Diary Of A Rock Critic

Sunday—The best guitarist in the world is my brother, Fred Frith, who plays in the group Henry Cow. Henry Cow, as someone wrote a letter a few issues ago complaining, don't get much coverage in CREEM, not even from me. My reason for not writing about them has nothing to do with ethics; it's a matter of taste. Henry Cow are not a Rock Critic's group. They're cleverer and more articulate than we are and their fans are too, so we're redundant. For five years or so they've been playing complex, committed music without much recourse to the usual procedures of the music business and without any concern at all for the Rock Critic's obsession with pop phenomena and the ultimate expression of rock reality, whatever that might be. Last time I saw them, three years ago, the music was too hard for me to make the effort to respond and I didn't. Today they're playing a benefit for the Communist Party in the Battersea Town Hall and the place is packed with fervent, happy fans. The music is marvelous, passionate and witty, and afterwards my brother was surrounded by people wanting a chat and I still felt irrelevant. Went home.

Monday—Went to see Abba at the Albert Hall. Tickets are exorbitantly expensive and the audience is elderly show-biz, overdressed and loud. In the press seats I sit next to two cynical girls from one of the weeklies, who look about fifteen years old. I feel elderly too, but not very show-biz. Abba turn out to be amazingly successful at reproducing their records, mostly thanks to their elaborate line up—two. drummers, two synthesizers, three back-up singers to get those harmonies spot on . Abba sing a silly ditty about themselves, and put on a mini-opera, in which the girls slowly change down to their leotards. They come across, as ever, kids acting sexy rather than women being sexy, and it's hard to imagine that such a super group can be^so nervous. The crowd is respectful rather than enthusiastic. They were here, anyway, to admire money rather than music and are clearly disappointed that Abba don't come across like millionaires, but as folk-singers, doing their bit for Oxfam.

Tuesday—The McGarrigles at Birmingham Town Hall. I don't know if anyone in America is excited by Kate and Anna, but in England, they're part of a new genre of American eccentrics, who are flown in each week to play to surprisingly large audiences of devotees. Last week Ry Cooder and Leon Redbone, next week J.J. Cale and Iggy Pop. I've never been able to decide who goes to these gigs besides Rock Critics, but the McGarrigles' audience are clean-cut, bearded, and dignified, and the McGarrigles reward them with a charmingly contrived naivete. An evening of elegant songs played raucously, of introverted harmonies and extroverted accompaniments. Fun.

Wednesday —Go to the pub and decide that "Boogie Nights" by Heatwave is the worst disco single ever. Someone puts it on the juke box five times in a row. Counter by getting "Sound and Vision" eight plays without interruption. "Boogie Nights" comes bouncing back twice. Try "Car Wash" as a compromise. Fatal. Spend the rest of the evening listening to "Chanson D'Amour" by Manhattan Transfer, the worst non-disco single ever.

Thursday — Go to buy the music papers and, as usual, spend the rest of the day in a deep depression. My trouble is gullibility. I enjoy every concert I go to and every record I hear, I believe everything anyone ever tells me and agree with whatever I read. Turns out I'd got this week all wrong. Learnt that no one had bothered to go to Henry Cow, that Abba were appalling, the McGarrigles messy, that "Boogie Nights" was number 2 in the Charts and "Chanson D'Amour" number 1. Fifteen more new punk bands are playing in London and all of them are wonderful. The Damned album is acclaimed. Decide that I'm past it and don't even watch Top of the Pops.

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Friday — Telephone wakes me in the middle of the night. Wrong number. Turn-out to be Lester Bangs trying to get the White House. He wants to ask Jimmy Carter what he's going to do about Larry Flynt. Tell him I don't give a shit about Larry Flynt. He loses his temper and screams that I don't take these threats to freedom seriously enough and have been disgraceful in my supercilious amusement at Ihe plight of the Sex Pistols. I lose my temper and scream that I don't give a shit about the Pistols either. Ring off and decide that Lester's got. the problem all wrong anyway. The Pistols are a crummy sort of group who've made a record and will make more; there are thousands of other crummy groups who will never get near a studio, who are censored not by moralists but by capitalists "who won't give 'em money. If you're prepared to pay, you're going to be able to get sex mags and films and experiences, whatever JC decides. It's when there's no money in it that the artist is denied any chance of an audience. Henry Cow suffer "censorship" just as much as the fuckin' SPs. Can't go back to. sleep and spend the rest of the night reading Charles Bukowski who Understands these things.

Saturday — Watch the latest episode of the TV history of popular music, All You Need Is Love. It's on jazz. Film's thesis, that black men were always being ripped off by white men, expounded by a succession of benevolent white men. Film punctuated with long thunks of great black jazz men like Dave Brubeck and George Shearing. Rare films of Charlie Parker and Louis Armstrong faded out while someone explains their significance^Must be a Rock Critic. Decide to become'"a revolutionary and lay my claim to be Britain's first post-capitalist Rock Censor. I would confine radio play to Abba and Henry Cow and shoot anyone who complained. Take the phone off the hook and go to bed, ^