THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

Sex Pistols Squat On The Box

MANCHESTER, ENG.-It’s punk rock night in seedy, industrial Manchester, and the crowd has assembled here to watch the latest British rock sensations, the Sex Pistols, who have been riding a wave of notoriety the likes of which has not been seen here since the Stones went around relieving themselves against walls. Leaders of the new breed of angry young rockers who are sick and tired of such over the hill and irrelevant money grubbers as the Who, Stones and Led Zeppelin, the Sex Pistols wear the uniform of the new revolutionary army. Shirts and slacks deliberately torn apart, then re-assembled with safety pins, and an assortment of bondage paraphernalia (chains around necks, arms, ankles). Lead singer Johnny Rotten sports the latest in hairstyle crazes—short hair greased, then messed up so that every hair stands on end. In the audience here, some 3V2 hours’ drive from the center of England’s punk scejje in London, you can see the signs. An assortment of guys who seem to have gotten caught in a mixmaster on the way to the show and girls wearing three pounds of makeup—on one eye.

Young Mr. Rotten and cohorts have emerged as true youth heroes during the past year. Their concerts have inspired brawls all around and, this past December, while interviewed on the British Today show, Rotten took advantage of the live, dinner hour national broadcast to let a few expletives fly into sitting rooms all over Britain. Host Bill Grundy, knowing Rotten’s penchant for saucy language, had goaded him into saying something dirty, to help demonstrate the decline of morality in England’s young, and Rotten responded with more than anyone bargained for (“Shit,” “fuck” and “Bastard” in less than thirty seconds) . The newspapers blasted headlines for a week about the shameful state of adolescents. Now that’s what you call publicity, folks.,

So here they are onstage in a dingy club that appears to have lain dormant since the days of psychedelia. There’s even a light show, which Rotten demands be turned off before their set (no hippies, these lads). Johnny, who almost hangs from the mike stand as he sings (gnarls, I guess is more like it) glares at the audience, his eyes bulging, his body tensed —a leper inviting you to feel his disease. Bass player Glenn Matlock roams stage left, searching for someone or something to kick over. Guitarist Steve Jones commands stage right side, a swirling dynamo of leaps, splits, power chords and * * Why - be - the - world’s - best -guitarist-when -1 -can -be-themost-killer” leads. Only drummer Paul C6ok appears to not be out for blood on each song. But then, he’s sitting down, r

The tunes come fast and furious—their single, “Anarchy in the U.K.”, banned by most radio stations and naturally zooming up the charts because of it; the incredibly hostile “You’re So Ptetty” (“and I don’t care”); “God Save the Queen,” a charming tune which buries the good name of the royal Mum .under a barrage of four letter invectives: even the Monkees “I’m Not Your Steppin’ Stone,” spat out with a malice that is truly frightening. These boys are not happy. But they sure are good.

Of course not everyone in the crowd is on their side. Heckles and catcalls are audible after every song. Shouts of /‘You guys ain’t nuthin’ new” and “Piss off, you’re just loud” filter up to the second floor, where I’m not only safer, but able to watch the crowd react much better than those unfortunates on thestage floor, who are trampling each other. Cups and bottles are flying down there and, in the middle of one song, Matlock gets hit square in the chest with a bottle. Doesn’t miss a note either, but oh, if looks could kill. The band finishes the song, then they march to the lip of the stage. “You fucking cunts,” Rotten yells, “throwin’ things in the dark.” “You guys suck, the Who are great!” shouts someone. With that, Jones cocks his guitar and zooms into the intrp from “Substitute,” which the band performs so menacingly that the audience seems to creep back a foot or two. By the time the set is through, things seem a bit calmer, but just a bit. There’s definitely something in the air. Forget about CBGB’s and the New York “piink” scene. Compared to the Sex Pistols, the stuff in the States is muzak for day care centers.

You Asked For If, You GotltDep't.

All yous high brows out there who read the recent New Yorker Talk of the Town piece, "Lunch With the Rock Crlt Establishment," and wonderedif it reaIly went down as reported, here'syer proof: a photo of some of the dignitaries taken shortly before hors d'oeurves were served. Left to right we have: R. "Mendy" Meltzer, Billy “Buzz" Altman, Robert "Yo-Yo" Duncan, "Mothra" Morthland, Ken "Waldo" Emerson, Dave "Duke of Prunes" Marsh and "Bullet Bob" Chrlstgau. Oh, ves—lunch consisted of chipped beef on toast, tripe ana armadillos in |ello.

Billy Altman

Mitch Ryder To Relaunch Lead Balloon

{The last time you saw Mitch Ryder he was wearing a tight shiny suit, Beatle Boots and a Negrified Beatle haircut, belting “Jenny Take A Ride". After a three year sabbatical from the music scene, two years of which included a stint in a Denver warehouse, MITCH RYDER IS BACK!-Ed.)

DETROIT—Gallows and trap shots notwithstanding, Mitch Ryder is at this very moment sitting in his West Side condominium formulating the course of the second major offensive in his musical career. Hurray and Huzzah! The devil in the blue dress will once again undulate and Jenpy will take another ride.

But what has kept Mitch Ryder away from the rock ’n’ roll scene for so long?

“Well, it was the rabies, actually,” discloses Bruce Springsteen’s hero. “I took the cure...what do people want from me, youAknow? I’m a good little doggy...I don’t froth anymore. I’m a cuddly warm puppy now. I’ll still pee on your floor though.” Ryder drooled.

“SURE! There’s gotta be a sucker out there somewhere!” was Mitch’s reply to the question whether he thinks he’ll find a receptive audience. “I’m down as low as I can go,” he continued in a less sarcastic tone: “But my spirits are up, my love for music is up, and my desire to be on stage is up.”

But can he get it up is the question. He explained the unique gimmick that will insure his success when he once again hits the rock ’n’ roll boards. “I’m going to drill a bunch of quarter-inch holes all around my head so when I spin around on stage, I’ll whistle. Personally, for a long time I didn’t think a comeback was possible, but now I got a set of leg braces to keep me from falling down. I don’t know what else I need, really.”

Is this guy serious about giving his fans a second helping of his talents? “Well, of course, I’m serious,” said the rockstar on the rebound. “Look, what choice do I have? Realistically, it’s either stand there and blow it off or fall down and die.”

Encouraged by his determined attitude, I probed Mitch about the type of music his reclaimed vocation will offer: “Oh, I don’t care,” he groaned. “Actually, I don’t know what form the music is going to take, bufl have been working on the lyrics and I do have a concept, a working title...it’s called, ‘SING, DON’T THINK!’ ”

Perhaps that concept explains why Mitch has chosen Detroit as the base from which he will attempt to launch’ his aerodynamic comeback. The following interrogation ensued:

CREEM:sHave you had any luck finding members for a new band?

Mitch: Well, I’m in the right town for it, I’ll tell you that. CREEM: Do you really think so?

Mitch: I believe it! I always have. I’ve never, never, never, ever doubted that. CREEM: Why don’t the record companies seem to share your opinion?

Mitch: HA! Now you’re talking about something! But... naw, we haven’t got the time or space for something like that right now. But I know why. I don’t care to talk about it right now.

CREEM: Because...

Mitch: Because it’s too good here. It’s too real. They don’t want this Detroit cbnsciousness to take over the country. They’re afraid of it.

After our discussion on the merits of Detroit rock ’n’ roll talent and the ddbonair nature of high powered record executives dwindled into a premature oblivion, I asked Mitch what, if any, personal goals would be satisfied by a return to his forsaken career. “I would hope,” he drooled, “that I’ll be able to seduce some eight-year-old someday, somewhere. There’s gotta be one of those little warped kids who don’t have daddies who are gonna’ dig it...so what the1 hell.”

This is one, comeback that I’m definitely; looking forward to...remember: forewarned Js forearmed! 3 (

Air-Wreck Genheimer

And If All Else Fails, We Can Always Go Bowling

"Well, sure. I've made a lot of money and had plerity of fun being a rode star, but I want to do something really meaningftil with my life before it's tpo late," confessed Black Sabbath's Ozzy Osbourne, shown here with his exhibit at the recent Mutant Fruit and Vegetable Convention In Burbank. Ox's creation, the Mofave Grape (so named In honor of the desert where Osbourne secluded himself awhile back to contemplate his fate and try to rid himself of his finger tattoos via extensive sun treatment), will soon be taken on a promotional trip on (what else?) the Concorde, where it will provide the MDR requirement of Vitamin C for , 1S7 passengers—and crew.

Anal Movement At Free Speech U

BERKELEY-If you were the Stones and the filmmaker you hired to cover your ’72 U.S. tour created a rawer than raw portrait of life on the road, what would' you do? Forbid its release, that’s what. Only that didn’t stop U of Cal Berkeley prof Robert Frank —the guy they hired along with Daniel Seymour—from screening his rare print of Cocksucker Blues on campus Nov. 19. It had only one prior showing—at UC last year—and may nev6r be viewed again. You see, it shows that while Rolling Stones may gather no moss, they do gather warts. Keith passes out face-first in a groupie’s lap and later tosses a TV off a motel ledge to smash below, a groupie shoots up, Charlie Watts smiles and ruins his image, Bill Wyman and Mick Taylor are glossed over as nobodies, Mick J agger moons the camera,^ groupie smears semen on her bare chest. Boredom and exhaustion reign. Jetsetters Truman Capote, Addy Warhol and Princess Radziwill skulk around looking “in,” dahling. Caught in full-color concert footage, the big boys play, inhale unknown substances through the mouth and sneezer, and anoint their eyes with mascara. Low-life hustlers leech nearby and women get stripped of their t-shirts. The camera even captures a quickie in progress. Jeez, I’m sure glad Mom grounded me the night they hit my town.

Clark Peterson

Fab Four: Washday Miracle

SAN FRAN—Frampton and Kiss buttons for sale at a Beatles convention? Well, you can’t expect the lemonfreshened Fab Four’s faces on (everything. Even so, there were belt buckles, bubble gum, bumper stickers, balloons, and bracelets, ad infinitum. Don’t forget the, yellow submarine lunch pails ($25) and frisbees painted like records ($6). Want a roach clip with the Beatles spelled out? You got it. Want to rest cheek to cheek with your heroes on a Beatles pillow? Only $25.

The site for this confab was the San Francisco Hilton, the same hotel the foursome occupied in 1964 as pubescent wet pants squealed from the street below. One room was devoted to ripoffs, from The Chipmunks Sing the Beatles ($10), to a $500 price tag on the first record ever made by the group, “My Bonnie.” Decca released the rare 45 in 1962 when the boys were called the Beat j Brothers, backing up Tony Sheridan.

Another room contained paintings, photos and clippings. It was there I learned (Julia Child, roll over) how to make a Beatleburger: “When serving you can even add the Beatle look by adding a sprig of curly endive for bangs. Forties, use tiny pickles—then fashion eyes and nose from pieces of radish or carrot.” Of course, George substitutes textured veggie protein for the corned beef these days.

Finnicky, Finnicky Finnicky

Tired of being the only member of Kiss to be stuck with an animal persona, drummer Peter Criss showed up at a gig not long ago In full turtle regalia. The overt political statement, which came as a total surprise to the rest of the band, did not turn out the way Kitty Kat envisioned, however. Not only did Criss fall to get backstage clearance, but he was also apprehended by local authorities for impersonating a reptile without a license. Gene Simmons, who carries his license at all times (keeps It hidden underneath nis codpiece), finally bailed Peter out of |ail after Identifying him even in disguise. "The gloves gave him away," said Gene. "The only other possibility was that he was a member of the Music Machine, but they only wear one glove, so I ruled that out." Criss* punishment for disobeying Army regulations included no Tender Vlttles for a week and a symbolic cutting off of one whisker. Also, no more long-distance dalls to either Morris or Harry.

The main room featured slides and 35 different films. Whenever cute shots of the boys flashed on the screen, teens and sub-teens screeched just like their big sisters did a dozen years ago. Their favorite? It was a tossup between Paul and George, followed by John. Ringo beat out a / heartrendering challenge by Pete Best for last place.

Clark Peterson

5 YEARS AGO

Tonight’s Card: Spector vs. Weberman

The hottest news in an otherwise dull month was about a fight that never quite happened: Phil Spector vs. Dylanologist A.J. Weberman. The near fisticuffs upstaged a New York press conference announcing that Allen Klein and ABKO Corp. were suing New York magazine for alleging that Klein misused profits from the Bangla Desh album. Things got hot when Spector insulted A.J.’s wife; then the two went “outside,” but punches were not thrown. Too bad, it coulda been the best middleweight bout since Emile Griffith and Bennie Paret.