STRANGLERS VISAS REVOKED!

STRANGLERS VISAS REVOKED!

Anglo Anal Emissions Set Off Genetic Mutations in S.F.

j. poet

by

Hugh Cornwell and Jean Jacques Bumel, guitarist and bassist for the Stranglers, recently made headlines in Britain by beating the shit out of a critic who wrote a bad review of one of their live shows. In a Melody Maker interview later that week, Bumel said, "I cannot abide personal criticism. Most reviewers are talentless, sick people who take out their problems on creative artists like myself. Anyone who criticizes me must be prepared to take the consequences."

Up to that point I had actually been looking forward to seeing the Stranglers in action. The rampant sexism and brutality of their lyrics had put me off somewhat but I rationalized thusly: Anger is a valid emotion and it is too often suppressed and/or ignored by our culture. Its expression in an artistic

context can be cathartic. As far as women go, let's face reality. The average man relates to the average woman with a combinaton of envy, fear, lust, hostility and guilt rooted in the unconscious miasma of emotions he has left over from his unresolved sexual feelings towards his momma. The first step to health is the realization that a problem exists. True, the Stranglers are still projecting the blame onto the women they sing about but I felt a straightforward expression of these ugly feelings could possibly help to clear the air, and anyway, as offensive as it may be to some it is still preferable to the subtle saccharine sexism of the more "polite" artists. I'd rather be spit upon than patronized.

All these observations and dialogues with myself were based upon the premise that the Stranglers were artists with a shred of intelligence and selfknowledge; that they knew the differ-

(Right) Suffering th« heartbrvak of post-visa denial depression. (Below) General Cornwallis helps lead Britain to Its American demise^__

ence between self and other, truth and fiction, art and life. I was wrong.

Thursday night, full moon, waiting for the Stranglers to hit the stage of The Old Waldorf. With its usual lack of respect for its patrons, the Waldorf's management has cancelled the night's second show without notice, thereby treating us to a two hour wait between _i the opening act and the Stranglers' set. !J Sitting around in a replica of a Holiday § Inn lobby being smothered by a | sweat-drenched cloud of second-hand -§ cigarette smoke is no way to whet one's o appetite for rock 'n' roll. At last the lights dimmed and our hereos appeared . Bumel set the tone for the following hour by snarling into his mike, "Shaddup, you haven't even heard us play anything yet!"

The band blasted off with a medley of "London Lady" and "Burning Up Time". The music was loud, fast, hard and antiseptic. When the crowd responded with wild appreciation they were told again, "Shaddup^, we're not interested in your reaction!" To which Cornwell added, "I can see a lot of poseurs, parasites and phoneys in the crowd. This must be L.A. You all look like you [&%#* unintelligible #&/?$] for the record industry!" Cornwell then treated us to a version of "Bring on the Nubiles" which he intoned in a German accent. The band played at a blistering pace but the effect left me colder than a dead eskimo's asshole. In between the songs, which soon registered only as a 2 blank throb, we were exposed to more ^ of Cornwell's vacuous onslaughts and * Burnel's hateful bad-boy posturing, i which included these little gems of J rhetorical brilliance: "Shaddup, [Burnel's favorite word] we don't need it. We're artists. You need us, we don't need you! I'm not interested in your . applause. You're a pathetic lot. You make me sick! The trouble with you Americans is your mouths are too big. Don't pose with your applause(??)" and last but not least Cornwell's classic, "Shaddup, ... or I'll . . . I'll do something . .,. I'll fart . . . I'll fart and then that'll be another earthquake . . . You don't want another earthquake do you? ... So shaddup!"

Throughout this last diatribe Cornwell seemed barely coherent. Perhaps the mere mention of flatulence activated his deep-seated fears of anal surrender and brought him close to an anxiety attack? Who knows? Who cares?

Although most of the Stranglers' songs pretend to be about people who are living their lives beyond the fringe, I doubt if they have any firsthand knowledge of the subject. When a person is out on that artistic/psychotic edge where great inspiration/terror fuses to create new visions of reality, they don't have the need or desire to belabor the point. Regardless of what one thinks of people like Johnny Rotten or yer average bag lady, screaming her poetry to the uncaring ears of the frightened crowd, they have something valid to say. They say it and move on. A true voice crying in the wilderness feels deeply and is able to stand at the

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core and on the edge at the same time. They are larger than life and drenched in real feeling the same way a wound is drenched in blood. You can sense the pulsation of their pain/love with your guts.

I doubt if the Stranglers feel anything, and their frantic antics serve only to undermine their claims of Art. They were parodies of macho, throwbacks to neanderthal cretins out of touch with their emotions and everything else. Television caricatures purveying plastic violence in a futile attempt to shock. Carrion artists with nothing to say but the obvious, and that presented in such a degenerate manner that it created in the audience neither outrage nor anger but merely boredom. We left before the end of the set.

On the way back to the car, I asked my friend Susan what she had thought about it and she said "If I wanted to spend an evening being a doormat for a bunch of psychotic thugs I would have taken est training."