Pimps on Parade in Gotham

Pimps on Parade in Gotham

ELEGANZA

Lisa Robinson

When Eric Clapton was in New York recently, he asked if there was anywhere to go at night besides the Club 82 or Max’s. When told that there really wasn’t (he’s not the sort to go shlepping around to black discos, even if Bowie is), he sadly replied, “Well, I guess it’s just my apartment, then.”

I’ve been seriously thinking fox some time about alternatives to places like the 82 or Max’s... a substitute club of your choice in city of your,choice, I’m sure the problems must be the same. Where do you go when it’s late at night and you want something to drink, eat, companionship, romance? Consider,' for example, your lonely rockstar. Especially British rockstar (for they’re so in again this year), On The Road. Away from wife, girlfriend, children, family, home, rolling English countryside, beerstenched Speakeasy, whatever. He’s faced with a battery of 8 A.M. wakeup calls, Holiday Inns, airports, plastic cups filled with bloody marys, fake scrambled eggs, radio station interviews, cramped dressing rooms filled with people he doesn’t know and doesn’t necessarily want to talk to. And — that’s really not the worst of it, friends.

There’s gonorrhea, siphilis, crabs, NSU, venereal warts, and herpes to consider. The plight of the lonely rockstar seeking a bit of fleeting romance on the road is a bitter one. (I won’t say dose.) I mean you’d be simply amazed at the number of times one has to shlep to the vd clinic; it’s almost a regular stdp for some groups on the way to or from a gig. Now I do have this theory that the intrigue, the search, the wallowing through the muck and mire of SLEEZE is all part of it; it might just not be as much fun if it were too easy. Once in awhile it is amusing to find girls waiting in the hallways outside of your hotel room — but the search, going to some smolcey club at 3 A.M. just knowing that it will be dripping with girls, (excuse the word dripping) and that some monilia-ridden lovely awaits you — well, it’s all part of the rock and roll lifestyle, isn’t it. And the hipper-thanthou attitude of how many times one can get the clap in some ,circles still testifies to one’s prowess.

And what does all this have to do with Eleganza, you may well ask? Well, bear with me for a moment. Even those who live this lifestyle to the fullest have assured me that every so often they really would love to go somewhere where they knew a great beauty would be, where it might be comfortable and pleasant, air-conditioned or heated (depending on the season), and where one could be handled with great style and care. Food, drink, velvet chaise lounges, large potted palms, piped-in music, lace curtains. If what I’m describing sounds vaguely reminiscent* of a turn-of-thecentury bordello, you’re not far wrong.

Why not? Why shouldn’t there be something like that for bands and the people who live for/by/with/around them? And financed, quite rightly, by the record companies? In a more programmed and sensually provocative atmosphere, I’m sure that people could have just as much fun as in the pits of hell we’ve all been forced to spend some time in during the past few years. Record company execs, managers, agents ... all would feel safer I’m sure knowing that their musicians were in the hands of responsible people rather than merely fly-by-night groupies. You could keep track of your artistes better, and there are so many people who have devoted themselves to the sexual side of rock and roll that it would be no trouble at all finding recruits. It would just be a lot... nicer, with those required weekly medical checkups and all.

Now I’m really not suggesting anything quite as crass as a whorehouse; I’m thinking more along the lines of one big, well-planned, er ... press party, actually. Only with the opportunity for more fantasies to be fulfilled on various levels. A floor of boys, a floor of girls. Wayne County could perform in a special basement room on some nights; there could be a little torture chamber available there for the kinky record executive set. There wouldn’t have to be too many restrictions; no tie dye allowed, of course, although perhaps a small room with tie-dye sheets could be set aside in case John Sebastian came into town. I would like to suggest that turquoise jewelry should be barred, but then you’d lose your big money customers; maybe they could just check it at the door^

And to really make it a party, you would need a proper hostess, right? Well, I don’t know about in your town, but in New Yolk the perfect choice would be Cherry Vanilla. Think about it. Cherry — for those who have by some rare chance not met her in her travels across the country is a friendly, warm, outgoing, and very healthy girl. Through her lavish introductions and effusive conversation she makes people feel right at home instantly. She has already been privy to much inside stuff from both rockstar and groupie alike; people tell her things, and whereas she might have to become iust a touch more subdued about what she knows, she’d be perfect. A rock Xaviera? No ... much more along the lines of a Texas Guinan or a Mae West-quality, Cherry has that bawdy sense of humor and lusty love of life that really should be put to good use in the record biz. Unfortunately, Tony de Fries didn’t really understand where her true talents lay. Now, before anyone starts screaming about decadence or womenslib, let me say that I respect this particular talent as well as this person a lot, and besides, she LOVES the idea, so there.

The possibilities are endless. A chain of such 'places in cities all over the country. Tie-ins with local limousine companies. You would have to try and insure that the people involved would have a least a modicum of discretion, but then again, the groupies’ grapevine has always been a notorious network of gossip anyway. Special showers, saunas, even jacuzzi baths could be installed for the older set. One rule should be that no one would be able to jam — enough is enough. But I suppose that if once in awhile there were a really special set of musicians in the place at one time, the exception could be taped. Can you see it now: a double LP ... Jagger, Page, Santana and Mark Famer — Live At Cherry*$??? I also think one might consider the possibility that fledgling groupies might even be willing to contribute financially themselves. Surely to spend an evening with, say, Robert Plant, would be worth at least eighty dollars to some people. (I can hear Robert screaming now, “EIGHTY DOLLARS??!” Of course, you’re worth more darling, but who has that much money??) Whereas Seth Justman might draw a bit less. There could be a sliding scale worked out. It just seems so sensible, somehow. And — as Led Zeppelin manager and Swan Song records chief Peter Grant confided to me, “We’re all pimps in this business, anyway, so we should certainly feel at home with the idea.”