BELGRADE OR BUST

LENE LOVICH'S Eastern European Express

BELGRADE OR BUST

Mark J. Norton

BELGRADE, YUGOSLAVIA— The plane landed in Belgrade at noon, Yugoslavian time. What I saw when we landed stunned me. It looked like Toronto! Everyone disembarked for the customs and immigration check. The woman who was inspecting was wearing the Yugo military uniform, her blonde hair pulled tightly into a bun on the top of her head. She looked vaguely familiar.. .ILSA, SHE-WOLF OF THES.S!

I stepped up to the counter and handed her my passport. She studied it for a moment, then said quite coldly, “No visa, step over to the side.” And I nearly fainted. Ugly images from Midnight Express popped into my head. What will it be? Ten years of hard labor? Solitary confinement? An iron maiden, perhaps?

Fifteen minutes passed and a Yugoslavian customs officer, machine gun strapped to his back, approached this trembling scribe. He handed back the passport, with visa stamped inside, and directed me downstairs.

Downstairs, at\ the baggage carousel, a dozen soldiers with machine guns kept careful watch over the proceedings. I collected my luggage and got in line for a thorough baggage check. »

Nervously, I opened my bags. Staring out from the inside was the June issue of CREEM, with “THE CLASH CONQUER AMERICA” on the cover. The officer inspected the issu^ and asked: “These people...they really take over America?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and explained. He kept on staring as if I were from Outer Liplock.

THE SCENE: The European leg of Lene

Lovich’s 1980 Global Assault Tour started on Saturday, March 29th in Paris, France. Gigs were set in Belgium, Holland, West Germany, Austria, Yugoslavia, Greece, Italy, Switzerland, France, Spain, and Portugal.

Through the auspices of Stiff Records, I was assigned to meet up with Lene and the group in Belgrade, Yugoslavia. It was an important date for her; she is of Yugoslavian descent, and the tickets for the show were selling like beer in a ballpark on a sweltering August night.

Eastern Europe is becoming a hot bed for rock ’n’ roll, and CREEM was there to get the story.

Surviving the customs interrogation, I headed upstairs to find my escort. With no sign of anyone who remotely looked like they worked in the music biz, I set my luggage down in the bistro near the airport front door, ordered a beer and waited.

Four hours later, I was a nervous wreck. A young cab driver approached and asked if I needed a ride. Babbling on about Lene Lovich, and the story, etc., I was told he knew where the gig was and would drive me there.

Pulling up to Pinki Hall, Lene’s venue, we heard strains of “Lucky Number.” The scene outside the hall was very familiar—it could have been anywhere in the U.S. or England. These kids were as hip looking as anywhere, dressed in black leathers, jeans, spiky ’dos, the works. So much for preconceptions.

The soundcheck had just finished. Les Chappell strode up and pumped my hand enthusiastically, asking where I’d been, what happened, how was the flight? I hadn’t met the whole group previously, when they’d played Detroit, so tour manager (and all-around cool guy) Bruce Kirkland introduced me to drummer Justin Hildreth, bassist Mark Chaplin and keyboards/synthesizer maestro Dean Klevatt. Nicities were exchanged, and we left for the hotel.

Lene needed rest before the show, so she and Les retired to their room, as did everyone else. On the elevator up to my room, an immense man with a blue warm-up suit and a thick, unidentifiable accent asked about my cowboy boots. I was from the United States, I told him, and you can buy ’em anywhere, yee-haw! He was from the Russian Olympic weightlifting team, he told me, and a contender for a Europeati title in a current Belgrade tournament. He asked what I did for a living, and I whipped out a size large Boy Howdy! t-shirt. He gratefully accepted it, though I’m sure he didn’t have a clue in hell what CREEM and Boy Howdy! were. I’d like to have seen the look on the customs officer’s face when he checked through the Olympic hopeful’s luggage and discovered the t-shirt.

This was my contribution to detente.

That night, the gig was an absolute success, kids pogoing madly, chanting _ “LAY-NA! LAY-NA! LAY-NA!” between ji the songs, something usually reserved for 5 after the set. A film crew was present, with a 35mm Arriflex camera capturing the triumph of Yugoslav Diva Supreme Lene Lovich, for this was the event of the year in Belgrade. It had to go down on permanent record.

Lene, Les and Mark were dressed in black, careening across the stage like crazed rock ’n’ roll gypsies. The group’s energy probably got the audience higher than they’d ever been before—considering that the last Belgrade rock show was Wishbone Ash, a year ago. Quel difference! Afterwards, Lene told me the concert in „ Zagreb, Yugoslavia, was even wilder, a

1 near-riot. If Lene thought the Belgrade gig

2 wasn’t a near-riot, she either doesn’t know ° what “near-riot” means, or she just has | different, tougher criteria.

o Lene’s new album, Flex, was Number 1 | on the Yugoslav charts before it was even 5 released there. I didn’t quite understand how, and she explained:

“The situation was that two or three weeks ago we just got a distribution deal in Yugoslavia. But that doesn’t stop the records from being played on the radio; all the radio stations are run by the state. They were hearing the songs on the radio, but couldn’t buy them in the shops. It’s against the law to buy imported records, but somehow the radio stations have copies.... They’ve been playing my records here since they were released in England, so people were aware of my music.”

The concert drew over 3,000 rabid fans, a sellout despite the fact that Lene’s records hadn’t been played on Belgrade radio in the last two weeks, because of Tito’s grave condition. The three radio stations (Station I plays classical and traditional music; Station II plays pop and rock; Station III is news) in Belgrade had all been playing only traditional Yugoslav music, in honor of Tito. The concert had sold out despite the fact that Lene’s records were just being released.

Wasn’t the group worried that possibly this Belgrade show would be a total flop?

“We were really nervous because we had never played venues of that size before,” Lene said. “I believe the largest audience we played for was the 2,500 Lyceum show we did in London, that was out biggest gig to date, before we got to Yugoslavia. When we heard we were playing in places that could hold 3,000 we were nervous...! was wondering who was going to turn up. “There were just about close to 3,000 people at every venue that we played, and half of those people came because they have accepted me as being Yugoslav, they really have. So for them it was a special event. There must be people with Yugoslav roots that are working in either music or film...I think some artists don’t own up to being Yugoslav. ”

Afterwards, we climbed into the vans. People had scrawled grafitti into the road dust on the vehicles: “Anarchy in Yugoslavia” “Destroy” “We Love Lene,” etc.

The group arid friends went back to the hotel. It was Justin’s birthday, so the festivities were geared around him, as well as Lene.

In the restaurant of the hotel, I met several different Yugoslav punk groups and an authentic Yugoslav Superstar: Andrej Sifrer.'who sells lots of records them, does columns for newspapers, has a radio show on Station II and is the Stiff label manager in Yugoslavia. I also met the staff of Izgled, a magazine which resembles Interview.

Lene and group were treated as the heroes they were that evening. Lene didn’t stop smiling. The Yugoslavs seem to be proud people—in surprisingly good English, they explained what their jobs were and who was musically popular in their country. The evening became a cultural ex] change between Yugoslavia, Britain, and America. It was informative—and I realized rock ’n’ roll was the common denominator, the link that our cultures shared.

In the morning, we went on a local sightseeing/photo session tour of the city. We all piled into the van and headed for the Yugoslav Parliament building, planning to take pictures. But we weren’t allowed to—a bomb had gone off in one of the embassy vehicles. Fledgling CREEM photog Les Chappell was disheartened. We left for the statue of Nicola Tesla, the man who refused a Nobel Peace Prize because, he said,he wasn’t working for a prize, but for civilization. Les, Mark Chaplin and I took out our cameras and started shooting. A crowd formed to watch this session, staring in awe at the bald photog Les, and Lene, the Toast of Belgrade.

Afterward, we headed for the statue of Karadjorje (“Black George”), the soldier who liberated Yugoslavia from the Turks in 1804. Once again, a crowd formed to watch the spectacular duo at work.

After this final session, we made opr way back to the hotel. Lene and group had to be in Nis (pronounced Neesh) at 4 p.m. for soundcheck.

On the road to Nis, which is 300 km. southeast of Belgrade, Les was back into his camera buff routine, snapping tures of everything from sheepherders to the demolished cars and trucks that had met their fate on the road. The entire group was ebullient over their triumph in Belgrade. They were ready to conquer again.

En route, Lene mentioned they weren’t expecting such a good turnout in Nis. She was told the residents were very patriotic, and had no desire to partake in such frivolities as a rock ’n’ roll concert while their president lay dying. Lene wasn’t really that upset about playing to a smaller crowd, but was just hoping for the best.

"What I like about Yugoslavia is that it's a country without hype."

The Belgrade show had been a classic and the high had still not worn off. I asked Lene how she felt, playing the city of her ancestors’ origins. I imagined it to be one of those few-and-far-between experiences, but Lene seemed a little lukewarm.

“I didn’t have any real reason why I should particularly like it,” Lene explained. “There are some kind of root connections that I have...I had a fairly open mind and it really warmed my heart.”

“What I like about Yugoslavia is that it’s a country without hype,” she continued. “They don’t have a great amount of choices, they don’t haye competition between companies that creates several alternatives. They have to make do with what they have.. .it’s really commendable.”

NIS, YUGOSLAVIA—The Nis venue was a sports hall, directly attached to the hotel in which the group lodged. The hall was large —it would take quite a few people to fill it—3,000 to be exact.

Nis is 60 km. from the border of Bulgaria, a Communist satellite country. The situation in Nis is very tense. The Yugoslavs are worried that when Tito dies, the Communists will invade. The people of Nis are very patriotic, and on the walls of the building are plaques and stickers proclaiming , “Tito lives in our hearts. ”

The show, as it turned out, was just about half-capacity. The audience was as crazy about Lene as the audience in Belgrade, screaming and pogoing their asses off, like it was the last waltz. The show was excellent, TURN TO PAGE 63 Lene and crew ripping through the set, giving the smallish crowd the show of their lives. The band might have slacked off due to the turnout—been lazy, blamed it on things that musicians usually bitch about (lack of promotion, lack of airplay), but no, they gave their paying customers their money’s worth.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 39

After the concert, the group was somewhat depressed— I couldn’t blame them, though, after the previous night’s more spectacular show.

I met a girl called Nora and asked if she knew why the shows hadn’t been more crowded. Wasn’t Lene popular in Nis?

Lene was popular, Nora explained, but there are differences between Nis and Belgrade: the tickets were relatively expensive, residents weren’t as affluent as the people in Belgrade. And the radio hadn’t been able to play Lene’s records as much, due to Tito’s illness. What Lene had said about Nis patriotism rang true—they loved their president, and it would be a sign of disrespect to not be somber.

After the show, I said good-bye to Lene and the band. I was leaving from Belgrade in the morning and they wouldn’t be up when I left. Happy but exhausted, I retired early,

Bruce Kirkland was to drive'me to the Belgrade airport the next morning, and we left before sunrise.

Twenty miles out of Nis, we were stopped by Yugoslav army officers. We couldn’t go any further until noon, they said, the road was being crossed by the tank corps. We pleaded with them, explaining that I was an American journalist with a plane to catch. They said it was impossible, this was a weekly routine—they were sorry, but NO. And we were in no position to argue.

We headed back for Nis, to see if I could take a later flight. The later flight didn’t leave until Monday and that was three days away. Bruce suggested I accompany the group to Athens—it would make for a great story, he said, as the show would be the second in Athens in 13 years. The Police had been the first, only months ago.

I agreed. Bruce called, cancelled my flight from Belgrade and booked a flight Sunday from Athens to New York.

The group was up early the next day—Lene was upset over this, but it was necessary to leave early as the trip from Nis was somewhere in the vicinity of 1000 km. and the probability of delay at the Greek border was considerable.

Everyone boarded the van and we were off. For the first two hpurs of the journey, the group stayed in complete silence. After some time, Les took his camera out and took pictures of the quaint, beautiful countryside. An old steam-powered train puffed down the railroad tracks, and everyone marvelled—especially Justin, who is a train freak. This seemed to break the silence, somewhat. Justin was opening a box of cookies when Les grabbed the package and pitched’it out the window; everyone cheered, congratulating Les for ridding them of the foul snack. Everyone except Lene, that is.

In this leg of the Lene Lovich 1980 Global Assault Tour, they were to be on the road for 40 days, with only eight days off. The group’s days off aren’t what you’d call relaxing, as they were spent travelling to the next town on the tour in a small VW van which, to quote Dean Klevatt, “is pure hell.” Fatigue had set in on Lene and the group, and one could hardly expect them to be'cheerful always. It’s a rough way to live, what with road food, bumpy roads, cramped van quarters and major atrocities like, the “butt-search” (rubber glove and vaseline up the anus in search of drugs) which Dean experienced earlier, on the road, between shows.

We stopped to refuel, and everyone got out to stretch and relieve themselves. Bruce approached and asked if I wanted to see the telex message he had sent to N. Y. It read:

PLEASE URGENTLY INFORM GREEM OFFICE IN DETROIT THAT MARK NORTON DELAYED IN NIS. TANKS BLOCK BELGRADE ROAD. TRAVELLING INCOGNITO TO ATHENS. WILL KEEP YOU POSTED. REGARDS, BRUCE KIRKLAND

Hubba-hubba! Just like in the movies! I wondered what the office would think—Is he in serious trouble? Are they joking? You mean there’s a chance we won’t have to put up with the peckerhead anymore?

The entourage was almost to the Greek border when we noticed immense caterpillar tractors in the distance. When we reached the tractors, the road ended in rubble. The workers were reconstructing the last quarter mile of roadway before the border. It broke the monotony of the voyage, everyone laughing (including Lene) at the conditions of the thoroughfare.

At Greek customs, the officers peered into the van, the prime sight being Les. Les rolled the window down. “I’m Yul Brynner, didn’t you see me in The King and /?” The customs inspectors chortled and pointed and really got their thrill for the day, and Les played along by slapping his hairless dome and mugging at them.

ATHENS, GREECE-We arrived in Athens at near-midnight and checked into our rooms, everyone happy to be out of the stinking van. I opened my door to find a huge room with two double beds in it. I didn’t see Les and Mark sneak into my room until it was too late—they pushed over the first bed and ran out of the room laughing like schoolboys. Rock star decadence!

The venue Lene was playing was the Sporting Hall. Three-quarters of the tickets had already been sold, and this seemed to cheer everyone up to the WOW! level they had attained in Belgrade.

The next afternoon, Lene, Les, Mark, Justin and the Polygram representative (Polygram handles Stiff Records in Greece) and I cruised up to the Acropolis. On the way, the rep explained the radio situation in Greece: the radio is run by the government and the army, similar to the radio in Yugoslavia.

“Lucky Number” was at the top of the charts in Greece, Stateless was released a month ago and is selling very well. Flex had been released three days earlier and had already sold 1,500 copies. In Greece, this is a very healthy sales figure, as a gold record there sells 50,000 units, and the sale of 10,000 units is considered respectable.

At the Acropolis, Lene and Les wandered among the ruins, Les shooting roll after roll of film, with Lene his subject. As in Belgrade, throngs of people surrounded the couple, taking pictures of Les photographing Lene. A busload full of Japanese kept their Nikons clicking as Lene and the “mad baldheaded photographer” walked from ruin to ruin.

Lene Lovich was the second rock artist in 13 years to play Athens. Sfie was breaking new ground in rock ’n’ roll, bringing it to places like Vienna, Zagreb, Belgrade, Athens. She was paving the way for other groups. I asked her if she felt like she was developing a new market. Did she feel like a pioneer?

“Not so much a pioneer,” Lene said, “because even though they haven’t had music for over 10 years, I think the feeling is still here. I think the people really wanted it, but because of the political situation, they couldn’t get it.

“In a way, I feel if we can do it, other bands can do it. It’s just that it’s too far away for English bands to consider. We always thought there would be a great potential in places like Belgrade and Athens.”

Lene’s assumption was correct. Two hours before show time, the streets around the Sporting Hall were teeming with people waiting for the doors to open. The van arrived at the hall, barely able to maneuver through the crowded streets.

After the soundcheck, we adjourned to a cafe for a pre-show drink. On the way, Lene noticed a “fan” with a suitcase-full of bootleg Stateless tapes, complete with spelling errors on the covers.

Lene was shocked, her jaw on the pavement, uncertain what to do. Les simply reached down and snagged one of the pirate tapes from the case.

“If I had walked into this on the streets of London or New York or any other normal, established musical situation, I would have gone berserk,” Lene said, her voice not raising a semi-tone. “I wouldn’t have hesitated at picking up the cassettes and taking off, or kicking someone, but something made me hesitate—the fact that this has been a very musically deprived area as far as new music is concerned. If I’d been there for two minutes longer, I probably would have grabbed them anyway and given them to the crowd.”

The incident didn’t spoil the evening. The group hit the stage like troopers, an intense amalgam of camp theatre and bizarre rock ’n’ roll. The audience was very similar to the one in Belgrade—the chants of “LAY-NA! LAY-NA! LAY-NA!” between songs, Lene mugging it up, and the group laying it down, heavy as always.

The Athens concert had sold out. Lene’s fans, 2,500 strong, were getting their second taste of live rock ’n’ roll,, with much more to come in the future.

The group left the Sporting Hall and had a late dinner in a restaurant near the Acropolis. Lene was given the royal treatment by everyone—as the star who’d conquered a new world. The night waned to a close and the tour van carted the victorious soldiers of the road back to the Holiday Inn, to rest for tomorrow’s battle.