I’ve just been filling in the 1973 Creem Rock V Roll Poll, which is at least more entertaining than the ones NME and MM serve up. Most pathetic of the year? David Bedford’ in the Commonwealth Games 10,000 metres. Comeback of the year? Alvin Stardust (alias Shane Fenton, minor star of the 60s British bandwagon) — three months in the hit parade with “My Coo-Ca-Choo.” With categories like these who cares about the world’s best drummer? (I only know the names of three anyway.) But even CREEM missed out on two categories which even more than the year’s big rip-off (Edward Heath’s closing the telly down at 10:30) would reveal the angst and geist of our times: Sex Object of the Year; Turn Off of the Year. Or getting it up and knocking it down.

Sex and rock ’n’ roll and all that is obvious enough but as rock changes so do sexual ploys and that ain’t so obvious at all. Three themes from 1973: first, the return of the English pop girl. Our teenage years were titillated by droopy blondes and bare-feet, by punchy little ladies with stubby legs. Twinkle and Marianne Faithfull and Sandie Shaw and the early Lulu. These girls weren’t classy like Dusty Springfield and they weren’t exactly funky but they flounced through Top of the Pops and they were young and they eventually drifted off into marriage and mental homes and the Val Doonican Show and for the last few years there’s been a eap in pop’s purpose. Lots of lovely 'rock ladies, lots of sexy souls and friendly folk, lots of big-boobed balladeers from Luxembourg, but none of those dumb, clean youngsters.

1973 was better. Karen Carpenter raised a whole new question: why don’t we do it in the middle of the road? Eve Graham of the New Seekers added a

whole new dimension to family entertainment. Carly Simon pushed two whole new nipples into the top ten. But these were incidental pleasures. What was truly loin-girding was the success of old-fashioned feminine pop. Suzi Quatro, her black bass quivering at number one (and solemn just like Lulu). Olivia Newton-John, one hair carefully out of place, cool as Sandie Shaw. Linda Lewis, all teeth and as eager to please as Twinkle. Kiki Dee, sophisticated, weary, Marianne. Lynsey De Paul, big sister to all of them, beauty spot, knowing. And that’s the difference. Same images but none of these girls are innocent. There’s a calculation in their sex appeal, a sly come-on. Even the snooty Olivia lets her knees slip.

And over in the other corner of the studio Mud’s lead guitarist is totally, tastefully, manfully made-up — eye shadow, lipstick, a touch of rouge. Same face as Sweet’s guitarist and they both

look nice. To whom, I’m not sure. ’Cos the second theme of ’73 was androgyny and behind the drama of Bowie and the menace of Ferry and the ridiculous Glitter is a very odd phenomenon indeed — the ungay gay. Your average pop star is a good old boy and burly with it — Sweet, Mud, Gary Glitter’s backing group, and (going up a bit) T. Rex, Mott, Bowie’s back-up. What does it mean when these buggers mince on stage, besprayed and bedraggled? Oldfashioned ambiguity, like David Essex’s, I can understand — little boy lost, fluttering eyelashes and I wouldn’t mind a cuddle myself. But big, brawny, rawfaced navvies in cat-suits — ugh! Who gets off on these awkward fairies?

My confusion has been compounded in the last> couple of weeks by seeing Lulu singing Bowie’s “The Man Who Sold The World.” A deserved hit for a fine (Bowie) production but, my dears, her TV image!!! Lulu started out as an invigoratingly vulgar slum-child, cleaned-up as a chirpy Scots lassie, and for the last few years has been the dullest little lady in show-biz — as much sex appeal as a sensible suet-pudding and here she is dolled-up in middle period Bowie drag-suit, hat and fagappeal. Cheery Lulu, a woman dressed as a man dressed as a woman. I’m confused and wish CREEM had put sex in that poll — who do poeple get on-and-off on these days?

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I guess one answer is their mates and children ’cos the other theme of ’73 was love. Adult love that is. Warm and mature. No flash and not much flesh. Thank God for Iggy Pop and then play, one after another, this year’s albums from any or all ot the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan. Not exactly sexy are they? Add, the Who and Van Morrison and Lou Reed and Rod Stewart while you’re at it. These fellows are growing up and teenage lusting and lurking don’t interest them anymore. Quite right and fine music they’re making about their new conerns, about responsibility and jealousy and dependence and trust. But not sexy music and when the Stones don’t make sexy music it hurts ’cos Let’s Get It On might be very sexy music but Marvin Gaye isn’t Mick Jagger and it’s image I’m worrying about. I’m unsure who to get off to, I’m unsure who to get off with. I respect John Lennon’s concern for Yoko and who she’s nice to, but she isn’t nice to me at all, doesn’t even answer the phone. I can’t lust with Lennon, like when I first saw her standing there.

But I can still fill in rock ’n’ roll polls. Chauvinist alright, a suitable case for -treatment, gay and feminist, but sure. Here are my nominations: for Sex Object of the Year (to get you groping), for Turn Off of the Year (to get you taking the dog for a walk). The latter first and the prickly pear goes, without a doubt, to James Taylor. James Taylor has always been unsexy, to look at (those baggy pants!) and to listen to (mind games) but this year his creased charm pulled Carly Simon and that’s a bad show. As Mrs. Taylor, her own appeal has withered, drooped and died. So, to Mr. Taylor, the Dripping Tap Turn Off Award. Runners-up: Linda McCartney, for making marriage unsexy and having sandy hair; and Rick Wake-

man, for making brains unsexy and having even sandier hair.

Sex objects are less easy to arrange. No blokes though, not since Bowie’s feather cut. I kinda fancied Suzi Quatro. Not for her careful sulk and leathers but because she doesn’t wear underwear and bops a bit. But four records on and she’s tedious company, stupid, single-minded. And Melanie would you believe? She’s so cute and wobbly that I can’t believe it. If it’s real then she’s retarded, if it isn’t then she’s magnificently cynical — either way a challenge. But, in the end, only an occasional itch, ’cos when vou get right down to it, in 1974, there’s only one great sex figure: Joni Mitchell, rock star. Because the others are faces, fantasies, fakes, and she makes music. And she isn’t very pretty and doesn’t flirt much but her new album is sexy in a way that everyone else in her rock generation seems to have lost. And there’s no way to listen to it and not get turned on. And it’s real which Karen Carpenter isn’t. And the odd thing is that Joni once went with James Taylor. And I think now she should go with the Stooges and then I wouldn’t feel so old.