THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

Carillo Loaf Or Reality Sandwich?

CHICAGO—Not so long ago I dropped by my neighborhood used-record shack hoping to complete my Archie Bell & The Drells 45s collection. As luck would have it, the soul kitchen was bare. So I stopped to kibbutz with the store manager, a music bookie of the first order. We swapped rock 'n' roll news like baseball cards —a hot Bowie flash for an apocryphal Willy DeVille tale; a Devo slap for the latest news of Keith and the courts. Before I left, the guy—who is rarely wrong about this sort of thing—recommended that I see this band, Carillo, who was playing on one of the rock stages at our town's summer lakeside rock fest.

If I could only get tips like that at the track. Even though it was impossible to get within 1,000 feet of the stage it was obvious that this

Hicks Nix Mellow Willow

HIALEAH, FLA—Lamar McLean is out of his tree, and it's all the city housing inspector's fault.

The 14-yr-old McLean had customized the five-story treehouse in his family's hyperthyroid willow with television, air conditioning, phone and over $3000 worth of stereo equipment. He was just drawing up plans for a dogtrack and a heliport when Hialeah housing inspector Baron Mitterwald came by, declared the structure BTU Doom and ordered it demolished.

Lamar, who has thrown parties for twenty-five in his deciduous disco, vows to fight. "I've put too much time and money into this thing to just give it up now," he insists.

McLean's future plans in-

outfit was the genuine article: loads of juicy guitar work, scrappy drumming and an explosive set of gruff vocal outings by frontman Frank Carillo. This band reminds you of what the Young Rascals would sound like today if they'd laid off the LSD. The group did mostly originals, taking a swipe at a bittersweet ballad like "Now That Your Man Is Back" and getting a grip on rockers like "(Dallas) Queen Of The Palace Review," a brash in-

clude a kitchenette done in leopardskin shag and an office building in an adjoining rosebush.

Rick Johnson

fectioufc number with a chorus that sounds like something Billy Joe Shaver might write if he dumped some pills in his beer.

For good measure, the group tried on "Devil With A Blue Dress" for size and the fit was near perfect, with Frank Carillo hanging onto the tune for dear life, spitting out the lyrics like a second baseman working on a chaw of tobacco.

A couple of days later, I returned to the record shack to thank my tipster. "This group deserves some con*: gratulations," I said, "I think I'll give 'em a call." He told me to say hello to Dave Donen, the drummer. How come? "We were in a band together." Now I was beginning to catch on. And what might this band have been called? (Maybe you oughtta sit down for this.) "We were Reality Sandwich," he said, with justifiable embarrassment before going on to explain that said group—I can't bring myself to use the name again—served for several years as the house band at the Cheetah in New York. They also cut an album with future Raspberries producer Jimmy Ienner, backed up Chuck Berry, often posed as a British group to get more work ("We knew 'Truth' by Jeff Beck by heart") and have the somewhat dubious distinction of being the first band to sponsor Lenny Kaye's College Of Musical

Knowledge—with Lenny on the bass.

Armed with all that spicy background info, I rang Frank Carillo (who'd gone to school with Donen) somewhere in the wastes of Oklahoma. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Queens, Carillo was playing guitar at eight and organized his first band at 12.

In 1970, Carillo moved to London where he toured with Stone The Crows, and by hanging around in the right mansions, got to jam with Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr and Billy Preston. When times were hard, Carillo worked as a guitar repairman for Humble Pie's Steve Marriott, who introduced him to Peter Frampton. This led to cameo appearances on the first pair of Frampton. solo albums. The exposure earned Carillo a shot of his own with a group called Doc Holliday, whose career never recovered from the trauma of seeing their record released the day before their label folded.

Carillo knows the rigors of being a rock journeyman. Before Atlantic signed his current band, "We got turn' ed down by lots of labels. And I mean LOTS of 'em." Happily one of those labels took a chance on a long shot. Listen to'theip debut record and hear why their odds are getting shorter every day. My bookie is already stocking up on two-dollar bills. CHARLOTTE, NC-Somebody blew it somewhere. I mean if you're gonna deal with this Hind of thing you might as well go about it right, right? Could've been a big top secret project with all kinds of incredible Casablanca-style hype to put it over but what we got was the usual press release on the front page of the local daily: a picture of five people looking like The Invisible Man meets Science Gone Too Far. Stated more or less that these here guys in bandages here had plastic surgery paid for by one Danny O'Day to make 'em look like Jim Croce, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Elvis Presley for a show called "Rock 'n' Roll Heaven."

Patrick Goldstein

How Do Yon PackageA Clone And Who Cares?

There's two Presleys, one of which is a FEMALE GIRL by the name of Erin Ryan of Charlotte. She's trying to come off as the Big E in his "youthful, feline stage" which sets you up to blow your cookies right there. The other is Jesse Bolt (got the sideburns) who's been trying to peddle his ass with some real lousy rock 'n' roll for some time now.

Then it gets kinda like Naked Lunch but without the redeeming social value. Unveiled on page two of the next day's paper you got Mona Moore looking like every other girl who ever looked like Joplin—same weird scared/questioning/ horny expression. Mark Hazenbrouk has Jim Croce's moustache and Duke O'Connell is supposed to look like Morrison but with the stance he's groovin' on it's more reminiscent of Christopher Jones as Max Frost. Matter of fact Max had a good expression for use in situations such as these: "Who needs it."

But I decide I'll check this crap out, figure it's probably a few mediocre musicians giving it one last shot at making the scene like their

idols. (Reminds me of this cat I knew who quit high school: "Well, what do you want to do with your life?" "Be Marlon Brando.")

Saw the Presley imitator "Alan" on the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon (well that's what it's called) so obviously there's a buck in it somewhere. Caught on to his secret right away. All he does it put on that wobblin' warbling Elvis vocal riff like you or me or any other eightball who's ever sung along with The Late oh a car radio, but the big deal is it's all pumped through an echo chamber, making it sound uncanny and ghostly. Big deal. Wouldn't be surprised if that's how the "Rock 'n' Roll Heaven" show is done too but I wouldn't know because although they were supposed to play the Southeastern Fair in Atlanta 'til the 19th they split for Miami. In the words of one of the Fair's secretaries "only two or three people showed up." I knew it was gonna suck and that's why I wanted to see it but conversely I suppose that's why everybody else had the good sense to stay away.

This Rock 'n' Roll Heaven bit is getting outta hand but you can't really blame the Righteous Brothers. I mean in Paris no less they've got a radio show based on a pop song by Jane Birkin called "Ex Fan Des Sixties" which sorta recaps all the old R&R croakers so you know it's hip. But that ain't gonna bring back Eddie Cochran, Brian

Jones and Jimi Hendrix. Or Buddy Holly either, current hit flick and all.

Precious Memories we got plenty of but as Steve McQueen said in Bullit: "The future starts now." If somehow this whole thing turns out a success (i.e. makes money) O'Day wants to "clone" Hendrix and God I don't know who else.

As a sort of a coda to all this it seems fitting to make brief mention of the passing of Keith Moon. At least his death won't be cheapened

Dylan Psyched Out

LOS ANGELES — Johnny Carson comes to her for self-improvement. Tony

Bennett visits her for reassurance. Tony Orlando never quits show biz without first checking her out, and Bob Dylan never makes a move without her advice.

No, it's not Joni Mitchell, but Tamara Rand, psychic to the stars. For $100 an hour, Ms. Rand reads her client's future, explores their past and provides them with her personal "life guidance service."

Dylan came into the picture not too long after his near-fatal motorcycle accident (more tacks next time, guys!) and she helped him overcome his fear of death. She has since helped him through his much-publicized divorce as well as the multiple career difficulties facing

by this kind of necrophilic nonsense. Not yet anyway. In his honor I drank scotch and water out of a cereal bowl 'til I was blind and was later informed that I ran into a movie theater on the other side of town shouting (in my own best "Horse Latitudes" imitation): "WE DON'T NEED OLD IMAGES, WE NEED NEW COMMITMENTS!!!" It's either that or forget the whole thing, 'cause I got me a bitch of a hangover.

Screamin' Scott Savage

the aging folkster.

Tamara has also delved into Dylan's previous lives. While she is convinced that he made his first guest appearance in Roman times, she will reveal no more. "I know many of his secrets," purrs the sexy seeress, "and they will remain secrets."

Dylan is so mindful of Ms. Rand's powers that he even sends his girlfriends to her for approval. That must explain Lainie Kazan. CLARKSTON, MI — The sign outside the open air theatre said "RUST NEVER SLEEPS ... AN EVENING WITH NEIL YOUNG & CRAZY HORSE". My companion mumbled something about him being "at it again, sending his signals." The crowd waiting outside were getting a mite restless, drinking and throwing their debris under the car of yours truly, which was already smoking (don't ask). Was this a Led Zeppelin concert really? Answers were to follow. As we sat down, the roadies were going about their duties dressed as Star Wars Sand People; every placement of a guitar pick suddenly invested with deep, forbidden meaning. Then the next signal: the roadies' work song, the Beatles' "A Day In The Life", faded down to the last big crescendo . . . the top of one of the gigantic "packing cases" began to rise, to reveal the wolf himself, dressed in white, curled up in a fetal position (ahhhh) next to his acoustic guitar. He got up and sniffed around, turning the scarier portions of his profile left, then right ... couldn't tell if the world checked out with him OK or not. Some preliminary thumps on the guitar as he woke up, then "Sugar Mountain" sung on his knees ("You can't be twen-tee . > . on Sugar Mountain . . ."), then "I Am A Child."

Rick Johnson

Neil Young And Getting Younger

Dolly Parton was dropped from the show because Neil wanted to do a longer set, half acoustic and half electric, with Crazy Horse. And a good thing: the thought of those long red fingernails twangin' that banjo amidst all of this would have been too much to bear. Young paced the stage hungrily, in long wolf strides, sometimes coming dangerously close to Row J. ("Who needs to be this close?" my companion whined. "You wanta scare yourself with his eyes or something?" "What's he gonna do," I retorted, "lunge over the crowd for us? He'

(Top to Bottom)

Between songs he hoists a sign spelling "DEVO" and flashes it to the crowd with a weary wolf grin. Have you got it yet? His hippie fans shake their ponytails and stoke their pipes, pondering . . . Several men in lab smocks roam the stage, musing and taking notes. Have they seen Neil? Two wizard conehead types sit at the control board; the standing one, as it turns out, is a wooden Indian. At least we hope so when Neil shakes his hand (heyyyy) then knocks his head off (whoaaaaa).

Just when my companion decides it's time to check the stash for disturbing, possibly hallucinogenic particles, Neil lies down in a long flat sleeping bag type thing, back to the fetal position, and is carried off by the Sand People. "Time for a break", says the voice over the speakers, who goes on in Woodstocktalk (stuff about medic tents, your wife's having a baby, etc.). "He's bummed that he wasn't in CSN when they played Woodstock" is the theory proffered by the cowboy hat in front of us.

Second part of the show is Electric Neil & Crazy Horse —my co-editor down the row scoffs that he's hiding behind all of his wah pedal/ feedback stuff so he won't really have to play guitar, and to be sure it's a powerful, sonic reducer set of eardestroying power chords ("Tonight's The Night" as heavy metal thunder), but I demur. Why, he can play walking down his ladder. Even the most painful moments of the guitar solo in "Like A Hurricane"—and it was intense (fellow in front of us was whimpering)—were pleasureful. (To be sure, an audience exposed to that kind of metallurgic bbmbast was transformed into a Beast that screamed "Smash it!" when Mr. Young's guitar went nuts, and kind of wailed as they trailed out into the parking lot. Over the broken bottles, and scattered groups of hopheads and drunk juveniles, this wail would be picked up by the wind,.float through the pine woods sur-

rounding the arena, die for a while, then start up again.)

I must note that he played the "Ballad Of Johnny Rotten" twice; acoustically, then electrically. If it was only good to prompt a flannel -shirted man of the Michigan woods to croon, on the way out, "he is gone but not forgotten, this is the story of Johnny Rotten" to his titianhaired tundra princess, it was a thing wojrth doing.

But, answers ... we sought answers (from our illicities supplier as well). Then, in the midst of "Like A Hurricane" ... hair flapping in the breeze of a fan operated by a foot-stomping Sand Person, Neil changes the words. "I am just a dreamer, and YOU are just a dream ..." he drones out at Row J. A dreamer counting sheep flopping across a fence . . wait! He's chasing them— no, they're lambs\ Now we get it ... .

Susan Whitall

5Years Ago

No Pop No Style

Paul McCartney has apparently run into some difficulty with the local talent he's using on sessions in Lagos, Nigeria. He's been accused of "exploiting" African music, and was told by Fela Ransome-Kuti (a former Ginger Baker sideman) that it was his "patriotic duty" to stop foreigners from stealing African culture. Ransome-Kuti had attempted to add congas to a track Big Mac didn't think needed them.