"I don't try to hang anybody up or get anybody over-involved in my hang-ups. I don't try to bore people with rhy problems. The main thing I want to do is play well and be there for people to respond to in any way they want. " —Marshall Crenshaw

"Marshall Crenshaw offers the present pop generation no more and no less than Buddy Holly offered an earlier one. " —Andy Schwartz, New York Rocker,

"Will her heart ever be satisfied? There she goes again with another guy. '' —Marshall Crenshaw

Let's talk about it: 1982 has its first and probably the finest brand new pop star in Marshall Crenshaw. An affable, reasonable, quietly intelligent man of 28, he seldom drinks or takes drugs ("drugs are a myth," he claims, "they don't do what they are supposed to do—help you escape reality"), he has been happily married to his high school sweetheart Ione for the past four years. "A creature of habit," he smiles, and a stable person, his personality | a balanced scale, not a pendulum. In fact Mr. Normal, who Marshall would be if he hadn't spent his life obsessed with that "pop music thing" and learned his obsession so thoroughly he can translate it into gentle, harmonious, sprightly, addictive, late 50's-early 60's influenced, modern pop tones.

The Crenshaw comparison is self-evident and worthy: Buddy Holly. Good company and reaching further than Marshall's physical similarity to Holly (or the Crenshaw Band's—brother Robert on drums, Chris Donato on bass—Cricketslike line-up). It's one of desired impact and emphasis; Marshall's songs are perfect unto themselves—melodies, jaunty rhythms, super fine love lyrics and an exactly executed production that gives the songs a final and finished veneer when put on vinyl. The end result is a track like "Cynical Girl" from Marshall's debut album (on Warner Bros.), where a Vox twelve string is overdubbed seven or eight times and the vocals doubled and echoed to get the airy acoustic ambience of a Holly song like "Heartbeat"—not a replica, not a steal, but an update, a feel.

OK! Let's talk about it! I meet Marshall for the first time at Warner Brothers offices in Manhattan; he's just Sack fom an interview at WPLJ, I start the ball bouncing. Are you the next big thing?

"No, I'm not. That's jive. People shouldn't ' even think about that. What's the next big thing? What does that mean? It means nothing. People going around ''Chasing the next big thing has fucked up their ability to hear what's good in what's around them. Forget that and just enjoy what there is for what it's worth. I don't want to be the next big thing and whatever the next big thing is I don't want to know about it." Marshall's emphasis of the point doesn't change the next big thing aura around him, what with the superb long-player (co-produced by Richard Gottehrer of Blondie and Go-Go's fame) catching a four-and-a-half star review from the aging hippies at Rolling Stone, both Boz Scaggs and Robert Palmer sending third-party feelers to see if Marshall would like to collaborate with them, Lou Ann Barton's great cover of his "Brand New Lover," Robert Gordon's radio hit with his "Someday Someway," and a support ,slot on the Dave Edmunds tour. That's without mentioning his long term (five years, eight album option) contract with Bugs Bunnyland, or that v. famous rockcrit John Rockwell forwarded some Crenshaw demos to unknown entity Linda Ronstadt.

I feel that our music is a denial of that 70's rock concept. We're trying to circumvent all that stuff.

This didn't happen overnight, however. Marshall—the eldest of four boys—was brought up in Detroit and got the bug at an early age: "My father had a guitar when I was a kid and I'd play with it, pose around the house, drag it into the backyard, break the strings. Stuff like that.

"My father finally got me my own guitar when I was six, but I didn't really have the attention span then to try and play it. By the time I was 10 I could play it fairly well. The first song I ever wanted to play was 'Wild Weekend' and the guitar solo on 'Louie Louie,' I thought that was the most incredible thing I ever heard." Marshall despised high school: "I was really a terrible student and all but dropped out by fifth grade. I shouldn't have been there, there was nothing interesting going on and I was getting more aggravation than anything else." He spent his time playing in school bands, listening to WKNR, and— an avowed pacifist—staying out of trouble.

There was no way Marshall was going to go to-college, so he started the long list of cover bands. "I worked in an oldies group called Danny and the Robots—by then, my obsession with all things rock 'n' roll was overwhelming, I couldn't even think of anything else. But I didn't want to get into a bar band situation covering Uriah Heep and Deep Purple, I couldn't get behind conveying that kind of sound, I couldn't get into it on any level. Early 70's music like post-Woodstock, I hated it, I hated every minute of it so I really dropped out from '68 to '78 I didn't listen to anything modern. I'd listen to A1 Green or Todd Rundgren, Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes or the O'Jays, but as far as 70's rock is concerned it's all one song to me.

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"I was playing country music or I was playing rock 'n' roll. I like old country, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Webb Pierce, Lefty Frizzell, country swing. My most memorable gigs in Detroit were in a bar with this guy from Memphis—he cut a couple of albums on Somian—Jack Earls, and with an oldies band called the Winegrapers with whom I played bass. I did a lot of things that weren't rock and I liked that.

"And although I consider what I do now rock music, I feel that our music is a denial of that 70's rock concept. We're trying to circumvent all that stuff."

But before Marshall could start circumventing, there was an unfortunate time when he ran a studio with some friends, a trip to Los Angeles that left him broke and, Beatlemania. "Ah yes, Beatlemania." Crenshaw wearily re-tells the soon-to-belegendary story of his recording the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There" not-perfect with Robert on drums, mailing it to the producers of Beatlemania, forgetting all about it in the excitement of marrying lone, and landing the role of John Lennon in the touring company. "I could almost stand playing the early Beatles songs because I have fond memories of the Beatles when they first came out and that's when they made the strongest impact on me. I think that string of singles from 'Please Please Me' to 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' is the most awesome thing they ever accomplished."

Marshall stuck it out for 18 months— until February 1980—because the money was so good, "more than I'm making now, although the possibilities today are far greater." Marshall moved to Manhattan where he met up with his brother Robert, who was studying electronics and working part-time at Richard Sarbin's studio. Richard became his manager, and when the bassist was added the Marshall Crenshaw Band was formed, playing around Manhattan's clubs and garnering great word of mouth (though I saw then' once and thought they were boring). Alan Betrock heard a Crenshaw-produced demo and produced a 12" EP on his Shake Records. Richard Gottehrer heard the demo as well, and suggested it to Robert Gordon.

There followed media attention from likes of Robert Palmer in the New York Times and Andy Schwartz, editor of the highly overrated New York Rocker (a marvelous story though). "We had one solid offer from a label other than Warners and if we hung around we'd have gotten more but I didn't really care about playing any waiting games," Marshall explains. "I wanted to make an album and the faster the better. I'd been waiting to make it for a year already, so when it finally came down to a couple of solid offers I said 'enough now, we don't heed any more, we don't need to play this game any more,' so we signed and got in the studio." In an unprecedented move, Warner Bros, allowed Marshall to produce the album himself

but after some trial and error he decided it was too complex for him at that stage and got Richard to help out. The album is easily the best debut since the dB's Stands For deciBles.

In the back of a rented car I trade gossip with the nicest manager it's, been my good luck to meet, Richard Sarbin. We're on the way to Passaic, New Jersey, where Marshall is playing support for NRBQ and Dave Edmunds. "Marshall doesn't know the people at Warners very well," admits Richard. "He's only met them like five times, the publicity guys and parties. It's I who have to deal with them on a daily basis.

"The thing about big companies is that it's a two-edged sword. If a record isn't going to break they won't spend the time to break it the way an indie would, but their distribution and set-up as a whole is much better. Obviously it's true that large companies are the same. The individuals have to work for so many bands that they don't like, that when they find one they do —like Marshall—they are superb and hard working in their efforts." You betcha.

The Capitol is half empty when I sit down next to two very pretty girls. "Are you with the Crenshaw crowd?" I enquire. They sure are, Debbie Guardian is Robert Crenshaw's main squeeze, Amy Karanfilian is John Crenshaw (another brother, who's head roadie. There's one more Crenshaw, Mitchell, who lives in Texas)'s girlfriend: They are vivacious and pleasant, and CREEM fans. I inform them of my love for the album, but that when he played support for Tom Verlaine at the Ritz he was pretty ordinary. They remember the concert and agree that it wasn't his greatest—since the beginning of the year things have been getting far better, though. They swing and dance once Marshall hits the stage.

But I'm less certain. Crenshaw suffers from the dB's live syndrome: put simply, his songs in a live setting can't compare to their vinyl exactness. Crenshaw tries to get around the problems by roughening edges, rawing the sound, speeding the songs. In retrospect, I enjoyed the concert more than I thought I difl—there was at least one moment when my reservations went out the stage door. Crenshaw did a superb cover of Cliff Richard's "Move It," and I can forgive him much for having such great taste. Still, I'm disappointed. The concert was filmed by MTV (if you don't know who they are, check your old CREEMs for Toby Goldstein's story). They shouldn't have bothered.

Later that night Marshall drives me back to Manhattan in his '75 Volks. Like any two fanatics we discuss the subject we're fanatical about: pop music. Trading heroes, and new discoveries, what will happen and what might. CREEM and NME and rock criticism and Lester Bangs and ESG. I tell him my niece, my sister-inlaw and my (ex-) girlfriend all love his work. "Girls like me more than guys do," he nods, "there's no macho posturing in my work." There's no bitterness either. "No, closer to regret then bitterness." Very humane music, actually. "I think if you

hear my album and you really listen, you can tell everything about me. My politics, my beliefs," he ruefully smiles. "On the other hand, you can listen to it just onceand take it for what it is.. .good music."

That's what it is, all right.