THE BEAT GOES ON

THE BEAT GOES ON

JOHN BONHAM 1948-1980

Powermen Don't Need To Fight? The Beat Really Goes On

DETROIT, MI—What’s more exciting than seeing the Kinks in live performance? Why, seeing the Kinks after a live performance. Like the proverbial barrel of monkeys, these whimsical rockers just keep on entertaining. They probably can’t be stopped.

In way of proof, I stopped backstage after the Kinks’ most recent Detroit performance at Cobo Arena. Foremost on my mind was Ray Davies’ humorous mid-60’s tune, “Act Nice And Gentle.” I was wondering if the guys would ever play the tune in concert.

Luckily, lead guitarist/dental hygienist Dave Davies was the first Kink to pop out. Having interviewed (and eaten with! at the same tabled the soon-to-betoothless pop star all in the same month, I naturally assumed he’d cheerfully recognize me. And I was half right, which is a better average than George Brett could ever hope for.

“Hi Dave,” I said innocuously, offering my hand. “You probably remember me from CREEM...”

“You’re a fucking disease,” the erudite Davies countered, leaving me somewhat puzzled. I mean, there are so many fucking diseases. Was I syphilis? Why can’t people be more specific? Caught up in the spirit of the moment, I said, “Gee, I like ypu, top.”

The brief, but enlightening conversation ended there. Within a matter of minutes I was seized by a goon who showed me the back exit to Cobo Arena the hard way, much to the delight of Dave “Let Me Be Your Neighbor” Davies. The goon managed to inflict a few bruises, rip my favorite fishing jacket, and cause me to lose a pack of valuable American cigarettes in the process. No real harm done, except perhaps to a girl outside who’d committed the crime of being too close to a door! Godzilla put me and the door light into her face—and that should teach her for trying to get a glimpse of her favorite rock heroes. Serves her right, if you ask me. She didn’t even have the presence of mind to hum a few bars of “Catch Me Now, I’m Falling.”

Well, fun’siun, and the close encounter certainly added some spice to an otherwise dull evening. Naturally, I dashed home to listen to Dave’s solo disc, and became especially fascinated with a tune called “Run,” in which the Mister Rogers of Rock says “For now at last, I see all life as one, all children are my own” Sorry, Dave, not my children. I make ’em brush their teeth. ,

But certainly the incident left many questions unanswered. Will Dave contribute the services of his goon squad to the next “Rock Against Criticism” rally? Is imagination real? And, jeez, Dave: was it something I wrote?

J. Kordosh

5 YEARS AGO

Kosoff's Kiss Off?

ExFree guitarist, Paul Kosofff, who recently released his first solo' album, was stricken with acute kidney failure last month and rushed to the hospital where his heart stopped for 35 minutes before doctors revived him. Late word from a record company spokesman is that he’s back on his feet and may even embark on a U.S. tour within the next six weeks.

Shagg-Rock Comes Of Age

FREMONT, N.H.-In the antidiluVian Era of High School, they would’ve been called “skaggs” : three ugly dames who looked like they crawled out of the movie Don’t Open The Refrigerator—Betty, Helen and Dorothy Wiggin, lonely sisters losing their minds in Squaresville in the limbo years of 1969-72. Sheltered by their parents as if they were porcelain figurines, the Wiggin sisters never had a chance to date, never were allowed to taste of the delicious sins down at the local Tastee-Freeze. So they went up to their rooms, cried their eyes out, and formed a rock band, the self-destructive and chaotic Shaggs.

Hearing the band’s bewildering music, the girls’ father, Austin Wiggin (not wanting to get murdered in his sleep), piled his daughters into the family truck and pilgrimaged to Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, for a recording session. Although financed by Mr. Wiggin, the session’s outcome is not exactly something that would make every papa proud.

Originally released on Third World and now reissued on Rounder/Red Rooster (thanks to the obsession of NRBQ), the Shaggs album, Philosophy Of The World, truly defies description. Some have called it the tortured shrieks of sick minds sharing a lifetime of flogging and mutilation; others define it as the poetry of virgins scrawled on their undies underneath blankets at midnight. To say that the Shaggs sound like Melanie chanting Emily Dickinson’s verse while accompanied by the ESP Godz only approximates the nerve-wracking appeal of their noise.

Everything Frank Zappa (who, according to legend, stole his copy from a Boston radio station) has recorded since the release of Philosophy Of The World has been directly influenced by its incomprehensible stridency. And what prog-wave girl groups like the Slits and the Raincoats are now striving for, the Shaggs did 10 years ago.

The Shaggs’ naivete and outright stupidity are what make them so endearing. They reach out for meaning, Dorothy Wiggin’s lyrics groping for the astral plane that Van Morrison so often becomes stranded upon. These adolescent girls represent the purity bound and gagged by envious parents everywhere, forced finally to seek its freedom through total rebellion, or, in the Shaggs’ case, through an ulti-, mate Search—the pursuit of their elusive cat, Foot Foot.

If the Shaggs were still together today, they undoubtedly would be gonged on The Gong Show and featured regularly on Real People—they fill'the current need for unadulterated authenticity. Their songs bear titles like “What Should I Do?” and “Things I Wonder.” The Shaggs actually believe that one’s best friend is the radio and that Halloween is a festive holiday for spooks instead of an excuse for razor-blade fanatics to off unsuspecting children. Whether singing about boyfriends, cars, or Jesus, they are so genuine in their beliefs that they tend to scare listeners away.

The history of rock ’n’ roll is a continuing series of anecdotes and facts about those who were heroic enough to venture beyond their four walls. Garage bands ruled only because they played dances and threw up, but when prog-rock (read: psychedelia) began to fuzz our shaggy brains in the late 60’s, more kids were inclined to stay in their rooms, refusing to confront the tribal dance scene. Long before the new wave made it fashionable, thousands of unknown bands cosmically doodled in their rooms as a way of expressing their identities. Among these timid and experimental sould hiding in closets were the Shaggs, fumbling with their instruments and drinking Tang.

“Philosophy Of The World is the real punk rock,” Velvet Underground scholar Philip Milstein, has written. “More legitimate and loveable because it was created with zero degree of self-consciousness; there is no intent to be funny.” The album is no joke for an obvious reason: a good novelty record contains a gag aimed at the listener, but listening to the Shaggs, you realize that the joke is on the Wiggin sisters. The tension between their sloppy music and their tender lyrics becomes almost unbearable. Yet, despite their sad shortcomings, the Shaggs are punks par excellence, personifying the despair and the loneliness of teenagers hopelessly lost, estranged from the hustle of a gasping nation and doomed by the dictates of an oppressive family.

Be Forewarned: The Shaggs’ album is a grotesque experience and perhaps too uncivilized for most tastes. Like the comicstrip persona, Henry, who must suffer the fate of hydrocephalus, the Shaggs possess a peculiarly innocent muteness that practically screams for attention. And the scream of a shy moth, of course, is always preferable to. the crowing of a jiveass superstar.

QUESTION: Where is Foot Foot?

ANSWER: You’re standing on him.

Robot A. Hull

A Week Of StiffsNew York Falls Victim To Capitalist Frenzy

NEW YORKI’m surprised that Stiff honcho Dave Robinson didn’t order the N.Y. office staff to hawk “Stiff Week” by wearing sandwich boards around town, but that was the only bit of carnival atmosphere missing from the promotions held by the little label that could. There were enough red, white and black wall posters pasted around town to make a Chinese street writer proud. The entrance to Hurrah, which hosted every event except the week’s fiery conclusion, was stapled stem to stern with album covers of British and American Stiff product. And no one escaped into the club’s steamy darkness without passing a table laden with badges and t-shirts, whose sales probably accounted for half the band’s royalties, judging by the jovial ferocity with which John Otway’s manager, Maurice Bacon, exhorted passers-by.

Except for Otway, who broke away from Stiff Week to play his “Limp Night” at the 'Ritz the following week, Stiff artists showcased at Hurrah were a balanced blend of imported and domestic varieties. The highest crowd attendance went to shows by the Mo-Dettes and, particularly, the Feelies, who continued their infuriating tradition of playing only on holidays by ushering in Rosh Hashanah. “We really wanted to see who our friends are,” kidded the band, while I sat on a scuffed banquette anticipating divine retribution. But according to Bill Million, speaking through his cloud of curly hair, “we refused to play this week about a hundred times until they fulfilled six conditions we thought they’d never do. ”

Million and bassist Keith Clayton carried on describing their reluctance to be lumped in with masses of artists adhering to a “Stiff sound,” meaning the label’s somewhat pubbish atmosphere. Their remarks were quietly overheard by a seriouslooking, balding chap with glasses, who turned out to be Clive Gregson, songwriter and vocalist with the Manchesterbased Any Trouble,. support band for the entire week. “If you believe what they’re saying,” he muttered, “you won’t want to talk to us.”

Unlike the Feelies, whose fandom in New York is unquestioned, Any Trouble viewed Stiff week as the ideal showcase for an unknown band with a forthcoming U.S. album. After all, they got to open for the zany Joe “King” Carrasco, and Staten Island’s Dirty Looks, both of whom would continue on a U.K. Stiff package, as well as for those go-go queens, the MoDettes, whose*“White Mice” has long been a dance club favorite. And while Any Trouble’s crowd reception was politely moderate, their Lowe-ish musical style may well, find immediate favor on the radio, now that their way has been paved.

No superstars lurked about during Stiff Week except on overhead video projections, in keeping with the label’s policy of introducing newcomers via its packages. However, two of Madness’ nuttier members, Chas and Suggs, acted as auctioneers of various relics, pulling in $40 for a Clash tour jacket, arid $5 each for Lene Lovich’s mantilla and a sweaty Wreckless Eric t-shirt. More royalties! .

The real money and the heaviest action perpetuated by any publicity stunt in recent memory capped Stiff Week courtesy of the Plasmatics. You know them, with former porn queen Wendy O. Williams as lead “singer” and blue, Mohicanhaired Richie Stotts on .lead guitar. At an estimated cost of $50,000, the Plasmatics exploded a car into the Hudson River.

A couple thousand punkoids, with the odd business-suited type mixed in, lined up in a ririg around Pier 62, guzzled six packs and played the Clash on tape decks. Before goggle-eyed spectators, the group landed in helicopters and performed a mercifully short set. Then Wendy Williams, clothed for a change and wearing a pink helmet, leaped from the car before it met an explosive charge on the stage. The wreckage mixed with the rest of the sludge floating off the West Side.

Off rode the Plasmatics in an ambulance, off went the group’s equipment in the hands of the quickest fans, and off ran the rest of us as fire hoses drenched everyone to clear the pier. Three hours later, you could turn on any of four newscasts ans watch the instant replay. God save the Bucks.

Toby Goldstein