IMAGINE

IMAGINE

(Warner Bros. Films)

Considering how iron-handedly Yoko Ono allegedly oversaw the Imagine project, both the film and accompanying picturebook, I guess it could’ve been worse. But not much. The “years in the making” tagline normally associated with such undertakings appears here, and the care is certainly obvious—in some cases. Mostly, and understandably, most of the care is taken with the John’n’Yoko era when they were practically psychically merged. We see scene after scene of bed-ins, bag-ins, loving times spent alone in the country .. .some of it verging on soap operadom (though at least one segment—a caricaturishly rightwing, yet almost sensible Al Capp baiting the stoic lefty couple during one bed-in—nearly saves the whole later portion).

What we don’t see, however, is anything remotely un-cobwebbed Beatles-wise. It’s as if that whole era of John Lennon’s life was an afterthought, a sidebar to the husband/ dad Yoko tries to have painted.

Besides the omissions, there are some mistakes (for lack of a better word) so glaring that one hardly has to be a Beatlemaniac to catch ’em. F’rinstance, a voiceover blathering on about the Fab Four’s riot-

provoking Hamburg club dates . . . while the screen shows the oft-seen Bill Haley & the Comets' German stadium riot. There’s also instances where live performances are replaced with studio sound, intermittent use of misplaced screaming—teen stock footage ... In short, the middle section of the flick is extremely sloppy.

But for a while, the filmmakers (we deadline-facing, yet nonetheless handsome, editors viewed a creditless print, so don’t expect too many details here) almost salvage things; a handful of infrequently-screened interviews/home-movie type snippets shed some light on Lennon’s often-tumultuous life during the 70s. Somewhat surprisingly, a decent amount of time is devoted to John’s year-plus “lost weekend,” including brief interviews with and abouts May Pang, his mistress at the time.

The overall sense of melodrama never fades altogether, though, and throughout Imagine's waning moments, it’s practically suffocating. And, since even music critics know you’re never allowed to give away an ending (well, you know the ending, but . . .), I’ll only mention that I’ve never laughed at a more inappropriate time. Ever.

David Sprague

STORYTELLING GIANT TALKING HEADS

Storytelling Giant Talking Heads (Warner/Reprise Video)

The concept behind Storytelling Giant—stringing together Talking Heads vids from the last 10 years with footage of “real” people delivering random non sequiturs between clips—sounds like atypical David Byrne eccentricity (see 1987’s True Stories), and as one might expect these mundane vignettes make little sense—but that’s OK, ’cause it’s in the name of art. What counts here are the videos themselves, from the sparse early clips (“Once In A Lifetime,” “Crosseyed And Painless”) to surreal later ones (“Burning Down The House,” “And She Was”). No one can accuse the Heads of falling into the you’ve-seen-one-videoyou’ve-seen-’em-all category, but in the end, any true TH aficionado will probably realize that what’s on the orfgfnal vinyl tells the stories just as well. R.P. Mencken The main coverline here shoulda read “Talkin’ ’Bout A Moneymaking Scam,’’ since that’s basically what the October issue of Spin amounts to. I ain’t usually the type to slag fellow rock rags, what with the oncerevered artform drawing ever closer to extinction (thanks to “instant technology’’ and Empty-TV drawing formerly literate folks away from the printed word), not to mention a tacit understanding of the of “glass houses” axiom. But when I pick up a magazine with one of my favorite new artists on the cover, using one of her song titles as the tagline, and clearly stating that the contents include “Tracy Chapman ... on the new rock activism,” I expect something substantial on said artist. And since I’m such an easy sell for folk’s new reigning priestess, I bought the issue without looking inside, amid jibes from the local retailer and co-editor Sprague for patronizing the competition.

R.P. Mencken

SPIN (October 1988)

Havin’ been a New Yawk resident for all of 24 hours at the time of said purchase, I had no idea my sunbaked Californian naivete was about to be exploited for the first time. Though the implication is that Chapman as “socially conscious folkie” (their words, not mine) is gonna wax prolific on what she and her music are all about, what you get is a page worth of space-filling thinkspug on why Ms. Tracy is so damn relevant, along with four lousy postage-stamp sized photos, all of which ostensibly justify the cover appearance. It's a given in magazine publishing that a cover sells the product, but apparently somebody over at Spin subscribes to Barnum’s theory that there’s a sucker born every minute. Here’s to my 60 seconds in the spotlight.

Steve Peters

ROCK & ROLL CUISINE Robin Le Mesuerier and Peggy Sue Honeyman-Scott (Billboard Books)

Curious lack o’ Slim Jim-based recipes here, but otherwise it’s a fine purchase for anybody whose kitchen utensil collection extends beyond the can opener. Sure, you can question the inclusion of some of the second-stringers you’ll browse across here (neither Eddie Ojeda or Westworld (?) possess enough culinary oomph to dislodge, so to speak,

an obvious omission like the “Mama Cass Ham Sandwich’’). And there are, as befits the nutritionally-pinko rock scene of the day, way too many vegetarian recipes. Tofu is kept to a minimum, though, and as much as it hurts to admit it, one of the better recipes (one for “Fiesta Dip”) is not only a non-carnivorous number, but comes courtesy of Stevie Nicks.

Further proof that tastebuds and ear canals are completely disconnected comes from the tastysounding “Crab Cakes A La Bena” from, of all people, Bruce Hornsby, and Mick Fleetwood’s keenly dubbed “What My Girlfriend Sara Makes For Me,” which is a butterheavy glump of shrimp stuff. Yum.

Dunno how seriously the whole project can be taken as a cookbook per se, but Rock ’n’ Roll Cuisine is alternately amusing, kinda informative, overly silly and mostly inspires early lunches ’round these parts. Oh yeah, just so you think it credible, Meat Loaf serves as the book’s token blatant food-lover, posing uncomfortably ravenously with a blonde on his lap. We’ll just let you guess about his recipe.

David Sprague

CHICKEN MC NUGGETS FIESTA (McDonalds)

How many are the whizzes under the Golden Arches gonna be able to package these over-processed slabs of gristle, fat, and whatever actual chicken by-products they actually do use to hold the whole thang together? Judging by the speed with which I witnessed presumably intelligent New Yorkers ordering the pseudo-Old El Paso polio chunx, it’d be difficult to put a ceiling on the number. Basically, what you get in the deal are yer basic Nuggets, better lightly laced with unmixed, raw Mex-spice (heavy on ther Cumin). You could achieve pretty much the same effect at home by hat dancing atop a bag o’ Taco flavored (not Nacho “Cheese”) Doritos, and dumping the contents on top of the chicken leftovers in your Frigidairethat’re beyond the safe eatin’ date. Sound appealing? Then maybe you’ll dig the Oktoberfest McNuggets mit plenty of tasty sauerkraut ... or perhaps the McNuggets Addis Ababa style—ya get nuttin’ but box! Heee. David Sprague

THE BRAIN FROM PLANET AROUS (Rhino Video)

An indelible fave of any populture addict who spent his or her childhood glued to the local Creature Features, this underappreciated 1957 cheapie is one of the most endearingly wacky gems of bizarro sci-fi cinema. Actually, this features two floating extraterrestrial papiermache brains (with eyes), One’s a lustful, power-hungry bad-guy brain who takes over the body of nuclear scientist Steve March (John Agar in his greatest role), allowing the possessed Agar to use his new silvery eyeballs to blow up airplanes, incinerate his enemies, and conquer the world. Fortunately, a helpful goodguy brain shows up, borrowing the body of Agar’s girlfriend’s dog until John comes to his senses and takes a hatchet to the villainous gray matter. For bad-movie addicts, this Brain has it all—a ridiculous premise, shoestring special effects, Agar’s over-the-top performance, and the most outdoor-dining scenes of any known alien-invasion flick. Just when i was on the verge ot accepting CDs as an (admittedly inferior but) valid format for the aural absorption of music, along comes a newer one, sure to send technophiles and technophobes scurrying (in opposite directions, of course): What we’ve got here is the ultimate refinement of the cassette. Sure, Fisher-Price is ostensibly marketing the I’il suckers to tots, or more accurately, tots’ parents, but the post-MTV set seems a far more logical target for these two-song,

Harold DeMuir

POCKET ROCKERS (Fisher-Price)

THE WILD ONE: THE TRUE STORY OF IGGY POP

by Per Nilsen and Dorothy Sherman (Omnibus Press)

You might think writing about Iggy Pop would be an easy thing—an impossible task to fuck up. Well, as recent issues of this very magazine evidence, that’s not exactly the case. Sure, it's a snap to view the Ig as a curio, an exhibit noteworthy for pure shock value. And it’s pretty commonplace for folks who’ve never so much as heard, say, “Little Doll” or “Johanna” to put the guy up on some kinda pedestal because Ms. Bowie says that be the thing to do.

Fortunately, Nilsen and Sherman haven’t taken the easy route. The Wild One brims with long-unseen (and some apocryphal) anecdotes/ quotes by and about Iggy. Not surprisingly, the latter make up the bulk of the fascinating chapters that concentrate on Iggy’s drugged-out post-Psychedelic Stooges days, when, as one reporter commented, “Iggy wasn’t there for the audience’s benefit, they were there for his . . .’’

matchbook-sized packages o’ pop.

Consider it. Two songs, just enough of the Jets, Tiffany, a nameless ersatz Bangles (the choices so far)—though if a tad more adventuresome person took the reins, the Ramones or even Blue Cheer might hit the spot, what with the already, er, consistent sound. Oh yeah, forgot to mention—the tapes, infull 70s glory, are formatted a la the 8-track. In other words, the things’re looped, and will play for as long as you want,

before concluding “The only thing Jim Morrison is into is displaying his cock to prove he still has one. When Iggy is onstage, there’s never any doubt!”

The authors manage to look past Iggy’s cock, though, branching off into discussion of the Stooges as electric free jazz (a point first driven home by John Sinclair), decidedly non-sensationalists looks at Mr. Osterberg’s self-destructive onstage persona immediately following that period (plus a few pages on the rarely discussed period the Stooges spent as a six-piece), and more. Perhaps the most fascinating events in the last category are those surrounding Ig’s initial split with the

one song or another. Forever. Or until the batteries run out.

And believe me, that’s pretty close to forever, as our Senior Editor discovered at several points of CREEM’s leisurely cross-continental move. Not wanting to let the Pocket Rocker too far out of my sight on the peppy one a.m. flight into Dallas (a 45-minute layover, for all you itinerary freaks), I shoved the machine deep into my carry-on bag and forgot about it—for a good long while, actually—until our non-English speaking cabbie finally deposited us at the home of a globe-trotting former co-worker.

Between jet-lagged arguments about, well, just about everything, we spent plenty of time muttering about executing whoever was playing “that

record” at a volume just loud enough to annoy, but not loud enough to identify. This went on until the handsomer one of us found the energy to shower and needed fresh clothes.

Soon the truth became sickeningly clear.

As the carry-on bag opened, there was the tape, some 18 hours later, still spinning out "You Got It All Over Plim,” making me glad I hadn’t checked the damn thing, thereby taking full responsibility for a cargo cabin rabies outbreak. Phew.

David Sprague

Bowie/Mainman axis immediately following Raw Power. Besides some scathingly hate-ridden comments about the Thin White Puke, Nilsen and Sherman document the wild descent he took in the mid-’70s in more detail than you might care to read, but you really oughta.

The Wild One, though obviously a labor of love, never borders on the syncophantic; the authors’ sources are impeccable (heavy use of the CREEM archives, of course) and though the Bowie period is treated with a little more reverence than a rational person would, the overall picture is obvious—that of Iggy Pop: the only true rock star we have left.

David Sprague