Roadrunner 5(5) July 1982

1982i R.R.P. $1 nn

IN THE EIGHTIES

By Larry Buttrose

SUBSCRIPTION OFFER: THE BIRTHOAY PARTY'S ‘JUNKYARO

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Dear Donald, I enjoyed the article on Steve Kilby very much (Vol. 5 No. 4 May). I reserve my opinion of it, as the article speaks for itself. It doesn’t demand interpretations, either good or bad (and both apply) for it expressly avoids provoking those dire things Kilby seems to cringe from so visibly. Well done in this respect! Admittedly Kilby is not beyond digging his own grave on more than the odd occasion with the press; but too many zlick, blood-sucking contributors, within the narrow confines of their minds, throw up needless flack in too many band’s faces, as if they have some right to exercise what are in reality, their impotent insecurities. Not all, but many articles, try too often to catch the favour of the wayward plastic minds that read them, instead of concentrating on the group or person they are supposed to be interviewing. Your article. I’m glad to say, compromised both person and reporter to come up with a perfect answer, in what is now a near feud between both.

I regret the only way a situation could be finally reached to present Steve’s thoughts in a proper perspective, had to be obtained through the absence of interviewer and interviewee alike, and at the expense of silly bitterness on either side.

I cannot deny the article caters very well to Steve’s stubborn selfishness, but perhaps this is a small price to pay if it means his thoughts can be presented in their own right, as they should ha/e been in the first place, with little fuss. Steve deserves as much.

Yours sincerely,

THE NEW DINGO-GO MUSIC ROCKS SYDNEY !

Maris Rocke.

Dear Roadrunner, Regarding a comment made by Craig N. Pearce (Vol.5, No.4, May 82, p.30) “ I feel like a ridiculous Ram writer saying the Sunnyboys are good — or something hilariously similar . . .”

Could you please print what was written between the lines, because he couldn’t have meant what was written around the inbetween bits.

Lisa McLoughlin Woodville South S.A.

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Dear Roadrunner I’m pretty shitted off with the reporter who wrote a bias report in last months (May) Roadrunner about Inxs. I've been a great admirer of Inxs for the lasttwo years and I certainly admire their latest album “Underneath the Colours”. I think the production of the album was excellent, and the sound was good, clean and original. Inxs

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have produced a sound that differs from the normal top 40 music which mainly consists ofdull rhyming chords with drumming which is restricted to only one beat (high hat snare beat) and which applies to most groups “they’re only in it for the money”. Also Adrian Ryan statesihat “the bands dilemma remains one of trying to keep the demands of chart ambition”. My view is that Inxs aren’t the type of group that really get pleasure and want top 40 success, they hit me as a good live band who are in for the enjoyment, and to me they show promise in the future, and I hope all goes well in their new album.

Tim Hills Lead Singer, Songwriter of Cold Emotions: Corinof OLD. Dear Craig N Pearce, Who the fucking hell do you think you are?

The Japan article was bloody shithouse.

All you did throughout the whole page, was make smart comments about Japan’s music, their image, the way they dress and David’s voice.

And what’s all this meaningless shit about lust, passion, aching orgasms and torrid thrusts?!! I ought to ram that bottle of Don Perignon down your throat.

I suggest, Mr. Pearce, thatyou get off your‘I’m a big rock ‘journalist’ ego wank.

If David says his music is not slyly sexual, who are you to say, “Okay fine (load of cowshit anyway, but fine, fine)”.

You’ve interpreted Japan’s music as being sexual because that’s the way your sick, onetracked, deformed and demented little mind works.

Being a Japan fan for four years, I’m not about to take all this ‘sexual’ shit from a fuckwit journo like you. And how dare you call Japan obscene!!

The ‘Tin Drum’ album is their best yet and it should be taken seriously. Most critics are realising that there is much more to Japan than just their pretty boy faces and cool calculated image.

Japan have great musical ability, and after all these years, they deserve all the recognition tf)ey get.

Even Ram managed to give them a fair review and a two page spread, with no criticising of their image or any of this ‘sexual’ shit.

Mr. Fuckhead Pearce, I reckon that because you’ve got a fat gut, greasy hair, bad breath, and a face full of nits, you’re jealous of David Sylvian, (my hero!), because he’s so perfect!

C’mon you know it’s true!

Yours Unfaithfully Devoted Japan Fan. Campbelltown, N.S.W.

Dear Roadrunner, Just had to write and congratulate Adelaide on it’s apparently newest “find”! Whilst visiting some friends recently, I was lucky enough to be taken to see the first gig of an S.A. band called “Toyland”.

Compared to some Sydney bands I must say they certainly come “up to par” in comparison. Rarely have I enjoyed a band as much as I did at the Toyland gig. Their visuals were great — dancers, and what must be one of the best female singers I have seen for ages. WHO is she??? I went to see “the Models” the next night, and was thoroughly disappointed — after Toyland the only thing they had was volume.

If Toyland are indicative of the Adelaide music scene, the festival state has a lot going for it! ' “Impressed" Merewether, N.S.W.

Dear Roadrunner, I know this letter may seem a bit late, but it’s just that I’m still having wild dreams about Duran Duran.

You see, on April 15, I was in Adelaide to see Duran Duran live in concert. I travelled all the way from Perth to see them live, and, on the same night as their show, I was due to fly back to Perth. I wasn’t disappointed neither, because I had a great time at the concert. Duran Duran were absolutely fantastic (especially Nick) on stage. I most definitely got my moneys worth. Though I do hope that next time they tour Australia they’ll come to Perth. Many fans were very disappointed at not being able to see them live. I was very happy to go to Adelaide just to seelhem play and the photos I took turned out great. What memories they’ll bring back.

Before I end my letter, I woula j .-st like to add that Duran Duran did a great job at the Rock Awards, though I must admit I was disappointed at them for not speaking up.

Yours faithfully, A Happy Duran Duran fan PERTH W.A.

R The Triffids, ‘legendary young beat combo from ‘Perth’, are embarking on their first national tour this month. They’ll be in Melbourne from July 12th-20th and are arranging dates for Adelaide sometime in August. The tour coincides with the release of their latest single, ‘Spanish Blue/Twisted Brain’, and a new cassette (their seventh!), ‘The Dungeon Tape’.

The first releases from new record label IC

U The Church are planning a UK tour sometime in September following the release of the ‘Blurred Crusade’ album there.

Coming soon — the new Dexy’s Midnight Runners album, called ‘Too Rye-Ay’ which will feature their fiddle section, the Emerald Express, as well as their already established horn section.

Bryan Ferry has announced his upcoming marriage to 22 year old debutante Lucy Helmore.

Ms Helmore is expecting a child in November.

PHOTO — ERIC ALGRA

Down Under (reviewed elsewhere in this issue) include a solo album from the label’s founder, exTangerine Dream synthesist, Klaus Schulze. IC Germany, dealing mainly in Avant-garde rock, electronic music has already had great success with a self titled album from a band called Ideal. IC Down Under will represent IC in Australia and at a later stage will produce local bands. They’re located at 196 Nelson Rd., Albert Park, Vic. 3206.

Split Enz have returned from an Extremely successful North American tour and will be playing a comprehensive national tour in July and the early part of August.

Mental as Anything tempted Elvis Costello into the studio on his recent tour (see LIVE) to produce their latest single. The single was recorded at Alberts in Sydney and was engineered by the producer of the ‘Cats and Dogs’ album, Bruce Brown. Costello has only ever produced two other acts. Squeeze and The Specials.

Dingo Girl, a new and original Australian Rock Musical, has its initial run at the University of Sydney’s Footbridge Theatre from 25th. June to 10th July. Dingo Girl is the latest creation of Dennis Warkins, the creator of STALIN — The Musical, and THE ICEBERG COMETH. At last Adelaide has a late night theatre restaurant along the lines of Melbourne’s Last Laugh and Le Joke. Lark and Tina’s, 108 Hindley St., have already presented Peter Lillie (certified Cult Hero) and the inimitable Paul Madigan (with a little help from Ross Hannaford) and plans to bring over more interstate talent as well as presenting unusual SA performers.

The Teardrop Explodes have shrunk to a three piece with the exit of guitarist Troy Tate and bassist Ron Francois. The remaining members are Julian Cope, David Balfe and Gary Dwyer.

Their next album will be recorded with this line up.

Australian female hard rock duo Cheetah are booked to headline at Europe’s premier Heavy Metal bash, the Reading Festival in England, late in August.

The Pretenders are in complete disarray following the death of guitarist James Honeyman-Scott. Scott dies in his sleep at a friend’s flat in London the day after bass player Pete Farndon was sacked from the band. No cause of death has yet been established.

Two of B ritain’s top rock promotion companies. Straight Music and Kiltorch have gone into liquidation. And in Australia, Threshold Production’s Pty. Ltd., who put on last year’s Tanelorn Festival, have gone into liquidation with debts of $353,482 and assets of $5,000.

Go-Betweens have nice things said about them in N.M.E. Dept. Dave Hill, reviewing ‘Send Me A Lullaby’, said‘. . . this seems the least fussy, least pompous, most natural and moving music I’ve heard from their part of the planet.’ Aw, nice.

The Dugites’ newest addition, former Sports guitarist Andrew Pendlebury, will not be touring with the band, who have just signed to Melbourne label Rough Diamond — but he will be appearing on the band’s up and coming recordings. Most likely live replacement is Boris, ex-The Stockings.

Coming up on M Squared: E.P.’s from Wildlife Documentaries and Ya-Ya Choral.

The Go-Go’s cancelled their Adelaide concert early this month after lead singer Belinda Carlisle sustained a hairline fracture of one of the bones in her foot during a concert in Melbourne the evening before.

A new Adelaide booking agency. Pyramid Promotions has been set up and already has over twenty local acts on its books including the Screaming Believers, Speedboat, Chequers, Spitfires and the Acrylic Chewies. The agency will also be handling interstate acts in the coming months. Founder Neil Wiles says one of the agency’s main aims is to get work interstate for Adelaide bands, and generally build up the Adelaide music scene which is going through one of its worst periods in years. He added that the agency was formed by the bands for the bands, because they were all unhappy with the present agency set up in Adelaide which is dominated by one agency, C.B.A.

Adelaide group Vertical Hold, who had a No. 1 hit single in Adelaide with ‘My Imagination’ last year, have signed to WEA. Former Skyhooks drummer, Freddie Strarks has joined the Bushwackers.

Siousie Sioux, lead singer of Siouxsie and the Banshees, has been told that she must stop singing at least until the beginning of 1983 or risk losing her voice completely.

Furthermore, according to a diagnosis made by a Swedish throat specialist Dr. Sanner and confirmed by Harley St.’s finest, she will have to change her singing style completely if she is to continue singing.

Talking Heads will be doing two major UK concerts in July with a line up of David Byrne, Tina Weymouth, Jerry Harrison, Chris Frantz, Steve Scales, Bernie Worrel, Alex Weir and Dolette McDonald. Five-eighths of these also feature in the TomTom Club who will be support act.

Strummer’s back but Topper’s gone — that’s the news from the Clash camp. Joe Strummer eventually turned up after hanging out for a month in Paris ‘getting his head together’, but drummer Topper Headon has left the band.

Filling in on drums for the band’s current American tour is original drummer, Terry Chimes.

More vacant drum stools. Charley Charles, founder member of Ian Dury’s Blockheads has

left to pursue a solo career.

The reason we all won’t be flocking to see Buck’s Fizz this month is that they have opted to do a British seaside resort tour instead. Reels’ lead singer Dave Mason is reportedly shattered by the cancellation of the tour as he had been quoted as saying the Reels’ support spot would have been the highlight of his career. Never mind Dave, perhaps you’ll land the next Cliff Richard support.

John Martyn is recovering in hospital from injuries sustained while attempting to vault a fence which collapsed under him. He fractured several ribs, one of which pierced a lung. The accident has interrupted the recording of a new album and forced the cancellation of a U.S. tour.

King Crimson have their new album, ‘Beat’ up and coming and it’s based on the writings of Jack Kerouac, the well known ‘50’s beat hero.

It’s a case of life imitating art imitating life. Soft Cell have run into controversy in the UK over a video of their new single ‘Sex Dwarf. The video has been described as a pseudo-porn version of the ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’, and features the duo in bondage and leather brandishing a butcher’s knife and chainsaw. Support parts go to two transexuals, the dwarf and large quantities of raw meat. The song was inspired by a headline in Rupert Murdoch’s ‘News of the World’ and in a curious twist of fate, the ‘News of the World’ has jumped on the story with a headline screaming ‘Porno Dwarf.

Innovative Music for Innovative People You probably go for the unusual music. Fresh ideas, excellent production. Music that excites, stuns, communicates and challenges. ICDU delivers: your kind of music! We're an independent label, not much money but we believe in our artists and what they do. So, give them a listen.

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• Records available at: Melbourne: Pipe Records, Ph. (03) 6542252.

Gaslight Records, Ph. (03) 63 9009, (03) 5091484. Pet Sounds, Ph. (03) 5091952. Monash Records, Ph. (03) 5446673. The Agora, Ph. (03) 4780679. Greville Records, Ph. (03) 51 3012. Readings Records, Ph. (03) 8191917, (03) 2671885. Sydney: Red Eye Records, Ph. (02) 2338292. Anthem Records, Ph. (02) 2677931. Utopia Imported . Records, Ph. (02) 2323429. Recycled Records, Ph. (02) 3575378.

Newcastle: Tyrrells Records, Ph. (049) 2 1819. Canberra: Impact Records, Ph. (062) 474401. Perth: 78 Records, Ph. (09) 3226384. DaDa Records, Ph. (09) 325 2952. Adelaide: Andromeda Music, Ph. (08) 223 4592. , Brisbane: Skinny's Records and Tapes, Ph. (07) 2292389. Hobart: Sandy HiFi, Ph.(002)343121.

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IVA DA VIES A one man ice house For months rumours have beer sweeping the Australian rock scene about the big split in Icehouse. It’s been obvious that the various members o1 the band have been taking an extended sabbatical from the band; with no live work since the tour with Simple Minds last year and no recorded material either, many people wondered if it was in fact the end of Icehouse.

Talking to Iva Davies, just prior to his departure for Los Angeles, it became apparent the answer was yes . . . and no.

“As a performing band, it won’t be what it was,” Davies said. “There are people overseas who will probably be in the performing band, but they still have to secure releases from their record companies. John Lloyd will probably be drumming, Anthony will possibly be playing keyboards. At this stage I can’t be more specific.”

It’s a matter of, there’s going to be Icehouse with me as . . . ‘Overseeing director’, but it’s going to be a changing situation.”

to the people who arrive there.’ Other songs include ‘U niform ’, about propaganda, ‘Persian Blue’, written about a painting, ‘Break these Chains’, about liberation, ‘Street Cafe’, a diary of a love affair, and ‘Mysterious Thing’, which Davies says is a funky number, closest in feel to ‘Can’t Help Myself.

Commenting on the songs Davies said, ‘They’re a little less staid, a little less clinical than the first album.’ The backing tracks were recorded in eleven days at Paradise Studios in Sydney with Forsey coming out to Australia to co-produce, and the album will be finished in Los Angeles.

Most of the pre-production was done on Davies own drum computer, which he describes as an ‘Efficient, nongruelling way to make music.’ Davies confesses to having an obsession with machinery, despite the fact that he and machines have never got on very well. ‘I seem to have this electronic jinx.’ He does add however that he can’t see Icehouse, as a performing band ever using computers onstage.

THE FIXX High on m aybe’s

Since the tour with Simple Minds late last year, in retrospect the swansong of the Davies, Lloyd, Anthony Smith, Keith Welsh line-up, Davies has certainly not been idle. Most of this year has be’en spent overseas, mainly checking out producers for the forthcom ing album and doing, promotional work on the last one. At one stage this year ‘Can’t Help Myself popped up as a hit in Holland, ‘We Can Get Together’ was happening in Spain and ‘Icehouse’ looked like working in the U.K. For the past three months, since returning from overseas, Davies has been working with producer Keith Forsey, who he describes as Giorgio Moroder’s right hand man, on the follow up to the ‘Icehouse’ album.

Tentatively titled ‘Primitive Man’, the album is due for release in late July/ early August.

A single from the album, ‘Great Southern Land’, will be released sometime in Mid July. Davies describes the song as being about ‘any kind of continent where the people are in a vulnerable position — especially the people who belong there, as opposed

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‘They’re too unreliable in a five situation. Live and the studio have always been two separate things for me. They offer totally different possibilities.’

Davies compares the present Icehouse situation to the Talking Heads situation of last year. ‘If David Byrne hadn’t been able to go off with Brian Eno then I think Talking Heads would have broken up irrevocably.

With Icehouse I think we all felt we wanted to do something else for awhile.

We’d been on the road for so long that I hadn’t had time to write any songs, and I couldn't expect the other guys to hang around while I got my end of it together.

So John enrolled in an art course, Keith's been running his little label and agency (and tour managing the Numbers) and Anthony’s been working with Matt Moffitt and other people.

“It’s never been a tight situation anyway. It’s always been a situation of whatever is required — do it. It's the music that comes out that’s most important, not the rock'n’roll idea of ‘the band’.

Donald Robertson.

Cy Cumin is the singerfrom the Fixx, whose cogent anti-war single ‘Stand Or Fall’ has been getting much deserved airplay in all the right places of late.

Although not a new band (Cy, drummer Adam Woods, bass player Charlie Barratt and keyboard player Rupert Greenhall having been together since 1976) the album ‘Shuttered Room’ is their first. The band has been together in its present line-up, which includes guitarist Jamie West-Oram, since 1979.

Although the Fixx’s music falls neatly into the electro-synth-pop category, so much in vogue in the U.K. this year (you don’t have to listen too hard to hear echoes of Duran Duran, Haircut 100 etc. ad infinitum), ‘Shuttered Room’ is not merely an album full of drippy modern love songs. There is. Shock!

Horror! some attempt to transcend the banal themes of style, romance and fashion.

Cy Cumin, on the phone from beleaguered Britain, elaborates.

“I’m not really into love songs — not that I’m not a romantic. I think it’s important just to show what the writer or what the band are thinking. I mean obviously ‘Stand Or Fall’ is about my private fears of war. My parents lived through the war, and my visions of the war I’ve got through their stories, over the years. And you’d think people would have learnt their lesson from the last time, but they haven’t. Despite all the reasons why there shouldn’t be

another war, it seems so inevitable that there will be one. “ ‘Stand Or Fall’ is quite mild really — although it’s also got a theme of positive action.”

Cumin comes across as a pleasant young chap, willing to rabbit on at length about anything and everything under the sun. We discuss the Falklands, as quite a few people have suggested ‘Stand Or Fall’ was written as a resu It of the South Atlantic conflict.

Cumin is quite adamant however that the song was completed ‘before anyone had ever heard of the place’, and a close listen to the lyrics bears witness to that.

One topic that’s obviously burning a hole in his tongue is the marriage of music and fashion in modern day U.K. “It’s happened to such a degree that it’s choked itself. People actually lost sight of our record — we had more press about whether we wore straight or flared trousers! Who cares! Over here, it seems to give you a sense of belonging, if you wear the right clothes and you buy this album you automatically belong.

“I think the individuality of musical appreciation has gone. You might have someone who likes an album, but because that album might not be in fashion, you’ll see them in a record shop; they’ll go in, slide the record out and stick it under their jacket, then creep up to the cashier as if they were

buying a dirty mag. I bought the Bucks , Fizz album and the Simple Minds album yesterday. If only there was the total flat acceptance like that.”

Indeed on theJr publicity sheet Cy Cumin lists his influences as Talking Heads, Television, Eno, Bowie, GO’S soul and Tamla Motown. The latter two, he explains, are not so much musical influences, more things he really likes to listen to for ‘real good time excitement.’ Eno and Talking heads are rather more seminal influences.

“That Eno-Byrne album, ‘My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts’, that’s my Bible,” he says reverently. “Not so much in arrangement, but how you can avoid arranging pieces of music if you’ve got tempo and atmosphere really well married. Night after night I just listen to it. By the time I get to the end of side two I just want to put on side one again.” , What do you think you’re chances of success are, Cy? “I’m not really thinking about it too much. At the moment we’re just thinking about our next album. All you can do is try and improve. I really am ^dying for success. I think we all are — we’d be very silly to say, ‘Look, we’re not!’ After a time you can feel yourself — your optimism-runs away with you. If you let it. You can get so high on maybes . . . ” Donald Robertson.

I arrived to live in Sydney some months ago, one idea for a story was something on the numerous expatriate interstate bands now resident in Sydney. This fell a bit by the wayside as I realised that most of them are as unim aginative as th e ir Sydney counterparts. Another ambition at the time was to see Le Hoodoo Gurus.

When I did see them, somebody was standing at the back of the Trade Union Club yelling “Go back to Perth!” Hmm, thought I. It was also a strange thing to hear, since at the time they were in the process of upstaging Sardine V in no uncertain terms. (Mind you, it was in no uncertain terms a bad night for Sardine V, they sounded like a dry cleaning machine gone crazy, but that could be another story.) Which was also strange, because all I’d heard was that Le Hoodoo Gurus weren’t too good in a bigger place. (It’s all to do with a band strange enough to have three guitarists and no bass.) Having seen them in the tiny Southern Cross Hotel, I knew they were good, but didn’t know what to expect in a larger environment. They were better, aided by the clarity of a full, dynamic mix.

Le Hoodoo Gurus are drummer

James Baker, and guitarist/singers Kim Rendall, Rod Radalj, with Dave Slick handling most of the vocals. They play a light-hearted but powerful set of mid­ sixties orientated rockers with a fair leaning towards the psychedelic/punk/ crazy variety of material epitomized by a perfect rendition of The Preachers’ demented cover of ‘Who Do You Love’.

A good version of ‘My Baby Does The Hanky Panky’ (or whatever it’s called) is another pretty good indicator.

The band whilst making intelligent use of three guitars, is also in possession of that all too rare commodity, a good male singer. Dave Slick and James Baker are the original Television Addicts, co-authors of that Perth classic for The Victims. You see, three of Le Hoodoo Gurus come from Perth after all (although not all that recently). James and Rod have also been members of The Scientists, and Kim Rendall was in The XL Capris.

They’re not necessarily beginners.

And what with the band about to release their first single on Phantom, as well as establishing a sizeable following, it must be time to find out what their favourite colour is.

DAVE: Where was the first place we played? Wonderworld. Our first gig

was on T.V. JAMES: It wasn’t even in Roadrunner, either.

R.R.: That’s disgusting . . , Anyway, how’d the Wonderworld thing come about?

D.: We met them at the Atlanta Restaurant just down the road, and they said we’ll do one. They said to get a good demo-tape together and we’ll do a . . . a ‘thing’, and we didn’t get a good one, we got a bad one. But we did it anyway. And then we played the next night, and that was our first real performance.

ROD.: It was like three nights of Le Hoodoo Gurus.

J. : Except one was cancelled.

KIM.: The first sixty gigs we blew out before we started to play.

D.: So that’s how we started.

K. : We’ve blown out more gigs than we’ve actually played.

R.R.: Do you feel that you share a great deal in common with sixties type psychedelic/punk bands?

D.: We take a bit of everything. There’s a lot of that in there, oetiniteiy. Our theme song’s like some of those songs, ‘Be My Guru’ is just like it could’ve come from therl.

R.R.: What about the Cramps comparisons?

D.: Well we started off with that in mind, but we don’t really like The Cramps that much now. The last song we did, the new one, was the most Cramps-like song we’ve ever done.

R.R.: How do you see yourselves fitting into the Sydney musical environment?

DAVE.: Good. People like us. It’s what counts.

R.R.: Well, do you have any specific aim or purpose?

JAMES.: Making some money.

DAVE.: Ah, we’re going to have a hit album out soon, before Christmas.

We’re waiting for the .. . ah ... ‘big-time' industry people to come flocking for us when we get our single out and it sells a . . . a . . . What’s the word? ... a million, in the first week.

R.R.: Did you start out with anything particular in mind?

KIM.: To achieve more than any of the other bands we’ve been in. We did actually set out to do that.

DAVE.: Actually I didn’t think so when we started out. I didn’t think we’d get anywhere. But now we’ve written these songs, and we like them enough to think that they’re better than some other people that get recorded, so we think maybe we should get recorded too. That’s what it comes down to. If you think you’re no good, you don’t try for anything, or you think people won’t like you. But we think people will like us.

R.R.: Well now yo u ’re getting audiences, and must be thinking seriously about prospects of making albums and so on, is it changing your' attitude?

DAVE.: Nup. We’ve always wanted to make an album. Everyone does. You know, even the most horrible bands in the world get ’em, so I don’t see why good ones shouldn’t. People seem to think because it’s Australia you never get a chance to make an album, but I

think there’s a lot of bad bands get them. Some of them get to number one.

R.R.: Yeah, I agree with that.

KIM.: We’ve just got a fairly normal approach. We’re just doing what most bands’d be doing, playing the traps, putting a single out, put another single out, put an album out. Cur approach is fairly standard I’d say.

R.R.: No sneaky tricks up your sleeves?

KIM.: Ah, yes, but we can’t divulge those.

DAVE.: Just wait ’till you try and leave.

R.R.: Any problems with the sound, organising the three guitars?

DAVE.: Mainly mixing problems, We actually had our sound sorted out pretty much when we first started, ourselves, but the problem was of course with mixing. With three guitar bits it’s very hard for the mixer to know who’s playing what in which song, and what to mix up in that song.

R.R.: Do you want to talk about the songs on the single?

RCD.: It’s a concept single.

R.R.: A concept single?

DAVE.: Part A and part B. ROD.: It’s romantic, tragic . . . Death.

DAVE.: It’s got all the elements of a good epic.

R.R.: What’s it called?

D.: Leilani. And Leilani II of course on the B-side . . . It’s not named after the horse. It’s named after a girl. There’s actually an old Hawaiian folk song called ‘Sweet Leilani’.

R.R.: You’re serious about parts I and II? DAVE.: Yeah we’ve even got two other parts that we haven’t played yet, Part 4’s not written yet, but part three’s written. Part four’s nearly ready.

R.R.: Is that your next single then?

ROD.: No, they’ll have to come and see us live to find out what happens to Leilani.

And I’m not saying exactly what happens with Leilani and the volcano either, so you’ll have to see Le Hoodoo Gurus, or get the single, or both. And now they’re off to Melbourne to appear on The Don Lane Show, to play backing for a singing dog.

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A LITANY OF ABSENT TALENTS I SUPPOSE ONE CAN AT LEAST BE GRATEFUL that they are not yet another British synthesiser band. New York has been absolutely flooded by the damn things over the last couple of weeks. The Human League and Depeche Mode (who, despitetheir French affectations, mispronounce their name as Depech-AY Mode) even played on the same night, although at different times, so you could (If you were a few bricks short of a load) actually have seen them both. Cne was certainly enough for me, and I chose to see the Human League, whose first single, Being Boiled, released independently some four years ago, gave me reasons to be Interested in their further adventures. As you undoubtedly know, the original League split in 1980, with the musical ones forming the British Electric Foundation (incorporating Heaven 17), the ones with their weird haircuts and eye-make-up continuing under the League banner with the help of production whiz Martin Rushent, a couple of musicians and girl singers. Much to the chagrin of the B.E.F. managing directors, the silly haircuts have had most of the chart action on the home front, and seem set to follow suit here in the United States.

As writer David Fricke points out in an article on Brit, pop synth. bands in a recent U.S. Rolling Stone, English music fans are great ones for the six month fad. Warmed over Mods, ska and even psychedelia have enjoyed brief flowerings and all, even the New Romantics with their well organised business operation, have failed to make much of a dent in the American charts. Even though Fricke finds it difficult to take any of them more seriously than hula hoops or edible underwear (and, like many Americans, regards with suspicion any band that doesn’t group itself around a guitar hero or two), these computerised pop bands just may capture the great American heartland. Both the League’s Dare and Soft Cell’s Non Stop Erotic Cabaret are currently occupying respectable spots on the top one hundred and, along with D. Mode, Orchestral Manoeuvres, Heaven 17, Duran Duran and Simple Minds, have dutifully hacked their way around the country, trying to turn the chimera of a second British Invasion into a reality.

The above bands have all had club hits here, where the youth seems almost as Anglophile as in Sydney. They’d go and see a bunch of singing dogs if they came from London and someone in the NME told them they were HOT. Warm would probably be a more appropriate term for the Human League in the flesh. The first number quickly reveals that the front line cannot really hold ufD their end. The two girls sing flat. And, in spite of the fact that they were supposedly “discovered” dancing in a disco by Phil Oakey who, being so knocked out by their gyrations, hired them on the spot, neither girl can really dance all that well either. Add to this litany of absent talents the uninspired costumes and you are left wonderingjust what it is they are doing up there. Perhaps Oakey hopes that by comparison he will shine with a lustre otherwise missing. Unfortunately he is one of those men who looks really silly in make-up, and in spite of his more conservative coiffure, the red lippy and earring do make it difficult to take him seriously.

Fortunately the slide show is there to catch the eye, relieving it of the tedium of contemplating the half-hearted bump and grind of the woeful girls. And the mix of music (on the night I saw them, anyway) meant that their off-key warblings were just about drowned out by the drum machine.

The slides, with their fifties and sixties images, seemed to undercut the often sappy lyrics (I hope that Don’t You Want Me is tongue in cheek, but I wouldn’t bet on it) and at times I wondered if slidist Adrian Wright was sending the whole thing up. By now, you will have had a chance to see and judge the Human League for yourself. Joe Jackson, who stood in the crowd near me for a while, looked singularly unimpressed.

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ONE H U N D R E D A BUNCH OF PRATS? CAN IT REALLY BE TIME for a jazz-rock fusion revival? And do we really need one spear-headed by a bunch of prats who, fortheir N.Y. debut, insisted on wearing their cravats and cardies in spite of a raging heat that sent the sweat coursing down their everreddening faces? Haircut One Hundred’s leading light, Nick Heyward, a smug and self-satisfied twit, wore two jumpers, one on his chest, the other tied around his neck. As the temperature soared, he removed the one close to the body, but insisted on wearing the other as a scarf throughout the show. Perhaps he and his friends were afraid of catching something. Certainly their squeaky clean image might be tarnished by too close a connection with scabrous decaying New York city, but if they were worried about their health — or their white fair-isle jumpers — why did they come here and ruin an otherwise perfectly enjoyable week?

Wearing theirguitars uparoundtheirchins, the three chums who started Haircut One Hundred some eighteen months ago — Nick Heyward (vocs, guit), Graham Jones (guit) and Les Nemes (bass and blow-waved hair — anyone who has enough time to blow-dry

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their hair has an empty life) — led the lesser mortals in the band through the bulk of Pelican West, their just-released album. No surprises here, except for the big one you get when you listen to the record and try to relate it to the comfortable, Town and Country, middle class, English image the band have created for themselves.

If you took away the solo vocals (and in concert you can, because they are mixed down so low you can hardly hear them), and just listened to the backing tracks, you wouldn’t need much persuading to see them as the output of some L.A. super-session featuring the Brecker Brothers (who have played horns for just about everybody from Joni Mitchell to Joe Cocker to Michael Franks. They’re good, but ubiquitous). The music is professional, sophisticated, mature.

Not the work of some rabid twenty-year-old egomaniac run wild in a mens’ wear store.

Earlier in the day, I had had the misfortunes to interview Heyward and Nemes, and took the opportunity to find out a few things about the LP. I didn’t get very far, and am still curious about just how much was contributed to both the record and the way the band now sounds by, for example, Bob Sargeant (who is also producer for the Beat). And how about the Boney M horns, who play all the brass apart from the saxophone on the LP? Cn tour, the line-up is augmented by a trumpeter and a trombone player. What did Haircut Cne Hundred sound like before they went into the studio? Heyward takes total credit for all songs but one on Pelican West ', and I imagine he does the same with the royalties. Yet when I asked him if he presented the band with the parts and arrangements for the songs, he said that each player worked out his own part. I wonder if this has begun to rankle in any of those Izod Lacoste-clad breasts?

JDDLS H D L LA N D HUMOUROUS ANO TACKY A SOMEWHAT OLDER LAG, Jools Holland, one-time keyboard player with Squeeze, also seems to think a two girl line­ up might be a sound professional move. He came around recently with his new band, the Millionaires, which included two women singers, one a Debbie Harry clone, the other a Sheena Easton lookalike. Both, however, unlike the lasses in the Human League, could at least sing and they had worked up a dandy little dance routine to go with every number. The music was fabulous — 1940’s style bar band boogie woogie heavy with New Orleans and gospel references — and even without Holland’s off-beat comedy routines, this punter would have found a satisfying evening’s entertainment. One can only wonder at the psychology behind the use of these two women and, in particular, their outfits, which were tight vinyl tubes that clung to the area below their armpits and above their crutches. The vigorous, choreographed dance steps encouraged the vinyl to shimmy up their bums and in the hiatus between each song these unfortunate girls would tug atthe bottom of the fabric to get it back down where it belonged. This activity, performed with obsessive regularity, became absolutely mesmerising and one waited, almost holding one’s breath, to see them do it. If Holland hopes these singing dancers will hold the attention of oafs who would otherwise fail to be grabbed by a musical style more sophisticated than your average rock’n’roll, he may have made a sensible decision. I found them merely distracting — humourous and definitively tacky, for sure — but ultimately detracting from both the music and the engaging on stage persona of Holland.

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D A V E E D M U N D S IRRESISTABLE AND SPEAKING OF OLD LAGS, Dave Edmunds, that infinitely untarnishable relic of the sixties — the band Love Sculpture and the hits / Hear You Knocking and the blistering guitar version of Khatchaturian’s Sabre Dance — appeared here recently with an all-Welsh band. Always a favourite of mine (most especially since his re-emergence from obscurity with the classic Get It in 77), I found his latest incarnation irresistable. His band looked like excons, played like demons, and included a barrel-house piano player who took over the vocals when Dave felt he needed a breather. Unlike Nick Lowe, whose new outfit does not quite measure up to their joint effort in Tockpile, Edmunds proved, after a hesitant start, that he can get along without Nick just fine . . . and, in fact, just might be better off without him. He still does some of the great songs Lowe penned for him, including / Knew The Bride, adding an assortment of numbers by other mates — Elvis Costello {Girls Talk) and Graham Parker (Crawling From The Wreckage), as well as new mate Bruce Springsteen (From Smali Things (Big Things One Day Come)). In spite of the drunken, overly-male audience that insisted on bellowing along with those pure Edmunds’ vocals, it was a celebratory and joyous evening of music. Edmunds still looks sheepish on stage, as if wondering what the hell he is doing there.

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THE BEST KEPT SECRET [N THE W EST GRAHAM PARKER, who aiso appeared here over the last couple of weeks, looks as though he knows exactly why he is there. He’s there to take America, whether they like it or not. Now, let me declare myself a Graham Parker fanatic. I even liked The Up Escalator, even though no-one else seemed to, and it was excoriated by the critics. They seemed to think that the Rumour sounded a bit tired and perhaps Graham agreed with them, for he did not tour with The Up Escalator, simply letting it sink like a stone

once he realised it was not going to be the record he needed to consolidate the opening” made by Squeezing Out Sparks here in the U.S. His business affairs were in a mess, he had just married, and it was time to renegotiate his record contracts. So he stayed home and turned the Rumour loose, allowing them to get involved in various silly projects — albums that weren’t very good and tours with Garland Jeffreys. Then, last year, Parker came to New York to. record with Jack Douglas, a “name” producer who, at the time, was dining off his production work for Lennon’s “come-back” album, Double Fantasy. Parker wasn't interested in any press and little was heard about the sessions, who was playing, and what sort of material.

When Another Grey Area was released a couple of months ago, it seemed that Parker had used his period of reflection to come up with some pragmatic decisions. Having put out A'A albums of superb white R’n’B, written some of the most memorable love songs in recent history, and fronted one of the best damn rock’n’roll outfits of the seventies, he was still, in his own words, the best kept secret in the West. The choices were few for a man not interested in cultish obscurity — retire — or — come up with a winner in terms of commercial radio in the States. He appears to have attempted the latter and opened himself to some criticism from fans who feel he has sold out a bit on quality and integrity. Not that it’s a bad album. There are some really good songs on it, and perhaps it is unrealistic to expect that he can go on surpassing himself. But still, it’s not GP and the Rumour (and had it been, many critics would probably have trotted out that “it’s just another Graham Parker and the Rumour album” line — you can’t win). It’s too early to say whether the gamble has paid off, although Another Grey Area is now slipping back down the charts after hitting 51.

None of the facts and figures seemed to matter to the devotees who turned up at the Palladium for his one sit-down show. I know nothing of his three night stand at the more funky Ritz, but the fans at his first show can only be described as frenzied. Being a Parker purist, I missed the Rumour. It just wasn’t right to see Brinsley Schwarz up there without Martin Belmont, but such quibbles aside it was a terrific show. Parker himself was In top form and his new songs had gained in strength from the chance to work themselves out on the road. None of his ballads made an appearance in a set that included many old faves — a shrewd move that kept the crowd up and dancing. Schwarz reaffirmed his position in my personal pantheon of guitar greats, with his tasteful playing and inventive solos. Carlos Alomar, the second guitarist, and man with a pedigree that includes stints with the likes of David Bowie seemed under-used here. He did not take a solo until the encores, but since his forte is arrangement and he uses his guitar mostly for the purposes of rhythm, I guess this is not surprising.

If Parker and his new bunch do make theirway to Australia soon, don’t be misled by any ungenerously bad press. It may not be fashionable to like Parker these days, but there’s life in the old boy yet.

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We arrived in San Francisco after 13 hours on a QANTAS flight from Sydney. Our first impression of the United States was the chaos and grime of the International Airport at South San Francisco. Having checked into the cheapest local motel — 40 dollars a night — with a room that smelt of dust, our first act was to turn on our colour TV. As Kerouac would probably have described it, it was a “ holy” act.

Watching television in America that November night (and immediately seeing newscaster Walter Cronkite, the man most Americans trusted — he’s retired) gave us the kind of feeling that Catholic South Americans would get on visiting the Vatican for the first time, — that is, seeing the rea/thing, at last.

The set even had cable (a paid service few cheaper motels have) and so we got our Introduction to what a Californian academic later described to us as “The American Disease” — too many choices. Later, on the freeways, when we saw the dozens of different ways one can take from point B to A, we came to understand this sage more fully. But we also quickly realized that in America you get the bewildering range of choices on some lines only.

On many, there is only yes, or no.

We spent a fortnight in San Francisco, and found it and Oakland, and Berkeley (where we stayed) to be quite interesting, and life agreeable. A bit like Sydney, as so many people had said. There were plenty of good restaurants, things to do (a highlight being the Exploratorium, where you c o n d u c t y o u r own s c ie n tific experim ents), some fascinating architecture (it’s “Towering Inferno” city), and prices for most things, including fresh fruit and vegetables, up to 30% below Australian levels. But, we were warned. Northern California, and especially the San Francisco Bay area, is not like the rest of the U.S.A. We got similar warnings at other places we visited, but in the case of San Francisco, it turned out to be true. The rest of the Arrierica we saw is certainly not like it.

Midway during our stay, we were to pay a visit on some friends, including a former Sydney woman, who had just moved north up the coast to Eureka.

We missed our Greyhound bus by a few minutes, and heard later that day that Eureka and the surrounding area had been hit by a huge earthquake. Noone killed, but several were badly injured, and enough damage caused to get front-page cover in the Australian newspapers. Thus there is now a new aspect to the news importance equations — 5 injured Americans equals 5000 dead and mained Algerians.

When we did arrive, we found our friends not dead nor injured, but only mildly shaken. Yet, for us, it proved a prelude to bigger things. A few days

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PART 1 BABY” ack Kerouac’s novel “On The Road” was first published in the United States in 1957. That book, which ensured Kerouac’s reputation am ong a new wove of writers, was about the world of the “beats” — bop an d sex, drugs and dreams, about “crazy an gels” an d “sad-eyed kids”. But “On The Road” was also about a lot more than just dope and orgies, well, sort of. It was a portrait of post-war America — an America at the threshhold of the fifties, the decade in which it suddenly opened itself with super-highways stretching across its length an d breadth, an d during which the car finally asserted its claim to regal status. It was the decade in which the freeway, suburb with supermarket an d the car becam e the trinity they remain today. But even more than a portrait, it is a tale of how the heroes — writer Sal Paradise an d the soulful, frantic jailbird kid Dean Moriorty — went out on the road in search of an America that eluded them on the streets of New York, or in Denver, or San Francisco. Through their crazy hours at the wheel of those classic dinosaur cars, they looked for the freedom their country was — an d is — supposed to represent. They dived for a pearl.

“He an d I suddenly saw the whole country like a n oyster for us to open; a n d the pearl w as there, the p earl w as there. Off we roared south.”

Sal Paradise in “On The Road”.

That remains the myth about the novel — the myth of the freedom these beats sought out, a tmth they tried to extract from their country. They had what has been called “Am erica’s fifth freedom”, that is, freedom of movement. On the road, they pushed that freedom, to see where it would lead.

For Kerouac himself, the road ended in disillusionment, right wing politics, and death (popularly attributed to a broken heart) in front of the ’TV set at his mother’s house in Florida, in 1969. But for many people, Kerouac’s Dean Moriorty remains an im age of freedom that is also a symbol of the busthng, love me or leave me, naive exuberance of America itself. And it was to examine the health of this myth, an d its possible reality, in contemporary America, that A m anda S. an d I went back to Kerouac’s beloved America, through the West an d the South, then up to New York, on the road in the eighties.

later, toying with the idea of a trip to the Yosemite area, we heard on the radio that a landslide had killed a bunch of bushwalkers there. We cancelled the trip. Instead, we hastened our plans to leave California, and set out on our own planned odyssey.

The first decision, of course, is mode of transport. No problem. In America, there’s a wide range of possibilities.

You can fly, take buses, trains — even sail around the place. But we didn’t want any of these options. We already suspected that the only way to see America is from behind the wheel of a private car. Then, there are still more choices to be made. You can buy, hire, borrow, steal, hitch a ride — or deliver.

Car delivery, or ‘driveaway’ as the Americans call it, is the modern equivalent of the increasingly dangerous (from police, thugs, etc) budget travel method of hitching.

Rather than sticking your thumb out and waiting hours or days for a lift, you register with a company, tell them your route, pay a deposit (usually around 100 dollars), fill out a form that Includes everything from your fingerprints to your underwear size, and then wait the hours or days for a car to come through. The system is practised in a number of countries on a limited scale, with car rental firms who want one-way hires returned, but it’s a sizeable business in America, where anyone from a tired teacher with an old Cadillac to a rich rancher with a gleaming black El Dorado might want the vehicle delivered hundreds or thousands of miles away. The traveller simply waits for the kind of car s/he wants, on the right route and with the appropriate destination, then takes it.

There’s no charge, and the first tank of fuel is free. After that, you pay for your own fuel. (Petrol in America is around 1-dollar-30 a gallon — similar to Australian prices when we travelled).

The big advantage of driveaway over buying a cheap car is that you’re not liable to pay for any repairs needed on the way. You pay at the time, keep the' receipt, and the money is refunded by the owner when you deliver the car, discharge your contract (you must be there by the agreed date) and recover your deposit.

During our 3 week trip across the U.S.A., we dealt with two driveaway firm s — AAACON and AutoDriveaway. Both had a lot of unhelpful staff, but both were honest and reliable.

The thing you have to bear in mind all the time about driveaway, however, is that you’re the one in the weakest position. It’s rare for you to have the strongest bargaining position in negotiating, because you want to get somewhere. You’re paying for motels, or restaurant food, and every day lost seems disastrous. Thus, you get inevitably screwed. You’ll be kept waiting, starved of information, and

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possibly used and abused. Like the earlier genus of adventurous, budget traveller — hitch-hikerus familiarus — you must remember that it is usually yourself that is in oversupply.

In San Francisco, we dealt with a driveaway firm tucked away in a dingy office in a grey building. The office was in fact something almost flyblown.

Chandler, and run by a balding, pudgy gay who bore a striking resemblance to Gomez, from the “Adams Family” TV show of the sixties. This actually turned out to be our first experience of “gay business” in San Francisco, an apparently common phenomenon.

The Gomez guy had probably got the franchise, and had taken on two of his gay mates. These other two were “tough guys”, the kind who walk around the Castro district (a formerly poor area which the gay middleclass is helping the poor leave) in their identikit basketball shoes, tight faded blue jeans, leather, studs, short hair and pencil-thin moustache, and often as not cowboy hat with matching pick-up truck. Walking around Castro is a bit like wandering onto the set of “Can’t Stop the Music”, and so was going into this driveaway office.

The attitude of the staff in this (and other) offices seems to be simply “Don’t fuck with me, man. Look, do you want the car or don’t you”.

Our questions such as “But do you expect to have any four-cylinder cars in the next few days (almost unobtainable on our Southern route); or “ But is it in good condition?” or “Does it have a working AM/FM radio?” inevitably brought a deep, heartfelt sigh, and something approximating the “Don’t fuck with me, man. Look, do you want the car or don’t you?”

(I’m still convinced that we only learnt enough about our car to make the final decision to take it because Mandy left the office to buy something, and one of the staff thought that I wasn’t attached to a woman after all, and thus became a little friendly.)

We were bound for New Orleans, taking the Southern route across A m erica w hich the Am erican Automobile Association (which was extremely helpful to us) recommends for winter travel. The car we eventually took on the trip, after days of wrangling, was a 1977 Mercury Monarch, described by the driveaway firm as a “ medium-sized” car. By American standards, it is. It’s bigger than the standard 6 cylinder Australian car, has an engine that looks just about as big as my whole VW in Adelaide, and this one had only AM radio (and thus dangerous to sanity over long distances), and w ould return something like a princely 17 M.P.G. on the open road. Like Britain, America still uses the Imperial system. In other words, it was what Carter once called a “gas guzzler”. And yet it was a common, standard American car, with all those standard things like autom atic, transmission, power brakes, and power steering which meant you could drive with just your little finger on the wheel.

It was bound for Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana, and only 100 miles or so short of New Orleans. (Readers might have heard of Baton Rouge. It became famous because of its race riots during the sixties.) We had little choice but to take the car, despite a few misgivings.

I picked up the shark, whale, toadfish or whatever Hunter S. Thompson would have called this red, sloppyhandling bath-tub of a car, with its fiddly, tinny, chintzy fittings and cheap upholstery. And despite my terror at driving on the wrong (right) side of the road, wheeled the red flathead out onto the congested arteries of downtown (central) San Francisco. It handled like a tipsy boar on corners, and I found that with this kind of car power steering is absolutely mandatory. The standard of engineering meant it would be practically undriveable without it. And as I reached repeatedly with the wrong hand for the gear stick, I became

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grateful as well that it was automatic.

Shift, or manual cars, are rare, seemingly below the dignity of the average American, even in this supposedly fuel-conscious age.

That night the Monarch stayed parked outside the house in suburban Berkeley where we’d been staying with friends, and (between rushed trips outside just to take in the fullness of the horror and embarrassment of “owning” it), we laid our plans for the transcontinental journey. Basically, it was San Francisco, New Orleans, New York. On the map, it looked extremely easy. Just 3V2-thousand miles, along broad red lines. We packed some sandwiches, and got to bed early (around 3 a.m.).

“. . . the car went as straight as an arrow, not for once deviating from the white line in the middle of the road that unwound, kissing our left front tyre.” from “On The Road” As all the driving guides tell you to do, we tried to get an early start on our first day. We didn’t quite manage it, of course. But although we did not make the legendary “hundred miles before breakfast”, I- did manage to wheel the red Monarch out onto Interstate Freeway Number 5 going South. We’d had a lesson in freeway numbering the previous night. The odd ones go northsouth, the even ones east-west. And they’re graduated, across the country.

So navigating America by numbers becomes as easy as finding your way around its cities, by the numbered streets and avenues. In somethings, the Americans do have a wonderful, practical intelligence, and ruthlessly thorough as well.

Considering that everyone who had been to America had warned us against going in November, telling us we’d freeze as soon as we got off the plane, it was yet another pleasant day, around 70 degrees Fahrenheit! We wore Tshirts. Mandy, who had failed her driving test yet again just before we left Australia, would be filling a moretraditional-than-usual women’s role on the trip, navigating us and preparing in­ transit sandwiches from the big box of “ fo o d ” we’d bought from the supermarket (where else is there) so that we wouldn’t have to eat “junk food” from the cafes along the freeways.

Such carefree fools.

I unwould the Monarch as we headed down Interstate 5, going South towards Los Angeles, the hometown of the newly-elected President, Ronald,

Reagan, and the receptacle of the American collective unconscious.

Tinsel town. Celluloid city. Los Angst.

We tuned in the radio to the standard sentimental schmultz and schmuck featured right across the AM band, right across America (so it seemed to us) and began to find a groove. We settled in at 60 miles per hour, which would be our cruising altitude for the entire flight. Although the Americans have set an “ energy-conscious” national speed limit of 55 m.p.h., don’t believe any rumours that it’s obeyed.

Cars, trucks, buses — everything goes faster. C om m ercial tra n s p o rt, including passenger buses, could not keep to schedule if the limit were adhered to. The highway cops seem to turn a blind eye to most of the big boys, but rather appear to pick on 79-yearold farmers from Idaho sitting on 59 m.p.h. in the family heirloom Model T, cruising California on their holiday of a lifetime. We spent most of that first afternoon rolling down the freeway, through the beautiful San Joaquin Valley, exulting in the smooth suspension that made it feel like we were riding an ocean liner, buzzed by traffic control helicopters. We saw a few highway patrol cops doing their doo-dee, but for most of our trip across, the highway cops were most notable for their conspicuous absence.

Perhaps we were just lucky.

European counterparts is their armament of advertising, with signs ; carrying the company logo held aloft by immense towers, so that they’re visible at eye-level on even the tallest flyover, and in many cases their remarkable ability to convey the im pression of their being an encampment, an outpost of ail the things you need to sustain your life as a freeway traveller. At many we saw that day, in Southern California, there were no houses, no outbuildings — nothing except the chain businesses with their already all-too familiar signs and logos, all the time reassuring Americans that their country is predictable and homogeneous as their processed milk and bread. It’s not easy to get behind these facades, but if you take a minor road, and manage to see behind them, you’ll see what we did — the comforting island quickly dwindling to a few car wrecks, rags, the occasional empty oil drum — and then the flatlands, spreading away into nothingness, an empty threat, somewhat reminiscent of Australia.

Given the comforting effect of these commercial islands, arrayed along America’s bitumen veins, it’s then incongruous to see the occasional loser in them — the dead fast-food store, or gas station. We saw perhaps the saddest example of this on a ring road on the edge of a city, where the traveller often finds anything up to ten or fifteen fast food stores shoulder to shoulder, as well as motels and more gas stations. In this case, there were hamburger, chicken, seafood, biscuit and waffle chain stores, all slugging it out in healthy open competition (or at least, that’s the way the myth goes. It’s just strange to see all those monopolies as well . . .)

But on this occasion, as we drove by, nestled among the others we saw the dead one. It’s bright little signs had been stripped away by cruel gangs of workers, so one could not tell what

the pathos, as if it were in itself a concrete poem, of a full episode of “Days Of Our Lives”, Mandy suggested to me that its death might not have been in vain.

“You know what they’ll use it for now?” she said. “It’ll become part of a bus tour for fledgling executives from fast-food chains. And as the bus cruises this drag, the driver will slow down in front of this one, and the instructor will tell everyone to look at it, and then all the others, still abustle, still lit up like Christmas trees. And then he’ll tell them to ask themselves where this one went wrong.”

I started singing. It was “California”,

by Joni Mitchell. I’m not very good at singing her stuff, understandably. Then Mandy started singing another song.

“Cal — If — Orn — Yah, Here I Come”!!

We eventually found that we knew ten songs about California — or at least mentioned it. Our route took us through California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland and the District of Columbia, (Washington).

(We took a train on to New York). From that lot, we knew one song either about or referring to every state except New Mexico from the “Texas Rangers” TV show theme to Neil Young’s “Alabama”. We knew songs about dozens of places we passed through ...

“By The Time I Get To Pheonix”, “Does anyone know the way to San Antonio, or Tuscon Arizona”, and had vivid memories of Dean Martin croonin’ “Houston”. Yet no matter how hard we tried, as we drove we could not recall one song about B irdsville, or Coolangatta, or the Coorong. And, sadly, when we did know a song about someplace — “South Australia”, or “Botany Bay”, or “Travelling Down the Castlereagh”, more often than not we knew fewer of the words than for the American songs. This made us feel frustration, and some shame.

“We know America, we’re at home; I can go anywhere in America and get what I want because it’s the same on every corner, I know the people, I know what they do . . .”

Sal Paradise in “On The Road” As we drove South that first day, we got our first real view of the really isolated, self-contained freeway Services you can find in the U.S.A. The standard Services has a batch of, say, an Exxon and a Chevron for fuel; a MacDonald’s, Sambo’s hamburgers and Waffle House for food; and perhaps a Howard Johnson’s or a Super 6 Motel, for accommodation.

The thing about these Services that differentiates them from their

variety it had been. It was certainly very dead indeed. No lights of any kind, all the interior fittings gone; a little paint peeling from what had once been its cute little takeout (takeaway) window; weeds sprouting in its free carpark “for patrons only”. A heartwrenching sight.

And as we stood before it. taking in all

We hit the legendary town of Bakersfield just before dusk, having veered away from Los Angeles, and turned at last towards the east. The Bakersfield area was very curious from a number of viewpoints. One was the “city centre” , which was just a

1

collection of office towers, with no people or small shops. It was the first ‘deserted downtown’ we’d seen. Then, (despite the name) we couldn’t find a bakery anywhere. We had to buy some bread, but all we could find was pre­ packaged sliced bread. We also bought some beer, then drove back out to the perimeter of the city to pick up the freeway again. There we saw strange animals which, if we’d ever watched “Dallas” on TV, we’d have viewed almost as old friends. They were huge metal “birds”, a little flamingo-like .in fact, that appeared to be constantly stooping down to the earth, to “peck”, and then standing upright again. Of course, these “birds” were oil pumps, taking the “black gold” from the earth and depositing it in the storage tanks of the Seven Sisters. These machines were everywhere — in fields, in factory compounds, in backyards. We almost expected to see them on the road — but the highways are the only place too sacred for them to enter.

We had a meal by the side of the road, in the gathering dusk, then pushed on to Barstow, where we refuelled, and had coffee. Night driving in the U.S.A. is a dream for two reasons.

The first is that the freeway system is the best in the world; the second is that the coffee houses serve great coffee, and many places give you unlimited refills — all of them free afteryour initial 30 cents or so. Cafes have another extremely civilized tradition — giving the newly-arrived patron a cup of iced water as soon as s/he is seated.

Unfortunately, one branch of the “Waffle House” chain we stopped at for coffee showed the beginning of the ehd for this tradition, with a notice that “in the cause of energy conservation” they were cutting out the automatic iced water (although one can still ask for it).

This, by the way, is typical of the way the “energy conservation” bandwaggon is exploited by business in America.

We drove on to Needles that night.

Needles is the hottest place in America.

On summer days, weather presenters on TV news services always resort to “but if you thought it was hot here, in Needles today it was . . .” We found a cheap motel — about 20 dollars is pretty standard, once you’ve paid the tariff and tips, for a room for two. We got a good night’s sleep. We’d covered 600 miles on our first day.

Next morning, having missed the beautiful Mojave Desert by driving through it at night, we also missed the Hoover Dam in our haste to move on to Arizona. We were always pressed by our driveaway schedule, which gave us just 7 days to get the car to Baton Rouge. But because of that schedule, we decided against paying a brief visit to Las Vegas, not too far north — and that, we found later, might have been very fortunate for us.

By early afternoon we were at Kingman, Arizona, a lovely little desert town in spectacular mountain country, all of it Backdrop-to-Westerns in beige, pale blue, golds and pinks, shimmering in the bright sun. At Kingman we had a light lunch of burritoes, a sort of Mexican crepe, stuffed with beans, chile, ground beef, and guacamole.

We’d got a taste for them in Mexican takeaway food places in San Francisco.

We were served by a middle-aged woman in a bright iime-coloured print uniform, who gave us a maternal smile and marvelled at our accents as she presented us with our food. Mandy later expounded a theory, as we drove on through a lot of these places, that these uniformed women are America’s most important army, fuelling transport and industry. As we drove on that day, towards the Grand Canyon, the Monarch happily chewing through fuel in the soft sun of afternoon, we marvelled at how the Mexican takeaway has not yet really hit Australia — and how it must eventually do so.

Mexican food is just so mushy, so pre­

preparable — and all its sins are so easily absolved with Tobasco. There can be little doubt that one day it will reach the same megadollar business level it’s achieved in America.

never seen. But, then,- neither of us has seen Ayers Rock.

Late that afternoon we reached the Grand Canyon Caverns — a little tourist village set back off the road. We thought that as it had “Grand Canyon” in its title, we really had to see this place. So we paid our 5-dollars-72 (including tax — there’s tax on nearly everything in America) and a woman in a para-National Parks uniform took us several hundred feet down in a lift to see some pretty forgettable caverns. I say para-National Parks uniform because on the way down she informed us that these caverns are not owned by the government, but are in fact privately-owned, by a company called Dinosaur Enterprises, a trucking company from Illinois or thereabouts.

This finally explained why there was a 10 metre Tyrannasaurus Rex out in front of the building that houses the whole show. Obviously, sadly, we wouldn’t see any of them below ground. The woman was about 25, and although quite normal seeming before the tour began, immediately became the archetypal “tour guide” once it started. Americans seem to play roles readily, and she did admirably, reciting an entire 40 minute script, with all the appropriate gestures and pregnant pauses. She appeared to have gained the skill using modern educational aids, possibly including Jerry Lewis films. The routine was complete with off-colour jokes about the nuclear emergency supplies stored in the caverns (it was made a fallout shelter' during the crisis of ’62), It seems that the supplies would be pretty useless to any would-be intending holocaust survivors. Because of the stable conditions in the caverns, a few months down there robs you of imrnunity to common minor diseases, and so on reemerging,If the radiation didn’t get you the microbes would. The entire 40 minute spiel was rattled off so perfectly that none of the six of us on the tour felt able to ask questiotas freely, fearing we might make her lose her mental place.

Later we drove on, to the Grand Canyon itself (the Caverns, by the way, are able to use the Grand title because some of their air comes from the Canyon. There’s no other connection.)

We stayed the night in a motel just out of the South Rim Village. We would have to wait until morning to see the Seventh Wonder of the World.

It was a freezing morning, with the temperature around zero, and a strong wind making it seem colder still. But the cold did not seem to worry some other people at the Canyon Rim that morning — groups of Navajo Indian women trying to make a living out of selling replicas of their traditional beautiful turquoise jewellery, laid out on mats on the ground. Discrete packs of tourists — newly-affluent young Mexicans in American college gear, Japanese snapping at a frame a second, and mixed bags of Australians, Canadians and Britons — passed by, musing, occasionally haggling for a trinket. But later, when we visited the comfortable Indian-style shops in the South Rim Village, selling everything from archeological replicas to expensive Indian rugs, we saw that was where the real business was done. The women at

The South Rim is about 7,000 feet above sea level, and is the only access to the National Park and the main Canyon area that’s open all year round.

The North Rim, 9,000 feet above sea level, is closed during winter. From the South Rim, we were able to stare down into the Canyon, and there, at the bottom, more than a mile below, was the Colorado River, just as we’d always seen it in magazines, on TV, and in films. That was the only problem with an otherwise great experience — we felt we’d already had it.

As is a good lurk when exploring art galleries, museums or geophysicai magnificences, we hitched ourselves to a conducted tour, briefly. The story, which sounded plausible enough, was that the Grand Canyon was formed by various upthrusts in the earth, X million years ago. These happened gradually, and as they occurred, the Colorado River kept cutting its way through the new surfaces. Eventually, the banks were high above the water, and then were eroded away to the current canyon, extending 200 miles in length, with the rims towering, and an aching chasm between them.

Visitors can take various walks down winding tracks, and camp out at the bottom. Some of these trips take days.

Or else, there’s the journey down on mule-back, perhaps staying at the salubrious hotel accommodation to be found at the bottom, before the return trip. Unfortunately, we only had time merely to stare at the marvel so many Americans would later tell us they had .

their mats, out in the numbing cold, seemed to get very little return for their time. We found out from them that they live on the nearby Navajo reservation.

Another tribe, the Hopi, also live in the area. We discovered later that these tribes still experience all the problems one would expect an aboriginal people to face — i.e. poor housing, unemployment, alcoholism, ostracism.

But despite these problems, we also found out that these two tribes had done quite well in comparison to other Indian peoples. They have preserved some of their culture — and their dignity. An Arizona civil servant — an anthropologist who has worked out on reservations among the Apache — told us that by comparison, these once indomitable people are now in a sorry state.

Before leaving Australia, I’d heard and read reports which indicated that the American Indians are better off than the Australian Aborigines. Yet from what we saw on reservations, in the cities, and learnt from the rare media report dealing with the Indians, it seems that this is probabiy not the case, and that in some respects at least the Aborigines who have returned to the bush are recovering to a better level than the Indians.

One television report we saw In America spoke of 100% unemployment in some Indian communities, and of a considerably lower life expectancy than for European Americans. This, one must always remember, is in a country which provides one of the highest standards of living, in average terms, in the world. The report dealt specifically .with the fate of a special school, organized, funded and run by Indians, for Indian children who could not take, or fit in with, the normal educational institutions. The school, which appeared to be a rare and worthy attempt, had received no government funds, and had almost had to close up on more than one occasion, because the Indians did not have enough money for the rent. The Mayor of the city c o n c e rn e d a ppeared on the program m e, and u n flin c h in g ly delivered a predigested John Stuart Mill kind of explanation, with Jeffersonian packaging for the American viewing public, on why The People’s money should not be spent on a minority, no matter how worthy, or desperate.

We left the Grand Canyon in the early afternoon, and drove South towards Flagstaff. There we picked up the major freeway going down towards Mexico, Freeway 17. We ate chile and enchiladas in a little Mexican restaurant, had a quick look round the cute university town, and then moved on south, into the gathering evening.

As we made for Pheonix, we found ourselves descending from a high plateau, and in the thinning light we could see the sublime beauty of Arizona, with its- different colours, all hushed and muted: subtle. We stopped the car at a vantage point, and took in the mountains, the deserts, and the seemingly endless plains of sagauro cactus. These cacti are the ones you see in cowboy films — the tall ones with singular trunks; extending, often twisted arms; and distinctly humanoid expressions. They actually grow up to 50 feet, are long-lived, and very endearing. Then, back on the freeway, we barrelled on through the heart of Pheonix at 60 m.p.h. Although there isa lot to see including the famous Heard Museum of A nthropology and P rim itive Art, and the desert architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright, we had to push on. We cursed our driveaway timetable. But we knew it was still the cheapest, most flexible way to see America.

We reached Tuscon, our goal forthat day, about two hours later. There we

NEXT ISSUE: PART 2: TH E SO UTH

stayed in a cool, rambling adobe house, with friends of our San Francisco friends. We had only one night to stay there, so we stayed up talking until the early hours of the morning. The woman was an historical photographer, and had undertaken some fascinating assignments in the region, from the lives of Western gunslingers to ruins of Indian architecture. The man was a city planner, and between them they sketched out as much of the history and culture of Arizona as it’s possible to do for two tired people in a bare two or three hours. As they spoke we realized that one of the most frustrating things about America, in addition to the criticisms of it I’m voicing in this article, is the simple volume of worthwhile things and experiences the traveller must inevitably miss. Wherever you are, there are always batteries of attractions, vying for attention. So despite our tiredness, we took in as much information as these two were willing to give. Like most Americans we met, they were informative, warm, and extremely gracious and hospitabie.

Americans went out of their way to make us feel at home, wherever we were in their country. In the morning, when we left, this couple urged us to see the Sonora Desert Museum, about 15 miles out of town, before pushing on to New Mexico.

We went, stopping every few miles once outside of the town to admire the surrealistic forms of the saquaro cactus. From the top of one hill we also fancied we saw another desert creature the couple had warned us we might encounter — this time made of concrete. Apparently all you see of I.C.B.M. installations is the concrete lid to the underground silo. They are plentiful in the Tuscon area. Everyone knows about them. When we asked our hosts how they felt about their clean, pleasant town being a nuclear target, they just sighed. “You have to live somewhere”, said the man. “This place, as you can see, is one of the best.” Then he went on to tell us how you can play tennis all year round in Tuscon, and how he used to drink Fosters Lager with an Australian ex-pat living there — a tennis professional called Fred Stolle.

(Stolle, by the way, has now apparently moved to Florida.) This was a typical conversation. You start by asking ordinary Americans about how they feel about missile silos in the desert, near houses, and about the nuclear fallout shelters whose signs are on buildings everywhere in the cities, and you end up talking about tennis and Fosters. The answer, in other words, is that the American people live on a big dartboard — and they cannot afford to worry about what that really means. I imagine the psychiatric institutions of America are crowded with people who worried too much about that.

The Desert Museum turned out to be one of the highlights of our transcontinental journey. It was a museum, zoo and botanical garden. It taught about the desert, its animals, plants, and its ecology. And it was hard to tell where the museum ended, and the desert around it began. That, to me, showed the success of its planners. It had big guns like Mountain Lions and rattlesnakes, but it also had glady gardens where you could sit down, and see for yourself what intelligent use of the land and available water could do — how the devastation of the land could be reversed dramatically.

We stayed there too long, and did not have time to visit “Old Tuscon” nearby, as we’d hoped to do. This is an entire “Old West” town out in the desert, used for the film “Arizona”. The set is now kept intact for tourists, and further film and TV productions. But we had to press on to New Mexico.

That night we managed to do something unusual with our AM radio.

As we crossed the New Mexico state line, now heading due east again, on Interstate 10, we heard a full news bulletin. We hadn’t heard any news at all since we left the Grand Canyon.

Now all the news was about the M.G.M. Hotel fire in Las Vegas. It happened the night we went to the Grand Canyon, rather than Las Vegas. The announcer said the body count was now over eighty.

PAGE 11

. as I listened to the sweet and soothing sound I once again reflected, thank the Lord i was born into the jazz age, what on earth must it have been when ail they had to listen to was ballad tunes and waltzes? Because jazz music is a thing that as few things da makes you feel really at home in the world here, as if ifs an okay notion to be born a human being, or sa” Colin Macinnes: ‘Absolute Beginners’ (1960| ;

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A • ROSS • WILSON • INTERVIEW

What did you feel you wanted to achieve with this record?

RW: Aw, I dunno. We just wanted to make a good record, that’s all. I think any time you make a record it’s what you’ve got at the time.

Is there any theme running through the songs? Any areas it touches on a number of times?

RW: Well, we’ve got another self promotion song. Like on Primal Park there was ‘Mondo Shakedown’, on the last one ‘Mondo Sexo’ and on this one we’ve got a song called ‘Mondo Mania’ which is like our fervent prayer that the

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romantic ballads way back with Daddy Cool.

RW: Yeah, but they were parodies, that’s the difference. Eric’s love songs I can deal with because there’s always a couple of ways you can take them.

Is it at all hard for you, singing other people’s lyrics?

RW: Yeah, but the Wilson/McCusker thing works out alright, because most of his things I can see, I can picture: simply because they’re well written, can project myself into them. And the James Black song on the album, that’s a very good song. I think that’s one of my best performances on the album.

IVIy main tastes lies towards black American music — they always have. Both current and old. whole world will accept us. Make us rich and famous. It delves into communist oppression of rock’n’roll and just generally how we can solve people’s problems by them buying our records and coming to see us play.

Aside from that I think the major theme that occurs is, in Eric’s songs in particular, tension between people in general and men and women in particular.

There’s an old song on the album ‘that I wrote with Gulliver Smith,‘Touch Of Paradise’, which the first Mondo Rock used to do. It’s probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. Serious romantic as opposed to parody. I never used to feel comfortable singing romantic songs until I wrote that one with Gulliver.

But you used to do some real slushy

PAGE 12

What about musically on the album — any one predominant style?

RW: No, we’re a pretty eclectic bunch of fellows — I think we showed that on the last one. We did try to make it a bit

it’s always been my hope that it would become a group thing. I’m quite capable of doing solo things and I intend to, probably before the year’s out, but working within a group context is always interesting; which is why I do it. There’s a lot of bullshit involved with being four other guys and finding common ground where everyone meets, but when it works that’s what makes it good. You can get a new dimension to your music. Like ‘Cool World’ — I was much happier with the

I’m developing into a custodian of the roots sound. The Gary Young album and the Dynamic Hepnotics. rockier, but what happened was the rockier songs are more rocky and the ballady songs are more ballady. On the new album there’s a funky ballad, a real lush one and one in between.

Is there any one musical force within the band or is the music a combination of everyone’s interests?

RW: Since we got this thing together

way that turned out, after everyone put their input into it, than if I’d’ve done it myself. I think that one exceeded my expectations. We’re highly critical of each other all the time, and there’s lots of songs that don’t make it.

What might you do on your own that wouldn’t fit the band format?

RW: I’m not too sure yet. I could do a

solo album where I tried lots of different things, but what I’ll probably do is a heavy heavy pop sort of thing, crashing drums and really big chords with melody on top . . . on one side, and a mixture on the other. One side almost poppy disco stuff, but not like English pop disco — I’m not too fond of that.

American — true pop disco.

Do you still have an interest in reggae? I remember one of the early

good things on the radio there.

Is that in any way related to the rap thing in New York, Grandmaster Flash and people like that?

RW: Ah, rap’s just a fad, you know.

It’s a passing thing. I mean that’s a hard core black thing. Only black’s can really understand what rap’s all about, because it’s all to do with that traditional old thing, insulting your neighbour. That’s what rap’s really

Whenever there’s a lull and no inspirationp you go and rip off a few black licks. You go back to the source, where it all came from in the first piace. . . incarnations of Mondo Rock used to feature quite a lot of reggae.

RW: That came from Daddy Cool.

We used to play reggae music in Daddy Cool. No-one knew at the time, because we weren’t in favour — it was

about I reckon. The interesting thing about rap is that it’s probably •influenced a bit by Jamaican dub music, and it’s funny for American black music to be influenced by stuff from somewhere else.

why you’ve got this English pseudofunk. Whenever there’s a lull and ho inspiration, you go and rip off a few black licks. You go back to the source, where it came from in the first place, which is solid rhythm. I mean that’s what’s so good about it — the rhythm is so good. Lessons in advanced syncopation. It’s like science fiction to most people — too complex.

Do you go back to those roots very often?

RW: My favourite person of all time is John Lee Hooker. Most people just think he invented ‘the boogie’, but what he does is nothing like what he’s said to be. I’ve got a huge collection of records by him and he’s an amazing artist as far as I’m concerned. And like Jimi Hendrix was like a modern John Lee Hooker. My tastes go from John Lee Hooker onwards — the rnid forties, the microgroove era.

Are you playing much guitar onstage lately?

RW: Nah, I’m a lousy guitarist.

Terrible.

You used to hold your end up pretty well!

RW: The guys in the band keep saying, ‘Need a bit of extra guitar in there’, and I go, ‘Please don’t make me do it, I hate it.’ They’ve got me playing a bit in one of Eric’s songs — all I have to do is go digger digger digger digger — even that’s hard for me. I’m not bad on sound, but I’m terrible on playing . . .

Do you think you’ve always been terrible?

RW: I’m a reasonable rhythm guitarist. But the guitar to me, really is a big mystery. I can’t get to grips with it at all. So I prefer to leave it alone.

Do you still enjoy playing live?

RW: Oh yeah, I tell ya, I don’t do anything that I don’t like to do. I do whatever I like . . . and that’s exactly what I’m doing now.

boiled down to was get rid of everything, keep the name, and start again.

I’d had my eye on James Black, who was playing with Russell Morris at the time, eventually it all fell together — Eric McCusker was the last to join — the original guitarist dipped out at the

'Eagle RockV— I can’t believe it! Last year people used to ask for it, now they scream for it. last minute, went overseas.

What had he done before that, because he seemed a bit like a bolt from the blue?

RW: He was with the Matchbox Band at that stage. He was a Sydney based musician before, and he had played on lots of minor things, pick-up bands, people like Jeff St. John, Jon English Band, faceless bands.

Was he writing songs at that stage?

RW: Yeah. He wrote quite a few songs for the Captain Matchbox. Both on his own and with Mick Conway. A lot of material. I went along and saw them, after he’d auditioned for us. It was a bit hard to tell because they weren’t a real rock’n’rolly outfit, but even so, his songs stood o u t. . . I just had a feeling, and I just had to use my intuition, and there was some doubt, from the guys, cos his equipment was a bit scratchy. But he was eager to please — I think he felt, ‘This is a good chance, and I’d like to do this.’ That’s what I like about him, he’s willing to listen and analyse, accepts criticism without getting angry, That’s what I like, y’know.

Anyone that saw us when we first started out with this band, who saw us now would see a huge difference in the total sound, and in Eric’s guitar playing.

His solo guitarstuff on the new album is great.

I don’t do anything that I don’t like to do. I do whatever I like . . . and that’s exactly what I’m doing now.

Have you ever been disheartened?

RW: The time I got disheartened was when we cut the ‘Primal Park’ album.

We cut a whole album in Sydney and only one track ended up on the album. I knew it was going wrong and I felt it was out of control. We got back to Melbourne and I said to the record company, ‘We’ve got a couple of new songs, can we cut them?’ and they said ‘Yeah’, they were good about it. And then we cut a side live, because that seemed to be the only place the band were cutting it, was live. And from 1V2 hours on stage we got what we couldn’t get from several weeks in the studio.

That showed me that that band worked on stage but not in the studio, I dunno whether they got spooked or what . . .

in the last year or so of Daddy Cool. Noone knew what it was anyway. But Hannaford and I were into it back in7475. That’s why Hannaford went on to play it in Billy T and Lucky Dog. But my main tastes lie towards black American music — they always have.

Both current and real old.

There seems to have been a resurgence in that area lately . . .

RW: There’s a real big renaissance in real funky stuff — not boring funk. Real interesting stuff.

People Like Prince and Rick James?

RW: No, I don’t count them. They’re not part of it. Prince is a crossover — that’s why you’re hearing about him?

Most of the junk that’s on the American Top 100 Funk chart, you don’t hear here, you might hear one from the top ten. I was just over there a few weeks ago and . . . even the stores here that stock disco, they don’t touch the tip of the iceberg. There are discs that I heard there that are really big hits and I’ve tried to get ’em at local disco stores and . . . it’s hard, there’s not a really big market here, but there’s some really

American black music has never really been big in Australia, has it?

RW: No, and I used to get crapped off with that. A few years ago I was talking to a program manager at a Melbourne radio station and I said ‘Why don’t you have a funk program, play some nice soul music on a Sunday night or

So I thought that’s that, out of the way. But when I did get disheartened; we went out and toured and supported it, and after three months I disbanded the band; the management side of things seemed a little directionless, so I thought I’d look for another manager, one that’ll be there 24 hours a day and who’ll look after us. We were going through Glen Wheatley, who is a good personal friend of mine and everything, but he wasn’t available. His full thing was L.R.B. And I don’t reckon you can concentrate on more than one or two acts at a time.

The Australian thing is an indication of how diverse the whole thing has become. Because each act in Australia has a pretty definite personality of its own.

m s rn s ^ rn m im s m m m m something,’ and he said, ‘Aw listen, it’d be nice to do it but Melbourne’s whiter than white.’ (Laughs) So if you want to hear it you’ve got to find a good disco with a DJ that knows his music. There are a couple around — not very many.

I t ’s been my experience that musicians are a lot more Into black sounds than the Australian general public . . .

RW: Musicians usually are —■that’s

And I thought, well I may as well change record companies at the same time because there was the same thing there — because the management didn’t really know, what to do the record company didn’t really know either.

They’d just had a bad experience with us too, you know (laughs). That was EMI. So that’s when I decided to make a last ditch attempt to make a household name out of Mondo Rock. And what it

That always happens when there’sa lull in Top 40. Then, as I said the white guys go and pinch a few of the new riffs and they’re off again — wow! And that’s what’s been happening (laughing) since the beginning of rock’n’roll!

But you always get a different sound because we hear things differently.

Whar IS your live repertoire these days?

RW: ‘Chemistry’, ‘Nuovo Mondo’ and ‘Eagle Rock’! (laughs). ‘Eagle Rock’, I can’t believe it, it’s reaching incredible proportions of popularity at the moment. Last year people used to ask for it, but now they scream out for it y’know. The perfect way to end the night.

Are you happy with the way things are going for you?

RW: Oh, I reckon there’s always room for improvement, shit. That’s half the reason you’re in it. To try and get better. What I like about it is, provided we can sell a few copies of the new album, and have a couple more hits and stuff, there’s scope for everyone within the group to branch out and do other things as well, y’know. Like Eric sings a song on the new album, and I reckon he’ll put out solo records eventually too. He’s got enough songs. And I’d like to do that too. Because Mondo Rock to me is just a place where five guys meet and do something together. But we’re all capable of doing other things. I mean, James Black, he’s got talents incredibly untapped. The one and a half songs he’s contributed is just the beginning for him. I don’t know whether solo things would be successful but that’s what makes life interesting, to try that sort of stuff.

Whadderyer reckon? (To Eric McCusker who has joined us).

McCusker: Yeah. An articulate yeah.

What do you feel about the way rock is going in general these days?

RW: Rock’s going through one of its real wishy-washy periods again. I hope we’re not contributing to that — some people think we are. I don’t particularly think so — we’re a bunch of songwriters more than anything else.

We don’t get out and scream and shout — we try to express ourselves a bit more subtly. That comes back to what we were talking about before, the funk renaissance,.soul music really pushing through and making an impression.

What about Australia?

RW: What I find interesting about Australia is that you can view it as a microcosm of the whole thing. The Australian thing is an indication of how diverse it’s all become. Because each act in Australia has got a pretty definite personality of its own. And it covers a lot of areas, from Mondo Rock to the Angels, to Cold Chisel, Icehouse, Mental As Anything. I mean, they’re all quite different. And yet, they’re all rock’n’roll bands, as well as pop music bands. They strike that balance. I think that’s ‘cos they’ve gotta go out there and prove it in hotels — which is a hard audience to please.

Do you feel that means that a lot of the more extreme and perhaps more original talent in Australia just withers on the vine?

RW: Yeah, possibly, but I don’t know whether it wouldn’t wither on the vine wherever it was. The only example I can think of, of a band getting attention, is the Birthday Party. They’re the big hope for all those people who are out on a limb. But they’re so far out on a limb that there’s no-one to compare ‘em with, I think that’s why they got attention elsewhere.

Do you go out much?

RW: Not lately, I don’t think there’s too much good new stuff around. I’m pretty aware of what is around. I’ve stopped going out because I can’t find anything that interests me. I mean I’ve got my interests in that direction — I produced a couple of tracks before Xmas for the Dynamic Hepnotics — but that’s in an area which I like anyway, and I’m attracted because they do it well. And they’re probably the only ones locally who are doing it well. And that’ll be coming out on a six tracker through Missing Link. I hope I can work with them again — these things we’ve done aren’t bad, but I reckon we could make a good pop/soul record.

I’m developing into a custodian of the roots sound. The Gary Young album and the Dynamic Hepnotics.

Melbourne always seems to be much more aware of the roots of music than any other city in Australia.

RW: Maybe it’s just got a more solid cultural base. People research what they’re doing. Mmmm, I don’t know why that is. Probably just reflects the personalities of the cities. Like Sydney’s a real flashy sort of thing, fad music catches on a lot quicker there.

And like if you have a hit record in Sydney, you can work everywhere.

Sydney’s really radio orientated. If you haven’t got a hit you’re nowhere.

We’re probably more popular in S ydney th a n a n yw h e re else.

Melbourne we’re popular, but we tend to get taken a little for granted, because we’ve been based there for the last five years.

Do you ever think of moving your base?

RW: I did about 4 years ago, when everything seemed to be moving to Sydney. But I’m really glad I didn’t.

Melbourne’s just come back into its own I reckon. When I was younger, in my early 20’s, I used to think Melbourne was a really depressing place, just sort of grey and nothing there at all, I couldn’t wait to leave. I went to England, and even when I came back it didn’t seem all that good ~ there were a few good things happening and I kinda got it together professionally and started to work and get well known, but still didn’t really have a good vibe for the place. Now, just over the last few years, I reckon it’s a good place to be. I like coming back to Melbourne, and I like living there, I like the street I live in and everything.

PAGE 13

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IT W AS REAL FUNNY,” chuckles Jon English, “well, not at the time it wasn’t, but now as I iook back, i can have a good ’oi laugh just thinking about il What happened was, I was at Sydney airport doing a phoner with one of the D J’s here in Adelaide. I don’t recail his name, but it must’ve been only minutes that we’d been talking. Mind you, it was aii live to I air. And the next minute, this security guard comes up and taps me on the shoulder. He starts telling me about some escapee that had just got loose and they needed the phone box that I was in to cali for heip. Now, I’m only human and I do have my priorities and before anything else, I value my life! But in thirty seconds, it wasn’t easy to convince the DJ of what ws going on at my end of the line. He obviously thought it was all a big joke. Well, when you’ve got a uniformed guard breathing down the back of your neck, and your forehead is sweating and your heart is beating so hard it’s almost visible, I can tell you, it’s no joke! I went to hang up a few times and all he could say was “And how’s the new album going Jon, we haven’t discussed that ye t” and I’m saying “Ah it’s really trivial, you wouldn’t be interested anyway, well, gotta g o . . . Bye.” And then on the other end of the line is left some confused DJ who’s not sure whether he’s coming or going. What else could I have done? It’s certainly a memorable occasion that’s for sure. One I won’t forget for a long time!

Everyone laughed as Jon English spoke. He looked as though he thoroughly enjoyed being the centre of attention. Jon was in Adelaide during May as part of his tour following the release of his new album Beating The Boards’. He actually had a few hours to relax before that night’s gig and was revelling in his role as guest of honour at a suburban barbecue, chatting amiably to anyone who came his way.

I had seen Jon and The Foster Brothers the previous evening playing to a sold out city venue. The crowd loved ’em as they made their way through two hours of foot stomping, hand clapping entertainment. He’s one of Australia’s most successful performers and the audience — one of the most varied I’ve ever seen, by their reaction, proved that he still had what it takes. The Foster Brothers are an extremely tight band considering the short time that they’ve been together. At the moment all band members take their hand at song-writing, but Jon’s present show includes material from years back AND new songs written by himself and The Foster Brothers.

Clad in tight fitting jeans and baggy shirt, bearing the wording “Jon English and the Foster Brothers”, he eventually made his way toward me and half whispered “hey, do you wanna see something?” i nodded and followed the lanky singer down the dark passage way of the house and into the laundry. He took great pride in showing me his newly acquired Dalmation pup that he had just bought for his two daughters. It’s obvious that fame hasn’t changed Jon English too much as he kneels on the tiled floor and lets Belvedere (the pup) climb all over him.

“Do you mind if we do the interview in here?” he asked “Belvedere gets lonely”. Looking at Belvedere and then at Jon, how could I refuse?

The glamour usually linked with being a star was noticeably absent as the smell of the BBQ began to make its way throughout the house. Dnce the pup had finished sniffing out both tape recorder and microphone, the interview got underway.

Jon English was born in London in 1949, moving to Australia with his family in 1963. He has made a name for himself with Australian AND overseas audiences. Jesus Christ Superstar, Jon agreed was his first real break.

JE I was nearly at the point of giving it all away because you need a tre m e n d o u s a m o u n t of perseverance to get out of the garages and onto the big stage.

Superstar offered the best of both worlds. It offered fame and fortune and also a bit of stability.

It was such a good training ground to all sorts of things.

- Stagecraft and punctuality, what people look at on stage and what they’re distracted by.

A lot of things have to be learnt through experience, but in Superstar you had to learn real quick. Since then, I’ve been in the public eye for ten years.

JH Have there been any regrets, as you look back on your career?

JE Obviously yeah. But now, the

PAGE 14

way that it’s turned out, I haven’t.

I think mistakes are there to be made and as long as you take note of them when you make them, they’re probably quite good for you. It’s pointless trying to say that no-one’s ever going to make mistakes. I mean, they just do. It all depends on the strength of your own grain, as to whether you’re prepared to learn from it. Or if you let the mistakes screw you up in your head and get bitter about them.

JH At concerts, do you draw a particular crowd?- I’m talking about the age group more than anything.

JE We’re arguably the most across the board act in Australia now.

The age group will vary obviously depending on the venue that you play. At pubs, you’re more likely to pull a pub type crowd. We don’t pull a lot of new wave sort of people. We’re basically a very mainstream band. In pubs, it’s pretty much the same crowd everywhere, but they’ve always been good crowds. I think the' mistake that a lot of people make is to categorise. An audience is an audience, all people are the same. If you just entertain and try not to be boring then people will like it. You’vegotto mix it up.

You have to do ballads and up tempo things. The lot. If you don't, then it becomes boring.

JH Apart from Australia, is Europe

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where you are most popular?.

JE Yeah, if you’re not counting New Zealand.

been overseas, you suddenly realise that we are living in a good place.

JH What do you put that down to?

JE Just basically down to the fact . that we’ve never really pushed it.

We haven’t got out and hustled for overseas recognition. It’s never been the most important ■thing.

JH Its a pity how some Australian bands have to go overseas and get recognised before Australia takes any notice of them.

JH What about in times to come, do you think it will be then?

JE No, because it’s more important to me to be recognised and successful here than anywhere else because this is where I choose to live. Australia is the most important country to me.

That’s not being nationalistic or flag waving, but once you have

JE Sure, but all that means is that Americans like that sort of music and people over here don’t. I get annoyed at endless pratting from rock and roll shows that say, this song was number one in England, therefore it will be a big hit here.

What status it holds overseas should be totally irrelevant. We have individual tastes and there is an individual flavour to Australia now.

JH How pleased are you with the new album?

JE If I was to never release another album, and someone said, I have never heard of Jon English and I’d like to hear one of his albums, I’d like them to hearthat one. It’s so much like us and what we do.

JH It also sums it up in a way.

JE 'Yeah, so whether you like it or you don’t, it’s us.

JH Ever since you started, has there been one track that’s been a favourite?

JE I suppose I’ve got a soft spot for ‘Hollywood Seven’ although its vastly different from when we first recorded it. I like songs like that. Favourites of mine really vary because I like doing ‘Turn The Page’, ‘Josephine’, ‘The Leader’, to name a few. I like songs that you can get your teeth into and actually perform.

JH A lot of bands say that when they’re up on stage, it’s easier to perform fast songs all the time.

Especially when they’re playing to pub crowds. Do you find that?

JE Well, you’re bound to*get a more positive reaction if you play fast songs. Fast, loud songs, so that the audience can’t talk and be distracted. The art form is to play a slow song and hold their attention, which you can do almost as easily. Particularly if it’s done with a certain amount of energy. It’s up to you to make the crowd look at you. It’s not up to the crowd to look at you. I think that if you mix it up and entertain, they’ll watch you.

JH Did you always want to be a rock and roll singer?

JE Yes, I mean, I always wanted to be an entertainer. I’m fond of rock and roll obviously. It’s the primary sort of art form nowadays, arguably it will be challenged in the next ten years by video. I think it’s a question of not just restricting yourself to rock and roll. I listen to a lot of different classical pieces of music, all sorts. We try and put a bit of everything into the show, but we still use rock and roll as a medium.

JH When you were first starting, was there anyone in particular that you looked up to?

JE Obviously the Beatles were the catalysts, they started it all. I have always been a Who fan.

There was a lot more to them than just being a rock and roll band. Firstly, they were very inventive. I like their sound and their approach. It’s very powerful and violent and what they’re doing is terribly intricate.

Lyrically there’s some really good comment. I think that they’re the guys that show just how far you can go because they’ve done all sorts of things.

JH Who would you put down to being the most helpful to you in the business?

JE Various people. Carmen, my wife, has helped a lot by having a basically solid home life.

Because of that, life is a lot easier to take and there’s always a dark corner that you can retreat into. If you don’t have that, it can be very depressing.

Obviously I have a soft spot for Harry Miller, cos of Superstar and the break. Peter Rix, my current manager is great because he just took all of the shit away from me and left me time to concentrate on what I do best, which is organising shows and songs. If you’re distracted by irrelevant crap, it’s a worry.'

JH Was Molly Meldrum much help back in the Countdown days?

JE Only by the virtue that he got Countdown going. He wasn’t directly helpful to me. He’s been helpful to the whole Australian in d u s try because before Countdown, there was very little rock on TV. Even though I hardly know the guy, we’ve met quite a few times, but on occasions, we haven’t seen eye to eye. I think we’re probably a little uncomfortable in each other’s company. It can work that way, but I have the utmost respect for what he’s been doing. He knows exactly what he wants to do and is fiercely launching Australian music. I think Molly will still be around when I’m dead and gone, and I’ve been around for awhile now.

JH Before you made a name for yourself as Jon English, what were you doing? Were you in any other bands?

JE Yes, I was in a band in Sydney called Sebastian Hardy. Since I left, they’ve kicked on. I produced an album for them. Its funny, some of the people you meet and then in years to come, they’re bound to make it sooner or later. The proof of it is whether you manage to stay there, or what sort of a head you keep on your shoulders, because it is just a job. You might be blessed by having some sort of thing that makes people look at you and enjoy it.

There’s a lot of homework and a lot of learning that you’ve got to do. If you ever reach the point where you think you’re too good to stop learning then it’s the time to stop. And if you think that you’re the answer to the world’s problems, then it’s definitely the time to stop. There’s far too much ego involved in being a rock and roll- singer. It’s really just another job.

JH If you had three choices as to what’s most important to you now, how would you order them. Does singing come first?

JE The most important thing to me is the home situation. That means a lot and I want to keep it.

The second thing is to remain happy in what I’m doing because while I do, then it’s easy. And then to make sure that I don’t start second guessing people. As long as I’m doing what I want to do then that's fine.

JH Why do you think you’ve managed to last so long in the music business?

JE I think it’s because we’ve never been a fashion band. We’re not trend setters in terms of looks and style and the whole thing.

And there’s nothing more old fashioned than last years fashions. I’d say that’s the reason why we’ve lasted.

JH So when you do stop, will it be when you’re not happy doing what you’re doing, when the crowd’s not happy, or both?

JE A combination of both for sure.

People say, aren’t you a bit old to be doing all this? I don’t think I am because as long as you do it g ra c e fu lly and you age gracefully, it should be all right. I was 33 in March, so I started late. 23 is actually quite late to start, in the public’s eye anyway.

But I’ve been doing it since I was about fifteen. On my own, this is my tenth year in the business and Beating The Boards is our tenth album.

Jodi Hoffmann

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Perth music life has a new flavour. It’ll be just as good in the morning as it was last night if you stick it to the bedpost overnight. L. Rocaderos rode into town May 12th at that veritable institution.

The Cat. The boys in this band should prove to bean uncompromising bunch.

They insist on being all-original. They have 60 songs between four writers and for that reason insist on doing gigs on their own unless some substantial financial carrot is dangled in front of them. The only way you’ll get these guys out of their garages and bedrooms to back your next double billing will be to give them your pittance.

So who are these foolish young men? Well, as they billed themselves for the cat, they’re the “New Wright, Rose, Bailey, Beatty and Edwards Band”; which is interesting because they’re the first such band. I guess they’re claiming to be new. New faces they’re not (except for Edwards and his face looks considerably worse for wear), a new sound they are. Wright, Rose and Bailey, of course, played as an acoustic trio for some time a few years back. Bailey is the name of the group having played with Warner, the D ugites and num erous o th e r permutations of sleazy characters.

Beatty is a drummer from Busselton who has played in various aborted bands around Perth and the south­ west for some years including “Bunyip” where he initially linked up with Ddve Rose. Finally, this is Edward’s first band as he has been very sensible and acquired himself an education first.

(Engineering). He’s a fine keyboardist who isn’t the slightest bit daunted by some of the musical heavies in the group. So that’s them, foolish men — Rose on vocals, guitar, percussion and nerves; Wright on lead guitar and seat; Edwards on keyboards, dancing and musical colours; Bailey on bass guitar and base humour and the redoubtable (well that’s what someone shouted out) Mr. Beatty on drums enjoying himself at last. By the way, it’s his real name, I

swear.

As for the music; mmm . . . interesting, mostly tasteful but often of dubious taste. L. Roccaderos take their music very seriously but don’t take themselves seriously. They’re not above sneering at the audience, sometimes seriously, sometimes as good natured banter. Actually, if I had to reach for a term to describe their music it would be — dare I say it — psychedelic! Eclectic could be as appropriate, but best of all. I’d like to call it absurdist. Wright’s guitar work provides most of the touch of psychedelia and the music is eclectic due to the vast experience and talent of the band. “How is it absurdist?” You tiredly ask. Because this is rock and roll as it shouldn’t be played by musicians who wished they didn’t feel so stupid.

These guys even have the gall to play a slow-burning soul ballad as the second last song Of the night. Jeez boys — the dancers only just got up on the floor!.

They followed that with a tongue in cheek (I think?) ditty called “(I don’t want to) slash my wrists”. Song after song confirms my suspicion as it catalogues the human condition as “ridiculous”. Even the straight songs (and there are a surprising number of these once you count them up) only serve to highlight this by their juxtaposition against the “off the wall” numbers. Furthermore, the “straight” songs are nevertheless characterized

by L. Roccaderos singularemphasison off-beat ideas and creating new textures.

At this point I want to say that I’m not really raving about this band (yet). My preference in Aus. rock stands with the Birthday Party but I’ll contend that L. Roccaderos show enormous potential.

Unfortunately, the sheer range of expression they indulge in (yes, indulge in) detracts from many of their songs. I was going to put this to Mr. Beatty but he pre-empted rny question by stating that the band is well aware of this weakness and are simply looking forward to writing together and

gelling into a cohesive songmaking' unit over at least the next six months.

They don’t need reassuring that with their many disparate strengths even the most jaundiced listener would have to testify to their potential. This isn’t potential potential, this is potential ready to grow wings.

Personal j4ighlights? For me, the soul man vocals of Dave Rose were the high point. I love soul music but this is only the second time I’ve ever heard it live. (The first time was No Fixed Address.) Rose is the first vocalist in Perth to give an inkling of soul and he stamps song after song with it. Songs which range from mock crooning to out and out funk throw back their heads and stare straight at you, holding nothing back. The other highlight was simply the luxury of having L. Roccaderos on the scene. Perth, as has been grumbled about in these pages often, is struggling to find an original music scene. Band after band of young hopefuls have popped up only to wilt and die. (I’d like to tell you in brutal terms why one day.) Now we have a band of experienced musicians coming from the opposite end. They have the music, connections and panache to upset quite a few con ve n tio n s. I sense that L. Roccaderos are too intelligent and strong-willed to pamper to commercial death. (DAH-DAH-DAH, DAAH; cue from Beethoven’s fifth.) If I’m right I should say I think they’ll be recording a very good album before the end of the year.

So, go and see them, or rather, be where they’re playing. Be where every new band advertised in town is playing.

Get into the scene — not just this scene or that scene — get into the whole shebang. There are musicians out there who want to give and share a good time with you. They want to open your minds and they want you to open theirs. (They’re trying already, you’ll have to try a little harder).

L. Roccaderos — go for it! (See I watch T.V. too!).

Mr. Squiggle.

PAGE 15

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Some of the greatest enjoyment I have culled from ‘rock’ music has been from bands like the Jam, Aztec Camera, U.K. Squeeze and, of course, Elvis Costello. These people belong to that unusually small group of plucky individuals who pick old handcuffs with new keys, taking old, perhaps even jaded styles, into modernity by re­ fashioning their frameworks and adding new ideas.

26 songs — count ’em — 26 songs (if you include the encores) and, for those who curbed their desire to see the concert for fear of a bombardment of country, you guessed wrong.

The style was given a nod of only three songs.

Quite clearly, this was a concert designed to encapsulate the best of what was, is and will be, with some five tracks from the forthcoming ‘Imperial Bedroom’ (all of which illustrate a return to the style of ‘Trust’) and a collection of favourites.

What makes this ‘give the crowd what they want’ attitude so utterly palatable, is the tight but rough-edged quality of the Attraction’s playing.

Possibly the best pop combo in existence, the Attractions reaffirm the best parts of the known material, whilst adding new zest by the sheer fire and skill of their playing. Steve Nieve’s painfully brilliant classical runs and jazz inflections, Costello’s cliched but beautiful raunch guitarwork, Bruce Thomas’ precise drumming, and Pete Thomas’ basswork, which defies limitations, creating melodic and almost chromatic basslines all over the fretboard. And, damn it, the ease with which they play!!!

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Even Costello’s lyrics which, like David Byrne’s of Talking Heads, have become almost selfparodying, were pushed to the side tonight; shoved into a petty corner as the modern Elvis crooned. That voice, as warm and woolly as a heavy blanket on the coldness of a May nighh wrapped itself, perfectly pitched, around very, very attentive ears. I’ve never seen an audience so appreciatively silent and wide-eyed, as Costello paced through numbers that demanded vocal perfection and emotion. Like ‘Good Year For Roses’, ‘Alison’, ‘New Lace Sleeves’ or the Motown-ballad version of ‘I Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down’, songs beckoning, almost demanding, quiet respect. And I’ve never heard an audience so appreciatively loud on the conclusion of those, and all other songs.

The Hall ran over with love and respect, simply because Costello is that rare thing, a performer.

He never plays to the audience, but rather for them. Giving them not quite what they would expect, but serving it up on a platter so inviting that everyone laps it up. The gilt-edge to this is that Costello and the Attractions seem to enjoy the whole thing. When Elvis smiled, faces around me lit up, as if to say, ‘Hey, we’ve pleased him’; Costello was that much in control of the situation.

But who’s complaining? . . .

When absolutely everyone, audience, band and yourself, has toes tapping and big, silly, happy grins splashed lavishly across their faces, you know, beyond reasonable doubt, that your experiencing pure and unadulterated enjoyment.

To end on a very cliched, but suitable journalistic note — and after all, it does seem in keeping ^ Costello made one and all ‘get happy’.

Earl Grey

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THE AGENCY p.o. box 1626 north 2060 Sydney

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P O IS O

S IN G L E S First off, my personal apology for the non-appearance of the singles column in the last couple of issues. The reason is quite simple. I’ve been rushing around madly trying to keep this leaky boat (Roadrunner) afloat, and also quite frankly there hasn’t been anything I’ve found really startling come my way (apart from Little Heroes’ ‘One Perfect Day’ girls, of course!).

So in some belated effort to get ahead here is my opinion of the current crop of 45 rpm vinyl, along with selected highlights from the not quite so current.

Confusion, mellee, you can’t tell the difference! They’re all laying down their arms and surrendering to each other.

And dancing together! Is this the end of criticism as we know it?

BECAUSE YOU’RE YOUNG : Private Lives : (Chrysalis) Proving that even a sjjper-whiz producer like Martin Rushent can’t turn every sow’s ear into a silk purse.

Screaming Believers are an Adelaide based band. They have played at the Union Hotel (where this E.P. was recorded) on and off for the past 3 years. That’s a criminal waste, but perhaps valuable because when this band bursts open nationally they’re going to have the impact of a tactical nuclear weapon. Simply the Believers have a repertoire of great songs (like those other Adelaide hopefuls Speedboat and now Sydney based The Spell). I’m sad ‘Life Is Cheap In El Salvador’ isn’t on this E.P. but‘Little Girl In Red’ and especially the superlative provoking ‘Don’t Talk Of Love’ are, and are definitely worth the price of admission.

GONE DEAD : The Moodists : (Au-Go-Go).

Nup. Still too hard.

catchy and commercial product to tempt you into buying their new L.P. C oolly calculating and almost guaranteed of strategic success. hrniliriiL'i

SUDAN : Sardine v : (White'Label Records) Sardine v develop great rhythm atmosphere through a sparing use of sounds. A very impressive debut and a strikingly original piece of work.

BAP’S GROOVE : Perrin, Lisner & Cox : (Real Gone) ‘Bap’s Groove’ sounds like rough-cut Blue Rondo, but ‘Alabaster Baby’ is cool, if a little solemn.

KICK IN THE EYE

THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED (E.P.)

: BauH^us : (Beggar’s Banquet) Bowie.

: The Dri Horrors : (Horrible Records) A. Sloppy Ska. B. Thrasheroo Boogie. C. Dirgey drudge. D. Scratchedy-Scratch. The record label just about sums it up. Actually ‘Sing Me A Song’ (D) is the best song by far.

HOLD ME : Fleetwood Mac : (WEAJ See Mondo Rock.

ONLY YOU : Yazoo : (Mute).

This is quite simply superb. One ex Depeche Mode chap and a chubby girl (don’t worry — their names will be household by next week) a love song so traditional it’ll probably be covered

by Julie Andrews and a stunning display of synthesizer simplicity.

Electro-pop is storming the middle of the road and turning that moribund desert of leftover hasbeens and neverwases into a veritable garden of delights. There’s hope!

GONE DEAD : The Moodists : (Au-Go-Go) Uh-huh. Too difficult.

I RAN : Flock of Seagulls : (Jive) Much better without the video.

Unfortunately I’m tainted with the vision of this fat little blonde twerp going round & round in circles and pawing at cheap sets half heartedly pursued by 2 female extras from Star Trek. A bouncy, electropop HIT nonetheless.

VIEW FROM A BRIDGE : Kim Wilde : (Rak) More like it! Better with the video — I find delight in watching Kim Wilde, and why not? — but on sound alone the young lady is a giantess of modern pop. Kim Wilde’s first four singles, remember them, ‘Kids In America’, ‘Chequered Love’, ‘Cambodia’ and ‘View From A Bridge’ is the most impressive singles run from anyone, anywhere, since the Pistols, with ‘Anarchy In The UK’, ‘God Save The Queen’, ‘Pretty Vacant’ and ‘Holidays In The Sun’. Funny how times change innit?

SEE YOU : Depeche Mode : (Mute) Depeche Mode! Depeche Mode!

Who?

: The Higsons : (Romans in Britain Records) What a fucking title! It’s almost better than the name of the record company.

The Higsons are from Norwich, East Anglia, England (the flat bit in the east above London) but they manage to funk that jungle samba stuff like some bunch of Rio de Janeiro street punks.

Cross Gang-of Four with Pigbag.

BANQUET LUNCHEONS MON. TO FRI. 12-Z30 P.M. A LA CARTE DINNER TUES. TO SAT. 6.30 P.M. FRIENDLY COURTEOUS SERVICE

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: Bow Wow Wow : (RCA) Highly amusing. Features a black & white picture sleeve of the ‘We’re Only In It For The Manet’ album cover.

AIRW AVES

] FUCK ART, LET’S DANCE

: Thomas Dolby ; (Parlophone) I can’t work out whether this is a promotion for 5-MMM’s subscriber magazine or just a pile of shit. I fear the latter.

: 5:15 : (Au-Go-Go) A good time for cretins.

YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND : Sunnyboys ; (Mushroom) A great pop song — but only if you’ve seen them live! The Sunny’s generate great spirit but have yet to capture it in recorded form. When they do — batten down the hatches!

MURDERED MUSIC

BY

THE

: Yukihiro Takahasi : (Regular-2) Highly amusing. Cover’s O.K. but gets beaten by the music (groan — unintentional pun) which is Japanese version of Split Enz meets Gary Glitter.

TH E EM P E R O R ’S NEW CLOTHES : Dorian Gray : (Au-Go-Go) This sounds NKp the Birthday Party doing a cover version of Cream’s ‘Tales of Brave Ulysses’ (‘Disraeli Gears’ (1967). The merit of this combination I’ll leave completely up to you.

REMEMBER, REMEMBER

PARTY FEARS TWO

: Out of Nowhere : (Prince Melon) It’s on! It’s on! The Incredible String Band revival starts right here!

GO GO

: Hot Chocolate : (RAK) A pulsing, loping, rhythm ic, unashamedly sexual piece of music.

Should be immediately adopted as the theme song of the Wombat Clubmotto; (eats roots and leaves).

CRIMSON AND CLOVER

CABARET NITE EVERY WEDNESDAY

LIVE EMTBtTAIMMENT & DIMMER or SUPPER SHOWTIME 10 P.M.

TAKE ONE STEP

: Joan Jett and the Blackhearts : (Liberation) I’m old enough to remember the Tommy James and the Shondells original, and a heap of other good stuff they did too, and.Joanie strips it down neatly adding some heavy guitar and vocal distortion.

Young Home Buyers : (Rough Diamond)

Donald Robertson

NO TIME : Mondo Rock : (WEA) Making full use of the considerable musical talents within the combo, Mondo Rock present a competent.

LIVE

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: Super K : (Green) A fun-bouncy novelty item that falls a bit flat on its face; but would probably sound alright after a couple bottles of champagne.

GIRL CR A±Y

VACATION

: Screaming Believers : (Empty Dogma Records).

Go on, show it. It’s worth it. The

: Flaming Hands : (Phantom) This is really quite superb — an immaculate production, tons of soul and feeling in Julie Mostyn’s voice, a fine break-up song, great supportive and sympathetic playing, a shivers down the spine sax solo . . . you couldn’t ask for much more. Equal Single of the Month (with Yazoo).

: Eurogliders : (Mercury) Sounds a bit like the Dugites with whom they share a common origin; without the musical complexity, but not a bad sounding debut. There’s better on the L.P. though.

: The Go-Go’s : (I.R.S.) What’s this, girls? No deviation from the formula yet? Ah well, when you’re pn a winning streak . . .

SHOW ME YOUR MONEY (E.P.)

ITS JUST THAT I MISS YOU

WITHOUT YOU

The Associates ; (WEA).

Good — but not great. Billy Mackenzie’s voice, featured recently on the B.E.F. pop history rewrite album, is definitely an acquired taste. It’s exaggerated here to the point of parody.

: The Members : (Island) On which Nicky Tesco, sounding like Eric Burden’s younger brother, and the rest of the ‘Offshore Banking Business’ mob haul themselves off the mat winking and bellowing and strutting a la Latin busker style as if nothing had ever happened. ‘Ow are yer, Nicky?

Where yer bin? Nice ter see yer agin.’

: Dollar : (WEA) Dollar, Dollar as the middle of the road attacks electropop on the left flank, supported by Bucks Fizz.

5 :1 5 /F U C K A R Z LE TS D A N C E

I DON’T W ANT TO LIVE WITH MONKEYS

RADIO

MIRROR, MIRROR

Crisp frantic pop, clean as a whistle and brisk as a winter’s evening. Worth flipping over for ‘Work Hard (Polish Reggae Party)’, a wonderfully bizarre Solidarity meets ‘Summertime Blues’ with treadmill. Deserves to do well.

THE FUNK'S GONNACETYA! EVERY THURSDAY GiaiU Am erican Homhufsers

BEST DISCO INTOWN EVERY FRI. & SAT. 8 P.M. With D.J. TERRY

PAGE 17

ETE TOWNSHEND

MOVING PICTURES CHURCH RUNNERS Hordern Pavlova Sydney We were informed that rock ’n roll history was being made: 12,000 people in one day to see 3 Australian bands; two shows that were both totally sold out.

The Pavlova was the final leg of a mammoth cross-country tour by the two major bands, and it was obvious to all that the risks undertaken by promoters and management had well and truly paid off, thanks to the extrem ity of commercialism and a calculated shrewdness by all concerned.

The natives were getting restless (past their bedtime), but it wasn’t actually the Runners that they wanted to see. They had no choice, though — imprisoned in a sweaty crush of their own making, one could be tempted to say that they got just what they deserved.

Hailed excitedly as one of Australia’s most “ up and coming” young bands, they delivered a set that was strong, assured, and abysmally dull. For such a new band, the usual rawness and rough edges were replaced by a precision that was almost cold in an absence of challenge. No flaws, nothing to grab hold of.

Remember the rash of Oz Crawlettes at the height of “Boys Light Up” frenzy? The bands that came from nowhere, sounded like half 2SM’s record collection, and faded (with amazing rapidity) into the oblivion that spawned them?

The same phenomenon is now being repeated for all to bop along to, and if the Runners were renamed Moving Slides, then who would I be to disagree? With Alex Mkl I as lead singer, they can’t go wrong, can they??

The previously latent hysteria was gradually rising, along with the temperature. Eager little girls, complete with the mandatory 3 inch makeup, started to visibly swoon at the thought of a real live Steve Kilbey. . . .

Soon enough, the high priest and his equally capable disciples were to be vaguely seen through copious clouds of billowing smoke. The images were as distorted as the sounds. The underlying sneer on Kilbey’s face could well have been a figment of the imagination, but as the stare became fixed and the left leg more frantic.. . .the end of the tour; the end of a fragile tether?

They started with a looseness that bordered on indifference; “Tear it all away” was quite awful.

Four musicians piping their own tune — an enclosed self awareness that led to an erratic dirge, severely testing the sensitivity of the eardrums.

Although the quality of the sound didn’t improve much (the Hordern’s accoustics are shocking), the holy men managed to get their act together, awaken the congregation (for at least two songs) and show that the chosen order was the right one for them.

The haunting resonance of “Sisters” managed to hold the sound goblins at bay, “You took” would have been quite good if you hadn’t heard the magnificent studio version. The best moment, though, was courtesy of Marty Wilson-Piper.

“Field of Mars” showcased his vocal talents: those beautifully accentuated tones, supported with a quiet strength. The music, gentle and unobtrusive, meandered quietly around the edges, letting Marty’s voice dominate warmly, expansively. More of this, please!

The Church, even on a bad night, will always be more than your average pop band, because their ambitions far outreach this stage; ambitions that create a presence hard to pin down, let alone

C n r. From e A d ela id e

& R u n d le St

define. They weren’t really good on this particular occasion, and yet, to call them ordinary would almost be an insult. It’s all part of the enigma that is the Church, that couldn’t possibly be any other.

Just 18 months ago. Moving Pictures were one hell of a good band. Audiences were small, but dedicated in the extreme. The material bubbled with a fresh vigor, and Alex Smith used a magnificent voice to tell a thousand stories of a thousand lives that applied to anyone who listened and understood.

And yes, I am using the past tense. Because the latter day Moving Pictures bear no resemblance whatsoever to their distant counterparts now sufferi ng from a bad case of rigor mortis — that is, officially dead. I’ve often wondered how many original fans are left today; somehow, I don't think I’d run out of fingers whilst counting.

It was a sight that will take a long time to forget: 6000 teenagers silhouetted in the smoke-hazy glow of spotlights. . . . 6000 perfectly executed Alex Smith impersonations of “What about me”.

The stomach churned as the voices rose in unison. Look Mum, I know all the words! Ycch.

And what about A1ex and the M.P’s?

Oh yes, Ian Lees and Gary Frost are stilt using the same _ choreographer and pursuing a challenging routine; Paul Freeland is still looking dwarfed by a huge kit (you could swear he only plays the snare and cymbals.); Charlie Cole is still pretending to be Don Walker with two fingered piano playing; and Andy Thompson’s saxaphone is still managing to sound like a breathless mouse.

But there’s a few things missing. . . . Like spontanaeity. Sincerity. Credibility.

The “backing band”, however, are only incidental to the major star of the night; Alex Redford-Smith, dramatist extraordinaire! Every song, every word, was accompanied by a flourish of the hands, a break in the voice, a weakening of the knees. And if I couldn’t see any tears, it could have only been ‘cause of the distance between myself and golden-boy. . . .

He takes himself so bloody seriously!

I cringed with embarrassment, but he held the audience in his clenched fist, and captivation was complete. So complete that it was frightening.

So why this enormous popularity? Well, besides the blonde bombshell that fronts them, don’t the M.P’s play music that’s ‘danceable, light and uncomplicated’???

If this is the case, then I must be suffering from extreme withdrawal symptoms. My feet could have been lead blocks on the cement; the lightness became transparent, and I wished for a nice, intricate little song that would have taken away the headache and relieved the numbness of the mind.

In fact, I couldn’t help but get the impression that the whole 90 minute set was a totally orchestrated affair; this is no small scale amateur production, you know! Optical effects . . . directed by . . . executive producer. . . .

No doubt they did numerous encores, but I left.

Disappointed and disillusioned. And what would they care? Massive adoration in Australia, with the U.S. just around the corner; the world at their feet. They’ve certainly worked hard to get where they are today, but midway through the trek, they changed direction. And left behind a lot of bewildered people, all wondering where the dreams had gone to.

I think I know now. Platinum records and swelling crowds put in the most attractive, viable . bid, and the dreams? Well, they got caught up in the rush to conquer the h ill. . . and anyway, the synthetic ones are much more durable, and can be moulded to suit any requirement. . . .

Sad, but true.

Linda Campbell

P h one 223 7363

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PAGE 18

English Import Service l^ rg e shipment of American deletions just arrived!!

TH E NAM E OF TH IS BAND IS TALKIN G HEADS

INDIVIDUALS

Talking Heads (Sire) The most concise review of this album would, be a simple listing of the tracks. Is much else necessary? The people who don’t know that Talking Heads exist wouldn’t buy this album anyway.

A live album was inevitable and has been long awaited. For documentation purposes, the two albums have been separated into Early TH (197779) and Latter Day TH (1980-81). Apart from a track by track listing of the musicians involved, no other information is available regarding the precise concerts from which these cuts were drawn. This lays the following proposition open to attack.

An audiophile acquaintance once declared to me that in his opinion few live albums were truly definitive. His supporting argument was that the usual custom of selecting best covers of particular tracks was inferior to the selection of a particular concert which best iUustrated what the band as an organism were like. The best live albums do seem to follow the latter rule, and in fact it has long been the practice to record live jazz almost exclusively this way.

The result in this case is a slightly disconnected cross-section of the Heads’ 4 studio albums, and the feeling that the tracks released here are largely throwaways. There is no disputing that, taken individually, the songs are well performed and remain very powerful musical statements.

Listening to the whole album, however (and I have listened to it in several orders), the whole becomes a fairly homogeneous wall of noise. It is hard to listen to more than two sides in a sitting and remain entertained. It is practically impossible, even then, to feel that one has been “out” , so to speak. To this reviewer’s way of thinking, that is the ultimate criterion of a livealbum; lacking that effect, the concept of a live album loses its meaning.

The frustration of involved, interesting songs which remain unworked in their live realisation is particularly evident on the 1977^79 album. The 1980-81 album does open up a bit and play with the basic tune or whatever, though to be fair, T Heads is a bigger band on this album. SidesS and 4 contain all the qualities mentioned above which the entire album should exhibit.

Another mild gripe is that all of the material on this album is drawn from the studio albums. There is no extraneous, previously unreleased material.

Plainly the Heads have poured all their energy into those specific songs, but by doing that they also expose themselves to the criticism of being a purely “program” band. Such a thing is a pity when it occurs, because the heart of music, if not the soul, is improvisation.

A double ^alburn taken entirely from an outstanding latter day concert would have made a much more fitting obituary to a band which carved such indelible initials in the bark of rock and roll history.

— Span

Sunnyboys (Mushroom) In defence of the lonely and broken hearted and meek. The Sunnyboys have released their second album, under the defiant title of ‘Individuals’. Optimism survives in the hearts of these gents, creating a very homespun feel to their music: a veritable celebration of the naive — emotional, if somewhat stilted. Against my better judgement I find The Sunnyboys’ music and this album in particular so damn attractive, to my lasting horror the seriousness and moroseness I protect and harbour around my person has been broken down (tongue placed firmly in cheek). I can listen and be happy without repercussions from that guarded non-entity called cool, sounds ridiculous, but just think of the constraints we place on pop music.

This album doesn’t really tread on any new ground, as if it were ever designed to. instead it contents itself with consolidation — refining the sound by stretching and experimenting slightly with arrangement and production. Many of the songs are noticeably slower to those on the first album, dare I say psychedelic in places? The guitars are given a lot more space in which to explore and jingle-jangle in, the centrepiece is once again J. Oxley’s voice, the hey-hey-hey harmonies are as close to pop nirvana as you could wish. Bilson really hits his drums throughout the ten tracks, never losing his knack to add a special roll or flourish here orthere. Steve Harris’ keyboards fills the sound out vibrantly, he gets very Satanic Majesties Requests near the end of ‘You Need A Friend’. Have The Sunnyboys a secret message?

The ten songs on the album consistently maintain that Sunnyboys’ sound, there’s not one oddity to be found (a shame in some respects).

However, I am sure, many will spend long nights debating the strong influences on a couple of tracks in particular. On this outing The Sunnyboys have managed to turn themselves half-way around, the third album must necessitate d complete change of view or else the band will suffer the consequences of the listener’s familiarity.

What a striking cover, I only hope Jeremy doesn’t go as far as cutting his ear off.

— Toby Cluechaz

T U G DF W AR’ Paul McCartney (EMI) What I can’t understand about this album is why ‘Take it away’ isn’t the first single. Sure, ‘Ebony and Ivory’ is OK, but‘Take it away’ has that extra McOartney magic. It’s a surefire hit.

Having got that off my chest, this really is an enjoyable album, and once again it proves Paul McCartney to be a master tradesman when it comes to writing songs which are instantly likable yet deceptively simple. For the first time since ‘Live and Let Die’ McCartney has hired George Martin, the old Beaties producer, to sit at the controls. And it seems the old pro has managed to bring out the best in Paul. ‘I just really like him as a

producer. It’s a bit like a comfortable old shoe’, he said in one interview. Gone is the superficial and soppy waffle which has spoiled some of McCartney’s recent work. In its place, 11'/2 infectious and tightly-written tracks.

Mind you, he’s helped by some of the best musicians around. For ‘Tug of War’ McCartney decided to work without his group Wings. Instead he handpicked artists such as Stevie Wonder, Stanley Clarke, Carl Perkins and Denny Laine, and cast them in particular songs. Guess that’s not a problem when you’re earning around 48 million dollars a year. Thankfully though, McCartney the family man has kept his down to earth perspective on life and offers a bemused laugh at the pulsations of the money market. . .

‘The pound is sinking The peso’s falling The lira’s reeling And feeling quite appalling.

The mark is holding The franc is fading The drachma’s very weak But everyone’s still trading.’

The lyrics are quite clever in ‘Ebony and Ivory’ too. Taking the simple fact of black and white existing together in harmony On a piano keyboard, he asks ‘why can’t we?’

‘Ebony and Ivory’ is one of two tracks performed with Stevie Wonder. The other, ‘What's that you're doing?’ features much more of Stevie.

It’s got that familiar‘Hotter than July’ rhythm, and a sense of spontaneity which is lacking on the other cuts. Still, I’d have expected more from the collusion of two such gifted songwriters. After all, Wonder is reputed to write three or four tunes a day, and McCartney obviously churns them out at a similar rate. Here’s what he said about writing ‘Somebody Who Cares.’ “ I took it to the session. I actually still didn’t have the middle so I said 'Hang on a couple of minutes lads, I’ve got a bit of a song .here cooking and it’s going to be good I think.

Give me about an hour, go and have a cup of tea or something." And with that, turned in a song which is both relevant and beautiful.

Yes, McCartney's got his act together and this album is a gem.

■ Ben Cheshire

TH E GIFT The Jam (Polygram) “Move — move — I’ve got the gift of life Can’t you see it in the twinkle of my eye I can’t stand up and I can’t sit down I gotta keep movin’ — I gotta keep movin’” Paul Weller does keep moving, and with an energy that sets his music apart from not only the usual radio slush, but also from that of those people who might consider themselves to be his contemporaries. His willingness to draw from popular styles and sounds can be seen as honesty when combined with the considerable conviction of his lyrics and their delivery. It is that delivery which makes them his.

‘The Gift’ is the fifth Jam album, and Weller and his buddies Bruce Foxton and Rick Buckler continue to deal fervent lashings on the darker side of the English condition, whilst maintaining an optimism based on the potential of a diverse, motivated population. Diversity coupled with motivation of course, would seem to be the sworn enemy of our somewhat right-handed governm ents. It’s an aggressive album (Surprise!!), fuelled with subtlety, courtesy of the varied sounds of Steve Nichol’s trumpet, Keith Thomas’ saxophones, Pete Wilson and Paul Weller’s keyboard contributions, not to mention a spot of steel drums. If I can call a punch in the stomach subtle, and I do, then the rhythm section, and its production, are made to order, and, needless to say — tight.

The first side seems to flow quite logically in temperament, beginning with“ Happy Together”, which is fairly self explanatory, and drifting to­ ward the fatalistic, doom-struck “Just Who is The 5 O’clock Hero?”. “Trans-global Express” would be the highlight if you could hear all the words.

At least they provide a lyric sheet. It’s sort of a workers of the world unite type of thing, a call for working people to demand some justice, with a soundtrack containing some savage and overpowering production.

On side two “The Planners Dream goes Wrong” shines for its poignant approach to the pig headed lunacy of the planners. The South American feel of this and an instrumental named “Circus” do seem a bit of a compromise . . . er

. . . above and beyond, you might say. Then again, “Planners Dream”, whilst concerning England, has distinct overtones of Brazilia, the dream city in the middle of the jungle in Brazil.

The ultra-modern city built to be a show piece to the world. One problem . . . no one wanted to live there.

Anyway, there’s also “Town Called Malice” with its beat, and that familiar feel. It’s typical of the album in its mixture of gutsy, relevant observation and credible optimism. Finally the title track lays the intention bare, with the reasons for optimism.

“All the time that gets wasted hating Why don’t you all move together and make your heart feel better.” ^

____________________ Giles Barrow

PDRTRAIT The Nolans (CBS/EPIC ’82) I’m aware that no-one reads reviews of the Nolans, but I’m going to write this anyway.

The difference between “Portrait” and the first LP “Making Waves” is slick and vast; although partly due to the much-needed change of production duties, its success also owes much to the genuine maturing of the talent of the Irish dumplings four.

And yet the girls have not sold out (SIC): as before, the realities of life are all but ignored.

Nobody is poor, unemployed, divorced, dead or even dying . . . instead, existence is reduced to a series of doomed and tearful affairs in which the sole raison d’etre of the female is how she’s “gonna getcha”, not because she is capable of it but because she is required to do so by the male.

(It seems necessary here to qualify this criticism; this attitude has long been a girl-group tradition, and surely the Shangri-la’s — the greatest girlgroup ever, and one to whom the Nolans owe a more than passing nod of gratitude — proved that the exploitation of pathos is a barrier to neither quality nor success. In fact, it would be no' surprise if, fifteen years or so hence, this album and its precedent are as eagerly sought as the Shangs themselves are today).

Still, the only fair way to view the Nolans is as the pointless purveyors-of pure pop pap that they are , . . this is no insult, as at this they are currently unsurpassed. Check ‘Chemistry’, the current single, which is completely representative of the album as a whole: the opening synthetic drone building into a disembodied chorus of dream-laden female voices is evidence enough of the unrivalled excellence and spontaneity of the vocal arrangements, each of which is perfectly tailored to the particular vocal talents of the individual Nolans.

My favourite moment is when, during ‘A Simple Case of Loving You’ the whole backing track, full­ blown as it is, suddenly cuts to a desolate bass, drum and piano with Bernie sexily intoning the lead vocal — it’s a moment of pure heaven, and almost worth the cost of the record by itself (if one can ignore the fantastic ooh-oohs on ‘Crashing Down’). Which raises another essential point: the Nolans’ continuously developing sexuality. Sure I’m aware of the noted Everett quote, “Life . . . is like the Nolan sisters. You think you see everything, but really you see nothing”, but the breathy inflections of ‘Portrait’, with its coy flirtatious references to “lasting all night long” and “ moving it too fast” are still the not-so-raw material of a thousand erotic fantasies.

So, depending, of course on whether you like your peaches drenched in cream (too much of a good thing?), you could do a great deal worse than spending a few weekends getting thoroughly acquainted with Colleen, Linda, Maureen and Bernadette. Highly recommended for anyone who cares more about the pleasure of listening rather than maintaining their quotient.of cool. But I think I’ll letthegirlsdothesumming-up for themselves . . .

“Sweet music, sweet sweet music.

Sweet as I’ve ever known . . .

Sweet attraction, satisfaction.” (“IF IT TAKES ALL NIGHT”).

Tim Smith

EBDNDAZZAR Peak (Cement Records) This record deserves a hearing. Australia has never seen a great deal of pure synthesizer artistry, nor have many attempts to break new musical ground with any instrument broken the

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PAGE 20

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barricades of commercial viability or risen above the mire of mundanity. It is especially pleasing that such a competent stab at the art should emerge from Adelaide.

Peak are a duo, Robert Reekes-Parsons and Paul Fisher, who apparently spent three years getting their abilities into shape for this album.

The first two minutes of the album seem to summarize their musical influences. There is a snatch of Stockhausen’s Hymnen, a percussive dialogue reminiscent of Can, and then, just as you’re wondering how derivative the record is going to be, Paul Fisher’s excellent guitar sweeps in like a brushfire and throws the whole thing into hyperdrive. You come out the other side in a territory which, although familiar in places, is largely original.

The album is gripping at all times. Peak have not attempted Tangerine Dream style sidelong opuses, but present nine tracks, long enough to unfold and wind up again, short enough to play on the radio. Each member plays a wide enough variety of instruments to enable the sound to keep changing and turning. Occasionally, as on “Ocean of Dreams”, the lines are a little familiar and the musical thinking tips some sort of hat at established electronic conventions, but the music does not suffer as a result. Similarly, Peak have chosen the classical motifs of dreams, abysses, darkness and mystery as the internal statement of the synthesizer along with all other practitioners, but at no time do they fall back on gimmickry, cheap theatre or artificial paranoia to achieve an effect. The moods are purely by the way; Peak’s central ideal seems to be excitement.

Nothing is worse than a badly recorded or mixed album of this nature, and Jim Barbour’s production does the duo further credit. The strength of electronic music is a clean sound.

Whether Peak can operate in public (or find a venue) remains to be seen. One can only hope that further work by these people does not require another three year wait.

— Span \

TH E MAGIC OF ABBA ABBA (K Tel)

hulking wet-dream on wheels, has survived a succession of inhabitants of his skin effortlessly and painlessly. And this latest artefact bears witness to his timelessness, his ethereal charm.

The first side tackles the films up till 1971 when Diamonds Are Forever was released. The second side leads onwards through the seventies till For Your Eyes Only. It helps to illustrate how futile all the shooting, secrecy, screwing and scene stealing had become by then.

But the record has its moments. Nancy Sinatra implores that ‘You Only Live Twice’ in gold and sequined tat, breathing hard and kicking her skimpy white boots into Bond’s eager lap. Shirley Bassey squeals ‘Goldfinger’ in melodramatic splendour, oafing it up on blood money and Tiffany throw outs. The legendary theme musak of John Barry is represented too, casual glimpses of adventure and intrigue, the orchestrated orgasm fn spy-vision 3 D. Conjuring, careering, cuddling and copulating, the fantasy-spy is always cornered, is always hotly in pursuit.

The second side hits rock bottom with that pimpled pedagogue Paul McCartney snooting ‘Live And Let Die’ through cream cheese tears, his wrinkled paw thrust half way down his own throat.

This moment of scurrilous impotence is almost equalled by that Scottish commodity Sheena Easton, whose sad thigh-patting and panting turns ‘For Your Eyes Only’ into a rodeo of wretchedness. At her worst Ms Easton stoops to the despicable depths of Altered Image Claire, whose primary school prefect cooing and baying may well land her a part in a yet to be conceived James Bond child-bondage flick. A thousand pulses race, a million throats retch at the thought.

ABBA and James Bond: adult entertainment in a world of drive time. The spice of life, the spite of lifelessness. Make mine Coruba!

Tim McGee

Severloh, both of the band Lorry. At first I put this record on at 33, and found the music extremely interesting until Schutz’s slowed down voice indicated my error. At the right speed the music was less interesting, having more of a musical box sound. Some of the arrangements are interesting, but in general his voice is reedy, distant, uninflected and unimaginative. The songs ‘Society’ and ‘Creature’ are particularly good, also the instrumental ‘Back Datt’. Other tracks sound too derivative. ‘I Want You Back Again’ has a verse line very similar to Deep Purple’s ‘Child in Time’, for instance. There is something unfinished about this one, but a lot of it does work.

The back of Lorry’s album contains a short note explaining that their music is neither electronic, New Wave, Avant Garde or Heavy Metal.

“Children play, musicians play, and both have pleasure. Lorry’s music is as plain as this.” I dispute their claim that the music is “Easy and relaxed rock”. Lorry seem to try too hard to be easy and relaxed, and there is a chronic sort of mindlessness in the diluted, vaguely West Coast sound that they produce. Couldn’t get into this one at all.

Ideal is the pick of the crop, as far as unknowns go. I would definitely like to hear more of this band. They sound like Amon Duul II without the fiddly bits, just the guts, an effectively psychedelic Heavy Metal. This record is wearing out the stylus. There is ho stopping and starting, each track charges ahead with the same energy, even on the brooding, slower ‘Telepathie’ there is a manic undercurrent which draws the listener in.

Ideal have rekindled the fires of sonic terrorism.

Long may they live. And if you speak German, there may even be another dimension of pleasure for you in this one.

A mixed bag, all right. Two excellent albums, one almost, and oneabitflat.ThelCRevolution is here, and no doubt you will hear more.

TRANCEFER Klaus Schulze (1C)

TRANSVISION Dieter Shutz (1C)

JA M E S BOND - G REATEST HITS

BE CAREFUL, TOO

(EMI) On a day such as today I feel Swedish. Maybe its the wind, the rain, the sweet taste of spirits and the sweet tooth flatulence of ABBA. The dish to end all dishes. Another bite of adulterous delight.

Another dose of helplessness.

Oh yes, the ABBA Phenomena. And now, a new compilation. The cold Polarbaresall. The hitsand the hoots and the unpardonable puke heats the fan (me no less!). It’s all you’d ever want to hear (well, almost) plus a few titbits you’ll want to forget. Phenomenal (or is it phenomenology?).

These four dusky angels, plodding blindly, almost mindlessly through the wide expanse of pomp and stomp. Teasing, tetering, trifling with their own lives. Reducing romance, divorce, failure, hatred, sentimental affliction: all these frantic flights of fancy, to a mild pop formula. And a formula which is brilliant.

See ABBA smile through their tears, hear them cry. Watch the bones being stacked in cupboards in public. Living life in filmclip instalments, ABBA have made the concept of privacy almost redundent, whilst shielding themselves closely behind'ambiguous freeze-framed personalities.

Shame! And little children sing along.

From the twee pederasty of ‘When I Kissed The Teacher’, to the full blown glamour of ‘Gimme, Gimme, Gimme’ this record is magic kiss and tell (lies). Sample ‘Voulez-vous’, ‘Summer Nights City’, ‘Knowing Me Knowing You’ or ‘Dancing Queen’ at your leisure. The record doodles artlessly, it canoodles artfully. You’ll hold your breath and turn blue. You’ll hold her hand, his hand, HELL, the Canonical ABBA hand! There’s snow up ahead and the rivers turned to ice. The lump in the snow we just ran over was the ghost of marriage past. Mercy!

After a record like that! Its back to the high seas and the stench of back copies of playboy plastered on a rusting Lamborghini. . . (should I say Aston Martin). Five gears, in reverse to the James Bond sex-credo for thrill seeking lovers (should I say losers?). The spy/love game has certainly fallen into disrepute of late. I mean can you imagine Anthony Blunt seducing anyone at all? But the legend lives on.

This mythical creature, James Bond, the

Lorry (1C)

IDEAL (IC) In 1978, German synthesist Klaus Schulze set up his own record label. In n o va tive Communication, in affiliation with WEA. Two years later IC split from WEA and became independent. Two years after that, IC established a branch office — IC DOWN UNDER — at 196 Nelson Road, Albert Park, Victoria, 3206. Now read on.

The records listed above comprise 25% of IC’s catalogue as listed at present. They range from Klaus Schulze’s specialist electronic work, through original songwriting to the heavy rock of Ideal. Generally speaking, they are well recorded, well produced, and easy listening. All but Schulze’s album are meantto be played at 45 rpm, which is supposed to enhance the sound in some way. So far I haven’t beeh able to isolate any particular quality about this innovation, but all the records are exceptionally clear in their reproduction.

Schulze’s own work has generally been of a high standard, and ‘Trancefer’ is no exception. He began life as a drummer and percussionist, working with Tangerine Dream and Ash Ra Tempel. An awareness of rhythmic sense continues to pervade his work. One forgets the banks of electronic machinery and hears a truly primaeval orchestra of drums beating out complicated storylines which lend themselves easily to inner visualization. Schulze plays trip music, he provides charts and a vehicle for the listener’s journey. The environment traversed is always interesting, and Schulze manages to maintain its interest by a progressive development of plot and a consistent phrasing and beat which allows continuity. This record will be a thousand things to a thousand people, and can only be judged by a listening. Klaus Schulze is definitely at the forefront of electronic music.

Dieter Schutz favours shorter pieces with a greater emphasis on lyrics. He sings, plays guitar, bass and keyboards, and is supported by drummer Barry Maddison and percussionist Fred

— Span

AN G ST IN M Y PAN TS Sparks (WEA) Despite being sadly underrated, or at best unrecognized for many years, the brothers Ron and Russell Mael continue, undeterred, to produce fine recordings. This is no exception.

Sparks new album “Angst In My Pants” comes with the usual hallmarks: the word plays, jokes, candid observations and on this occasion renewed vigour.

The album, whilst still under the wing of Giorgio Moroder Enterprises Ltd., is a step away from the overbearing disco beat o f‘Terminal Jive’, and a more realistic creation from these “Rock and Roll People In A Disco World”. It’s a rock and roll album with considerable guts, but the lunacy still prevails: “Moscow will march to France They’ll do the Can-Can Dance Don’t worry, it’ll work out Maxim’s will throw them out’’ ‘I Predict’ ‘Sextown USA’ is an amazing song. It’s as if Sparks wrote a Ramones song, then played it like Sparks (but then again, Russell Mael did guest on the last Ramones album). Don’t get me wrong, it sounds nothing like the Ramones, in fact it sounds more like early Sparks than anything else on the album. That may all seem a bit confused, but . . . well, turn it up LOUD and listen to the chorus, you’ll get my drift.

Or else there’s the sad saga of Nicotina, who is a cigarette. She gets smoked, and screams, but so much gets filtered out.

“Once in a while a cigarette has a name N-l-C-O-T-l-N-A, that’s her name She had a tiny voice, and she sang all day She was a cigarette, but she loved to play’’ All with music of suitably epic proportions.

Severe guitar from Bob Haag and a keyboard wall that should pack the stupid little Human League up and bury them with the rest of last year’s pulp.

And Russell Mael’s singular voice.

Side two opens with “Moustache”, a rapid fire rocker with lyrics obviously courtesy of Ron Mael (Keyboards and moustache): “/ tried a handle-bar design My Fu Manchu was real fine My Ronald Colman made ’em blink My Pancho Villa made ’em think But when I trimmed it real smallMy Jewish friends would never call" “The Decline And Fall Of Me” looks hysterically

at the results of a visit to the bin. The final tune is a real cute number entitled ‘Eaten By The Monster Of Love’: “It’s hard to fight it off much more I can hear it drooling by the door Eaten by the monster of love And my father said “Don’t worry, son’’ But look at him, he should have run Eaten by the monster of love (don’t let it get me, don’t let it get me . . .)

Sparks certainly have a strange and entertaining way of looking at things, and it is reflected in their unusual music. If people like the Human League want to make “good pop music”, then for Chrissakes they should go back to being bank clerks or whatever, and leave the making of pop music to individuals like the Maels and their friends, who always do a decent job of it. ___________________________— Giles Barrow

PORNOGRAPHY The Cure (CBS) Q: Can a band of such ‘achievement and promise’ (Three Imaginary Boys, Seventeen Seconds) stray so far from their positive potential as to be declared a droning waste of space?

A: You bet your sweet fanny, Nerelle!

Half the problem with “Pornography”, as with “Faith”, is not so much absolute dire-ness, but a frustrating case of bland-out. The number of ponderous 4-note sequences with the same uninteresting vocal lines goes a little beyond the minimalist joke. These guys can crank out a reasonable sombre pop song when they pull'their arty fingers out, but even the bonus single, “Charlotte Sometimes” misses the mark. Even considering the ‘artier’ side of things, its still conceptus interuptus, with slabs like the title track dragging up a few more interesting noises, but then coming, going, being nowhere, just the same.

The band credit themselves with playing ‘keyboards’, but this amounts to no more than dull drones swamped in reverb. There’s a bit of marginally more noticeable guitaring toward the’ end of side two, but the only person moving enough is drummer Lol Toihurst — at least his ideas and tond change (in a limited fashion) from track to track, and even once or twice within a single song.

For reasons of tedium, this has been one of the longest records I’ve had to sit thru in quite a while (I thankfully missed out on “Faith”), and, in all sincerity, I couldn’t recommend it, even to avid Cure fanatics. It’s maybe not quite the time to totally dismiss Robert Smith and co., but money is in too short supply these days to be frittered away on such inane stuff.

P.S. . . . and the lyrics are just so much waffle, you wouldn’t believe. Burroughs be buggered.

Tyrone Flex

GARY YOUNG AND TH E ROCKING EM U S’ (Mushroom) Yeah i say sure as God made Kenworth trucks Gary Young is a rockabilly kid and someday he’ll get to rockabilly heaven. Why, seems like the boy has put his true self onto vinyl now and all that stuff with Daddy Cool, Jo Jo Zep, the Rondells and the Rock Doctors was just bread and butter money. Who said drummers can’t write?

Doggone it, this critter’s written and sung all ten tracks here, and got hisself a right snortin’ old band with former D. Coolers Ross Hannaford and Wayne Duncan, plus Falcon Jeff Burstin.

Well it looks good on paper but the result. . . well, let’s just say I keep hoping it’ll grow on me.

This is rockabilly, solid and simple, and Gary Young does it pretty well. He’s got a good voice, deliciously scratchy at times, and he pumps out the rhythm with real enthusiasm. But that’s just the problem: there’s too little variety. The most enjoyable tracks are the ones which stand out from the rest. The wry single .‘Running Late for Wandong’, and a track called ‘Beautiful Joy’ which has precisely the same feel as Mondo Rock’s ‘State of the Heart.’ Though Ross Wilson produced this album, there’s no danger whatsoever of the Rocking Emus becoming a kind of 80s Daddy Cool. The album is destined for the country, and that’s where it’ll probably do well.

Ben Cheshire

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THE BLUE IVIASK Lou Reed (RCA) A common phenomenon of the rock veteran is a stepped off series of fans who came in on such and such a record or dropped out on it. This album may conceivably arouse the interest of people who have not previously liked Lou Reed.It is a vaguely autobiographical album which shows Reed with a new strength in songwriting.

In some ways it is an apologia for his past, with an unstated hint or two that he has “reformed”. With Lou Reed, nothing is ever certain, but I find this is the first album of his I have enjoyed since the live Rock and Roll Animal.

Reed’s lyrics are straightforward, and the music is economical, even reserved in places. The title track is reminiscent in its style of the screeching fury which typified Velvet Underground, butforthe most part the tracks are ballads which attempt to express a viewpoint without drowning it in noise.

My House, which opens the album, reflects on the dead poet Delmore Schwartz, and with its curious scenario — Reed and his wife getting out the ouija board to see if Delmore is still floating around — easily traps the listener. The following track. Women, examines and analyses what Reed sees as his socially conditioned sexual hangups.

In Underneath the Bottle and The Gun he considers common contemporary human responses to anxiety.

Somehow the second side is more coherent, more relaxed, less forced and thus stronger in its materia. Average Guy is an excellent song which, like Waves of Fear, pushes the human situation past the masks and facades, reveals the insecure mortal which dwells beneath. The Day John Kennedy Died (equal favourite with My House) is a cleverly worked song dealing with the problems of guilt and the personal sublimation of guilt.

This is not an album which can be judged hastily, even should Reed declare next week that the entire thing is a joke. There is a sincerity about it which is rare in much music through the difficulty of balancing appropriate words with heartfelt emotions. Thus The Blue Mask is an album which might easily evolve into one’s life and grow along with it.

The question remains, however. About what can a born-again Lou Reed sing next?

— Span

Naturally, any project which seeks to utilize the talents of 8 different lead singers runs the risk of seeming as incoherent and useless as one of those interminable TV compilations that keep appearing.

Fortunately, in this instance, that danger has been avoided and what you end up with is an album which, whilst flawed, does reasonable justice for it’s own ambitions.

Bearing in mind that Music Of Quality And Distinction has been mixed ' for radio in accordance with some of the principles which Phil Spector made famous, it’s appropriate that the woman who helped Spector achieve one of his greatest ever recordings, Tina Turner, is the one who kicks off the album with a chopping, aggressive, and remarkably compressed version of Edwin Starr’s Ball of Confusion. When Starr did the song on his Involved album, it was almost an archetypal piece of sprawling psychedelic soul and, not surprisingly, it tended to lack maximum impact for anyone who wasn’t stoned. B.E.F. have shortened it dramatically and created something quite relentless in its impact.

Billy McKenzie from The Associates and Glenn Gregory from Heaven 17 are the only singers here who get to perform more than one song and, interestingly enough, their contributions sum up some of the strengths and weaknesses of the album. Qn The Secret Life Qf Arabia, McKenzie’s voice strains to mimic Bowie and, though the result is quite close, it’s really a waste of effort because it hinges so totally on the idiosyncrasies of the original and contributes nothing of its own.

Similarly, Gregory waltzs through Lou Reed’s somnambulistic Perfect Day in a way that suggests his only interest lies in copying the original in xerox fashion.

However, elsewhere, both singers leave their mark — beautifully! McKenzie’s love sick rendition of Roy Qrbison’s It’s Over walks perilously dose to parody but pulls it all together with such genuine affection that it’s hard to resist, while Gregory’s magnificent reading of Wichita Lineman strips away so much of the original cliche and replaces it with a haunting evocation of space and loneliness. g The remaining male contributions come from 'Paul Jones who provides a great version of There’s A Ghost In My House and Garry Glitter who presents an atrocious version of Elvis’ Suspicious Minds which is sure to put drunken fists in the air at parties because, as the cliche goes, it’s so bad, it’s good.

But if Glitter is ‘Bad’, Paula Yates (the photographic author of Rock Star’s In Their

Underpants and definitely not a singer) and her caricature version of Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made For Walking is just plain confusing.

As is generally the case elsewhere on the record, the backing track is full of interest and fire but, for some reason. Ware and Marsh have contrived to treat Boots as a target for parody and exchanged the little girl cockney tones of Yates for the big, bold assertions that characterized the Sinatra version. As a result, everything that was threatening about lines like “one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over-you”, is reduced to comic book jocularity, without resonance or power.

Bernie Nolan’s contribution on the other hand, is a good deal less comic book than one might have imagined. Indeed, although it doesn’t provide a serious challenge to the strength of the Supremes, Nolan’s You Keep Me Hanging Qn is especially interesting because it comes closer than any of the other covers I’ve heard to capturing the youthfullness of the original.

In a way, it’s not surprising because, asa young singer accustomed to the automated processes of production line pop with The Nolan Sisters, she’s probably quite able to emphasize with the situation which harnessed The Supremes at Motown.

But, for me, the most important achievement of Music Qf Quality and Distinction is that it presents Sandie Shaw with her first rea/ singing opportunity in more thah a decade. The result.

Anyone Who Had A Heart, is one of those irrefutably magnificent pieces of interpretive pop music which come along quite rarely.

Whereas Dionne Warwick’s original was relatively restrained and almost ghostly. Shaw blows the song up as far as it’ll go without sacrificing any of the essential fragility. The end result, loaded with anguished emotion and the better parts of Phil Spector’s pedigree, is the sort of performance which should be put on an endless tape loop for people like Moving Pictures in order to demonstrate that even blatant melodrama can have genuine intelligence and emotional depth!

In spite of the album’s imperfections, the fact that the B ritish E lectric F oundation’s anthropological quest for Music Qf Quality And Distinction resulted in a performance of this •calibre, convinces me to hope fervently that sometime in the not too distant future they’ll convene again to produce Volume 2.

— John Magowan

MUSIC OF QUALITY AND DISTINCTION. VOLl British Eiectric Foundation (CBS Records) If you’re anything like me, there must be times when you find yourself listening to a record made prior to the early 70’s and wondering what the artist and producer (if there was one) might have created if they’d been allowed the accuracy of a contemporary recording studio.

If you subscribe to the prevalent theory that a record is a unique and irreplaceable product of its time and place (like Presley’s Sun Sessions for instance) it’s a speculation that’s largely redundant and possibly even heretical, ' depending on your mood.

Nonetheless, sometimes it’s hard to resist the insidious impulses which cause one to wonder about the way people like Presley might have sounded if they’d had microphones that really worked and tape heads that knew something about clarity.

It’s precisely this sort of speculation that helped persuade Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware that the British Electric Foundation ought to embark upon a series of inspired remakes from the 60’s and 70’s in which all their old favourites would get a chance to live again and sound even better.

As everyone knows, the aforementioned gentlemen used to be part of The Human League during the age when it was still a low rent and slightly primitive species and there can be little doubt that the success of their former colleagues has rather savagely oiled their conceptual and commercial facilities.

Which simply means that their presence in the studio playing about with a collection of old classics wasn’t necessarily as noble as they might claim. Be that as it may. Music Of Quality And Distinction actually works to a much greater extent than one might have imagined and there are moments — especially those belonging to Tina Turner and Sandie Shaw — when it’s positively inspired.

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The first ten correct entries we receive, will each win a copy of the album.

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