HEARTTHROB VS HEARTACHE

HEARTTHROB VS HEARTACHE

SO YA REALLY WANNA BE A ROCK & ROLL STAR?

AIR WRECK GENHEIMER

To stand under the big lights, hear the roar of the crowd, take the encores and toy with the hordes of hypersexed groupies dying to titillate your rock star-inflated ego. Ah yes, to lead the sordid life of a teen idol...is that

what you wanna do when you grow up, kids? DAMN STRAIGHT, JACK!

Well, I do too. Yep, I’ve been wanting to tell women that I come from Detroit Q City and play guitar in a long-haired rock and roll band for over a decade now. A In fact, I’ve been haunted by the perverted desire to hump, jump and pump in U front of teenage boys and girls ever since my own .prepubesence when Ed Sullivan first hosted the Beatles. Rock dreams hit and fast — I lost interest in ^ piano and urged my father from music store to music store with tears building M in my eyes from being repeatedly told that the Gretsch Country Gentleman (George Harrison’s guitar) was just too expensive. That was my first n exposure to the harsh reality of what it would take to strut my butt across the teeny-bop temple of the rock and roll stage: LOTS OF CASH! ^

I finally settled for an Airline triple pick-up hollow body which at least ^ had the same double cut away shape as the coveted Gretsch. Besides, the V Airline was shinier, had more switches, a Bigsby tremelo bar and the allA important third pick up — to serve what purpose, I still haven’t figured out. But down in the neighborhood basements we pounded out the Ochords to “Louie, Louie” and “Gloria” until we couldn’t stand it. Then ^ we took our vast and varied repertoire to the junior high schools where they couldn’t stand it either. Undiscouraged, I knew right ^ away from those first few gigs that the world of rock was the place d to be. But how to get there... O

After being distracted by CARS AND GIRLS during high school (mortal enemies to adolescent rock aspirants) , I got back in the groove with the purchase of another guitar. Deciding on a new guitar Wasn’t an easy task because of the high prices, which are unfortunately even higher now. I fortunately stumbled on to the finest guitar ever made...the Gibson Firebird. I slapped my four big fingers around the Firebird’s thin, yet wide heck.

WOW! Grover tuning pegs sturdy enough to keep the axe in tune and delicate enough for the finest of fine tuning; two double-wound Hummbucking pick-ups, which supply almost as much tonal variation as an ARP synthesizer and a phallic design to match. I was on my way. v

Now all I needed (I thought) was a worthy amp. There was no question in my mind that the Ampeg SVT cabinet with Ampeg’s V-4 top was the Amp for any rock star-struck axeman to have.

After all, the Stones use ’em. Foolish as it seems, my heroes’ choice in amps was truly a primary factor in making the decision to buy./‘That amp will make me sound just like Keith Richard.” Sure chump, sure. Eleven hundred dollars, please.

Feeling nothing could stop me now, wallowing in the visions of big time teen king, plugging in and turning on, a new stumbling block quickly arose. With my new superstar equipment, I was now too obnoxiously loud for anything smaller than the Michigan Palace. Booted out of suburban basements for being unable to restrict my practice time to normal nine to five waking hours, I found myself — guitar in hand and two hundred pound amplifier on back — out in the street. Searching for the right place to practice with a 200-pound amp on my back was just one more painful step along rock’s yellow brick road. In a frustrated fever I sold my soul to the company store to get enough money for a new van. (After this week I’ll only owe $4,600... peanuts to a rock and roll star, right?) Since I can’t afford any gasoline to run the van, my search for the perfect practice place was considerably confined. I wound up in the slums of Birmingham, Michigan. During our first two and a half weeks of residence, the police came over fourteen times to give us the order that no self-respecting rock star hopefuls can .stomach; TURN IT DOWN! We of course persisted in our bi-weekly practice sessions until the landlord came over with an order to close up the house for good if we didn’t stop the bop, so what could we do except take some more Excedrin?

So far we’ve found nothing suitable for our hard-core musical harangue. The band is presently considering a conversion to Pignose power but the drummer is holding off until somebody comes out with a transistorized drum set. Pass the aspirin, please.