The Eyebrows Have It

The Eyebrows Have It

CREEMEDIA

DEPARTMENTS

PRIME TIME SUNDAY

(NBC)_

by Rick Johnson

“You might get mad. You might be curious. You might stop and think. You might even want to tear up your beautician’s license and go set fire to a Shriner Burn Treatment Center,” says Tom Synder in the latest blurb for his new show, “but you won’t be bored.” And he’s right, as usual. You won’t be bored, you’ll be appafled.

Prime Time Sunday, NBC’s latest vehicle for Tom “1-Leap-Through-The-Screen” Snyder and his kama sutra eyebrows, is without a doubt the worstnew program to hit the screen since A IlStar Secrets. With all the flow of a local news show experiencing technical difficulties during the hog quotations, Snyder leads a bumbling crew of network second-stringers through a poky dodo maze of disconnected live interviews, features that bombed in Parade four years ago and trademark Snyder ad-libs that carry the approximate humor value of comfortable driving . weather.

The man himself never looked more Snyder-like. He still shakes his head like a loose part of a boxcar. His famed eyebrows are enough • to give hedge trimmers in the viewing audience itchy clipper fingers. His voice retains all the sincerity of a hungry toxic predator. (Ranger Rick’s Nature Note: a toxic predatoris ananimal that kills by -smell-alone.) Upon seeing Tom in the nude, most people get an urge to mentally dress him. v

Prime Time’s format bounces back and forth etween live spots and feature segments. Unleashing Mr. Charm'on unsuspecting live interviewees sounds like a good idea in theory, but the results have varied between the pointless and outright hilarious. Freddie Laker, seemingly oblivious to anything Tom asked, spent half of the premier show blaming U.S. flight mechanics for every plane crash in the last half-century just because they fixed a couple of DC-10s with plastic toytools. What do ya want, Freddie, at least they’re colorful. Then it was some idiot who’d been in an overheated gasohol shed all day hollering about OPEC (which he called PEC-O) followed by jolly Dan Pat Moynihan getting all hotte-to-trotte about our host making off-camera faces at him and telling Tom to go stick his brows in an overheated peep box. “Haw,” Tom replied^ “haw, haw, haw.”

Some of the earth-shaking stories that Prime Time’s ace crew of investigative reporters have tackled when they weren’t busy wiping dead horse meat off their shoes have included:

• A report on Krishna creeps tormenting airport travelers, during which the mantramouths’ lentil breath was blacked out a la Presley’s hips.

•A visit with Russian emigre Boris B. Boris, who explained how great his life was now that he’d fled corpmunism and could buy all the fancy stereo equipment he wanted.

• A talk with a squirming petro-fascist named Schmertz who actually had the audacity to say “the oil business is not a very profitable e nterprise. ” Th e Nation’s collecti ve jaw dropped faster than anatomically-impossible hints at a gas line. If the above comment seems a put-down of writers younger than my wrinkled self, it’s because I’m particularly pisSed at Burchill and Parsons’ reverse ageism. With teeth-bearing glee, they point out that Debbie Harry’s 34, the Ramones were teenagers in the 60’s and thus belong to a “prune featured” generation, and two of the Stranglers are in their “fat40’s.” Does that mean they have more respect for the 17-year-old East Ender who gets his kicks dressing in a John Travolta suit? In fact, the duo’s comprehensive put-down of advanced birth years illustrates a true conservatism, the mark of mental old age.

To add to the overall feeling of what-is-reality, director Sergio Mendes switches over to the control room before each comm.mercial to give us cretins an “inside look” at bored studio personnel saying heavy technical stuff like “roll it,” “insert,” “5-4-3-2-1” and “oh no, not this fucking‘We Are NBC’ ad again!” Dear A unt Freida, Wow! It was like walkingright behind the counter at True Value!

What they’re going to do to help this show, 1 dunno. Maybe drop the interviews, maybe drop Tom’s ad-libs, maybe drop kick on third down. Whatever moves they make had better be pronto though, because my spider-sense tells me that Prime Time Sunday already has one brow in the grave. It’s like the lady camper said during one of their reports that 60 Min utes did better last year “Whatcan I say, it’s here.”

Zit-Squeczing Causes Blindness

THE BOY LOOKED AT JOHNNY Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons

(Pluto Press)

The Boy Looked At Johnny, a scurrilous if cleverly-written diatribe against the no future of new wave, should have remained one of England’s great gifts to itself. However, now that it’s been defended and thus pubBcized by a columnist in America’s most upwardly mobile newsprint biweekly, lots of you intrigued readers are undoubtedly scrambling around tracking down this 96-page manifesto at the local import shop. My advice would be to use your three bucks for a pint of high octane or put it towards the new live Ramones album, either action bound to make Parsons and Burchill froth at their dry-lipped mouths.

In keeping with their staff responsibilities as NME regulars, Jools and Tone don’t like a hell of a lot. Among the greatest insults to their tender sensibilities are record companies, critics, managers, fads, trends, sex(ism), drugs (with speed a glaring exception) and for a grand finale, most of rock ’n’ roll. Yet the pair don’t hesitate to use this bumbling, corrupt, past-it medium for regular self-aggrandizement. A page of Burchill reviews in the NME will usually consign 99.9% of her subjects to the scrap-heap—but if those unfortunates all gave up and went back to panelbeating, whatwould you do for a living, dear?

According to Parsons and Burchill, rock’s glorious moments have been far outweighed by its years of massive sludge. They take the proper stance of grudgingly acknowledging the 50’s while heaping abuse upon the 60’s: “A decade of , iron-lunged dinosaurs washing their hands on the blood of teen idealism—sated, sanitized and bloated after goring on the carnal/chemical/mass-worship fruit of their assault on the heights.” Yes, but wasn’t itfun while it lasted, and I’m truly sorry you two were just learning to dot your i’s and cross your t’s when the Stones were still genuine and Jimi Hendrix was as honest and talented an icorvas John Rotten would be a decade later.

What’s infuriating about The Boy Looked At Johnny is that much of its uncovering of punk’s dirty linen is fascinating and insightfully documented. The authors provide an inside look attherise and fall of the Sex Pistols, depict how and by whom the new wave was turned into a corporate venture, and give a well-deserved kick in the ass to woman-hating r&stafarians and burnt-out California cases. Their desire to see rockers adopt a correct political stance is admirable, their sky-high praises of Poly Styrene and Tom Robinsomwell-intentioned if so extravagant that it’s embarrassing.

The,Boy Looked At Johnny’s back page warns,'♦‘The authors come not to praise rock, but to bury it.” But the authors have been more than willing to go on the rotten media to discuss their theories and threaten to end a performer’s career if they didn’t get a free copy of his album (see page 69 of the book). A classic American trash philosophy states that you can’t be too thin or too rich. In their book, Burchill and Parsons rework that bit of brilliance to ded uce that one is best when poor and young. I hope they’re ready when the class of 1989 decides to give them a forced retirement.

Toby Goldstein

Sleaze Read

TRIPLE PLATINUM

by Stephen Holden (Dell)

Nick Young, the quasi-hero of Triple Platinum, is a youngish A&R man workingfora large redord company who began his career as a rock critic. Stephen Holden, author of Triple Platinum, is a longtime rock critic who dropped the pen to temporarily pick up a checkbook in an A&R stint with RCA. So much for autobiography —nothing embarrassing in that parallel. But if the painfully-detailed sex,and voluminous consumption of drugs in Triple Platinum bears further analogy to Holden’s life, he’s wise to have stressed its purely fictional aspects.

Triple Platinum is a hysterical (both comically and emotionally) indictment of the folks who tumble around the Top 40, overlaid with enough sleaze to guarantee it best-sellerdom at your local airport. On the surface, it’s little more than an above-average melodrama, peopled with characters who make a good case for the decline and fall of pop music.

We spend several days in the life of Craig Morrison, the over-extended president of IMC Records, and his perennially bored, sex-starved wife Beverly. IMC, which appears to have lost everyone from the Beach Boys to the Eagles to other labels, calls its artist roster names like the L.A. Dudes, the Nuts (a punk band, natch) and the inevitable Bob Dylan clone, Lance Macon. Holden also gives us a flock of overweight managers, slimy office personnel and fawning journalists, but no matter who’s on display, they don’t go three paragraphs without “tooting up. ” There’s so much white powder scattered on each page of Triple Platinum I’m amazed the publisher didn’t include a free sample.

Since Triple Platinum could have been subtitled “everything you always suspected about the music business but were afraid—for your limbs—to ask,” it holds a greater appeal to those who’ve dabbled in the industry, or at least are habitues of the gossip columns. Could that short, fat, high-pressured, obnoxious manager really be a notorious California empire builder? What person does A&R punk backer, Brian Lodge, most resemble? And do the unbelievable Morrison couple have actual real-life counterparts? Yoircan amaze your friends and speculate for hours, but Stephen Holden is clever enough to merely throw out the clues and point. After all, he needs all teri fingers to type the next installment.

Toby Goldstein

Rock Crits Make The Funny Papers

AMAZING ROCK & ROLL ADVENTURES

by Bryan Talbot

(Brain Storm Comix) __

Ace Winslow, freelance rock reporter, is one daddeo cat. Dressed in the same beat-up trenchcoat that Peter Falk was wearing when he got his eye poked out, Ace possesses all the mysterious cooljof an unusual discharge. He operates out of a sleazy London office that looks like the janitor’sclosetatthe Old Janitor’s Home. His car, “The Flying Fart,” is packed with James Bbndian gadgets like the adjustable rear-view mirror and the dreaded removable ashtray. And his dame, Sabrina, the gossip columnist for firoads, “the liberated fashion mag for fancy fluff,” has never even considered wearing sensible shoes.

Ace is just shifting around the office one day, juggling positions on his shit list, when a pair of goons resembling goons offer him large dollars to throw his review of the new supergroup Omega’s debut single, a remake of the Dickies’ remake of “Eve Of Destruction” that sounds like a dishwasher full of parrots. Our hero refuses, in true comic book fashion, and gets his ass re-threaded for his trouble. Hell, a real rock critic would declare your dead grandparents the next Mouth & McNeal for a couple of old Blue Cheer albums and a little Blondie-finger.

With a little detective work and a few quick phone calls to record execs (who Winslow compared to “well-programmed cabbage” in a ludicrous over-assessment of the intelligence of biz hacks) Ace discovers that the Omega scam is actually a plot by menacing spatula-people from outer space to hypnotize Earthoids into submission via specially-treated records not unlike Linda Ronstadt picture discs. “Either my reality had copped a warp, or something weird was going on,” hemuttersin truej.m. bridgewaterfashion.

Meanwhile, Omega have scheduled a giant concert at Wembley tofinish offthefew remaining non-pods that haven’t already been brainwashed by their records. Right, The Led Zeppelin Story. Ace arrives on the scene and, with a chill similar to the effect of “loaned” promo LPs, realizes that half of the fans are already zombified and “the other half didn’t seem to notice.” So what else is new?

It looks pretty grim for Earth, these aliens being real assholes Who plan to make everyone wear disco-lite shoes and remove all reruns of Love That Bob from the pivotal 3:30 p.m. time slot. But acting out the ultimate fantasy of all rock writers, Ace, Sabrina and their drooled-out side-kick Scotty useTommy gunSfor backstage passes and battle their way past vicious roadies hired away from Elvis Costello, in time to blow up thealiens’ mind-moosh machinejustas Omega prepare to rip into their medley of Fink Lady’s greatest hits. The crowd, now unglazed if not unstupid, rips into Omega instead, and the world is once again safe for roll-up hats, floral print bathtub stickers and Bugs Bunny Vitamins.

The funny thing, though, is that most people will think this is just a goofy comic book story that some weirdo made up after too many dates with a can of Reddi-Whip. When in reality, the allusions to Robert Stigwood, Saturday Night Fever, the sudden appearance of Andy Gibb and the Bee Gees’ discovery of “falsetto” are all too clear. You don’t think...?

Rick Johnson

DRIVE-IN SATURDAY

Double Scream Feature

by Edcmard Dauphin_-

A repulsive, fungus-like creature that grows at a disgustingly fast pace and seems bent on bloody destruction. No, it’s not a description of Rick Nielsen, just the title character in A lien, the summer’s hot sci-fi horror filrri that proves the old adage—people will gladly fork over their hard-earned money forthe privilege of throwing up in public.

And vomit you will at this tale ofa.futuristic spacecraft and its crew, drifting through the galaxies at the mercy of an alien being whose violent exploits make The Texas Chainsaw Massacre look like a promotional spot for Black & Decker.

First a word about the crew. There are seven of them—five men, two women—andaboutthe sorriest bunch of fuckers to go out on the road together since the last Crosby, Stills & Nash tour.

In this vision of the future, space travel has become a bore, a dull, plodding assignment that draws the dregs of society. When not sniping at one another, the crew members are bitching and moaning about working conditions, inadequate salaries, forgotten bonuses, lack of job benefits. Reminded me of my last chat with the CREEM publishers.

Interplanetary jaunts have also become totally computerized. So when the crew is ordered to stop for an exploratory mission to an alien world, they have no choice but to obey .Too bad Ted Nugent wasn’t aboard— he might have taken a 12-gauge-shotgun and reprogrammed that computer. .

The alien the crew brings back to the spaceship resembles a chicken that’s been crossed with a suction pump. Wasting little time, this revolting little sucker wraps himself around one fellow’s mouth (blobdy Limey, so no one really cared) and jams a tentacle down his esophagus. Put a stop to his worker’s complaints right there.

The Limey starts choking. Not long after, his chest exploded to reveal the alien in anew incarnation—looking very much like a squealing, teeth-gnashingbit of shrimp scampi. Ugh, more garlic sauce, please!

The crew is understandably annoyed. They resolve to wipe out the alien. Gue$s what happens. It’ll give you a new respect for suction pumps and swear you off scampi forever.

Pretty soon it’s down to a cat and Sigourney Weaver, a Jane Fonda lookalike (minus the politics, let’s hope) who find themselves face to face with oblivion. I bet on oblivion myself, but thenlalwaysbeton oblivion.

“In space no one can hear you scream.” So goes the ad copy for Alien. No one can hear you laugh either. See Alien—you’ll scream and laugh a lot.

It’s only autumn'but Prophecy, the new John Frankenheimer flick, is already a cinch for my year-end Ten Worst list. Billed as “the monster movie,” this tedious assortment of drivel is about as frightening as The Muppet Movie, with special effects to match.

Too bad, ’cause it spun ded interesting in the advance promo material. A group of environmentalists, stranded in the Maine woods, battle a horribly deformed mutatioh who wants to annihilate them quickly. Fun, right? I bought an extra large bag of popcorn.

Thefilm is less than a reel old when you ( discover the environmentalists are an insufferably | boringpair of do-gooders (oqe of’em is Rocky-lovingTalia ShireferKrissakes), the Maine woods looks suspiciously like Western Canada (flick was shot near Vancouver) and the mutation resembles an underdone jamb chop With arms.

Villains of the piece are executives of a lumber mill dumping chemicals into the local waters. Heroes are—you guessed it— the local Indians, who just want to enjoy the land and resist every inroad of civilization. The bleeding hearts side wi|h the Indians, natch, and the mutation goes after everybody. So much for the balance of nature.

Skip Prophecy and eat a lamb chop with arms.

Kulchur Korner: It may never play the drive-in circuit but Nosferatu, a new,German vampire film, belongs there. Created by confessed. eccentric Werner Herzog, it boasts a chilling performance by Klaus Kinski in the title role. Asked his qualifications to play a 500-year-old bloodsucker, Kinski told a reporter: “Well, I was in a madhouse one time for 90 days.” And asked his opinion of the finished product, a beautifully textured bit of cinematic brilliance, Kinski sighed: “I hate Artand Culture." It’s enough to make him CREEM’s Cinematic Man Of The Year. U2i