TRAMPING THE CELT BELT WITH THIN LIZZY

LONDON, ENGLAND-So I've journeyed 4000 miles across the sea, made my pilgrimage to the cradle of the modern rock 'n' roll era, just to come home to . . . America? As I sit here, deep within the shadowy valley of the packed Wembley Empire Pool arena, blood-sibling to the other 7000 souls on hand in our communal lust for the appearance of the headlining Thin Lizzy, I might well be back in Cincinnati's Riverfront Coliseum. The parttime official-Thin-Lizzy-logo (cf. the covers of Nightlife and Fighting) is outlined in rhinestone-bulbs and in green laser holograms high above the stage, and I have to keep rereading the characters to make certain that it's not the all-American antics of Kiss I'm waiting for. Only the green "Way Out" signs, placed to identify exits rather than to invoke the customary psychedelic exhortation, betray the essential foreign-ness of this place.

Like all good captives of the Untried States of America, I've devoured every morsel of the U.K.'s fabled New Wave redemption our domestic mags have tossed us, and I expected to find this London (!) venue a sweaty cellar club, packed to the fire doors with pogoing punks and punkettes in their latest atom-age garo. But after journeying to Wembley from central London, through pleasant suburban neighborhoods thoughtfully laid out to Ray Davies' specifications in old Kinks songs, I've come home to my own bourgeois mates, to a massrock breakout not unlike the ones I thought I had left in the States.

Thin Lizzy are riding very high at this moment in English rock 'n' roll history; solid British Isles favorites almost since Phil Lynott and Brian Downey first brought the band to England from their native Dublin in 1971, the Lizzies nearly connected with global fame once before, in 1976, when their single "The Boys Are Back in Town" was topping the U.S. charts at the same time that their Jailbreak LP was impressing reviewers everywhere. But Phil Lynott contracted hepatitis, forcing abbreviation of the crucial U.S. tour, and he then wrote much of the next album, Bad Reputation, from his hospital bed, giving the set an altered, softer flavor that alienated some of the band's former champions.

But Phil's now dangerously live and well once more, wayward guitarist Brian Robertson is safely back in the Thin Lizzy fold, and the band's longawaited, double-live set, Live And Dangerous, suddenly hit *2 on the English LP charts, less than a month after its release to overwhelmingly favorable reviews. Thin Lizzy have just returned to London from a gratifying •tour of the provinces, and have now managed to sell out both nights of their appearance at the Empire Pool, a hall twice as large as the Hammersmith Odeon they had played the last time they headlined the capital city. With such an enthusiastic outpouring of recession-scavenged funds by these Lizzy fanatics, it looks as though anarchy-in-the-U.K. missed the tube to Wembley tonight.

As the haze from the flashpots clears, the band breaks into a triumphant reading of "Bad Reputation," the title cut from that underappreciated album, and Phil Lynott is visibly radiant with glee at this final validation of his band's lengthy struggle to the top. Though the Empire Pool's concession stands offer even mixed drinks to the concertgoers, I observe precious little indulgence in diversions this evening; there are no frisbees, no firecrackers, no comatose bodies, hardly even any smoking. Every pair of eyes is riveted on the supremely charismatic Lynott; as the mirror-front of his bass sends reflected strobes of white light deep into the upper reaches of the arena, I can see scores of (English) heads moving in enraptured syncopation to the wellloved rhythms of the Thin Lizzy songbook.

Some of the Thin Lizzy albums use a playing-cards-suits code in the liner notes, to identify the individual members' instrumental contributions to the various cuts. Shy-dynamo drummer Brian Downey, Lynott's fellow Irishman, is the Club, presumably in honor of his stickwork. Scottish guitarist Brian Robertson, the Lizzy with the delicate features beneath the ^uddy frump hairdo (instant Ian Hunter when he dons his shades), is the Diamond, precious but hard. Hippie-haired, heavy-lidded Scott Gorham, the other guitarist, is the Heart, his relatively exotic Californian origins apparently suggesting romance within Lizzy's British Isles context.

And Phil Lynott, what else could he be but The Spade? For Lynott, besides being Thin Lizzy's frontman, lead vocalist, and a more aggressive bassist than most, is also (and all Thin Lizzy stories come around to this bottom line, inevitably) a Black Irishman. A Celtic Spade, if you will, if full-fledged Spades could ever exist outside the rarefied racial atmosphere of the U.S. I don't know whether Lynott's parents' mixed marriage was made in Heaven, but thankfully it wasn't made by a foresighted publicist, however inspired the concept seems by now.

After th*e show, I'm introduced to Phil Lynott; I reach out with my conventional rockwriter gladhand, but Phil, forewarned that I'm a Yank, responds with that soul-hippie thumbtwirl I never quite mastered, and our hands collide. Apologies are tendered, Phil twirls off my thumb again, throwing his whole body into a complex dancing spin, and says, in a rich Ryan's Hope brogue (only his is real), " 'Ah well, when I was in the States, all the 'brothers' shook hands like this." Phil knows firsthand about quick cultural preconceptions, too.

Long before I saw Thin Lizzy live, I had written that Lynott "would appear to be a prime candidate for the kind of adulation Jimi Hendrix used to arouse among us pale folk, [for] organically wrapping up that combination of Black smarts and U.K. sophistication [in one lean body.]" Here in the dressing room beneath the Empire Pool, my prediction seems even more inevitable; Lynott is the focus of everybody's attention, from the respectful roadies, to the other Lizzies, to us assembled press persons. We all defer to Phil's leadership, to his mysteriously felt Blackness, so odd, so valued within this overflowingly Anglo-Saxon context.

Phil retires to an easy-chair throne in the corner 6f the dressing room to read his mail (a minuscule royalties check from Decca, the band's first record label, and a letter from an old-age pensioner thanking Thin Lizzy fro keeping their earnings, and their taxes, safely within Great Britain). A provocatively made-up English girl, dressed more to my expectations of the London punk scene, in her black leather jacket, skintight pink vinyl pedal-pushers, and stiletto heels, congratulates Phil on the power of his performance, the divinity of his sartorial flair this evening, etc., etc. Phil seems a bit uneasy at stirring up such adulation; he pinches a fold of the girl's vinyl pants between thumb and forefinger, and says, in unconscious imitation of bull-to-bullfighter in those classic 1930's cartoons, "Hrrtm, nice material."

The next afternoon, Phil Lynott is once more center stage at the Empire Pool, though his audience has dwindled to your faithful journalist, curious arena personnel, and a lone pigeon who has flown down from the stratospheric rafters. It's soundcheck time, and although Thin Lizzy could probably incite mass hysteria anywhere in Britain tonight merely by' walking on stage, the band wants everything just so. Brian Robertson's echo-gear had blown out during last night's show, making it impossible for him to reach all the sounds he wanted from his guitar, so his equipment gets an especially thorough going-over now.

The roadies flock around Lynott for instructions, and he has detailed, individualized suggestions for each, as to the placement of amps, monitors, spotlights; even at this level, of the group's popularity, Lynott retains a hand in edch aspect of the band's presentation. Finally everything is set, and Thin Lizzy zoom into their soundcheck, which seems, from the floor, less of an equipment test than a timely opportunity for an extended jam. The Lizzies work out on their signature numbers for well over an hour, exploring those guitar-interplay intricacies that are just beginning to surface on vinyl. At last, at the climax of a particularly epic jam, Lynott grins at Brian Robertson, and they spontaneously break into the touchstone riff from the Kinks' "All Day And All Of The Night." I'm ready to weep with joy. Ah, this England, this mother of guitarists . . ,

Back in the dressing room, Lynott remains in charge of the whole scene; staff members come and go in a revolving-door charade, with queries about specific arrangements, while Lynott in turn questions them about provisions for "those five kids from Birmingham," some Lizzy partisans to whom he'd apparently promised tickets to this show, back up the road a bit. By now, the Empire Pool's sold out, ana the five Birmingham fanatics are camped somewhere beneath the steady drizzle falling outside. Lynott dispatches an aide to see what can be done at this late hour, as another staff member rushes in to ask Phil whether it will be all right to transfer the band's leftover booze to the public reception room after the concert starts, as the barmaids had run out of libations for the invited fortunates the night before. Lynott readily agrees, and remarks, with an implied nod to your reporter's literary sensibilities, "The parable of the fishes."

Ah, this England, this mother of guitarists...

By this time, Phil is* growing a trifle embarassed over the omniscience ascribed to him by the entire Thin Lizzy organization. Emboldened by certain ingested substances, he begins indulging in a kind of hearty self-parody of this Irish Superspade persona; when the next supplicant knocks at the door, Phil rises, and calls out loudly: " 'Oo is it?? And what do you want??? And why do you want it?!?" The door opens, and cuddly Brian Downey walks quietly in. He looks quizzically at Phil for just a second, then sits down and starts flailing away at an end table with his practice sticks. Phil returns to his chair, an begins relating a very funny anecdote about attending Pink Floyd's Animals show in New York: "An' I think this foggin' inflated pig is pissin' down on me, but I find out it's just some kid 'ad thrown 'is foggin' beer at the pig"

This second night, I have a seat on the side of the arena, well above the floor, for a more comprehensive view of the Thin Lizzy phenomenon unfolding before me. An English biker couple, complete with their black leathers and helmets, yet still somehow more wholesomely middle-class than their U.S. counterparts would be, sit down beside me. The girl is wearing a photo-button of Phil Lynott just above her right nipple; little do she and her tumescent fan-display know that this 'umble Yank has just left Lynott's august Presence.

Tonight Thin Lizzy have all the equipment problems solved, and they're able to rock through their set with even greater ferocity than on the previous night. The band have evolved from their Irish folkrock origins into a group of contemporary melodic-metal champs, their newer sound considerably bolstered by the addition of twinincandescent guitars of Robertson and Gorham in 1974. Phil Lynott plays his bass with previously chronicled qualities of leadership, giving the band's front-line sound more muscle and texture than most of their competitors'.

Phil Lynott has been portrayed more than once as the Irish Bob Seger, and he has intensified this identification by recording the American's anthemic "Rosalie" in both studio and live versions. Lynott is reminiscent of Seger in.his tough romanticism for the losers at life. On the earlier Thin Lizzy albums, the romanticism in Lynott's compositions sometimes spilled over into facile sentimentality, but starting with the Johnny The Fox album, Lynott's emotional credibility began hitting the mark more and more often, as the band's instrumental chops toughened over the same period.

Tonight the Wembley crowd goes wild for the Seger-connection of "Rosalie," and for "Emerald," that heavymetal roundelay to Irish nationalism, making me wonder just how many closet-I.R.A. supporters it takes to fill the Empire Pool. (At least the band's flashpots are the only bombs in evidence.) As the group works down the line of the Live And Dangerous playlist, from the bass-roar of "Southbound," to the lovely "Dancing In The Moonlight," to the double-encore of "Suicide" and "The Rocker," I realize that I tod have all the notes of these Thin Lizzy standards filed away in my rock 'n' roll heart, just as deeply as all these. English and Irish kids writhing around me.

Thin Lizzy are emphatically living up to the "live and dangerous" boast of their new album's title; they're becoming increasingly dangerous to all those Anglo-metal monsters who continue to coast through our arenas on their encrusted myths, and they're immediately live witnout invoking any fetishes of the dreaded New Wave (though Phil supports the N.W., all the same). And those are the kind of pluralities we've always wanted to live by and with, after all.