HIGH SPEED BLOW-OUT

HIGH SPEED BLOW-OUT

Rubber Dinosaurs, Worms On A String, And The CARS

by

Jeffrey Morgan

PREFACE: Premonitions Of Immortality

The queer man in the pale blue suit touched his fingertips together in perverse Aubrey Beardsley parody amidst a chorus of Amens.

"One of my friends is Iggy Pop of the Stooges," he began, forming each word with an all too telling immaculate precision. "Iggy," he continued, "he stands up to sing a song and as he does, he draws a razor blade across his chest, singing as the blood flows."

Something was very wrong here.

"This is not God's way, this is not the way of one who has been touched by the Lord."

I had turned on the Sony with the intention of watching Jack Benny portray a Nazi in Ernst Lubitsch's classic of 1942, To Be Or Not To Be. In no way, though, had I expected to be confronted with this; some sort of religious fanatic's version of The Tonight Show replete with ersatz Johnny Carson asking inane questions of his guests.

"What about drugs? Are most rock musicians on drugs?"

Sadly, Mr. Pale Blue shook his head. "Yes, yes, most of them are. And most of them are very lonely as well."

Enough of this low-mentality madness. Randomly hitting the remote control I switched to Drive Hard, Drive Fast, a 10-year-old minor mystery movie about "a race car driver whose offtrack life is threatened by a machete-armed killer," according to the local listing. Despite the encouraging title, however, the film contained precious little porn to speak of. 1 switched off the set and called downstairs for a taxi.

TORONTO—The ride to the Keith Richards Memorial Hilton was fraught with ominous images that would've been worthy of Fellini, had they not been occurring in real life; the previous evening's full moon, still visible hours after sunrise; evening streetlamps fully lit at mid-day for no apparent reason; various colored balloons —each a different color—wafting in the breeze; the bizarre spectorof 15-20 buses parked around the hotel itself, each with a "vacant" sign in evidence above the windshield...

"My motto ...the angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection. —Ric Ocasek"

The silence was interrupted by an old woman standing slightly to my right in the crowded elevator.

"Accidents all over this morning."

I shifted my head slightly in her direction. She was looking directly at me.

"Where?" I said, managing a thin smile. Better to humor her. True, she didn't look dangerous, but that didn't mean she didn't have the capacity for violence somewhere in her, just waiting to be triggered.

"All over. The freeways, all the main arteries. People are crazy the way they drive."

I kept smiling and watched the floor indicator. This one was touched, all right, but not by any hand of God. Twenty-nine. My floor. Sliding oyt, I could still hear her as the elevator door quietly sealed off the interior: ".. .should be done soon... less than six months...in that kind of society..."

Clearly, this was a day meant to be spent indoors in bed with a warm body and a cool drink. Somewhere, someone was trying to tell me something. Why wasn't I taking the hint? Only a fool would dare risk his neck in the face of such warning by venturing out on a day like this.

A fool or an electrdnic author with an assignment to spend a day with the Cars.

PART ONE: The Praying Mantis Meets The Press

Cars guitarist Elliot Easton pored over a sheet of slides taken at the previous night's show. "Hey, take a look at this one," he said, motioning me over to the room's only window.

"I want the chance to be destroyed, then I'll consider my options. --David Robinson"

I took a look and passed positive judgement. It was a shot of ivory man Greg Hawkes with his keyboards reflected in his mirrored shades, giving him the vaguely distinctive incest look that so many of today's teenagers try to cultivate.

However, 1 wasn't assigned to play tag in the early morning traffic just to look at some transparencies. Never one to mince words, I remarked that I found Candy-O (cute title— maybe the Cars are trying to inform us that they're the Life Savers of rock), the band's second album, to have a punchier, more directly accessible sound—especially when heard cranked up and coming out of a car speaker system.

"It's got better highs," said Ric Ocasek from across the room. "The highs are better on the second album. The drums are better, too. Roy knows how to get it out of a little speaker. He's good at compensating."

"Besides," I interjected, "the first album was too ballad-y for my taste."

Easton sagged visibly at the word ballad-y. It looked like I touched a nerve. "What kind of music do you like?" he asked, taking up the offensive. "I mean, what's on your turntable the most? What are you listening to right now?"

I was tempted to cite my quad copy of Metal Machine Music and Glenn Ghoul's Bach Toccatas Vol. I, but 1 decided to omit the Bach and straight-talk him: "Bill Nelson'sSound On Sound, Sparks' Number One In Heaven, Fripp's Exposure, Pere Ubu's Dub Housing and It's Alive by America's best rock 'n' roll band ever."

"I like the Ramones too," said Easton, slightly leaning forward as if to convince me of his sincerity—that he was on my side. Unfortunately, I didn't need convincing. What I needed was a strong cup of coffee, not having eaten since six in the morning.

"You know who I really find funny?" asked Easton, as I put a call through to room service. "Kraftwerk. I really like them. They remind me of the two brothers that Steve Martin and Dan Aykroyd play on Saturday Night Live. You know, there's this passage in Trans-Europe Express that kind of sounds like the theme on the Superman television show. You know, when they get into trouble at the Daily Planet."

Room service delivered the coffee just as Easton proclaimed that his favorite band would be a cross between Kraftwerk and the Stooges. Suddenly an extremely bent possibility flashed before my eyes. Could Mr. Pale Blue cope with an Ig attack, aided and abetted by four grinning Germans in white face and red lipstick? Probably not. Then again...

TURN TO PAGE 61

THE CARS

CONTINUED FROM PAOE 40

Off to one side, Ric Ocasek was busy perusing a somewhat derogatory Cars review. "I knew I should've jerked that guy off," he said to no one in particular.

I jotted the line down and he looked up at me. "Do you shorthand?" he jabbed, grinning.

"No, but1 use a steno pad," I countered. "After all, you did say that the Cars were stenographers tc* the masses, didn't you?"

The grin faded. Point.

Sensing a lag in the proceedings, I attempted to liven things up with a few blatant insults. "What's so great about you guys, anyway?" I challenged. "What's your secret for succe&? C'mon, the kids want to know all about this."

"Yeah?" sneered Ocasek. "Let the kids find out for themselves."

"What's that?" I retorted. "Your motto or something?"

"My motto? Jesus." Ocasek paused for a second. "The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection." ..

"Where there's smoke there's work, where there's work there's industry," added Hawkes, entering the room.

"That's a pretty German philosophy," I remarked. Now it was my turn to sneer. "Speaking of losers, what's with the Vargas painting on the new album cover? That's kind of old hat, don't you think? Or do you?"

"How many girls on album covers have you seen in photographs and how many original Vargas paintings have you seen on rock 'n' roll albums?" asked Ocasek.

"I'll admit it's a cute idea; too bad he did such a crummy job executing it. I mean, let's face it; it's not such a great painting. Just look at the ankles."

"No," Ric admitted slowly, "but if it were 30 years ago, .it might have been."

"But it isn't." Anj| discretion being the better part of an interview, I decided to let the subject drop without any further comment.

PART TWO: A Portrait Of The Rock Critic As An Automobile

"The money we waste on drugs and women would be enough,to cure cancer in our lifetirhe." DaCid Robinson dragged on a joint and exhaled slowly, giving new textures to the already naturally smoked glass windows in the limousine.

We were en route to the local branch of the band's record company, where the boys were penciled in to make a special appearance in the shipping department posing for photos and autographing albums f6r the stock crew.

Laugh if you vyill, but it's good public relations: 35 minutes of smiling and signing and you're automatically assured that the product will be sent out just a little bit more efficiently the next time an order comes in.

Once inside, a call was placed for hamburgers and more coffee while we proceeded to the loading area. Leaning against a stack of albums, I sensed that something was amiss and turned around in time to see several employees and the lens pf an SLR being aimed in my direction. "Hold it," I yelled, extending my hc^nd out in an attempt to block the shot: "I'm not a Car—"

FLASH. The picture was taken and I got thanked.

Suddenly,I pieced it all together: with my jeans, custom polarized wraparounds, untamed hair (styled by gravity) and authentic Keith black Kaid wind-cheater, these kids had mistaken me for one of the .group. I laughed at the idea until I was approached by several kids and older women brandishing pens and albums. Then I stopped laughing.

"Sorry, I'm not a Car, I'm a rock critic," I explained in self-defense. Still they persisted. "We know," said one, "sign it anyway." For a moment I pondered the ethics of the situation. What the hell. I grabbed the nearest album cover and, right next to Vargas' signature, scrawled in big letters, J. MORGAN, CREEM MAGAZINE, 79.

Instantly I had a crowd around me, all demanding autographs.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I looked up at Cars' road * manager, Steve Berkowitz. He didn't look amused. Amazed, yes, but definitely not amused. Tough. I figured this to be my Warholian 15 minutes of fame—and I aimed to enjoy it, basking all the way.

"What does if look like I'm doing?" I said, putting the finishing touches on another autograph. "By the way, would you mind moving over just a little bit, you're blocking my light."

He walked away, shaking his head. I signed another Cars album.

PART THREE: The Public Speaks

The next stop was yet another signing, this time at a downtown record store. I decided in advance that I wasn't going to be the cause of another warehouse episode like the one that had just transpired, so, upon arrival, I climbed out of the limo and beat a hasty retreat to a corner restaurant forsa quick lunch and the chance to consult my notes in regard to my next move.

The lunch was functional; my notes didn't fare so well. All I could decipher were strange phrases like, "He's used to Frankenstein and pizza," and "Rubber Dinosaurs and worms on a string."

Who is the party responsible for such gibberish? Andwhat did it all mean? Rubber Dinosaurs? I dimly sensed that it meant something, but I couldn't decipher what. No doubt about it, more field work had to be done.

I found the group in the classical music section pf /the store, standing behind a table while a gaggle of kids fjled past.

It was a neat, efficient setup: a kid entered the store from the left, bought a Cars LP, had the shrinkwrap torn off, walked past the table and got it signed, got it bagged, and exited from the ring. Total time elapsed: two minutes. Multiply that by well over an hour's wdrth of time, and you've got a lot of kids.

One such consumer, a lissome creature wearing precious little else save for some lavender ballet tights and an equally fitting openfront panther vest, eyed my notepad.

"What paper are you with?" she asked. Her voice would've been erotic if it hadn't been so damned narcotic.

I told her and her eyes lit up. "Oh yeah?" she said, slightly spreading her legs.

A good reporter is trained to notice everything, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

"Yeah.What do you like about these guys—" I motion towards the Cars assembly line—"what's so great about them?"

She sucked on her lip and thought for a moment. "It's the music. It's part punk, it's part rock 'n' roll. It's something new, I guess." She paused again: "Oh yeah, they're not bad-looking, either."

After the sighing, I told Ocasek about the girl's comment. He said nothing—only smiled, and walked away. Somewhere, a dim chord was being struck. Something about Rubber Dinosaurs.

PART FOUR: Secrets Of The Stars

Shortly before the concert, I cornered Ben Orr, professional Carsinger, and asked him why he thought the Cars were enjoying such success on the charts and in the polls.

"Yeah, the polls, that was reaDy something. I don't know. I guess it's because we play short songs. I like short songs. I used to like groups like Yes but when they started getting into more complicated material..." Ben shook his head.

"How does it feel to be the Joe Namath of rock 'n' roll?H I asked. I figured this—comparing rock stars fo movie stars—to be a good tactic, * especially when there is a distinct physical resemblance to go on. (I once told Meatloaf that he was the Orson Welles of rock—and he agreed with me—so this seemed to be as good a time as any to continue the concept.)

"What?" said Orr. "I hate Joe Namath. I hate—"

"Okay," I said, trying to calm things down. "Who do you like?"

"That's easy," said Ben without even flinching. "Burt Reynolds."

Burt Reynolds? Did I hear right?

"He's a really funny guy," explained Ben. Right, I thought. Burt Reynolds and Kraftwerk. This band has got dynamite roots.

"Have you ever seen any ,of his films? But I don't like him because I'm like that," he laughed. "1 like women."

We continued to talk and were joined by Robinson. "1 hope I'm not crashing."

"Are you with the band?" I cross-examined.

"I'm his boyfriend," he said, motioning in Orr's direction.

"That kind of lifestyle'll kill you,"" I warned.

"I'll tell you what rock 'n' roll is gonna do to me. It's gonna kill my feet," said Ben.

Robinson looked up. "I want the chance to be destroyed, then I'll consider my options."

EPILOGUE: Overdrive

During the middle of the concert, a young cOuple filed past me on the way to the concession stand.

"They're boring," one of them said, ordering a Coke. "Really. The way they just stand there, they might as well just put a photo of them onstage^and play one of their records instead."

"If you don't like them, you shouldn't have come," the girl said.

"I just can't figure these guys out. They're not so hot."

"Listen, maybe there's nothing to figure out. Have you ever considered that? I like them because they're a successful blend of 70's rock. Clever, yet speaking in a language attainable to the use of today."

She sounded like a rock critic herself. Either that, or she was related to someone in the group. Her boyfriend, however, was functioning on a more basic level.

"Ahhh," he said, picking up hi§ hot dog, "they remind me of Boston. All style and no substance."

I leaned on the concession counter, thinking that one over. His opinion was over-simplified for sure, but somewhat accurate to a degree. I could understand what he was trying to say. That the Cars were a copy of a copy of a copy. Just another die-cut plastic band discharged out of this decade's blandness.

Looking at that hot dog reminded me that I needed some food. Maybe I would go to a McDonald's. After all, what were a few platinum albums compared to the billions of hamburgers served up by Ronald McDonald around the world?

I felt like screaming, but I knew it was no use. At a rock 'n' roll concert, no one can hear you scream.'

Least of all, the Rubber Dinosaurs