THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

On The Nod

BUFFALO, N.Y.—He was walking down the street lost and alive, looking for a reason to exist, when he came across this garishly painted bi-centennial trash barrel sporting the listless face of George Washington. His hands began to tremble as he set out on a determined journey to the bottom of the garbage abyss.

Halfway to his destination, he had to take a moment's pause to pass last night's dinner. Pushing aside the flyencrusted, half-eaten dog head he'd just found staring at him in dazed bewilderment—retch-gag-and enchantment—he plunged ever downward.

At the plateau of oblivion he ceased up, his eyes stinging from the crystilliferous gleam of a discarded MD 20 20 bottle. Moke sauce, he thought to himself, but classy nonetheless: the image of a half-eaten moke monster, head razored through his cracked iris. Further along in the maze of miscast mush he caught a fleeting glimpse of some Star Brothers Port: the MOR of Wineography. His fingers hurt. He persisted.

Suddenly, (no) SUDDENLY, he saw IT. Picking up the green bottle he examined it like a scientist examining a miscast microbe, the heat of location and identification playing havoc with his memory banks. Tipping the bottle to his lips a drop of stale red carbonation slid down his throat like an ancient mollusk.

He'd found it, he'd seen it, he'd tasted it, he felt like the Leakey of lushes, he'd discovered the Pilt Down man of mash, the quasar of hooch, the tsunami of booze —they called it "NIGHT TRAIN EXPRESS" and that clinched it, he was hooked, visions of Jimmy Rodgers' lung and Camus drifted in an confused the scene.

He stood there and stared at the bottle for what seemed an eternity. A cop shooed him away. A muzzy-headed myrmidon of kulture, he collapsed into the closest closet-sized liquor stable. Doubts began entering his mind as he asked for a bottle of "NIGHT TRAIN", leaving

out the "Express" in a fit of cool, the doubts centered on the purity of price. What, if it was expensive? That'd blow the whole thing. If it was over a $ he was sunk. What if all this was nothing more than another liver hallucination? What if...

"Can I have a pint of Night Train!" The gut-ladened guy behind the counter looked at him with cunctative glance, decided not to ask any questions and headed immediately to the cooler, a trek he'd obviously made a hundred times in the brief life of this day. "My God they don't even stock it on the shelves!!!!" The brown paper bag caressed the coolness of the impending malmsey. He shuddered. Trying desperately to get his vocal cords outta hock hepecantly asked, "How much?" The moment waned dipilatory. Tears of anticipatory rage unprepossessingly empoisoned his cheekets. The answer: "89¢"

Unlike Boone's Farm Apple Wine, this is made from the toejam of the gods. It's 19% alcohol by volume, which means if you buy a pint, you're getting a better kick than a whole quart of Tocay. It hails from Modesto, California: That's Gallo Bros, country, bub, and ya don't argue with Ernest and Julio, right?: not Mendicino, not Nappa Sanomma, not... It's great to absorb space music too, or watch test patterns. If you have two pints, it acts like a hit of vintage hallucinogen. If you have more than a quart doing battle with your bloodstream, you think you're Godzilla. If you do it with beer chasers, it's "Hitler's on the phone from Berlin, says he gonna make you a star" time. Anything beyond that and you've become science fiction.

This stuff gorgonizes. To equate it musically: drink it and after awhile you begin to feel like the heels of James Brown's shoes on the TAMI Show... later.

Joe Fernbacher

Punk Fashion Remembers Its Roots

Ever, in the backwash of popular culture, Andy Warhol appears here In a 1964 photograph sporting a collarful of safety pins... definite proof that Andy was over 12 years ahead of his time or that safety pinned punkers are 12 years behind...But then again, maybe Andy just wanted to be prepared in the event of an epidemic of busted brassiere straps.

Is There No End In Sight Dept.

PHOENIX, ARIZONA— Mercury records sponsored a Ritz Cracker Eating Contest here recently for its English group, City Boy, whose new album is titled Dinner At The Ritz. Get it? What will those zany executives think of next?

The winner of the contest (whoever could jam the most crackers down his throat and swallow) would be picked by two members of City Boy, who just happened to be in town on their way to a promotional tour of war-torn Angola.

I was early arriving at the contest site in Phoenix, the Odyssey Record Shop. No matter how many times my CREEM editor and fellow CREEM writers have tried to pound it into my brain that the CREEM writer must always arrive late—or perhaps not show up at all—they have pleaded with me to no avail. I was early. I wanted to suss out the joint, check out the local teenagers and chew some gum before City Boy got there to sweep the crumbs under the carpet, so to speak.

5 YEARS AGO

Airplane Pummeled!

Grace Slick and Paul Kantner were allegedly beaten and then arrested by Akron, Ohio police August 21. According to Bill Thompson, the Airplane's manager, the band is suing the city for false arrrest.

The kids in the store were doing these things: shoplifting, smoking, and beginning to assemble for the contest in front of a table stacked with boxesandboxes of those crummy crackers.

Lol Mason and Steve Broughton of City Boy arrived shortly thereafter, ahemming and hawing in a British fashion as though they'd already gotten saltines stuck in their throats. They watched in awe as the 15 contestants stuffed as many dry crackers as would fit down their gullets in less than 60 seconds. One adorable blonde teen got most of the crackers down her blouse, and was disqualified. An equally enthusiastic brunette choked to the strains of City Boy's "Mama's Boy" single (being played on the store stereo), then raced outside and upchucked the whole foul mess onto the sidewalk.

Lol and Steve seemed a trifle embarrassed during all of this but relaxed afterwards when they saw that no one had died during the orgy. Their cheeks gained color and they winked at the throng of cuties who waited for a handshake or whatever you do to cute young girls these days.

The two winners both tied at consumption ot 15 crackers and their prize was a dinner with City Boy at Phoenix's ritziest restaurant. They were picked up in a limousine by their rock star dates and showered with attention. The pert little girl winner giggled and amused those around her while the teenage boy winner was a drivelling sort of fellow, perhaps bordering on psychotic. Oh well.

Mercury tells me they've planned a contest for Rush's next release. The setting will be Detroit's Cobo Hall and the object will be for everyone to RUSH for the exit at once to see who gets outside first. The winner will receive an ambulance ride with a member of Rush and a free rib plaster. Remember when rock groups used to have simple parties with cheese dip?

Darcy Diamond

Sons off Pet Rock

WASHINGTON, D.C.— There is never any shortage of useless gimmicks like the Pet Rock. Consequently, department stores measure their profits in terms of new items to sell along with the mood ring and the Veg-omatic. Among this year's bimbo offerings: the Sand Breeding Kit (from the Pet Rock folks, Rock Bottom Productions, comes two test tubes of sand, one labeled "male" and the other "female," for breeding your own beach); Pacer (a bracelet that's supposed to register your anxiety and pain); Thumb Therapy (an oval of Mexican onyx designed as a thumb rest); Pyramid Power (two pieces of plastic guaranteed to improve your drinking water); Square Egg Maker (a container that molds a hard-boiled egg into more or less a cube); and the Shower Mike (a piece of gray soap shaped like a microphone, for rock singers who also bathe). All available (and selling like hotcakes!) at your local friendly suburban shopping mall.

Robot A. Hull

Puttin' on the Ritz

Angus Young demonstrates the proper way to lodge a complaint with the chef while fellow AC/DCer, Bon Scott, attempts to intimidate through agility by scratching his head and snorting the pimento out of an olive at the same time. Don't you wish you could invite these nasty chaps over to your grandmother's house for a turkey dinner? How about your turkey's house for a grandmother dinner?