THE ATLANTA RHYTHM SECTION

Mary, the waitress at the Skokie Hilton, knows how to handle her rock star clientele. For Roger Daltrey, she was shy and elusive, far too cool to ask for an autograph (she saved his signed dinner check instead). Jackson Browne, looking tired and morose, was rewarded with a cheery smile and sunny disposition, earning Mary a pair of backstage passes to the night's show. She steered clear of Lou Reed completely. There are limits to even the most devoted fan's endurance...

The Atlanta Rhythm Section, tethered for the moment in the darkest periphery of the rock pantheon, enjoyed more open adulation. Less recognizable (Mary first took them for a road crew) they were also less threatening. Mary could be more demonstrative—more demanding—while courting her new-found heroes' favor. The less of a star you are, the auburn-haired waitress figured, the more you should act like one.

Miss Mary arrives at our table just as Ronnie Hammond, the ARS's lanky lead singer, is detailing the group's rigorous tour schedule. Once exclusively a session band, they are now on the road five days out of the week.

Their credits as studio musicians encompass much of the South's musical terrain, ranging from polk salad crooners—B.J. Thomas and Billy Joe Royal—to dixie chickens like The Classics IV, Joe South, Tony Joe White and Tommy Rod. Robert Nix,' who's just deposited his burly frame at the table, toured for numerous years in the Candymen, Roy Orbison'£ legendary backup unit, whose only rivals in the upper delta roadhouses were Ronnie Hawkin's Hawks (now retiring gracefully from their second reincarnation as The Band).

The band had seemed comfortable onstage the night before—or so I thought. "Are ya kidding?" Hammond grunts, trying to shake a sore throat with generous samplings of liquor. "I was scared to death. The people psyched me out. All those record company flacks and press folks. I got tight and intimidated."

Robert Nix leans forward. "That's not all," he hisses barely above a whisper, his voice in even worse shape. "Old Ronnie lost his dinner too. He's always doing that in the dressing room. Really disgusting habit."

"Oh, Robert," Hammond groans. "Shut up."

At 26, Hammond is the group's youngest member. His thin, almond beard adds a few years, but traces of the Tommy Roe fraternity-boy baby fat still remain. Hammond still harbors reservations about the nomadic rock life. "I get lonesome for mah old lady," he drawls. "You see, I'm a romantic person and I miss her bad. It's OK when ahm on stage, but offit, well, you've got too much time to kill. I just sleep, bum around, take showers..."

"And jack off," Nix adds helpfully. "Ah, Robert," Hammond growls, turning towards me. "Nix is the rowdy one."

The band is indeed unhappy about their retiring studio-tycoon image. They covet the brawling badges of honor that Southern bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd have garnered through drunken binges, playing dead at press parties, and well-timed press releases.

I'm fed up with the press talkin'about us like we was old men who hobble up on stage...we're a bunch of pissers.

I explain that CREEM is compiling a Rock 'N' Roll Most Wanted List, with Ronnie Van Zant a good bet to head the roster. "Ah, Ronnie's just a pussy," Nix growls affectionately. "He can't lick nobody."

"Aw, come on Robert," Hammond grins.

"Yeh, he is," Nix continues. "He can't drink, he can't do nothing. He can't play poker neither. Only way he'd beat me up is if I was asleep! I'm fed up with the press talkin' about us like we was pld men who hobble up on stage. We can fight as bad as any mother fuckers. We're a bunch of pissers."

Hammond complains too. "All these other groups capitalize on their image. But we go out and do it and nobody •pays any attention to us. Makes me mad enough to fight!" Nix bangs his knife in agreement. "I don't wanna be no Wyatt Earp neither, having to fight every lil punk to keep up mah reputation. Too many wasted whiskey bottles."

"Robert even tried to take me," Hammond says, finishing his drink. "We had a knock-down kick out in Westport one morning getting to the car to go to the airport. I was late and Robert started hollering and all of a sudden we were out of the car apd rolling and fighting on the ground— in the snow. All these sophisticated people in their top-coats were just staring at us beating each other up."

"Paul almost killed Van Zant one night," Hammond remembers. "We'd played a gig with them in Miami and afterwards they had a couple of whores." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Ahm laying in bed at 5 a.m. and they come busting in: Nix, Dean and Van Zant. They drag me down the hall in mah underwear and throw me on the bed with these two whores— both stark naked. I landed right on top of 'em while the guys rolled on the floor giggling.

"Later on Van Zant got lonesome," Hammond continues, "So he goes and beats on Paul's door. Now Paul [who easily outweighs the entire Winter clan or any runt-of-the-litter British band] can be ornery as a snake and he shouts at Van Zant 'If yah don't get away from mah door I'm gonna call the police'.

"That got Ronnie so mad that he grabbed this big old fire axe and chopped the door down. He and Paul had quite a tussle." Both men roar with laughter. "Course.we never hit one another in the face," Ronnie says solemnly. "Ya know that instinct remains. We might get mad enough to kick and scratch and kill each other but we stick to body punches."

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35.

Nix chuckles fiendishly. "Now, Dean's different. When he's really drunk and yah make him mad, yah got to put him out before he does you." Ronnie nods in agreement. "One night in Jacksonville he threw Robert clear across the room so Robert let him have > it across the chops." Nix's fist shakes the table. "He went down and stayed * there."

Apparently the restaurant staff interprets this minor explosion as a sign of customer displeasure. Mary the waitress suddenly appears, tightening her apron and straightening her hair. * Luncheon orders begin. "Ahd like a Salty Dog with vodka," Ronnie says. "A what?" Mary asks. "Grapefruit juice with a double shot of vodka," Ham1 mond explains politely. "With salt around the rim like a margarita."

Mary gazes distractedly at Nix. "Why are your eyes so red?" she asks. Nix rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "I've been smoking catfish, honey," he volunteers. "Ahm a real degenerate " Mary smiles wanly. Nix orders a shot of Courvoisier. Mary is unfamiliar with that exotic blen^ as well. "How do you spell it?" she wonders. Hammond tells her. Nix stares pointedly at her breasts. "Hey, you're cute," he croaks.

I take this opportunity to remind Nix of Hammond's romantic temperament. "Whatta lying bastard," Nix barks. "Tell him who runs around with your exwife." Hammond groans. "Mistuh Van Zant's dating mah old lady now. Or at least she's fucking him when he comes to town. She's a groupie through and through. I made the mistake of marrying her."

"It was her tits," Nix volunteers. To capture the full aroma of this lively exchange, we must once again turn to the weary wordsmith's favorite narrative technique, dialogue:

CREEM: How long did the marriage last?

Hammond: Oh, long enough...

Nix: Really amazing tits.

Hammond: Oh, for me to go...

Nix: Tell him about the...

Hammond: Absolutely, uh, nuts...

Nix: Incredible square tits (collapses into coughing fit).

"I dunno why I married her," Ronnie sighs. "It would've been just as easy to live together. But I had to go and do something stupid. I was crazy, a mother-fucking lunatic. She almost did me in. I was drinking heavily and doing crazy stunts. One night I got so mad at her but instead of hitting her I knocked out a window—just about cut every muscle in mah arm in half."

Nix shoves his drink away. "One night he took his shotgun and blew his door dtown." He makes explosion noises. "I just left the door down too," Ronnie says. "We were playing with Lynyrd Skynyrd in Macon, mah hometown, and after we were off A went back to the hotel. But mah wife, mah own wife, she couldn't go back with me. She had to stay and groupie around." ^

(Apparently the body-punch credo only applies to band members.) "Now I got me a good 'un. Nice girl. The first true love I ever had. Hammond fingers a row of scabs on his fist. "We got real drunk the other night and I, uh, fell down when Robert helped me to my room. Almost broke mah thumb." He grins sheepishly. "Course ahm gonna tell mah old lady I slipped on some ice."

N6xt to cheating hearts, what upsets the ARS members the most is being relegated to the constricting "Dixie rock" brand name. It is an unfair designation. Nix and Daugherty may have traveled the chitlin-circuit with Roy Orbison, but like The Band, they have digested influences far more diverse than Hank Williams weepers qnd Bob Wills Western-swing alongs. I

Until recently, Southern rock's hierarchy resembled, if you'll excuse the unfortunate metaphor, the vertical bloodlines of the Mafia. Phil Walden assumed the role of benevolent don, presiding Oyer his Capricorn fiefdom with equal measures of stern business acumen and filial self-indulgence. The Allman Brothers were, until their untimely demise, his most trusted capos; Marshall Tucker and Wet Willie his venerable hit men; Grinderswitch, Elvin Bishop and Cowboy, brash young gunsels, determined to carve some notches on their belts...

The Atlanta Rhythm Section operates outside this feudal farm-club, failing to embrace the backslapping, inbred fraternity of good ole boydom. At first the Atlanta-Macon feud simmered. Matters came to a head in Orlando, Florida * nearly two years ago. Hammond carried the ARS torch. It had been a long, grueling tour. The band drove 12 hours straight, then were forced to mount the stage two hours ahead of time, fronting a bill of Capricorn heavies—Marshall Tucker, Wet Willie, Grinderswitch and Cowboy. Tempers flared.

"Right before our show was over ah wandered out to the front of the stage," Hammond recalls, "and said i wanna tell you people one thing. There ain't but two things happening in Georgia right now. One is Gregg Allman and the other is us. Grinderswitch and the rest of those mother fuckers ought to go back to the carwash where they belong!' "

Revenge was swift. "As soon as ah left the stage a couple of Grinderswitch's big roadie SOBs jumped me and we tied it up for a while. Robert and Dean came along and chased them up on stage. And damned if they wouldn't come off. They was scared."

Nix growls, "We had 'em corraled."

Why the rivalry? Hammond demures, "I dunno. Well, I do know but ah won't say."

Nix is more forthcoming. "IT'S CAUSE NONE OF THEM ARE WORTH A TIN SHIT!"

Hammond chokes on his sandwich. "Now Robert," he sputters, "Don't say that." Nix ignores the warning.

"THEY'RE MUSICAL PABLUM. THEY GOT THE MENTALITY OF A FUCKING ANT!" Hammond elbows him under the table; "No man, don't say that."

IT'S A FUCKING FACT," Nix bellows, suddenly regaining his voice. "AAHHMM A SONGWRITER. THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS CAN'T HOLD MAH JOCKSTRAP. RONNIE VAN ZANT IS THE ONLY PERSON CONNECTED TO THAT WHOLE SCENE THAT CAN WRITE HIS WAY OUTTA BAG OF SHIT! [Later this blanket indictment is modified to exclude Charlie Daniels and Wet Willie's Jimmy Hall as well. "They're straight up," Nix admits.] "MARSHALL TUCKER CAN'T DO SHIT. THEY DON'T EVEN PLAY WITH FUCKING PICKS!" ,

Nix is just getting warmed up now. "I TELL YAH WHO THE MOTHER FUCKERS OF THE WORLD ARE: STEVIE WONDER, McCARTNEY WHEN HE WANTS TO BE, JOE SOUTH AND ROBERT NIX. PAUL SIMON'S THE GOVERNOR AND GREGG ALLMAN'S THE MOTHER FUCKER. I TELL YA, SINCE DUANE DIED THERE AIN'T BEEN A BAND IN THE SOUTH WORTH SHIT EXCEPT US AND SKYNYRD. THAT'S A FUCKING FACT. THAT TWIN GUITAR SHIT IS GARBAGE. THEIR COWBOY HATS AND COWBOY BOOTS AIN'T WORTH THE PRICE OF SHIT."

This vein-popping monolog brings Mary the Waitress back into our midst. She serves lunch, trades' phone numbers and is grilled by Nix on her pet songwriters and ice cream (McCartney, Jackson Browne and chocplate respectively) .

Suddenly Nix regains his former good cheer. "Now Jf I can just remember the fucking words," he laughs, "and I'm the one who wrote 'em."

Mary,the waitress passes our table, stopping long enough to deliver another round of drinks. Noting her clientele's Southern accents, she has devised a clever scam aimed at increasing her tip. "Oh, I remembered my other favorite group," she says exuberantly. Nix eyes her cleavage hungrily. "And who might that be?" asks Hammond.

"Marshall Tucker," she gushes. "They're really neat. When they were all wearing those cute cowboy hats..." A chorus of groans rises from the table. Nix hocks a wad into his empty plate. "Gimme back mah phone number:," he growls. "I wanna give yah a new one."

Mary is so pleased that she spills a trayload of Bloody Marys in Nix's lap.