Son of Reek For Possum Queen

Son of Reek For Possum Queen

METAGANZA

Rick Johnson

“Come ’n’ listen to my story ’bout a man named Reek/Poor mountaineer but a hell of a geek/Then one day he was typin’ somethin’ rude/When up through the keys come abubblin’ crude/Taste, that is/Black lung/Texas aaaiiieee...” (sung to tune of “The Ballad of Jed Clampett”) What on earth, you’re probably wondering, is a Metaganza? Is it related to the Doze Function of a Panasonic clock radio? Maybe the unfinished third movement of The Prince And The Pooper? A sequel to Leg Show magazine’s unforgettable “Teenage Toe Tease” pictorial?

No, but you’re close. Metaganza is something of an “answer” (as if there were a question) to CREEM proper’s fashion watch, Eleganza, except with no taste applied for. It’s a trashy look at the flashy fashions of heavy metal, which

may be as difficult a concept to swallow as an “easy” chair, but there you are.

Maybe it would help if you knew a little bit about the columnist. It hasn’t helped me any, but here goes: He’s the kinda guy often typified as a real Mr. Hyde/Mr. Hyde type character. The kinda guy who reads sickening, preferrably illustrated books about mass murderers for relaxation. The kinda guy who saves on catfood by feeding the birds. The kinda guy whose nickname is synonymous with foul, putrid odors. The kinda guy whose favorite summer song is “Don’t Fear The Reaper.” But hey—I still put my sweatpants on one probiscus at a time like the rest of you.

Said columnist is really riding a luge and a dream on this one. He’s tackled several columns in the past, none of which lasted longer than a couple issues before the entire publication it was in folded. Let’s see now, there was the bargain bin alert called Only 39$ in SunRise magazine (splat!), TV Eyesore in the revived N.Y. Rocker (thud!), and even two different columns (Mondo Rock and Household Hints for Dolts) in a single local paper called The Muse (crash! boom!) that lasted but one memorable issue.

With a track record like that, it’s no wonder the powers that “be” in the CREEM publishing empire auditioned several other of their writers for the role of metal thread head before resorting to Reek havoc. Each was forcefed a packet of Triumph photos from the very bottom of the Backstage barrel and offered the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be their own standins. What say we take a look at some of the results?

Edouard Dauphin: “The Dauph, like many an eldest son of the king of France, can be a tad high strung sometimes, particularly when the moon is low and the neighbors are high. At times, he can even identify with Rita Tushingham’s jitters in the film BedSitting Room, where she portrays a woman who’s 17 months pregnant. No derringdo was required of him for this assignment, thank Charles, other than snaring a thick manilla envelope from his thugged-in mailbox. The day’s work done, I settled down behind a quart of drugstore absinthe and prepared to feast my eyes on more photos of Triumph than any boy prince should reasonably be expected to. See Triumph or it’s your loss...”

Joe “I Speak The Body Segmented" Fernbacher: “The xylophilous mega-termite’s antennae trembled as the xenodiagnostic forces of xyloselapping xiphosurous anthropods everwhelmed its pitiful sense organs. Why should a xylotomous semisentient such as itself concern its admittedly xenohilious perceptions with Xanthippelike xanthochroi like Triumph? Termite Joe rested on his crusty xiphisternum a moment and wondered if this xenogenic xenolith indicated the need for another xylotomy? Consulting his xanthene X-ray xylophone...”

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Richard Riegel: "Terese, Sarah, our meow-mammal Cougar and yours-truly were spending another ho-hum evening checking out the nurock vids on the boobtube and discussing the relevence of COCKS to the rockcrit establishment. As I was about to counter their low-gradearguments with a snippet of hounddoggerel Lester once wrote in these pages, I asked my-self: Richrig, just where do Terese-and-Sarah fit in-to the rockcrit establishment? Who are Terese and Sarah anyway? For years now, these two nogood lit-tle...”

John Mendelssohn: "If this benighted publication was instead a chain discount store advertising circular—and there’s precious little difference at times—it would describe Triumph’s new stage togs as thirsty cotton. When my good friend The Kiddo took a gander at them, he said it was highly reminiscent of the time my wife (then his good friend) had to deal with the particularly insufferable little road manager of said outfit who had, shall we say, designs on the interior of her stunning black leather ski culottes. Thank you kindly for your interest, sir,’ she quipped in her most withering tone, ‘but I already have an asshole in my pants.’ If it had happened today, I would have thrashed the rapscallion soundly with a copy of my new book, The Kink Kronikles (Quill, $6.98) and sent him on his way. You of refined tastes can read about it in my autobiography (coming in August from St. Martin’s Press, $14.95), soon to be a major motion picture from 20th Century Fox, with simultaneous soundtrack release on Geffen (GF 48012)...”

Richard C. Walls: “Those running dogs of lackey imperialism who go by the name of Triumph remind this journalist both of Charlie (Bird) Parker at his worst and the paternalistic nincompoopcry of the New Left when it was truly "new”; in a (strict) sense—for indeed this is a menacing Falwellian era—it begs the (rhetorical) question: Why doesn’t so-called life (itself) possess a full function (wireless) remote control; or at least a political bop alternative (to mix my [already mixed] metaphors a bit); conversely...”

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As you can see, the options weren’t exactly overwhelming, and Lou O’Neill Jr. was too busy rifling Cracker Jack aphorism collections that week. My heero, how ironic!

Well, staple me to a pig and roll me in the mud! Time’s up for this month! It’s been a fast, furious romp (as TV Guide would say), fellow metal mavens, so ’til next time, set a spell. Take your shoes off. Ya 'll come back, hear?