THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

John Keen and the Updated Hollywood Dream

"I was probably 13 or so when James Dean got killed. I mean I didn't really know about him, just stuff we heard in England, but he's one guy I' picked up on. It's all publicity I suppose really, but with James Dean I really thought he was what he was, as well as being a film star. I believe that what a person does: is the thing, not who they are or what they are. It's what they do and how they do it. He was incredible, James Dean. I mean he wiped the floor wifh everybody."

John Keen sits framed against the smoggy backdrop of the land of Dean and Monroe (another distant idol), the Hollywood he dreahied intp song on the Thunderclap Newman album when he was called Speedy rather than John. It was an apt nickname. His conversation is a furious machine-gun burst, his mouth working frantically to chop the flow into digestible words, the rum and, ginger ales he pours down turning it into an occasionally slapstick race between thoughts and words. He's trying to get it all in, and he vaults precipitously from trtickdriving to revolution to prison to the old days to his recent solo album. Keen has an air of the survivor about him, a weathered,\ knotty look that says he's come through a lot intact. Of it all, though, he remains best known for his central role in one of the most bizarre little oddities ever to emerge from the British rock scene — an unlikely combination of a portly, middle-aged eccentric on piano, reeds and kazoo, an angel-faced 16 year old guitarist and this lanky streetrocker which, under the benign auspices of one Peter Townshend, blended rock *n" roll and vaudeville in songs that,' among other things, paid exquisite if jaundiced homage to the legend of Hollywood, viewed children getting smashed by railroad trains and turned a celebration of violent revolution into a stirring, spiritual hymn.

, "The original idea of Thunderclap was a very pure thing," says Keen, ""cause that's where Townshend's head is at; he is into the purity of music. That was basically the reason it was put together. But on the other side, it was a lot of hard work and people not understanding the end result, that's all. They could understand it musically, but they couldn't understand why it was done. If they'd understood why it was done, then the gigs would have been much better.", Thunderclap ^Newman {Keen, Jimmy McCullough and Andy "Thunderclap" Newman) was ill-prepared for the road when the sudden success of the "Something in the Air" single forced them to tour. , "We toured about a year and a half," Keen recalls somewhat ruefully but with a hint of fondness in his Voice,

"but we didn't get a reaction because people didn't understand what reaction they should have, I mean .we used to do a few Hollywood Dream numbers and then do a few rock numbers at the end, and then we'd be really rocking out on stage and we'd look around ^nd there's Andy handing out plastic noses to people, and those things that you blow on that go "Blaat." He used to bring a big box, of it, create a party atmosphere. But they really didn't understand what it was about.

"We had to be a pseudorock band, and that's not what it was. We just sort of had to spin it together and go. If you were a hard rock band you could have done that, and you could sweat out your numbers, but it wasn't like that. It was an acoustic band, where acoustic bands were never heard of. When the three bands before you have all played with 200 watts, killing everybody with their volume, and you go on there and go (croons softly) "I wish there was a Hollywood.. ." Ahem! I've had a thing about the road, ever since those days. Because it did everybody's head in really. It killed a lot of the purity of the original idea.

"It took a lot of nerve to play in Thunderclap in Scotland. The audiences in Scotland are made up of two kinds of people. There Jare screaming' teenyboppers, who really do scream — I mean it's, like 1965 there. And thousands of hard, very, very, hard Scottish dock kids. If they dori't like you you're lucky toget out of town without your car being smashed to pieces, or " yourself being smashed to pieces. If you're really good you can guarantee that of the first 500 people, 60% are teenyboppers screaming and throwing their drawers on stage and the

other 40% are guys throwing bottles on the stage. And when you go outside there's about 50 guys turning your car over." ~

John Keen himself, though, was no stranger to that sort of atmosphere. He first played music in Ealing in the early 60s, the day of Teddy Boys and James Dean, of Eddie Cochran and roughand-tumble rock "n" roll. "What would be called a fit now would just be a normal dance them days," he says. "I know they do long drum solos now, but they used to dp solos that were really just like somebody going berserk on the drums. If it had any technical content people walked out, unless he looked like he was actually having a fit. Then they'd stay and watch and scream and shout and jump up and down. Every number started off at one speed and finished at another speed and the middle went from nothing to everything, back to nothing again, and to everything, back to nothing again. It was so great, because the bands played on their own energy then and sometimes you'd play so fast and furious and freaky until you just couldn't play anymore. Then you'd slow it down a bit. And they were all like that."

Keen drummed with a band qalled the Second Thoughts, the local favorite, while the Rolling Stones were getting started down the street at the Ealing Club. He used to take an entourage of 40 or 50 Teddy Boys along to his shows, just to make sure things didn't get out of hand. A scrape with the law seemed an inevitable part of that life, and sure enough, the 16-yearold-lad found himself behind bars. "There's a lot of detention centers in England for sixteen and seventeen," he says, "where they push you hard. They just make it a physically hard day for you. So you've had two years of physically hard days, but the thing is, you come out in good shape. I was in for a while, and they straightened me out." After that he drove trucks, wrote songs, weathered the Psychedelic Era and eventually began the

association with Townshend that led to the brief Thunderclap chapter. When that band ended:

"I stopped completely, and I went for about nine months into a totally introverted thing. I just got myself away and I analyzed what I should do, I mean even about living — I analyzed whether, I should live and whether I' wanted to live." He's emerged from that retreat with his own solo album, a band, plans to tour again, apd vague

but enthusiastic talk of a regrouping of Keen, McCullough and Newman for a second' album and another go at the rigors of the road.

"The Keen family have never done anything, apart from small building projects," he concludes, "so the rude truth of it is that out of that situation I just want to do something. I want to make a mark for the Keen family, but without putting myself into all kinds of frames of mind that are untrue and unrealistic. I mean I want to be working class. I am working class. I come from a working class family. You can look at me in one light and it means nothing. But if I work hard and keep on with what I'fn doing — welj I really haven't done anything yet. The whole point, really, is I'm not saying I'm anything. So if you don't say you're anything then you don't have to be anything. You, just have to be yourself."

Richard Cromelin

Peter Wolf's Sleepless Nights

... and then there was the night the pimply kid poked his goggle-eyes in the stage door: "Hey man look I gotta get in here my girlfriend's SICK man she's PUKED she's PASSED OUT in the hall and if I don't get back in there with her heart pills SHE MAY

NOT MAKE IT MAN!!!" The guards, having seen it all and heard this one al least ten thousand times before, pushed him out and slartimed the door.

... and then there was the night the three punks from school showed up with a $13.95 Silvertone amp:x'Hey man we gotta,get this in for Tull's set it's part of their equipment man and if they don't have it THEY CAN'T GO ON!!!" Everybody got a good laugh out of that orie.;

... and then there was the same night a wispy blonde in' a frayed serape rapped lightly on the same door: ""Elio," in a fairly believable British accent, "Ihn Ian Anderson's wife... Eve... I just got heah from the aihpoht... pleahse, I must get in, he's expecting me.. .""It almost worked!

... and then there was the riight this babe came blustering up and blammed on the door like the voice of God: "Look Jack I'm THE WORLDS GREATEST J. GEILS FAN" — shoving her backstage pass right into the guard's eye — "AND I'M COMIN" IN MOTHERFUCKER CAUSE I AIM TO SEE SOME AAAASS KICKIN"!!!! AND IT MIGHT AS WELL START WITH YOURS!" She got in. And anywhere else she wanted tobe.

One Monkey Don't Stop The Show

The Miracles had "come a long way from the "suave side of the slums," - where they used to sing on street corners "way back in 4958. Hey, man, they were the baddest band around. Well... the Four Tops gave them some competition and yeah, the Five Quills had a tight game, but the Miracles did alright. At that time, if you were a ghetto kid, you either sang real good, or joined up with a street gang.

Smokey, Bobbie, Ron, and Pete got so good that Smokey didn't want to be a dentist anymore. He wanted to make records. Berry Gordy, a Sometime auto worker who had

written few hit songs, wanted to start his own record company. Berry met up with the boys, taught Smokey how to write songs and the Miracles made hit records for Berry and his new record company.

As time passed, the Miracles had more hits, BMI awards, and best of all they were the musical tear duct for the teenage tragedy. More time passed, and there were more hits, families, homes in the suburbs, velvet couches, real estate, golf and the stock market. You know all those mid-american pastimes. Yes, these boys travelled a long way from the projects. The trouble was, Smokey wanted to' travel even, further. Solo. After 15 years as the poet laureate of pop romance, William Robinson had other things on his mind. Movie scripts to write, talent 4o discover, business to take care of.

Pete, Ron, and Bobbie weren't ready for the rocking chair circuit and they wanted to prove that "one monkey don't stop the show." They replaced William I with William II. William Griffin. A substitute? A Smokey look alike? Maybe a 6'3" basketballian built Smokey. Sound alike? He hits all those notes, with the same gripping emotion, but not a sound alike. Bill quickly says that the only ones that mistake him for Smokey are little kids. But Bill and the Miracles have a whole generation of fans to attract and a whole lot of skeptical old ones to convince they aren't going to fizzle like the Supremes after Diana left.

The Miracles did a great job of proving themselves at their Detroit homecoming at the Twenty Grand — the supreme soul dive of the Motor City. It has showcased everyone from flaming Wayne Cochran to Aretha, the lady of,.. The Twenty Grand is IT. Els and Marks overflowing the parking lot, 2 lounges, "*16 of the finest Brunswick bowling lanes" and the Gold Room. Tonight, most of Motor City's music magnates are out to witness the new, improved Miracles. There's Martha Jean the Queen, Levi Stubbs, eager Motown promo

men, rack jobbers, next door neighbors from back when, and even Smokey.

THE MIRACLES

Sweet harmony rolls way back home.

The Miracles were at their zootiest in their black velvet jumpsuits zipped down to there. They were in fine form, touching base on all their old hits, "Shop Around" "Tears of A Clown," and then some of their new stuff. The group was sounding so good — not the same as the old days, but still awfully good. The new songs like "Don't Let It End" and "What's a Heart Good For" are so moving and lyrically beautiful that it's hard to believe that they aren't Robinson compositions. The entire group is now used to a greater effect, instead of taking a backseat to Smokey. Everybody is a star, but William is the real sparkler.

Griffin was a natural for the part. "This may sound weird, but I knew once they heard me, they'd want me." William used to sing in a group with Damon Harris, who is now one of the Temps. When Damon heard Smokey was retiring, he gave William the word, and Griffin jumped at the chance to audition for the Miracles.

William. Sweet William. A slick player, a real looker. Chiquita Jenson says he's "shore "nuff fine" and she oughta know. Her brother is Obie from the Four Tops, so she's seen a lot of sweet hunks of Africa, in her day.

1 William is a shot in the sex appeal. His ride is a gold Riviera with a lion on the dash and his vines are burnt golds and velvets. And those teeth. Ooo mama, that man could be making toothpaste commercials. He sends those sheiky Cleos into a swoon. The Miracles are banking on this ex-junior accountant to give Michael Jackson a run for his money.

Smokey believes they can go anywhere they want. He even wrote a song for the guys on his new album, Smokey: Sweet Harmony, go on and blow on Stay in perfect tune thru your unfamiliar song Make the world aware, You're still going strong... You were the prelude for the song the village minstrels play Though most of them have come and gone,

You're still around today. As Pete says, after 15 years, they have reached a level of professionalism that they know will sustain them as a group. These five funky fellows can do it again — climb back on top of the sotil heap.

Jaan Uhelszki

Rick Wokemon To testify on Watergate?

Remember when people thought that if you could only give all the pigs a couple thousand mikes of acid, everything would be okay? And Jerry Rubin was insisting that Yellow Submarine Was a vision of the Revolution, while we maybe thought that if only LBJ could be persuaded to listen to Sgt. Pepper, the Vietnam war might actually be over tomorrow?

Well, all of those fantasies may have been flushed away by now, but what if we told you that President Nixon himself listens to Yes albums? Would that, together with the possibility that the Moody Blues may soon be actually marketing their albums in mainland China, give you a glimmer of hope that we can still save the world? At any rate, what follows is a true story.

During Yes" last tour of the States, their manager Brian Lane was occupying the Presidential Suite, in one of L.A."s finer hotels when he received a sudden call. It was from the hotel's manager, asking if he would please move to another suite because the President was coming. Lane, entertaining visions of the president of some hotel chain and not about to be bounced from berth to berth by American barbarism, replied that he was staying put.

Next day brought a kriock on the door, and instead of two of Rodney Bingenheimer's finest it was a coupla FBI agents, who told Lane that the prez whose bed he was so intransigently occupying was some dude named Richard M. Nixon. He may or may not have been impressed, but it is known that his visitors somehow persuaded him to abandon the suite. Not, however, before he left two tickets to the morrow's concert and a copy of the latest Yes album in a drawer as a gift to Mr. Nixon.

But that's not all. An unusually aggressive member of the rock press corps working on a story about Yes somehoW managed to evade the entire phalanx of FBI agents stationed in the hotel, and ended up knocking on the door of the suite a couple of days later. Which was answered by Nixon himself.

"Where's Brian Lane?"' snapped the scamp, hardly taken aback and riot about to be diverted from his story.

"Who?"

"Brian Lane, manager of Yes!"

History, unfortunately, does not record whether Nixon became a Yes freak. Although he certainly should have had no trouble relating to a record called Close To the Edge.

Yummy yummy yummy, I got love in my tummy.

American Sweethearts Tie Off

Well, it happens to everybody sooner or later. This time the happy stiff was none other than Merrill Osmond, third oldest of the renowned glam-rocking Osmond Brothers. Merrill's the first one of the boys to get married, though, so you can see why he's excited: tomorrow he gets to tell Donny and the rest of the brood what IT's really like.

But that's not Donny with him in the pix. That's Merrill's bride Mary (isn't that cute; just like Mickey and Minnie!). She's a schoolteacher from Heber City, Utah, solid Mormon just like all the O's, and she's smiling because she just found out that they get. to honeymoon in glamourous Las Vegas, Nev., where the Osmonds are opening at Caesar's Palace on Merrill's wedding night, which the delirious couple celebrated with a torrid bout of "French kissing" (bottom).

A reception was held several months later at the Beverly Hills, Calif, home of MGM Records president Mike Curb, attended only by family and close personal friends of the Osmonds, including Wayne Newton, Sgt. Barry Sadler, Sessue Hay aka wa, D.B. Cooper, John Bonham, Sen. Strom Thurmond, and Rodney Bingenheimer, that li'l ole matchmaker who was instrumental in bringing the perky couple together in the first place.

Now fess up: they're sure a hell of a lot cuter than Mick and Bianca's nuptial pix, aren't they?

Stones Strike Out in Jr. High

If you doubt that the universe could contain intelligent life totally unlike the humanity we're used to, try teaching seventh grade for a year. I just did, and — let me tell you — sometimes I wondered whether we were even made of the same chemicals.

Like ancient (twice their age) Mariner spacecraft, I studied their habits from both far away and too close for comfort. In particular, I was curious to see how these pre-teeners digested their music — what kept their bodies going and what they spit out. Seems like somebody is always purporting this trend or that attitude spreading, like sore throats or a new way to flip baseball, cards, through the junior highs of America, but when did you ever see the data? Here then, in the interests of; science, truth, and yellow journalism, are The Facts, as observed in a Northern New Jersey suburban city where race, brains, and social rungs are so mixed that every kid has an equal chance to flunk math or throw an eraser out the window.

One. The Osmonds, Cassidy, the Partridges are all universally put down by any kid above the age of eleven or past the sixth grade. Nobody twelve and up buys those carefully-aimed fan mags either, but they'll snitch a copy to read if you leave yours on the desk by mistake.

Two. The first song apparently to have made a great impression on their premature awarenesses was "Joy to the World." It hit the airwaves when they were barely nine, yet they managed to handle its sophisticated lyrics and can now boisterously group-sing, "Joy to the world! All the boys and girls! Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea! Joy to you and me!" Let's hope there hasn't been permanent damage.

Three. In a series of experiments designed primarily to keep the subjects in their seats during the month of June, they reacted as follows to a selection of big-time pop titles and titlists:.

"Rock Around the Clock." Like putting a fresh, set of "C" batteries in their backs, it got them jumping — parodying what they thought was the Lindy. Two boys even demonstrated that dance-floor move where one slides between the other's legs, but (don't ask me how TURN TO PAGE 78.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 24.

they did it — reread the first paragraph), each managed to slide under the other and they both landed simultaneously on their backs, twenty feet apart.

Elvis. Just mentioning the name brought catcalls. "Not him!" "Come on

— play something else\* And they laughed when he started to sing, just as if he were Rudy Vallee or The Chipmunks. I'd have said something in the old guy's defense (e.g. "If it weren't for him, you'd be just like y our teachers.""), but who needs a reputation?

The Beatles. These kids were barely old enough to go "Yeah, yeah, yeah" when The Boys made cute on Ed Sullivan. History has since been misleading or misjudged, cause the kids claimed that the Beatles invented the Rock. Anyhow, only the earliest stuff excited them (with the exception of "Get Back"). Don't know why, but when I played "Drive My Car" they asked me how come I picked their worst *song. They could identify the voices of Ringo and late-Paul, but had the order of songs and albums as screwed up as punctuation.

The Stones. Absolutely nothing. Not their cup of tea.

Motown All-Stars. The Supremes, Temps, and Marvin Gaye are sort of cultural heroes, like Martin Luther King, to the black kids in my classes. But their parents, not the kids themselves, bought the records, which makes them almost ancient history. The Jackson Five fare better, but nothing's quite as popular as whatever happens to be on the charts at the moment. These kids've got too much going on to be looking back.

Four. The most-liked songs I could feed the kids were the-updated "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" (although they managed to distinguish and dislike the real Andrews'Sisters) — for which they twitched something resembling more of a Mexican jumping bean than a jitterbug

— and "Frankenstein." The latter J had on tape and they kept asking for the part that ''sounded like a Hying saucer landing" and "the machine gun."

Five. Country received the supreme condemnation — "CORNY!!" — although I had one girl who wrote the darndest plays and soliloquies based on the lyrics of countryish story-songs, like "Tie a Yellow Ribbon," "Playground in My Mind," and — her masterwork — "The Night the Lights Went Opt in Georgia," from which the following lines are excerpted :

Narrator: He saw Andy lying on the floor in a puddle of blood.

Joe: Andy, Andy. Do you hear me? Andy: Y-e-s'. I dro h-e^a-r y-o-u. I

Joe: Tell me: Who did this to you? Andy: Y-o-u-rs-i-s-t'e-r. B-y-e.

James Von Schilling