Robin Trower: Prince of the Power Wah

"Robin Trower? He's very moody," I was warned before embarking on the road with the 31-year-old English axe ace. "And whatever you do, don't ask him any of that Jimi Hendrix shit."

"I have to drag him to interviews," sighed one of his Chrysalis PR men. "He doesn't understand why he has to do them."

This unsolicited advice left me unprepared for the self-mocking person with melancholy eyes and a grin that periodically threatened to split his face that I ended up talking to. This is the guitarist who manages to wrest such overwhelmingly sad noises out of his Stratocaster, I thought, as I watched him gleefully try to shove bassist/vocalist Jimmy Dewar onto his Scottish crock as they vaulted up the stage steps at Madison Square garden. Who maneuvered up hotel escalators swinging on his arms well enough to put a tenyear-old to shame. Trower admits to a more or less melancholy nature, but his supposed aloofness is more English reserve than anything.

What's probably always disconcerted interviewers is his habit of sitting back and quietly observing his tormenter, throwing you off guard with questions of his own. He exudes a calm but always-ticking sensitivity; nothing seems to get by him. In Pittsburgh after the show, Jimmy Dewar, Bill Lordan (the Trower drummer of a year's standing and the only Yank in the bunch) and I slumped around the dressing room, drinking champagne and orange juice. "What did you think of that crowd?" I asked them.

"What did you think?" shot back from a distant bend in the room where Robin was changing out of his stage g<?ar.

It would seem that this acute sensitivity would extend to the press that Trower has gotten over the years, from absolutely no coverage while he was with Procol Harum (but he hardly existed on the albums anyway), to incredulity when he quit that band, to the "Is he out Qf Hendrix's shadow yet?" stories that have dogged his solo career. But Robin claims that he's not as affected by it as he used to be. "After all, it's essentially a writer's opinion of me. I have my own ideas about what I am, which are usually totally different. It really doesn't affect my image of myself." Reviews, he added, were the same way — he's often read good ones and disliked them because the reviewer had missed the point or was picking up on all the wrong ones, whereas some negative write-ups he could respect for certain on-target ideas.

This new, relaxed, hard to believe attitude seems to extend to Robin's confidence in himself as a musician. At first, he said, it was all he could do as a solo to get himself out on stage and play, with the specter of Jimi hanging over him. "How can you possibly measure up to something like that?" he asks, shaking his head. When that is someone who — at least occasionally — managed to bring to the level of art an intensely individual style of guitarplaying, the answer is "No way." Unless you put any stock in reincarnation. Robin says that he waited to go solo until he could produce the sounds that he heard in his head. But as a guitarist he owed his alphabet to Hendrix, and among critics form was almost universally mistaken for content. '

Actually, Trower puts off more tragic vibes; you knew that Hendrix/Super Spade got all the women he wanted, was sassy about it and often contemptuous of ^elf and audience (self for doing his "tricks" for the audience, audience for wanting it) Trower seems to derive a melancholy joy from his audience, getting off on them getting off. Hendrix was always in control of his destiny, no matter how self-destructive it was. With Trower you sense a different kind of fatalism. "Takers get the honey/Givers sing the blues," is the essence of Trower. Of course, the whole belabored Hendrix issue still is an issue, and had to be brought up. I didn't find Trower to be hostile about it in the least; when he saw the cover of April CREEM with the "Hendrix Lives, Dylan Dies" headline, he broke out laughing. When I told him that we'd gotten a lot of flack about Lester Bangs' "interview" with Jimi, he was amused. "People just don't like it when you tamper with a hero of that order," he mused.

"Confidence — that's exactly why I didn't step up front with Procol Harum," Robin said, getting back to his feelings about himself as a musician. "I'm very particular about what I hear, and I wasn't satisfied."

Observing him onstage at Madison Square Garden, it was difficult not to notice the satisfaction in the wideangle grin that erupted on his face when the audience responded to the opening power wah chords of "Ladylove." Part of the punch of his music on this 19/6 tour can be credited to the bombed blondshell drummer from Minneapolis, Bill Lordan, who whips Robin and vocalist Jimmy Dewar along at a breakneck pace. "Jesus, the drummer isn't even sweating," said an incredulous security guard at one concert. What he didn't see was the fan aimed at'Bill to keep the nasty sweat at a minimum while the muscular drummer beat the skins. Roadies would mutter in dark Gaelic tones about broken drumsticks and having to readjust the kit on nights when he was particularly energetic.

I have kind of a love/hate thing going with my guitar. Sometimes it treats me badly...sometimes I treat it badly.

Bill talked as quickly and vigorously as he drummed, and without any prodding; an Andy Warhol Interview wet dream. I found myself sitting next to him in a limousine the morning after a Warhol/Warner Bros.-hosted bash for Robin in New York. You get the feeling c that Bill directs a running monologue atf, the world: o

"You can sit next to me, I don't! have any diseases you can catch. Man, the party in my room last night! I closed my door hut before I knew it everybody was showin' up — some Average White band guys — what's that rhythm guitarist's name? Not Hamish. You know, I think Robin ^vas almost gettin' into the party last night! It's so different from what we're usedto. Wasn't it nice of Rick Derringer to come over to Robin and say how he understood how hard Madison Square Garden was acoustically — that he'd tried everything; SEVEN sound systems — and he hadn't been able to'crack it. But that we'd sounded real good. Boy, that's a cream-colored car, isn't it? Bowie never showed up last night — guess he had to go to Rochester [for arraignment on drug charges]. Man wasn't it funny when Andy Warhol and Robin were together and all the photographers were clicking away, and then oT Andy whips out this Instamatic and takes pictures of everyone taking pictures of him. And that black chick I knew who sat down next to Robin — didn't she remind you of a tigress? She had that hungry look, like she was digging everything and everybody and just wanted to eat it all up! Wish we could have a party like that every night. Yeah, but there was nothing like Sly's wedding at the Garden [Bill was Sly's drummer before joining Trower], that must've cost a fortune. What the hell,you know? The guy's so much in debt, what difference could it make?"

He stretched out his hands and studied them, complaining that they were sore from the. night before and that he'd have to soak them in water. "That's what concert pianists do to loosen their hands up before a concert. Did you know that? I'm just like a pianist, I've got to protect my hands." He grinned at his own analogy.

Confidence — that's exactly why I didn't step upfront with Procol Harum. I'm very particular about what I hear, and I wasn't satisfied.

Bill has been with the Trower band for almost exactly a year, and everyone in the entourage, from Robin on down, pointed out the subtle change his funky, drumming style has orchestrated in the group's sound. Robin flatly states that he's the best drummer in rock; he certainly deepens the R & B flavor of the group and unleashes a more violent energy in Robin and Jimmy. Both Robin and Bill were unusually excited about the new studio album (already recorded but not to be released until September). Calming down somehwat, Bill explained:

"When we did For Earth Below I'd . only been with the band for two or three months. I'd just left Sly and we didn't have time to get tight. Now that we've played together for this year we've got it down to a science. With the help of Geoff Emerick, of course, who is probably the best engineer — he did the Beatles and won a Grammj/ for McCartney's Band On the Run. Mixed, / it's one of the best drum sounds."

Bill agreed that his drumming style was rawer than his predecessor Reg Isidore's.

"Of course, we have learned a lot in the studio since then as far as cueing and miking, and the things that make the drums sound that way. But it's also the way I play. And the Record Plant in ¶ LA, where we recorded For Earth Below was not the right place for Robin's sound — loud guitars. The new LP was done at AIR London, right on Oxford Circus. It's a good studio for our sound; there's no distraction, you go and you just work. When you're in most'studios, it's all padded up, it's just like putting a muffler over Robin's amp. It has to ring. And every room has its ambience: That's why the live album is • so good, 'cause that hall in Stockholm where they give the Nobel Peace Prize is just acoustically perfect."

Why release the live set now?

"There's a point at which you really feel right about the material," said Robin. "That when it should be released, not afterward when you say 'Oh, I can do better than that now!' Of course, I hope I always like what I'm doing at the moment better than my earlier stuff. When a group realizes that their earlier albums are better, that's when they're in trouble."

Rpbin always believed that his best work was in front of an audience, where he could feed off the energy from the squirming bodies and really let loose. It never seemed to quite gel in tho studio. Certainly, what is striking about him in Concert is his reaction to the audience; as introverted as he's supposed to be, he never seems to be as caught up in himself or his guitardoodling as other flash guitarists.

Like so many guitarists Robin has a body that seems genetically predestined to hold an axe; streamlined, with a decided slouch that creates the perfect niche for his shiny electric appendage. The "toys" are arranged in front of him — wah pedal, etc. — but he used them less than one would expect of a Hendrixian stylist. Although he is of the Ron Wood "You can see how much I'm doing from my face" school of guitar facial expression, it was actually more to accompany his playing than make it easier. He didn't appear to be laboring — if anything you wanted to say 'For God's sake stop grinning and look at the frets!' Part of his secret is intensive warm-ups before every show. That's not counting the sound check; this is right before he goes on, and nothing is allowed to interrupt. Of course, the guitar is never really far from his side. Onstage in Pittsburgh his practiced air was put to the test; a firecracker exploded almost directly over his head, but he didn't appear to miss a. beat. "I didn't even see you jump," I told him.

TURN TO PAGE 79.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 38.

His eyes widened. "I certainly did, you just didn't see me."

I found myself sitting next to The Axe on the plane to Pittsburgh; instead of traveling with the rest of the equipment on the roadies' plane, it is bought a ticket along with the rest of the band, Robin or his brother/manager Mick carry it on and it's strapped to a seat of its own. Our stewardess propped it up on the seat and fastened the safety belt, but as soon as she was gone the tour photographer patiently undid it, leaned the guitar on the floor against the seat, and strapped the auxiliary belt (aka the Jackie Gleason belt) around it. "The safest way," he sighed:

Once we'd arrived in Pittsburgh, Robin , the guitar and I hopped into the first limousine. I mentioned that I'd sat next to his axe on the plane.. .and that it had the window seat.

"Did it keep you company?"

I didn't want to encourage fetishism, so l didn't reply. He thwacked a copy of Norman Mailer's The Champion against his leg as he spoke, and smiled often.

"I have kind, of a love/hate thirig going with my guitar. Sometimes it treats me badly," he laughed, but seemed to be half serious. "Sometimes I treat it badly."

Did he mean it treated him badly when he lost control of it?

'More laughter. "Sometimes."

Is it ever your fault?

"It's usually my fault."»■

How did he compose? Drugs? Alcohol?

"Well,*it's not as romantic as you'd think. Actually I just sit down in my hotel room or at home and mess around on my guitar. I jam.. .and sometimes something comes of it, sometimes not. Like when the band jams."

What about the pervasive sadness to his music, especially when his blues guitar playing was in top form, say on "Rock Me, Baby." Was he a rehabilitated wrist-slitter or what?

"There's definitely a lot of sadness to the music."

Kind of a sweet sadness...?

He looked at me sideways. "Exactly. Do you remember me saying that somewhere?"

Caught in a web of journalistic intrigue.

"There's one long guitar riff on the live album that I think is very sad. And if 1 think it's sad.. .I've always felt that the emotions were the thing in music — the emotion behind the music. I'd like to think that people get that [sadness] from the music. The best music is infinite, you keep finding things in it."

Did he think his music was drug music? Was there such athing any more?

"I think stoned people probably get into our music to the degree that they do because when you're stoned you just tend to get into the music more deeply . My music isn't hallucinogenic because I'm not into drugs. You know what I think is psychedelic, though? I find early James Brown records psychedelic, because they expand my mind. I think our music is mind-expanding in the same way.

"The best feeling is when you're playing, and it really feels right. You kind of lose yourself. That's what it's all about."

Our conversation veered towards other songwriter/musicians.

"I don't think of myself as a songwriter, because my songs are so personal I can't imagine anyone else coverin'g them." ,

Why didn't he cover more songs?

"I haven't done it much because I wouldn't want to do the chord changes in exactly the same way."

As for his personal tastes in music, Robin noted that he, Jimmy and Bill shared a love of black music. (So what did you expect, Provencal death chants?)

"We're lucky in that we enjoy each other, we play together well and outside of our own we like the same kind of music. Well just about — Jimmy was always into soul, Bill R & B and I'm the blues fan."

Robin is also a jazz buff and a confirmed vinyl junkie: he collects early Elvis, Muddy Waters, 1930s Bing Crosby pop jazz (?).. .When we discussed current released, though, he confessed that his last fave rave had been Donny Hathaway, who hasn't really done anything in two years. Most contemporary black music in the last few years he found too slick and unexciting. He did say that he liked cuts from the Earth Wind & Fire Album Gratitude — the live ones that he thought managed to retain some excitement. I asked him if he didn't think that rock was more dynamic than jazz or R & B as a modern musical form.

"No, I don't think rock is dynamic at all nowadays. Don't you think everyone is just listening to their old favorites?" But he allowed that he was at least as disappointed in contemporary jazz. "That Jimmy Smith stuff we were listening to at the hotel was done 15 years ago! And the performers today are often talented enough, it's not that."

He felt that rock musicians were more often than not stuck in ruts of their own making — many older ones were playing the same kindergarten riffs they'd done for years. "You've got to face it, you lose the ability to do that elemental kind of guitar playing at a certain age. It doesn't go anywhere — you get stagnant."

I mentioned being knocked out by a decidedly unstagnant 76-year-old Benny • Goodman.

"Oh, you're talking about a different kind of talent, a more developed musical form. You can take it farther."

It was harder to talk to vocalist Jimmy Dewar than either Robin or Bill because for the dates that I was with the band he was afflicted with a raw throat, faulty sinuses and so-so hearing (and as manager Wilf Wright whispered, "You talk even softer than me"). Despite this, once up on stage, when he opened his mouth that big aggressive voice came booming out of the speakers. The boys teased him backstage in Pittsburgh about "faking" his singing, since his speaking voice was barely above a croak. He denied nothing: "Well, what could I do, go out in front of 10,000 people and have them say 'Good Lord, he can't sing!' I had to do something!" And he did; the only concession to his tortured voice was to take out a particularly gruelling number. For Pittsburgh only. In between numbers Jimmy would amble over to the amps and toss off cups of lemon and honey, undoubtedly provoking comment among the crowd ("Yeah, cat needs some Jack Daniels for his throat, heh heh").

\ told him that I was surprised he spoke with as thick a Scottish accent as he did. "You sing American."

"Do I look Scottish when I walk?" he quipped, lurching across the dressing room. On stage, playing bass and singing, Jimmy seems as serious and dramatic as his voice — there's nothing else he can do, he's tied to the microphone. Bill is a constant frenzy of motion and Robin even dances around. But offstage you notice that Jimmy's face is actually always on the verge of cracking up — even more than Bill, he's the tour cut-up. The one who pours more liquor in your glass while you're looking the other way and laughs as if he's getting away with it. Despite feeling bad, Jimmy was usually cheerful, and always singing, intoning a dramatic "Spellbound, mmmmm, spellbound..." as he grabbed a handful of mints in a hotel coffeeshop. Robin and Jimmy have been together since Robin quit Procol Harum and formed the ill-fated Jude,' which included singer Frankie Miller and ex-Jethro Tull drummer Clive Bunker. Before that Jimmy had played bass for Stone the Crows (Maggie Bell's group); it wasn't until Jude broke up and Robin and Jimmy decided to form a trio that he was convinced he could sing.

"I discovered him, actually," said Robin. "When I first heard his voice it struck me how well it would1 sound with my music. It's got quality.. .1 really can't define it. It's a very musical voice."

It's a jolt, too, coming out of Jimmy the way it does. Robin laughed. "Yeah, that big voice coming out of that skinny little guy!"

One night in Pittsburgh Jimmy, Bill, Robin and I got together in Bill's hotel room to "talk," but it turned out to be a less formal interview situation than they were expecting. This was dada journalism, and they were expecting maybe Lisa Robinson.

"So what's your angle going to be for this article for CREEM Magazine?" Bill kept asking. I explained that I would extrapolate an "angle" after I'd digested all of the information. Or make one up. That wasn't good enough.

"Ask me what my philosophy of life is. Ask me."

"OK, what is it?"

"To be doing what I love to do, and to make money at it. That's the ultimate."

OK. I turned my attention to the TV set, which Jimmy and Robin were intent upon: Johnny Carson and Orson Wells were trading quips, and we dissolved into laughing and telling funny stories ourselves. The boys would occasionally remember who I was.

"Are you going to write down all of this?" laughed Robin — in a particularly relaxed mood, having enjoyed an aromatic smoke. Then what we'd been waiting for: Ray Charles appeared on the tube and played a few numbers. Although all of the boys agreed that his voice had deteriorated over the years, his jivey electric piano playing was fun' to watch. After his numbers were over, Robin walked over to the dresser, popped open a coke, and grinned. "That's it, I'm giving it all up!"

One story that was on the lips of Warners people, Chrysalis people and members of the Trower entourage as well was THE INCREDIBLE^, SOUND SYSTEM. Holling Stone even thought it worthwhile enough to reprint a memo from manager Wilf Wright to Russ Shaw detailing every watt and ohm at Trower's disposal. At each city, or when he thought of it, Wilf would leak the news to the local TV stations that Trower was toting the "largest mobile sound system in the world" around with him. When I asked Robin about it, he looked fatigued. "Does that impress you? It probably isn't the largest. And if it is, so what? I'm more interested in the quality of the sound than the quantity of decibels." At any rate, a writer in England's New Musical txpress reported that Trower's was the loudest concert he'd ever experienced, bar none. And the tour photographer, Brian McLaughlin, told me that he wore earplugs while hustling around for pictures in front of the mighty amps, and advised me to do the same or face the consequences of hearing no more Kiss records. Maybe it is too late, because I didn't suffer at all. (Of course, it helped being in back of the electric blitzkrieg at every show).

Something else that everybody ^agreed on was Robin's uncompromising attitude about screw-ups. "Robin is just very painstaking,''said an insider. "And he feels that if he doesn't see to the details, no one else will. After all, it's his name." A year ago most of the roadies had been fired en masse for some failing; the new set-up, with Robin's brother Mick acting very capably as road manager, seemed to ruYi smoothly enough. Until Detroit.

The monitors weren't feeding enough sound back to the band so that they could hear themselves properly. Back at the hotel after the show Robin called a band meeting, to the dismay of local scenemakers. Mick Trower and I lounged in the bar downstairs, mostly filled with would-be party people. Looking very Would-be.

"It's nothing heavy," said Mick, attempting a reckless wave of the arm.

"Robin will get it worked out. Some thousand dollar piece of equipment will be bought or something." '

One local Holly Goljghtly checked her Pulsar with a pained expression. "Any other band would attend to business the morning after the gig. Not Robin! One o'clock in the morning and he calls a band meetinq."

My last view of the object of her venom was a typical one; Robin was strolling down the'hall of the Pontchartrain, toting his guitar case as easily as a kid would a Duncan yo-yo, when he was surrounded by a group of boys with odd bits of paper in hand. Mick and Jimmy walked on ahead to the elevator and held it for him. "C'mon Robin." But he was caught, once he'd put down his guitar and signed* an autograph. More kids kept appearing as if from behind rubber plants, and he couldn't refused them. "Robin..." The elevator door quivered in expectation.

° "Those are the fans that hound him," a Trower person informs me. "You see them wherever he goes. Strange, grubby-looking kids. Amateur guitarists, all of them."