BOOKS

BOOKS

Mommy, What's o Poet?

TURN IT UP, I CAN'T HEAR THE WORDS By Bob Sarlin (Touchstone)

Bob Sarlin’s Turn It Up, I Can’t Hear the Words is an attempt to define the emergence and direction of serious lyrics in rock and roll. Beginning with a short history of the influence of folk music, and early rock and roll, Sarlin arrives at the term “songpoet” to describe Dylan and those who have followed him. Dylan, he feels, rightfully, opened the floodgates to serious literary invention within the Confines of popular music. But Sarlin is mistaken, I think,-in thinking that a new form has been created. More lijcely, a white, American art song tradition has been developed in the work of the songwriters, (or poets) discussed here: among them, Joni Mitchell, Randy Newman, Van Morrison, Don1 McLean, and the Grateful Dead’s Robert Hunter.

Sarlin fails to show, however, how Dylan, Mitchell, and the others differ in conception from the concept - of the bard, or European art composers of the 19th century. Both 6f them incidentally, were based upon accesible (not to say, popular) and native ingredients.

His standards are, admittedly, high. The thrust of the book is reserved for thoughtful writers. But I can’t accept his dismissal of John Lennon, and «o little mention of Mick Jagger, especially in a book which elevates a mediocrity like Laura Nyro. I wouldn’t trade “A Day in the Life Of,” or “Sympathy for the Devil,” for Nyro’s entire output.

I also would like to have seen more texts of the songs, along with the rather ambitions 'interpretations. But all of them are oft record, where they are best heard, in any case.

Regardless of differences of opinion, Turn It Up is valuable in its attempt to give definition to an area that has often been praised, but seldom clarified. But the truly definitive work remains to be written.

Donald Jennings

THE DESTROYER: ACID ROCK By Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy (Pinnacle)

It’s getting pretty bad when some of the best things you read ab,out Alice Cooper don’t come in rock magazines, but in quicky Kung Fu spoofs. I mean, if Alice still had ideas as swell as Maggot and the Deat Meat Lice, you’d probably even still want to listen to his records, even if they still carne in waxed paper covers.

Remo Williams isn’t a bad hero; he was killed in an electric chair once, but there was a brown-out, or something, and he was resuscitated by CURE, which is the CIA with chopsticks (Still American, though) and sent\off as the protege of Chiun, the Master Assassin of Sinanju (Korea). But, Chiun, who is a healthy 80, only wants to watch soap operas all day.. Remo does all the work, against mad bombers and black politicos until they come up against really tough killers, — guys whose families who have been up to homicidal hi^inks for oh, 600 or 1,000 years or so.

But the best part is the acid-rock of the title. There isn’t any anti-drug moralizing here, and people take Vitamin 6s when they’re about to get laid, but Maggot and Dead Meat Lice would riiake up for the worst possible antiyout’ staging. They come out in all white costumes with frozen steaks and lamp chops (and stuff) laced on; naturally, when they hit the -hot stage lighting, the meat melts. When their costumes are good and gory, they toss the rock-steak-tartate to the screaming girls in the crowd, who gobble it down. Yum.

Now, if all'this meat snatch weren’t enough, the plot involves a rich hippie girl who is going to squeal on her old man’s commodities consortium for messing around with a Russian grain deal! Finally, we have the rock connection to Watergate.

Dave Marsh

HENDRIX A Biography By Chris Welch (Linx)

Ah yes, Jimi, one more time. Looks like there’ll be lots of fast buck items soon, what with movies and all — but this book ain’t one.

Writer Chris Welch is a staffer for Melody Maker, the English pop weekly — he interviewed Hendrix several times during the course of Jimi’s career. Welch contributes an opening sketch on Hendrix’s life" and times, naturally mostly from the English point of view, and focused mostly on his life as a successful musician. (Welch feels that Jimi’s first LP was the best and it was downhill from there on.) The book also contains interviews with others, who knew, worked with or balled Jimi.

Classifying the book as a biography is a bit inaccurate howe'ver — the 8 x 10 paper format works, and presents the many photos well, but the interviews all read more like feature pieces in Melody Maker — good, but not long or deep. In other words, if you think of this as a collection Of biographical sketches, it’s well worth the $2.95 — but the definitive full length work has yet to be done.

Among the interviewees are Chas Chandler, ex-Animal and early manager (he met Hendrix thru an ex-girlfriend of Keith Richard, took him to England and proceeded to buildJhtis legend, until they parted ways in late ’68), Noel Redding, bassman with the Experience (he clashed with Hendrix over Jimi’s use of electronics and layered overdubs, was about to rejoin the Hendrix group at the time of Jinn's death), Jeanette Jacobs, singer with Dr. John and Airforce (also old NYC friend of Jimi’s — she says she was one of four girls he loved in his life, that he taught her to smash windows, that she had a nervous breakdown after his death), Gerry Stickells, road manager (he was particularly knocked out by Jihii’s music but was a friend), Eric Barett, also a roadman (goes into some details of Jimi’s guitars, amps, fuzz boxes andmusical favorites), and Robin Turner, a reporter turned PR dude (gossip about Jimi snorting smack, throwing bricks at girls, etc.)

In other words, not everybody important in Jimi’s life or career (several are dead from plane crashes, OD’s etc.) ■m but an interesting and sometimes illuminating glance into - the many myths. Also included is a section on Hendrix as musician — a skim look at his influences and accomplishments... and excerpts from one of h^s last interviews, around the time of the Isle of Wight festival gig.

The photos (which include two by Linda Eastman, well known tambouriness) are often as interesting as the words. Hendrix, old king-dude, flash at its finest with Jagger, short-haired with Curtis Knight, onstage, in clubs, bars, during interviews — and one supershot printed sideways, Jimi as avenging psychedelic warrior, astride his guitar like a loverifle machine... And two pages at the cemetery, a reproduction of the death certificate, a collage of sensationalized newspaper ''accounts of his death.... But the best of all is the frontispiece: Hendrix lean, mean and cool — strong as his legend, looking as invincible and in control of it all as we all thought he was, until...

All in all, not a deep or thorough book, but^a good look at a friend who’s been gone for some time now — but still lives in the heads of lots of people.

Tony Glover

OFF THE WALL

THE STORY OF ROCK: From Elvis Presley to the Rolling Stones by Mike Jahn (Quadrangle):: But we don’t believe it. It’s difficult to imagine a rock discography which runs seven pages without including any records on Motown, none by Otis Redding and only one by Aretha Franklin, but it is impossiblei to have anything but contempt for one which fails to mention A1 Green or the Allman Brothers. Jahn’s failure isn’t for lack of trying 1 guess — he mentions the Stooges — but when someone only gets the hard ones, not the easy stuff, you can figure he’s a cheat. I’d think the New York Times book company had better things to do with its money, paper and prestige than publish pure hack-work.

Dave Marsh

THE MORNING AFTER by Jack B. Weiner (Dell):: Great alkie novel in tradition of The Lost Weekend to which its occasional extreme resemblance may or may not be coincidental. Also reminiscent of Lenny Bruce’s classic “White Collar Drunks” routine, and good to know that even the captains of industry are as wasted as you and L Compulsive reading.

Lester Bangs