THE BEAT GOES ON
Here is your usually intrepid reporter sucking up to a bottle of stout, summoning up enough whiskey courage to try to confront the eminent musician with a couple of questions, knowing full well it will be like Cub Coda trying to interview Mozart.
THE BEAT GOES ON
DEPARTMENTS
John Cale’s Last Dance
CHAPEL HILL, N.C.— What a placp to end a tour, here in this bastion of “southeastern liberal,” i.e., “aging hippie” thought, here in the Mad Hatter bar with its circular staircase worn smooth from years of staggering and stumbling from table to stool, here where the air is damp and cool and if you’re sober you’re pegged a fool. Here is John “Guts” Cale making a sound check: BBRRRRAAANNG Chucka chuck-a BBLLLAAANNG Chuck-a BLAM-BLAM! (Cpuld it be the voice of i God?) t
Here is your usually intrepid reporter sucking up to a bottle of stout, summoning up enough whiskey courage to try to confront the eminent musician with a couple of questions, knowing full well it will be like Cub Coda trying to interview Mozart. One mistake in the approach could prove fatal—don’t be fooled by the LP covers of Vintage Violence, Fear, Helen Of Troy, et at.; in the flesh M. Cale radiates the potential force of a seething volcano, a mile wide tornado. In short he is a massive, hirsute (albeit gentlemanly) brute.