THE SWEET STYLISH PILLAGE OF THE NEW BARABARIANS

"It's a wedding!" exclaims the younger of the matronly Peck & Peck pair who are struggling to keep their Saturday's shopping in its many genteely undersized shopping bags as they shuffle along towards their Park Avenue homes past the long, black lines of limousines and liveried drivers parked beside the hotel door. "Someone must have gotten married!" she adds, while her friend agrees. And really, it's the only apt conjecture on this perfect, temperate, blue May afternoon, as to why an ominous unbroken row of Cadillacs covers the sunny side of Sixty-sixth Street. Spring is, after all, the time for marriage, the time of fertility and renewal in all of nature, and so, naturally, these black limousines, which in other weather or on other days might very well seem funereal, must be here for a wedding, a proper spring occasion.

The polished brass revolving hotel door spins at last (the procession is already twenty minutes late) to expel into the sunlit, wedding atmosphere as wintery and funereal a creature as ever walked. Black haired, black-jacketed, and slightly disheveled, to the uninitiated he might appear to be a ghastly intrusion on spring in all its glory. Happily, one supposes, Mesdames Peck & Peck are safely 'round the corner and down the avenue, turning their parcels over to doormen, secure in their fantasies of tender young brides and trim, pinkcheeked grooms. Keith Richards, to the uninitiated, might still remain the embodiment of the Prince of Darkness, but to those who've watched him for many years (albeit from afar), there have been subtle and yet startling changes. In fact, spring appears to have shed some light his way as well as ours.

There is a new, willful, jaunty bounce to his gait and an ease to his manner in general. He is lithe, as he bops among friends and associates assembled on the sidewalk, and the smile with which he greets those friends seems genuinely friendly and far removed from the ironic rotting grin of days past. More than that, there appears to be real human color in the face, which, remarkably because it's still daylight, is sans shades and nearly sans makeup (a hint of eyeliner maybe). Keith Richards, at the moment, is not only cured of a heroin addiction, but is downstairs early (for him) and calm as he waits with the rest of us for Ron Wood. He speaks to the other band members, and then spots bassist Stanley Clarke with wife Carolyn, standing off at a distance. Unstuffing his hands from the pockets of his blue jacket, Keith bounces out from under the shade of the hotel canopy, steps over and greets Stanley and greets Carolyn and then reaches up to Carolyn to take the seven month old Clarke baby from her arms. And, in a moment, Keith slips one hand under the baby's bottom and with his free hand taps gently at the child's nose and with his mouth wrinkled up into a pucker, Keith Richards, Prince of Darkness, lately manque, begins to make baby sounds. Coochie-coo.

How the Druids, have mended their ways.

Seeing Keith Richards in fine shape is better than a wedding and, as Ron Wood, in blood-red to Keith's black, finally materializes and the big time, rock 'n' roll motorcade pulls out and swings around the block and on through Central Park, one thinks of new leaves on the trees, new grass, new flowers, the new sun, new children, and all the things of springtime, including—and why not?—the New Barbarians. To paint some purple prose purpler, one could add (and truthfully) that we are headed for Newark (but that would be ridiculous).

But we are headed for Newark, in fact, and a chartered Viscount something-orother jet (the British-made equivalent in size and flight range to the Boeing 727). I am nervous, not particularly because of fear of flying nor because of fear of flying in chartered private jets ("Free Bird..."), but because I've heard about Cocksucker Blues and the Rolling Stones' in-flight routine, and I wonder, can I cut it?

You were expecting maybe Tom Waits?

I just Imagine I'm filling In for Mick... Ron wood

you want...just don't touch me. Keith Richard

Though this is, in actuality, the New Barbarians tour and not the Rolling Stones,

I don't think I'm exactly alone in wanting to think of it as anything less than the Real Thing, the Wild and Woolly Circus of the Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Band in the World, the Tops, in other words. Thbugh Ron Wood is now a full-fledged Rolling Stone, the presence of Keith, who has never before performed as anything but, guarantees that this sort of anticipatory electricity will be in the air. The New Barbarians "and friends" hype is not only iwhat most of us wanted but what we expected from this tour. Mick, Bill, and Charlie (not to mention Neil Young, Jeff Beck, and Jimmy Page) may be nowhere in sight tonight, but don't tell me about it. And certainly the fans in New York two nights later (and probably fans everywhere) were thinking the same thing when they jumped up on their seats for "Honky Tonk Women" and all the other Stones numbers and then later refused to leave the hall, even as the stage was being disassembled 30 minutes after the last chord of the New Barbarians' encore, "Jumpin' Jack Flash, " had long throbbed off into the night along with the band. We want Mick! is at least half the situation here. So it may be slightly unfair to Ron Wood and the certifiable merits of his solo album and of the stellar group he's assembled to tour behind it, but it's got to be understandable if I've been thinking all along that this is a Rolling Stones story.

Long, black, limo, and security are the words one uses when talking of the Rolling Stones. Our line of long, black limos has now skirted the western edge of Newark Airport and is now passing authoritatively through the manned security checkpoint into the private end of the field. Some single-engine Cessnas, a Beech Bonanza, three twin-engine Aero Commanders, and a pair of stretch Lear jets, all proud, prestigious possessions in some men's transportation fleets, watch blankly as our cars glide farther out on the tarmac into the dwarfing shadow of the rock 'n' roll stars' Viscount/727. A CBS publicist had arranged for myself and another writer to be along on this trip td Washington, D.C., and* one presumes, had wanted us to be awed. As I step out of a limousine and walk the five steps to the ramp and start up the stairs to the huge plane on which some of the idols of my childhood will be riding, I am. I have been duped and handily corrupted, but, I also realize, this is no put-on.

Ron and Keith are among the last aboard and, as they pass quickly through the forward section to the segregated star section aft, the aircraft door is shut and locked and the engines rev to taxi. The operation may be nearly an hour late by now, but one doesn't ever miss the plane, no matter how big, when it's one's own. A woman in blue jeans, indistinguishable from the other women in blue jeans aboard,v passes by and offers appetizers and suggests to each and every one of us personally that we might like to fasten our seat belts, I take it upon myself to extinguish all my smoking materials. The big plane turns at/the end of the taxiway and begins its run. We are off. There appears to be no question about waiting around. But don't

even Rolling need clearance from the tower?

I'm seated in one of a group of four seats around a cocktail table. Across the aisle, against the windows, is a banquette that can accommodate six. Just in front of our section is a group of seats arranged abound a dining or conference table. The decor up front here is airplane-fabric gold and white, but just to our rear is a section done in a soothing blue and lit with dim pinpoint spots. Against one wall of this section is a curved sofa and against the other, a fullystocked, and now airborne, bar and whiteshirted bartender. I slink from my seat, unsure of my surroundings and its etiquette. 10,000 feet below my elbow, now resting comfortably on the padded bar, New Jersey is passing by in a hurry, and I request a Heineken. I get it. A publicist tells me that this is the plane Led Zeppelin used on their last tour. I remain impressed. Ron Wood comes forward to say hello to everyone. We're introduced, though we had met years before, and once again I find him to be credibly amiable, just like the image, with none of the stench of the con, nor any hiht of condescension. He passes around, speaking with road managers, publicists, and writers, and then returns to his seat Back There. The Back There section to the rear of the bar section is offlimits and intimidating. It is also annoying. But, as just about everybody except Keith comes forward at one time or another, I let it go as needed security and privacy for the oft-busted Mr. Richards, currently out of jail by the skin of his pearly caps. I estimate that a plane like this, commercially outfitted, might hold 180 passengers. There are about 25 or 30 of us aboard. I settle back with my beer On a sofa to watch one of the many televisions, all of which are playing Patton. I might as well be at home in my living room—that is, if I lived in a million dollar penthouse. No one sucks no one's cock in the aisles, and I don't even detect a whiff of pot.

The concert in D.C. is scheduled for eight o'clock. It's a little after seven when we touch down at the Baltimore-Washington airport, 45 minutes away from the Capitol Center Auditorium. Clearly the New Barbarians have no use for sound checks, nor for the waiting around backstage afterwards for the show to begin. The limos, long, black, and shiny new, of course, swarm onto the tarmac as the airplane completes its parking maneuvers and within minutes we are rushing through the Baltimore-Washington countryside, all motorists' eyes upon us.

"It's Just a good thing to take a band IJke this on the road because of the risks. —Ron Wood"

The Capitol Center parking lot is almost full as our cars dash for the truck chute that leads backstage. Several clever and intrepid fans, aching for a glimpse, stand by the railings of the chute as we descend and, while the huge metal door grinds upward to enable our passage into the back of the arena, the lead limo stops and Ron Wood steps out and waves and laughs and gives the fans what they are dying for. It's a nice gesture and befitting. Sometimes one gets the feeling that Ron Wood is merely playing at being a rock star, that he's really just a fan, a Stones fan, who's stumbled into all this, that it's all a big, fun joke, and also that he plays it very well, like a good gu$, like he should.

It's eight when a roadie pokes his head into each of the backstage rooms to announce: "45 minutes." I'm discussing Mexican food with the other writer, who's from Dallas, in the refreshments room. I have to stop in mid-sentence. There is music coming through the wall from the dressing room next door. It's unmistakably "Love In Vain." I tell the other writer that this is very strange, that on the other side of that wall, my childhood (which ended when?)_hero, Keith Richards of my favorite band, the Rollling Stones, is fooling around with his guitar and playing "Love In Vain" and I can hear it and shouldn't I come in my pants or something? I leave that last part out.

But down to it.

The New Barbarians: Ron Wood, guitar, pedal steel, harmonica, vocals, and special to this tour, tenor saxophone; Keith Richards, guitar, vocals and, for the first time on stage, piano; Ian McLagen, former Face, keyboards and background vocals; Stanley Clarke, former Return To Forever, bass and background vocals; and Joseph Modeliste, former Meter and better known as "Zigaboo," drums. This is, after all, their tour.

Blood-paint splashes across the white stage floor and up onto the white scrims hung in front of the amplifiers which are straining (set your knobs to "MUD") to meet the unreasonable demands of the opening number, "Sweet Little Rock 'n' Roller." Ron Wood charges out to the edge of the stage on tiptoes, in little mocksteps, grinning and mugging left and right, only to stop, but briefly, to stroke a long hard chord of rock 'n' roll. Behind Wood, nearly at the epicenter of the stage, the renewed man who has always played with the Rolling Stones is writhing in the music, backwards, forwards, almost falling to his knees as if it were his blood and not paint spilled on the stage, striking at his guitar in small, startled circular gestures as if it were too dangerous to really touch and, at the same time, as if it were irresistible—sweet

■pain—and showing (and showing off) that, the Rolling Stones aside, he'll take his rock 'n' roll where he gets it. Beside him, Stanley Clarke is rocking back and forth determinedly, throwing his whole long body weight behind the bass notes he is pounding into the musical fray. He is watching Keith Richards intently and, every, minute or so, smiles broadly. Woody skitters back to the mike stand, which holds two mikes, and Keith writhes up next to him, directly on cue, and behind them the downbeat drops hard and then doubles just before the big cymbal crashes.

just big cymbal And the downbeat continues to be doubled, as Zig Modeliste jams the band into overdrive and Ron and Keith and, off to the other side of the stage, Ian McLagen, repeat chorus, repeat chorus, repeat chorus. Crash: "Sweet little rock 'n' roller/Sweet little rock 'n' roller." Stanley is strumming the bass now, needing chords to compete at this level, Bobby Keyes^is rasping along with the three raspy singers and, every once in a while in the midst of the roiling din, Ian, laughing, runs up to the high notes and tickles his piano, which, as the choruses go on and on and on, almost sounds as if it's saying "Wheeee."

As with the Stones and the Faces at their best, and sounding not unlike a combination of the two, the rhythm here is supreme and awesome, churning and churning endlessly like some maniacal holy monotone, until your heartbeat can find the rhythm that your feet can't resist and the band can finally stop. Because it doesn't really want to hurt you, after all. Did I mention this? The New Barbarians are a rock 'n' roll band. Period.

Sure, both in D.C. and New York, there were special moments in the shows. The first time you see Keith step into the first number, as alive and active and still as completely committed as ever fifteen years and a billion miles later, is a special moment, a good thrill. Because though his Edge City Style was appealing as metaphor and appealing as any dangerous game is to the spectator, you never really wanted him to go over and the odds on that were getting shorter all the time. Another . special moment is seeing a jazz bassist play powerful and intuitive rock 'n' roll and wondering why Stanley Clarke ever bothered to do anything else. Seeing Keith whine his way through the old country weeper, "Apartment #9," and the Stax teeny ballad, "Let's Go Steady," was special, too. And hearing the flat-out full potential of Ron's "Come To Realise," much too dead on his new album, was exciting and special. But the two concerts I saw were not dazzling events, a little historical maybe, if you keep up with rock trivia, but nothing really spectacular or brilliant. There were no great highlights, except for the music itself. Rock 'n' roll. Which for a change, no one interfered with. In other words, the shows were great the way a good, cheap meal in an out-ofthe-way roadhouse is great: satisfying, with no Mick, Jagger added, fulfilling something in your gut that needs loud music and overwhelming rhythm to stay healthy and happy. The New Barbarians are—or were, I'm afraid, by the time you read this—a rock 'ri' roll band with no superlatives and no equivocations and that was the highlight: seeing unadorned rock 'n' roll played

"If If variety's the spice of life... then play on. Ian McLagen"

just as it should be. Urrrp. Excuse me.

The publicist sort of drives you crazy talking about the Famous Fast Exit routine developed by the Rolling Stones and now employed by the New Barbarians. And when you've got to sit in a limo pointed towards the airport during the last three numbers of the D. C. show, it's a drag. But, in fact, the audience is still cheering and my ears are still ringing when Stanley and Zig are shoving me aside on the back seat and suddenly we're out into the night, homeward bound, fast. Though I still don't know about Famous.

I've been placed in one of the star cars for this forty-minute run to do my interview with Stanley, slam-bang style. Zig has wrapped himself head-to-toe in towels and is immediately leaning against the car window, either dead or sleeping. The long, tall bassist fits between me and Zig and reaches forward for his customary postgig apple juice and, taking a long pull without missing a beat since running from the stage, turns to say howdy and show he's ready. But am I? I fumble for the tape recorder and press the "Record" button and ask Stanley how a jazz player ended up in this rock 'n' roll band. Barely breathing hard, Clarke presses his own "Start Rap" button and answers amiably.

"I grew up in Philadelphia," he says, "in a neighborhood that had a lot of musicians and all of us kids played and listened to a lot of different things. I probably listened to the same records you did. How. old are you?"

"26," I respond with no little wit (hey it's

not easy to jump right in with the press after a two-hour show).

Stanley points to himself. "27,v he says,

, "so I probably listened to everything you did."

"Including the Stones?"

"Yeah! It's funny, I was telling Keith, 'When I was younger I used to listen to you cats.' He laughed. I guess he couldn't get into jt because I'm up on stage with him."

"I guess it makes him feel old," I suggest.

"Yeah," says Stanley, laughing and then turning serious to make his feelings about Keith perfectly clear. "But besides that I like playing with him. Out of all the members of the Stones—and I don't mean to § slight anyone—he's my favorite. I think | he's the backbone of that band. Jagger's £ great. For me, Jagger's one of the greatest b performers ever. But Keith's got a solid» ness about him that I really like." Almost | without pause, Stanley who, one might k say, gives you good i.p.m. (interview per § mile), then returns to his original point. S "So I grew up listening to all that stuff: Beatles, early Stevie Wonder, all that soul music, Sam and Dave, Sam Cooke and, later on, Hendrix. I really dug Jimi's stuff. Believe it or not, Jimi Hendrix's music actually inspired me to move into more progressive music, 'cause when I heard his music, I said, 'Wow. What the hell is that??' Then I started buying his records, and I noticed that there were these Other records and I started buying them and getting more progressive and that's when I went off on my trail of playing with all the progressive artists and jazz musicians."

Oddly enough, or maybe not, rock 'n' roll, particularly of the 60's variety, is this young jazz player's musical roots, and he seems devoted to it. "I'm not saying I hate the music of the 70's," he tells me later, "but my favorite music was the music of the 60's. And the reason is that in the 60's, artists were into looking at what was really happening on the planet and it came through in their music, especially the Beatles. They brought it straight out. What's happening now is . .. with the disco thing they're not looking at anything. It's just, like, straight, move the body, me, you, that's it. And that's fine, but it will never last, and it will never handle anything. The one thing about the groups in the 60's is it really changed the planet."

I'm surprised at his feelings and tell him how over the years I've heard all these rock-players-turned-to-jazz claim that rock 'n' roll isn't technically sophisticated enough and, so, not interesting. What about it.

""When I play progressive music," he explains to me in his relaxed but articulate manner, *1 try to take it to the hilt. When I play rock 'n' roll, when I play blues, I try to play the shit out of it. It makes it interesting for me. And when I'm with guys that enjoy and appreciate what I do, it makes it even better, and all these guys really appreciate what I do. They say, 'Yeah! Play more!' And it makes it all worthwhile, and it's almost impossible to get bored. Because with this type of band, these individuals, it's a drawing out thing. We draw things out of each other. Especially with Keith. I really like playing with Keith because he draws it out of you and he allows you to draw it out of him. As a matter of fact, sometimes it might get a little boring in some cases playing something a little more technical than this. In a funny sort of way. This is definitely more emotion, more human."

This Is...more emotion, more human. •Stanley Clarke

TURN TO PAGE 62

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 47

NEW BARBARIANS

I remember something vague about Stanley being involved in some spiritual sect or another. After all, he is drinking apple juice. I ask him how his "spirituality" fit with the rock lifestyle he's been amidst of late.

"It actually fits perfect," he answers, gesturing with a long hand. "See, it's a funny thing. A lot of people have a misconception about spirituality. When you hear the word, you usually think of guys dressed in White robes with flowers... but that's not fdr me at all. My own thing with spirituality is just a guy should know who he is. Take a guy' like Keith. One thing I respect about him—I mean, I don't do the amount of drugs he's done or I don't drink nowhere near as much as he does—but one thing I respect about him is that what h^ does he does to the hilt. He does it full, like there's no bullshit, like, 'This is me and this is what's happening and if you like it, great, and if you don't . . . ' Boom. And I'm like that. I get on the plane in the morning and drink protein drinks and I'm sitting right next to Keith and he's drinking fucking bourbon, and we're still friends because I respect him and he respects me. That's what spirituality is for me, just being aware of people and what they're into and incredible amounts of understanding." And maybe a little bourbon?

r Stanley talks about Keith a lot. There is

real admiration in his voice. He is telling me that Keith has asked him to play on his, Keith's, solo album and that he's going to and then all of a sudden we are cut short by the gentle roar of jet engines idling.

Aloft, on the return trip, I approach the bar and try to request a Heineken as I had on the way down. The neat, trim whitehaired bartender is suddenly offended to the tip of his black bowtie. "Bob," he explains quietly, using my name which he seems to have plucked from mid-air, "you ask me for a drink once, that's it. From then on I know what you're drinking." And he smiles a terrific bartender smile, pops the cap from the bottle that was already in his hand, and adds, "One Heineken, there ya go." I don't always know all the rules of the private jet world. Now I gotta get drunk.

We're back at the New Barbarians' Park Avenue campsite two hours after leaving the arena in Washington. Convenient commuter pillaging. It is promised that, after he has a brief rest, I will at long last get to talk to Woody. But, as expected, no Keith. I use the time to brush up on the drinking begun on the plane. Twenty minutes later the man of th? hour breezes into the living room of^ the suite to announce, huskily and groggily, but with a trouper's spirit, that he'll change clothes and be back in a jiffy. True to his word, he is. Or some part of thereof. It appears he's been brushing up on his drinking, too. Ian has come along to fill in the gaps.

Ron Wood is a lovable-puppy-dog guy. He plops himself on the sofa next to me and grins his lovable-puppy-dog-guy grin, which bears no irony or condescension, and I half expect him to lap my face when he leans over close and says, "All right, now . . and trails off, grinning broader. Ian has taken the armchair perpendicular to the couch, the seat that might in some circumstances be for the interpreter. (I don't at the moment know just how right I am.) Before us is a large bottle of Moet et Chandon. It's a hopelessly genial atmosphere here at 2:30 in the morning, but . nevertheless I roll the tape and commence the interview. Or something.

"So, how do you like being a front man?" I ask Ron Wood. And then it starts.

Ron (to Ian): Eh, turn around when he's v talking to you.

Ian (jumping in quickly, sounding very British): He likes it . . . I'm actually his

agent. He likes it and he handles it very well. He's a very nice boy, a very, very nice boy, very nice, and he handles it very well, I'd have to say.

Ron (to CREEM): Do you know . . . CREEM (to Ian): But is he really nice? Ian: I've known the boy for a very long time and he's never stole my line more than two or three times...in one day.

Ron: Do you know Harrod's? They put bn a tremendous display.

CREEM: I was in Harrod's last summer [premier London dept, store].

Ron: I've got more front than Harrod's, that's how come. -

Ian: Let him explain himself...more front than Harrod's . . . ?

Ron: In other words, I've got more tracks than the Rock Island Line...Ya know what I mean?

CREEM:... Exactly. In fact, I would've said the same thing myself.

Ian:. Bob's wrong. I think you said, Ron, you were in the head when you said you had more front than Harrod's . . .

Ron:.. .I'll just quit while I'm behind, right?

And it looks more intelligible than it was. More fun than a barrel of Hard Day's Nights.

I continue, "How did you put the band together?" It continues, too.

Ron: I understand that you must ask this question and I'm getting used to answering it in many different ways. Today's been the turning point. Before I used to say the same thing: "Aw, well, Stanley and I met in London a couple of years ago and we talked of our mutual admiration for each other's vinyl offerings and wouldn't it be nice if one day we got together . . ." But actually I deviated from any other explanations when I embarked upon that one. The only thing that remains the same is that Mac will chase me on harmonies ...

Ian: Like a rat up a pipe ...

Ron: A rat up a pipe . . .strained.

Ian: He actually said, "I've been thinking of touring," and I said, "I'll do it." Oh, he was gonna say, "I was not considering you." But I didn't give him the chance. I said yes and it made it very awkward for him to say, "Sorry, mate."

Ron: Similar with Keith. I said to him, "Fancy sitting at home for two months?" "Why? Got a tour going?" I said yeah, and he said, "I'm on it." So that was those two taken care of. Now, my saxophone tutor, Bobby Keyes, took no arm-bending to tour at all. Apart from coming through like a real troupter, Bobby's playing exceptionally well, isn't he?

So it gets better, actually, in between times when it's falling apart. One of several people who are wandering back and forth through the room turns on a tape deck near us and a cassette of that night's "Love In Vain" starts playing.

Ron: Mac, you should cue this one at the beginning and then turn it off and play it again.

Ian (reversing tape, high-pitched sound of tape in rewind): This is the sound / like. CREEM: Are you gonna record the New Barbarians?

Ron: What'd you think that was? Scotch Mist? No, no, no, as far as professionally recording the tour, we're leaving it up to better judgment. We don't want it to be like a proposition where it may be detrimental to the group's vibes while they're playing. Because it's hard to know that, "OK, boys, we're recording tonight and this is the only chance we get . . . " The worst scene in the world is to have a oneoff tour, as this would seem—I don't regard it as a one-off tour, it could happen as many times in the future... But actually, that is something that a lot of people don't understand. They say, ''Ha, ha, ha. This band is just one-off, never to be. . . amalgamated again." But I don't think that. If I ever get a similar spate of time off again, whether I had an album to promote or whatever, it's just a good thing to take a band like this oh the road because of the risks, the new things that are placed in front of you, the one-off bit about it... and that word is the . . .spontaneity.

CREEM: I thought it was very spontaneous.

Ian: It's like a meaty night out.

CREEM: In fact, it seemed almost like a jam and that you didn't rehearse intensively . . .?

Ron: We rehearsed in buildings ... CREEM: How does it feel in relation to playing with the Stones?

Ron: Just as loose, just as exciting. CREEM: So you aren't nervous about being up front? I

Ron: No, I just imagine I'm filling in for Mick all the time ...

And you must remember that I'm editing this stuff.

CREEM: Why'd you call it the New Barbarians?

Ron (to Ian): You know about the old Barbarians?

Ian: No.

Ron: They were out of Boston.

CREEM: They were a great group.

Ron: Yeah, they had one hit called... "Let Me Stick Granny, My Hook's Getting In The Snare Drum ..." \

CREEM: Their hit was called "Are You A Boy or Are You A Girl." (Sings) Ron: That's right.

CREEM: So that's why you called it that? Ron: No, you see, Neil Young . . . His involvement went about as far as coming down to meet up with us. He already had too much on his plate, what with editing his movie and making sure he had six albums in the can. He rang me up one day and said, "How about the New Barbarians?" He opened up with that line. And I said, "Why not?" We took the name from him and he took off for Albuquerque . . . no, not Albuquerque... Abraxas?

Ian: Harrowgate?

Ron: Nah .. . What's that place just south of San Diego?

CREEM: Tijuana.

Ron (with certainty): That's tight.

Ian: Was he in Mexico, right?

Ron: Ummm.

Ian: It's on the coast. They did a film there. In The Heat Of The Night, right?

Ron: Birth . . .

CREEM: You mean Night Of The Iguana? Ian: Yeah, right, that's what I was gonna say.

Ron: Tijuana. It wasn't Guadalajara, was it?

Ian: No.It does begin with an A. 'ampstead? No, sorry.

CREEM: Acapulco?

Ron (suddenly alive, convinced): Yes! Ian: No.

Ron: No. You see he didn't actually go to Acapulco, but he sailed to the gulf shore... Ian: Oaxaca.

Ron: No, he sailed toAcapuIco to get away from his film editing.

Get it?

Not that, as the Moet is dipped and redipped into, I make much more sense, but I do try a different tack (to continue the sailing motif). I speak to Ian directly.

CREEM: So, how do you like playing with the New Barbarians?

Ian: Well, it's better than working... No, I love it. Best band I've been in. Fuck it, bass player's all right . . . your guitarists are quite good really... the saxophone player is very, very nice...

Ron: What about the other one, the other sax player?

Did I mention that Ron Wood also plays sax this tour?

Ian: The other sax player? As a pedal steel player, he'd make a nice mouth organ player.

Ron: Yeah, I could just about stretch that Emmons [steel] . . .

Ian: If variety's the spice of life... then play on. I love it. It's the happiest band I've ever been in.

Indeed, they are a happy bunch. Indeed, we are pretty happy. But here comes some serious business.

CREEM: How do you like singing?

Ron: I love it, 'cause I had Jagger's full support. He gave me gargling lessons. CREEM: Did he rehearse you?

Ron: Oh, no, he got me in Toronto, and he gave me some finishing courses. During rehearsals I sang and my voice went and I couldn't even talk . . .Now I'm doing too many interviews and all that. I should be resting my voice. I have the attitude that Mick does, that if you're gonna sing, you're gonna gargle and keep your voice in shape. You can't stay up night after night, you gotta have complete respect for your voice. We really have been . . .

CREEM: Your voice has changed from the first two albums.

Ron: That's one thing about the Gimme Some Neck album, that Roy Thomas Baker was producing it and he has this very wry—not bourbon rye, but, wry; that's cute—of "C'mon, you can do it, rock 'n' roll, fuck it.. ." You really had to prove something. That's what I wanted. I didn't want somebody who was gonna go "Yeah, Ronnie, yeah," I wanted someone to criticize me. And Roy and I are so opposite.

It's after three a.m. There's too much noise. Nobody wants to go to bed.

It's true. The room is more crowded than ever, with a road manager here, a publicist there, a record company exec arriving to make glad-hands all around. My writer friend from Dallas is leaving after finishing his talk with Stanley in the other room. Ron starts whispering obliquely

derogatory things about another reporter still expected after I'm through. Someone discovers that room service has ended, and this is bad because the champagne is almost gone.

"We could send out to a bar. Where's the nearest bar?" is one suggestion. But there is still other booze. Which, of course, no one really needs.

Enter Keith Richards, barefoot, barechested under an opened black vest and red scarf, champagne bottle ahand. He is muttering, but it seems benign.

Keith: ...Serious discussion here about music, how he arrives at the sound action is, um...

Ian is on the phone to room service and if not room service, whaddya got? Keith takes Iah's chair beside us.

Keith (to no one in particular):... Sprinkle a little fairy dust on the bastards. (To Ron) Oh, you're still there, ya squirt...

Ron: I was just gonna come see you... squalch...

Another reporter enters.

Keith (muttering again, but friendly-like): Do anything you want to do, just don't touch me.

Ron: Don't step on my new suede loooobs...

Keith(alert, slightly sarcastic, to Ron): Are you still Creeeming?

Ron: We're doing a thing for the cover of Nebula Magazine.

Keith: Oh, nice. I've never seen that. CREEM: Science fiction.

Keith: Yeah, yeah...(Mumbles)

Ron: It's like Ray Bradbury and me... Keith: Like like we know it...(Laughs) CREEM: No, science fiction, life as it will be...

Keith: If this ain't science fiction, I don't know what is.

It is. And I drink to it with the dregs of some Moet. pood bye, science fiction. Stop tape, start reality.

Downstairs, outside, it's late again; I'm bleary and can't find a cab. My jet, you see, is in the hangar.