SLADE’S BOYZ FEEL THE NOIZE

"You tell us we don't look any older, and we'll tell you, you don't look any older," offers Slade's bass guitarist, Jimmy Lea, flashing a wide, toothy grin. "And then we'd all be liars," I reply, with an equally boisterous gleam, just so damn happy to see these four guys alive, well, and sitting around a New York Hotel room—12 years on. To be honest, ask me to think of the most unlikely candidates for a revival of interest, long after they'd passed the "whatever happened to?" stage, and the winner would be—Iron Butterfly, hohoho, but the brash Wolverhampton quartet called Slade would've been way up there. Come to think of it—revival? Uh uh. With Slade, it had been an uphill battle all the way.

Back in the dark ages, when Duran Duran were growing out of diapers and Boy George was really a boy, Slade rooled much of the Western World as the piledriving knaves of glitter rock. England, Europe, Australia and much of the Far East fell like dominoes before their onslaught of hits, written by Lea and gravel-voiced singer Neville (Noddy) Holder: "Take Me Bak 'Ome," "Mama Weer All Crazee Now," "Gudbuy T'Jane," oh yes, and some anthem called "Cum On Feel The Noize" (ever heard of it?). Managed by Chas Chandler, who took them on following his years with Jimi Hendrix, dressed in towering platform boots and resplendent lame suits—except for Noddy's cutoff plaid trousers and top hat—Slade accumulated chart hits (31 at iast count) everywhere, with one exception: the U.S.A. "We'd go and do a lovely show," remembers Lea, "and comeoffstage feeling we'd done a good qiq, and qet pinned to the wall by the press. That hurt, really."

Did it ever. Y'see, in 1972, as a newlyhatched rock critic, I was also clambering onto the first rung of Polydor Records' publicity ladder. The company was being taught a harsh lesson, as its efforts to popularize Slade hit radio stations and most newspapers with a resounding dead thud (a feat they later duplicated with the Jam and Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees). Resisting glitter rock (Bowie excepted) as staunchly as it would later toss punk in the trash, America did not want to Feel the Noize. They did not want to come anywhere near the Noize. These were not easy truths for a young and sensitive publicette, especially since the guys in Slade didn't walk around the offices shoving their string of hits in your face.

So, in less than a year, I'd gone on to publishing the foibles of Alice Cooper, and Slade kept releasing records, even a movie, Slade In Flame, until the 1976 Nobody's Fools would be the last America would hear. But the strangest thing happened. Some group called Quiet Riot, who nobody ever heard of, asked Slade for permission to record "Cum On Feel The Noize." Therewith followed a number one hit, and frequent expostulations of "amazing!," "astounding!," "unbelievable!," and the like from the band, for whom things started slicking into place very quickly.

"If a song can still be a hit 10 years later, it's great," declares Holder, sprawled in an easy chair like the solid English burgher he's beginning to resemble, completed with long bushy sideburns. "When we brought it out, 10 years ago, it didn't happen. That's rock 'n' roll. It happens with lots of songs. They get covered by other artists and the original artist doesn't have a hit with it." "We know it's been a big hit over here," adds Lea, "and people are expecting us to have an anti-reaction, which we haven't got at all. As far as we're concerned, it's their tune."

Jim's comment provokes general agreement from Holder, lead guitarist Dave Hill, and drummer Don Powell—the lineup unchanged after an impressive 18 years. On the other hand, it prompts furious dissent from yours truly, especially when Slade announce they have no intention of performing "Cum On Feel The Noize" on their spring dates with Ozzy Osbourne (interrupted in April when Lea developed hepatitis and had to return to England), or others that would follow. They are too egoless, I insist, upon hearing of a radio station visit in which the band played Quiet Riot's "Noize" and the disc jockey didn't even know that Slade had written and first recorded it. "He's an asshole!" I scream, aghast at the group's willingness to gloss over the past, but they refuse to give in, and tell me I'm just being too much of a fan and a nitpicker. Whaddya do with guys like that, except shake your head and wish them well...

"I did think of playing it to let people know that we wrote it, but what's the point?" muses Jim. "It's like the Stones having a hit with 'Come On' in England (their first single) and Chuck Berry wrote it—so what? The kids out there, of 14, 15, 16, who bought 'Noize,' they don't know and they don't care. You can't expect them to be bothered," he insists. "They buy Quiet Riot because they like Quiet Riot. Let's face it, what they care about is today. Those kids who bought Van Halen's record of 'Pretty Woman' wouldn't know Roy Orbison's version, and why would they care?" Well, I can think of about a million-and-a-half reasons, to do with roots and rock history and respect and style, but that's a whole other story and we are all old friends in this room.

What Quiet Riot's American number one did for Slade, they are quick to point out, was reopen a door to the (J.S. that had been bolted shut. “The phone started ringing,” says Lea. “There were five major companies asking, ‘What are the band doing? Are they interested in signing?’ We’d been ready to sign, to come to America, for a couple of years. Since 1980, everything we’ve released has charted at least Top 50. And they didn’t even know we had singles of ‘Run Runaway’ and ‘My Oh My’ in the can. The results—a deal with CBS, who are having respectable success with Slade’s “cumbak” album, Keep Your Hands Off My Power Supply, and Mrs. Ozzy, Sharon Osbourne, as their manager. That explains the dripping skulls and baby toys scattered around the suite.

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With all the band being solid family men, heftily into their 30’s (though they look remarkably non-dated), Slade feel more able to cope with the music business’ quirks this time around. Recalls Jim Lea, “Last time, we were huge everywhere in the world. We came to America, and there was this uncomfortable feeling for us of, ‘OK guys, knock us out.’ Whereas now, maybe we’ll get on MTV, maybe we won’t. There are dates coming in all over the place, the record company is hot to trot. It’s really nice, from a street level, that it’s happening naturally. It’s coming from the roots, like the bosses are being nudged by the low end. We’ve sort-of been invited, as opposed to coming over and forcing.

“And the other thing is that we won’t be crying all the way home if it doesn’t happen. We’ll just play and go back to England.” Justifiably proud of their half-dozen number one records, Slade made the best out of their lean years—the worst coming when punk reigned, and they became anathema to every major label in Britain. “There’s no band who can sustain getting records at number one for more than—they’re lucky if it’s two years,” Noddy says matter-of-factly. “For us, it was five or six years. These days, you’re lucky to survive after one hit!” Though belying some bitterness about the punk era (“There’s never a song there anyway,” Lea says dismissively), Slade beat back discouragement by living off their savings to keep the band—complete with road crew, PA, and lights—on the road, playing to those people who still wanted to get Slayed.

“Oh, we didn’t make a living,” Holder laughs roughly. “We just hung in there. And because of our name and our success, we had to put on a much better show than if we’d been a new band, starting out in that place.” “We had pride,” Lea says firmly. “We thought we were the best around in the 1970s, but we didn’t think we were the greatest thing since sliced bread. So when the success went away, we knew the band was still good.

“It was suggested that we ought to call it a day by someone who is very close to us. I rang Nod and spoke to him about it and said, ‘Well, maybe he’s right.’ And he said, ‘Look, I went to see (a band who will remain nameless who at the time was a worldwide success) last night. They got the applause after their last encore, that we get before we even set foot on the stage. So why should we pack up?” Somehow, frustration and discouragement affecting various members was always overcome and when Slade substituted for Ozzy at the 1980 Reading Festival, the event marked the end of their “duff years.” “Three years over an 18-year span really isn’t that much,” says Jim Lea, ready to lock on, happily coinciding with a new generation of heavy metal and hard rock fans, Slade hasn’t looked back.

Except, of course, when some household name sidles up to one of their number and admits that Slade was a huge, if not the biggest influence upon his of her style. Some, like Kiss’s Gene Simmons or Joan Jett, make the admission in public. “Gene actually said that one of their songs, I think it was ‘Rock And Roll All Night,’ was ‘Mama Weer All Crazee Now’ rewritten,” Jim proudly remembers. “It sounded terribly different to me, but it was nice to have the influence acknowledged.” Others made more private confessions, like certain punks who’d fall all over Slade upon spotting them in a pub, or Gary Glitter, who admitted to Lea, “‘I saw you a lot on TV and thought, that’s how I’ll make it. I went in the studio, got the clothes together and copied Dave Hill.’ And I said, ‘Yeah, I always knew that, but I never heard you say it.’ And he said, ‘I’d never say it to anybody else but you here right now. I’d never say it in the press.’ And that’s what you have to live with.”

I guess it’s up to Quiet Riot to make the next move. Let’s talk Slade, guys. Let’s talk about history that’s right up to this very moment.