Even though I’m fortunate enough to have a larger-than-the-usual-size color TV, and I appreciate it for the great drug that it is, there is part of me that will always cherish old black and white movies (and I’ll watch them anytime, forget this late at night business) on television. I don’t think it has a thing to do with nostalgia. (Remember nostalgia?) J prefer the look. The same is true of photographs. I always think the ones in black and white tend to better document, illustrate . . . and on their own are more interesting works of art. In 1969 when Richard Robinson thought seriously about forming a band called Man Ray, in which everyone would wear all black and white and the stage would be adorned with bright white . neon light, I thought it a bit stark. I realize now how right he was.

Those of us who live in New York City and who have attempted to spread the media word about a newly emerging “New York band scene” realize that so far, the scene is still “underground” (remember “underground”?) and minimal. The most dedicated to spreading the word include writers Alan Betrock, Danny Fields, James Wolcott and others; but most of the credit for the existence of this scene must go to CBGB proprietor Hilly, who is the only oi)e to give these bands access to a stage as, they perform regularly at his Boweryfront club. Recent Village Voice articles on CBGB have brought more people down there; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a New York magazine piece is next, and soon there will conceivably be hordes of the amyl-nitrate popping, slumming, uptown faggot set descending on the small bar at Bleecker and the Bowery. They won’t stay long, though, because it’s only the seriously committed who understand that while currently minimal, this scene could mark an important change in rock ’n’ roll music as we know it today.

Patti Smith, Television, the Ramones and perhaps the Talking Heads are evolving a totally new look, as well as a sound. There’s a decidedly chiarascuro (dictionary definition: arrangement of light and dark parts to create a pictorial vision) feel to these bands; a spare, stark, no-nonsense visual. So anti-fashion that it has become, for those of us looking closely, a fashion itself. It’s more than that they look like the rock stars of old , although the short hair of Talking Heads’ lead singer David Byrne, or the almost Beatle mop of Johnny Ramone, to say nothing of the skeletal look of Television’s crazed Tom Verlaine do bring back memories of early Stones, Kinks, the Who. But more than an attempt to look conservative as an emotional backlash to a mob of flashy posers, there’s an avant garde nostalgia at work here as well as a desire to strip away all excess popstar trappings. When the Ramones play, they concentrate on their energy rush, they play so fast they barely give their audience a chance to applaud between numbers. And what could be more sensible than performing a twenty minute set?!t couldn’t make more sense to me; the Ramones leave you with that rare desire to hear more, as well as a much needed chance to catch your breath. Talking Heads may be a bit too intellectual and/or still too early in their development for my tastes, but I like the way they look. Girl bass player (I don’t care, she is a girl) Martina Weymouth reminds me of Maureen Tucker, and boy lead singer David Byrne is like Jonathan Richman without the warmth. I honestly can say that there aren’t many people I could watch on stage as much as I could Patti Smith, Joey Ramone and Tom Verlaine. They all three have, to borrow from Barbara Stanwyck in Stella Dallas — stacks of style.

One comes away from these bands realizing more than ever that so many musicians — whose names I’d rather not mention — just look silly and oldfashioned these days. (Slade is one of the ones I’d rather not mention.) Even dagger, with his multitude of specially designed Giorgio di Sant’Angelo ensembles this past tour, revealed that it wasn’t the way he’d wanted to look. And the funkier, get-down bands like the Eagles, the Allmans, the Outlaws . . . all those bands who never stopped wearing t-shirts and jeans don’t really count here, because they never had anything to do with fashion.

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But Television, the Ramones, Patti Smith — they do. They all share a very black and white look. Tom Verlaine iq particular is so detached, and this, combined with their crazed, charismatic energy, is dramatically effective. Not only do they sound interesting, they look interesting. Without props, smoke, fire, sets, costumes, makeup, hairstyles, or special shoes. What does not look interesting is someone like Johnny Thunder who, with his new band the Heartbreakers (including former Television bassist Richard Hell), walked through CBGB one night right in the middle pf Talking Heads’ set (rude, rude) with lots of blonde groupies (remember groupies?) in tow. You know the type, girls who still buy clothes at Granny Takes a Trip and wear platform boots in the summer, yet. Thunder, as I recently heard on the CBGB grapevine, refused to walk through the main door of the club during his appearance there, but insisted instead on being escorted through a special side door. Tch, tch, who does he think he is, one of the New .York Dolls? In addition to some awful lyrics (the Heartbreakers’ “,~L. ready/ready/ to go steady with you” sent me fleeing CBGB in terror, they look all wrong.) Johnny still jumps around the stage like he’s Ron Wood, still with that English roadie shag haircut and turquoise open shirted Chinese top (I wish I had never made such a strong statement on Chinese clothes, day by day I’m changing my mind) and let’s face it, he’s too short for this band. If he still has to play pretend-popstar, why' did he bother to leave the Dolls, to say nothing of how much better Richard Hell looked with his white shirts and black jackets (very Don’t Look Back) standing next to Tom Verlaine. Musically they may not have gotten along, but at least they were the same height.' And while one hopes that David JoHansen’s recent hard work will pay off for him, no one is smiling that he sat through a set at CBGB heckling the band from a front table. Even Margo Channing endured Eve Harrington with dignity; of course the analogy doesn’t really apply, for these ne\V bands are totally unique. Whether they owe a nod of the head to John Cale or the Stooges or Lou Reed (who in his usual gracious manner shrieked “I AM THE NEW VELVET UNDERGROUND!!” when D. Fields told him to go see Television because they were) or Patti Smith or Dylan ... I don’t care. They are making music as interesting now as anyone did then and they are a visual relief. The garbage is being replaced by yet another “avant garde” urban scene that is visually sensible, so right for these deadly seventies. It’s non-iqtellectual art being created in much the same way as when the Who first smashed their guitars or when John Cale tore apart a mannequin nurse. It’s unpredictable and looks like 8mm home movies so far. I don’t miss the technicolor at all. ^ „