“There were these two Irishmen, Shamus and Paddy. Paddy sez to Shamus, ‘Whaddya got in the bag?’ ‘Ducks.’ sez Shamus. ‘If you guess how many ducks I have in my bag, I’ll give you both of them.’ Paddy thinks for a minute and then answers ‘Seven.’

The five of us collapsed with weak laughter, having emptied and refilled our glasses at least six times in the past hour. The bartender was automatically pouring doubles and the jokes were getting bawdier,' By eight o’clock we were no longer a hapless half dozen tying on a drunk, but comical competitors trying to out-drink and over-joke the next guy.

“Another round for all of us!” commanded Rick, grabbing at a passing waiter. “Triples!” he dared. “Did you hear the one about...”

The waiter returned with the six glasses and set them about the table. He smiled indulgently at us and quickly moved on to another table. Dress code had been waived along with the usually stringent Drake decorum. The Drake Hotel is a posh stayover in midtown Manhattan. A single stalk of broccoli could cost a quick three bucks, while a single room could set you back one big one. So why was this Park Avenue haven unbending its effete etiquette for this fair-haired Limey? Money speaks, and stuffed shirts listen to who’s talking. Rick Wakeman can rake in more cash from a one night stand than the conjbined annual salaries of every tray slinger in the joint, so the managment suggests, “Let Mr. Rick indulge himself.” The more booze consumed, the more boisterous he becomes, and the more bucks are in it for the bartender and the boys.

Terry Taupin (the concert narrator) saturates a thirtyish twosome with a thin stream of gin and'tonic, shot from between his two front teeth. I was attempting to drown my mounting

mirth in my Meyers and Coke, getting a little cock-eyed gaping at those same three ice cubes, before I realized that the soppy companions weren’t burning our backs with scorching stares of rage, but were both whispering excitedly; looking first at Rick, then at each other. As if on beat, they both rose and beamed at our boy. Cameron Crowe convulsed in spasms of uncontrollable laughter, sloshing a Seven & Seven down the front of Rick’s leather jeans. By now the couple had nervously edged towards our table. The woman hesitated, then addressed Rick. “You’re the Rick Wakeman, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an affirmation, she gushed, “We’re from Australia and are huge fans of yours. I want you to know you’re a smashing success in the Outback!” Rick suddenly seemed to sober, and nodded his head at the appropriate intervals, gracefully accepting his honors as one of the monarchs of the music world. Rick Wakeman, a rex of rock, indulging his public.

Rick downed the rest of his drink. “Order us another round, won’t you ‘Wanker?’ ” he urged, ambling away in search of a john where he could sop up some of the spilt Seven and Seven. Rick returned to the table and took a goodsized slug off the glass. “Cameron! Why did you order me a bloody Scotch and Coke, I’ve been soaking myself in Tequila Sunrises since seven!”

' “That’s what Gregg Allman drinks and I figured that’s close, enough,” challenged Cameron.

“That’s okay, nip I’m as much of a drunken slob as he is,” snorted Rick, sending the scotch reeling across the table. “Check, please!” he demanded, breaking up this soused soiree.

The waiter, a stone double for Danny Thomas, brought the bill over to ,the table. He handed a black plastic tray to Wakeman with much pomp, pointing solemnly at the totalled tab, he innocently inquired: “Your autograph, sir?”

"Another round for all of us!

Triples!"

Monday morning at an incredibly rude hour, I am jerked out of slumber by a menacing phone. When \ answer, a bland voice from A&M records informs me of my 11:45 interview with Mr. Wakeman.”

‘-‘Sure, sure,” I muttered as I turned over.

“You have only an hour with Mr. Wakeman.” cautioned the Voice.

Snapping on my Sony, I followed the red arrows to the elevator. “Amazing!” I said aloud. “No hangover!”.Elated, I pushed nine. The Wakeman Suite would be to the right, I guessed. Right. Suite 914 loomed on my immediate right. Before I was able to knock, the door was opened, by the bell captain. “If there’s anything else, ask! Anything/”

he promises. I enter, without ceremony, reassured by Art Fleming’s announcement from the color TV that “this is Double Jeopardy.”

The room looks vacant. “Rick?” No answer. “Rick!” a little more volume, maybe. “Where’s Wakeman?” I said, more to myself than to anyone. As if in answer, a dark head bobbed out from one of the outer rooms.

“Whaddya want?” he demanded testily.

“Wakeman interview, 11:45, CREEM Magazine ...” I reeled.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” The dark head disappeared into the doorway appearing a minute later, in a gold crushed velvet bathrobe. He silently crossed the room, gravitating towards the pale yellow desk phone. As if strangely compelled, the phone began to ring. The dark man made no signs of suprise, and automatically answered the ring. “Yes!” he barked into the mouthpiece. As he listened, his eyes darted around the room, resting a moment on a breakfast tray the Bell Captain had offered, and then to me, lingering a little too long as he sized me up. “Be here by 2:00!” he demanded, and then hung-up.

“Brian Lane,” he offered, without warmth. “I’m Wakeman’s manager.” He glanced at me again in passing, but was more interested in coffee than my credentials. The suite was tasteful in coordinated blends of persimmon, cocoa, and gold. The overstuffed burlap couch and thick coarse carpet were indeed elegant — the kind of elegance that appeals to an auto executive, or a Republican senator. Not a rock and roll star. He was vaguely out of place here.

Well after noon, and right after I had vowed to myself to wait no longer than 10 more minutes, Wakeman finally appeared. He was wearing only a bath towel between him and his nakedness, and I was wearing a relieved smile. He smiled vacantly in my direction, and motioned for me to wait. “Be with you in a minute,” he mumbled as he passed through another door. The minute stretched into many more. Lane installed himself at the phone, ushering in much traffic to my increasing annoyance.

“Still waiting?” Lane innocently asked. For all his animal attractiveness, that man was as irritating as chewing a wad of tin foil; he found my impatient vigil something of a joke. Behind me I heard a door open, and I turned to see Rick enter the room as he buttoned his extended cuffs. He scowled at one of the cuffs that refused to stay fastened. Before attempting la grande entrance he paused and thoughtfully brushed his hair from his face as if it were a curtain rising. As he crossed the room, he looked up like he was expecting applause from an invisible audience. Was this the same man as last night? The drunken slob? What had become of Ricky the clown, the guy who could raise a blush, across Linda Lovelace’s fair features with his smutty jibes? Why, Wakeman could even rival that racy lady Rusty Warren with his ribald joketelling. The blond before me was a waxen caricature of the Rick Wakeman I had met. His face seemed frozen, stuck between expressions. Confused, 1 had no alternative but to begih the interview: “How does it feel to be successful?”

" I run a limousine service on the side called Fragile Carriage . . . it pays for my solo tour. "

Rick simultaneously acknowledged and dismissed my question with a “ . . . don’t know...” Never figured him out to be a prima donna. I made a few more stabs at banalities with no more luck. He met each of my pokes with a condescending smile or an occasional “that so?” I racked my brain to trap

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Classical concerts are like churches, the only people who go to them are the converted. Rock and roll audiences will give anything a try — they want to see and hear something different, yet performed and presented properly... besides, record companies promote rock acts much more than their classical acts...

He wound down, and stopped in mid sentence. Silence again. I plunged on: “Okay, big shot, how’s it feel to be a superstar?” In an effort (I’m sure) to throw me off guard, Wakeman shifted his gaze from my right shoulder to my left, ignoring the'question. I was floundering and I knew it. “Why did you quit Yes?” I nearly shouted. He glared at me, then pretended not to have heard. I repeated the question again, stronger and firmer.

“I quit because I wanted to be happy,” he announced impetously.

This minor victory under my belt, I persisted, and' reluctantly he unfolded some of his story:

“Yes began as a five piece unit and it got less and less a five piece unit. Everyone pulled further and further apart. Besides being a music making 'machine, Yes became a money making .machine ... There’s an important state that a band can get to, and Yes got to that point — where a record would go gold before it was even made. That means people believe enough in what you’ve done before, and on the strength of that, are ready to accept your next thing. I didn’t think that was very good. In fact, it was a very embarrassing thing.

I didn’t enjoy the concerts, or making records anymore. I desperately wanted to play Henry on stage, and I couldn’t because this was a Yes show and I had to play Yes songs ... I made a quite a bit of money touring with Yes (that’s what is financing this solo tour) but I really felt bad about not doing what I wanted. I know if I stayed with Yes I could,have really cleaned up ... ”

Cleaning up with Yes? Wakeman seemed to have the knack for cleaning up on his own. Imagine carting the entire Engligh Chamber Choir, and the National Philharmonic Orchestra cross country * in a rented Electra 105-seater jet. The hotel bills alone would make Conrad Hilton gleefully dance on his gravestone.

Still, I had witnessed Wakeman in performance and I was impressed by his fanatical and fiercely devoted fans. During one of the dongs of Journey I bent forward to ask a question of the man in front of me. “If ya wanna gab, gb home and lissen to /ecords and gab there. If you’re gonna stay and lissen, shuddup and lissen!” advised the irate occupant of the next seat. Before I could reply, she had riveted her eyes back to the center stage, oohing and aahing as the

stage filled with man-made smoke. When the rubbery blobs were brought out she was in a state of suspended rapture, her hands clasped in utter fascination. The mounds of rubber began to fill and bloat with helium, bobbing their yet unformed reptilian noggins at the audience.

Were these ostentatious creatures the visual companions to Jules Verne’s text of Journey to the Centre of the Earth? Since Rick Wakeman was obviously not Pat Boone, these harmless refugess from the wading pond would have to do. Terry Taupin our narrator, strained to give Wakeman’s musical Journey some sense of continuity, but'Taupin’s sharp Shakespeariean diction grained coarse and gritty against the smooth, lush flow of the music.

Wakeman’s massive battery of pianos, organs, mellotrons, and .moogs provide an arsenal of auditory ammunition. From his perch, among his electroriic gadgetry, Wakeman becomes Oz. Omnipresent yet accessible. A mad maestro of constant motion; perfctly cast as demi-god, all his movements are flawless.

The audience is mesmerized as the transluscent sequins s&wn on Wakeman’s white cape shatter the spotlight into thousands of tiny prisms. His heavy, golden hair is his natural crown; the thick mane cascades from his shoulders and falls forward, as he leans hard into the final chords of “The Journey.”

Wakeman says he enters a “Hydelike” state where he is oblivious to everything but himself andjhis relation to the music. His keyboards become his castle, the orchestra and choir his kingdom, and the music his missal. Just 4s a cop pounding a beat has to look tough, a super star on stage has got to maintain his cool. v

“I think every performer is a Jekyll and HydC. When you are playing, it’s like going into a trance, not like meditation or anything. But somehow your whole mind is geared to one thing — the music — and everything else is blotted out.

In a spectacular gesture Rick Wakeman flings his fingers from his keyboards and returns them to their place, immobile against his now rigid body. He stands poised, awaiting the imminent response from the audience. In perfect time everyone on the stage bows in stupendous synchronizations. Rick bows deeply, without seeming to bend — all movement concealed by the expansive folds of his cape.

The applause is not only a reward, but a demand. Rick doesn’t oblige immediately, but struts off the stage with scrupulous decorum, his hands clasped above his head in a triumphant salute. He resurfaces, moments later moving toward a single mike to profusely thank his audience, explaining that a moment such as this is what a performer strives for. The frentic fans are soothed temporarily by the sound of Wakeman’s voice, but soon grow restless, clamoring for more songs. Rick plays two more for them, and still they have not been satiated. Rick smiles radiantly down upon the crush of people below, and unabashedly admits that his band knows nothing more — but is willing to repeat the second section of Journey. The crowd roared its approval — trying to press their bodies still closer to the stage. As the last strains of the final rendition hang in the air, Wakeman is

whisked away in a waiting limousine.

Hmm, Rick Wakeman the perfect performer and the rough and ready Rick Wakeman, the pub monger. With a tape recorder running Mr. W. was called on to perform. Click. I conspicuously switched off my Sony. Predictably Rick’s limbs loosened and his expression again etched itself out of waxwork, into humanity. Rick began animatedly sketching in the air crude diagrams of the stage set-up. Exhausting that subject he asked me:

“What kind of car do you have?”

“A Mustang,” I answered.

“A Mach I?” he demanded eagerly.

‘*No, just a Mustang Mustang,” I replied.

“I’ve got a Mach I, you know,” crowed Rick.

Feigning suprise, I ask, “Just one?”

“Aw, he’s got one and1 twenty,” interrupted the beasty Mr. Lane.

“You do?” I asked, impressed.

“Yeah,” he said, unable to disguise his enthusiasm. #

“What do you do with twenty one cars?” I demanded.

“I run a limousine service. Call it Fragile Carriage Company. I’ve got all sorts of models, makes and years. Even got myself a couple of Rolls ...”

I cut him off; stunned. “You. mean you rent your cars out — for money?”

“Yeah, I moonlight on the side — to pay for my solo tour,” he kids.

Like a sleepwalker awakening, Rick notices the nearly-untouched breakfast tray. “Where’s my bloody Bloody Mary!” he loudly clamors — then laughs heartily at his own bad joke. W

him, while he stared at a spot over my right shoulder. “Why would kids rather go to your concerts than Leonard Bernstein’s?” I shot. He spoke slowly and deliberately, like he was delivering a royal proclamation:

“Twentieth century rock audiences are far more intelligent than half the audiences who go to classical concerts.