THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

TOM WAITS: The Slime Who Came In From The Cold

SAN FRANCISCO—A pointy, black shoe kicks the motel door open, and in lurches something even the cat would refuse to drag in. It’s Tom Waits, looking like a stubble-chinned stumble bum who just traded a pint of blood for a pint of muscatel down at the plasma center. His attire—Frederick’s of Goodwill—is appropriately seedy on his meager frame.

“I’ve got an eagle tattooed on my chest,” he growls. “Only on this body it looks more like a robin.”

Now that he’s made Time magazine and has five albums out on Asylum (Foreign Affairs is the newest), Tom Waits is the cat’s meow (or is it the cat’s barf?). When he made his TV debut on Fern wood 2 Night, singing “The Piano Has Been Drinking” and then bantered with friend/host Martin Mull, Mull apologized for having only a Diet Pepsi to offer. Waits whipped out a flask from his coat and Mull made a comment about him “sitting here with a bottle in front of him.”

“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy,” Waits shot back. Later he offered: “People who can’t face drugs turn to reality.”

Waits’ act is hardly an act at all. He sometimes sleeps in his flea market duds, keeps hours better left to street sweepers, and smokes more than the grill at Joe’s Bar-BQ. He travels in a bus and stays in fleabag joints while his three-piece band chooses classy hotels.

“Blue Oyster Cult and Black Oak Arkansas stayed in the same hotel with me in Phoenix,” Waits mumbled, scratching his furry skin and trying to sound sincere.

“It was a real thrill for me, ya know, being only three doors away from your heroes.” (He once said he enjoyed the Cult about as much as listening to trains in a tunnel.) “I like them,” he continued. “Of course, I also like boo: gers and snot and vomit on my clothes.”

While he’s in hometown L.A., Waits lives at the Tropicana Motor Hotel, once a favorite of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, and where Andy Warhol’s Trash was partially filmed. His neighbors are strippers, pimps, Mexicans, “a maniac misfit unemployed actor and a guy named Sparky.” Some punks live behind him. Though his music Ts a me-

lange of jazz, heart-throbbing ballads and beat poetry, ironically enough, he has an affinity for punk rock.

“It may be revolting to a lot of people, but at least it?s an alternative to the garbage that’s been around for ten years,” he said. “I’ve had it up to here with Crosby Steals the Cash. I need another group like that like I need another dick. I’d rather listen to some young kid in a leather jacket singing a song like ‘I want to eat out my mother’ than to hear some of «these insipid guys with their | cowboy boots and embroijjjdered shirts doing ‘Six Days I On The Road.’ 5 like Mink DeVille.

“I was on the Bowery in New York and stood out in front of CBGB’s one night. There were all these cats in small lapels and pointed shoessmokin’ Pall Malls and bullshitting with the winos. It was good.” When he’s among outcasts, he’s in his own element.

Waits is going to play a piano player in a bar in Sylvester Stallone’s next film, Paradise Alley, singing three of his own songs. He may have a song" in Dustin Hoffman’s movie, Straight Time, but he won’t be on Starsky and Hutch.

“I was actually insulted when they asked me,” Waits grumbled. “They wanted me to play a satanic figure in a cult group—I said CANCEL.

They’d probably put me in a peasant shirt with a bunch of beads and spray paint and devil eyes.”

Until he makes the silver screen, watch for tipsy Tom in the sleazy part of town. You won’t have any trouble remembering his scruffy, whiskered face.

“I’m usually recognized when I’m talking to some pretty girl in a bar,” he sighed, running a few nicotine-stained fingers through his Pennzoil hair. “Some sophomore comes over and drools on my shoulder.”

Clark Peterson

The Byrds: Back To Capistrano?

SAN FRANCISCO—It was the 8th anniversary of Altamont and 14 years since the Byrds first hatched in L;A. David Crosby, fresh from the cover of People magazine, climbed out of the crowd to join Roger McGuinn and Gene Clark on the Boarding House stage, and the people treated this 3/5 of the Byrds like the Second Coming.

“I’m creamin’ in my jeans, you guys!” an orgasmic fe|male shouted, rushing up sfront for all to see.

“Hey, that’s not a song we zwrote, is it?” said Crosby, non-plussed^ McGuinn then broke into an impromptu song putting her lyrics to music, and Crosby informed the ecstatic fan that the band was in room 413.

“Actually I’m doing even more than that!” the woman panted.

After the show, Fearless Reporter scurried backstage and shoved his tape recorder into the chaos. Brazen as a spare change hustler, I asked if time had healed all their wounds.

“I don’t remember any wounds,” Crosby replied. “The only images I save up are real tasty ones like sexual overload. I had all that time to think up every nasty thought, every rotten shot, every low, cheesy motive. I’m all used up.”

McGuinn added his 2i\ “I don’t want to be responsible for history. Like, do you know what you did wrong on March 3, 1968?”

“No, it was ’69!” Crosby riposted. “A Thursday. I sang four flat notes in a row. That’s disgusting.*”

“I puked,” McGuinn added. “Every time I thought about it since then, I puked.” Fearless Reporter tried another angle, knowing his debt to CREEM readers to clear UR all this talk of a reunion. Would they like to cut a reunion album?

“Jesus, it’d probably be fun,” Crosby answered. “Every time you try h?ird enough, man, if you care about the music , you wind up with some music.”

“Great,” McGuinn chipped in. “I’d like to do it, too.”

“One thing we’ve all agreed; we’ll only get together if Chris [Hillman] wears a bag over his head,” he smiled.

“Right,” Clark agreed. “He can’t get the right size eye holes.”

“Burlap,” said McGuinn.

At this point I was thrown out, but luckily I had interviewed Clark and McGuinn earlier that day, and Hillman a few weeks before that. Hillman was against a reformation unless they recorded a knock-out album. “Without that,” he had said, “we’re one step away from the Holiday Inn lounge.” The band had been considering a comeback with Rick Vito and Greg Thomas replacing Crosby arid Michael Clarke, but they now regret this desperate move. Hillman may work with McGuinn and Clark on acoustic guitar and mandolin, and they’ve also been thinking about getting. Bernie Leadon, not to mention one other special guy.

“George Harrison’s not doing anything,” McGuinn said seriously. “I asked him what he’s been doing lately , and he looked at me with these big sad eyes like the world had beaten him over the head. I jammed with him and then the next night he went and hung around with Leon Russell. It was like I kicked him in the ass a bit.”

So kids, it’s all up in the air whether the Byrds will soar again and who will fill their ranks. They may have to change their name to Mother’s Overalls. Anyone got some Beatle boots and granny glasses to spare?

Clark Peterson

Steely Dan Breakfast Meat?

NEW YORK-Face iTfolks, rock ’n’ roll paraphernalia has gotten very boring. There’s only so much Pricky Frampton t-shirts, life-size color posters complete with bulging crotch, tacky buttons, stickers and 8x10 glosSies “personally” autographed by some dumb lacky who works for the star’s manager that you can foist on the public until they hunger for more. I don’t care if it’s a larger-thanlife, 3-D color Hologram belt buckle fashioned after Robert Plant’s legendary pubic protuberance, the shit is definitely lacking in anything nutritious.

Walter Becker and Donald Fagen of Steely Dan are known as the type of folk who would never stoop to that level, so our CREEM correspondent was pleasantly surprised when they accidentally unveiled their plans to make millions off their com m erci all y-r especte d

NEW YORK: NEWSPAPER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD !

Whoro else could you hove rood this "exclusive" account of Paul Stanley's Double Life? Sure, we've all heard the rumors, but only the New York Dally News, which sells more newspapers In the U.S. than ANY OTHER PAPER including the Enquirer and CREEM put together, actually got pictures—and hey I Pictures don't lie I On the left you see the pouty pooch we all know and love applying a final dab to his do. At the right you see him—"extremely rare photo” indeed—taking a "night off' at Studio 54. We always suspected the disco connection. But thorp's more than disco at work here: not only Is Paul "unmasked,” but he's transformed into a greasy limey with an earring and tangerine eye shadow. Hey I Not just any greasy limey, but Michael Corby of the Babysl Start adding up the Chrysalis royalties,, the sales from Kiss Komlx, the combined nook garnered by Paul in his Kiss persona and in his Babys mode...and we want to know |ust what it is that keeps Paul going. Rock 'n' roll all nlte and pahty ev-a-ry day...no shitl

name in a recent telephone interview. The idea slipped out while the band were advising our correspondent on solutions to the age-old artiste’s disease of writer’s cramp:

Becker: Maybe what you need is a targe dose of Steely Dan Breakfast Meat!

CREEM: Steely Dan

Breakfast Meat? Is it nonfattening and non-caloric?

Becker: Np, it is extremely so. It’s got a lot of cholesterol and gris—gris gredu^...you know, most of the breakfast meat on the market today, although I find them acceptable , a lot of the gredue sits in the pan and I don’t know what to do with it. It’s usually taken out and sent to New Orleans.

CREEM: Walter, is it true you have the metabolism of a sea slug, and is that a result of eating Steely Dan Breakfast Meat?

Becker: That would definitely give you the metabolism of a sea slug, partially from eating almost anything, including what resembles 'that which we hope to finalize in the form of Steely Dan...

Becker & Fagen (in unison) : BREAKFAST MEAT!!!!

CREEM: You’re going to market it?

Fagen: Yeah, that’s right. Like Fotomat. There’s going to be these little stands and you drive up and give the guy a dollar and he gives you some Steely Dan Breakfast Meat. If you don’t like it, you bring it back. You just give it back and it’s like a donation because you shouldn’t waste fbod.

Becker: Yeah, what about the starving children in China?

CREEM: Send fhem Steely Dan Breakfast Meat, too?

Fagen: Yeah. I’d like to have a telethon to raisfe enough money to send three or four 747s filled to the brim with Steely Dan Breakfast Meat to China and other impoverished countries.

CREEM: What color is the stuff?

Fagen: It’s GRAY!!! What color is meat? Gray, right?! It’s not like that much different from what you’d normally think of as sausage. It’s just different proportions of...

Becker: Hey! Pat Boone sausages are gonna be about as stylish as white sheets after the Steely Dan Breakfast Meat sees the light of day. There’s gonna be about as much of that stuff and, you know, that Hormel, as...

Fagen: When you see this little shit they’re trying to sell...

j Becker: Whoops! We gotta do another interview now...

Leaving our correspondent wondering whether he should saute his copy of Aja in soy sauce until his local Steely Dari Breakfast Meat Stand opens. But, be forewarned...some morning soon, you can crawl outfa your shell and brunch' on some Steely Dan Breakfast Meat, with, of course, & six of Boy Howdy! on the side to wash the shit down. Then go pull on your Alice Cooper golf shirt (snakes on the pocket instead of alligators), slip into a pair of John Denver Rocky Mountain overalls (cow shit on the cuffs extra), ‘strap up your Leo Sayer sneakers (“Disco’s for the feet”) and grab your Doobie Brothers putter (no, not ithat Doobie or /that putter!) and contemplate the real meaning of being out in the links:

THE COURTSHIP OFMEATLOAF

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Rob Patterson

How To Buy Good Records

MACOMB, ILL.—Buying records is an art. You can’t just saunter into the record store Bianca Jagger-like and grab anything that lights up your candle. Do you want to look like one of those toasterheads who automatically snatch their fave’s latent disc and totter to the cashier with eyes blank as lemming cud?

The main thing you want to remember in record buying is that music alone is extraneous to the actual enjoyment of music. In fact, it’s dangerous. You don’t have to like the artist. You don’t have to like the songs. You shouldn’t even have to open the thing to obtain maximum pleasure.

What’s obviously needed is a set of guidelines to help you, the stupid idiot, figure out which platters to buy and love. It just so happens that CREEM’s consumer division came up with such a system during their recent stay at the Oakland County White Collar Palookas Farm, which we now bring to you as a public service and sure-fire space fillet. While this method is simple enough for even the most moss-witted Sea Level fan, you may want to use a pocket calculator or colored blocks for the final tabulation.

KEY: 12 or more points: A total masterpiece. Sit, down and write a letter to Jon Landau telling him you’ve discovered the next Livingston Taylor. 8 - 11 pts.: A good bet, although you may need a tie-breaker question like “will it fit under my jacket?” 4 - 7 pts. : Often the main ingredient in owl muke. 3 or less: Much of the housing in the state of Arizona was constructed from records like these.

ALBUM TITLES (3 points): Album titles are often more important than song titles because they reveal the artist’s inner vision (as in Innervisions) or true intent {Young, Loud And Snotty) in a word or two. You can be sure that thoughts deep enough to snorkle in go into titles like Nurse’s Song With Elephants, but you have to wonder about items like Shuggie Otis’ Golden Decade and Nazz Nazz Nazz Nazz. In fact, any title using the performer’s name is treading on pretty thin vinyl unless it’s something cute like Kinks-Size. GOOD: Fleas In Custard, No Pussyfooting, Aftermath, Let It Bleed, Late Night Movies/All Night Brainstorms. BAD: To Our Children’s Children’s Children, Burros and Pearls, Trilogy, Tapestry, Travesty, Wasa-Wasa, Tago Mago, Tango Fahgo, Cupis Lupis and, of course, the beloved Bummm!

ARTIST(S)’ NAME (3 points): The Beatles were the first group to prove that the name is greater than the performers. Why do you think they beat out the Dave Clark Five, Gerry And The Pacemakers and the American Beatles? Talent? Ha! Most musicians now realize the importance of a groovee tag, and bands often have names before they have members. They often keep the names after they t have1 members, too. At least the Jimi Hendrix Experience didn’t try that. GOOD: Insect Trust, Can, Television, Crowbar, Lothar And The Hand People, Thirteenth Floor Elevators, Blue Cheer, Black Shit Puppy Farm. BAD: Hamilton, Joe Frank And Dennison, Mind Garage, Guru Guru, Booty People, Happy And Artie Traum, Electric Prunes, Dave Mason an,d Cass Elliot.

Think you’ve got the idea

now? Just to prove that this system works, I personally went down to my local combination record store/ roadside vegetable stand, applied the tests above, and came home with the country classic King Of All The Taverns by Little David Wilkins and the Fat Boys. There’s six points right off. Checking the tubs in the band, you’ll find “Pig” Newton, Faron Nouf and Lincoln Nebraska. Three more points. Besides the engaging title track, there’s “Let’s Do Something (Even If It’s Wrong)” and their ode to premature squirters called \ “Half The Way In, Half The Way Out.” That’s twelve points right there, and the cover shot—a cute snap of 300-lb. Little David eating his arm—is enough to remove unwanted guests from your home like unwanted hair from your face.

Obviously a classic, and I didn’t even have to open the wrapper! Find yourself a Red Crayola album and start today.

Rick Johnson

5 YEARS AGO

We Accept!

The president of a Cincinnati television station replaced ABC’s In Concert broadcast with. Pawhide reruns after deeming Alice Cooper’s performance “offensive.” Said the Prez: “It had stopped being music and had turned into...a blatant invitation to drugs apd sex.”