The Rollers In Detroit: Punks In Sheep’s Clothing

The Bay City Rollers arrived at Metro Airport to be greeted by a small mob of tartaned teens (around 50) on the lam from school. About half of them had been driven down from Marquette by two parents, one of whom clucked "Aren't they wholesome boys?" as her child pasted Derek (the blonde one) with a soul kiss.

Then it was back to the Pontch to "freshen up". The boy photog and I wandered around and came upon a touching scene: In their manager's room Eric was laboring over the shag haircut of a barechested Woody (the baby of the troupe at eighteen). Aha 1 The secret of those bristly mops 1 Eric had a chunk of his buddy's hair dunked in lotion and pinned back, and was blowdrying it with a hand-dryer. He unpinned it and — zap — it bounced right on end. Then Woody retired to the bathroom! (door a|ar) where he doused himself with Monsieur Rpchas, gave a few final pats to his carefully tousled locks, and donned a tartan-trimmed shirt with "Woody" spelled out on the back. Just as we were about to attack some hot chocolate and cookies, the call came. Back to the limos.

Then it was on to a Pizza Hut, where about 100 anxious CKLW contest winners (including two older ladies in blonde beehives whose presence nobody could explain) sat munching pizza and squealing. The Rollers dined on pizza and coke with their journalistic entourage, then obliged the little girlies with autographs and pictures.

Next the limos pulled up to a Harmony House, where more itchy fans awaited their boys' arrival to autograph albums and submit to more kissing. I noticed that they offered cheeks to the girls. I'd heard that a gay group had met the boys upon their arrival at JFK in New York, but I was still surprised to see a few boys soliciting kisses from the young Scotsmen.

"Wull, it's a part uv life, isn't it?" said Eric. "Wot should we do, pretend they doon't exist?"

Standing behind the five Rollers as they submitted to their fan's adulation, I happened to hear one of them mutter softly, "Foock it I" every so often. That was the one I wanted to talk to. Tam Paton, the Roller's round, genial Svengali ("Why do they always call me a Svengali?") tipped me off that lead singer Les McKeown was indeed the punk of the group, although they were all former street urchins cleaned up in sneakers (Addidas) and short pants. But it was back to the limos, this time through a crowd of fans who acted like they'd picked up pointers from A Hard Day's Night.

Next stop was Windsor and the studios of the Big Eight, but not before Canadian customs officials had hauled Over the beshagged Scottish lads for questioning. Well, look at the pictures. Wouldn't you?

Finally, to top off the day, a press "reception" in a suite on the 20th floor of the Pontchartrain. The mayor of Bay City had driven all the way down from what natives call the armpit of Michigan just to present the Rollers with the key to his city. After the ceremony, Les (the punk) and I tracked down some fags (some Kool fags) and chatted. I ragged him about nis JD image. Why was he so coy about smoking?

'Tss a bad habit, you know. I doon't want anyone getting hooked |ust because of me."

Do the Rollers do drugs?

"Droogs? The band I was in before, they used to do cocaine and weed, but I could see where they were headed. It's just so destructive, y'know. I'm still young, too — I'm high on livin'. You look nervous."

"No, I'm not," I assure him. "Just excess energy."

"Woont to work some off? Huhhuhhuh."

Somehow, a whole day of screaming teenies, halfnaked Rollers and non-stop Coca-colas had wired me to the level of about three shots of liquor. No wonder they don't have to drink 1 The boy photog and I found ourselves looning around in an elevator with Woody and Eric, who was holding a plate of bikkies (biscuits.

Ah, just look at It, crazed Roller fans, forcibly held back from their heart's delight. It's inhumane.

a.k.a. cookies). As the elevator opened up on the ninth floor, Eric pranced forward, thrusting the plate out.

"Woont some bikkies?" An enormous bleached-out woman of questionable profession stared at him, "Aaaghhl" was all we heard as she fled down the hall from the tartan terror.

There we were, rolling around an elevator with the most wholesome boys in popdom. Wholesome?

"WholesomeI" sputtered manager Tam Paton. "Well, if being particular about who they sleep with makes them wholesome..."

Aha. Refined sex. Monogamous sex. But they are human. There is life under those tartan knickers. What about groupies? Les snickered.

"They come up to us and say, 'Woonta ball?' I just tell them to go away. Who woonts something secondhand?"

You heard it here first, ladies.

Sue Whitall