TOO MUCH TO DREAM LAST NIGHT

TOO MUCH TO DREAM LAST NIGHT

RECORDS

PATBENATAR Precious Time (Chrysalis)

by Jon Pareles

Pat preened in the mirror one last time. The outfit was perfect, she thought: stiletto heels, black-is-black tights, a chain-mail tunic cinched with a no-fingerprints vinylite belt. Vampire-mauve nails, mascara-rimmed eyes. For a comehither touch, she’d drawn on sculpted Cupid’s-bow lips and splashed some rouge across her cheeks. Nothing too overt or too hardcore, naturally. Pat was no pervert. Pat was dull and humorless, but Pat was pure. And Pat had a mission.

The heels made precise little clicks as Pat walked along the corridor of The Many Bloody Spurting Wounds Of Our Lord Junior High School. She wondered how much younger they’d get, the kids who needed her so much. Maybe it was TV or junk food or radiation that made them so wild, growing up so quick; she thought of the mung beans sprouting overnight on top of the refreigerator, and shuddered. Her own puberty had been awful, just awful—if she had to grow, why couldn’t she just get taller? And all those weird feelings! Like that night in the back seat with Jimmy Gianucci, squeezing and groping and wanting to squeeze and grope! Then he took out his—thing—and she knew just what it was: a billyclub, a bludgeon. He was going to hit her, to hurt her, so she grabbed her purse and...

No. No more memories. It was time to warn the kids. She was proud she’d learned their simple language, proud of the bits she’d spliced together from records by Linda Ronstadt and Heart and Bruce Springsteen. The Pretenders, too—“Private Life,” “Precious Time,” the kids who could tell the difference were probably too far gone anyway. And though it hurt, Pat was learning to scream, too— for some reason the kids believed it 'sounded more sincere, she thought. Clutching tightly to the handle of her portable stereo, Pat waiting outside Room 116 to make her entrance. At The Many Bloody Spurting Wounds Of Our Lord, she knew she would look like an erotic vision compared to the nuns. Pat didn’t want to sin, but she was proud to be the propaganda ploy in the “family life curriculum.” She could hear the class inside; bored, slowly quieting down.

She burst in the door while the nun feigned surprise. “Out of the way, bitch!” Pat blasphemed, pushing the nun into a comer, silently crossing herself mentally. She hit the play button on her tapedeck, and started to yelp along with her newest batch of songs. “I wanna give you my love, but you’ll just take a little piece of my heart!” “Blinded by passion, you foolishly let someone in...” “You were the one who made me lose control.” As she did her best imitation of the heavy-metal strut she’d seen on Midnight Special, Pat prayed that the kids would get the message: sex is bad, love is hell, it’s kill or be killed once you let yourself give in to passion. “Cut it out, drop it, count me out. Baby, stop it”—the tease and the stomp, would the kids get it? And if they did give in to the urge, would they have her songs in the back of their minds, so they’d be primed for attack? Could she ruin love and sex for a whole generation someday? The nun pretended to stir as Pat neared the end of tape, yelling “Helter Skelter” as a single entendtre. The bell rang, and the kids filed out, goggle-eyed. After they’d left, the nun gave Pat effusive thanks. It was too late for Jimmy, but there was hope.

CARPENTERS Made In America (A&M)

by Laura Fissinger

The dream started with Karen back in her childhood Connecticut home. But instead of a suburban split-level, it was a big grungy orphanage that suddenly mutated into Grand Central Station. She walked up the ramps and out onto Park Avenue, which wasn’t paved with tar, but rather smothered in shiny, unravelled master recording tapes—all those records she’d done with brother Richard back in Hollywood, all those pappy productions, that playing, that singing, those songs. Those songs. She wondered if her new rich Republican husband, back in California, had believed the words to “Strength Of A Woman” and was out “getting what he wanted,” thinking that her disappearance was a tacit condonation of his wanderlust. Of course, Karen knew everything was really behind her now—the facial cramps from flashing the big pearlies, the cedar walk-in closet filled with chinos and V-neck pastel sweaters and immaculate deck shoes.

As she strolled along Park, the tapes began to disintegrate under her feet. Slipping, Karen lunged into the revolving door of a big skyscraper; as she spun through, the building began to melt arid change^ and soon she was sitting at the bar of a dimly lit nightclub where Anita O’Day blew smoke in her face and agreed that yes, Karen could be taken on as an apprentice, provided she legally change her name and wear disguises.

The next thing Karen knew, thousands of married couples and millions of teenagers in prom dresses and rented tuxes were chasing her through the orange halls of a Holiday Inn, singing a scary garble of “Close To You” and “We’ve Only Just Begun.” She yanked open a door to a room and ranlo the desk phone. “Beechwood 4-5789!” she screamed into the receiver. The voice on the other end sounded like, no it couldn’t be... “Richard!?” she yelled. “You can call me up and have a date.. .any old time,” he chuckled, then hung up. They were breaking the door down now; Karen headed for the ledge...

.. .Everything was clear and calm now, just like a TV movie. Richard, the tops of his ears showing, his flared polyester pants flapping in the wind, was striding into the A&M offices, the follow-up LP to Made In America tucked in a velvet case under his arm. Mr. Alpert was frowning. “A Carpenters record without Karen? You’re kidding, aren’t you?” he scowled. “But there’s a hit here, sir, I just know it,” said Richard. “It’ll be just as big as Touch Me When We’re Dancing.’ It’s called ‘True Love In A Repressive Age.’ You’ll love it!” Suddenly, Karen could see Richard in the studio,xmaniacally programming the synthesizer, duplicating her every note and phrase. “She’s never sung better, huh?” Richard sneered as he stroked the machine. The voice grew louder and louder, until all Karen could hear was the whitest white noise, deafening and shrill...

She sat up in bed in a start. It wasn’t the synthesizer, it was only her husband, vacuuming the underwear drawer. “Still believe me?” he asked as he came over, kissed her gently on the cheek, and patted her tummy. “A freckled little girl, right?” Karen blinked sleepily. “Yeah, sure,” she said softly. On the white rocking chair was a baby blue linen suit all laid out for that afternoon’s appearance on the John Davidson Show. She’d rehearsed all yesterday in front of the bathroom mirror, going over and. over that Burt Bacharach/Carole Bayer Sager tune, “Somebody’s Been Lyin’,” and that behemoth Richard had helped write for h£r wedding “Because We’re In Love.” Karen picked at the fuzzies on her nightie. Lip synching was no fun, no fun at all, but if they brought the orchestra and choir, they’d take up the whole dam studio. Jazz singers never had to lip synch, she pouted. Oh well, maybe she could have sung le jazz hot, or some other kind of good music, and she would have been good at it, maybe—but what would Richard have done for a living?