ZZ TOP PLAY BULGARIA

ZZ Top is sort of like Communism. Apparently theres about eight million of their fans out there but you cant really tell who they are and it can make you feel a little weird. I mean, chances are probably something like one in three that your next door neighbor is a ZZ Top fan. So how come he never mentioned it? Is he ashamed? Is he afraid? You see what Im talking about. It sounds like the Commies.

Know your enemy, I always say (though in this case Id think that ZZ is my friend if they are anything), and with that in mind I journey to Philadelphia. The ride down is pleasant enough, despite the fact that the early departure time has caused me to miss enough sleep so that I am fundamentally reptilian. I even listen as the groups publicist relentlessly talks billboard-sized facts (and apparently they are facts, though how come Id never heard of any of this shit before) about the band. To wit:

ZZ TOP TOUR LARGEST IN HISTORY.

ZZ TOUR EQUIPMENT . THREE TIMES AS BIG AS ROLLING STONES. (But the Stones are little guys, Howard.)

" zz Top is sort of like Communism ... there's about eight miltion of their fans out there but you can't really tell who they are. "

$140,000 SPENT FOR ANIMALS ON ZZ TOP TOUR. 1,440 MAN HOURS REQUIRED TO ERECT ZZ TOP EQUIPMENT.

And so on. Interspersed with these boasts are anecdotes about the boys going down to Mexico and fucking turtles, cacti, an occasional whore and the entire north face of a Mayan pyramid, or some such, and then going home to write songs about the

experiences. Ive heard it all before. One thing you become resigned to when you commit yourself to doing a story on ZZ Top is that you will receive press releases five times a week thereafter running over these same facts and anecdotes and phone calls approximately twice a week also with the same information.

And theres no way you dont absorb a goodly portion of the info. In other words, no matter how little research you choose to do, by the time you are to confront ZZ Top you more or less do know your enemy, or at least you know pretty much what the publicist says your enemy is.

" When the three members of the band are hustled in, I realize... they're just waiting for me to shout SUCKS! I remain coot. "

This is what I concluded in advance about ZZ Top: That they were probably the dumbest motherfuckers in existence who could only punch desultorily and inaccurately at their instruments whereupon they produced the most loathsome throbbing squat noise this side of Black Oak Arkansas and that they were probably being completely sold dowrothe river by heartless management abetted (unwillingly, I presumed, because I like Howard) by the most hard-seir publicity robot in the biz. Furthermore, I was thoroughly suspicious. With Kiss the hype was for the most part out front and you could watch it fake hold and almost predict when | their big score would happen. This band seemed to just fall out of the I blue to become THE BIGGEST

BAND IN HISTORY, MORE POWERFUL THAN etc. etc. etc., and no matter how reliable the sources quoted were, I found it fishy, in other words, 1 was not impressed. In discussing the terms of the interview (you see, talking to most rock stars is like getting Palestinian terrorists to agree to free hostages), the publicist reveals to me that I will not be able to eat dinner and "hang out" with them as 1 had requested. A maximum effort, he explains, is made by | their management to shield ZZ Top | from any "distracting influences." j They are kept pretty much in their hotel rooms and away from booze, sex, and all the other good things that life has to offer in order to "preserve their energies for the performance." (Calls to mind the "precious bodily fluids" speech from Dr. Stranqelove.) You wonder if they have to get pass cards from their manager to go to the potty. But, dont be ridiculous. Of course they do! Billy, I am told, was severely reprimanded last week for going down to the lobby alone and without permission. Some pretty tough Texas muthas, youd have to say. My opinion dims further.

No sooner have we checked in at the Hilton than its time for the audience. I am ushered into the living room of our suite and am joined there by three functionaries, including the ubiquitous publicist, of the ZZ Top organization. Moments later, when the three members of the band are hustled in, I realize that its six against one. Theyre just waiting for me to shout out, "TEXAS SUCKS!" I remain cool.

Introductions are made. Billy Gibbons, lead guitarist/songwriter, sports an overgrown beard, short messy brown hair, wire-rim glasses, and the most benignly easy-going Texas-hospitality manner that one could imagine; he seems far calmer and wiser—-to the point of being paternal—than his 26 years or the wild stories about him would seem to indicate. Dusty Hill, the stout florid-faced bassist/songwriter, offers his hand saying "Pardon my fingers." I start to say that Id just finished eating a greasy hamburger, too. But then I realize he is apologizing for the size of his fingers, which, I discover, are the general shape and length of a Parks sausage. Who taught Dusty to do this, Ill never know. But it appears to be the jovial and enthusiastic Hills only neurotic quirk. While both Billy and Dusty are wearing jeans and boots and alligator sport shirts, drummer Frank Beard is the mod of the group with a white jumpsuit, a shag haircut and neat mustache. Trimmer and shyer than the other two (again the shyness belies the stories), Frank is the baby of the group though theyre all 26.

Despite the three aforementioned vultures hovering on the couch nearby (not the same ones as used in the stage show, however), the atmosphere around the table where we sit is completely relaxed. The discussion somehow takes off from Bob Marley. Billy is lamenting the loss from Marleys band of Peter Tosh, who he terms "just the most exotic guitarist," and Bunny Livingstone, the bass player. He says that one writer summed it up for him when he said that the new band is "basically just a backing section for Marleys front running." Billy goes on to say, "Its funny to talk about Marley these days when hes so in vogue." Billy allows that, yes, he has been into Marley for "some time," whereupon Dusty chimes in to say, "Billys too modest to tell ya but he was telling us about Marley, oh, it must have been at least two years ago."

Several thing? became apparent from just this brief chatter. First, that Billy Gibbons, especially/ know? his musical stuff and i§ certainly not locked into any boogie rut as ZZs albums might indicate. Second/ Billy is undoubtedly the guiding light behind ZZ. Thirdly, and most surprisingly, none of these guys are dumb, and, in fact, Billy would probably rank in the top percentile of any generally administered rock star IQ test. Fourth, theyre among the most genial fellows you could hope to meet.

So why all the isolationism? The protection? The hype? Why does a publicist feel that theyre sometimes shy about talking? Why does he feel that he must be presenj: to coax those juicy, J^ut by this time, well-worn anecdotes out of his boys? When, in fact/perhaps more than any other rock luminaries, that Ive ever encountered these are perfectly normal, intelligent, friendly people.

Itls. all about product control. And what the product is here is three redneck Texans who play boogie music. Billy understands it: "When we first started we were just kicking around the local spots around Texas making a name for ourselves. There was no real attention being focused on, Texas at the time. It was really kind of a liability to say you were from there. Wasnt cool to be a redneck then—they were really afraid of it. . . Now its cool—but Id like some of these people to meet a real redneck sometime."

While Billy may understand the marketing ploy of ZZs publicity machine, he does not necessarily agree with the ploy, or that the ploy is what has created the success of the band. "I was really amazed at the reception weve been getting in Boston, New York, all these cities so far culturally removed from where we came from," allows Billy, his blue eyes aglow with an honest preacherlike sincerity. "But, I think that now when you drive from New York to LA, you can eat the same food, stay on the same road from coast to coast if you want—I think everything has become so standardized that the idea of Texas with its vast wide-open spaces, the last place you can hop in your car and drive a thousand miles an hour, drink as much beer as you can consume, and drive off the road and still keep going—I think thats got some kind of magnetic quality for people who are, say, up here where jts a little more confining. That may be the reason why they like what were talking about."

Billy continues by saying that success may have taken all of five years because their subject matter and approach is so far removed from the standardized/!, homogenous American experience. He points out the paradox that seemed to occuton their first major tour when they opened for Alice Cooper, then at the height of his snakes and hanging schtick. "He had such a weird act to begin with, and the combination with our little thing"—indeed, compared to todays production it was virtually microscopic—"it really clicked. The music—he got down with some pretty hard and heavy stuff sometimes and we were just out there pickin. They really couldnt figure it out.

"Most isingly, none of these guys are dumb, and, in fact, Billy Gibbons would probably rank in the top percentile of any generally administered rock star IQ test,"

Theyd think. “What are these guys doin with this other guy??? But it was really a magical combination. “Cause here we were singing about the idea of Texas and . . . well, it was just as weird as what he was doin to a lot of the people up East."

"It was weirder probably," interjects Frank, who further points up their essential uniqueness to much of the North and East with an anecdote about a trip several years back to New York. "We were sittin up there in a hotel lobby one time," he says, swallowing his words in the thickest accent of the group, "waiting to check in, lookin just about like we do now—except I dint have a jumpsuit ort, I was wearin cowboy boots and a hat and everything. Then the elevator came down and a guy came out in knee-high boots with heels this long, and a feathered vest and a big, ol black bull whip ... and the people iq the lobby are all lookin, at us . . . like we were crazy. People were lookin at us cause that was normal to them, but cowboy hats and boots was just ..." Frank turns his hand up in the New York gesture of exasperation.

A freak show? Or the musical keepers of a vestigial pioneer spirit? Whatever, the appeal of ZZ Top live certainly has a lot to do, as one might imagine, with the appeal of the Spectacle to American audiences (as so thoroughly realized by P.T. Bamum). After the interview, its over to the Philadelphia Spectrum where they are setting up the show and where I get to meet my first buffalo and my first long-horned steer. They ask after my mother and speak kindly and at length about ZZ Top, though Im unable to understand a word. When showtime rolls around, the press box is a-buzz: "Where are the animals?" Spectacle is indeed the name of the game. But ZZ is definitely saving the last word on us all.

The shows designer, Bill Narum has referred to the production as a "modern day Wild West Show." The backdrop to the stage is a three scrim painting of a Texas sunset and gives the illusion of being three-dimensional. There is a range fence jutting out to one side of the stage and on the other side a vulture chained to his perch flaps somewhat indignantly. Stage center there is a dome-like cage in which some long squirmy things sleep. Also, there are some guys playing music. But where are the big ariimals?

Nice stage, nonetheless. And so what if you have to listen to the music. It TURN TO PAGE 78 just so turns out that ol Billy Gibbons is legitimately a hot lead guitarist, the real rattlesnake on the stage as he winds some lethal bluesy guitar around ZZs elemental; boogie sound. (Hendrix once referred to him as "the best young guitarist in the country.") He is also a real surprise.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 45.

But enough of this esoterica. Everybodys waiting for the buff and the steer. Suddenly the show is over and ... No Big Guys! The crowd cheers for an encore. "But where are the animals?" I ask of the ZZ man to my left. "Wait," he advises. All of a sudden, rising from behind black curtains on lifts on either side of the stage, here come the .stars'. The buffalo sniffs desultorily at his hay. The steer on his platform lifts a bunch into his mouth. True Rock Stars: Both remain oblivious to the swelling of the audience roar. Are they storied on junk? Did they have a hard night at the Holiday Ihn? Its amazing, what they,can train animals to do! But, then, a full ten seconds later—Can you imagine? Ten whole seconds!—the platfprms descend behind their curtains again and the stars are*gone. "What??? Whdre are they going???".! shout at the guy to my left. "You mean, you spent $140,000 for a ten-second cameo appearance???" Howard informs me later with triumph in his eyes: "Its the details that count." The press box is shocked. The audience less so because about half of them probably missed the whole thing anyways.

The lights go down again and three guys come on and play some more boogie. Then the show is over.

TEN SECbNDS!!! Can you imagine????