailed him straight with a question only, a true spokesman could answer. She wanted to know, now that it’s 1973 and kids aren’t doing LSD as much as they used to... are they into any other drugs?

“Downers,” came the reply from Number Two, slouching. (Think he chewed gum, too - that’s a dead giveaway.) Last time we watched To Tell the Truth the panelists were listening to an affidavit about a woman who was the Indiana State Roller Derby Champ for nine consecutive years, and the time before that it was an air force captain who successfully engineered his fleet of planes to a safe landing on a strip 500 feet long without the use of a microphone. So you see, the show is picking up the vibes of the times, bit by bit.

They’re not afraid of controversy, either. When Kitty got down to basics by asking where those free goods came from in the Haight-Ashbury days and got the answer “They were stolen” from both Numbers One (an insurance salesman from Jersey) and Two (Grogan -we think), she answered back tightly, “I thought so.”

Those panelists aren’t supposed to do anything but ask questions and mark their ballots. But Gurry Moore leveled off the hostility after station break by noting that in fact the Diggers, the people who provided free dinners and clothes on a regular basis for come-all cowlicked waifes that summer of ’67, did work.

Kitty could be heard murmuring “Good, good” to herself, as Garry explained that he said this to “clarify matters.” Meanwhile Emmett, a dinosaur, just slouched on. And off. W

Georgia Christgau & Lester Bangs