THE STARSHIP’S MARTY BALIN

“Sometimes,” mused Marty Balin, crossing his Holiday Inn room to switch tapes on the portable cassette deck, “I hate being white.”

He fiddled with the volume control, paused to pick a handful of grapes from a pile of fruit strewn across the dresser, then flopped on his double bed.

“Let’s face it,” I said, jealously watching the grapes disappear down Balin’s mouth. “You are white.” Balin gazed blankly at the color TV spewing Sunday baseball soundlessly through the room. “Yeh,” he agreed, “but I’m not too happy about it.”

Ten ye^rs ago, it didn’t sound so odd to hear your average hippie on the street spouting this w^ird kind of selfloathing. Then again, the biggest hit single of 1967 was “To Sir With Love.” Balin, of course, is no addled casualty of 60’s psychedelia. If anything, he is a shrewd and immensely gifted rock -shaman. He’s also an extremely elusive witch doctor—interviews with Balin have been few and far between.

Like so many celebrities—even one tainted by white man’s blood—Balin has a favorite cause. If relieved of his duties as sometimes Starship vocalist, he would pay a return visit to the Komo Indian reservation, which he frequented after the first Airplane split. Balin’s kinship with the tribe, who live along the California Waterways, originated as research for a screenplay based on the book Black Elk Speaks.

Marty spoke bitterly of the tribe’s plight. “Our white culture is so jive, man. We slaughtered these poor people, ruined their land, destroyed their great literature and poetry. Now we’re trying to kill off the few tribes that are left.”

Several experiences, particularly a shoot-out between tribe members and

a local fishing outfit, traumatized Balin. “The braves tried to stop them from depleting the river,” he claimed, “and the cops came in and beat up the Indian women. They never had a chance...”

So whatever happened to Balin’s screenplay? Ah, a case of cinematic coitus interruptus. “These were young warriors fighting for their lives in poverty,” Marty says. “They didn’t want any white kid messing with the story of their spiritual leader. So I abandoned it. It was too bogue; a white man’s trip. The Indians wanted to do it

themselves.”

Did they? Well no, Marty admitted. They made a film of police beating up their women and children instead, a film which, unfortunately, no one has seen. So why doesn’t Balin use his superstar status to advance the Indian cause? “You can’t lay that bullshit on audiences anymore,” he sneered. “They don’t w.artt to hear it. Now it’s all boogie. If you’re Bob Dylan, maybe that’s OK. If you’re me, it’s boogie.”

Balin’s political naivete may be embarrassing, but much of his show-biz cynicism is justified. The Starship’s drug-addled audiences are often oblivious to the group’s musical repertoire as well. “What’s really discouraging,” he volunteered, “is that our audiences love our worst sets. Our manager’s the same way. He always loves us. We could shit in our pants and he’d say ‘right on!’ ”

Today the Starship functions more like a corporation than a communal cadr. Theirrecords are automatic platinum and band members sign long-term contracts. Revolution has been purged from their vocabulary.

Marty Balin’s erratic career mirrors the checkered history of the group. Originally a club owner and artist, he founded the Airplane in 1966, then quit five years later. Now he has rejoined the band, at least temporarily, providing most of the compositional muscle behind their recent hits. Past 30, Balin has aged well. His build is sculpted into the spare, tapered lines of a dancer. The singer greets visitors with an attentive, vaguely metallic smile.

“The Starship’s very Wagnerian,” he explained, with a wary glance at the band’s publicist, who was nervously sitting in on our meeting. “Our albums are boogie epics. Kantner brings me songs and i say, oh God, it’ll take months to write lyrics—they’re so big. From one bar to the next seems like twenty miles.”

Why does he bother? “For the money,” Balin chirped, grabbing another clump of grapes. “Besides, if I write the words, then I get to sing the song. Otherwise I’d be sitting around playing congas all night.”

"I want to massage the audience to death."

When we spoke, Balin was yet again rumored to be leaving the inter-galactic rock caravan. “I’ve been told not to talk about it,” he demurred. “If I tell the truth, everybody will get upset. I’m supposed to be Mr. Nice Guy.”

Later Marty warmed up to the topic. “The first group—ugh!” Marty’s face turned sour, as if he had bitten into an overripe grapefruit. “They were such big stars. I couldn’t talk to anybody. I couldn’t even organize rehearsals. How can you practice when you can’t even talk to your guitarist?” The publicist blanched, shifting nervously in her seat. She tried to signal me. I studied the patterns on the rug.

What bothered Balin the most was the disparity between the band’s hippie image and its real-life backstabbing. “It was always the guy who jived the loudest and talked the fastest that got his way,” he complained. “I’m not that way. The jive got on my nerves.

“I used to have a great love affair with everybody. I was very sensitive.” He paused for effect, cocking his head off to one side. “Now I just do whatever I please. I have no contract with the band, no contract with anybody. I said I’d make three albums and each one would be a gold record. I kept my word. After I left, the Airplane was dead—they were a joke. Now I’ll have to decide whether to stay or go somewhere else.” somewhere else."

If he departs again, a likely cause will be ego conflicts. “I hate having to fight for my mike. My style’s different. I don’t give a damn about music or notes. I’m interested in energy—high energy. The band likes to tell me to cool down,” he grinned. “Well, they can always fire me.”

What little satisfaction Balin gets out of his career grows out of a sense of performance as power. “I love to hypnotize the audience,” he said with surprising fervor. “Unfortunately, we’re a variety show. I get the crowd in my hands and then I have to go back to the congas. How can you hypnotize someone in a variety show?”

This concluded our interview. Marty stood up, selected another grape and left a final message. “You know what I’d really enjoy?” he whispered conspiratorially. “I want to massage the audience to death.” Balin begins to change clothes for that night’s show. I stared at Balin’s hands. They are lean and taut and weathered by the sun like a flat pair of desert rocks. It would be one helluva massage.