The marriage of rock and TV has never been a comfortable one. When I think back to Shindig and Hullaballoo of the mid-Sixties, I have to marvel at what fun they seemed at the time, how exciting it was to see the Stones and the Kinks and how we actually believed Sonny & Cher singing "I Got You Babe" were in puppy love just like us pubes watching. And I have to wonder if it wasn't the magic of the times superceding the (mixed) media or merely that Shindig's appeal has grown as it recedes through the rosy mists of nostalgia.

Because what rock TV has mostly meant in the '70s is Friday Night's Midnight Special and Don Kirshner's Rock Concert, both of which suggest that in seeking to exploit each other for mutual profit, rock and TV have merely succeeded in cancelling each other out. Because (1) live rock has never been recorded right for TV, and probably never will be; (2) both shows have tended to recycle the same groups— e.g., Earth Wind & Fire ana Black Oak Arkansas—over and over again; and (3) and possibly most important, nothing outrageous can ever be allowed on TV; due to ridiculous codes and the nature of the medium itself, TV is the land of the bland, so since rock 'n' roll is or should be outrageous by definition, its appearance on TV has got to be either anomalous or result in dilution.

Not that it makes much difference, because rock itself, or at least certain factions of it have become as tame and irrelevant to true excitement as the most pap-smeared sitcom. Two fine examples of just how irrelevant and down right inept rock TV can be were provided for all America to gaze at and wince recently in the form of Bob Dylan's special Hard Rain and Don Kirshner's second annual Rock Music Awards.

On the surface, Bob Dylan and Don Kirshner might not seem to have much in common. But if you look a bit deeper, it becomes apparent that both shows were extremely clumsily handled, both were egocentric, masturbatory exercises that amounted to breaking your arm trying to pat your own back, and both were dull unto death except for stray spots of unintended humor.

As for Dylan, I might as well state my prejudices in front and get them out of the way so you know there's no pretense of "objectivity" here: I hate the bastard. I hate him because I had to watch this damn dull hour of his on NBC when just two stations away CBS had scheduled in the same time slot a special of their own called Rescue at Entebbe; and if I hadn't had to watch Dylan for this assignment I could have caught that and actually seen an interview with my idol, General Idi Amin Dada, in which he reportedly said that he had nothing against Israel, he just wanted some Phantom jets so he could bomb Tanzania.

I know that the more discerning among you will be able to sympathize with my plight, particularly if you have heard the demi-soundtrack from Bob's special just released on Columbia records. Hard Rain differs in about half its song titles from the TV special, but it perfectly captures the atmosphere of the show as presented on the tube and presumably at all the stops on the Rolling Thunder tour—Bob's raggedy tomcat-in-a-thunderstorm singing which would put Neil Young to shame, Scarlet Rivera sawing away interminably at her perennially out-oftune violin, the hopeless untogetherness of the entire band. About the only thing missing from the record is Joan Baez harmonizing (?) with Dylan on "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" and "Blowin' in the Wind," shaking her maracas and boogieing down a la Linda McCartney in "Maggie's Farm," and knitting her brows intensely at all times to convey the profundity of these songs, this man, this event! In fact, everybody was knitting their brows a lot, all trying to look very earnest, and wrenching their faces into the most uncomfortable looking grimaces as if each note were corkscrewed from their hearts. Everybody wore scarves (a.k.a. do-rags) too—they should've called this Band of Gypsies—except Kinky Friedman, who showed up in a ten gallon hat, shades and fur coat with all kinds of ridiculous feathers sticking out and was obviously the only person on the whole stage with a sense of humor about this mess.

And a mess was certainly what it was. After everything I'd read about the Rolling Thunder tour, I was equally prepared for great rock 'n' roll or old folkies at home, but what I and millions of others got instead was the most raggle-taggle clutter ever seen on one stage atone time. All of the songs plodded in a sort of stop-start fashion as Dylan would let everything drop between choruses and even notes, all rhythm out the window, and his accompanists sprawled in every direction at once straining to keep time with his non-time.

As for the master himself, you'd think he would have learned to play a little better guitar, or more than three basic chords after all these years, but his playing seems rather to have deteriorated, just like his voice, which tries to mask its weakness by drawn-out ragged yowling intended to convey deep emotion. What it actually does convey is open to question —the veins were standing out on his face, he kept his eyes shut half the time, and a friend commented that his delivery, that same stilted, perfunctory delivery heard through most of Desire, suggested that he was very nervous, whereas I felt that he was merely throwing all the lines of every song, old and new, away. Because he doesn't know anymore what the words to "Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" mean, and doesn't care what the words to the songs off Desire and Blood on the Tracks mean What he wants to do, rather, is put himself on display as a full-scraggle American Institution, somewhat'like Paul Newman in Robert Altman's Buffalo Bill & the Indians.

The cameraman who filmed Hard Rain, Bob Goldsmith, said: "I know Bob well enough to know that if I got too close he'd let me know. Actually, the way we shot made it much more relaxed for Bob. We weren't asking him to do anything for us."

Wasn't that nice of Bob, considering this guy was only putting him in front of the biggest audience he had ever played to in his entire career? Rock Royalty lives, with patches on its jeans.

As for the Kirshner awards, they were merely further proof for the case that rock 'n' roll has become all the things it used to be the curative antithesis of. Just how irrelevant the whole thing was can be ascertained by simply noting that the nominees this year for the Hall of Fame award were the Beatles, Elvis, John Lennon individually, Dylan and the Beach Boys (the Beatles won, to a cheer and a half). At this rate it'll be fifteen years before they get to Little Richard.

Fleetwood Mac walked away with Best Group Album as well as Best Single for Fleetwood Mac and "Rhiannon" respectively, and everybody seemed to have forgotten that that album is almost two years old. There was a pronounced MOR bent in both nominees and winners—if Gary Wright is best New Male Singer and Hall & Oates are Best New Group, then maybe it's time to forget rock 'n' roll ever existed and just change the channel, because certainly neither has much to do with rock 'n' roll.

Diana Ross shared the floor with Alice Cooper, who proved once again how totally, pathetically unsuited he is to work in the medium he avowedly worships—he continuously blew lines, misread cue cards, and comported himself in a manner so awkward it was downright embarrassing. At the rate he's going, in five years Alice will be lucky to get on Celebrity Sweepstakes, much less a berth so prestigious as Holly wood Squares. Meanwhile, Diana managed to execute six and a half costume changes during the course of the show, as well as having her hairrestyled backstage while Alice sang "I Never Cry" and slapped his dancer wife, Sheryl Goddard, around in the obligatory S&M overtoned Apache dance.

The highlight of the evening was the Public Service awards. Alice proclaimed that "Rock music personalities are foremost and basically people. Contrary to rumor. People with the same dreams, desires and feelings as everyone else. They are ambitious but they;— not selfish—self involved —but caring!. . . and I can't, read the card . . . their careers are—time consuming!. . . but they still invest whatever time they have in--"

Living room cries of "Get the hook!" and "Gong!"

Diana: "What we in this industry are most proud of—the Public Service award." They gave P. S. awards to Harry Chapin for contributing to World Hunger Year, and to Dylan for helping get Hurricane Carter out of jail. Patti Labelle accepted for Dylan, saying "Bob asked me to accept this award because we're born on the same birthday . .. ."

Alice: "And they're wearin' the same pants." (Finally got dff a good one.) Paul Simon got an award for keeping the New York public library open, and Lynyrd Skynyrd were honored for saving the Fox Theatre in Atlanta from extinction. Diana accused Alice of copping a feel off her ass, and Alice said she had touched his tush first.

Then Diana administered the coup de grace. "But seriously, folks . . . there's an incredible movement that's growing in the United States: concerned citizens who believe that whales have the right to life. And through words and through music, the team of David Crosby and Graham Nash expressed their own concern by giving a special concert so that the whales are still alive. I think that's absolutely incredible and we honor them with our fifth public service award . . . well, once again, I don't think they're here, but we'll accept for them . . ." Alice made a crack about Flo & Eddie being there, speaking of whales, and Diana continued. "No, seriously, I do know a lot of my friends are concerned about this area and it's something that I personally would like very much to be interested in ."

So would I, Diana. So would I.

The Rock Awards: Rewards or Indictments?

by Patrick Goldstein

Let's play twenty questions. Roger Daltrey called the show a disaster. Elton John swore by his bifocals he'd never host the proceedings again, one seedy rock critic boasted he'd rather watch Dick Van Dyke re-runs and a prominent record company exec. burned his invitation.

What was this odious affair? A live simulcast of The Totie Fields ThreeLegged Race? The network premiere of the quiz show What's My Sex?

No fans, those wise-ass remarks are just some of the more generous assessments of the second installment of the bombastic Rock Music Awards, sponsored by pop concert impresario Don Kirshner.

The Grammys may be bland and Dick Clark's prizes simply high camp, but the prime-time TV Rock Music Awards (broadcast September 18 on CBS) were nothing short of neanderthal.

Rather than criticize their format (Surely you remember the debut show, highlighted by Keith Moon's impression of Zippy the Chimp, leap-frogging down the star-studded aisles like an East German weightlifter attempting the 110 high-hurdles), we'd rather focus on the awards selection process, which has provoked a rare show of solidarity among rock critics and record execs.

"The awards are a complete sham," an editor of a major trade publication said acidly. "They have no credibility whatsoever. It's the height of exploitation, like people who start new tennis classics or beauty contests. At least the Grammys have some influence on sales. Kirshner's a wards just don't carry that kind of clout."

"Frankly, I'm embarrassed to have even voted," said one leading rock writer, who like most detractors, requested anonymity. "The selfglorification of the industry just bores me. If Diana Ross is co-host with Alice Cooper, then we're not talking about rock a wards, but a TV spectacular."

Theoretically, the awards are elaborately organized. Record companies submit a roster of artists that have sold over 200,000 albums. This master list is sent to a "blue-ribbon committee" of a dozen critics and disc jockeys, who narrow the list to five nominees in each of 15 categories. The final ballot is sent to hundreds of writers and jocks across the country.

In practice, this system proved to be even more Byzantine than the Academy Awards. Mercury Records was surprised to learn that one of their entries for Best R&B single was Cledus Maggard's "The White Knight, a country ode to CB radio that never made anything resembling an appearance on the R&B charts. The master ballot was also riddled with embarrassing spelling errors. Bob Dylan appeared as "Bob Dillon," Led Zeppelin lost a "p" and The Allman Brothers' surname was spelled like the candy bar.

Peter Frampton, omitted from even the master ballot's Best Male Vocalist category, was also shut out from the final ballot's musical categories (although he was up for "Rock Personality of The Year," a dubious distinction). Another travesty: The Best New Male Vocalist slot. Offerings included a jazz guitarist (George Benson) who's been singing for over a decade, performers with at least three records under their belt (Bruce Springsteen and Gary U/right) and one artist, Bob Seger, whose first hit single topped the charts in 1966. ("Congratulations," read one telegram to the Motor City rocker, "for being the oldest living new male vocalist.")

Predictably, A&M execs were less than ecstatic. "Those awards are a joke," complained Lennie Bronstein, the label's FM promotion chief. "I threw my ballot away. If the Beatles put out a reunion album today it wouldn't outsell Frampton. There is no bigger record this year—by Christmas he'll have sold over five million units. Those Kirshner people are fools—they should be embarrassed."

Mercury officials, who have seen their biggest-selling groups omitted for two straight years, were equally aggrieved. "I only say the awards aren't biased," snapped a source high in the corporate hierarchy, "because I have no proof. They're certainly not representative of what's going on in the business."

The Mercury official also claimed that Kirshner personally apologized to another exec after the awards omitted Mercury's biggest 1975 act, BTO. (Outraged, the band responded with an ad in the music trades saying, "Who Needs The Rock Awards?")

Kirshner allegedly offered Mercury more than his sympathies. "Shortly after the awards last year," the Mercury staffer said, "The Ohio Players, a film of10cc and a film of Roger Glover's Butterfly Ball (all label artists) appeared on Kirshner's Rock Concert. It's fair to say there may have been some relationship between the neglect of our acts and the placement of these performers on his TV show."

Winning a berth on Mr. K's Rock Concert seems a rather dubious distinction , but then judging from the previous barrage of criticism, landing a Rock Award hardly offers more satisfaction. TV and rock has been a stormy marriage from the start. Now, with the Rock Music Awards serving as an unfortunate reminder, it's time to sue for a divorce.

What about Mr. Kirshner? Well, one particularly astute member of the critical pantheon offered the following advice. "Remember the Archies?" he asked. "Well, Don should have quit while he was ahead."