ROCK CHRONICLES 1985

The Year That Was!

ROCK CHRONICLES 1985

Yes, 1985 was quite a year, as any three editors of CREEM will certainly verify—in fact, they’ll actually do so in this splendidly insightful recap of the year gone by. They’ll speak of the shows, the records, the books, the movies—everything that made 1985 one of the greatest years ever to not hurl yourself into the Mississippi from a thundering train packed with confused, bellowing cattle as the sluggish brutes headed for the slaughterhouse.

Next issue? It’s over to John Mendelssohn, who will boldly forecast what will happen in music in the year to come! Before it even happens! If there’s a single magazine feature you’ll want to share with friends and family after this holiday season, this will surely be the one.

So read, remember and recoil! Then set up that checkerboard or die!

—The Editors

J. Kordosh

Concerts

The live rock concert certainly came into its own as a cause ceiebre in 1985. The megatours of Bruce, Prince and Madonna became the stuff of daily news...mundane daily news, but daily news, nonetheless. The megaevents—Live Aid and Farm Aid—generated more hyperbole than music. Meanwhile the cash flow possibilities of regular-type tours became more and more obvious: witness the super-groupish Firm—accomplish ad players of at least nine songs, minimum—refusing (in a show of integrity, mind you) to play any Led Zep or Bad Company tunes, and still raking it in. Or Huey Lewis & The News using a grand total of two new songs (both from Back To The Future) as the basis of a stone cold sold-out tour.

Mighty strange.

All was scarcely lost, though: ’85 saw just, about everyone playing just about everywhere...rarely has the consumer had the opportunity to pick and choose over such a wide range. If you wanted to see Deep Purple, Julian Lennon, the Replacements, Hall & Oates, Paul Young, Fishbone, Neil Young, UB40, Motley Crue or just the revivalist “Happy Together” tour, the choice was yours. Which is good and the way things should be.

Herein we’ll reflect upon a few of 1985’s in concert doings, from the whimsical to the wowser. At the very least, we’ll get some feel for the diversity of iive music circa 1985; at the most, we’ll become very, very close to God. Let the fish fry proceed!

NO TICKEE, ETC.

It was a cultural event of some magnitude, no doubt, when Wham! played several dates in the People’s Republic of China in April— thereby becoming the first “rock” act to do so.

Interestingly, the Chinese were also the first to pay an equitable amount to see George and the Other Guy onstage. Tickets were priced at approximately 50 cents, American.

LADDER-DAY PRINCE

One of 1984’s most-hyped tours segued nicely into ’85, as Prince’s magnificent imitation of moviedom’s fictional “Kid” continued to knock out Americans. It also gave Prince a chance to practice talking to God, which he would later put to use on Around The World In A Day. On the album, of course, God was courteous enough to reply.

The tour was marred in the early summer when a reported $1.6 million in revenues disappeared. Prince quickly followed suit, announcing that his days on the road were over.

NIGHT OF THE LIVING WANNA-BE’S

Madonna’s first tour went over surprisingly well—backed by an eight-piece band, Ms. Ciccone sang and danced her way through her expectable repertoire, adding a few droll moments along the way (tossing play money into the audience during “Material Girl,” haying the band lapse into “Billie Jean” during “Like A Virgin’’). Most observers agreed that Madonna’s singing was fine. The pre-recorded tapes she used were also pretty good.

The highlight of her interchangeable shows was undoubtedly when she brought out a ghetto blaster and announced: “This is my box. Every lady has a box.” Not to mention an interesting vocabulary.

SOUNDS OF SILENCE

In case you doubt God’s existence, consider what happened to Ratt when they returned to their home turf for a sold-out concert in Irvine, California. Stephen Pearcy jumped onstage, aready to croon (as always), only to find himself holding a dead mike. Once is good, but twice is better: when the show was only 20 minutes old, all the power cut out. Not just Pearcy’s mike. Not just the entire arena. Half the city of Irvine (population 80,123) joined in on the 90-minute blackout that ensued.

Remember: that’s every sparrow that falls.

CRUEL

The first song on Prefab Sprout’s first album is entitled “Don’t Sing.” And the Prefabs didn’t, at least not in the U.S., in what must be regarded as the most disappointing concert news of ’85.

AIDER THAN YOU’LL EVER BE

“This is your Woodstock, and it’s long overdue,” said Joan Baez in introducing the American half of the much-ballyhooed Live Aid show. And she was right. Many of the artists were not only old enough to have played the legendary ’69 show, more than a few actually did.

Despite the reunions of such gramps as Black Sabbath, the Who, CSN&Y and Led Zeppelin, Live Aid was singularly unexciting. Most commentators seized upon the Tina Turner/Mick Jagger duet in a good-willed attempt to describe the “electricity” of the event, but more sanguine critics will recall Bob Dylan’s amateur night effort with sidemen Keith Richards and Ron Wood. Or Paul McCartney’s inexplicable choice of “Let It Be”—in bold opposition to the very concept of Live Aid. Or U2, who still haven’t bothered to learn the lyrics of any Stones song they cover.

On a positive note, Live Aid did raise over $50 million for a very worthwhile cause. On an historical note, the 16-hour show was the biggest broadcast of all time, being watched by 1.6 billion people in 156 countries. On an aesthetic note, Prefab Sprout still haven’t toured America.

ROUND ’EM UP, MOVE ’EM OUT

Tours worth mentioning: R.E.M., of the green-and-purple lighting and Peter Buck virtuosity, Tears For Fears, of the casual garb and experimental soprano sax accompaniment, the Smiths, of the inimitably depressing world-view and standstill stage presence and Dire Straits, of Mark Knopfler.

Tour most lamented by its brevity: Robyn Hitchcock & The Egyptians. In a perfect world, everyone would have a chance to see Hitchcock open a show with “Sometimes I Wish I Was A Pretty Girl.”

BIG BOSS MAN

He hit the road on July 29, 1984 and has since got married ’n’ stuff. The stuff consists of pulling off what has probably been the biggest, greatest, mega-SRO world tour in rock history. What’s more, he didn’t even need Miller beer to sponsor him.

We speak, of course, of Bruce Springsteen. Going the stadium route for the first time, Springsteen became a hard news item, as seekers of ticket information throttled phone lines around the nation’s capitol for several hours and scalpers asked for a thousand bucks with straight faces.

Concerts

To his credit, Springsteen used the tour as a semi-educational forum, lecturing attentive audiences on the problem of world hunger. He also continued to donate healthy chunks of cash to charities practically everywhere he played. Musically, he dealt with superdomesized acoustics better than previous acts, and delivered his usual never-ending performance.

The tour’s sociological highlight was probably Springsteen questioning President Reagan’s attempts to associate his policies with the Boss’s success. “I ddubt if he’s listened to Nebraska,” Springsteen said. C’mon, Bruce, we’re talking four or five electoral votes here.

ROUND ’EM UP,

MOVE ’EM OUT, PART TWO Tours worth forgetting: Howard Jones, who ended shows by yelling “Stay positive!” to the audience, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, who best entertained the paying suckers by falling through the stage in Chicago, Phil Collins, who almost redeemed himself by performing a unique one-song set in Clarkston, Michigan (throat problems) and Iron Maiden, who deservedly lugged every imaginable object d’Egypt short of the Nile River around half the world in a stunning display of subtlety.

Tour most appreciated by its absence: the Rolling Stones.

COWMAN AID A-COMIN’?

A better all-around show than Live Aid was the Farm Aid concert in Champaign, Illinois, in September. John Mellencamp turned in a fine performance, but the set performed by his L.A.-based pals, the Blasters, was sensational. Mellencamp’s band also did a nifty job in backing John Fogerty and Brian Setzer.

The eyebrow-raising obscenities of Sammy Hagar (which killed a slew of radio simulcasts) were essentially a red herring. He was just being the best Sammy Hagar he knows how to be. The real sleaze of Farm Aid was in denying Jason & The Scorchers a slot on the basis of “inferior” record sales. The spirit, it wasn’t.

Rock Records

Dave DiMartino

You’d have to say 1985 was a great year for records, especially if somebody big and fat was holding a gun to your head and insisting you do so.

Fortunately, this is not the case.

Instead, we are being honest here, and deciding after much thought and no little trepidation that, by gosh, it was a year just like any other year: massive disappointments, no reason to live, nuclear war imminent, Blue Cross and Blue Shield benefits running out, almost getting your car totalled by some moronic dunderhead, overly long space romps w/Krypto, and, best of all, new records by bands guaranteed to last throughout the whole of your life! Yep, you can bet my life was saved by rock ’n’ roll in ’85, particularly if it was going by the name of Nomo, Go West, ’Til Tuesday or the Outfield—or if Afrika Bambaataa was on the remix.

Fact is, ’85 was the year that I spent half my time in record stores looking to buy my record collection all over again in compact disc form. Imagine how proudly I strutted past those ignorami at the counters with their Del Fuegos, Howard Jones and Husker Du albums, all the while beaming and laying down a cool $15.99 per for such classics as Disraeli Gears, Odessa, Electric Ladyland, The Doors, In The Court Of The Crimson King, Bluesbreakers, For Your Pleasure and Aftermath. Imagine my smugness as I sold the original copies of said discs to my nearby used record store, implying, if you will, that I was simply too cool to own such things here at the tail end of this very wonderful year of 1985! I mean, like, have you ever heard Tangerine Dream scratch-free? It’s hip!

Nonetheless, this problem of albums remains. Shall we take a closer look?

YEAR’S WORST RECORDS

I always find it most refreshing to begin a hefty year’s analysis by examining what really reeked about the given year. And make no mistake, many things reeked. Take X, for instance. Their new album, Ain’t Love Grand, is certainly as good as any of their past efforts, true; unfortunately it, like all the others, is poorly played, poorly sung, poorly conceived and genuinely poor. Don’t you agree? Furthermore, let’s not forget related efforts by the Knitters and Danny & Dusty’s The Lost Weekend. Have you ever had the feeling that some group of people—be they record company A&R staffs or rock critics—is playing a tremendous practical joke of which you are the butt? You should...Incidentally, Green On Red stink...And as for Mr. Bob Dylan, his Empire Burlesque may well have been his most unlistenable album since, I dunno, a bunch of his other ones. Bad stuff...Dead Or Alive, certainly one of the most important bands to emerge from England since, oh, Vitamin Z or B-Movie, haven’t gotten any better since their last album, by the by, and thus deserve this special mention here in the crummy record section...Don’t ask me why, but I actually own a copy of Marilyn’s Despite Straight Lines album. I figure if I rub the cover hard enough, the missing half of the title will show up. You know, the one that says Despite Straight Lines Of People Lined All The Way From Here To The Bathroom, You Will Indeed Get Your Fair Chance To Vomit After Hearing This, So Don’t Worry...Special mention here to the Who’s Last for its name alone...Squeeze, once mentioned in knowledgeable circles as the Beatles’ true successors, are coming right along. Their stunning tribute to John Lennon’s Life With The Lions, better known as Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti, is just as tuneless and certainly much easier to obtain in 1985...

PRETTY GOOD RECORDS

Sure, it’s easy making gratuitous slams. Fun, too. But is it really ethical to belittle all of record-making America and Europe when, in fact, some genuinely OK records came out as well?

Well sure, right, who does care? But let’s be reasonable. There’s every chance in the world that were you to invite me to your party last year and play the latest by, oh, John Cougar Mellencamp, Jason & The Scorchers, Chris Isaak or the Roches, I wouldn’t laugh hysterically and pull out those pictures your mom and I took. I might ask what kind of person plays the Roches at parties in the first place, but then again I might be very close to passing out after almost two months of sheer boozerama. And you’d better not try to stop me when I insist upon hearing the latest by the Robert Cray Band, the always-a-gas-at-gettogethers Scraping Foetus Off The Wheel or SPK. “Don’t you know what ‘SPK’ stands for?” all the beautiful girls at your party will ask— and then they’ll tell you!

But I’d be the first to admit that, in these trying times, you’d just as likely be playing records by the Eurythmics, OMD, Style Council, Scritti Politti or Tears For Fears, and wearing clothes you can barely afford, and talking about expensive cars you’d like to own and, to be fair, being inexcusably trendy as you perceive it. Still, your musical taste would not be faulted, just your approach to life. Surely, though, if you were to read the best of today’s contemporary rock magazines—the ones that balance humor and heart, that tell it like it is, no-holds-barred, the ones that are, um, larger than this one and look especially weird at newsstands, if indeed the newsstands stock them because of their size—you’d play hipperthan-hip music. You’d play the latest albums by Sly & Robbie, by Shriekback, by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, that new compilation by the Cocteau Twins. David Thomas’s More Places Forever. Maybe, if you were in Boston, you’d play that Mission Of Burma live album. And I couldn’t fault you for it—for they are all, in their way, quite good. Not great, but good.

Hypothetically, though, were you to be kind enough to ask me about what sort of music you should be playing at your party, I’d quite likely say: “I don’t know, but thank you for asking. I should think you’d play music that’s functional—OK stuff, no masterpieces by any means, the sort of thing that sounds good when you hear it but you forget it a minute later. You know, like the newest albums by Paul Young, the Truth, Everything But The Girl, the Kane Gang, Madness—hey, even the Waterboys, who can get pretty wordy at times!”

Rock Records

As you laughed at my purposefully obtuse reply, I’d steal your woman and take her into a room where John Martyn’s Sapphire played all night long. While you and your friends laughed at my assessment of John Fogerty’s Centerfield as being semi-tragically flawed, would you be so merry were you to hear that same girl chanting “Put me in coach” at 40-minute intervals?

MOST DISAPPOINTING

Let’s face it: some peoples’ careers go down the toilet. They start out making great records, fantastic records that touch your heart in uniquely personal ways, and then they never do it again. You know it’s true. So is it any surprise when I tell you that while the following artists released OK records, “OK” isn’t quite sufficient? Who could’ve imagined that such warm hearted songsters as Ray Davies, with his Return To Waterloo, or Nils Lofgren, with his all-too-appropriate Flip, could produce mere pop pulp? Who’d ever suggest that Jules Shear has already peaked? How can this writer defend the statement that at one time he considered the Beach Boys, Tom Petty, the Motels, Utopia and even Russ Ballard fairly important music-makers?

Would it be hipper if I told that the new albums by the Blasters, the Bongos, the Pale Fountains, Translator and Three O’clock were new wave sludge? That the C.S. Angels were worse than ever? That Lloyd Cole & The Commotions made an album that sounds like someone reading a table of contents?

Even worse, would it anger you to know that R.E.M.’s worst album ever came out this year, and that I don’t care if you call it Fables Of the Reconstruction or Reconstruction Of The Fables, it still all sounds the same? And that Jonathan Richman is very boring and unfunny?

Or, perhaps the most vile thought of all: that Hall & Oates should’ve never played live at the Apollo, let alone recorded their performance?

Be forewarned: there are no taboos.

GREAT DEBUTS

This continual negativism is bothersome. Time for a turnaround: life is great! There is reason to live! You won’t get hit by that VW bus next week when you’re forced to hitchhike on the expressway! There are great new albums in 1985! They will be mentioned in the next paragraph! Or two!

Take Australia’s the Rads. That’s short for Radiators. They’re good. Take Marti Jones. She was in Color Me Gone. Now she does songs by the dB’s and the Bongos and a great one called “(If I Could) Walk Away” that’d be a hit single given the opportunity! This Mortal Coil’s album finally came out in the States, and it’s good, even though they covered songs by Big Star and Tim Buckley that you probably don’t want to hear covered if you already know them! Hey, even Mick Jones’s new band, Big Audio Dynamite, have made a record worth hearing more than once!

And let’s talk commercial: I, for one, enjoy the Sade album. And the Hooters. And Katrina & The Waves. I like the Dream Academy. The Colour Field. Even Gene Loves Jezebel. I think Del Amitri are quite good, and recommend you buy their record. Tones On Tail sound like Can. Matt Bianco sound like Dan Hicks and the Manhattan Transfer. Jane Siberry? She’s from Canada— but, understand, no less good for it.

American bands I like: Zeitgeist, Windbreakers, Valley Of Kings, Miracle Legion, the Answer (from Miami, no less). 10,000 Maniacs aren’t bad. Nice guys, in fact. Most good American bands put out independent EPs in 1985, mostly because record companies were signing up artists in the next category.

“PRODUCT”

“If I have but one life to live,” screamed the agonized piece of pristine, virgin vinyl, waiting to be stamped at the album pressing plant at Terre Haute, Indiana, “let me live it as an album by one of the following artists: the Tubes, Elliott Easton, Dan Fogelberg, Kenny Loggins, Phil Collins, Eric Clapton, Freddie Mercury, Loverboy, Santana, the Alan Parsons Project, Alan Gorrie, Roger Daltrey or Meat Loaf!”

“But why?” asked a nearby record sleeve. “Why them?”

“Because,” replied the trembling 12-inch piece of plastic, “this way I know I will live forever in cut-out bins in K-Mart affiliated stores throughout the United States!”

The sleeve laughed at the very notion. “You must be kidding! You’re much too conservative in your thinking!” Pulling a 20-dollar bill out of its back pocket, it smirked. “Why, I’d be willing to bet you’d exist on those same shelves twice as long were you to be an album by the Fleshtones, Chaz Jankel, B-Movie, Wire Train, Simon Townshend’s Moving Targets, the Stranglers, the illustrious Nomo, Adam Ant, John Paul Jones or INXS!”

Suddenly a nearby employee, witnessing the conversation in disbelief, joined in. “Though it’s rare one sees two inanimate objects conversing in this plant,” he admitted, “I’m not dumb enough to stay uninvolved. In fact, you’re forgetting that the longest life of all remains among records that are tremendously overpressed due to misplaced corporate enthusiasm!”

“Or,” grinned the record sleeve, “dare you say ‘corporate greed?”’

“Who cares?” came the reply. “All I know is, if this piece of vinyl were to become a record by Cock Robin, the Power Station, the Firm, Go West, ’Til Tuesday, King, John Cafferty & The Beaver Brown Band, Men At Work, Wang Chung or Howard Jones, it’d last forever!”

And so the bet took place. But all parties concerned would later regret their lack of consideration of product by Godley & Creme, Jane Wiedlin, Philip Oakey & Giorgio Moroder, Alison Moyet—and, for that matter, critical favorites like Sting and the Talking Heads. “What the heck,” the record sleeve later summarized. “We forgot!”

SURPRISES

It’s certainly safe to say that 1985 is one year I never expected to find surprisingly decent, downright good records by such artists as Essra Mohawk, Gary Brooker, Roy Buchanan, Johnny Winter or Lonnie Mack in the stores. Likewise, artists whom I’d never exactly dismissed, but didn’t expect much from at this late date, also came through, including John Hiatt, Nico, Nick Lowe, Jeff Beck, Cheap Trick and, uh, Prince.

OVERRATED

Suzanne Vega. Lone Justice. Midnight Oil. Del Fuegos. The New American Rock Renaissance. Reading.

1985’S BEST RECORDS

Let’s build it all up dramatically.

Julian Cope’s Fried came out in 1984, but a little too late to consider in last year’s LP roundup. Consider it: immensely psychedelic. So is the Cure’s The Head On The Door—a brilliant comeback for the band responsible for the single best rock lyric ever written, from Pornography’s “One Hundred Years”: “Something small falls out of your mouth/And we laugh.” I mean, can this be touched?

Also hot: Bryan Ferry’s Boys And Girls. Richard Thompson’s Across A Crowded Room. Then there’s the Blue Nile album, finally out here. Tom Waits’s Rain Dogs: worth the wait.

Trendy Brit-stuff worthy nonetheless: New Order’s Low-Life. Orange Juice’s The Orange Juice—out late last year, worth remembering. Robyn Hitchcock & The Egyptians’ Fegmania\ Great.

Non-trendy: China Crisis’s Flaunt The Imperfection, produced by Walter Becker. The Sound’s Head & Hearts. Microdisney’s We Hate You South African Bastards!—this from the band that gave us the world’s best album title last year, Everybody Is Fantastic.

Spectacular comebacks: Van Morrison’s A Sense Of Wonder. Leonard Cohen’s Various Positions.

Finally out: Velvet Underground, V.U.

Australian band to watch: The Triffids, Raining Pleasure EP.

Best pop album of the year: Strawberry Switchblade’s.

Second best album of 1985: The Smiths, Meat Is Murder.

Best album of 1985, bar none, for now and all eternity: Prefab Sprout’s Two Wheels Good.

INCIDENTALLY

Smoking can kill you.

Media

Bill Holdship

(What follows is a listing of pop media items released between October ’84 and October ’85, excepting those items reviewed in this month’s CREEMEDIA Section.)

BOOKS

“QUICKIE” BIOGRAPHIES & PICTURE BOOKS: Does the Library of Congress even bother to list the endless flow of cut & paste jobs published each year to cash in on the latest “rock” sensations? It’s probably embarrassing for them to list something as shallow as Sharon Publications’ Top Rockers Of The ’80s (“In the ’80s, rock and roll has developed a flamboyance and power that are unprecedented in its history...”), but J.D. Considine’s Van Halen! is no doubt there, despite its mention of the first critic to sing the praises of Eddie & the boys as “some poor hack.” Not surprisingly, some of the year’s best “quickies” once again came from CREEM freelancers, including Laura Fissinger’s Tina Turner and Jim Feldman’s Prince (both from Ballantine) and Toby Goldstein’s Frozen Fire (Contemporary), which is as in-depth a look at the Cars as anyone’s ever going to need.

Maybe MTV’s partially responsible for the recent inundation of rock photo books, meaning you didn’t have to know how to read to get enjoyment from any of these. Yoko Ono’s John Lennon: Summer Of 1980 (Perigee) looks at the couple’s last months together through the eyes of eight photographers. One of the photographers was Bob Gruen, who took some of the most memorable post-Beatles photos of Lennon, and includes these plus more in Listen To These Pictures (Morrow). Shots of the Fab Four together can be found in Dezo Hoffman’s The Beatles Conquer America (Avon), though it’s not as much fun as Hoffman’s earlier With The Beatles. More satisfying is Gered Mankowitz’s Satisfaction: The Rolling Stones 1965-1967 (St. Martin’s) which captures what truly was the greatest rock ’n’ roll band in the world at the time in all their decadent glory.

Bowie was the subject of two pictorials— Serious Moonlight (Doubleday/Dolphin) by Denis O’Regan & Chet Flippo, and Mick Rock’s Ziggy Stardust, Bowie 1972/1973 (St. Martin’s). The first is prettier (though one didn’t expect Flippo to follow Your Cheatin’ Heart with this), although the latter contains the more important shots in the long run. Lynn Goldsmith was Bruce Springsteen’s “girlfriend” when she took the portraits and onstage shots featured in Springsteen (St. Martin’s), and she’s donating half the royalties to “Save The Children.” Whatever. Robert Hilburn’s Springsteen book (Scribners/Rolling Stone Press) is being included here, along with John Rockwell’s Sinatra (Random House/Rolling Stone) and John Milward’s The Beach Boys: Silver Anniversary (Doubleday)—not because the critical essays by Hilburn, Rockwell and Milward aren’t worth reading (all are excellent; Rockwell’s made this bully-hating, Dean Martin preferring, non-fan go out and buy a bunch of Sinatra LPs, and glad that he did)—but because the terrific photos are what draws you to these books in the first place (the photo of a long-haired Boss is alone worth a thousand words).

Three art books of interest: Mike Evans’s The Art Of The Beatles, (Beech Tree), which features Fab Four visual art, ranging from Lennon’s sketches to album covers to artists’ interpretations of the phenomenon; Fame 2: Portraits Of Pop Culture (Indigo), an assortment of incredible caricatures ranging from the profound to profane; and New York artist Dante’s The Last James Dean Book (Quill), which beautifully mixes Dean with various facets of rock and its subculture to create a James Dean version of Rock Dreams.

And finally there’s Timothy White’s selfglorifying Rock Stars (Stewart, Tabori & Chang), probably the first book to accept a corporate sponsored “rock ’n’ roll” road show (Pepsi’s “Walk Thru Rock”) as part of its advertising campaign (see this month’s “Media Cool” section). That pretty much tells the tale.

REFERENCE GUIDES: Jan Stacy & Ryder Syvertsen’s Rockin’ Reels (Contemporary) is even worse than 1982’s factually disastrous Rock On Film (someone please bring back Celluloid Rock\). Norm N. Nite released volumes two and three of his famous Rock On directory (Harper & Row), but volume two isn’t nearly as delightfully obscure as the original— while three opens with bios of the MTV jocks and spotlights “The Video Years.” Bert Muirhead’s invaluable The Record Producer File (Blandford) lists the producers of over 20,000 LP’s released between 1962-84. Joel Whitburn’s Top Pop Albums 1955-1985 (Record Research) lists the LPs (by artist) which reached Billboard's Top 200 during the last three decades.

Rock’s two biggest legends were subjects of separate “day-by-day” books—H.V. Fulpen’s The Beatles: An Illustrated Diary (Perigee) and Lee Cotten’s All Shook Up, Elvis Day-By-Day, 1954-1977 (Perian Press). Both are beautifully done. Trivia buffs found some challenging questions in Rock Topicon by Dave Marsh, Sandra Choron and Deborah Geller (Contemporary), which was both fun and educational. Marsh and his Rock & Roll Confidential editors also published The First Rock & Roll Confidential Report (Pantheon), an expanded version of their monthly music ethics newsletter, including both old and new material.

Editor Ira Robbins updated and expanded his Trouser Press Record Guide (Scribners), an exhaustive albeit elitist “new music” directory. And the New Rock Record (Facts On File Publications) lists “everybody who’s played on every record everywhere,” and has found a permanent home on the CREEM copy editor’s desk.

BIOGRAPHIES & HISTORY: Nicholas Fitzgerald’s Brian Jones (Putnam) not only wants us to believe that the author was the late Stones’ best friend, but that he actually witnessed Jones being murdered (...and he waited until now?). Then he disproves everything by writing a boring book. Jerry Hopkins’s Bowie (MacMillan) is disappointingly sparse. Chet Flippo’s On The Road With The Rolling Stones (Doubleday/Dolphin) is an “insider’s” tale of life on the road with the band between 1975 and 1978’s Some Girls tour, just as the decline was elevating and the rot set in once and for all. (But you gotta read between the lines...). And every Grateful Deadhead has probably already absorbed Playing In The Band by David Gans & Peter Simon (St. Martin’s).

Elvis & Me (Putnam) by the King’s ex-wife is number one in the country as this goes to press. Not nearly as in-depth or substantial as one would hope or expect (sometimes written like a gushing schoolgirl’s diary), it does offer some insights, especially if digested with the numerous bios that preceded it. Another rock founder is documented fittingly in the second edition of Howard DeWitt’s Chuck Berry: Rock ’N’ Roll Music (Pierian). Ray Coleman’s reverent Lennon (McGraw-Hill) is the most definitive study published to date. Many people will call David Ritz’s Divided Soul: The Life Of Marvin Gaye (McGraw-Hill) 1985’s best rock book. Ritz, the co-author of Ray Charles’s autobiography, began the book as a collaboration with Gaye before the singer’s death, and the author had access to everything, including the darker side of Gaye’s genius. Any book that begins by calling Here, My Dear a masterpiece promises to be interesting. Soon to be a major motion picture.

Scribners published a revised edition of Nick Tosches’s brilliant Country. No Barbara Mandrell, but lots of demons, darkness, sex, drugs and booze—all the elements that made American music what it is today. Charles Perry expanded his old Rolling Stone article into the very interesting Haight-Ashbury: A History (Random House). And Kenneth Anger delivered the sleaze goods in Hollywood Babylon il (Dutton).

The British Davies boys were the subject of two biographies in ’85—The Kinks: The Official Biography by Jon Savage (Faber & Faber) and John Mendelssohn’s The Kinks Kronikles (Quill). The first has some nice photos, while the latter could have been subtitled “Growing Up With The Kinks,” and is stylistically excellent, even if the author did quote from an interview two CREEM editors once did with Ray Davies and didn’t give either of them credit.

And speaking of Mendelssohn, his old enemies were the topic of the year’s most fascinating and disturbing rock biography, Hammer Of The Gods: The Led Zeppelin Saga by Stephen Davis (Morrow). Davis’s Bob Marley bio (Doubleday)—which many fans call the best book on the late reggae king—was also finally published in America during 1985.

Media

NOVELS & MISCELLANEA: The big news here was probably “wunderkind” Bret Easton Ellis’s very readable Less Than Zero (Simon & Schuster). Critics called it an ’80s The Catcher In The Rye, and people bought it—though God knows it was easier to sympathize with Holden Caulfield than it is with the pathetic, nihilistic, rich California brats (read: assholes) Ellis portrays. Plus all his whining about his generation is starting to get to me. Too much negative energy.

Elvis was the predominant figure in two novels—Art Bourgeau’s lightweight The Elvis Murders (Charter) and William McCranor Henderson’s superb Stark Raving Elvis (Dutton), though the latter wasn’t quite the Elvis Presley Ben Hur some people anticipated.

Don Delillo’s darkly comic White Noise (Viking) examined and justified ’80s paranoia, but ended up more depressing than humorous. Ann Beattie’s yuppie satire, Love Always (Random House), was a major disappointment compared to her earlier work. Paul Krassner’s Best Of The Realist (Running Press) is a must for fans of irreverence and satire. In the year of Madonna, Rosemary Daniell’s Sleeping With Soldiers: In Search Of The Macho Man joined forces to help push feminism back to the stone age. And Stephen King published what often seemed like a book every other week (or at least as many as Dave Marsh did)—each of which was worth staying up past bedtime to finish.

MOVIES

There was nothing nearly as “important” as last year’s Purple Rain, although Stop Making Sense—Jonathan (Melvin & Howard) Demme’s Talking Heads documentary—was more than just another concert film in the same way that The Last Waltz was. Madonna’s navel made its major film debut (but couldn’t steal any scenes from Rosanna Arquette [sigh]) in Desperately Seeking Susan, an ’80s variation on those old 1930’s “screwball” comedies. Steven Spielberg was involved with his best flick yet, Back To The Future. It had heart (imagine watching your parents fall in love), and enough rock ’n’ roll culture to appease the entire family. Martin Scorsese depicted the ultimate “hardcore” New York nightmare in After Hours, which was both sick and hilarious. Neil Simon’s The Slugger’s Wife featured Rebecca DeMornay as a rock singer, but had nothing to do with rock ’n’ roll. And then there was Perfect, surely the lowestgrossing film to ever be featured on the covers of both Rolling Stone and US magazines.

As always, the teen sex comedies were abundant, reaching what had to be an all-time low with Porky’s Revenge. On the other hand, Rob Reiner’s The Sure Thing was perhaps the greatest “teen sex comedy” ever made, incorporating taste, heart, superb production and genuine laughs. Other above average teen flicks included Heaven Help Us (’50s Catholic school life), Fraternity Vacation (good acting), Gotcha! (teen sex meets international esponage), and Real Genius. John Hughes, the new king of teen, released both The Breakfast Club and Weird Science. The first was The Big Chill with zits, while the latter couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be Animal House or a “coming-of-age” message film, flipflopping back and forth. Even though it didn’t live up to its great premise (two nerds create a dream woman ala Frankenstein) there were some genuinely funny scenes, and it’s always heavenly just to look at Kelly LeBrock. And finally there was the very popular St. Elmo’s Fire, which glorified an extremely unsympathetic group of yuppie jerks.

Some of the better “cult” films included the great Stranger Than Paradise, Blood Simple, John Sayles’s The Brother From Another Planet, Wes Craven’s Nightmare On Elm Street, the hilarious Night Of The Comet and George Romero’s Day Of The Dead. Brian DePalma continued to rip-off Hitchcock and give misogyny a bad name in Body Double. But the year’s most unique horror film was Fright Night, in which writer-director Tom Holland merged the creepiest elements of those old Christopher Lee Dracuia flicks with ’80s special effects, a modern teen plot, deadpan humor and an overt vampire sexuality that those Hammer classics could only insinuate.

Woody Allen maintained excellence with The Purple Rose Of Cairo, while the presence of Eddie Murphy transformed the weak Beverly Hills Cop into box office dynamite. Madonna’s new hubby gave another great performance in The Falcon & The Snowman. Lawrence (The Big Chill) Kasdan’s Silverado wanted to be something even bigger than those mythological Westerns we all grew up with. The quirky, eccentric characterizations were great (though too many actors were wasted here)—but when it comes to impressive westerns, I’ll still take High Noon, Shane, How The West Was Won or even Pale Rider over this any day. Arnold Schwarzenegger read CREEM in Commando—while the summer’s biggest hit had a moron going back to Vietnam to singlehandedly win the war we probably shouldn’t have fought in the first place.

COMMERCIAL VIDEOS

Some of the more interesting ones: Rock And Roll: The Early Days, is about as good as you can get in a one hour video format. Ready, Steady, Go!, Vol. II is light on content when compared to last year’s release, but there are some worthwhile moments, most notably the young Beach Boys. Speaking of which, one of the year’s best releases was The Beach Boys: An American Band, an excellent documentary brought to you by half the team responsible for This Is Elvis. Speaking of which, 1985 saw the release of Elvis’s 1968 “Comeback” Special (hot!) and I973’s Aloha From Hawaii (not so hot), as well as an assortment of his drive-in delight fare (though J. Kordosh is still eagerly awaiting the release of Girl Happy'.).

Yoko Ono: Then & Now is interesting for the clips of her late husband and his former partners—who, of course, owe everthing they were to Ms. Ono. The Doors: Dance On Fire has great live footage of Morrison & crew, but just a little bit too much MTVish “conceptualization” for my taste. Ray Davies got “theatrical” again—without the Kinks—on Return To Waterloo. The royal hypester’s Purple Rain tour was documented in Prince & The Revolution Live, featuring some hazy shots since it was transferred directly from one of those large arena monitor screens. And U2: Under A Blood Red Sky features the “unforgettable” Bono, Edge & cohorts putting on a terrific show and preaching “integrity” as they make plans for MTV to promote their next tour. (Anything for peace, guys, and keep throwing those flags in the audience.)

Sony released a series of video EPs, including a segment from the Jam’s final tour, as well as a classic Beatles special and Motown revue taken from Ready, Steady, Go! And of course, there were numerous movies released on videocassette this year—the best (from a rock vein) being Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs & Englishmen, Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains The Same and the Hendrix documentary.

TELEVISION

The big news here was Miami Vice, which won over both critics and the public alike with its blend of terminal hipness, violence, seediness and music video imagery. In fact, the soundtrack LP(?!) is number one in the country as this goes to press. Personally, it’s a little too “hip” and violent for this reviewer— and I’ve yet to see a real cop dressed in Italian designer suits. Plus Don Johnson smokes too many cigarettes. I’ll still take Hill Street Blues.

Of course, rock-oriented TV reached a pinnacle of excellence this year with the brilliant Puttin’ On The Hits. NBC’s Motown Returns To The Apoilo couldn’t hold a candle to its earlier 25-year anniversary special. HBO stuck to safe bet concerts by the likes of Hall & Oates, Phil Collins and outtakes from Elvis’s ’68 Comeback titled One Night With You, while Showtime presented John Fogerty in a comeback special. The news magazines got into the rock scene with Dylan and Bruce Springsteen interviews on 20/20 and a Little Richard segment on 60 Minutes.

Bob Geldof may have been correct (albeit too smug) when he said the difference between Live Aid and Farm Aid was the difference between a person’s livelihood and a person’s life. Nonetheless, from a purely entertainment standpoint, Farm Aid beat out Live Aid hands down. It was a lot less pretentious, overblown and self-serving, the acts were more diverse (and arguably better), and you didn’t have to suffer through the moronic “show biz” attitude of the MTV jocks to watch it. (How do I dislike MTV? Let me count the ways...)

But in conclusion, the best rock-oriented programming on TV this year was probably Lou Reed’s Honda commercial.