THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

The Kids Are Still All Right

LONDON—Will Keith Moon finally admit his involvement with the TM Movement? At what point did Roger Daltrey first notice he couldn’t hear a note the band was playing? Why didn’t Pete Townshend ever get a nose job? Who is John Entwhistle and why is he so boring?

All these answers and more will come your way via a new flick starring The Who and directed by Jeff Stein, titled The Kids Are Alright, and scheduled for release this summer to coincide with a new Who waxing. Stein, world’s leading authority on rock group The Who, is having a field day to the tune of $4 million splicing rare footage from historic Who concerts, starting with the embryonic Who shows at the Railway Tavern in ’64, through Woodstock, to a concert staged in December for the benefit of the cameras at Gaumont State Theatre in Kilburn, England.

When the rumor got out that a major rock band was playing' Kilburn for free, a crowd of a few hundred managed to claw their way into the tiny venue. Producer Tony Klinger thought the show was great. The Who called it “a disaster.”

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL! The Kids Are Alright is just the first in a series of projects

planned by The Who to make use of their new $700,000 film complex in Shepperton. Stay tuned for more Who extravaganzas (Who’s Last?).

Cathy Gisi

Drac Has Risen From The Grave

BOSTON—The words “weirdo” and “loon” were practically invented for Joseph Allen Viglione alias the Count. An average joe by day (drives a truck for a living), Count Viglione at night grows his eyeteeth out and bites the necks of folks, assembled at various Beantown rock ’n’ roll hangouts, who wanna hear his peculiar style of rockin’ horror trauma. And anyway, what kinda sicko freak would actually admit that his favorite singers were Lou Reed and Barry Manilow?!

The persona of this crazy Count came into being in ’69 while lil’ Joe put out a fanzine called Varulven (Norwegian for werewolf). Previously, this hobby had been collecting cheap horror films from dept, stores. While Joe’s pals would be outside playing basketball, he’d be inside watching Bela Lugosi suck blood. Consequently, the kids nicknamed him “Drac” “And they really freaked out when they found out I had fangs,” claims the Count. Since then, Joe as the Count has released 2 EPs, formed the Janis Ian Fan Club, and struck terror in the hearts of thousands of Bostonians.

It’s Count Vig’s music, though, that overshadows his eccentricity. From the initial raw strokes on “The Salt Water Summers” off the 1st EP (“50’s beat w/ surf & cola!”) to the heart-throbbing sentimental drool of “Old Friend” from the Auguste Phenomenon EP, the Count proves himself a master of angst rock ’n’ roll (like his two idols, Janis Jop & Jimbo Morrison the Door). That’s 8 whoppin’ bloody cuts on 2 EPs, all of em sounding like a combo jam between the Velveeta Underground, Hawkwind, Herman Munster, Buddah super-bubblegum, Red Krayola, Boris Karloff, and wimpy Nico with a slit throat. (Av’l’ble for a meager $3 for both records: Count Viglione, Box 83, Tufts U., Medford, Mass. 02135, or simply send the old bloodsucker some garbage and he’ll send you something obscene.)

OH YEAH & P.S.: To substantiate the Count’s title as the True Mad Monarch of Rock ’n’ Roll (not a sane corpuscle in his whole body), you have to know that he used to perform in a blonde wig & ski goggles, he constantly tape records everything (even when he’s asleep), he wants to build a rock ’n’ roll palace in Boston to function as a “gargantuan museum of modern music,” and his biggest goal in life is to have a dream date with Officer Jim Reed (known to his many fans as Kent McCord), Badge No. 744, of Adam-12.

Robot A. Hull

5 YEARS AGO

Crashed Stones?

After denying he was banned from Japan because of his marijuana conviction, Mick dagger remarked that governments are building so many barriers around the Rolling Stones that “they may well beat us down.”

WOTTA SURPRISE!

Grunt and Groan Allman, who now holds the CREEM record for marathon yo-yo doubles, decided to show the world what a fun couple they really are.

1. Chor pretends to adjust her ear plugs as a ploy to escape Gregg's perpetual morning mouth. Lookit them beaver teeth on Cher I

2. Realizing that the only thing Gregg likes better than a taco and onion pizza is applause, she directs him to the mike for some real entertainment.

3. That’s enough, sucker! Let me show you how it's done. (Hey Gregg, if you don’t need the ear plugs, can we borrow ’em?)

The Crock Awards

OAKLAND, CA-Each year, the rag you now hold in your sweaty little meat hooks lets you readers pick your faves in the annual Readers’ Poll. What you never find out is that the winners are actually selected by a panel composed of Tony Orlando, Barry Manilow, Totie Fields, and Mark Farner’s mum. And what do the lucky ones get? A crummy Boy Howdy! plaque.

Well, dear reader, this may not titillate the gang around the water cooler at Fetish Times, but I’ve come up with my own answer to the Creemies. These awards have been designed especially for each winner.

To Peter Frampton, a chest toupee and Jack LaLanne body building manual so that he can graduate from the junior dept, at Sears.

To Kiss, little Lord Fauntleroy outfits, oven mittens, British G.I. dancing pumps, and Billy Preston afro wigs.

To Elton John, a jar of K-Y jelly and package of Trojans until he makes up his mind.

To Rod Stewart, the coveted Helen Reddy award— a year’s supply of caviar and Perrier water on silver service —for proving that Hollywood really can turn people into dorks.

To Elvis Presley, a subscription to the National Enquirer which proved that he is still alive and shovelling pills by the carload down his gullbt.

To Keith Richard, a goldplated syringe and I AM A DIABETIC I.D. card.

To Johnny Rotten, the Greensleeves award—a bucketful of slimy phlegm— for giving snot the bad name it deserves.

To Donny and Marie, the no-genitals version of the Barbie and Ken dolls, created in their own image.

To the Jefferson Starship, a book of nursery rhymes inspired by their song lyric, “Up against the wall, Mother Hubbard.”

To Boz Scaggs, a Hostess snowball with creamy white outside and a black inside, for obvious reasons.

To Robert Plant, whose tight jeans have given him the nickname “Lefty,” a reprint of the Readers Digest article, “I Am Joe’s Prostate.”

And finally to Mick Jagger, from the mail order pages of Scum magazine, an inflatable Bianca doll with a penetrable you-know-what for those long, lonely nights away from “Snugglekins.”

Clark Peterson

MAYBE IT'S DONE WITH MIRRORS?

You've got to give thorn credit— those Chrysalis folk are getting more ballsy everyday. This month, their soup du lour is A-MANda Lear, a spicy treat for the man, woman or beast who's tried ovarything. Disgusting? You betchal One thing about it though: she's great on a date if you get a blow-out I

Tubes Make Boobs Of Brits

BERKELEY—Remember the Tubes, that gonzoid band that made Alice Cooper’s act look like Lawrence Welk and Earl Scheib doing the polka? Did they go off and become the house band at Mario’s Grill and Alehouse? Throw away rock & roll for Born Again spirituals down at the First Church of Wayward Youth?

No, the Tubes are still sunk in debauchery, having just been banned in Portsmouth on their eight country, 26show tour of Europe. “It was probably the dirtiest town in England,” snickered front man Fee Waybill. “Just full of prostitutes and sailors and sex shows.” But in London at the Hammersmith Odeon, the band recorded a double live album (produced by Pete Henderson of Wings Over America), and the press went squirrelly. TUBES PLAN TO MOCK THE QUEEN read the headlines.

Back in the States for New Year’s ' Eve, the Tubes shoyved off their new foreign haircuts (bassist Rick Anderson looks like he has a rat’s nest with pheasant tails jutting out of his skull) and then got down to business. Yours truly was invited to be one of their punks in a cage for a POW scene. There I was onstage, coughing up juicy hockersof phlegm, shrieking every vile epithet scrawled on a urinal wall, and gesturing obscenely at the Nazi Stormtroopers guarding us with machine guns and whips. As the band roared into “I Saw Her Standing There,” Waybill revved up his chainsaw and plunged it deeply a la Harry Reems between the bars of our cage, a maniacal look in his eyes. Saliva oozed out the comers of his slobbery maw, and little fangs seemed to suddenly appear while facial hair sprouted wolfman-style. Either that or the kiwi stew I had for din-din was giving me hallucinations.

Anyway, this frustrated rock star ended up escaping from their slammer to join the action for “White Punks On Dope.” Imagine, if you will, Quay Lewd wobbling around on foot-high platforms with his rubber tinkler jutting out of his groin pouch, an obese New Year’s baby flashing gobs of flab, a man in a gorilla suit roller skating among the usual costumed crazies filling the stage, and then me wandering around in a party hat blowing a noise-maker and kicking silver balloons into the crowd. Well, the stain on my crotch attested to the swell time I had. And as I weaved out to the parking lot, belching up champagne bubbles, I couldn’t help but remember Waybill’s joke.

“Why are pubic hairs curly?” he asked the crowd, innocent as a fluffybunny. “If they were straight, they’d stab your eyes out!”

Clark Peterson