THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOSE ON

The Great Funk In

DETROIT—Dance music has seen much change in the last few years—with the “Death to Disco” bell sounding nationwide, a funk revival was bound to come dancing out of the closet sooner or later, and it has surfaced in the form of people like James Chance/White and the Contortions, and Lizzy Mercier Descloux, shaking their collective money-makers to a fortified funk beat. Detroit has a worthwhile addition to this happyfooted family, with the group Gary Fabulous and the Black Slack.

I caught the Fabulous One at a local new wave dub called Nunzio’s in Lincoln Park. Here is a group that is all black, with dirty white boy Gary fronting, howling like a strange hybrid of Bryan Ferry and A1 Green. A great concept, and a fun one too.

The group consists of Rudy Robinson (who has played with the likes of Eddie Kendricks, Griorge Clinton, Johnny Taylor, etc.) on keyboards, Beverly Hills on left-handed bass, Nat Love on guitar, Kenny (the Hammer)' Jones on the skins, arid sometime Black Slack Norma Jean Bell (who’s played with J. Geils, Tommy Bolin, and John McLaughlin) on sax. Chops for glory, indeed. Take all this musical experience, add the fabulous Mr. Gary Fabulous, and it’s dance‘until you drop.

The group does its own material, the standouts being “In Like A Lion, Out Like A Lamb,” “Avenue of Fashion,” “On the Street,” “Marriage on the Rocks,” “Some Kind of Woman,” and “Express Lane Jane,” which includes the almost classic line “If you got ten items or less, you can look down her dress.” They also cover old favorites like “Dancin’ In The Streets,” “Sljppin’ Into Darkness,” and the always cool “Function At The Junction,” by Shorty Long. So, if the -funk army is taking recruits, enlist Gary Fabulous and the Black Slack. And put on your dancing shoes, you funky muthas.

Mark J. Norton

STEVIE NICKS DRAGGED AWAY 11

Unbelievable but true! Singing sensation Stevie Nicks was forcibly .escorted from a fashionable New York theater last month after refusing to leave I Why? The double feature of The Wizard of Oz and Dumbo proved too much good stuff for the Mac Hack! "I've seen great movies before," she mumbled to police escorts, “I've seen Wicked Witches, I've seen cute little dogs and young girls from Kansas , BUT I'VE NEVER SEEN AN ELEPHANT THAT COULD FLY 11" After 17 consecutive screenings, the unfortunate theater manager made the grim decision to pull the projector's plug. "She seemed like such a nice girl," he commented, shaking his head, "but I dunno...kinda flakey..."

Let’s Go To Moscow

DETROIT—His immobility is almost striking. With dark glasses preventing access to eyes that have probably seen far too much, and surgical mask dangling against the operating room scrubs he is wearing, John Cale is onstage without expression, still, a huge physical puzzle.

In fact his aspect is more insect than human, if only for the shining black surface of the glasses which allows him close resemblance to the praying mantis (note: a most unholy beast which only shows this classic heavenly pose when in the process of eating a much smaller insect) . He inore likely is the wearisome mercenary back from all ends of the earth, all manner of war, deceit, crime, evil. When death is business then—as a younger more visionary Cale put it—“the days of the year are suddenly gone.”

John Cale has re-emerged in a time of violence, which is fitting. He wears a shield of disorder; he is an appropriate citizen in a world mad with fear.

His new songs, as demonstrated on this latest visit to Detroit, bear this out. They are relentlessly doomsday in their pace— “Evidence,” “Mercenaries (Ready for War)”—desperate, frightening. It is as if Cale has poked his head into the light only to meet yet another human crisis, then retreated back to the safety and private warmth of the darkness. It is a final cry of despair; an act of contrition.

It is not pleasant to watch. Cale remains silent between his songs. And while physically close (most everyone in the small club is standing, some within arm’s length of him), he maintains a distance that is immeasurable. Perhaps it is time that disturbs him, this century, it is impossible to judge.

But no question, this is effective. What does an enigma look like in flesh and blood? Like that on stage, of course. And to which do we turn in times of dishevelment—the statesman, who offers to change the world with proposition and regulation, or the poet, who offers beauty and terror as his solution? Cale is presently making a case for the latter.

Moscow, Tehran, Kabul, Islamabad... John Cale, the old sage, has used his antennae once again, and has returned, simultaneously, with yet another version of a world in chaos.

No fun.

Walter Wasacz

HowTo Pick Up Boys At Bookie’s Club 870

DETROIT—God knows there are a million reasons for pursuing the opposite gender, but really, duckies, this is no location for it.

Tell me you are so hard up you would endeavor to chase supposedly virile men in a club that encourages bisexuality— and we know that bisexuals are people who are so hard up they will take anything they can get. And get it you surely will.

Do you really want a “man” who wears Salvation Army clothes, lives in a pig sty and drinks all your alcohol, when you only shop at exclusive shops in Birmingham and Troy, have your hair done at chic salons, and can afford vacations at destinations further south than Toledo? Do you really want a “man” who has tacos for breakfast so he can fart better than anyone else in an airtight car or room? A “man” who spends his day going to early matinees to save money, gets drunk and wears a “Dawn of the Dead” t-shirt backwards? We will not comment on your apparent lack of taste—but if you go to Bookie’s to pick up guys, there are a few things you should know.

Guys who frequent this dump are generally a sorry lot. Very few of them hold jobs and drive nice cars—-and if they don’t have jobs, how can they afford _ to give you the necessities of life, I e.g., silk lingerie, magnums of Mumm’s, pure Peruvian pink... you know, the things that make life tolerable.

Speaking of cars, do you really want to be seen in a rusted Vega wagon with the rear window missing? Or a dirty blue van with no seat on the passenger side, filled with empty MD 20/20 bottles and No Brand beer cans? You should’ve latched on to that law School graduate with the reported gila monster hanging between his legs, darling, because he could give you what you need, even if he’s only half trying...

Separating the wheat from the chaff in Bookie’s is no small feat. All the guys will use the usual stupid lines like “Yeah, I’m in a group, had lunch with Clive today, and he only offered us a six figure contract...,” or, “C’mon, little lady, let’s go out to my car and do a few lines.” What he neglects to tell you of course, is that the lines are usually Midol and Drano or some procaine with cheap speed mixed in. And who needs that?

Getting a man to go hpme with you is no real problem at this club, But what you need to know is how to ward off the unsolicited come-ons and advances of the geeks and scum that inhabit the club. Here’s some suggestions:

a)“We’ll go to my place so you can meet my slightly retarded sister. You see she doesn’t know anything about sex, and I figured you could show her the ropes, ’cause I can see you’ve had so much experience”

b) “Sure I’ll go home with you. You don’t mind open genital sores, do you?”

c) “We’ll go to my place, but you don’t mind seagulls circling above us while we do it, do you?”

d) “Will that be cash, Mastercharge or Visa?”

All of these will work. But if you And yourself at the end of the evening with no one to give you a good stuffing, try these:

a) “I hear you’re hung \ like a rhino, big boy”

b) “I just can’t seem to find a man who can satisfy me”

c)“You look like you need a good home-cooked meal.”

d) “I hear you’ve got the fastest tongue in Detroit.”

e) “I’m doing some modeling for Penthouse magazine. Would you like to come over and see my spread?”

All of these are guaranteed for success. You may find, though, that once you’re home with the man of your dreams, he’ll be too drunk to dunk. Remember the book by Jacqueline Susann, Once Is Not Enough? Don’t you agree?

If you find yourself in this situation, get rid of him immediately. This may be hard as he’s almost nodding, and geez, he sure is cute. But face it—you don’t want to cook breakfast for the bum, do you? You have two choices, insult him or threaten him. Here’s a few:

a) “I want a meal, not a snack”

b) “Hung like a rhino? You’re hung like a hamster!”

c) “That’s OK, that’s OK. I should have known you like boys.”

d) “I’ve thrown away more meat at McDonalds!”-

e) “Look, uh, my husband will be home in a little while and I think you should leave because the last guy he caught me with lost his manhood”

f) “Got a magnifying glass by any chance?”

He will surely get mad and leave, if you follow these easy methods. You are happy now, So go back to sleep. There may be problems with the loser calling you the next day, and you don’t want to see the Poor Excuse ever again. To stop this from happening, give him a bottle of A-200 as he walks out the door. You’ll never see his pathetic face again.

Claire Hussy

ZANDER'S SECRET MARRIAGE UNCOVERED!

Wall Street predicts a sudden boom In Kleenex stock now that Cheap Trickster Robin Zander has told all: he's finally tied the Big Knot! "Yep," the blond Idol of millions affirmed, "Kristy and I have been dating on the sly since 1961!" Zander, now 38, and Ms. McNichol, a heady 29, decided they'd take the big plunge after brother Jimmy flopped badly in the critically-hailed California Favor. "I like Jimmy's cheeks,” Kristy emphasized, "and in order to keep 'em rosy, Robin and I agreed to share our residuals with him 'til he finds a new occupation." Rumors that Jimmy will play a vital role in the upcoming Green Acres remake are, Kristy emphasized, totally unfounded.

Non* Incredible Ex-Runaway NonInterview!

SOUTHFIELD, MI-“These bitches suck.”

Harsh were Rick Johnson’s words in these pages when the unanimously-acclaimed Heavy Metal connoisseur reviewed the Runaways’ second runaway dud, Queens of Noise. And as a direct result of Rick’s deeply-felt critique, former RunawayCherie Currie refused to speak to CREEM during her recent jaunt to the Motor City. Promoting her and her sister Marie’s new LP, Cherie refused to acknowledge the age-old maxim ANY PRESS IS BETTER THAN NO PRESS AT ALL, YOU DOPES by denying her record company’s heartfelt wish for a CREEM interview.

TOWNSHEND'S SECRET LUST REVEALED!

Always conscious of his dwindling youth, Pete Townshend has taken to new habits guaranteed to make him wish he was on the first plane to Cincinnati! In retrospect, though, Pete's hushed-up penchant for cradle-robbing was evident years ago: "The Kids Are Alright," Pete wrote, but how could we have guessed what he meant? This exclusive photo, taken at CREEM's peril, shows the crafty old dodder seconds before his latest kiddie-snatch I Tune in next month as Pete explains just exactly who he was referring to when he wrote "My Generation" I

Unperturbed, we CREEM staffers did our civic duty and attended a CBS-sponsored Romantics party, thankful that there, possibly, we might be greeted with open arms. Imagine our chagrin when, in the midst of our pleasant chatter and standard industry backpatting, Cherie and Marie Currie entered the party suite!

Too busy to talk to CREEM, we muttered to each other, but not too busy to show up here!

Naturally outraged, blatant Iggy Pop imitator-cum-CREEMwriter Mark J. Norton and I approached the ungrateful pair, intent upon frank and relevant discussion of their rumored intimate relationships with several members of the L.A.-based band Toto. Upon our identifying ourselves, the sisters took immediate action: while a stunned Norton received absolutely. no response from Marie after boasting of his freelance gynecologist status, the more volatile Cherie grasped this writer’s coat by its fashionable lapels and hissed, “So you’re from CREEM!?!”

“Yes,” I smiled' warmly. “Hey, how come—”

“Well I just wanna say,” said Cherie, “that every time we’ve done an interview with you guys you’re all real nice, but when we see the story you always tear us to shreds!”

“Well,” I nodded, considering, “just because that’s happened a few times doesn’t mean that—”

“Yeah, but everytime we've done an interview for you guys you’re all real nice, but when we see the story you tear us all to shreds!”

“That may be, Cherie,” I agreed, “but I’m sure that—”

“And anyway, everytime we've done an interview for you guys you’re all real nice, but when we see the story you tear us all to shreds!”

Convinced that things were as they should be, this writer thanked Cherie for her spare time and pried fledgling-gyno Norton from Marie’s equally thought-provoking grasp.

Later we both agreed that although we were very nice to the Currie sisters, and they equally nice to us, their new album was still very bad and not at all the kind of thing we’d listen to if we could afford to buy it.

Dave DiMartino