THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

DEPARTMENTS

Metallic O.D.

DALLAS, TX—July One in the Cotton Bowl. Hotter'n the devil's bowels after a firestorm meal of 4-alarm chili spiked with jalapeno peppers. In excess (appropriately) of 75,000 gathered at the Texxas World Music Festival for 15 hours of predominantly metal-tinged acts: Van Halen, Walter Egan, Eddie Money, Head East, Journey, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Heart, Ted Nugent, Aerosmith, and Ma-, hogany Rush. Either another Super Bowl Rock Festival or a mass masturbating Ode To Masochism with the strokes called by high-powered corporate efficiency, depending on the pretzel twist of your mind. Personally, I thought rock 'n' roll was supposed to alleviate boredom, not make an epic spectacle of it. Which might explajn why it made more sense to me to have been one of the 300 attending Patti Smith's performance at the Longhorn Ballroom the Monday prior to Stupor Saturday. Or, to have spent the bread it took u to endure and survive the f TWMF'stest of agony tolera-tion tipping and spilling drinks s .with friends during Delbert McClinton's three day stay at the Old Warehouse in May. Reason's hat fits every head differently though and some of the sun-baked, sweatsoaked bodies who stopped by CREEM'S FREE INTERVIEW BOOTH in the Arts and Crafts area of the festival between sets had their own motivations for having had trekked from as far away as To Hell and Gone for the biggest howdy-do in Texas' rock history:

"Heard there's gonna be some meanass horse tranquilizer floating around."

"Cultural significance, man. There's gonna be more c.s. here today than in the rest of the world combined."

"My mother made me. She's a hippie and thinks this is Woodstock revisited."

"To get some 15-year-old chicks into my life."

"The Lord told me to come and witness to the heathen in His name."

''It was either this or visiting my great aunt in Corsicana."

" 'Cos this is heavier than a stone gargoyle's gonads."

Well, even if no band laid down anything to match the sledgehammer rhythms of Sir Sol and his Bitchin' Blastin' Blister Kings (the floor of the Cotton Bowl registering 130 degrees at one point), our interviews revealed that there was an amplitude of "most popular" aspects of the day. Easily the most popular tee-shirt was I PUKED MY GUTS OUT AT THE TEXXAS JAM. The booth receiving the most traffic was the medical aid stand and the most heard cry' of the day was "Medic!" From the sidewalks it was easy to ascertain that the cheese nachos had been the favorite food of vomiters. In the Arts and Crafts section the scratch 'n' sniff amyl nitrate page of the fledgling undergound rag The Compost earned almost universal approval. Probably the most popular disappointment was that the Rock 'n' Roll supermarket didn't carry the Wilson Sisters Inflatable Twat Kit. Chip Monck was afforded the proceeding's most rousing display of indifference when he announced his involvement at Woodstock. Most abused drug of the day was. tough to determine since apparently there were some combinations at work, but easily the most outrageous statement came from the nurse who told me that all of the O.D.'s were heat related and had nothing to do with drugs. Ted Nugent's Attila The Hun Meets Bozo The Clown In A Journey To The Center Of Your Crotch act was most wellspoken of by those who wete able to speak.f This even though for the most part Ted's fingers and frets behaved like quarreling children. (For posterity's sake—we should have a bit of that, no?—it ought to be noted that Mr. Mellow, whose stiffening act apparently was no act this time, limbered up sufficiently to return to the stage after his set's conclusion and jam on "Sore Udder Blues" with Aerosmith.) And the biggest extension of sympathy has to go to poor Steven Tyler, who lost a $150 pair of sunshades on the roller coaster.

What Was Kitty Kat's Batting Average In 1973?

KISS ARMY HEADQUARTERS/Macomb Division— Save 'em! Swap 'em! Bend 'em into biologically impossible positions! They're Kiss Cards, the next closest thing to a pocketful of miracles! Packed with ugly Fleerstyle bubble gum tcheese would spoil) that's yummy as a bag of Mattress Snaps, Kiss Cards are Fun 'N' Colorful but just not in the same class as Beatle cards or those hard-to-find Red Crayola slabs. They don't have cute captions like "George ponders his future" Or "John Lennon—Prankster, " there's nothing on the back but a stupid puzzle (Ace's Tidewater stats are lost forever) and all of the photos are straight off the stage. No candids of Ringo in his undies from these guys.

Right now they're 10 for 15^, but let the buyer beware. The current exchange rate is twelve Kitty Kats for one Nino Espinosa, and rising.,

Rick Johnson

Finally, for those of you who were unable to attend this ride on the rock 'n' roll glory wagon—here's how you, in the privacy of your very own apartment, can simulate the Texxas World Music Festival.

Remind yourself first to have a "cool attitude." Then, turn off your air conditioner and leave the windows shut. Take a shower in hot scalding water. Lock yourself out ofthejohn. Set up barricades so that you have to walk across the ceiling to get from one end of the room to the other. If you have a backstage pass, hassle yourself with persistent and bullying demands to see it. Eat a pound of cotton balls. Charge yourself a dollar for a coke. Ingest every drug on the premises, including Drano and Black Flag. Puke periodically. Envision dumpling-breasted young nymphs with their no more than mouthfuls jiggling tantalizingly with each bra-less step. If the live LP commemorating the event hasn't yet been released, pound yourself on the head with repeated blows from a hammer. Bitch about the scarcity of cocaine. Boogie like a bad brother gone baddest. Pass a joint to yourself. Call yourself a "pig." But don't bust yourself 'cos there's more of you smoking than there is of you enforcing the law. (Besides, you gotta be real stupid to bust yourself!) Pass out while screaming for an encore. Miss the evening portion of the show. (Although if you're a paramedic you may revive yourself, muttering every so often, "Boy, was I fucked up!") The next day tell yourself you'd do it all again 'cos it's rock 'n' roll.

I mean I'd do it all again even if I don't necessarily remember all it was that I did. I do remember the best quote of the day, however. It came as a couple of friends and I were pulling out of the parking lot, on our way to seek out some place where the sun didn't shine quite so oppressively. Slumped by the exit gate was a young girl, looking wasted enough so that you might have imagined that she had just lost her virtue to the Mongol Horde; exuding at the same time a sort of innocent sorrow, like maybe she had lost her favorite teddy beat. At any rate the kid was drained, finished for the day, and probably the night. As we passed her, Wild Bill, the rock cynic for the aforementioned Compost, leaned out the car window and with leering sarcasm said, "Smile! It's only rock 'n' roll!" Which is whcit I will remind myself at next year's Texxas Jam. Which will hopefully be held in Alaska. During December.

j. m. bridge water

ThePitter Patter of Little Mopeds

PLAINVILLE, CONN—The supreme statement of love between man and his machines has been made. Mark Warner has married his motorcycle.

With over 100 family members and friends in attendance, Warner and his bride roared up to a cafe outside of town and exchanged piston rings as "a sign of commitment." The bride wore a chrome garter around her tailpipe.

The thing everyone wants to know though is—did he marry his bike because he loved it or because he had to?

Rick Johnson

He Ain't Heavy OrAHollie

NEW YORK—"I am not a number, I am a free man!" is the way it might have sounded if Allan Clarke had quit the Hollies when his friend Graham Nash split them a decade ago, all rancor and accusations. The words of resignation had not been too pleasant when Clarke was asked to leave the Hollies in 1972 after expressing the desire to cut a solo album. That album was completed, Clarke vanished and the Hollies did their only full 1970's U.S. tour, fronted by a Swedish singer who chewed gum and mispronounced the songs. Clarke was quickly asked back and stayed another five years.

But in 1978, when he said his final goodbyes to the group he co-founded and played with for 15 years, Allan Clarke's feelings were more ironic, than angry. "Well, I've been around tor a long time and I've been on a

lot of hit records. And you see, something happens when you walk down the street and people sort of semi-recognize you.. .and instead of calling you Allan Clarke, they call you Dave Clark."

Aside from the facts that both men are English, dark haired, from 60's bands and therefore, approximately the same age, any further resemblances are stopped dead in their tracks. For one thing, Allan Clarke, wearing a plain white shirt, immaculately tailored jeans and a California suntan, looks extraordinary for a man who has lived on tour for a decade and a half. For another, Clarke's voice is and has long been one of the era's most distinctive pop leads; when he emoted "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother" or enticed "Bus,Stop," it was almost religious. Even the Hollies' throwaway cuts (and there have been far too many in the last years) only leapt out of obscurity thanks to Clarke's vocal brilliance.

___ ,

Where's Your Sergeant's Flea Collar?

"I've got mine around my forehead,'' sex Ted, never too ousy to give his audience personal hygiene tips. Eagle-eye Theo spotted mites on a fellow in the first row and sprang into action with his mike stand.

5 Years Ago

From A Galaxy Far, Far Away...

The Stooges have got their problems again: seems both Humble Pie and T. Rex are scared to tour with them. Steve Marriott said something to the effect that "their energy is not from the same source as ours," while Marc Bolan contends that he made the decision "out of respect for the audience."

Yet, as Clarke clearly learned, "being with a group like the Hollies was not being individuals. Like the Beatles, they were always individuals because that's the way they played it for their promotion —John, Paul, Ringo and George," he mimics in - a Liverpudlian accent not too far from his own Manchester vowels. "There was no way it could be—'and now we have Allan, Tony, Graham, Bernie and Bobby.' 'Whp the hell are they?' They're the Hollies.' 'OH. RIGHT.' So I am recognized through my voice but not through my face or my name, which I am trying to put to rights. I want people to know who Allan Clarke is."

Clarke's concerted effort to present his own self comes via his fourth solo album (the third to be released in the U.S.), / Wasn't Born Yesterday. Its songs are unlike the usual jovial Hollies tunes and sound overwhelmed to the point of despair. But, according to Clarke, they were among the easiest things he's ever written.

"With the Hollies it was

like dying a slow death. I hate to say that, but it's the truth. We wrote a lot of good songs in the past and found ourselves trying to repeat 'The Air That I Breathe.' The three of us [Tony Hicks and Terry Sylvester] just couldn't get it together. A year ago, me and a guy called Gary Benson, who's my mate and everything—we just started

writing all these great songs. It's not difficult to write a song with Gary or Randy Bishop or Spencer Proffer [the producer of the album and Clarke's manager], because we all know we're going in the right direction."

That well-organized focus which Clarke has craved for so long will take him on a lengthy club tour beginning

in August. Most of the L.A.based, superslick players who recorded the album will make up Clarke's band, helping him blend the new songs with a thick crosssection of Hollies hits. "I think that I made most of those songs famous with my voice," Allan declares, "and there's no way that I'm not gonna sing 'Long Cool Woman' or 'He Ain't Heavy.' I'm not going to do the whole bit, but I'll do a certain part, because it's my history. I think people will always want to go and see the Hollies out of nostalgia."

Without Clarke in front to propel their several dozen classic singles, the Hollies really may discover they can only go backwards. Allan Clarke, however, has already written most of his new album. "I'm getting people coming up to me in the streets and saying, hey, what a great album! I've never had that before in my life. This is a new extension for me; it's a new life. I've been given a second chance and I'm not gonna let anybody down."

Toby Goldstein

Bim Bams Poles: Warsaw In Flames

"You heard one pole, you've heard 'em all," says Canadian singer/songwriter/pole-listener Bim. '1 mean, it's not like they're big tuning forks or anything." Bim got into this odd pursuit during his previous career as a pole-sitter. "Mv radio broke down one night ana there was nothin' else to listen to but the polo. It sounded OK to me." Though admittedly tired of the pole-ock jokes ana constantly tarry hair, Blm's typically Canadian sense of determination keeps him going in his search for the Perfect Pole. And what does ho hoar when he plants on of his sucker-like ears on a pole and listens in? "Pole noise, mainly."