Time. The present? Maybe last Spring. Place: The sun-dappled garden. The Dauphin sits in his maroon Barca-Lounge chair, which the nuns have graciously allowed him to take from the game room, absorbing the late afternoon rays, cream-colored Panama hat tugged down over his eyes, waiting for the Angelus bells to ring. Dauph is as peaceful as he ever gets these days. Suddenly, the pastoral calm is shattered as a voice sounds out, just behind his left ear. Sister Bernadette whispers a message.

“M. Dauphin,” she begins.

“More Thorazine?” The Dauph asks hopefully.

“No, you naughty Frenchman,” she rejoins mockingly. “A phone call. Mr. DiMartino from CREEM. He says he has a great idea.”

The Dauphin freezes.

Flashback: London, October, 1980. The Portobello Hotel. Dauph, overseas on a strictly private matter, is staying in Room 35, which just happens to be next door to Room 34, where Dave DiMartino, ostensibly on a Rockpile junket, happens to be lodged. Since Edouard had not told Dave D. of his plans to visit England, it seems an extraordinary coincidence that they should find each other installed in adjoining rooms in the same small hotel. Dave D. shrugs it off. (For his version of this supposedly chance meeting cf. Feb. 1981 CREEM.) Back then, Dave has a great idea too. He suggests that The Dauphin realign his nightly sleeping pattern in Room 35 so as to place his slumbering body in a different position. North to South, East to West, it is all the same to a drowsy Dauph—until the electrical currents begin attacking his body. Yes, it’s true, Dave D., mild-mannered reporter for this very magazine, is in fact, the mastermind of a plot to drive electrical shocks into the body of the sleeping Dauphin. And he’s doing it from behind the wall of Room 34!

The Dauphin snaps out of his freeze. The kindly nun leads him inside to the phone and hands him the receiver.

“Hey, Dauph,” bubbles the voice, long distance from Birmingham, “hate to bother you at the nuthouse...”

“The sanitarium.”

“Sure, whatever you call it, but, listen, I got a great idea.”

“1 already sent in the column—last month.”

“Right, but this isn’t movies, it’s music. See, we want to do a feature on The Plasmatics. We had an editorial meeting to see who should write it and...”

“Mine was the only name that came up,” says The Dauph knowingly.

“How’d ya guess?”

Flashback: Genya Ravan’s NYC flat, New Year’s Eve, 1979. The Dauphin attends a party, is greeted at the door by rock ’n’ roll legend Genya who tells him someone it there that he must meet. She steers the wary Edouard across the living room and introduces him to a tall, statuesque blonde attired in the flimsiest of lingerie and looking like a life-sized ad for Fredericks Of Burbank. This, of course, is Wendy O. Williams.

“Dauph, you there?” the voice on the phone asks. “This is costing money. We had to call you person to person. ”

Flashback: Max’s Kansas City, February, 1979. The weather outside is frightful, but Max’s is not so delightful. The Plasmatics are playing one of their first ever NYC dates. Dauph attends, drugged, furious at being nabbed by perfunctory door weapons check. Frisked of his arms, he sulks down front in the aisle next to some Marxist coed from CCNY. Wendy and the band take the stage. Horror movie garish brilliance. Deafening sound. Wendy, fierce and Amazon-like, charges the crowd. For the first time in ages—a clear and present clanger to the audience. Lead guitarist Richie Stotts sports a shocking blue Mohawk and, yes, he’s really wearing a white tutu. Wendy takes a menacing chainsaw to a still playing guitar and slices it neatly in half. The Marxist coed stalks out in a huff, muttering about capitalist decadence. Later that night, at the bar, we learn that Sid Vicious his dead.

“Dauph,” says the voice on the line, “I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” mumbles Edouard.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You write a feature on The Plasmatics, you get your regular fee plus expenses, a car to take you to and from the funny farm...”

“We call it an institute for living. ”

“Of course. And, let’s see, you get your byline, we spell your name right and we furnish you with an unlimited supply of illegal absinthe.”

“Done.”

☆ ☆ ☆

A few nights later, Bond’s International Casino, a block long dance palace at the crossroads of the world, is the site of what has been billed as The Plasmatics’ only NYC concert this year. Dauph slinks in just after midnight, reflecting that the last time he was on these premises, Bond’s was a gigantic men’s clothing store and he was in }f a blue dacron sports jacket for his high school graduation lawn party. Ascending the art deco staircase, the years seem to fall away and Edouard is an awkward, acned teenager once more. He heads directly for the bar.

Bond’s is packed with white suburbans.

, The bridge and tunnel crowd is out in force. Somehow this is not what one expects for a group whose songs include “Living Dead,” “Test Tube Babies,” “Sex Junkie” and “Pig Is A Pig.” Or maybe it is. Bond’s is not Max’s Kansas City ancj the admission price alone puts it off limits to many of the band’s earlier fans. Nothing should be surprising. An ex-host of General Electric Theatre is in the White House and The Plasmatics themselves boast of being on their 1984 World Tour.

The Dauphin slumps into the corner of a silver sofa and casts his dilated pupils upon the stage, dominated by a sedan emblazoned with the insignia . of the Milwaukee Police Department. Recalling that Wendy faces a jury trial in that Shlitz-kicker burg, charged with obscenity and assaulting a police officer, one gets the feeling that massive damage will be done to that vehicle before the night is out. Good. Dauph has never shied away from willful destruction.

A good ninety minutes past the appointed hour, it’s finally time for The Plasmatics. The crowd on the immense Bond’s floor surges forward for a good view; there will be very little dancing to the likes of “Masterplan” and “Hit Man.” No great loss. Who wants to dance when you can press up against two thousand sweaty people inches away from titanic speakers that blast a high-decibel massage directly into your medulla oblongata? An'd all this while you watch the most visually bizarre and exciting group since... since who? Did Jack The Ripper have a band? How about Attila The Hun? Rasputin?

Wendy is wearing tight black pants and an almost non-existent bra, with masking tape and clothespins on her nipples. Later in the set, she will exit the stage briefly and return nude to the waist except for strategically applied gobs of whipped cream. During the two hour performance, she will systematically take a sledge hammer to a television set (made some nice sparks), annihilate an electric guitar and explode the Milwaukee cop car, reducing it to a pile of rubble that would bring Lee Iacocca to tears. Needless to say, the Bond’s crowd greets the boom of the automobile’s demolition with a roar of approval. Edouard surveys the debris, takes a tug on his absinthe flask and heads backstage.

Wait, O Exalted Dauphin, you’re probably saying—what about the music? Fair question. Musically, The Plasmatics are raw and relentless, drawing on the basic three chord formula used with less distinction by many other new wave groups. But, with their determined, brainbattering attack and unflagging good humor, at least they’re minus the posturings of Heavy Metal acts like Rush, AC/DC and Ted Nugent. (With their fake intensity and tortured showmanship, these guys are the real punks!) On the other end of the spectrum, The Plasmatics hardly invite comparisons with the virtuosos of today or yesterday. Or do they? As Wendy has been heard to say. referring to guitarist Stotts’ propensity for whacking himself over the skull with his instrument: “Richie makes music with his .head much like Jimi Hendrix did with his teeth.”

I go into a new town sometimes, I wonder if the police will shoot me. —Wendy O. Williams

Backstage, though the smoke of explosives lingers in the air, things are pretty calm. Wendy, already changed into a black t-shirt, with all traces of Reddi-Whip presumably licked away, accepts congratualtions with a demure, almost innocent air. Bass guitarist Jean Beauvoir smiles shyly in recognition and Richie Stotts, complimented on his playing, murmurs a quiet thanks and rubs his tattooed dome thoughtfully. The Dauphin, always uncomfortable in a backstage situation, where security guards are likely to be around, slips quietly into the night.

☆ ☆ ☆

Next Wednesday. Studio 3A at NBC headquarters,in Rockefeller Center is home to Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow show and tonight it is also home to Wendy O. & The Plasmatics. Dauph, perturbed at being summoned out in public this early in the day—it is, after all, only 6 p.m.— lurches to his seat, intent on dozing off during the opening guest, a yoyo lawyer from the South who wants to pass | legislation against violence in hockey (the £ only reason for watching this dumb game). i, It’s no use. Flashing lights and applause | signs make it impossible to drift off. The Dauphin trains his beady eyes on the stage as the show’s taping begins, relieved, at least, by the announcement that the studio audience will be spared having to watch the Rona Barrett segment from Hollywood. The anti-violence nut speaks his piece and is neatly pillored by Tom, who is inordinately tall, keeps a teddy bear on the set and is a little too fond of it for his own good. Plus, he just happens to be from Milwaukee.

The band’s arrival ignites a wild reception from the crowd, composed almost entirely of Plasmatics fans. Wendy and company whip through a quick number before she joins Tom for an interview. Dressed in a virginal white blouse and checkered miniskirt, Wendy resembles a Catholic high school girl who somehow fell in with bad companions. (And if you believe that one, The Dauph has some seaside lots in New Jersey you may want to buy sight unseen.)

Tom’s ten minutes of banter with Wendy is like a love match. Her run-ins with the law and legal difficulties are scarcely touched upon. Actually, the big lug seems more interested jn finding how Wendy could ever bring herself to hammer a TV set into electron heaven. The unasked question, enough to furrow Tom’s brow, is: What if I, Tom Snyder, were on that screen at the moment of impact? The asked question is: Instead of doing something so negative, wouldn’t you like to give a TV a big kiss? “Oh, come on, Tom,” replies Wendy with a jovial grin as if to say:,I thought you were in show business.

Next up is Rex “The Hex” Humbard, the boob tube evangelist who keeps insisting we are loved. Dauph nods off neatly during this nurd and awakes just in time for the show’s finale—Wendy’s much heralded “Salute To Detroit.” No Milwaukee cop car this time, natch, why press your luck on national television? Still, it’s a decent enough Chevy Nova and when Wendy tosses the prop dynamite sticks in the front window, it explodes with just the right sickening thud. But you saw it at home on yoUr own set, right? What you didn’t see was Tom Snyder hugging his producer with joy and the fourth floor NBC executives running downstairs certain that Puerto Rican nationals were blowing up the buliding. All in all, a ban ner night for auto-eroticism.

The following afternoon. The jangling telephone rouses Edouard from a deep sleep. Plasmatics producer/manager Rod Swenson is disgustingly wide awake.

“Dauph, a slight problem. Wendy’s at the doctor’s. She may have broken her hand.”

“Er, what?”

“Last night, on the Snyder show, she injured her hand.”

“Er, what?”

“Wendy might be an hour late to meet you.”

Dauph rubs his fists into his eyeballs. “Listen,” Rod objects. “Wendy hurts herself all the time. She never says anything. She ignores pain. Wendy’s extremely organized. If she has an appointment to meet you, nothing—not even a broken hand—will get in the way.”

“Er, what?”

☆ ☆

The same day. Dusk. The Dauphin is in an unfamiliar, even alien setting, a health food restaurant in the bowels of Soho. Wendy wanders in, brandishing a ridiculously swathed finger. No hand has been broken, there has merely been a minor sprain. Edouard sucks on a straw attached to an absinthe flask concealed in his jacket as the lady orders a camomile tea.

“So,” begins The Dauphin, “there’s no truth to the rumor that Rex Humbard tried to break your hand. ”

Wendy laughs. “Rex was alright. I went up to him before the taping and said: ‘Rex, you are loved.’ He said: ‘You are loved too, Wendy. I think what you’re doing is great.’ He gave me a ‘You Are Loved’ pin, then he looked at what I was wearing and said: ‘I don’t know where you’re going to put it.’ This guy’s on a great trip!”

“You weren’t exactly loved in Cleveland.”

She shakes her head. “Cleveland I never took seriously at all. We had two local lawyers defending us who made Abbott and Costello look like wizards, It was a real kangaroo court but the jury had to listen to the rantings and ravings of the prosecution. The new D.A. there is called, are you ready, Jose Feliciano. It wound up that we didn’t even present a defense. ” ’

“Did you find it hard to sit there and behave in a court of law?” „

“Who said I behaved? I didn’t behave. I caused a ruckus in the courtroom. Cleveland is third in the country in rapes and fifth in murders. The D.A. was afraid of the real criminals so he took a cheap shot at me. Because I’m a woman. I look different. I have a Mohawk. And I’m upset at the status quo.”

“What do you mean you look different?”

“Let’s put it this way. When I walk by a construction site, the hardhats can’t believe their eyes. They ring all the bells. They beep all the beepers.”

“Do you ever worry about provoking people by your attitude or the way you bok?”

Wendy grins, then looks thoughtful. “When I go into a new town sometimes, I wonder if the police will shoot me.”

“Especially after Milwaukee, right?”

“Right. In Milwaukee, the cops asked me to step outside. One of them grabbed my tits. Another one grabbed my rear end. So I smacked them. Then they threw me down and handcuffed me hogstyle in the snow while one of them beat me. I’d have gone along peacefully, but I was outraged intellectually.”

“When you do a show, does it ever get violent out in the audience?”

Wendy takes a sip of tea. “We went to Hamburg. The promoter told us beforehand: ‘If they don’t like you, they’ll run you off the stage.’ I said: ‘No one runs us off the stage.’ The show starts. I look out into the audience and the place is filled with leather boys. Some of these guys were sixty years old! I mean these were not day trippers—they had leather up the ass! Then I notice this one leather boy right in front of the stage and he looks like the toughest one of all. He’s orchestrating the whole group. He’s controlling them, wielding a cat o’ nine tails. They didn’t bother us at all. We did a great show. I love being scared. ”

A waitress comes by on her way to the kitchen. “You were great on TV last night,” she compliments.

“Thanks,” says Wendy with a bright smile.

The Dauphin comments on the strong rapport The Plasmatics seem to have with their fans. Both at Bond’s and at the Snyder taping, the band’s followers exhibited a loyalty that was unwavering but surprisingly gentle and almost protective. Wendy nods in agreement. She has noticed this too and, in discussing one of The Plasmatics’ ultimate objectives, she shows an appreciation for the communal nature of rock ’n’ roll concerts that recalls the festivals of years gone by.

“We’d like to do five concerts a year, outdoors, and make them only accessible by mule train. During the concert, it would be like we’d created our own city. Then, after the concert, we’d level the city to the ground and everyone would have to leave by mule train. We want to be able to build a city and destroy it.”

TURN TO PAGE 69

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 34

The Dauphin closes his eyes and pictures this chaotic event. He wonders if Ron Delsener will have the mule rental concession.

“But that’s in the future,” continues Wendy. “I could never think, say, five years ahead. I’m right for the moment. Immediate gratification.”

“Have you always felt that way?” The Dauphin asks, returning to reality.

“Pretty much so. Even as a kid. I’ve always been a kind of anarchist. When I was growing up, I just wouldn’t go for w^iat everyone was shoving down my throat.”

Dauph recalls a story Rod Swenson had told him about Wendy & The Plasmatics being barred from performing in Britain due to governmental fears that by blowing up a cat they might injure the audience Or provoke a riot.

“I hear you’re banned in England,” he begins.

Wendy’s genial expression turns fierce. “England is run by monkey-brained Fascist farts. We don’t wanta play there.”

Dauph decides to change the subject. He asks Wendy about heroes. She pauses to reflect.

“Most of my heroes have always been men,” she says. “Men were the ones that were having all the fun. I guess my three big heroes were Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Jackson Pollock'.”

We talk about living in New York, her everyday existence. She likes the city. She jogs daily and works out in a Manhattan health club. She strikes The Dauphin as very much her own person—a rather private person; She agrees with this assessment.

“I’m just so into what I’m doing so much. I don’t even have a phone.”

“Does that mean you’re happy?”

Wendy flashes a dazzling smile. “I’ve never been so happy in my life. But I still want more of everything.”

The Dauphin takes out one of the court sketches drawn by Maggie Keane, a New York based artist who traveled to Cleveland by Trailways to be at Wendy’s trial. Wendy admires the sketch, then inscribes it for Edouard.

In a bold hand, she writes: I Hate Art. I Hate Fashion. And Conformity Makes Me Gag.

Wait till The Dauphin hangs that on the wall of his sanitarium cell!

Jime: The present? Maybe early June. Place: The sun-drenched garden. The Dauphin is back in his maroon BarcaLounge chair, just lolling in the sun. Suddenly, the tranquil peace is violated as a voice sounds out, just behind his right ear. Sister Bernadette conveys yet another message.

“M. Dauphin,” she begins.

“More Placadil?” The Dauph asks optimistically (It is their little game.)

“No, you mischievous boulevardier,” she retorts girlishly. “A phone call. A lady named Tara from Stiff Records. ”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“She only left a message. All charges against Wendy in Milwaukee have been dropped.” s

Dauph smiles. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” says the nun, heading back toward the patio.

“Sister Bernadette?” calls Edouard. The nun stops. She looks back.

“Yes, M. Dauphin?”

Edouard regards her with an amiable gaze. “You were right. There is a God.”