MAIL

MAIL

Please send letters to: MAIL Dept., CREEM Magazine P.O. Box P-1064 Birminham, MI 48012

How many round trips will this entail?

AND ALICE IS GOIN’ TO THE MOON

1960’s drug prophet advocate T. Leerie shown here with a S.L.A.-financed device with which he plans to take the survivors of Woodstock nation to SATURN. “I haven’t got all da bugz outa it yet,” he was reported to have said before lapsing into a Charlie Horse spasm. Still No Rain Roselle, NJ

(OK bro’. Personally, we’re waiting for the white ’Cuda ragtop next to it to take us to Calumet City.—Ed.)

WHEN GODS PLAYED LES PAULS

After looking up all the words in Barbara Gideon’s letter (January issue), 1 am now ready to answer her. 1 wonder if Jimmy Page thinks that he is aesthetically pleasing or a Celtic God? Really, now, Barb!!! I remember once, after I finished off a bottle of Ol’ J.D. and ten quaaludes, I passed out while listening to “Kashmir.” 1 dreamed that Jimmy Page was God. But when I woke up I realized that Aleister Crowley still held that position and was not ABOUT to relinquish it to “the Celt:-”

Now, Barb, just a few things, here. You quote maturity and wisdom as just a few of Mr. Page’s attributes. Did you ever sit do\yn with the subject and hold a PHILOSOPHICAL discussion on the mating habits of a ground sloth? Only THEN will you know his true wisdom. And what’s this about his music never being erased from the annals of time? (I didn’t think you knew time’s annals as personally as you know Mr. Page.)

And just one more thing: you say that you are his premier follower. Well, unless there can be two premier followers, you’d better move over.

“The winds of old are blowing cold.”

Blessed be, J.P.!!! Love is the law, love under will.

Bernadette Rahway, NJ

(As any hysterical Celt will tell you, there is no will, only bondage,to history!—Ed.)

CHOW CHOW CHOW

The interviews with Keith Richards were excellent!! ! And I along with a lot of other people agree with Keith: “What the fuck is Lennon doing farming cows in upstate New York?!”

Ciou darlings,

Mary the mistress \

Milwaukee, W1 (And what of Yoko?—Ed.)

UH HUH

Nowhere...nowhere is there a face as beautiful as Jimmy Page’s.

One really can’t speak about Page in mundane (not to mention vulgar) terms such as “out to pasture,” “jowls,” etc. Tasty enough in his Yardbird days, his beauty has since been tempered and refined to such a high degree of saturnian elegance as to be nearly impossible for one man to possess. His more recent pictures alone have shattered my Lenox crystal. He is more lovely than Machiavelli, Giovanni de Medici, A. Crowley, Botticelli’s Venus and Count Dracula. And...l know the best is yet to come, he being a Capricorn and all.

Anne Gemelli

San Francisco, CA

(This flurry of letters inspired by a disputed few inches of flesh on the decadent puss of J. Page has now almost surpassed correspondence re The Lip Farm. But your “Machiavelli” reference caused our Truth and Beauty Editor*to break out in a rash. Can jowls exude a machiavellian aura? Shatter crystal? Compose Ravelian boogie in 4/4 time? Now only a trip to Loch Ness will calm a shattered mind.—Ed.)

FIVE YEARS AGO

After pawing through my oldie-but-moldie collection of back issues (Lissen, I paid a lot of money-that-I-could-have-otherwise-spent-onRolling Stone for those, so pay me heed), I couldn’t help but notice the grudge you guys seem to have against the group Queen, with particular emphasis on Freddie “What Overbite?” Mercury. Admittedly, they’re clean, but other than that, what disgusting habits could they have that would offend you so deeply? This sent my surprisingly small, but otherwise cranial gear into motion. Fact: You hated all but their first two albums (those two kinda sneaked past you before you had your poison pens out). Fact: Kris Nicholson spend much of her concert re) view worrying whether Freddie Mercury would lose his leotard. A motive, perhaps? Jealousy? (I mean honestly, would Freddie worry half as much about Kris losing hers?)

1 abandoned logic for the much more reliable ’ technique of random thought, and after ingesting four cups of the OTHER brand, blinding inspiration hit me. I took my back issues, took every third word from the odd issues, arranged them in every-other-word-order with the lyrics from Queen II, and it was all there, as plain as the hair on Brian May’s head, and do your mothers know about this? God, this is unbelievable!! Look, I’ll be as fair as you haven’t been. I won’t send my discoveries to your dear old mums, if you’ll write “We were just kidding, Queen is number one” 67 times on Kris Nicholson’s face with an old and preferably dead Guyanan. Fellow CREEMers, however, can learn all of the sordid facts by sending 37 and a subway token to: Oberan and Titania Tell All, 5705 Path of Nevermore Hardly-Ever-Land, B.C.

Don’t think of stealing my findings; I have sent photostat copies to Lenny, my old locker buddy, and where he put them even fools fear to venture. Or even writers for CREEM. I hate the fact that it had to come to this, but everyone knows that it was YOU who planted the M-80 in Freddie’s leotard, and isn’t that going a bit too far?

Thine verily,

The Kid With The John Deacon Fetish, .

And he is too alive ’cause I saw his fingers

move

Detroit, MI

P.S. To the kid with the Roger MeddowsTaylor fetish; more power to ya, but it’s spelled Roger Meddows-Taylor, not Roger MeadowsTaylor.

IF THE YOUTH FANCIES TIES, LET HIM

What the hell is this I read in CREEM’s January 1979 issue about Johnny Rotten appearing in a Christmas Day concert billed as “family entertainment”? And then I bought a single by John aqd his friends, “Public Image” and I’m expecting to hear punk rock, but the record’s so crappy it makes me puke! The biggest blow, however, comes from an article in People magazine (!!) where John renounces the Sex Pistols and everything he ever stood for!

All I can say is, “Johnny, what the hell happened to you?” Thanks for the memories, John, but after reading about your transition from punk to mellowed-out turkey, I thoroughly hate your guts. I hate you so much in fact, that I can no longer listen to my Sex Pistols records because I’ll have to be subjected to your fucking voice.

Well, you must excuse me now. I’m going to rip the poster of you off my closet door and have a bonfire. Who’ll bring the marshmallows?

Signed,

Disgusted with Johnny Rotten

But still a Happy Punk in*

Coral Gables, FL

P.S. Sid is innocent.

WE INTERCEPT JAAN’S LETTERS

(Dear Mrs. Jaan!)

Last week I saw one copy of your magazine (jt was from 1976 with D. Bowie in Star’s Cars).

I think that it’s one of the best music magazines in the world.

1 was very surprised when I noticed your name. I’m almost sure (maybe I’m wrong) that you’re of Polish origin. I know that I’m taking up your time, but it’s very interesting for me. I write this letter in English, because I don’t know if you speak Polish. I’m interested in English and American rock music. (My idol is David Bowie), but from my point of view some of Polish singers and groups are not ytarse than famous English and American performers.

I could send you a lot of informations of Polish music, and records from for instance: Niemu, Mavyla Rodowicz, SBB and others.

I’m sure that after listening of these records you’ll be very surprised.

I’m a student of Geography (Kartographical Specialization) at Wroctaw University.

I’m waiting impatiently for your answer.

Greetings,

Przemstaw Mroczek

Wroctaw, POLAND

P.S. At the end some words in Polish: Gdyby Paniato zaintevesowato wogt bym napisac w nastepnym liscie lulka stow o dzisiejszej Polsce. Pizepraszam ’ za moje podto angielszisyzug. Sorry for my not very well English (Ah yes...Jaan used to leave us with those words after a long night of proofreading... Another brother you may not be aware of, J. Kronk, is our Mail Executive. Nazdrowie’t -Ed.).

LOOK OUT FOR THE BULL

You think Gene Simmons and Cher are such a weird couple, huh? Well, don’t tell Jeff Wald, but Helen and I were an item for quite a while. No shit.

Kim Fowley

Dorian Grey Ave., Hollywood •

P.S. I sent this letter to National Lampoon but they didn’t get it (not the letter, the joke)— referring to Kim Fowley, they said that “if less than half of our staff has heard of her, how can you expect the readers to understand the joke?” But you know those Lampooners4-they try to appear hip, but they’re all probably closet Rolling Stone readers. And they all probably, drink Perrier instead of Boy Howdy!...Speaking of which, I’m getting kind of tired of tall Buds, and have been wanting to try Boy Howdy!, but I can never find it. Is it imported, or what?

Reginald Valdim

Los Angeles, CA

P.S. (again) I was going to ask if Boy Howdy! only comes in cans, but I never like playing straight man to the editor.

(You will anyway; For the time being he does, but when he becomes Man Howdyl he’ll come in six-packs.—Ed.)

LAST YEAR’S MODEL

I want you to know that I do not take lightly my answers to your polls, as you would realize could you see me now, seated on my living room floor with every album I bought this year spread out around me. In fact, I use these polls as a means of consolidating my true feelings towards the year past: I feel that 1978 was like my personal, fifteen-year history of rock compressed into one year’s time. It started out primitive—January saw the Sex Pistojs at Winterland, and I cut off all my hair and entered a hardcore punk phase. Spring brought a softening of my attitudes as the Nerves, the Readymades, and “Powerpop” conspired to please me aurally in spite of myself. In summer, the inevitable religious experience, a commonplace of our impressionable generation, occurred—I saw Bruce Springsteen and my life was changed... henceforward my only musical criterion would be total commitment to rock ’n’ roll-i-no more dogma, no more demands of fashion,Jn ghort, no more musical fascism would dictate my preferences-any band who aspired to win my heart would need only passionate devotion to rock V roll to succeed. Late summer—met Mick Jones of the Clash—personality crisisshed last vestiges of equivocation—dedicated my life irrevocably to R ’n’ R...lost that remaining boyfriend, now wed to MUSIC...pegged all pants and feel endorsed by D. Johansen’s “Funky But Chic”. Then autumn saw the return to San Francisco of the Flamin’ Groovies, after hearing them liv I fell into a neo-rock romanticism, and rediscovered roots (ZOMBIES, MINDBENDERS) that I had spent all year determinedly trying to deny. So, 1 feel I have come full circle;

I am alert and open to anything sincere and energetic, emotional and new. For me, the new Clash album crowned the year...whatever they do reeks of “right”-ness, achieved by natural grace.

I must tell you that, all things considered, you are my favorite of all rags on rock, and I read them all. Your perspective and passion seem to balance each other perfectly.

I’ll be talking to you next year.

Pamela L. Caryl

San Francisco, CA

P.S. May I commend Simon Frith as best columnist? He is frighteningly empathetic to my own attitudes. Also, I have one complaint...did you have to inform me of Elvis Costello’s liason with Bebe Buell? Disillusionment ran rampant enough this year, didn’t it?