Some notes on a week in the British Isles, courtesy of Rock Junkets Ltd.:

First of all don’t ask me anything about the folklore of the common slobs, because they put us up in the Ritz. Which is not exactly like waiting around for some boogie band in a Holiday Inn in the middle of Iowa. They practically had to pry me from my room to go to the concert: “Uh, send the band up on a tray.” Oldstyle decadent elegance at apogee, my suite had two enormous beds, as well as a sitting room and two bathrooms, one for the toilet and one for everything else. Under such circumstances one develops a lightning appreciation for the more civilized ways of the Empire even in decline, rather than being irritated by the relative blandness of the natives, as I’d been on Slade trip in 1972. No room service menus because they just assume you know they’ve got everything. I should have thought to order enchiladas, but I did all right, especially when I woke at 6 AM with monstrola hangover and called down for remedy. I figuredJhey’d send up the British equivalent of AlkaSeltzer, but five minutes later the porter knocks and hands me an envelope with four white pills that looked like Quaaludes (but weren’t) in it. I wash them down and 20 minutes later I’m kicked back, grooving to tapes, practically on the nod. (I found out later the reason for this is they can sell codeine preparations with mild sedative sans script in Angleterre; when I told NME writer Mick Farren about my experience he snorted: “My mother’s been giving me those things for headaches since I was five years old.”)

No matter; a tenderfoot Yank needs something to cope with a round of parties that included press fetes for Art Garfunkel and Edgar Froese, as well as blackout nights in several clubs. It’s strictly kosher because alcohol is totally integrated into the society — pubs are cheery, convivial nexuses, not like America where you have to slink down to some lowlit bar and hunch over your drink. In fact everybody over there is wiped out half the time; when people in offices go to lunch, they go to the pub, and have like four vodka and tonics, and by the time they get back the rest of the day is straight siesta. Hellish to adjust to the pace, but you get the hang. I also observed a great many young people sitting around in rooms steeping themselves in every drug known to man — apparently the mass burnout hasn’t hit England yet. Maybe it’s because the quality of so much of their stuff is low — like they’d be sitting there snorting what they admitted was procaine, saying, “Yeah, we’ve got some duff coke,” and keep complaining about it, and when they offer me some and I decline they can’t figure out why. Rather drink anyway, which is easy to do, especially at press parties.

The Froese thing was advertised as a “languid tropical gathering,” and it certainly was, in an old ballroom with palm fronds everywhere and most folks acting quite hoity-toity. I reached for a copy of Edgar’s new album, Epsilon in Malaysian Pale, and this old lady catering slaps my hand — shame on you, you don’t get one until you make your way through the hors d’oeuvres. Which was easy, which is more than you could say for some of the talk. Spoke to this one young sweetbun in pale pink gown who told me that Edgar’s music, the bleeps and sploops of which were filtering down incongruously over our heads, was “pure,” and that the people here were “a lot of music business phonies.” She told me she was a ballet dancer, employed by Tangerine Dream in some mysterious capacity she refused to divulge. I turned to Edgar, a Santa Claus-like figure who laughed often. “Edgar,” I said, “you’re such a jolly old soul, why do you make such grim music?”

“Is not grim,” he asserted. “My music is happy. Look around — smiling faces!” I asked him what he thought of Kraftwerk and he fell into a mild dither, accusing them of “commercial sellout.” Met with similar positive dialogue at the Art Garfunkel press party/conference, where I asked Art if it was true that Edgar was producing his next solo album. “When’s that supposed to happen?” he countered.

“Right after the big pop festival in Stoke-on-Trent.” Which mildly broke the press up; I know how to get a laugh out of these limeys. Art didn’t get it; actually, neither did I. But I plunged ahead, asking him what he thought of Metal Machine Music.

“Male machine music?”

“No, Art, Metal Machine Music.”

“Mellow machine what?”

“Ah, forget it, Art.”

TURN TO PAGE 78.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 53.

Also visited our sister publication, New Musical Express, where the journalists are popstars. To wit, Nick Kent, who looked just like the Stooges’ Scott Asheton, and Charles Shaar Murray, who came to the office dressed as Lou Reed. Not only do they get to dude up like this, they get their pix in the mag so all the young K in England can see them and get the hots.

Well, all this looked pretty good to me, so when I went down to NME and did a singles column for them, I also arranged for a session with luscious photog Kate Simon that night. Which was how I ended up, posturing and preening in the glare of the white lights, “Sister Ray” playing and everything, making sure to get both my “LESBIANS IGNITE” button (purchased at Socialist bookshop) and my bop shades into the act. Big league, time to develop an image.

When the new NME finally got back to Birmingham (Mich.), I turned eagerly to the singles page. And cringed. I showed it to Tits, and she said “Reminds me of Wolfman Jack — you know, some old sham.”

Oh well, hell, I got to see the Who. For last nite on the aould sod, rambled out with Kate and others on a bus junket to some little town hours away from London, to catch Townshend and company on the second gig of their ’75 tour. Pete was hot that night, at least al first, and I thought we were going tc witness one of the all-time great shows. But somewhere it all bogged down, probably in Daltrey’s showbiz posturings and the songs from Tommy, ending in another overlong, dull show. Meanwhile, the English press showed solidarity with their American cousins by allowing themselves to be bullied by Who stage and presspeople, herded in and out of the orchestra pit and back again like animals, all on some pompous pretense of “letting the people who paid to see the band get a clear view of the show.” I complained and was granted special treatment as American visitor or “name writer” or whatever — they put me on the side of the stage. I walked off and out into the audience. It seemed like a nice gesture and I could afford it — 36 hours later I would be five thousand miles away.