The OUTLAWS: Bringing It Back Comatose

The OUTLAWS: Bringing It Back Comatose

by j. m. bridgewater

Thanksgiving Eve. Swanking dizzily in the vulgarian gaudiness of local salvage biz whiz Bo Hardaway's ranch chateau (the king calamity vulture of North Texas and platinum hussy Mrs. are off holiday-tootin' through the capitals of Europe; sonny boy Randall taking keen advantage of their, continental trot to throw a combination "Gobble Gobble/Beat the Fuck Out of the Redskins" party). Flu bitten and feeling like a cigarette that'd been floating in an unflushed toilet for two months, I was ready to seize coat, cap, and the nearest exit after only a couple hours of half-hearted hoofiganizing; not even the whispered-in-my-ear announcement of anal debauchery being perpetrated on pool table green in the basement game room was sufficiently piquant to inspire more than an accepting nod from my swoozy head. And if this prospect couldn't put the pink back in my cheeks, I knew I was sick and ticketed for an early ambulance home. The only problem, where was Whip?

Not among the 30 or 60 cokin', smokin' and gropin' beneath the New Orleans whorehouse chandelier that dominatesthe ceiling of the Hardaway's Taj[ Mahal-sized living room. Certainly not among the disco dildos practicing their Lester Wilson steps with robot perfection in the far corner of that room's great expanse. Bullfroggin' my cheeks, I managed to keep from altering the color of the carpet at my feet and then pushed through the milling din and hubbub to the dining room.. There, standing at the end of the yacht-length buffet table, was Whip, massaging his jaw.

"Just been gettin' in the spirit of the season," he gloated as I approached, "gobbling down." You ready to blow this joint, I asked. "Yeah," he said, "I reckon so. Little too-rich and hifalutin' for my blood no how. You know, this gal walked by with one of them FREE KEITH buttons 'while ago. Grabbed her by the tit and said IFuck Keith. How's about some free for me?' " His voice dropped mournfully. "Bitch slapped me." )

was down to the last Jar of peanut butter and the last bottle ofRomilar..." •Freddie Salem

"Well," I sniffed, "I feel like home made shit. Let's hit it."

"I gotta be up at six for the road crew anyway," Whip said, straightening a wrinkle in the steer head logo of his t-shirt. "By the way, I can take ya to the airport if ya need." I concurred. "You're a lucky motherfucker," he said, draping an arm around my shoulder as we walked into the hallway, towards the door. "I'd give my left nut and both of yours to meet those guys. Flying to Chicago and all." He stopped and pulled me back to where he stood. "That's all right, tho; I don't have to meet 'em. You know that Allmans t-shirt I useta wear all the time? I mean you know how I felt about the Allmans. Last time I went to see the Outlaws I threw that sucker up on stage to 'em. You understand that?" Not really, I said. "Well, maybe you will after you've seen 'em live."

We reached the door, where Whip paused again. "I mean you wouldn't write nuthin' bad about your ol' buddy's favorite rock 'n' roll band, would ya?" Bridgewater flashed a Who Me? smile and stepped out of the Hardaway mansion, into the night.

Whip had dropped me at the airport and squealed off in search of county roads to repair, almost taking out a luggage porter in the process. I was poised at the American Airlines ticket counter, tangled up in a trifle regarding my reservation with an assholic bluejacket who had a face the color of Milk of Magnesia, the pained expression of terminal constipation, a sour John Doe-type definitely p.o.ed at life itself.

"So you have no identification?"

"Uh. Lost my wallet in a bar last night."

Milk of Magnesia face sighed the sound of a forest falling in the dark. "A minute ago you said you didn't have a driver's license because you don't drive."

"Nawww. I didn't drive to the bar."

He punched computer keys. "Who made the reservation?"

"Arista," I said, proud to have aced the question without having to be given multiple choice.

"Spell it."

Oh goody, I thought, a spelling bee. "Les' see. That's f-u-c-k-y-o-u!"

Mr. Ticket Agent's ears flushed Pepto-Bismol. The Schlitz bull flashed angrily in his eyes. Drool ran down his chin. His voice hissed like a train braking: "Here's . . . your . . . god . damned . . . tick . . . it . . . now . . . please . . . leave."

"Listen," I confided out of the side of my mouth to the grandmother who had been behind me as she stepped up to the counter, "watch this guy. He can't spell for shift"

I bounced away from there feelin' great. Last vestiges of flu geronimoed down the john twelve hours earlier. The Cowboys had indeed beat the fuck out of the Skins (37-10: reports of sorrowful bedroom scenes in D.C.). And I was on my way to a great Yankee metropolis to encounter half a dozen rock 'n' roll rabble-rousers from a-way down South in Dixie.

STEWARDESS! Scotch and water. And hold the water.

Freddie Salem was sprawled in semicollapse on a sofa backstage, Absalomlength dark brown hair bedraggled by sweat, his naturally droopy 'lids drooped even more under the weight of fatigue. "How was it?" he queried.

But, whoa! Let us not piss in the face of chronological propriety. You relax, Fred. Light a cig. Wrap those aching fingers around a cool one. Latch on to one of these fine fine lasses and introduce her to your lap. We'll be back in a few minutes.

TURN TO PAGE 64

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 45

The Outlaws were at Chi-Town's Park West, following a boisterously successful show at the Aragon the previous week by playing a tip-bf:thehat gig in tribute to the loyalty of their Windy City fans (when Hughie noticed the date added to the tour itinerary, he pointed to the listed capacity, 750, and told manager Charlie Brusco, "You left off a zero"; informed of the nature of the ^performance, Hughie responded with a quick thumbs up, indicative of the group's populist philosophy) that was to be simulcast on local FM. Long tall Texan weis particularly pleased with the club intimacy, his affinity for close quarters dating back tb early r' 'n' r romances wrested in the Cramped confines of a '64 Belvedere's backseat.

Pre-show, a crisis arose in the refreshment room: a tub full of Heineken, but no opener. Grabbing a handy acoustic, Billy Jones strolled gunslinger slow to the center of the make-shift lounge and remedied the situation with a scintillating run that had bottle caps popping off like wise-ass Fourth of July firecrackers. Clutching a foamy brew each, we retired to sofa recline; where Billy shrugged off his feat with admirable modesty: "Only works with import beer." He added, "You oughta see Hughie operate in a wine cellar , or with champagne." We chit-chatted for a while (me having to get up once to go shit-shat), touching on his and Hughie's songwriting collaborations ("It's nuthin,' structured. Just a matter of one helpin' out the other if there's a hang-up with a song"), my observation that there are traces of Tim Hardin in his vocals ("Yeah, I used to listen to him quite a bit"), his new home in Florida ("Can you believe," he asked incredulously, "that I'm buying this house I've never been inside of?" Dunno, I mused. Is it like marrying a woman you lhaven't had sex with, or reviewing an /album you haven't heard?), and the cl ifficftlty he anticipated in attempting to claim his ajrline reservation (this I doiiv't believe) for a post-show flight to Taimpa sans I.D., which had been lost with wallet and credit cards on the flight tip Chicago from Minneapolis-St. Paul, ifvhere the band had gigged over the weekend. I recounted my tale and someone suggested perhaps Billy should $pke along an album cover as a surrogate American Express card: "Yessir, that's me with a joint hangin' out my motiith arid a naked girl crawlin' up my back, But without my Arista freight albunfi covfef , people might mistake me for ,the lead guitarist of the Red Krayola." And after I offered that it might help if he had his name written on the inside of his underwear, Mr. Jones excused himself to go try and find a Marks-A-Lot.

In the meantime, the newest f ace in the troop (Henry Paul, having de parted with his country-rock inclinations following Hurry Sundown) amblod in from the hallway, sloth footing like a good-humored bear who'd been dipping his paw in the honey jar, "You from Circus?" he suspiciously addressed the figure bent over cassette machine, trying to Einstein which way the Ray-O-Vac "+s" and "-s" were supposed to match. "Naw. CREE:.M." Smiling, Freddie pulled up a folding chair (me thinking Salem not bein as neat a last name to light as Kool, but ; certainly preferable to Freddie Menthol Benson & Hedges) and slumped his hefty frame intef it. "Yeah. CREEM's a good magazine. Reason I mentioned Circus is cuz they ran a review of t he new album that really pissed all of us off. The Outlaws and Skynyrd wdire friends ya know, good friends^ and th is asshole Swenson wrote, somethin!g about the vocals sounding like thue corpse of Ronnie Van Zandt," Studyihjg the knots in my shoe lace?, I felt a certain degree of ambivalence. It was || cheap shot for sure, but that's the way irreverence pisses down the pants leg, definitionally oblivious of who, what, or the response of others, I was more surprised to hear that Swenson had knocked Playin' To Win, a recording that challenges you to hear the band as'' if for the first time, with its noose-tight arrangements and performances and songwriting that has begun a palpable swing peak-ward. Back to Ready Freddie, an Ohio bliiebelly who had not yet set plans for moving guitar and carcass to southern residence.

"Maybe in a year or two I'll think about getting a place down there. Depends on how things go with the band." He wasn't ripe for blue skies, green grass, sparkling brooks, the warmth of sandy beaches, the bedtime lullaby of crickets? "Ah, I enjoy living out of hotels, the nomadic life,* ya . know. I like cities. Industrial cities. Like Cleveland." I made reference to Pere Ubu, my favorite brand of dementia since Roky Erikson hung up his electric jug and set sail for Mars (landing in Bermuda -by way of the Kremlin). "Haven't heard 'em," Fred admitted. Informing that he's from Akron originally, he then asked about Devo. "Well," I replied, "Billy Altman [ that'll be five bucks Altman—cash or money order, no checks] said they're the whitest band he's ever heard." Mechanical? wayward buckeye questioned . "More like a gang of battery1! operated Mattel robots." Freddie shrugged and laughed and after lighting a smoke told of the perils an opening act for the Outlaws had recently encountered in Pittsburgh: "Nick Gilder . I sort of embarrassed myself when I met him . Thought his nose was a coat rack. But he really got pelted on stage. Beer and whiskeV bottles. I thought he was good, for what he does, but it was a case of the wrong music for the wrong crowd. Was something our fans in general aren't likely to appreciate. I was really embarrassed about it. Went to his dressing room to apologize, try to raise his spirits—I mean he had bombed. But you know what? He thought it was great, he said he loved it!" ,

Feeling an uncommon surge of pseudo-journalistic responsibility, I inquired into existence prior to Outlawhood.

"West Coast mainly. Played the club circuit from San Diego to Vancouver, which has the roughest bars of any town I've ever been in. Hooked up with a group called Brown Smith that put out a record on Capitol. Must have sold around 50,000 copies, which is pretty good for a first album, but the guy that \ signed us quit Capitol for RSO and after \ thatNt got, you know, political. We were his band and he had shit on the label, so we didn't get much cooperation. When our option came up, they dropped us." The bio said something , about studio Work? "In L.A." Freddie's almost constant amiability souried a little. "Fantasy land. On the East Coast, it doesn't matter if somebddy likes ya, so long as you've, got the chops. Los Angeles though, it's who you know, who you're friends with." Most of the music that calls Los Angeles home can be termed rock 'n' roll in only the most superficial sense. "Yeah, that's true. Like there's Vah Halen , who are totally out of character, more like an East Coast band really, but people ther^ construct their own private world and the membership is very exclusive." So 'I what happened after Brown Smith's demise? "Had a band in Seattle. Made some tapes that Sims Hinds of Concerts West heard and liked and took to Charlie, who signed me.

,"I was with my band in Cleveland, down to the last jar of peanut butter and the ljast bottle of Romilcir when Hughie called." Was "Failin' Rain," from , Playin' To Win, a part of the tape that prompted' Brusco to sign him? "No, that was written especially for this album." Happy to be an Outlaw? "Well, I hated to break up my band, it played really hot rock 'n' roll. But,, yeah, I'm extremely happy to be in this band. It's.a lotta fun and a helluva band."

Moments after Freddie nad departed to the warm-up room for final preparations before the curtain went up, the Hughie known as Thomasson stuck his head in and patted the employee time clock on the wall next to the door(.

"Ever'bidy punched in?"

jScant seconds before the Outlaws were due to hustle out on stage, ' CREEM's FREE INTERVIEW AND ADVICE MOBILE UNIT was on the prowl, already having been slapped twice, shin kicked, and stabbed with a hat-pin. So much for venturing into the ladie's restroom without a bodyguard. But there was a hale and hearty young thug with thoughts on his mind. Speak, lad.

"I dig the Outlaws cuz they got a Southern flair, but with their own style. They really inspire me. And mean as much to me as the Allman Brothers once did."

What about the advice, he asked.

"I advise you to buy taie a beer or I might forget how to spell your name.'*

That was (slurp) B.J. of Chicago's own Matt Dentino and the Invisible Band.

Word from the bandstancf had it that the Thomasson known as Hughie had designs on shattering the glasses of the Boy Sherman seated at the table directly in the line of the stentorian velocity of Hughie's rapid'fire Fender. As "Hurry Sundown" erupted from loud to deliciously thunderous (a scorching break by Billy Jones shipping its ferocity to a level that was incredible for h set opener), the smart money was that Sherman would bq at his favorite optical clinic for repairs come Tuesday morning. As I was busy peeling myself off the Park West's back wall, I didn't get a bet down, and by the time the boys finished grit blastin' Iain Sutherland's "Dirty City," there wasn't a sucker in the joint who wduld wager legal dollars against the outcome. Preoccupied with tryin' to cop a feelie from one of the club's sleek-as-mink booze maids, I missed Harvey Arnold Dalton's (or is that Dalton Harvey Arnold?) "Cold and Lonesome;" tho if it had been Harvey Dalton Arnold's handsomely infectious "You Can Have It", I woulda postponed lecherous intent for later. I didn't miss the chug-a-coaster ride of "Free Born Man", its riveting improvisational interlude a dialogue of contrast between galvanic tongues fluid and sizzling. However, it was in the exhuberanf exhortation of "Take It Any Way You Want It" that the sound and the fury fully merged and the 1500 shoes in attendance became aware of the devil in their soles. From the initial wallop of the backbeat through the jackrabbit shift in tempo that stimulated the thought thalt neck braces might be a viable concessionary commodity for future Outlaw gigs, it was rock 'n\ roll afire with delirium, an order of frenzy •that carried into "Cry Some More," which was blisteringly focused in the wailing wall vocals of "You Are The Show" (not the audience patronization bullshit I originally suspected, but a gospel-deep testimony of the band's devotion to their fans), and culminated in the hysterical the-world-ends-tonight triple lead enfilade of the Outlaws' devastating signature, "Green Grass and High Tides," with Hughie fingering a holocaust of rattlesnake notes in violent death throes as climax succeeded climax unbelievably, until I couldn't control myself and was tearing at the buttons of my Kennington flannel to rip off an Allmans t-shirt that wasn't there, extracting all 17 (oh, all right, 11) of my chest hairs in the process.

By the time I recovered frqm the shock, the band had exited the stage and the last remnants of the spent but happy crowd filtered past my station, a railing three steps up from the club's main floor. Gently rubbing my bleeding chest, I noticed one figure in particular stumbling up the steps, dazed, with a pair of shattered specs held limply in his left hand.

^Well Sherm, I thought, just be glad you don't have a glass eye.

After assuring Freddie that he and cronies had put on an exhibition of rock 'n' roll better than this world deserved, I lit out in search of a medicine cabinet, but found Massah Charlie Brusco instead.

"We had one promoter tell us that our crowds are three times worse than Nugent's," the black-haired tot grinned proudly (while somewhere in the jungles of darkest Michigan, gargantuan gonzo ego swooned in agony). "And Brian Robertson of Thin Lizzy told me he never thought the band'd be able to follow their act, geit the audience off, but that it had. Got 'em off even more than they had. We love to have good acts precede us. We're on the road 200 days out of the year and these guys play hard every time out. They like to play to keep hot."

While Charlie was discoursing, I wondered what it'd take to get the boobs-from-here-to-LakerMichigan filly at my elbow hot. But since she was being watched over by a couple of Hoosiers (among the gaggle of friends admitted backstage for a little reunionin') who stood above the mere mortals in the room like the Hancock and Standard 'scrapers downtovyn dwarf piddlin' 50 story jobs, I moved over to quiz Hughie Thomasson on the availability of Band-Aids for my wounds. Nada. But he did have a few words to say, particularly concerning having the Stars 'n' Bars stitched to the forehead of their musical image.

"We're a rock 'n' roll band that happens to be from the South. But, first we're a rock 'n' roll band. We go down just as well in the Northeast, or anywhere else, as we do in the South. It's the same thing as with Skynyrd. They never got the credit they deserved. Thfeir roots were more strongly English than Southern, but you never , read that." The Outlaws and Skynyrd must have had something like a blood brother relationship. "They gave us our first break. But they didn't cut us any slack. Told us, 'Either kick ass or get your ass kicked'."

Which seemed prime advice as the lights began to dim in Chicago's Park West club.

Outside, waiting for a ride back to the hotel, I thought of a character from Thomas Pynchon's The Crying Of Lot 149: the disc jockey refugee from a used car, lot, Mucho Maas, who complained that while there are bands to be fond of at the time you heard 'em, there were none that you could believe in. /;

Obviously, ol' Mucho was never introduced to a band the likes of the Outlaws. '