THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

We Almost Lost Detroit— Part 2

CINCINNATI—Like all other geriatric CREEMsters, I waltzed into this biz believing to the death in the ca.-1971 BangsMarsh party line that postulated Dee-troit Rock ’n’ Roll as nearer my God than the outlanders could ever be. Forget that I never got around to seeing the mythical MC5 or the surreal Stooges on stage—Lestronic Bangs gave me the word on both groups’ immortality when I was still a cub crit, and I’ve always been more than ready to embrace any spark that flew off the smouldering remains of those two ultragroups.

So you can imagine my excitement when I found out that the Motor City’s own Destroy All Monsters would soon be bopping into Bogart’s in my own back yard—not just a camp-Jap movie reference, y’understand, but a sureenough latest-thing Detroit new wave band, including * ‘both* * Michael Davis of the MC5, and Ron Asheton of the he-knewthe-Ig-when Stooges! Not to mention that luscious latter-generation vocal deluge Niagara, all legs and leather miniskirts in those grainy fanzine photos, an erotic vision straight out of last week’s top Nielsen-rated primetime Ann Arbor-off-campushousing wet dreams! Goo-googoo-goo! De-troit’s (&thus the world’s) best,-coming to my own Sensual-natty!

Destroy All Monsters are late arriving at Bogart’s on their appointed evening, but that’s okay for fuggin’ livin’ legends, ya dig? Besides, Cincinnati’s re-grouped and revitalized Customs fill up many pleasant minutes of the wait-time with their tuff-stuff punk/Rockabilly fusions. Won’t be long now!

When D.A.M. at last straggle thru the milling crowd to the stage, I observe the roadies helping the notorious Niagara down the steps as though she were somebody’s sweet little recent-hip-joint-replacement grandma, rather than Detroit’s Great Distaff Hope. Hmmm. Up on stage, bassist Davis and guitarist Asheton look a bit chubbier than workaday-apocalyptic kicking out the jams would seem to leave one, but Niagara is prancing around in a silver lame raincoat (?!?), which surely promises that some really bent punkitude is about to be mainlined hereabouts.

Asheton and Davis engage in the longest instrumental tuneup I’ve heard in a good five years, plenty of deafening feedback squeals, all of the sudden they’re into a song, and—Ahhh! —Detroit metal lives again! But where’s the saucy Niagara? Whoops, there she is, crawling around on all fours as though D.A.M. were a/ready linked to a Major Label, and she could get on with living out her Patti Smith fantasies! The semi-recumbent Niagara power-croaks out the lyrics somewhere amid the barrage of metal coming from the men, and then she doffs her coat for some real getdown N.W. action.

But no, next song and Niag’s down on the stage again, staring dreamily at her band members’ eye-level members. “Wow, a real piss freak!” chortles my buddy Fred, once bassist for Cincinnati’s arto-weirdo Bitter Blood Street Theatre, and thus uniquely qualified to know whereof he speaks. Niagara crawls and babbles on, as Davis and Ashton strum their “axes” faster and faster, goofing joyfully on each other’s psychedelicblur fingers.

Can’t help it, Detroit demonology or no, we’ve gone over a barrel in this Niagara, and she’s beginning to strike me as the coming Suzanne Somers (same hairdo) of rock. Now Chrissy/ Niagara is on her feet again, for a truly heavy pronouncement (Jack! Janet! Come quick!): “David Janssen died this morning—this whole set is dedicated to him!" (Yeah, but at least he

was innocent all through that fugitive business...)

Sorry ’bout everything, folks, but I exit Bogart’s prematurely, with Destroy All Monsters and the 1970’s still arm in arm, careening ever closer to the falls. The hardcore fans at the foot of the stage, those nearest to Niagara’s writhing nether regions, are eating up every morsel, but me...I’ve got to get the babysitter home on time. As I drop off the sitter, I switch on trusty WVXU on my car radio, and I’m instantly assaulted by an even more nostalgic slice of psychedelia: snowblind John Kay and his Steppenwolf are droning out, “Goddam, goddam the pusher man!” Overdosed with deja vu at having the moral of my story handed me on ari FM platter, T fall into a genuine—how you druggies say it?—a genuine acid flashback!

(Comrade Riegel’s narrative trails off at this point, but his notes seem to indicate that a few weeks later he returned to the very same Bogart’s to hear the real John Kay and the new Steppenwolf crank out the real “Pusher Man, ” and Sookie Sookie sounded as great as ever, and John Kay’s betweensongs raps were amazing, and maybe next year Steppenwolf will be playing Lake Tahoe with the real Paul Revere...—Ed.)

Richard Riegel

UNNECESSARY PEOPLE CONVENTION I!

Francis Ford Coppola! Box Scaggsl Howard Hossomanl Jerry Garcia I Bill Graham I Yep, all these and a cast of several hundred thousand more gathered in San Francisco recently to vote for the World's Most Unnecessary Person I Sorry we can't fit in more photos, but these guys won Top Five honors and that's what counts I Anyway, our photographer decided he’d rather go home and watch TV than take any more stupid pictures i Hey, why are you reading this anyway?

A Short Look At Willie Nile

SOUTHFIELD, Ml-Willie Nile is a shrimp.

There he stood, all five feet of him, trapped in some dopey hotel room talking to CREEMies like me, a few Detroit radio spuds and a whole lot of beard-and-satin-jacketed promo people. Willie was doing a week on the road, going the “promo tour” route without a band. He stayed in hotel rooms and radio stations, talking and making friends when he probably should have been playing and making friends, but he couldn’t help it.

If you don’t read the papers, you probably don’t realize that Willie Nile is the new Bob Dylan & Loudon Wainwright III & John Prine & Bruce Springsteen & Steve Forbert all rolled up into one big folkie ball and waiting to eat the world raw. So don’t read the papers. Because Willie Nile is actually just a little guy who has his influences justlike anybody else and would probably rather be the next Ramblin’ Jack Elliot if anyone asked him, but nobody has. And poor Willie (fake name, real name Robert Noonan) has been getting shoved into the same non-class as his Arista ad-partner D.L.. “Bellowin’” Byron (boo) and it really isn’t fair. Did Little Willie anticipate the problem before it arose? Consult these Nile-istic lyrics: “They’ll put you in the finest clothes/Your worthiness -com-. plete/Now pigeons can shit in your ears/And dogs piss on your feet.” Right.

Speaking of pissing on

Ugly Shoes Make News

MONTPELIER, VT-It smells like spring here in the snow-dulled capitol of Vermont as the gentle breezes waft through the town spreading the sweet scent of massive foot odor.

That’s right, it’s time for the city’s Rotten Sneaker Contest, an annual event that recreation director Terry Costin says is intended to, “uh, it’s hard to say.” Fifty or more contestants gather each year to trot down the runway in sneaks that have been run over with lawnmowers, put through Japanese dishwashers, forced to seriously consider all the captions in People magazine and otherwise abused and degraded.

Last year’s winner was local farm equipment salesman Cappeople’s feet, Willie mentioned in the hotel room that CREEM was one of the few rags around that didn’t give his debut LP a total thumbs.-up review, but he said that was OK with him. Said he didn’t think it was in his best interest to keep reading about how good he was. Somebody put on a tape of Willie’s album—it wasn’t Willie’s idea— and he jumped up, winding and rewinding the tape, skipping the tunes he said were “too wimpy.” Which either shows that Willie thinks CREEM can’t appreciate Folk Subtlety or else he’s just plain sick of parts of his album. Either way, Willie lacks the inflated self-esteem that comes naturally with being the Next Anybody and, in retrospect, is an OK guy all around.

Willie was duly enthusiastic about the musicians on his LP: guitarist Clav Barnes and bassist

tain Purple, who contrasted his digested-by-catfish tennies with sparkling purple disco socks. You know, the kind that inspired all those “Disco Socks” t-shirts. This year, the Captain plans to run over his entry a few times with a threshing machine to give the sneaks that “gang-reaped” look.

First prize: a one-way ticket out of Vermont!

Rick Johnson

Tommy Ethridge (both of the Cryers from New York), guitarist Peter Hoffman (from Boston, introduced to W.N. through exBlues Project biggie Tommy Flanders, for added R ’n’ R street credibility), and ex-Patti Smith Band drummer Jay Dee Daugherty. Willie also heaped it on for his producer Roy Halee, who produced the Lovin’ Spoonful and made Simon and Garfunkel the hugh punk phenomenon they were back in the 60’s.

Willie should be touring by the time you read this, and while full tband personnel details were | vague at presstime, former Television bassist Fred Smith will somehow figure in. Willie I mentioned that he used to go see Television at CBGB’s years ago—“when they were on, they were on,” said he, graphically describing Tom Verlaine in the midst of such divine communication-with-the-gods that “long strings of snot” would hang from the guitarist’s nose while he played on obliviously. Yum.

Eat This Record

LIMA, PERU—One of the main reasons that record prices have been escalating so rapidly— other than Bob Dylan’s child .support payments—is that they’re made from polyvinyl chloride (PVC), a petroleumbased product. And with the cost of oil rising faster than Ron LeFlore’s contract demands, the price of PVC-derived discs may soon become prohibitive.

No such luck—help is* on the way from the record folks in Peru. No, they’re not using Llama hooves. From now on, all Peruvian albums will be made from a sugar cane substitute. Although the sound quality leaves something to be desired, one must consider the advantage of being able to actually eat the bad cuts.

Meanwhile, in India, record manufacturers are using polyvinyls derived from inexpensive vegetable products. Hey, big deal! In America, we derive our artists fron vegetable products.

Rick Johnson

What makes Willie Nile more than Arista dog-fluff are the facts that: a) He genuinely has talent; b) He is imitating nobody; and c) He recaptures the atmosphere of post-folkie Dylan and the Byrds circa “Chimes Of Freedom” without sounding like a nostalgic hack. In the purely rock ’n’ roll sense, there’s an element of classicism in his music that’ll probably make the Willie Nile LP sound just as good in 10 years as it does now, which is more than can be said for your standard McGuinn, Clark & Hillman botcho or even Dylan’s Desire. And I can’t wait to see Willie with that band of his.

Best of all, Willie is a family man. When we spoke, Willie’s wife had just delivered their third (!) kiddie two weeks previously. He was anxious to get back to his family and friends, and the hotel-to-hotel satin jacket scene was clearly not agreeing with him'. Which—and I hope no one’ll argue—signifies one solid citizen. Willie Nile may not have the Cheeze-Whiz flash of a D.L. Byron macho-prototype, but three guesses who’ll still be selling records 10 years from now. Hint: he’ll still be a shrimp.

Dave DiMartino

5

YEARSAGO

They All Look Alike To Me

Following Lou Reed’s recent nervous collapse on the eve of a concert in Germany, bassist Doug Yule (who, so the story goes, tried to pull the group out from Lou after joining the Velvet Underground) reportedly donned a pair of sunglasses, went out and did the show as Lou singing all the songs, and not a soul but the people in the entourage knew the difference.

KANSAS GUITARIST GOE5TO HELLI I

You heard about it and yes, it's true 1 Somebody up there does have good tqste in music! Which is one reason the famed Rich Wilson of Kansas is in big trouble I "Hey, if I woulda known this was gonna happen, we woulda dumped the fat guy years ago 11" swears the perturbed Kansoid, but it's too late I "I may not make lots of friends now," the idol-of-one ominously concludes, "But wait 'til all my fans end up here I" No fans could be found for comment.

Howl Missed The Boat That's Rigged And Ready InThe Harbor

GARDEN CITY, MI-Here’s how it started: a friend of mine told me that the TeeVee Records commercial for the Roger Whittaker “Greatest Hits” LP shows Rog playing to an audience of, no shit, dummies. Actual wooden dummies. He said you have to look quick to catch it and so far, sadly, I've been unable to verify this bizarre assertion.

But happily, Roger was playing two nights at Detroit’s Ford Auditorium as part of his whirlwind tour of Reagan vs. Carter America. Intrigued by the idea of being part of an audience of wooden dummies, and not really interested in attending the next Rush concert, I tried to get tickets. Can you believe it? Both shows sold out! Who would’ve thought there were so many wooden dummies in the Detroit area? Even the editor (Sorry, John—Let’s shame RCA, though... —Ed.) couldn’t hoodwink RCA out of a ticket. So much for the editor’s resemblance to a wooden dummy. I was shut out.

While Whittakermania was sweeping Detroit, I managed, at least, to get hold of his RCA bios. There are two; one for Rog, who grew up with the hot, catchy rhythms of Africa throbbing in his ears (I suspected it all along), and another for his family. No shit. It’s called, “The Whittakers: A Happy Family.” I leave it to future scholars to unearth the relationship between the Family Whittaker and the Dee Dee Ramone School of Songwriting Arts.

The bios are interesting, and, at times, fantastic. 1 swear I haven’t made any of this up. Did you know that:

•Roger remains one of the few artists to ever make a “whistling album.”

•Rog calls his wife “Nats” and gets a special look in his eye when he talks about her.

•The Whittakers have lived in one lovely hqme after another.

Truly a remarkable career! In desperation, I entered a drawing held by a prominent local record chain. First prize was 14 (14?) Roger Whittaker albums. Was second prize 28 Roger Whittaker albums?

No matter, I lost. I had come a cropper on the Roger Whittaker beat. No records, no concerts, no nothing. No Roger Whittaker for me.

Well, that’s show biz. But, I swear to God, the next time Burl Ives comes to town...

J. Kordosh

Next

They Have To Invent Worm Litter

TOKYO—Today’s Science Riddle: Q. In what way is a cockroach like the bacteria that cause underarm odor? A.They both become resistant in time to deadly chemicals.

Not exactly a knee slapper, but true. However, Japanese researchers dedicated to this problem think they may have discovered the most powerful deodorant since the nuke: worm droppings.

According to a spokesperson, who was difficult to understand because his lips weren’t in synch with his English, earthworm turds are even stronger than activated charcoal. The lowly substance is cheap, highly adaptable and is said to have “an insatiable appetite for oderous chemicals.” Better .than an insatiable appetite for bondage, right?

So far, poop of the worm has been used to neutralize champion smells like ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, all of Rupert Holmes’ albums and even hands that have touched dead puppies. “Maybe in a few years,” the worm advocate continued, “When you hear someone talk about opening a whole can of worms, it will be because he wants to dab them und6r his arms.”

A pleasant thought, indeed. But does this also mean that it’s okay to kiss fish?

Rick Johnson

Squeeze My Throbbing Dial Tone

WASHINGTON D.C.-We’re all accustomed to the mad dash it sometimes takes to answer a ringing telephone, but are you ready for your phone to give you the finger if you don’t make it in time?

That’s what could happen if the Feel-A-Phone becomes a reality. Electronic Mail, an industry newsletter, reports that, because of recent advances in artificial limb technology, a telephone equipped with a hand that’s capable of human gestures is now “within the state of the art” of the telephone biz.

While the report envisions the Feel-A-Phone being useful in business deals and personal conversations, the applications for pickpockets, call girls, jugglers, dairy farmers, ping-pong enthusiasts and furtive squeezeers everywhere appear endless. You could even call up Moe Howard and poke him right in the eye!

Although the newsletter avoids the subject of obscene phone calls, the feelie-dialets would first have to shell out around $10,000 for an original model. However, the device could be mass-produced for about $250 if it caught on.

Sounds like a fun idea, but I don’t know. I’d be afraid I’d spend too much time dialing my own number.

Rick Johnson