Great white rock has not often come from New York City and its surrounding boroughs, even though — or perhaps because — the music business is centered here. In the 1960s, there were the Young Rascals, who made it by playing the Barge, a socialite discotheque in the Hamptons, 60 miles east of Manhattan, at the Atlantic end of Long Island. And the Velvet Underground, of course, another bunch of Long Island brats, led by a kinky, skinny cutie named Lou Reed. Up north, in suburban Westchester, Leslie Weinstein and the Vagrants waited for the massive guitarist’s legend to catch up with his talents, so that he could become Leslie West and get rich and famous with Mountain.

Things have changed. There are now not two or three excellent local rock acts in the area, but a dozen. It is difficult to predict which of them will go all the way, who will be the new Velvets and Rascals, and who will remain beloved obscurities like the Vagrants, but you are definitely going to hear more about many of these bands in the coming months. Right now, New York is rock central, a pleasant experience for this jaded burg.

Even though it is the glam-rock groups who have attracted the most attention on the New York scene so far, not all of these bands wear lipstick. The New York Dolls, who epitomize the glitter scene, have a horde of imitators, but there is still room for groups whose taste is more, shall we say, conventional

When I began this survey, I was certain that there could not be more than half a dozen bands worth talking about. My standards were fairly strict: a band had to have either record company support, a well-placed manager or a lot of good local jobs to warrant consideration.

Today, I’ve heard more than a dozen NYC rock acts, and there are three or four I’ve not had the time to catch: the reformed Good Rats; the Brats, who are supposed to sound like the Stooges when they were primitive; the Fast; Ruby and the Rednecks. Some of the groups I have seen weren’t worth writing about; there’s wheat and chaff everywhere. But the eight bands below are all whole-grain — even if I wouldn’t recommend them to myself again, they might be just your style... or a record company’s.

The several scenes which make up the New York rock circuit are interwoven. The most important finds its focus, as important scenes often do, at Max’s Kansas City, the legendary dive that served as a hangout for Andy Warhol’s bunch, the late ’60s rock scene and more decadence than even its management cares to recall.

The back room at Max’s is a dimly lit, red-table-clothed, 20 x 20 foot den of iniquity. The food’s not much, and the drinks aren’t cheap, but no one really goes there to drink or eat; they go to see and be seen. On a given night in the middle ’60s, the legend says, almost any fabulous combination was possible: Mick Jagger, William Burroughs, Andy Warhol, Truman Capote and Germaine Greer, ^perhaps. To a lesser extent — because NY’s scene is less volatile these days — that is true today, though you are much more likely to see Todd Rundgren, David Johansen of the Dolls, too many rock writers and a sprinkling of semi-famous artists than any of the above. After 1 a.m., that is. Before, the front of the bar is crammed with suburban glam-ettesi, wondering why the stars aren’t there. (In the afternoon, in a switch which cbuld happen only in New York, Max’s is a rather straight businessman’s lunch joint.)

Rock acts, often the best local ones, play upstairs, two shows a night, although lately the club has become quite folkie, which is too bad. When the act upstairs is right, the scene moves up, too.

Another scene finds its focus at the Coventry, just across the 59th Street Bridge, in Queens. This crowd is younger, less sophisticated, more suburban, though it likes a touch of glitter, too. The music on the jukebox, last time I was there, featured the Stones and Bowie quite prominently.

Max’s is crowded and cramped, with literally no leg room; Coventry sports only a few tables, set back from a large spacious dance floor. (No one dances, of course; they just sit there, as usual.) In the back are pinball machines; up front, the bar. It is clammy and sweaty, but so was the Fillmore.

The Coventry used to be home base for the Dolls, on nights when they weren’t playing Max’s or Mercer Arts Center. (Formerly the place for local rock, Mercer got put out of business when the skid row hotel it was in collapsed, offing several senile souls.) Now, Coventry features the Brats, Kiss and Teenage Lust off and on, with a string of mediocre Queens bands on the off-nights. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me to see Coventry install one of those Queens groups as a house band, when it finally hits a good one — then, watch out!

Kenny’s Castaways on Manhattan’s Upper East Side is a rather tacky singles bar, but then, rock wasn’t meant to be posh. The local acts Kenny’s presents are sometimes first rate, though when a record company presents one of its acts there, Kenny’s does the judicious thing and presents bands who aren’t competition for anyone. As if it matters; not very many are there to listen.

The Diplomat Hotel presents occasional concerts in one of its ballrooms; the Diplomat is an older hotel, with the tawdry remains of 193Qs opulence: brass and some parquet floors. It is located in a seedy area of the West 40s, a district known more for its high concentration of pornographic shops than for its affinity to rock. But, the concerts are put on by and for the bands themselves, so the atmosphere is chummy, and drinks are very cheap (beer is 50 cents, mixed drinks about $1) and a good time is often had by almost all.

My Father’s Place in Roslyn, Long Island sometimes presents good local music in its teen club cum singles bar cum coffee house atmosphere. For the better locals, there are also infrequent support gigs with top flight international talent: the N.Y. Dolls with Mott the Hoople, for instance. When all else fails, there are cocktail lounges and discotheques in which a hungry musician can eke out a living while waiting for the not-always-illusory Big Break.

As should be obvious by now, this scene is fueled not by drugs but by drink. It’s a return to something more than a little saner than the pot’n’pills scene we’ve had to endure for too many years. The clubs make their money on the drinks too so the cover is never too high; $2 or $3 is standard.

It is not very unusual for the two best American rock groups to live in New York, but it is unusual, once again, that the two I think are best are natives. On their best nights Blue Oyster Cult and the New York Dolls can top any other group in America.

The groups have distinct approaches, defined by the Cult’s residence in Stony Brook, an exurban, nearly rural college town in middle class Long Island, the Dolls in ultra-urban, cosmopolitan Manhattan. Blue Oyster Cult is an older, more aloof group than the Dolls, and its music is much more late ’60s American than the British-influenced flash that the Dolls like to play. The Cult members do solos, their songs are heavymetal and long, their dress is grubby motorcycle punk, their lyrics are a cross between beat poetry and a Skylab press release. The Dolls like lots of cosmetics, spangled costumes, dancing, tough, tight three minute songs, lyrics about teenage sex-and-rebellion fantasies.

But the struggle of the Dolls and B.O.C., the* two groups closest to stardom-on the New York scene, to become recording artists, leaves them with more in common than musical similarity ever could. It also says something about what it will take for the groups surveyed here to succeed.

Blue Oyster Cult had to change its name twice, over a period of five years, and eventually find a totally committed producer, Murray Krugman, willing to con a record company president who’d turned them down twice before (recently deposed CBS head, Clive Davis) into signing them. Davis, of course, was surprised to find he had bought something he’d passed up twice before, but by the time he found out, it was too late. The Cult’s second album has sold nearly 200,000 copies, and if B.O.C.’s national tour does as well as the group expects, the third album may do much better than that.

For the Dolls, the story was similar. Every record company in the country turned them down twice, partially because record labels hate hard rock, partially because the asking price for them was $250,000. (Chances are, the Dolls settled for less; it was a good way to find out who was bidding seriously, though.) Eventually, another A&R man, equally passionate, named Paul Nelson convinced Mercury to record the Dolls. Nelson only had to watch the Dolls’ 80 unsigned times to do it, but the album has sold almost 100,000 copies, which is great for a first record.

If it was that difficult for the Dolls and the Cult to get recording contracts^ it will be much more difficult for the bands below, none of whom has quite that much talent. Even the groups already signed will face much more resistance than most bands would. They are from New York, and the music business, in and out of Manhattan, inevitably smells hype when something comes from this $24 island. For good reason, in this case: most of these groups could use some perspective on their scene. If the Dolls and Blue Oyster Cult make it, it won’t be because of hanging out in the right places; it will be because they have their ear to the street. There is no way for the bands below to become stars, either. Max’s Kansas City is not all-America, after all.

THE DYNOMITERS - Three New Jersey kids who wrote a letter, enclosing a tape, to the late, great rock critic for the New York Daily News, Lillian Roxon. She thought little of it, until she discovered them playing a “block party” — on her block. “It’s obviously destiny,” she thought, and sent them on the rounds of her music-business friends. Eventually, the Dynomiters wound up with an unlikely management and publicity team, former student radical Toby Mamis and Sid Bernstein drop-out, David Stein. (Bernstein’s organization promoted the Beatles’ American concerts, and created the Young Rascals.) The Dynomiters have a ’70s Top 40 sound, caught in the same post-Beatles time warp as Raspberries or Badfmger. They write good songs. “Rock and Roll President” is the standout:

When he gets to the White House And we hope it’s soon

There’ll be rock and roll stereo In every room.

But they’d better do something about their image. It’s not that they aren’t a glam-rock group; they look like refugees from a Clearasil commercial.

THE HARLOTS OF 42nd STREET -Acid-rockers discover the Dolls’ audience, decide to dress up and catch on. Only thing is, they forgot to change the music, and additionally, in Blue Oyster Cult’s immortal phrase, they’re “as beautiful as a foot.” It worked a little though, and now they have a troupe of ardent fans.

KISS — This group looks as if it just stepped out of the underground movie Pink Flamingos, leading me to believe that I was right all along in thinking that the glitter craze was an ugliness contest. But Kiss’ music sounds as if it is the most thought-out, controlled sound around, and the stage show is just as professional. And they say, Eddie Kramer (of Led Zeppelin and Electric Ladyland) wants to produce them. Heavy metal meets “El Topo.” And, as we go to press, gets signed by Buddah.

LUGER — A competent band which claims to be English, Canadian and Czechoslovakian, but really hails from Pittsburgh. The group has an interesting stage act, featuring bullwhips, but the songs aren’t too good. Iggy Pop may produce them, though, and if he does, there might be a real teen idol in the band: drummer Shayne Harris.

ELLIOTT MURPHY’S AQUA SHOW -Elliott’s father ran the original Aqua Show, about 30 years ago, out on Long Island, as a real water ballet number — you know, high dives, clowns doing belly flops, and some Channel swimmer or something, that could give thrills and chills to the pre-TV, pre-rock crowd. But Elliott, Jr. spent his summers listening to Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. This combination could go all the way, if Murphy can put a stable group together. He is recording, for Polvdor. and hearing the record was a relief: I didn’t think anyone else still played Blonde on Blonde a lot. Murphy is a despondent, over-verbal and probably crazy visionary, but when he rocks out of that, he’s great:

I’m sittin’ in Brooklyn, there ain’t no escape

Some people say the South is bad, but this ain’t so great.

That’s from “White Middle Class Blues.” Other good songs: “Great Gatsby,” with machine-gun lyrics, some of which mean something; “Rock Star,” about Jimi Hendrix; “Marilyn,” about Monroe. The album may make this one a star.

NEW YORK CENTRAL - John Lennon saw these Queens kids last winter, and said, “You remind me of me old group.’* He produced a demo, which Barbara Bothwell, a producer at RCA Victor, used to convince RCA to sign them. Now, she and Don Heckman have produced two singles, one of which sounds like the Beatles backed with the Byrds, the other of which sounds like John’s old group backed by Led Zeppelin. It’s the same time warp as the Dynomiters, solid AM radio material, but they lack personality.

STREET PUNK - Is this crew of skinnies really glitter? No, not really, though the jump suits and platform shoes could fool you. More importantly, can high-powered management — publicist Abby Hirsch, critic Henry Edwards — and a talented lead singer — John Montgomery — get them a gold record? Maybe, if they find a producer to tighten up the act. Good song title: “Rock and Roll Apetite.” Good ideas: a Motown medley; “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” with fuzztone.

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NY Rock

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QUEEN ELIZABETH FEATURING WAYNE COUNTY - Queen Elizabeth’s show has been cleaned up, but it’s still not for family viewing. The act still involves all manner of sexual outrage and paraphernalia, without the scatological acts as such, presented with more theatrical skill than any otnei group, including Alice Cooper. But all of that is just Wayne County, transvestite hillbilly and lead singer. The band isn’t very good, even though the bass player looks like an android lumberjack version of Sterling Hayden, which is nice contrast. Wayne has a barely adequate voice — so does Alice Cooper — but his performances are incomparable, the last truly underground phenomenon. Someday, a truly courageous record company will put an end to all of this glitter-campandrogyny nonsense by recording him. The real thing: love it or leave it.

TEENAGE LUST - OK, so they’re sexist and stupid, but they know it, which makes for marvelous satire, right down to the wiggling singing girls, the Lustettes. Led by a pair of former members of David Peel and the Lower East Side, Harold Black (he once played drums in an all-girl band in Detroit — their prime competition featured Susie Quatro and DolV drummer Jerry Nolan) and Billy Joe White, Teenage Lust writes good songs (I love “Medusa the Seducer”) has solid management, and is starting to get some national bookings. These guys and gals have paid their dues, but they might' be too knowing for their own good: record companies don’t like to see their current fads lampooned by unknowns.