Graham Parker Learns To Speak

Backstage at the Roxy Theatre, Graham Parker is coughing, spitting, smoking, growling, guzzling honey (of course he’s drinking—whattya expect?); trying practically any ruse to stave off a vicious attack of laryngitis before the second set. Your loyal correspondent, vainly attempting to salvage an interview, has begun to hastily scribble multiple choice questions on the remnants of his famous writer’s note pad.

Hi, I'm Graham Parker, and I can't talk but I can produce primal screams upon demand that will turn your short hairs straight. And I can look tough without pinning my cheek up onto my forehead. And you will not overhype me the way you did Bruce Springsteen.

The questions have been uninspired (Well what would you ask? How did the blues arrive in Chicago—‘The Mississippi? The Missouri? The Dan Ryan? TWA?).

Worse still., some imbecilic local butter queen has been promoting the medicinal properties of peyote. “It’s great for your throat, man,” she assures us, interrupting my learned dissertation on the evils of air conditioning. “Just go to New Mexico—they grow lots there. You can find it along the road.”

Graham nods politely, looking for help. “That stuff tastes like shit,” I boom authoritatively, “You can’t keep it down. Try inhaling cigars.”

“But peyote comes in capsules, then ya don’t taste it,” she pleads, sensing a loss of interest in the topic. Aw, shut up, babe. Graham and I got business to discuss. He can always whisper. Screw the second set. Joe Cocker and Van Morrison and all those other poofs can always come back tomorrow—What else they got to do anyway?

While Graham entertains the Rumour (his band) with doctor jokes— he’s stuck a coke straw in his eye: “Dr. I’ve got this pain in my eye,” he giggles, “whenever I drink coke”—let me tell you about him.

In Network—the loony, bitter tirade against the inanity and dullness of TV—the phrase “I’m mad as hell! And I’m not gonna take it anymore!” is the film’s leitmotif, a mad news anchorman’s primal scream against the ravages of prime time.

The slogan applies to Graham Parker as well, for Britain’s latest working class hero’s songs blast the monotony and boredom of everyday life with equal vehemence. “Hey Lbrd, don’t ask me no questions,” Parker roars on stage, gesturing.towards the roof as if to put his nemesis on notice, “Ain’t no answers in me.”

From the safety of the audience, it’s easy to suss out Graham’s magnetism. He’s plain fucking scary, looking like a pint-sized version of Albert Finney in Saturday Night and Saturday Morning, ready to crack skulls.and bust up a pub for laughs.

Graham’s slot in the rock bestiary is safe. Rock Stewart may resemble a rooster, but Parker’s oversized shades and high cheekbones give him the air of an overgrown lizard. His eyes are sunk back in his head, his wiry little figure bristles with anger, It doesn’t take much imagination to visualize a dank, smokefilled pub a decade away—he could be Eric Burdon or Van Morrison (both big influences on Parker) or a hundred other louts who ever bullied their way into a recording session.

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Graham’s band, the Rumour, provide a sympathetic visual backdrop. Half of the group resemble Teddy Boys, with their skin-tight haircuts, ill-fitting leather threads and surly, Guinness Stout visages. The other members, particularly guitarist Brinsley Schwartz (leader of innumerable crack pub outfits, Including the late, much lamented Ducks Deluxe) project a less threatening air. The balding pianist, who graced the Roxy stage with a tattered red sports coat, looks like a refugee from the skiffle era or Humphrey Littleton’s Big Band.

Musically, the band offers a stonecold soul sound, representing yet another generation of British rhythm and blues fanciers. (Besides Graham’s originals, their repertoire includes Don Covay’s “Chain of Fools,” The Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love” and an atomic rendition of Little Richard’s “Kansas City”.)

The band served a lengthy pub-rock apprenticeship. Graham surfaced less than two years ago, after he managed to get a demo made with Chili Will and the Hot Peppers aired on Charlie Gillette’s influential Sunday Morning R&B radio show. One of Mercury’s London A&R men heard the tape and signed Graham and the newly-introduced Rumour immediately. Their first album, Howlin’ Wind, was released several months later.

“It all happened very fast,” Parker admitted, in what was to remain a hoarse whisper. “Until then I’d never had much work, not musically. I’d been living with my parents, writing tunes at night. It took me years to get up the courage to play ’em for anybody. I was real frustrated.”

Most of the frustration came from Graham’s line of work. First, he spent two years in Surrey, breeding animals, mostly mice and guinea pigs for scientific experiments. Then he moved to Guernsey, where he worked in a bakery. Even when he prepared his demo tape, Parker still moonlighted in a gas station, pumping petrol.

Fortunately he got to listen to the radio. “Wilson Pickett was one of my idols,” he confessed, “and Otis Redding. I modeled my singing after him, tried to Copy his every note. Also the Four Tops, especially ‘Reach Out.’ That inspired me for years. Also I used to do Elvis imitations, like Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard. That was very popular.”

Also you can tell from “Don’t Ask Me No Questions” Parker soaked up innumerable reggae acts. “When 1 was a teenager,” he remembers, “blue beat and ska were very big in England, especially Jimmy Cljff. When I had my first teenage group, and electric R&B band, we’d always play ‘007’ by Desmond Dekker and the Aces. Another big hit was ‘My Boy Lollipop’ by Millie Small. Rod Stewart played harmonica on that one.”

As for Graham’s Angry Young Man vocal histrionics, that came naturally. “It’s my primal scream,” he says, “I wanna tell the world the way it is. I’m not trying to fuck anyone up. It’s just my dream, it’s what I got to say when I’m mad or pissed-off. You know, I never really needed any encouragement. The songs amazed even me.”

With that, Parker excuses himself, ambling off to practice a few new guitar licks for the next set. Your reporter, thoroughly relieved at being able to ditch his silly multiple questions, hunts down a stiff drink.

My brief reverie was interrupted by our ever-present maidenform hooka. “Did ya get him some peyote?” she asks blankly. “No,” I sneer, “he found some Drano.”

“Oh wow,” she says wide-eyededly. “That’s heavy. Now I really wanna see the next set.” Me too babe. I’m gonna be the one shouting for “Chain of Fools.”Ip1