Phoenix - Spring 1986 by UT Media Center

PHOENIX

LITERt\RY ART MAGAZINE Volume 27,

Number 2 Spring,

1986

Editor

Managing Editor

Designer

Poetry Editor

Fiction Editor

Forrest Craig Andy Edmonson Amy Fletcher Diana Morgan Haley Panzer Greg Spinner John Vance

Works Df art, non-fiction, fiction, and poetry are accepted throughout the academic year. Send submissions

to PHOENIX, R.oom .5 - Commlil)i~tions Bldg.,

37996-<)314.

LlBMR't

1,,*. UNIVaRsrrV OF ."fENNillli

-KNOXVIU..i

1345 Circle Park Drive, .Knoxv.iIJe, TN,

32 33

A Bo, and a Bathtub by Laura CampbelJ Fotog,af 111 by Kirk Smith Untitled by Amy Rosser Pallet Head by Kirk Smith Schmocks by Cynthia Roth Leatherwood Untitled by Tom Setaro Glenwood Avenue by Constance Thalken Stili Man'. Rush Hour by WilJiam S. Collins Tomorrow by Lance Rutledge "Philosoph, ••• " by David Wilson Bull Pin by Tony Spenf:er Novus Ordo Seclorum by Jeff Groah Uncle by Charles Mantooth Facts of Lie by John Campbell M,self Before the Mirror by David Harvey Untitled by Lori Bakkum

The Eve" Onl, God

8 8

sa sa sa 10 10 11

2e 27 30 30 30 31

~~~~u..;...!,~~I.,.,....l~~~~..;.I'

by Amy West

Third year architecture students gain hands-on experience by constructing their ideas.

by Paul Toth 24 24 25 25 28 28 28 28

Ode to Frank O'Hara by cHristine schmitz annals of divorce • •• by christine schmitz The Fight by Jeff Callahan the fisherfather by Carol Malone GlrlfrlencJ by Lisa Coffman In Defiance by Jane Sasser Coffey his head tilts by Angela Perez Walking on a Railroad Track by Chris Simones

Using tbe mechanics of mass print media, Toth creates an artwork exclusively for the Phoenix.

The oil painting .o n the cover by Jimmy Schneider is entitled Sanguinolento. It measures 7.5' xII.' Scnneideris a senior in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program and was the recipient of the Buck Ewing Scholarship for 1985-86.

..........~:-.

Richard S. Keith

Keith spins the flip side of rock & roll and finds the B-side better.

I have re-read the same line ten times: "She too had once believed that people could be entirely honest with one another ... " I can't read it anymore. At the other end of the house a light is on so Alan can find his way through the den when he comes home. My bedside lamp is on. Between the two lights is darkness, still smelling of, fresh paint and new upholstery .. the scent sharpened by the dry chill of November. The heater kicks on, exhaling warmth in determined sighs. 1 sigh along, shaking my head at no one.

think of how neat we must appear in our new white rancher with its black shutters, our dogs barking and romping inside the picket fence. We are the new family on tlte block. Though we have lived in this community for six years, we only recently moved from an 路apartment to a house, from transience to permanence."..our mortgage staked firmly in the American dream. We are among those tenuous traditional families that tenacious traditional zea:lots would like to save. This is a small university town, Alan's hometown, and ownership is a prerequisite to official resident status. Alan's parents are only four streets over, but it was up to him to prove his continuea community wonh by claiming his own property after he married. For six months now, his wo{th as an adult citizen has been established. 1 wonder what that means if your wife leaves you. Three months ago 1 was sitting in another house, God's house, considering that same question. Is God, I wondered, really a matter of houses, the sum total of the structures we contrive, something we ean make, contain, control. .. The sanctuary was suffocating. It was a hot September morning, and the church air-conditioner had expired. The pastor sweated out a sermon on husbands and wives and roles and righteousness ... the kind of ~ermon I had swallowed whole at nineteen. The pastor coughed and a thin trail of saliva ran downbis chin, mingling with swea~ as he thundered the words of St. Paul at us. I followed the trail until it blurred into the faces of the congregation, wbich melted like wax in the neat. The platitudes churned into nausea. I squirmed. I'm dying, I thought. '" I'm dying and I am going to plummet straight into the depths of hell right here in the middle of Sunday morning. I ran o~tside and threw up. Alan followed me, expressing delighted concern that I might be nregncglt. I have ll;trown up severa11imes since then and have begun to miss church on a regular basis, but still Alan does not know what is making me sick. As I am not pregnant, he speculates that it has something to do with the pressures of my job. With a degree in English and lofty dreams of one day getting a master's, becoming a professor and writing great novels, I went to work for the local bank and was quickly promoted to loan officer. I continued to dream about getting a master's while saving money for a down payment on a house. Alan, with a degree in accounting, went to ~ork at his father's used car lot, the biggest lot in the county. Alan has been

under a lot of pressure at his job too, but he loves it and that is the difference . .1 have talked to him about returning to scDool, .but now we have house payments to make and, besides, isn't it about time to start thinking '!boul a baby? No, it is not time, I think, sitting in bed, listening to the house l5reatlte. It is most definitely not time for a oaby.

'. A.~. . Ian has come Home an.d is turning off lights and locking .f i doors bebind him as he walks through the house. Supposedly this community is safe, but he had the house crime-proofed anyway and locking up is something of a ceremony fot him., I hear his footsteps making a path through the den, dining room, kitchen, ." living room, hallway. How can the sound be so foreign after all this time? For six years I have listened to the sound of his walking and

shoulders, wide and firm from lifting weights. My mother was quick to point them out to me. uSee those shoulders," she whispered the first time I brought him home from school. '路Those are the shoulders of a responsible man, a man who will make a good husband." Mother was right. Alan has made II good husband. He was three years older and ready to go to work when I married him. There was just no turning him down. Love; I have decided, is not a matter of logic. He exits the bathroom in a towel wrapped at the waist. His auburn-black hair is wet amYdripping. His furry cliest glistens. Still holding my book, I lean over on a pillow, head propped on hand, and w;atch him, wondering hew I h~ij CODvi1)ced myself that" t liked hairy men. They are not very attractive to me, never have been, and I reali.ze I ha.ve been lying to myself about it for y;ears now.

still I imagine a stranger is coming. "Hey babe," he calls as he goes into the bathroom. I can see his shadow on the bathroom wall, stripping off Levis, a flannel shirt, a bandana. He has been down at the race track, riding dirt bikes under floodlights, drinking Bud out of long-neck bott1~s. Drinking beer and swearing are, I tbink, his only vices, and in larger towns would not even be considered vices. They are certainly not, in any town, grounds for not being in love with a person. They are, in fact, two of the things I find most acceptable about Alan. He is so pc:rfect in almost every other way. That is why I married him at nineteen. That is why he annoys me so now. Love, I have decided, is not a matter of credentials. His shadow is tall and broad against the bathroom wall, and r watch as it climbs into the shower. He still has such responsible

remember a boy I met in school, about the time Alan started . calling me. A lea.n boy with fin6 blond nair and intense brown eyes, a smooth-skinned poet with only the slightest trace of do~n in his arms and .禄0 visible signs of hair between his neck and the V of his collar. I remember watching him and thinking that I was falling deeply in love with him. I remember thinking he was never going to notice me. He never did and Alan kept calling. Alan pulls off the towel, rmishes drying and digs through a drawer for a sweatshirt and some ulitlerwear. It's as if he is,oot made of flesh. I cannot even remember how his body feels."It is like looldngat stone" and I am unmoved, only so mUch stone myself. It's not his fault, I think sadly. It's not his fault that houses are not die answer. I want to explain to him that the woman he thinks he loves, his wife, is not me anymore and so there is no longer any reason to be in love With me. 1 pretend that love ... Which, in its omnipotent whimsy and will, is more like a god than anything else, and how presumptuous of us to think we can make it, contain it, control it when all we can do, if it graces us, is submit or flee. . . I pretend that love is something I can contrive, structure. It is becoming crazy to me, but I have been pretending for years now and so it is hard to let go. I imagine Alan nodding sagely and saying) "I see, yes, it's all clear to me now. yes, of course, I'll stop being in love with you immediately." Determined to abandon that approach, I try to remember a time when I was in love with Alan, when the feeling was there. I try to draw upon that feeling as if from a deep well that still holds water somewhere in its mutky depths. Tne bucket comes up dry. As I begin to understand that I have been drinking imaginary water all this time, an accumulated thirst rises in me like panic. The consequences of this illusion are going to be fatal. I am suddenly, desperately afraid and I think tlult surely the urgency, the dread, must show on my face, but when Alan looks at me all he says is, "I'm out of underwear. This is my last clean pair."

he trulh is breaking in and will wreakhavoo with us il1 spite of all our locks and boJ6s •. And I \}ate him for that remark. My concern for him, for us, vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Now I don't care, don't know anymore why I should care.. Ul tbought you'd be asleep' by now," be says, anQI shift so be can climb into bed. He throws back the covers on his side of our Sears king-size colonial and sits, arms crosssed, emphasizing his great shoulders.

eeling very small and cold beside him, I put my book away and smooth the blankets around me as I lie down, a gesture of str:aightening things out. {lie there. aad stare at the ceiling. "Wlu~t a night', U Alan says, pleased with himself. "Tore that track up, Kate. Tore it slap up. Getting that dirt bike was the beSt idea 1 ever had. After marrying you, of course." He leans ovet anti gives my cold .fac~ a kiss. "Feel like going to church tomorrow?;' "No." "You sick again?"

HNo." He shrugs. "Well, okay, I'm pretty beat anyway. But we need to start back soon • .My folks are asking a lot of questions~ I'm beginning m feel guilt~ (or laying 9»t so tnu9i\P He lies down beside me, tries ·to wrap his leg around mine, tries to kiss my neck. I can't respond, can't even move. "Kate?" He pauses, leaning away, considering. "Barth to Kate, Earth to Kate," be singsongs. giving my waist a pinch. I still donlt move. "Katie, what's the matter? Say something. Raise your right hand if you can hear me." I .a on't grin, don't even blink. I just keep staring a,t the ceiling, wishing I could make God appear, wishing I could make love save us. H Alan. . ." I finally say, and the word is so dry, so sticky in my mouth, I have to .swallow 'a nd ·clear my throat. I can't look at hhn. I have to keep staring. "What is it?" he says, and there is an edge to his voice I have never heard before. Fear . "Alan, are you ... are you in love with me?" "What? Of course I'm in love with you. I tell you all the time. A lot more than you tell me!' When I say nothing he goes on, hesitantly. Hyou s:<mlove me, don't you, Kate? Katie?" "Alan, I'm sorry, but I don't know ..•1 just don't know

anymore." But I am lying. I do know. I finally know. ihe sound of my wordS is like an iron ball falling througn tbe roof in slow motion. From now on, every word I speak will destroy something, will batter the structure that has been our lives for so long. The truth is breaking in and will wreak havoc with us in spite of all our locks and bolts. Alan stares, stricken, and then stands sharply to pace in his last pair of clean underwear as the yanic rises in him. I don't know what all we say, but the decibels increase and reverberate through the house. I imagine things crashing, exploding, roaring, shrieking. The room seems to spin, set off by Alan's motion. The words go

leave."

A. 路 waI~to

I th,e dO()r, he watches,-' bi tired voice dragging along beliinQ me. 路't can't bel~ this, Kate. I just CaA't.l have done everything I am supposed to dO, and you are leaving me. Just like that, you are leaving me. And I still have no idea why."

I pause bY tJ:te door, thinking of a poem the brown-eyed, smoothskinned boy had recited to our class Gn the day I fell in love with him, on 'the (lay, I realized he was- ttey,el' going to notice me~ ! think of an e. e. cummings poem, and I want to say, "Because love is the every only god, Alan, the every only .. !' But I don~t say it. As gently as I can, 1 say, "It's not your fault." I listen to the sound of my own footsteps making a path through the hallway, living room, kitchen, diningJ"oom, den, hearing the steps of "" oll1.h,e . couch and Wrap an afghan a stranger once more. I lie down around me. The distance of the house falls between us.

A Boy and a Bathtub / Laura Campbell / oil, enamel on canvas / 2' x 3'

Fotograf # 1 / Kirk Smith / photograph 8

Pallet Head / Kirk Smith acrylic on canvas and styrofoam / 35" x 40"

Untitled / Amy Rosser / monotype / 20" x 28"

Schmocks / Cynthia Roth Leatherwood / monotype / 12" x 8"

Untitled / Tom Setaro / black and white photograph

Glenwood Avenue / Constance Thalken / black and white photograph 10

Still Man's Rush Hour / William S. Collins / black and white photograph

rcbitecture is intimately concerned with the ideas that exist within a cultural setting. Without an awareness of those values addressing time and place, any exploration of an architecture may be considered incomplete. The Gultural context for building in the. , ,80s encompasses .a broader influence than physical precedence of a locale or region. The communications media is inextricably connected with our society's prejudices and fantasies: the radical stylistic swings of content and structure of the media and architecture of this centuryai:c the indexes of our ,culture. The decades of the twentieth century have witnessed radical shifts of activism and passivism. These shifts are a search for balance between individual expression and collective trust or collective mistrust in leadership. 1 perceive .the '80s to be a m:ore conservative decade~ Bconomic and ecological uncertainty underscore a survival mentality and are expressed in a mass need for escapism and The images on this page were created by Professors Judith Reno and Michael Kcw1an of UT for a national competition of the Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture entitled The Spirit of Home.

avoidance of confrontatioI),. Post-modern architecture has retlefted a surreal world in which sleepwalkers' arfJams are painted by the Las . Vegas-type "strip"" developers' facade treatment. This ersatz credibiJ/ty is a testimony to the power of paint or marble veneer in building. Image prevails qver the "guts" or interior space.,.o! architecture. T.echnoldQ,lcp.I innovatiofl, all expression of man;s imaginatitin . and optimism, has acquiesced to the twenty-year .mortgage plan. Tn counterpointt€) a deterministiG cultural mitieu is the imaginatioriana. inventiveness of. the individual, which celebrates tbe ~o~inance 0 [; j1cl:ception .ove! convention . . As an educator, J attempt tq support the individual perceptual ex"- pression of the design studeiJ.t~ To heighteitperception o{spqce, which

"They didn't find this in a textbook," she said, moving out of the way as students squeezed past her into the structure. "They invented it. "They invented a column out of one-inch hollow tubes, which they clamped together. 'Fhis is what y.ou would call inven.tion of language in·arohlte-cture. "And here," she.saia, moving to another section, "the wall defies the right angle floor plan, "Detailing is LmpQrt~nt.....,. the- way this -gable slips Ilrr0ugh the wall- the roof element is passing tHrough the yvall. ThegrOltp made a

"Qurgroup's idea was the representation of structure throughout history," said Rodger Conine, a third-year architecture student. "It oegan with the nautilus curve that the columns foll-pwed, and onewil'1dow looks }:iac1<. toward tbewooderi stuIDl'that was ~He begin,ning of man's idea of structure. "Then we had the bearing wall, which is followed by balloonframlug aIll't\ steel ffl,lSSand an I-b~am. _ .. "fQUier windows are mirrored wit1J: a slot befween them ~.- Tbe slotis like a glimpse of the future, and.the windows are mirrored;so that you

. Ns a college professor in: CalU'ornia, ~labama, aI!d- Tennessee" Reno bemoaned the fact that architecture students never had the .ch:Uce to actually use the b~ildin~. matedals that .tht!Y iJ corporated in't heir .designs. · .". "Students go through years of architecture school and earn their degrees using only cardboarcland balsa wood. Theygraduate witbout

tion. tp their interest in the inter-relationship~. of geometric forms. Constructivists believed that the aesthetically beautiful resulted when the"fullction of-aJlesigned artidewas fulfiIlettwitn. the-$implest possi~ blestructural forro. . .•. . "OUT group made all of our connections really special, with joints and cJamps," he sa.id. "InConstrnctivislUl detaHing is of, e.q ua( importance to' the total composition,'; Reno .said. " It operateslik~ ' a zoom:lens camera. You're looking close. H

"I wanted students to have the hands-on _experience with ·building ll\aterittls that J ~eyer had asa student~" she said._ " In Reno's class, students were dividedl.lp into five gr()\lPs~ and; us- _ ing steel, wood;sereen, plaster-and other materials; each built its own three-dimensional wall section on the ground floor of the Art and Architecture Bpilding. Reno wanted' students 'to envision new ways of joining roofs to wans and walls to floors, using innovative design of joints, clamps, doors, windows and other construction details. Reno worked closely with her students during the construction. As is. her -class hammered, plastered and painted the wall, she stepped carefully over a pile of wQoden boards, and pointed to a student-made column.

n -additi<?n

to ,stressing ipnov-ative design and. detailing to students, Reno also encourages'her pupils' to use l helr imaginations ana inventilew-language in architecture: . "If you say tHat verbal language is composed of letters, then the corresponcljng thing in architecture is 'raw material- woof!, glass or steeL If letters of oui spoken lan'guage go togetherlnto words, then in architecture the way you assemble the wood into a doorframe is a \Vord. So words correspond to the elements of architecture- the elements being a door, a window" a Riece of the building. "A sentence might be the building,and the story might be the city, which would be the conglomeration of those buildings that address the culture/' she said. "To inyentnew langl,1age W€ take the wa¥ people generally think that doors should be jnserted..,. and we modify it. Of course the door has to work, and people have to be able to recognize it as a means of entrance, buUf the door is modified in some way, doesn't that begin

ve in a very dynamic, fast-moving world. 'houldn't our buildings reflect our culture? Why take a Greek temple or a Victorian house and redo it? It's not an expression of our times.

IM .

to change the language a little bit, modify it? ," she said. While Reno enjoys encouraging her students to break traditional building designs and invent language, she also has a personal project of her own to develop: a music video experience illustrating new spatial concepts.

hen Reno listens to certain types of music, she visualizes new spatial, architectural concepts. She plans to create a video composed of computer graphics showing her envisioned spatial concepts that would correspond to the music of contemporary American composer Phillip Glass. "The architectural dimensions we have had historically have been a domed space, a vaulted space, an arched space, which were all confined by construction materials that people had then," she said. '! In the twentieth century. we have plastic materials and the oppurtunity to create forms for space based upon sensual qualities as opposed to strictly gravity related principles. "Some people have the ability to hear music and imagine structural designs. I think Phillip Glass's music particularly has evoked that in me. "There is a repetitive rhythm in the music. I can begin to correlate the rhythm and the structure of the building as the rhythm sometim:s is increased. It begins to suggest to me a change of scale structure. "The tones presented in the music begin to be some kind of overlay- a suggestion of how enclosed space can be created. Struc-

ture begins to be formed. Patterns in the music begin to take on shap.es. "lam envisioning, if I can get a grgnt, that I will work with a computer, and have a particular piece of music recor~ed with a series of computer images. I plan to videotape each individual phrase and put them together in a video sequence. People could experience moving through the new space," Reno said. Reno related her idea to the Walt Disney movies Tron andPantasia. "In the movie Tron, the computer generatesd images that take you through spatial experiences," she said. "The musical score adds elements which had no relationship to ninety degree angles," she said. "Walt Disney's Fantasia is similar. The visual images correspond to sounds of music.

t's a very subjective thing, but it's a wonderful experienee. You can begin to put yourself in that place. You can begin to see places that bave neverbeen developed before. I t doesn't have anything to do with functional relationships." She paused a moment and leaned back in her chair. "Imagination in your work is a vital thing. "We live in a very dynamic, fast-moving world. Shouldn't our buildings reflect our culture? Why take a Greek temple or a Victorian house and re-do it? It's not an expression of our times . .if "Tradesmen can build a building. A computer can design a floor plan. The thing that architects add is imagination."

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HE BLUES HAD ABABY AND THEY NAMED IT ROCK AND ROLL By Richard S. Keith

t I'

-< a c: :It

n the first half of the twentieth century in America, there was no rock & roll. Never had been. Never mind America, there was no rock & roll anywhere. There were only the various indigenous musics of the country-jazz, blues, swing, gospel, country & western, Tin Pan Alley, and many hybrids of these forms. Music was still primarily a regionalized live form, played in honky tonks and roadhouses, with records and radio being small, independent affairs. Blues records were being recorded in the South by field scouts for various archival sources. These were not "popular" music in any other sense than as folk treasures or release as "race" records, an appellation that segregated them as handily as a "whites only" drinking fountain. Then, somewhere along the line, most will say when Muddy Waters moved up to Chicago from Missisippi and started a blues band that played loud, raucous electric guitars-rock & roll was born. It spread across the globe with the growth of these self-same mediums of records and radio . One can now find Bow Wow Wow cassettes in Saudi Arabia and Bruce Springsteen casset-

1'\

Photographs by Mark Worsham with Todd Steed and Jamie Gannon.

Drawings by Diedre Austin

ill ill

z (f)

tes in Indonesia. Ironically, those who

..,

helped create rock & roll also helped create

the rock & roll industry, a business which has

>II-

helped turn the music from the raw passion it once was into a marketable commodity. The man who was the embodiment of this paradox was another boy from Mississippi.

MYSIERY lR111 or the purposes of this article, Elvis Aaron Presley was the first and perhaps best of all the rockers who would follow. He was poor white trash when he walked into the minute Sun Studios in Memphis. There he cut some raw sides with minimal backing, recording black music with a voice quite unlike any other in its ability to stylize and retain passion. He toured, his live act

tIe Richard went back

throwing out big blasts of sexuality and individuality in the repressed

to Jesus, Chuck Berry

and faceless Fifties. Through the mediums of records and radio, as

went to jail, and Bud-

well as fledgling television, he set fire to the fuse of the youth under-

current and became one of the most successful media symbols of the

heaven in a private

Twentieth century. But in many ways, all the cultural charge he created was turned to ash by something he and Colonel Tom Parker helped create- The In-

Holly

plane

with

went the

to Big

Bopper and Richie Valens. In the late Fifties and early Sixties, rock & roll was looking rather anemic.

dustrial Rock Star Syndrome. Rock & roll is about passion, rebellion, fun, and sex. Anytime something wonderful comes along, some elusive feeling or experience- there is always someone who decides to bottle it up and sell it. There is an old adage which states that you can

IILL IIEIIEEIIIIEI

do anything you want as long as you don't make a lot of money at it.

11 of a sudden there were all these cute English guys playing

Of course, if you make a lot of money, you can pretty much do

wire kid from that tiny studio escaped a life as a truck driver to gain

goosed up American music. For the first time since Elvis, the threat of the "dread beat" seized the land. The Beatles played old blues and rock tunes with verve, smiles, and snappy harmonies borrowed from the Everly Brothers. Their hair caused scandals. They rocked hard. The parents of America muttered. "Once again marketing shows the way," cackled the industry. "We'll take these nasty but attractive little lads who've been pissing off the stages of Hamburg and playing American music, put them in suits, and sell it back to the yanks for a profit." The Beatles revived rock & roll and made a ton of money. While their career wasn't as self-destructive as Elvis'S, it also helped hurry rock & roll on to an early old age. The Beatles, God love'em, invented self-indulgence and artiness in rock. They sang about love, and the

money, worldwide fame, and adoration. But he died a bloated parody

kids all danced along. The kids grew their hair long and everyone,

from a diet of pills, ice cream, and teenage girls.

Beatles included, started doing the peace, love, and recreational

anything, but it is not quite the same. By being so hugely successful and pliant, Elvis helped invent the music industry which has, in many ways, killed the spirit that once flamed in rock & roll music. The old art versus commerce dichotomy reared its hoary head in the midst of this innocent new American music. And while rock & roll has survived, it has suffered. Elvis left Sun for RCA and continued to make records. Some were wonderful, but as he went along, the clinker ratio got higher. He was drafted into the Army where many believe Elvis really died. He made movies and lots of money. He 'gave away a lot of Cadillacs and gold watches. Somehow it was evident that his heart wasn't in it. That live

Elvis sparked off rock & roll, but he also gave it enough rope to

chemicals routine. For in almost all the great bands of the Sixties,

hang itself. Suddenly, there was a glut of good-looking Pat Boones

drugs were almost like an extra;nusician. The Beatles set the tone of

and Frankie Avalons, rockers and crooners, manufactured and

what was to follow with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club Band in

marketed, Brylcreamed and zit-creamed until they were spotless. Lit-

1967, the Summer of Love.

10 fUI

Soon everyone was calling in strings and ten minute sitar suites and "psychedelic" effects. They were all making millions and throwing it away on drugs and gurus. The music industry invented "progressive FM" to showcase all this hippie paraphanalia, and radio became a much less constricted medium. Songs were finally allowed to be over three minutes long. However, all this ectoplasmic oozing of joy couldn't continue forever. Rock & rollers were now artists with artistic notions. They took thirty minute solos. They designed their own album covers. Some of them- alot of them- made really bad music. The Beatles grew apart and broke up. Altamont indicated that the next decade wasn't going to be a very pretty sight.

here were already signs appearing in the late Sixties. This is where the true rock & roll underground began. All those drugs and all that experimentation had a dark side as well as the hippy-dippy side. People did and said things that were a bit too strange for the "love generation." The music industry, in a money-bloated scramble for hip credibility, would give a recording contract to anyone who could fake it. Records began to appear that no one knew what to do with. The Velvet Underground can be said to be the best and first of the rock underground. The Velvets took rock back to street level. Their first album, released the same year as Sgt. Pepper, mixed hymns to heroin and sado-masochistic tales with driving, discordant music that was druggy in 1he truest sense of the word. There was the eternal question asked by that generation, "Okay, now that I'm into this trip, am I really having fun?" The answer as far as the Velvets were concerned was, "Not really." Though they were the trailblazers, the Velvets weren't alone. There was the Romilar-foggy metal dirges of the Stooges and the pre-punk political metal of the MC5. Then there is the only relatively intact survivor of that period still mining the same vein, Captain Beefheart. It was with Beefheart that rock critic Robert Christgau came up with the tag "semi-popular" music. He was referring to music that works in the rock & roll "popular music" form, but has limited appeal to a mass audience. Except Beefheart, all the above groups are gone, crushed under the weight of squabbles and addictions. The Velvet Underground was chased off their label shortly before their break-up, after recording three of the most incredible albums in rock & roll history, supposedly because of their unsavory reputation and dabbling in drugs. The fact is that their albums sold abysmally. The Rolling Stones sang songs about the devil, statutory rape, and drugs (doing extensive research in the latter), and sold millions. No one ever kicked them off a label. With this rise of the underground, a paradox developed. Some of the most vital, groundbreaking music was not "popular" in the Top 40 sense, thereby becoming unfeasible in the ledgers of the music industry. Therefore a band that was more salable usually got the nod over one that would be likely to create interesting, worthwhile music. As rock music became more lucrative, it started to get stale.

STIIRIII TO HEIIEI n the early Seventies, the shockwaves caused by the knifing death at the Altamont concert killed the whole flower-power impetus. The waters of rock were being cruised by whales like Led Zeppelin. Critics despised them (often to an unjust degree), but the kids turned out in droves to support them. It is probably true

that Led Zep made more money than any rock act before them. While undeniably talented, for many they represented all that was to be reviled about rock. They made and squandered millions of dollars, their music constantly teetered on the edge of fatuous self-indulgence, and they lived the rock & roll lifestyle to an extreme that would make certain Roman emperors look prim. They had taken rock & roll in a new direction, but left it stranded in a place where only the most gargantuan stadium movements made any sense, unable to surprise or progress, merely pummeling away. As radio got more and more conservative, so did the record buying public. Rock & roll was a global phenomenon, but it was dead in the water. Not for long- the barracudas were on the way.

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II flTIIE n the New York of the early Seventies, a few bands with small followings began to suggest that rock could be transfused with fresh blood. There were bands like the transvestite-Stones hybrids of the New York Dolls, and the minimal, angst-ridden synthesizer duo, Suicide. They were strange for the time, but there was something undeniably new and powerful about them. Poet Patti Smith picked up a band and began to play rock & roll. Tom Verlaine, guitarist of the Neon Boys and Television, persuaded the owner of a ramshackle bar in the Bowery called CBGB's (an acronym for the kinds of music played there- country, bluegrass, and blues- full circle or what?) to start letting other types of bands play. The other bands included Blondie, Talking Heads, and the Ramones. This is the place where "punk" began. Named so largely for their bratty, amateur attitude, these bands were trying to do something new and different instead of recycling the standard blues-rock/singersongwriter cliches abounding in the mid-Seventies. Since record companies were generally as disinterested in these new bands as the musicians were in traditional rock stardom, the renaissance of independent record labels began. Independents had been around since rock's infancy but they started to take on significance under the influence of Television, Patti Smith, and Pere Ubu. These were fresh new sounds attempting to reach the public who wasn't anesthetized by the formula sounds of the day. While the Americans laid the groundwork for this new music, it was what was about to happen across the Atlantic that really brought rock & roll back to its previous status as a dirty word. In England, it was tough to get a record contract with a major label if you weren't a chops-bound pro or had an uncle in the business. There was the seminal Stiff Records label for up and coming pubrockers and new wavers. But, coupled with the oppressive social and economic situation of the mid-Seventies, England was the proverbial powder keg. The Sex Pistols were the match. If Elvis was the Adam of rock & roll, the Pistols were the Book of Revelations. They announced the goal of destroying rock & roll and achieved it. They were just snotty kids who used a high-velocity, 22

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amateurish, buzzsaw sound. The keening banshee of a singer told everyone within earshot that everything, including rock, was a vicious lie. Even now, a listen to their spew of bile and loathing can raise hairs on the back of your neck. Their rage attacked anything that moved and while no one had their scope, they inspired legions of discontented, particularly British youths, to pick up cheap equipment and bash out chords. The Pistols were so anti-rock, yet so expressive of the passion and rebellion of rock & roll that they debunked the myth of the rock star as a semi-divine being with special powers that allowed one to play music. The Sex Pistols proved that anyone could play rock & roll. While they caused tremblings in the industry that have not yet ceased, they were soon torn apart at the hands of the monster they created. The Pistols, like many other great rockers, helped destroy themselves. Their anti-stardom pulled them into the spotlight, and under it they withered and died. They were thrown off two major labels before they ever even released an album. When they finally got a career going, it was their ruin. Since the Pistols wanted to tear down rock & roll to expose the empty lot it was built on, when they had done so, there was nowhere to go. Fortunately for rock & roll there was enough of the original punk spirit left intact in the New York bands and English groups like the Clash to carryon with. These bands never wanted to destroy rock & roll, they just wanted to tear it down, to erect a new, better version. The Pistols, however, had made their mark. It was apparent that a certain segment of the rock .Qonstituents refused to be force-fed the hype and product of the music industry. And the industry lumbered into motion for it's own sake, signing these smug, little giant-killer bands.

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ed as easily as they once had. But, they were ~0 no longer doomed to obscurity. There was now a ~ real underground. Black Flag developed a reputation for being loud, fast, and crass. But, disgusted at attempts to make records

with other people, they formed their own label, SST Records.

Since its formation about five years ago, SST has provided a truly creative outlet for Black Flag and other bands by putting creativity as top priority. SST has put out numerous, often experimental releases by acclaimed bands like the Minutemen, Meat Puppets, and Husker Du . The label demonstrates the vital niche the new independents fill. Husker Du has recently released their first album on a major label while Black Flag appears content to plug away on their home turf, thereby avoiding compromise. If this kind of thing were one-of-akind, it would be different, but this combination safety net / farm team idea operates in every city across the country on some scale or another. The future hopes of rock & roll appear to be recording in a cheap studio instead of a ritzy one in the Bahamas. Lately, rock & roll seems to have a better chance of surviving than ever before. While this sounds like a case of "meet the new boss, same as the old boss," it's more like a case of "we won't get fooled again."

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IllS YEIB' MODEL n exciting revolution had taken place in rock & roll and everyone hoped it would last forever. Some parts of it have endured, but most fell by the wayside. Punk bands proper (as opposed to that later variation, bardcore) either mutated or died. Most of the music itself was cleaned up, chopped up, and pressed into a product by the industry. "New wave" went from being a phrase that meant music played in a new way to a phrase describing spiky hair and skinny ties. Some valuable experimentation occured and great bands seemed to burst out of the woodwork. But after some time, the edge wore off. FM radio in almost every city and town returned to pumping Led Zeppelin into the ears of the populace. Many promising bands turned in their original values for megabuck stardom, while others began to have trouble getting their music notic-

you may be wondering, what does that have to do with Knoxville? There are many local bands of note, several of whom, including the S.T.D.'s, Smokin' Dave, Beyond John, and Wh-Wh, have released their own recordings in some form or another. Though a definite shortage of venues keeps away many out-of-town acts, some of the above bands have toured around the South playing clubs in larger cities and college towns. Lately, no one in the South has broken out nationally, like say, R.E.M., but no one has ever gotten out of Knoxville. Sad but true. Talent abounds, but apathy often appears to rule. The degeneration of WUTK, UT's official radio station, from a relatively worthwile college station into a misconceived sub-Top 40 abortion, has hurt the city's exposure to new and different music. WUOT, the university affiliated public alternative station, does, however, carry several excellent programs, including "Un-radio." But, sadly, the support of a few diehards can't make up for general lack of enthusiasm. 0,

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America's music scene is, in many ways, as strong as it has been for fifteen years . But, Knoxville is in danger of becoming an isolated backwater, cut off and insignificant. If some greater degree of enthusiasm can't be generated, the town's music, promising as it may be, could dry up. Rock & roll has always been about passion. A little passion would help here. Remember> love is all you need. It would be virtually impossible to catalog references in the above article so the author merely wishes to thank Rolling Stone, Musician, The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll, and Steve Young.

Ode to Frank O'Hara remember the candy apples ones with caramel and chopped nuts? hey Frank O'Hara you're not the only one with Jujubee experiences, ah ha Milkduds, you oversized rabbit turds you, god i hate when people reminisce about their childhoods; save your fantasies for the nighttime. but they keep on singing remember those edible multi-colored necklaces and the disappointing prizes in Cracker Jacks and how there were always too many peanuts in there for your liking, and your liking was not as turned on by the taste of what was actually inside those wax figures of Coke bottles as it was by getting to what was inside, bigshot times with the bubble gum cigars and who wrote those damned cartoons for Bazooka, remember?

annals of divorce -as seen by eldest child

GOD DAMNIT, GODDAMN IT, GOD DAMN IT. that rumplestiltskin sage pooping rage . . . i told you i was pooping blood and bleeding poop and that's when i was in control now rainbow bowels, a baby-sitter's nightmare.

II He never skips a beat look at him that bastard your father he never skipped a beat but i knew yes i know I cleaned his underwear.

christine schmitz I begged him Dad, dad show her you're human, dad that's what she needs not anti-depressants dad. burn the man mask dad please just this time life and death dad. You bastard and for you i gagged on diarrhea stained underwear.

III instinct or some such cruel force is pulling me into the world again, indifference and finally a laugh, mature giggle if you will, jane austen says in a borrowed book of aphorisms "Those who do not complain are never pitied." drawn a bit to the lack of eloquence but more to the pity part, pity me . . pity you . . pity all. let me wallow goddamnit, for once and for all ... if not for our tragic loneliness for how my soul imitated my mother's hell, and because of my unfortunate talent to empathize i'm named a traitor by my father, for how now i'm left to dine on their defecation of divorce.

chrlstrine schmitz

The Fight

the fisherfather

Because school's finished and I can't, or won't, find work beyond my shit job in a department store, because the rent is three weeks past due and the president, with the serenity of the deeply disturbed, is on TV barking "economic recovery," because the baby has finally wound herself down crying and, stunned at the silence, we find ourselves with little better to do, my wife and I lunge and tear at each other in what has come to be our proof of love. And as the evening collapses and the accusations grow more and more outlandish, my mind starts to wander, and I imagine myself at the shopping mall where I work. It's late at night and the only light in the place comes from inside the metal gratings and thick glass panels of the empty shops. Fearing that I've been locked in for the night, I turn and start to run as something hot slaps me hard across the back and I fall to the cobbled tile where I can't move or even speak until my wife slams the bedroom door and I mutter goodnight under my breath.

see. he has license to fish anywhere in my mother's pond. he casts hook after hook down into her stream. a serious angler the fisherfather prays daily to snag me, the surviving offspring of her waters, ready to gut and stuff, to hang me from his wall.

Carol lIalone

Three hours later and, sick of TV, I grope my way to bed where my wife sleeps with her back to me, the woman as wall of granite. And as I lie listening to the sound of her breathing, I wonder how much longer we can keep each other in a country where so much is promised, even offered for sale, where only those with no great love of money are made to feel trapped by the need for it, where a man can finally lose control and smash head-on into sleep and feel there's nothing, not one damn thing, he can't afford to lose.

Jeff Callahan

Tomorrow / Lance Rutledge / oil on canvas / 29" x 36"

"Philosophy Even the Hollowest Nut Wants To Be Cracked" David Wilson I charcoal on paper I 26" x 40"

Girlfriend

In Defiance

She wears red shoes when we go out. Smokes all my cigarettes then buys grape gummost nights her dad waits up. We go to bars, she dances so that the men will watch her. They've always watched. She knows . . For now she stays with me, she says it's love. We never go straight home, where her dad waits up. Where, in the porchlight, her mouth shows smeared, her narrow body still shakes some, not used to this new hurt.

"If God had meant for women to have two

Lisa Coffman

more holes in their heads, He'd have put them there." The time my father drove to Canada, leaving my mother and me to feed with bottles nineteen calves who caught pneumonia one by one, each afternoon we'd fill fewer bottles, tote more pills, each day we'd call "the place in Oakboro" and someone would come out and take away the corpse for five dollars, and it rained for two woeks, the creek running red in the bottom lands, and we waded through black slush with buckets of warm bottles and with sinking hearts, and when the last had died, we walked home and took baths, dressed up, and drove to Charlotte. At the first jewelry store we marched in and had our ears pierced in defiance.

Jane Sasser Coffey

his head tilts

Walking on a Railroad Track

his head tilts in line with graceful sloping shoulder as he reclines in casual diagonal against soft depth of cushions, supported by one narrow elbow.

Arms outstretched scarecrow style one foot after the other gasoline sunset radiates off my face cool wind propelling my back makes me wobble

I am penetrated: the moving strength of slender fingers grown from a masculine veined hand as they flip through the pages of the magazine propped against one chiseled knee.

Chris Simones

Angela Perez

Novus Ordo Seclorum / Jeff Groah new gold, copper, nickel / 5" x 5" x 7"

Bull Pin / Tony Spencer / new gold, metal / 3" x 2.5" xl"

Uncle / Charlie Mantooth / new gold / 4" x 6" x 4" 30

Facts of Lie / John Campbell / photographs of photographs ... / 7.5" x 5 3/8"

M,••H a.tor. Ih. Mirror /

David Harvey I, acrylic on canvas

8'x ·10'

Untitled / Lori Bakkum I mixed media I 36" x 65"