THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

Welcome Back, Peter

SANTA MONICA, CA— "The last official get-together I had with The Monkees was when they gave me a six dollar watch upon my retirement from the group", recalled Peter Tork, 34, the first to leave the TV supergroup back in 1968.

"They all chipped in, and even had it engraved. It read, 'To Peter from the guys at work' ".

Recalling the presentation, he feels, is the tyest way of summing up his days with The Monkees.

Since'then Tork has retaken his old name, Thorkelson, and is now teaching music, math, French, and politics at the Pacific Hills School in Santa Monica, California.

It is a loosely structured experimental academy for children.

His two children—Hallie, six, and Ivan, nine months, display little interest when it comes to Daddy's past pop fame.

"Whenever a Monkees program comes on TV Hallie usually goes out roller-skating leaving Barbara (his wife) and me to watch it alone.

"It doesn't get me down. Quite the reverse. It's a healthy attitude".

How does an ex-teen heartthrob land an academic job with no qualifications... something he's now returning to school for?

"It was just like the Monkees thing", he confides. "I auditioned and got the job".

Barry Dillon

Twiggy Achieves Puberty

NEW YORK—It's the coldest morning of the year. Steam drifts skyward from the manholes, and a couple down the block nuzzle under a hotel awning, their breath rising in lazy spirals like smoke signals gusting across the prairie.

Vour humble correspondent has been snoring peacefully. It's easy to shake yourself awake on a bus, especially when crammed next to a fat Bronx housewife with bad breath, energized by the symphony of pothole thuds and sudden, screeching halts. But in the back of a sleek, black limo, radio buzzing and heat vents sizzling, it's a hopeless task. My eyelids are heavy, getting heavier...I awake to find myself sharing the backcushions with Miss Lesley Hornsby, known to jes folks as Twiggy, the long-lost fashion phenomenon of the '60s, -who's equally numbed by the bleak early December freeze. We're on our way to WNEW-TV, where Twigs will participate in the degrading ritual of promoting her debut record.

The new Twiggy bears little resemblance to the callow, gangling mod of the '60s. She's warm, but reticent, looking awfully fetching in tight lavender corduroys and a soft angora sweater draped with her curling blond locks. She's filled out since her last Stateside visit (more about that later) but what really catches the eye are the freckles sprinkled like brown sugar across her nose.

Lisa Told Me About This Faaabulous White Sale On The Fourth Floor

Ever wonder what your favorite rock stars do when their supply of velvet jackets, snakeskin boots, scented jockey briefs (Ever hear of "Locker Room"?) and Eight Hour Cream runs out, not to mention the more mundane necessities of life like Pulsar watches and acne cream? Think they have a flunkie to do everything, huh? Wrong! He may have a special police escort and eartmblpnehm to roam Bloomingdale's at a suitably rock 'n' roll hour, (after the lgig",maybe?) but Robert Plant Is one musical gent who prefers to perform the Intlmat* tasks himself. Plant does like to simulate the excitement of the 9:00 opening rush of East Side matrons thoughl "Just let me get my hands on some of those new King Tut sheetsl" he squeals. "And at $5.99 a shot, whatta buyll"

"Oh, I've got so much bleeding luggage, " she complains in a brash, faintly Cockney accent. "It's all coming back from LA^-just suitcases and suitcases—and I'll never get to wear the stuff here, not in this weather.

"Neville," she coos, addressing her business manager, also nestled in the back seat, "you've got to take some of it back to England." Neville, whose Edwardian expressions: "One can't", "One wishes", are reminiscent of one of Monty Python's convivial upper-class twits, is amused by his sartorial mission.

"Can't you see that!" he guffaws loudly, as we stall in mid-town traffic, "Me going through customs with all those negligees..." Ahem. This reminds me of another snooze-fest.

From the No It's Not Venus and The Razor Blades Dept:

Guests attending "World's Greatest Kiss Authority" Robert Duncan's recent wedding bliss-fravaganza were shocked and dismayed when the Right Reverend Ross "Baby" Del Ruth, pictured here performing the nuptials in Duncan's sumptuous West Egg mansion's trophy room, was suddenly decapitated by a falling replica of Kiss king-pin Gene Simmon's lat.e-model pubic lawn mower. Reverend Del Ruth, who attempted to out-swim the limited-edition Snapper, survived long enough to complete the charming ceremony before expiring on a nearby Edwardian chaise lounge. His mortal swoon severely alarmed a semiconscious charter member of the Rock Critic Establishment, Lester Rax, who had temporarily assumed a languid posture of repose on the Edwardian relic. Said the disgrunted groom: I'll never shave again. (Photo not by Ron! Kiss nee Hoffman).

The less said about her record the better. Twigs did a pretty fair job of humming and hoofing through The Boy Friend but she's no Dolly Parton. For that matter, no Olivia Newton-John either.

But she do have style. Out of the American public eye for years, she's developed considerable charm as a BBC variety show host, show-tune interpreter and general lady about town. Also, as the New York Post scrivener so.modestly noted, Twigs has developed an ample new bosom. With this in mind, I figured some eggs benedict at the St. Regis would be in order. Who knows, after I got the hot poop on her new posterior...

Actually, Twig's career coincided with perhaps the most fascinating chapter of British pop history. Twigs was munching on some salad, remembering one of her first cultural outings. "I was about 13," she confided, sweeping some crumbs off her Caspian shawl, "When a bunch of us would go to this little dance club in North London. We loved the group, although no one had heard of them. They were the Yardbirds, with Eric Clapton. We all thought he was ever so cute."

London was a small world in the mid-60s. The Yardbirds went on to make a cameo appearance in Blow-Up, which starred David Hemmings as a fashion photographer and Vanessa Redgrave, who palled around with Jean Shrimpton (remember Yardley's "London Look"?) whose sister Chrissie enjoyed a brief swoon with Mick Jagger, while fellow model Pattie Boyd latched onto, George Harrison , who later lost her to old crony Eric Clapton, who...

Well you get the point. This was no jet set crowd. They were running into each other at the chemist's in South Ken. "When it was happening," Twigs said, "you didn't notice all the furor. It's only in looking back that you realize that England was in very good form."

Twigs was/Still 16 when the celebrated paparazzi Michel Molyneaux discovered her. She was by no means a fashion plate, but then again, neither were the Stones, whose surly visages adorned many of Mary Quant's fashion posters.

"I was still at school when it happened," she confides, "never planned to be a model. At 131 had these awful braces because of my overbite.

"I used to suck my thumb —but very secretly. They gave me overnight braces,1 but I'd slip them off and suck my thumb to get to sleep. I fooled my parents, but I could never figure out how the dentist found out. Even now, when I'm upset or anxious, I'll have a little relapse."

Twig's modeling stint was dazzling, but alas, rather brief. "All models' lives are short," she assured me. "It's like a boxer's career. But modeling's a true craft. You may feel like death or have a stinking headache or ;be bleeding sore, but you've still got to look your best. I'd do these horribly hot winter dresses in a summer heat wave and sweat through the seams, just to get the session done."

Twigs played with the remnants of her" brunch. "Modeling has little to do with beauty," she said, sipping coffee, "In the flesh, many of the best ones look absolutely strange. It's all a matter of whether the cam-t, era likes you or not."

Twigs endufed a slew of American TV appearances recently (the usual circuit: Carson, Snyder, Mike Douglas, Sonny and Cher...), designed to promote her record (once again, I gentlemanly refrain from describing the product).

"Most of the hosts didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to me," Twigs snapped, in a rare burst of petulance. "Some of the hosts [are you listening, Tom?] don't even look at me." Apparently most of the interviews offered all the depth and longevity of a high school romance. Wham, bam and thank you ma'am, now why don't you skirt over towards the footlights and fake your new single...

Back at the hotel, I remembered to pop the query about Twig's new centerpieces. She looked quizzically at me. "You know," I stammered, "your breasts. " She granted a weary smile. "Rather boring, aren't they?"

Yeh, Twigs, as you said, it's all a matter of whether the camera likes you or not. I could shoot a whole roll.

Patrick Goldstein

Undressed To Kill

CHICAGO—-In the crack tradition of Todd Rundgren's beautiful Bebe, Gene Simmons' girlfriend Star has joined the ranks of Playboy's Playmates-of-the-Month.

While she had nothing to say about the serpent power of the Bat Lizard's tongue in the accompanying test, she did admit to going bare under her Jimmy Page raincoat and flashing him in midsong. That was the night Gene spewed fire from the wrong opening.

Star takes her name, incidentally, from a baby blue star STRATEGICALLY TATOOED somewhat below her waist. Aw, Gene, you dog you.

Rick Johnson

Get Me The Crejam Rinse!

HOLLYWOOD-The Hyatt House coffee shop is filled with, out-of-towners, Derringer band members, and two Split Enz who look unique even in civilian outfits: baggy pants, plastic shoes and fuschia and puce colored socks.

Tim Finn and Jonathan Chunn, the group's vocalist and bass player respectively, greet me, snap their eyebrows, hiccup a coupla times (that's polite in New Zealand) -and sit down to buzz a little bit. Jonathan and Tim have known each other since high school and tend to complete each other's half finished sentences. They were incarcerated in a Catholic boys' prep school during their teens.

The first thing to hit you* about this group is the bizarre and kinky costuming, halfchiselled hair-dos, and stark make up, so the obvious first question forms around the possible influences for this graphic display.

Tim responds that he hasn't the slightest idea as to influences in costume, because pal Noel does the der signing. Jonathan looks like Clark Kent, especially on stage with his round tortoise shell glasses. Tim, on the other hand, is far more brash and serious. He terms their musical style as "Toupee Rock": "Cause it gives hope to everyone in the audience with a receding hairline." Tim's own hair is strangely shaved above the ears and around the forhead.

While Noel designs the costumes and make-up, another En, Phil Judd, has designed their debut album cover, Mental Notes—incidentally—on Chrysalis Records.

The music contained on the album proves the theory that "Beauty Is Only Skin Deep." There are some swirling and dervish kinds of cuts on here, deftly produced by Roxy Music's Phil Manzanera, who approached the guys after playing a bill with them in Australia. The lyrics hold a nasty and attractive sadistic ring on this LP, and the phrasing, arrangements and vocals are a weird cross between Benny Goodman, Rozzano Brazzi, and Supertramp.

At their Roxy debut the Split Enz sauntered on stage to a tap^d intro of tinkering tin instruments. Their black and white outfits were mixed whimsically like the matching of a dozen backgammon boards. Noel had a boomerang on top of his head, and Tim previewed each song with a rhymed limerick pronounced through crimson lips.

Tim's gesticulations were on par with Bela Lugosi's and Noel's tap tap tapping on cymbals, boom booms and bang bangs had the sound of a parakeet chipping away at his metal cage. The tunes usually end with some reverberating chonnnggg echoes. The way they mugged it was as though they were the barkers at a Fun Show.

Yet there's no reason to label this group a "put on." Despite all the jazzeroo, Split Enz are original in presentation. Once they get over shocking themselves, they might actually have something to say.

Darcy Diamond

5 YEARS AGO

MC5 GO LIVE!

Motown main man Smokey Robinson declares his retirement from music as John Lennon begins the first legs of the infamous "Socialist Rock Tour," to benefit Brother John Sinclair's legal fund. The Rock Revolution continues as the P4C5 return from a tour of Europe to conclude negotiations for an independently produced live album.