Situation unchanged. Still hanging on in here, waiting for something to happen. (Wait — was that a heart-grazing lobe-grinder of a new single from Mick, Keiff, and Little Helpers? Nope. Oh well . . . )

Here are the facts:

First, the Knebworth Bucolic Frolic — imminent in last month’s slo motion fandango — turned out to be the summer fest of the year in Limeyland. Eighty thousand heads were counted (by a qualified Very Fast Head-Counter) lolling on the upper-ends of necks in turn rooted in torsoes jammed chin-tobuttock on the lawn which presumably runs down from the doors of castellated Knebworth House to where the twentyfoot tall stage then rose in scaffolded splendour against the blue skies of high noon . . .

What I’m trying to say is that everybody got sun-stroke and passed out during the Doobie Brothers’ set. They soaked ’em at Buxton, froze ’em at Olympia, and scorched out their remaining brain cells in an English country park — but, lo, it is said that it was Worth It.

Minor controversies of opinion smouldered briefly over the succeeding day and a half — Were the Mahavishnus the spirit made flesh in a secular epiphany, or were they just a high-speed brain-spring? Did Van Morrison realize he was on-stage and performing, or did he think it was still part of the soundcheck? But little did we know the true existential melodrama was being played out back-stage in the artists’ enclosure all along.

Thing was, you see, that Fred Bannister (the event’s big-thinking promoter) had somehow crossed swords with the Warner Brothers press-corps just prior to the “off" — leaving Morrison, Tim Buckley, and Les Doobies bereft of back-stage facilities.

Alex Harvey challenging the Doobie Brothers to a knife fight.

Now the Doobs’ special contractrider states that they require three separate dressing rooms — one for the band, one for the roadies, and one for tuning up — so it was not surprising that the boys became un peu miffed to find themselves without so much as a deckchair between them and the. fair English sward beneath their plimmies.

So, girding their legal rights, they advanced on the caravan occupied by the sole British act to appear on the day’s menu, the notorious Sensational Alex Harvey Band — a bunch of mildly surreal musical warp-outs from the Theatre of Horrible Grimaces led by the small, generally peace-loving, but ultratough Glaswegian 38-year-old A. Harvey himself.

Knock-knock.

“Wha’s theer?”

“We are the Doobie Brothers and we claim our free caravan.”

“If ye want this caravan, ye can come an’ get it — wi’ knives.”

However, the spirit of Woodstock soon prevailed, rational dialogue ensued, and finally an agreement was amicably decided upon (Harvey kept the caravan and the Doobies mooned off elsewhere) — which is more than can be said for the sort of stuff concurrently going down over around the Allmans’ berth (thoughtfully provided for them by Polydor Records).

Following fun-with-the-phoney-backstage-passes — involving the generous donation of carefully-faked I.D.S to persons not cherished by the band (and the subsequent savouring, by the latter, of the former’s discomfort during the application by eagle-eyed stewards of The Old Bum’s Rush) — Dicky Betts was at length approached by a polite and patient journalist, who had been waiting some hours for a quote or two while the Horse-Play Southern-Style had progressed.

“Er, Dicky — could I have a word or two with you, old man, please?”

“My name — ” delivered with a witheringly frosty glance “ — is Richard.”

This is believed to be a contender for the shortest interview of all time. (The current title-holder — a solitary belch addressed by a somnambulant Keith Richard to a hopeful Nick Kent some years ago — is at present in dispute owing to the fact that Kent was not a bonafide rock reporter ^t the time. Any Yank entries will be considered, providing a reliable witness can be produced to attest to their veracity.)

I mean — The Allman Brothers ... Boogie . . . Y’know . . . Where’sitatman?

We British don’t understand the Stateside affection for three-hour mandrax motorcades. Give us weed, whites, and wine and show us a clutch of stack-heels holding up a hundredweight of glitter. We will be willing.

I imply the disassociative “we”, by the way — but, in case, I’m being crassly over-simple. Now that Bowie’s engrossed in “breaking” America, and Ferry’s locked in a tightening spiral of record/write/record, the glamorous phalanx that trod down all opposition in this country last year seems to be now as fragmented and cliquey as the rest of the British scene always is.

Hot tips for stardom Cockney Rebel recently curtailed their rise to fame by splitting up, leader Steve Harley leaving his silent cohorts to pick up anything he inadvertently left behind while he makes a solo-play for mass favour. (Obvious, really — he’s geared to replace Bowie for the home audience and there’s only room for one man on a pedestal, however empty.)

Next on the list for the big polevault, Be-Bop Deluxe have followed suit — their ace-in-the-hole, Bill Nelson, apparently being now in the process of consorting with a couple of ex-Rebels with the intent of founding glam-rock’s first supergroup.

Across the street in flash-rock territory, similar shennanigans are in progress, this time involving those mellotronic prophets of ersatz orchestral karma — Yes. Having lost the services of the enormous sack of sequins which previously operated keyboards and flight-control, Anderson’s androids successively approached Keith Emerson, Roxy’s Eddie Jobson, and the ivoriestinkler for obscure Anglo-Greek combo Aphrodite’s Child (who claimed to be called Vangelis Papathanassiou) all without success — until they finally managed to entice one Patrick Moraz from a trio by the name of Refugee.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 47

The irony here is that the other members of Refugee are bassist Lee Jackson and drummer Brian “Blinky” Davidson, founder members of The Nice before Emerson was seduced away by Lake and Palmer. Their key boar dsman pinched from under their noses two bands. in succession, they have since broken up in disgust. That’s karma for you.

In more fertile fields, Robert Wyatt (original drummer of the Soft Machine, confined to a wheel-chair since a bad fall last year) has produced a new solo-album called “Rock Bottom”, which is just about the most impressive British rock disc of the year so far. He’ll be touring soon, playing keyboards and singing, and if anything crazy happens, I’ll tell you.

In the meantime, the business staggers on, managers threaten journalists with the ballistic removal of their kneecaps, and most of the initiative for 1974 continues to come from America.

But we’re not worried. Three months under Gerald Ford should be enough to put you all safely back to sleep.