SEX & DRUGS & BROKEN BONES: J GEILS

SEX & DRUGS & BROKEN BONES: J GEILS

by

I. C. Lotz

By the end of 1978 I wasn’t even on the Publisher’s Clearinghouse mailing list. I was hiding out, making it up out of whole cloth and, if I pressed myself, maybe I could remember a couple of high musical moments. I had confined my listening pleasures to pure chance and two radios, one of which was a pre-cold war tube model that only the Born Yesterday Christian station could bluster through. With no more freebies in the mailbox, I had to hear it where I found it. I was hot after goony geek guy tunes and I had started hanging out in tough bars. Bo Diddley came to town and tried to drag off my favorite local group, who declined the offer and left for New York to seek their fortunes. I tipped off a friend of mine who always claimed interest in signing up hot new groups and he reported back that these Young Adults were the worst group he’d ever seen. I knew I still had the magic touch when I heard this coming from a man whose company often seems to have cornered that market. The year hadn t been filled with a lot of dancey dancey, disdainful as I am of the disco. (It has become my personal contention that disco is North America on the reggae bandwagon. Instead of marking time waiting for future passage to Ethiopia, these Yankee undulators are grinding toward the return to their promised land called New Jersey.) I was full of contempt and not even the. Rolling Stones could appease me. I was smug and reasonably flush thanx to a surgeon’s fleet of lawyers who threatened to sic the sheriff on me if I didn’t come up with another, payment for an unfortunate appendix operation which occurred several years earlier, and urged me to increase my income. Forced to get hot, Ifound myself with a few extra bucks to pour down the rat hole.of my choice. I had begun to make bored grumbling noises, and the radio started playing J. Geils’ most recent chart struggler, ri Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” and I thought I had better start snapping to and having a good time or my face was gonna freeze like this. Then over the same airwaves came the alert that J. Geils was coming to my town for a New Year’s Eve concert at the Civic Center. Perfect! I know I hate crowds, I know I’ve never had a good time at a concert at a civic center, but it’s like they say—“The good times are the best times, the bad times fade away.” My memory had slipped and nothing would seem swarmy to me after my yearly dose at the coed health spa’s whirlpool. I could take it. I was desperate. Why spend eight beans for a shrink-wrapped album to ruin immediately on my totally worthless record player? Besides, this could be the last rock ’n’ roll concert at our civic center. Once again a few sons of cornered weasels were giving the whole lot of us a bad name with their filthy, and disgusting litter habits. We rhythm and rock lovers were being given one last chance to get away clean. I’d go to the concert. I’d buy my own ticket. And I’d go without an escort. What a gal. Temporary insanity.

The very guys who... lived beyond the fantasies of millions and now they're back to tell us about it.

Wolf leaped around spraying geysers of champagne in a loave and fishes routine.

Years ago I had taken a friend of mine from the Metropolitan Opera Company to a Geils concert at the Cape Cod Coliseum for what has since become the band’s traditional summer show. I figured I owed him one for the time he roped me into a performance at the Met. I nearly fainted, the perfumed mink headache was the most severe to date, and I had to spend most of the lacklustre production in a back hall watching a black and white monitor with an usherette.

The coliseum crowd was crazed. My pal’s finely-tuned hearing was instantly raddled by the warm-up band and he had lost most of his voice screaming, “PITCH! PITCH!” at the unfortunate slackers, but he was impressed by the mob’s spontaneous chant of grand proportions; thousands and thousands of people yelling “WOLF”, and to his classical credit, he enjoyed the sporadic glimpses of the Woofer Goofer leaping and flaming down there on the faraway stage. Later, we got to see the het up crowd in the parking lot, ramming busted beer bottles down throats and poking each other’s eyes out. This proved real enthusiasm for the art, and Donny Opera Singer was thrilled.

So now I was buying a ticket like the civilian I am. I was lucky, hardly a seat left, but I was an official ticket holder entitled to whatever floorspace l could wrangle. Wildly known for my misguided sense of direction, I plotted my course for the big evening carefully. Horrors of nightmares may fade but I hope I never forget the time I came to my senses while stumbling around Grand Central Station, dazed, confused and rumpled in the middle of the night. So I checked out the lobby and various exits and located barf rooms and pay phones. I couldn’t blow it. I was set for a great evening with my townspeople and our favorite band. I couldn’t wait.

I had barely made it around the corner before my ticket and most of the rest of my kit and kaboodle had been snatched from me by a couple of society’s brats. “Served Me Right To Suffer.” Fate. Rats. What to do. Nothing satisfied me. No, I didn’t want to travel to Manhattan to see the Talking Heads or the Times Square merry making. No, I didn’t want Dr. Oldie to finagle me into the concert cleverly disguised as an FM station manager’s girlfriend. No, I didn’t want the Mad Peck to smuggle me backstage under a big pile of t-shirts. No, no. I would celebrate the night with the people I most enjoy, me, myself and I. New Year’s Eve arrived and I settled in. Soon I’d smoked every Christmas gift in the house and was guzzling rum nogs by the blenderful when the phone started ringing. Friends were on their way bringing gushers of champagnes. Dr. Oldie had gotten me a ticket to the concert and would be right over. The Mad Pack rang up to report he’d gotten me a pass to the concert and would be right over. “Please, please,” I begged, “let me stay home, let me just eat -crackers in bed and pass out.” The phone started up again. What ho! The J. Geils band manager was calling to issue me a personal invite. I spluttered. His voice chilled. He hadn’t called me H to get an argument. He was delivering a message. The concert wasn’t going to start without me and if I wanted to ruin it for the rest of the 15,000 ticket holders, I could go ahead and play bitch for all he cared. Yikes. Quick. Cancel the champagnes. Throw the crackers on the floor and crush them. Pin the shark tooth that had washed up on the beach in the pocket pf a blue s£rge suit onto-rpy hat and the show must go on. My pockets bristled with tickets and passes as 1 leapt from the car seat and crawled under the police barrier, hoping no dog would jump me from behind, and yanked open the stage door and announced my arrival. No one got very'excitedso I pasted on my backstage pass and waltzed past the officious as ever rent-a-badgers. I was relieved to find the arena jammed with restless fans; at least no riots had been going on, thanx to me. The bleachers were packed and the floor space was crammed with collapsible chairs. I wedged myself in between two tequila sluggers and got thirsty. Suddenly the crowd roared to its feet. Girls wrapped their legs around their boy friends’ necks. Bips were turned into torches and waved around. Seeds and twigs exploded. The joint was rockin’. We were having a “Houseparty.” We screamed in Unison when we heard “First I Look At The Purse.” I yelled louder than anybody after “I Must Have -Got Lost.” The chair standers were jumping up and dciwn, each confined to the bounce of a rickety chair seat.

The guys seem to have optedfor soap opera.

1979 arrived on cue. Clouds of balloons wafted down from the ceiling and the band struck up a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne,” which at that moment was truly transporting, J. Geils himself living up to his potential and half of Jimi Hendrix’s. Eat crow, Detroit. Wolf leaped around spraying geysers of champagne( in a less than satisfying loave and fishes routine and the little ladies licked their lips, while a photographer clicked arty close-ups of the stage action. Suddenly -a chair bouncer overleapt his boundaries and landed three aisles over on a covey of rent-a-types. While he was being given the fast boot I grabbed his chair. What a sight! This had not all been a bad dream and a loud record. I could see Peter Wolf and there was Magic Dick, a fuzz of hairs playing like he’d just had his dental work done by the Honer Company. I could see Rhode Island’s own Bobby Klein, the bass player with a sizable rep amongst the girls, and Seth Justman, and the great Geils recently redeemed standing first on[ one foot and then the other. Even the Bammer Blammer Steve Bladd was onstage banging on the beat. During the fast tunes I was jumping up and down risking life and limb with the rest of fhe double fisted torch wavers. During the slow parts I gazed around trying not to get a sudden bead on anybody’s most personal moment. I was staring up at the ceiling during several passionate kisses when I happened to notice a half-inflated black balloon still clinging to the rafters. I shuddered. I was edgy. What next? The fans were begging for the next. It was terrific, but now it was over and ticket holders picked over their litter and left. I’d lost my voice, my hearing and most of my wits. I just wanted to go to my favorite dive, lust after the bartender and pour drinks on myself, but first I had to go backstage and thank the band for the swellness of it all. I forced myself to the hospitality room and hunkered down to wait. I started to feel real bad and queezy. I had the deja uu fever. Here was this year’s model of everybody I’d ever seen in every hospitality room I’d ever been in. Here'were the same two pre-pubes who swore they had been drinking vodka and Fanta 'since noon. Here were the gorgeous and the gassed. Periodically, the door would ©pen and the guards would toss a humiliated Ronnie Howard lookalike whose pass had come unstuck into our expectant faces. We’d get him settled and accept his high school newspaper credentials and then for the 90 zillionth time the glamorous blonde in plunging black and glossy furs would teeter in on high-heeled Peter Pan boots. Each entrance was more drama-filled and spectacular than the last. She dipped. She swayed. She swooned. During one dangerously deep kneebend we shoved a chair under her and as she landed, she toppled backwards throwing her tall legs in the air and tossing her drink on my lap. I was hating this. The last time I saw her she was listing over by the snack table, dragging her various skins in the condiment splatter, pouring herself a drink. I was starting to feel desperate and was getting ready to scratch my thanx on the cement walls when a tall white man in a banker’s costume appeared and announced the 16ng-awaited arrival would be happening any minute now. He promised much hoopla and toasting and ended his well-spoken speech by urging us to pass the time by tanking up. I wished I could have made it over to the barrel of Lites or even over to the table for some gins and Sprites. I couldn’t move. I had seized. Spotting my hapless state, a pleasant couple sitting close by shared their beer with me and I started feeling a little cheerier. And now—hooray!—the band, looking nice and healthy, talking pleasantly and being gracious, constantly interrupted by the temperamental photographer who skittered about blinding us all with his sudden flashes. I had to get out of that place. All exits had been closed off except the one to the garage. I bolted for it. The garage was filled with bus breath and humming limos. I had to get out and get a cab quick. J raced outside and there loomed the oft-advertised acres of free parking, empty except for trash cans heaped to overwhelming. I was in§tantly lost., Alone on the back lots of Providence. I panicked. Send the rescue wagon. Several \Vrong turns later I was hopelessly caught up in a maze of cleverly constructed corridors unending. Just when I was ready to lay down and take a nap, I spied streqt lights. I rallied. 2:30 in the morning and not a cab in sight. The streets were deserted. I started jogging. I would try and make it to the bus station where I could play in the photo booth until a cab arrived. I would be safe. The bus station was closed apd thq shadows were making weird sucking noises. No policeman stopped me for vagrancy. Faster, faster yoii dogs. The rest'of the evening became a daze. I do remember one r.ed-cheeked fellow carrying a tire jack who ran along beside me for several blocks on his way to an awaiting ambulance. I needed Sanctuary.

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J. GEILS

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 33

Well, I begged for Sanctuary and they gave me gasoline. I’ve just heard the latest Geils album' on their new label, EMI. Here are the very guys who gave kicks to thousands and have lived beyond the fantasies of millions and now they’re back to tell, us about it. Unlike1 their earlier albums, all the cuts included here arq written by the Wolf/ Justman team and it must have been hard times all ’round. Geez. Some of these tunes are downright public displays of affliction. Given the chance for ri real rip^out-your-heart-and-stompon-it production number; the guys seem to have opted for soap opera. This seems to have been a perfect opportunity to revive “There’s Something On Your Mind,” by the Jolly Jax (perhaps better remembered as the i. “Shoot ’em in the kneecap” song), but ' instead, the listener must suffer through “I Could Hurt You.”

I don’t know. I give up. Get live if you want it. I’ve got to go. I’m going out to my favorite hangout and breathe deep and drink heavy and catch The Fools. Let’s leave it like the Wolf wails, his last words preceded by a Bay City Roller clapping break:

“People sometimes ask me Why I scream and I shout.

I just say it’s in me And it’s got to come out.

Some people like it fast Some people like it slow ’S no time to lose Vou know I’ve just got to go.”