THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

How To Be A Rock Critic (In one E-Z lesson)

Everybody thinks its all peaches and CREEM being a rock critic. You wake up in the morning, crawl gingerly over the sleeping superstar (s) in your bed to the bathroom, where you ingest at least six different Exotic Drugs. Then you hop into your Mercedes, drive out to the Post Office to pick up all the free records, t-shirts, diamond-studded Supertramp belt buckles, etc., and zip back home, casually tossing Kiki Dee 45s to bewildered youngsters along the way.

Upon arriving back at the mansion, you drag one LP you particularly detest to the turntable, play one song, take some more Exotic Drugs and hack out a “Scathing review" dismissing theperfor-

It s All Done' With Mirrors

Sparkling Chrysalis recording artists. Blonde on Blonde, are putting on the ritz in a spanking new way, hoping to reflect the appreciation of overly narcissistic fans via mirrored pants and mirrored hairdos. Can't you see yourself in their pants?

mer not only as an artist, but as a human being as well. Then you relax by the pool, sipping Asylum tequila while nude Runaways frolic in the water. Oh Joan, you scamp! Dont splash me there!

All too true. Just today, I was lounging on the veranda thumbing through the latest Easyriders when Bowie gave me a ring. Poor “Bo" pleaded with me to jump in my Lear and whiz out to Crete for a couple rounds of Yahtzee. You should have heard him whine!

But suddenly an idea seized me, as they will. Now that Im living comfortably off my Fusion residuals, why not share a few tips with those promising kids out there On how to boogie down the path to fast cars, expensive women and postage due? Certainly I, a mere nobody who invented the terms “punkrock," “heavy metal," “rock 'n roll," “music," and, of course, “the," hardly deserve all this wealth, fun, and lah dee dah!

So here is, boys and girls, everything you always wanted to know about being a rock critic but were unable to verbalize. Take it from good old Lester Bangs himself (the pseudonym of a well-known television star): “Rock writing will lead you to those places where youve always wanted to go—down blind alleys."

THE RECORD REVIEW: The greatest reviews contain the same three elements as the greatest songs—sex, violence and uncalled-for insults. Example: Stevie Nicks voice makes your undies feel like theyve been in a waffle iron (sex). I barely got through the second cut on Agents Of Fortune before L had to go firebomb an orphanage (violence). Helen Reddys latest sounds like cyanide dripping slowly into the Los Angeles water supply (insult).

ROCK GLOSSARY: Now that youve got the three fundamentals down, youll need to know the secret lingo Rock Critics (hereafter known

Really Loving It To Death

TOOWOOMBA, AUSTRALI A—A masked intruder held a disc jockey at gun-

as R.C.s) use to cover up their lack of confidence.

The Biz: What you put in a Bizbag.

Artist: Term used derisively in The Biz.

Riff: What a thin dog says. Hook: What a thin TB patient says when he coughs. Shrink Wrap: Cellophane used for packaging pygmies. Album Of The Year: R.C.s version of “April Fools!" Producer: Someone in favor of ducers.

Editor: A tinny voice on the phone that tells rotten jokes you have to laugh at or else. Deadline: The powerless threat of an editor. APPLYING FOR THE JOB: Play one side of a Montrose album, whip up a review and mail it to a magazine. There, theyll throw it away unless they need something to pass around the office and make fun of. This is called “breaking in as a writer."

BITING THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU: Now that you have broken in, all the record companies will start sending you free records, posters, pins, indeterminate wearing apparel and third-round WHA draft selections. REMEMBER, if you say something particularly objectionable about a specific corn-

point in this small town near Brisbane and forced him to play Alice Cooper records for ninety minutes before he made his getaway.

DJ Gary Watling said the man, wearing a mascarapainted mask and an Alice Cooper t-shirt, somehow broke into the building, crashed into the booth, and stuck a pistol to the jocks blabbering face. “Shuddup and play Alice," he said calmly.

Watling hastily complied, stopping only to turn the record ' over occasionally. “What could I do with that gun pointing at me?" he asked. “Im 26, and I liHe it."

Rick Johnson

pany (such as “London Records eat shit"), youll get cut from their mailing list faster than a. hogtoad on Beaver Day. (Authors note: I personally-love all record companies equally and with undying devotion.)

JUNKETS: Once youve hit the “big time" (one Rock-arama every six months), record companies will stand in line begging to send you to glamorous locations like Antfarm ville, Indiana where you can sit in Ifascinating motel rooms all day and night waiting for the phone to ring. Insiders refer to this as “Life On The Road."

POPULAR MYTH #1: Some folks insist that R.C.s are all hopeless zit-carriers with an ax to grind and no sex life. With the notable exception of the author, this is absolutely correct.

POPULAR MYTH # 2: All R.C.s are just frustrated musicians. Another falsehood! Just ask Lenny Kaye. As I was telling my rhythm guitarist yesterday...

Knock, Knock, Who's There?

Why, Iss Rod Stewart an' Ffffrankle Miller. Who would believe that Rod could lock himself out of his own house? He did, while showing Frankie the finer points of his eight-bolt lock on the front 'door. Somehow, Frankie was on the inside of the door while Rod was on the outside. Rod had to dimb In a ground story window (very slow-ly), and unlock the door again from the inside. What we want to know Is—why was Frankie unable(unwffffng?] to do the honors himself from the inside? Better count the silver, Rodney, before Britt gets back. (Hie)

SECRET LIVES OF ROCK CRITICS: Air-Mishap Genheimer goes to law school. Robot Hull has kids and relatives. Robert Christgau works for the State Dept. Lester Bangs is getting picky about the sofas he sleeps bn, R. Meltzer is getting picky about the boxcars he sleeps in. Ask Sue Whitall about her trip to Morocco sometime. WHAT THE IRS WANTS TOKNOW: HowR.C.s with little or no visible income can afford to blow all the money they do on the material objects they so love to accumulate. No, they dont sell drugs on the side. Why bother, when you can sell all the Tangerine Dream 8 x 10s you get in the mail to half-witted collector types for twenty bucks a throw? What \vould P.T. Barnum say? GROUPIES: Of course, what every up-and-comer wants to know is: do rock critics really get groupies?

Yes. %

Rick Johnson

Up From Down Under: Little River Band

“J remember the days on the road, I almost died there..."*

Its a hot humid overcast summers eye in the Apple. In Central Park a wintertime skating rink has been converted to seat the audience of a series of summer concerts. Tonights headliner is Firefall who, despite a gold album and hit singles, have filled less than a third of the 7,000 capacity . Heirs to this measly draw are the support act; the Little River Band.

Who? Some wimpy bluegrass baloney?

Nope, theyre a hardworking bunch of pop-rockers from the land of Oz, the Shangri-la of Ray Davies Arthur—otherwise referred to as Australia. And from what could be seen onstage, these werent no wimps noodling around.

Sure, there were no stacks upon stacks of Marshall and Hiwatt gear, but the music was crisp, tight and upfront; no gimmicks, tricks or techno-flash, just and uncompromising, honest show of strength, take it or leave it. Six unassuming guys were producing spot-on Hollies harmonies and quicksilver guitar lines laid out over funky, popping bass and thurrtping drum backbeat.

The Little River Band, or LRB as their insignia abbreviates it, formed in Australia about two years ago. Their

*Days On The Road ©Australian Tumbleweed Music

initial recordings immediater ly zoomed them to the top of the heap of homegrown groups—critics raved, the industry made awards, and the kids bought. Overnight success, eh?

Well, not exactly. The bands three vocalist/composers, Glen Shprrock, Beeb Birtles and Graham Goble, are all veterans of the pop wars, both in Oz and in England. Shorrock sang in the Twilights, Australias answer to the Beatles and its all-time numero uno aggregation, including the legendary Easybeats, whose shortlived mid-Sixties success was mainly in England, and the Bee Gees, who are making their pile Stateside in the mid-Seventies (and had only one hit Down Under before leaving).

Following the Twilights, which gradually disintegrated after returning home from a failed attempt to crack the English i scene, Glen joined a “super-group"called Axiom, which promptly went to England, made no waves there, and broke up. Glen stayed on, intermittently pursuing a solo career and fronting a multi-national classic-rock experiment, the Esperanto Rock Orchestra— virtually to no avail.

Birtles spent several years as a national teen idol, playing bass for a band called Zoot, which topped the GoSet polls (roughly equivalent to winning popularity contests in zines like 16 or Tiger Beat here).

Then he linked up with Goble in Mississippi—the former band, not the state.

Almost as soon as they struck paydirt in Oz, the boys geared up to invade England. Unfortunately, James quit the band just after they landed, to bounce back and forth between there and Australia until he latched onto Sherbet. Mississippi, in a word, underwhelmed the English public, and Beeb, Graham and Derek decided to return home and, with Glen (whom theyd met in London), lick their wounds, regroup and start again.

But this time it was going to be different. Thered be no question of totally abandoning Oz for England—by now infamous as the Aussie group graveyard—at the first whiff of success. This time it would be won their way, operating out of their country. They havent resigned themselves to remaining big fish in a small pond (Australias population is about 13 million); rather, they mean to use it as home base for an international campaign, touring Oz to maintain their foothold and journeying to distant shores to spread the word. In other words, an almost continual globe-trotting Life on the Road.

That life has already claimed victims in guitarists Rick Formosa and bassist Roger McLachlan, who couldnt face the prospect of nonstop touring. Luckily, their shoes have been ably filled by George McArdle, whose bass lends an excellent rhythmic complement to Dereks drumming, and David Briggs —a versatile riff merchant recommended by Formosa as one of Ozs primo axeartistes.

The weight of world-wandering continues to influence the band. Their second U.S. album, Diamantina Cocktail, co-produced by LRB and John Boylan (Boston, Ronstadt et ai.), is tilled with reminiscences of the road. Its no conscious concpetual direction, but as Graham explained: “We write lots of songs—we consider ourselves songwriters, and if a song is not usable at a given time, its saved. It just happened that all of the songs, both old and new, the ones that felt best for the band to cut this time around were often songs of the road."

A hard road it is, too; breaking an act in America can be a wildly inconsistent business. “Our record was number one for ten weeks in Jacksonville, but in San Francisco we were nobody. Some places weve headlined in three and five thousand seaters, others we did club showcases. In Toronto we packed a club, and after two encores we were holed up in the dressing room with a mob trying to burst in. Here in New York, were second bill to a band that couldnt fill the arena. Its crazy," said Beeb, wagging his head in wonder, “but this is the way to make it."

As they sang in their first U.S. hit single earlier this year, “Its a long way there, a long way to where Im goin..." Yet you can rest assured that LRB will be where they want to be at journeys end.

Jim Green

Toes of the Stars #1:

Can you guess who these rock luminaries are by their wlgglies? Dont blame Desenexl See page 74.

Are Bass Players Cattle?

NEW YORK CITY—I suppose it was just a matter of time before rock would evolve to the point where it would start spawning “directors," people who would conceive and produce conceptual albums using different musicians and singers like actors in a film. The men in question here are Eric Woolfson and Alan Parsons, whose company, the Alan Parsons Project, has scored big with their sci-fi, futuristic visionary piece entitled /, Robot.

Up until formation of the Project back in late 75, both Parsons and Woolfson were best known as behind the scenes men; Woolfson as a publisher and manager (he handled Carl “Kung Fu Fighting" Douglas) and Parsons as first an engineer (Wings Wild Life and Red Rose Speedway, Pink Floyds Dark Side of the Moon) and then a producer (Steve Harleys Cockney Rebel, Pilot, Al Stewart and John Miles). “We got friendly after running into each other at recording studios," recalls Woolfson, “and Alan, who was having plenty of hits as a producer but wasnt feeling that he was getting enough for his efforts, needed someone to take care of his business affairs. So I began to manage him and his career."

As their relationship tightened, the two began to discuss different vehicles for Parsons talents as a sound crafter. “We got to a stage," says Woolfson, “where I realized that Alan had more in him creatively than just producing records for other people. I had had an idea many years back about doing an album about Edgar Allen Poe, but I wasnt capable of doing it myself." The two made a deal with 20th Century Records, giving them complete freedom to do whatever they wished with whomever they wished, and the Project was born.

After modest success with Tales of Mystery and Imagination, which included musical interpretations of such Poe classics as “The Raven" and “The Fall of the House of Usher," Parsons and Woolfson moved over to Arista Records and began work on /, Robbt, an album about the decline and fall of man and the rise of the machine. “The title," Woolfson confesses, “is taken from a work by Isaac Asimov, but thats where the similarities end. The basic difference is that Asimov, in his 'laws of robotics, states that robots will never harm a human. Well, thats science fiction. Science fact is what were trying to suggest here, namely that Big Brother is here—now— and that the human being is much more of a conditioned machine than wed like to believe. An inefficient machine too, and one that could be obsolete someday."

One of the most intriguing aspects of the Project is that the musicians and singers who worked on the album were not told what the album was about or what particular songs were supposed to mean. “Somehow, the secrecy keeps everything really exciting and fresh," Woolfson says with a devilish smile. And so, with Woolfson writing lyrics and Parsons putting together the music and engineering, I, Robot was created in the laboratory known as a recording studio. Have they thought about a follow-up yet? Of course, says Woolfson, and work on it will be commencing very soon. And, of course, hes not at liberty to say what its about. OK, quiet in the studio; alright—plugs, dials... guitars!

Billy Altman