Month: October 2015

ARTICLE ABOUT Ian Hunter FROM NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS, April 5, 1975

People sometimes forget that Mr. Ian Hunter Patterson has reached the grand old age of 76 this year. He seems so youthful in the way he presents himself, so it is easy to forget that he is older and wiser than most people you know. We hope to have him around for a long time as Hunter continues to tour extensively across Europe and North America.
In March 1975 Hunter joined forces with Mick Ronson, and released his first solo album in april after recording sessions at AIR Studios in London. A great album that also features the much-covered song “Once Bitten Twice Shy”, originally written by Hunter alone.
Check it out, if you for some strange reason have missed this great song.

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AARGH!

That was our Lay-out Man`s reaction when he discovered that Charles Shaar Murray had written his Runter-Honson interview in a slightly eccentric manner. Pennie Smith (who still thinks Ronson is an electric shaver) took very normal pictures.

Haul ass, Ronson. It`s exactly four steps from where the band coach is parked to the stage door of Newcastle City Hall and there`s a mean wind blowing, but even before one scuffed green shoe – which goes great with the black suit with the gold piping and the green T-shirt – hits ground zero, the chicks are there with the autograph books out. “Over here, Mick! Hey, over here, Mick!”
Ronson`s ready for them, and as his hand goes out to pick up the first pen, Ian Hunter in massive leather coat, has slipped around the cluster of girls and is almost home free before one spots him – “and can I have your autograph too?” He signs the book like he`s clocking in for work. Thank you, Masked Man.
Freeze it. Voice-over: “He`s got an incredible fan following, and he looks after `em. Mott was always a guys` band, and now all of a sudden I`m with Mick and there`s chicks camping out outside his door. I think it`s great for me and `im, because it adds an extra element. Mick`s a great-looking guy and he doesn`t ignore his fans. He talks to `em, he`s forever writing letters to `em, and I was never particularly into that. He`s been going on at me to talk to `em.
“See, I left Mott and so most of the Mott fans didn`t like me, made me the bad guy. Mick`s got his fans, but I`m in a kind of limbo and all I`ve got`s my music, and I`m so hot on the music that I don`t really care. But at the same time I see what happens when the chicks are all screaming for him and I think that we need that. Because it`s something that Mott never had…”

Unfreeze. The assembled company straggle into the hall and commence sound-checking. Bad Co`s album plays through the P.A.
For some unearthly reason there`s 75 loose volts of best quality high-grade electricity floating around Hunter`s vocal mike. Apart from that, Ronson`s sustain pedal has gone on the blink, which is quite a problem as it`s a special one whipped up by someone Pete Townshend knows and it`s not the kind of thing you can schlep into your local Newcastle music shop and have fixed while-U-wait.
The building is icy cold. On the stage, Blue Weaver is checking out his various keyboards. The reason that it`s Weaver up there and not Pete Arnesen is that Arnesen is currently recuperating from an operation, and so Weaver, who played organ on Mott`s last American tour, was flown in at a few days` notice to take over. Principally an organist, he`s not used to playing the pounding rock and roll piano that Hunter and Ronson require, and so his nails are battered and broken.
On a podium in the centre of the stage behind a massive double drum kit is Dennis Elliott, who looks to be about nineteen and is whomping his way around his drums while Hunter and Ronson stand about three-quarters of the way back relaying instructions through the talkback mike on the mixing desk.

Last up is Jeff Appleby, bass player and charter member of the Hull Mafia. He looks startlingly like Ronson with his bleached hair and peaky features. The three of them run through “Truth The Whole Truth Nuthin` But The Truth” before Hunter wanders up on the stage to join them. It`s what you call your cooperative sound check, with Hunter and Ronson checking their sidemen`s sound together and then each of them doing the others. Hunter slams through some power chords, and Ronson instructs him to use the middle pick-up switch position before the two swap places.
Unlike the roadies, who`ve been vaulting on and off the stage as if they were in training for some weird kind of Roadie Olympics, Hunter climbs onto part of support group Jet`s Fender piano as one of the stages in his descent. Unfortunately it starts to topple, and if it hadn`t been for a roadie who happened to be standing in the way at the time, Hunter and the piano would`ve taken quite a nasty little spill across the front couple of rows of Newcastle City Hall.
Ronson takes the stage, clambers into his guitar and rambles around a few riffs, testing out his pedals and gadgets. For a second he hits the riff from “Once Bitten Twice Shy.”

Cut to Hunter playing the same riff at the start of the evening`s show. The hall is around three-quarters full and for the past five minutes there`s been a steady chant of “Ron-son! Ron-son!” Eventually the band stalk on, the sidemen in black and Hunter and Ronson in white outfits which glow sickeningly under the ultra violet lights at the side of the stage. Ronno`s suit is emblazened with painted eyes, as if in some kind of compensation for Hunter`s invisible peepers. A spotlight hits Hunter`s guitar as he bounces the Chuck Berry riff around for a few bars, and then he moves to the mike with that flat “`Allo” and the band hit the groove and the lights come up and, and…
The sound is hideous. All you can hear is Hunter`s guitar and vocal and Elliott`s drums, though occasionally a bit of lead guitar and piano shine fitfully through the fog. It gradually cleans itself up as the show progresses, with Hunter and Ronson scrupulously sharing the vocals, trading off one for one and two for two. Curiously, for the first half of the set, Ronson`s performances seem better received than Hunter`s, though it must be borne in mind that Hunter was performing songs from an album which nobody in the audience had at that time heard, whereas Ronson was drawing on his two solo albums – and I`d bet cash money that at least half of the population of that hall had one or the other.
He seemed infinitely more confident sharing the stage with Hunter than he had performing those same songs last year on his own tour, though the audiences were approximately the same size. Had Hunter traded in his huge Mott audiences for the appreciably smaller Ronson public?

Make no mistake about it, a solidly Ronson audience it was. Monsoon could stand in shadow at the back of the stage by his amp while Hunter was in the spotlight singing, suddenly raise his hand and have the hall explode to order.
Hunter`s time finally came during “Boy”, probably the solo album`s major song. Strumming away at a totally inaudible acoustic guitar, he aimed his shades at the gallery and sang his goddam heart out against the band`s rising storm and got his first ovation of the evening. The Ronson audience had become a Hunter-Ronson audience.
Freeze it. Voice-over: “Ronno`s fans were probably wondering what this great lumbering lumberjack from the outback was doing with `im, and the strident Mott fans were asking me why that bleedin` pansy was playing guitar with me…”
Unfreeze. By the time the band got into an uproariously ramshackle version of Uncle Lou`s “White Light White Heat”, the teenagers are down the front grabbing at Ronson`s lissome young bod. Memo to Monsoon-san: learn the words son. Singing the first verse six times is definitely a no-no. The high point of the number is a totally crazed guitar duel where the rhythm section drop out and Ronson`s rat-in-a-trap lead comes up against Hunter`s chordal volley. The first kamikazes of the evening scale the stage, and one guy gets slung right off, flying gracefully back into the throng. Hands reach out for Ronson`s foot, only a few inches back from the lip of the stage.

Freeze the kid in mid-air a few seconds before he lands. Voice-over: “Pete Watts was the ace at accidentally leaving a leg over the edge of the stage. I can`t be bothered with it; I never could, but Mick`s an arch-exponent of it. He knows how to handle those people. He digs it, he gets off on it. He really wants `em to grab his leg because he feels that that`s what they really want to do. He was upset because it got a bit `eavy down the front there…”
Unfreeze. Blue Weaver starts playing intro from the title song of “Play Don`t Worry.” Ronson steps forward, but instead of starting to sing he raises his hand for silence and says, “I`d just like to ask the security men to be a bit less heavy if they can. They just wanna come down the front, they ain`t doin` any harm.” Hunter breaks in: “And remember that if you break any seats I`m payin` for half of them and he`s paying for the other half.” Laughter and applause. Hunter may not be much into dangling his leg off stages, but he`s a past master at relating to audiences. Everybody relaxes as Ronson sets into the song.
Lower sound-level. Voice over: “I was really in a bad way while I was doing that album. I was feeling really depressed and I didn`t want to `phone anybody or see anybody or talk to anybody…” Hunter: “Tell him how many Mandies you were doing.” Long pause. Very long pause. “I went through two bottles of fifty in a month. The words of that song were sort of to myself, really…”
Fade up on lyric of chorus: “Play, don`t worry/play don`t be scared, don`t you think about them, start your dreaming again of tomorrow…”

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Right now Ronson ain`t worried. He`s in his element. The band`s roaring behind him like some great raging beast, his guitar`s bucking and screaming like he`s tearing it to pieces and it`s trying to get away, his face is contorted into a triumphant snarl, girls are grabbing for his feet and trying to get up on to the stage, Ian Hunter`s stalking around the stage beating his own  guitar halfway to death and egging the band on before returning to his side and, inches away, howling at him to goad him past the edge, probably rasping, “C`mon ya bastid c`mon ya bastid, play you swine rip it out”…something like that as the song crashes to a halt and Mick Ronson looks most unlike a man with a confidence problem.
Voice-over: “You go back to the `Mad Shadows` album and listen to `No Wheels To Ride`. I was working on Ralpher then and he was playing incredible stuff. I really like to push guitarists over the edge. Ronson`s a bit better that way; he really likes me to goad him on. I goaded him on in `Truth` and I was a little worried in case I pushed him too far, because when a guitarist is playing a solo it`s like a lyric, and you mustn`t push `em too far because it`s very personal to `em…”
“Truth”, which is Ronson`s guitar showpiece on the album, doesn`t really happen at Newcastle. Maybe it`s the sound, maybe it`s the duff sustain pedal, but he just strains and strains and hardly anything comes out. Occasionally a squeal, sometimes a whine, maybe here and there a dazzling lick which blows everybody`s mind and then long tortuous pauses before Hunter comes back into the vocal. Voice-over: “Oh, in Glasgow he played this great enormous solo which went on for about twenty minutes, and we just rode along with it. I forgot half the words because I was listening.”

During “Slaughter On Tenth Avenue” Ronson`s playing suffers badly because he`s in acute danger of losing his guitar throughout most of the song.
Somehow he keeps playing even with a girl or two hanging on to him, but it`s difficult to keep your solo together with someone wrenching on your arm. Eventually, Hunter leads into the medley of Mott hits which climaxes the set; “Roll Away The Stone” first slowed down and then, as per record, “The golden Age Of Rock And Roll” and “All The Way From Memphis”. Cut to strobe-speed selection of stills of various Mott line-ups, settling finally on film of Mott performing the same songs.
Voice-over: “I can remember in Paris on the last tour with Mott, there was something up with me. I was really feeling rotten. We did the Olympia and we went down a riot and we came off and Tony De Fries was in the wings and he came up to me-you see, Tony`s a very good friend of mine – and he was concerned and he said to me, `That was great – but what are you gonna do?`
“Now, Bob Hirschman was one of my managers at that time and I was going to dinner with him and Tony said, `Come to dinner with me`, and said that I couldn`t because my manager was there. And all the way through that dinner I remembered Tony saying, `What are you gonna do?` I couldn`t understand what he was saying, but I couldn`t get those words out of my head. In the end it wound up around two o`clock in the morning at Tony`s hotel, and he and Ronson were sitting there waiting for me. Ronson`s been in the band a month and had already talked to Tony at great lengths about it. Tony knew I`d be round there. I said, `We played great, what do you mean “what am I gonna do?”` and he said, `It`s over.`

“Mick knew. Mick had sussed it, because he`d been in Mott a month, and he said, `I think you must get out and do your own album`. I never had enough confidence to think that I could just get out and do it and that annoys me intensely. Bowie had said to me in `72 that I had to lead Mott and take them over and I already thought that, but I needed a second person to say it to me. So there we were again. I was totally mixed up, I didn`t know what I wanted to do, and he said, `You got to do your own album`. I was already thinking that.
“I thought that he was trying to get out of Mott as soon as he got in, and he said, `No, I don`t wanna get out; I wanna do your album with you.` And I was thinking, `This is it, this is all over. Then I went to the States because I hadn`t signed the final papers for the house and I realised that I could no more go back than fly. I could go and play with Hawkwind, I could go and play with Ducks DeLuxe, but I couldn`t have gone back to Mott. I hated it so much that I was willing to drop the English tour, because if I`d done it I`d`ve freaked. It would`ve been really embarrassing. Mick was saying, `I`ll do the English tour if you want, but you really shouldn`t be doing it.`
“I`d been trying to drop hints to Pete and Buff, but they didn`t pick up on them. See, I love Pete. If he rings me up tomorrow and asks for me, I`ll be there. Buff – long pause – is a funny guy. I can`t knock him, but he gets very mixed up, and he was upsetting me a lot, but he couldn`t help it. I`d stood it for so long and I couldn`t take it no more. He`s no kind of bastard, but he gets real nervous and he gets me at it and I get twice as bad as him. Pete was taking everything very easy and relaxing and thinking that it would all go on forever, and I kept on hinting to him and saying, `Don`t rely on me.`

“I think they thought I was there for life. I shouldn`t be too romantic about it…I think they were taking me for granted. When Mick Ralphs left he kept saying to me, `You must keep it going, you must keep it going.` It was a guilt thing because he felt that he`d left us in the shit, and I know now how he was feeling. They`re in an awkward position, because Bad Company`s doing good, me and Ronson`s on the road and it must be really frustrating for them…”
Off to a conflagration of applause and a renewed barrage of stomping and howls for “Ron-son! Ron-son!” intermingled with the odd shout of “`Untah!” They wait for just the right length of time before returning and cartwheel into “All The Young Dudes”, for which things really break loose.
Before coming out for the encore, Hunter has donned an absurd white top hat with a long plume which waves as he takes a gulp of air and launches into the first line. Weirdly, the song seems to recall the glittering MainMan empire of 1972, when, in addition to Bowie, Lou Reed, Mott and Iggy Pop had joined up. Superimpose the famous still of Bowie, Reed and Pop and pan onto Tony DeFries in the background.
“Tony got the feeling that he could do it all the time, and he tried Mott the same way; trying to get Mott a mystique. Mott were known, Mott were the kids next door. We were a street-corner band, but we went along with it because the guy had the gift at the time. I still love Tony and Tony`s friends are few and far between these days, but I still love him and I think anyone with any integrity should love him too, because he tries to do something. He made a lot of mistakes and he crapped on a lot of people, and when Tony DeFries drops a bollock it`s a big one…”

Pan back onto Iggy, almost as an afterthought. Voice-over: “I think Iggy`s the most overrated rock star ever. Iggy has all the attributes of stardom except that he doesn`t deliver on any level. I`m a mate of his and he`s a mate of mine, but Iggy does not deliver on any level. He`s the all-time should-have-but-didn`t, and it`s because he`s just not quite good enough. Dave`ll tell you different, but it`s not happening and it never will with him. Everybody`s working for Iggy, everybody thinks Iggy should be a big star, but he`ll never be a big star as long as he`s got a hole in his ass. It`s not the laziness either – if Iggy worked 24 hours a day he still wouldn`t do it. Alice Cooper made it on Iggy. He sat and watched and decided to take it to extremes…”
Somebody mumbles about how Bowie drew a lot on Iggy as well. “David is a piece of transparent paper, but he has a lovely way of transferring things and putting them out as…don`t let`s talk about Dave.”
“Dudes” ends, followed by a ramshackle version of “The Girl Can`t Help It”. As the band leave the stage, slow pan through the audience finally focussing on The Critic. He turns his head to the camera and remarks, “There is much about this band that needs working on. They still haven`t gotten their sound right and they`re still not quite used to each other yet, but if nothing goes wrong they should be doing some tremendous things before long. Ronson, in particular, is clearly benefitting from his surroundings and Hunter really seems to enjoy being a sideman now and then. Like their album, their concert performances deliver just enough to suggest that they`ve hardly started yet in terms of what they can produce…” The camera pulls away as he keeps talking and his voice is drown-by the sound of a hallful of people looking for their coats.
Fast flashback to pre-gig dressing room. Hunter finds the piano, and is informed that the scratches on it were inflicted by Alan Price when he opened a bottle of beer on it during a scene from “Don`t Look Back”. Hunter instantly pounds through his audition piece, the song that he played when he was after the job with Mott The Hoople those many years ago. It`s “Like A Rolling Stone”.

Cut to hotel, post-gig. It`s beginning to get early again, and Mick Ronson is up and drunk. Even after a successful gig, about the only way that he can wind down is to climb into a battle of wine and pull the cork in after him. At half-past four on a chilly Newcastle morning, he`s sprawled in a sofa near the hotel entrance and for long periods of time it seems like he`s passed out. Voice-over: “Mick gets a little funny when he`s pissed… Mick wonders why he`s one of the Top Ten guitarists in any poll in the world and he`s got no money. He was doing gold albums on wages, and maybe he thought at the time that if he cut up they`d just use someone else, which of course wouldn`t have been the case. Mick really thought that he could never leave Dave, that nobody else would want him. He`s crazy – there would`ve been a queue a mile long…”
But at half-past four Mick Ronson is facing his own private demon. Flanked by his girlfriend/assistant Sue Fussey and Big Dave from Sturico, he relentlessly refills and refills his wine glass in spite of their efforts to get him upstairs. Eventually The Critic, who is in fairly poor shape himself, ambles over. “They`re trying to get me to go upstairs,” says Ronson from the depths of the sofa.
The Critic thinks it over. “D`you want to go?” he says at length. Ronson looks up at him in horror. “You`re not trying to get rid of me as well, are you?” And the demon is firmly on his back. At this point in time nothing can convince him that he`s really liked and wanted, despite the affection and concern that everybody around him shows towards him, despite the audience reaction and the last couple of groupies still waiting for a chance to talk to him (Aw shucks.-Ed.)
He struggles to his feet and something clicks into place inside him. Clearly and distinctly, he enunciates, “Everybody thinks I`m a nutcase because I blow all me money. But I`m not. I`m not. They`re the nut-cases.” Then Dave and Suzi led him off to the stairs.
Freeze. Roll end titles.

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I have personally transcribed this from the original paper and you are free to use it as you like. If you use it on your own webpages – please credit me or put up a link to my blog.

This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: Ace, Keith Emerson, Slapp Happy & Henry Cow, Alvin Lee, “New California Rock”, “Country Special”, Gloria Gaynor, Swamp Dogg, Michigan Flyers, Leonard Cohen, Tom Paxton, George Melly, John Helliwell.

The original music paper this article came from (pictured at the top) is for sale!

1. Send me an e-mail, if you are interested. Send it to: geirmykl@gmail.com
2. The offer should be around or upwards of 20 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.

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ARTICLE ABOUT Golden Earring FROM NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS, March 29, 1975

This concert review is from when Golden Earring were out touring in promotion of their album “Switch” released in March that year. One of the songs mentioned here, “Kill Me (Ce Soir)”, was covered by Iron Maiden as a B side on their 1990 single “Holy Smoke”. It shows you that Golden Earring made other songs than “Radar Love” that were of note. Check them out!

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Concert Review

Golden Earring
Amsterdam

by Max Bell

Golden Earring`s return to domestic base, fun loving Amsterdam, completed yet another highly successful European tour.
Although they`re undoubtedly Holland`s most accomplished band, the audience they pull is still largely comprised of the faithful who latched on in 1965 when Earring were just your average Continental outfit struggling to keep up with an Anglo-American monopoly on rated music.
Now it`s different. Ten years is a long time for any group to survive, and this one is only just reaching commercial fruition.
Naturally the Carre Theatre was packed but the lack of both atmosphere and spontaneous reaction to a very high energy act seemed to indicate that the Dutch aren`t going to elevate their home team to the league reserved for visiting heavies.
Something is lacking in Golden Earring`s presentation that no amount of professionalism and shellshock volume can compensate for.
The fault lies in a lack of variable material and their mistaken insistence on playing too bloody loud. Clearly balanced quadrophonic sound and razor sharp dynamics are fine, but they don`t excuse unimaginative pacing.

To their credit the visuals are neat and simple and occasionally they produce a real gem, but there`s too much indifferent jetsam floating amongst the superior ballast.
They bounced on stage like several Randolph Scotts and shot straight into “Suspicion”. Fair enough with raunchy sax and trumpet breaks plus pretty George Kooyman`s flash`n-`mean guitar.
A quick breather to get the standard formalities over and then an oldie, “She Flies On Strange Wings”. Popular number this, lots of power chords and metallic stereo riffs ricocheting round the hall.
It`s all done by mirrors of course, though I`ve got to admit that Kooymans is pretty nifty on the fretboard, and what a lovely mover!
Bit of buzz out front and they pulled “The Switch”, from the new elpee to celebrate.
It was here that I wondered why the hell my feet weren`t moving of their own accord. Although new member Robert Jan Stips contributes a meaty keyboards passage and the others shove the coda about at high-speed it`s really hard rock by numbers, throw out the bait and watch `em salivate.
Trouble is they didn`t.

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Now this grouse with Earring`s patchy repertoire is enforced when they do deliver the goods, because it`s then that you realise you`re seeing three-quarters of a potentially excellent live act.
“Big Tree, Blue Sea” is a genuine ace despite the sneaking suspicion that George is working through the “guitar heroes you have loved” routine. He does it with panache however, and Barry Hay`s flute is a welcome diversion from the previous blast.
At the climax they sound like some Rattles Shocking Blue hybrid, stupid but fun.
“Kill Me (Ce Soir)” was better. Ostensibly about some geezer called Vick Timms it`s actually a vague tribute to Jim Morrison.
Long, long ago Hay copped a lot of the lizard king`s mannerisms, not to mention the black leather trousers, and got them down pretty pat (the mannerisms, not the trousers). The song builds to a point that might be gripping were it not for the magnesium flashes at the end, an unnecessary extravagance considering the context.
“Love Is A Rodeo” gets back to that old impression of deja vu; almost anachronistic lead and a definite nod to days of yore, acid and San Fran.
The horn section, another recent acquisition, returned for “Daddy`s Gonna Save My Soul”, but didn`t do anything other than add to a deafening welter of noise. If Van Gogh ever goes to Golden Earring concerts, he`s probably glad that he did pull his left ear off after all.

During “Vanilla Queen” slight tactical variations resulted in an enjoyable rocker that did not hurt. The band were super slick, tight and confident and oozing full-tilt arrogance.
Enter “Radar Love” which, surprisingly, a fair section of the crowd had shouted for all evening.
Now “Radar Love” was/is a great song and live they bring out the tension lurking behind the drum beat but when Cesar Zuiderwyk launches into his tortuously excessive and boring solo it ruins the atmosphere. Who wants to hear freaky blows at individual instruments which serve no purpose other than to show off how good or bad a musician is?
Anyway the solo is barely a development of the actual rhythm before he gets the spotlight. After the banging and clanking, he still leaps over the huge kit, which is getting to look very contrived.
Continuing that vein, Rinus Gerritsen, who`d been subdued most of the time, stuck his compulsory guide to the obscure regions of the bass guitar in the middle of “Can`t Get A Hold On Her”.
Two encores “Cool Jerk” and “Back Home” then off. They kept them hanging on in there but they sure didn`t take them all the way.
Golden Earring are positively undermining their own possibilities when they stoop to rock cliches, because apart from that lack of invention there`s a niche for them somewhere.
Quite where I couldn`t truly say.

A nice ad from the boys in Bad Company.

A nice ad from the boys in Bad Company.

I have personally transcribed this from the original paper and you are free to use it as you like. If you use it on your own webpages – please credit me or put up a link to my blog.

This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: Average White Band, Kenny, Ronnie Lane, Osibisa, Randy Newman, The Who, Viv Stanshall, Mike Love (Beach Boys), Dollar Brand, Greenslade.

The original music paper this article came from (pictured at the top) is for sale!

1. Send me an e-mail, if you are interested. Send it to: geirmykl@gmail.com
2. The offer should be around or upwards of 20 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.

While you wait for updates…

I have made a t-shirt!

If you are that sort of crazy person that likes to wear something unique. Here is something unique for you – a t-shirt with one of the most famous traditional melodies from Norway, with Norwegian lyrics.

deilig-er-den-himmel-bla

Many Norwegian children sing this innocent melody at school, but you can tell your friends it is a famous Norwegian satanist song that they like to sing before burning churces. 😉 Have fun!

You can order it here, and at the same time support this site:

https://www.teezily.com/deilig-er-den-himmel-bla

ARTICLE ABOUT Alice Cooper FROM NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS, March 15, 1975

This is an really interesting article in a lot of ways. If you are a Cooper fan and haven`t read it before – then I will highly recommend you to read through this one. This was written in the period between Alice`s “old” band and his new solo career. I think Dick Wagner`s prophesy is quite spot-on about the chances of the old band getting together again. All in all, one of the most interesting reads published on these pages about Alice, his band and associated characters.

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Hey man, you with a gwoop?

Speech impediments are the thing in Los Angeles this year. There are quite a lot of naked men jumping out of bushes – whereas more sedate professional types prefer to plunge from the Continental Hyatt House Hotel roof. NICK KENT is also in evidence, pursuing the unfortunate ALICE COOPER, so read on and thrill to the extraordinary adventures of…

A Limey in LA

It`s still pretty cool to be a Limey in Los Angeles. Barely pubescent girls still ooh and aah around one, waitresses smile sweetly as nationality is established (they even goose around after hours if you have one of those arch-P. G. Wodehouse effete nodal jobs and tell them you`re a personal friend of Jimmy Page).
Usually, though, the common-or-garden L.A. Limey obsessionist will approach you thus: after ascertaining said nationality she will exclaim, “Wow, you English people are so-o far-out!” prefacing said comment with a giggly “Fantastic!” It also appears to be to the predator`s advantage to suffer from a speech defect of some sort when stating the latter; stuttering and sinal complaints are very popular out here. Hair-lips are truly “outre”.
Connie had the good fortune to be suffering from a severe lisp problem when she addressed yours truly with the aforestated magical expletives. Connie is a waitress at the Continental Hyatt House Coffee Shop (“where all the English `gwoops` go – y`know?”), about 35 and genned up to the gills with the current happenings on Sunset Boulevard.
“It`s a crazy area here, ya know that? Perverts and stuff. Like my girlfriend…only the other day…this guy jumped out of the bushes around La Cienega. He was stark naked and screaming out `Screw me! Screw me!` She screamed back `Screw you!`”…

Today, though, is special.
“This guy…a really nice man he was…respectable, a lawyer, I think. He was staying here, see – and one minute he`s in here having breakfast…very quiet…he disappears and the next thing, my friend Janis is running in to tell me he`s just jumped off the roof. He was pretty mushed up when he hit the ground”…A pause and then, matter-of-factly, “The policeman said he`s cut his wrists, too, so he must`ve wanted to die really bad, I guess.”
Another pause – too short though to nurture an actual reaction to complement the latter statement.
“Hey! You with the rock band?”
And before I could answer “yea” or “nay”, her finger pointed to a table in the corner around which were placed a couple of roadie-look-alikes, two bored-looking groupies and one moose-jawed vision of bovine denim overall that turned out to be Alvin Lee.
I shook my head vigorously.
“A writer, huh? Who you writing about then?”
Oh, Alice Cooper, I reply, nonchalantly, expecting at least another “Oh wow! Far-out!” routine to grace the answer.
Instead she turned almost sullen.
“Alice Cooper!! Whaddya writing about him for? He`s gotten fat and boring. All that horrific stuff is gonna be nowhere this year.”
Yeah, I say, but he`s got a new album out, a new band. Things are happening.

Still, I secretly had to admit she was right. I mean, here I was in a town where a guy nicknamed the “Slasher” is currently roaming around hacking up hoboes and derelicts, and now he`s just graduated to “decent folk” (according to the latest news bulletin) in apartments – a town where the L.A. Free Press openly advertises the services of pre-pubescent girls for acts of sexual deviancy in your own home” (right next to the ad. which has some rouged-up garter-belt “trick” with her legs entwined around a globe with the caption “I will hug my thighs around the universe to make you come. Phone Dee Dee…”); where there is purportedly a brothel consisting of deformed women “for your pleasure” just down the road – and I`ve been assigned to zero in on the activities of one Alice Cooper, professional teen bogie man-commodity who rips up his stage costumes with his golf clubs, stupifies himself with lethal O.D.s of T.V. and canned Budweiser, almost turned rock`n`roll at one point into a brainlessly obvious mangled boogabooga vaudeville hepped up with a bastardised brand of Dee-troit hard-rock, as wretchedly watered down from its parent form as the beer he drinks…

O.K., O.K., maybe I`m exaggerating here but, see, I was pissed off. That very morning, at probably around the same time that the guy jumped off the roof of the Hyatt House, I was straggling around the roads of “natural, organic” Laurel Canyon to find one “Horseshoe Canyon” where Cooper was supposed to currently be in residence (“in the house right next to where Mickey Dolenz lives” as everybody placed great pride in telling me). It was one of those smoulderingly warm L.A. mornings and once located in the Canyon itself I had to stagger up one of the most gruellingly steep slopes to the presumed Cooper abode.
Having made the climb, I was faced with an all-wood building which looked at first like some bloatedly de luxe sauna hut.
Stumbling finally into what turned out to be the living room, I was faced by two females in pyjamas – one being Cindy Laing, Cooper`s girlfriend, the other a co-inhabitant – a male who looked at first like a telegraph pole repairman and a bald Polak look-alike.
The latter was Cooper`s bodyguard and all of them found my sudden appearance a touch incongruous. After a couple of phone calls it was all worked out – “We`re awfully sorry, Mr. Kent, about all this. We misdirected you. Alice unfortunately is booked up with his dancing lessons all day today.” So I sat around like a dummy for maybe 20 minutes, sizing up the place – very neat and precise, gold records on the wall, copies of Vogue, Oui, Playboy “displayed” on the table in the style of a dentist`s waiting-room.

All the while Ms. Laing and her friend were sipping coffee and gabbing on ever-so-effetely as though their whole conversation was destined to appear in Andy Warhol`s Interview. Pleasantries and platitudes were tossed my way when there was a pause in said conversation which was promptly resumed again with the line – “Well shall we go riding on Sunday or not?”
Finally, a taxi came just as Ms. Laing was receiving a call from Barbie Benton, Hugh Hefner`s human kewpie doll. As I motioned to leave, I noticed that one of the house dogs – one of those heinously-small animals that tend to resemble Truman Capote in canine drag – had mounted my ankle and was masturbating against my foot.
So any way I was back at the Coffee Shop and Connie was pointing out some other guy who, she said, was one of the Cooper band. “They`re all staying here, you know. Rehearsals or something.” The guy actually looked totally unlike a rock musician. He had one of those hang-dog bruiser faces that found great difficulty in breaking into anything like a smile and I immediately took him for a roadie.
This band though – there were stories a-plenty; not so much about this new congregate but the old bunch, the five-piece who had started off in godforsaken Phoenix, Arizona in a high school band Beatles rip off called the Earwigs, changed to the Nazz and ultimately came to share (five-ways) the name “Alice Cooper” – which also just happened to be the lead singer, one Vince Furnier`s adopted stage persona.

A book has recently appeared, entitled “Billion Dollar Baby” and, written by one Bob Greene, a Chicago-based columnist/reporter, it documents the last real dates played by the original Cooper band – the Christmas 1973 American tour which both terminated the “Billion Dollar Babies” presentation as well as showcasing the material to be found on the then -just-released “Muscle Of Love” album.
The book itself is adequately written, often fairly boring but occasionally flashing insights onto rock road-life in general – and the Cooper co-operate in particular – that make it worth wading through. In heavily precised terms it spotlights: Cooper the only true professional, utterly fed up with his songs and dumb ghoulish image; Michael Bruce, adequately talented but reportedly jealous of Cooper`s spotlight; Neal Smith, callow and affected; Dennis Dunaway, an amiable but minor talent and lastly Glenn Buxton wasted to a fine degree by the time of the band`s demise.
The real stars turn out to be road manager Dave Libert and above all, Shep Gordon, Cooper`s manager – whose talents as a strategist are shown to be nothing short of phenomenal.
The book`s vivid conclusions in fact, only echo positively what folk like Bob Ezrin, Cooper producer and the third vital figure in the set-up, had stated in interviews. “Alice is the only true professional. The rest are only interested in their own egoes.” (Aside, perhaps from Bruce who had at least produced a couple of decent riffs in his time, the rest of the band had outlived their usefulness).

There was a long, fairly ominous silence after the tour. A “Greatest Hits” album released by Warners was one pointer to the situation prevelant and now the book and Cooper`s sudden solo deal and tour spelt it all out. Still, there is a determination amongst the Cooper entourage to play down the old band`s incompatibilities even though it`s been reported in rock periodicals that Alice has firmly stated he “will never play in a band with those guys again.”
Shep Gordon and Alice/Black Widow Inc. P.R. Bob Brown claim that the band will get back together, if only to see through their Warners contract. Cooper`s solo Atlantic in the States/Anchor in Europe shot is a straight-ahead once only album deal, see – purportedly the most costly deal ever for one solo album, so costly in fact that Atlantic are more than a little cagey about naming figures.
The album itself, “Welcome to my Nightmare”, has everyone in said entourage raving and drooling in its wake. Even Cindy Laing (who usually hates her boyfriend`s music) thinks it`s well, “the best thing he`s done”. What it really boils down to, though, is a plusher, more-textured, more hyper-professional Alice Cooper album. Bob Ezrin, fully recovered after a nervous breakdown caused through overwork during the making of Lou Reed`s “Berlin” album, has turned in a production job which, oddly enough, parallels his dubious triumph on “Berlin” in Alice Cooper terms.

From a single hearing though, I found the album oddly boring, it`s plush textured feel constricting most of the avenues through which Cooper and the band could have grabbed the listener with their hard rock potential.
Most of the riffs sound tardy and uninspired, bereft now as they are of the metallic garage-band veneer that the old band`s guitar sound (viz “Killer”) used to possess. The songs zip stealthily from style to style – the title track is almost cool jazz, the musicians going through their paces like primed musclemen rippling their biceps. “Devil`s Food” is plush heavy metal, “Only Women Bleed” is an extraordinary hybrid of pure Helen Reddy darkish quasi-women`s lib angst and a string-laden “Lay Lady Lay”, “Dept. Of Youth” is cute, commercial and utterly calculating in the whole “School`s Out” tradition, and “Steven” is pure Tubular Bells watery impressionism with Ezrin`s Berlin-honed appendages.
Only the final track, “Escape”, rings out with the old Cooper sound – that stalking brash mutation of a Stones type riff – and that song was actually written by Kim Fowley and the now defunct Hollywood Stars (they`re credited).
But talk about calculating! Gordon and Cooper are now in the final stages of an all-out coup that will probably take the great rock consumer masses straight to the cleaners and back. Every area is being catered to and only the best is being considered. The best dancers, the best props.
And of course the best musicians.

The best here can only mean the likes of Dick Wagner and Steve Hunter on guitars, Whitey Glan on drums, Prakash John on bass and one Jozef Chirowski on keyboards, all of whom are establishing credentials that after this tour will probably parallel the likes of Willy Weeks and Andy Newmark in white hard rock terms.
This was the band that, minus Chirowski, some genius brought in to save Lou Reed`s ass when the latter was in a state of virtual creative/physical paralysis – but, ludicrously enough, was becoming mighty popular audience-wise.
And they weren`t even billed as the Lou Reed Band! The guys, specifically Wagner and Hunter – who in particular honed out most of the arrangements that graced “Rock`n`Roll Animal” Parts 1 and 2 (“Part 2” is being released by RCA in March), who actually compounded Lou Reed-as-saleable-commodity through sheer sturdy musicianship were put on a “modest” wage and moreover treated ill by the man himself most of the time.
“He wouldn`t talk to me at all,” says Hunter. “Dick got along with him a little better but it was…well, hard, y`know.” Steve Hunter is now a highly successful session rock guitarist, a position which affords him well tailored velvet suits, neat cowboy shirts – a touch of elegance even though his buck-toothed hayloft visage gives away his origins. At the age of 19, he left a minute hill-jack community in the heart of the Midwest`s kick suburbs to go and sleep on floors in Detroit and play guitar professionally. After doing gigs with the likes of the then-ailing Chambers Brothers, he joined up with Mitch Ryder`s Detroit, a potentially remarkable band that never got anywhere – mainly due to the loser mojo tied to Detroit acts in general and the unfortunate Mitch Ryder in particular.

Bob Ezrin, then a young classically-oriented producer in Toronto, who had produced Ryder`s ill-fated band, picked up on Hunter and called him up for Alice Cooper sessions when Glen Buxton too sick to be allowed in a studio. Since then, he has worked on numerous sessions, got spot-lighted with Reed`s band, and was star-guitarist for Jack Bruce`s “Out Of The Storm” sessions (Bruce asked him to join a band that, had he taken the gig, would have prevented Mick Taylor from teaming up with Bruce. Hunter politely turned the offer down.
It was during a Cooper session that Hunter and Dick Wagner actually met. Wagner was in fact the guy I described earlier as possessing the hang-dog bruiser face. Now minus beard and with greased-back long hair, he looks more like a calloused garage owner than a rock star. He looks downright old, in fact, which could just as easily be a sign of his fatiguing mucho-dues-paying activities in rock since he led a Detroit band called The Bossmen (featuring one Mark Farner on rhythm guitar) way back when, graduating to a typical Motor City unit called The Frost whom he led and produced to fruitless avail.
Wagner is indeed calloused and bitter – bitter about the lack of attention meted to Frost while the likes of the Stooges and the MC5 were getting big write-ups in Rolling Stone and “those underground papers that wouldn`t touch us `cos we weren`t political,” slightly bitter about Grand Funk`s success.

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Strangely enough, for such an obvious purist, he always dug Alice Cooper though – “First time I saw him, I knew he`d be monstrous. The band sucked as musicians but he had it”. “That`s weird,” Hunter retorts, “`cos when I saw `em, I thought `these guys`ll never make it.` I hated `em, I thought they stunk so bad. Of course now…”
Of course, now, both Wagner and Hunter are elated. This whole Cooper thing means big money, for Wagner in particular who almost smiles when he reflects upon the royalty cheques that will arrive in the wake of “Nightmare`s” release. The composing credits, see, go mostly three ways, reading “Cooper Ezrin Wagner.” Wagner likes that fine, as does Hunter. The real guitar pros. here – Hunter at least had a fighting chance of becoming a potential guitar hero but he`s not so keen on that idea. “Too limiting” he says earnestly. “I mean, look at Eric Clapton! One of the best, for sure, but he got in that position and had to turn to drugs.”
Wagner nods sagely. Both Wagner and Hunter have pat anti-drug raps which is understandable, seeing as they`re two of the 1% of musicians who`ve left drug-crazed Detroit fully intact and not rolling in the greenbacks.
So what`s life like with Cooper? “You`ve got to be realistic, see,” mutters Wagner. “I mean, you ask us why we`re doing this tour. Well, first Alice is a pleasure to work with. He`s a real pro., see. He understands what audiences want and you`ve got to respect that. You`ve got pander to `em if you want to make it big. It`s one thing being artistic and `the leader` and all, but when you take it to the people, you`ve got to be…”
Realistic?
“Yeah, exactly.”

Hunter nods away. Oh and by the way, that old band of Alice`s.
Wagner gets candid: “They`ll never work together again, man. Believe me.”
“It`d be like the Beatles reforming,” Hunter adds.
They`ve got their own projects. I think Michael (Bruce) might do something good. The others? Well,…”
So here is Hunter, still young and highly naive in an almost attractive way. “I just want to be a better guitarist, man. That`s all that matters” – and Wagner, bruised and ready for those cheques. They`re just thankful they`re working with a pro. Not like that Lou Reed. It was Wagner who gave Lou that arrangement…”that macabre…ah, majestic sound” for “Heroin.”
No credit, of course. “He wanted to do it the old way, originally.” And the only reason Hunter had taken the job was because he`d admired Reed so much in the Velvet Underground.
“Yeah,” adds Wagner, “but, see, Lou is another one with a problem. He`d start shooting up and just get…uh, illogical, I guess.”
So why`d you guys actually bother to work with him?
Hunter just shrugs. Wagner though looks straight at me: “It`s a living,” he says.

So eventually of course I get to see Alice. Bob Brown, his P.R., a small weasel of a guy, keeps screwing up until I get to talk to Shep Gordon who apologises profusely and some twenty minutes later comes round to drive me down to a filming rehearsal. Conversation is thoroughly genial, nothing too heavy here. The European album deal is touched upon. “Isn`t that great?” remarks Gordon. “I like Ian” (Ralfini, head of Anchor Records). “He makes such nice, tidy…clean deals.” I nod and smile cordially. Everybody is being so damn nice here. When we arrive at the rehearsal hall, the whole crew – faggot floor assistants, dumb make-up artists et al, are glowing like mothers who have just successfully given birth.
Alice Cooper is, of course, the object of said pride and concern. Cooper, despite one year of health, sport, exercise, L.A. sun and “generally getting human again…I love getting human again. It`s my greatest hobby,” looks uglier than ever, despite the tan. His chin is fairly non-existent, a beer-gut is strongly in evidence and his hair is rattier than ever.
Nothing has changed. Not even the image. The stage is set up like a graveyard with an open coffin as the centre-piece and Cooper is staggering around in red leotard and red thigh boots. Outside the main area of activity there is a mock-up black bed with fake skulls embellishing the posts.
“That`s for the opening scene,” states Gordon proudly.

The filming here today is to be used for the very opening sequence which involves a magic screen, a recent innovation-(used “only in Vegas” according to Cooper), from whence performers can materialise from the celluloid. Or something like that. Anyway this is some bloated spectacular. There`s giant black widow spiders, four dancers dressed in camp space age garb which looks at first like it was part of Mainman job-lot sale. The dancers go through a run-through and Cooper does an earnest routine, leaping from the opened coffin in such a ludicrous way, he looks like some horrific drag-queen doing a Pan`s People vamp. Anyway the make-up room is vacated and Cooper and I sit down to talk. Cooper is not overtly inspired by the idea of an interview and acts in such a way. Questions are fielded curtly. The “Billion Dollar Baby” book was “kinda accurate in a way but a lot of it was out of context really. The guy…uh, Bob, was only on the road for 15 days and those 15 days were very trying, coming as they did at the end of a whole year of touring. Nerves were frayed.”
So what`s your policy over the book?
“I don`t have any policy whatsoever.” Shep Gordon nods in agreement. Bob Brown is also in the room and it`s starting to look like open season.
So to the old group.
“That`s all been blown up – due, I`m sure, to the book. I still keep in contact with those guys. We`re still friends.”

Michael Bruce is apparently finishing off his solo album which features Jackie Lomax, Cooper session musicians Bob Dolin and Mick Mashbir, Joe Walsh and his rhythm section and Alice Cooper – on one track. “Mike phoned me up and asked me down. The track sounded good so I sang on it. That`s all. Neal Smith`s doing his album too, and if he wants any help, I`ll come through.” (Even though Cooper is quoted in “B.D.B.” at one point saying “Neal tried to write a song. He thinks it`s going to be on the album. I don`t know how we`re going to break it to him. God! It`s awful!…We`re going to keep letting him write songs for us, and not use them, and let him put out a solo album called `The Weak Link In The Super Race`.” Oh well!).
But hey, what about Glenn Buxton? How`s his health?
Cooper doesn`t find this too funny.
“I don`t know what he`s doing. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times. I think…uh…I think he`s redecorating his house.” He shrugs.
I mention an incident that occured almost three years ago at London`s Speakeasy when a drunk Mike Bruce starting complaining about the fact that he wrote most of the riffs and melodies even when other members of the band were given credit.
“Yeah, that was true. It`s like…we started off as a high school band and we went on to keep that share-and-share-alike attitude which was ultimately…well let`s say it`s good that we`re doing our solo projects.”

Cooper meant this to be the termination of the questions about the old band and I drowsily bucked up at the mention of the new band.
“I`ve known Dick from back since the old Frost days and Whitey (Glan, the drummer) – man, I knew him when he was in The Mandala and we were backing them up as The Nazz. I`ll tell ya, I could go out onstage and do a whole set in blue jeans with the band and it`d be great because that band can stand up to any other band anywhere.”
Why don`t you then?
“Why should I? I`ve got nothing to prove. I don`t feel the need to do it, that`s why.”
Yeah but hey this theatrical stuff is getting a touch passe, no? Bowie`s dropped it and gone “superfly”.
“I admire David as a performer and I`m always intrigued by the changes he goes through. He`s into a nice Damon Runyon thing right now, I think. He looks like Damon Runyon and everything…”
Yeah, yeah but this theatre thing…
“I`m an entertainer and that`s how I entertain. Rock`n`roll is entertainment, after all. Don`t you agree?”
Well yes – but then again – and here is where I take issue on the whole Cooper “That`s Entertainment” schtick – it`s something more. Like Jagger or Jim Morrison, who were charismatic figures, not just straw hat-and-cane acts. Morrison did more than just an act…

“Yeah but Jim Morrison was unique. He was this whole Lord Byron figure or something.”
And so were you at one time. Unique, I mean. I remember seeing the back photo of “Pretties For You” and being really shocked and sort of excited. You were an original and I think in a very distinct way, you blew it. You copped out on this whole “entertainment” number.
“Hey but listen: rock`n`roll is basically entertainment. You can`t deny it. I mean, even Lenny Bruce…Lenny Bruce was just a great entertainer who said `shit` on stage first”.
That`s understating it too much. I mean, in your position, you could have changed…consciousness (by now I was listening to my own cliches and cringing even though I forged onwards). Bruce did. He didn`t just cop out and play it safe and spectacular for the bucks. I mean, all these senile old showbiz guys you hang around with the only difference between them and a bunch of old geezers hanging around a spittoon all day is that your old fellas do talk shows and probably have shares in massage parlours.
“Hey! Those guys are really sharp! And they actually respect me!! Like Jack Benny, for example, actually said to me – “Alice (he does quite an agreeable Jack Benny impersonation at this point) – I don`t know what you`ve got but everytime I open Variety I see your name everywhere”…
Hey, but did you go to his funeral, though?
“No I wouldn`t go to anybody`s funeral. Not even my mother`s”.

So why are you always creeping around mock-up graveyards howling piss `n` vinegar, you old ham?
Unfortunately I forgot to say that. Instead I started on some rap about Bob Hope being a fascist.
“Listen, Bob Hope is a really nice guy. I was doing the comedy awards with Don Ricles – know him? – and I met Bob and he was so courteous. I don`t care about his politics. I think entertainment and politics are totally different things and are dangerous when mixed up.
“Like I could be on TV and say I`d vote for so-and-so and maybe a lot of people would say – “Yeah, he`s cool, let`s vote for his choice”.
That sounds facile, Alice. Also this whole entertainment rap is too “pat”. I mean, one minute you`re drooling over Jack Benny (bless his departed soul), the next you`re talking about killer Dee-troit rock`n`roll.
“Yeah because that`s what I do. That`s the music I sound best doing. I`d do Burt Baccharach stuff but I`d never carry it off”.
So what music do you listen to, nowadays?
“I don`t listen to any music”.
Don`t you like music?
“Right. I don`t like music”.
Everybody in the room laughs at this and then stops short realising what Cooper has just said. Shep Gordon even stops playing with the hair growing out from the nape of his neck to ponder the statement. Cooper, however, stands his ground.

“Really. I don`t like music. I never come home and put on a record.
“I just watch T.V.”
In fact, throughout the whole interview, Cooper only gets animated when he talks about this 4` x 4` T.V. set he`s just bought. “Irresistible” he says, opening another can of beer.
Later that evening I found myself at the Rainbow Bar and Grill and happened to run into Cindy Laing, this time dressed in predatory black and looking like spiderwoman.
“Hey I saw your husband today” I mumble, in a failed attempt to be off-the-wall suave. She gives me a look like daggers.
“Have you ever heard the phrase “a ring in his nose and ring on my hand?”
Yeah, I reply, averting my eyes. Didn`t Savoy Brown do a song called that?
“Alice is her boyfriend” a friend corrects me.
At this embarrassing juncture I thought it might as well be worth making a complete fool of myself and maybe getting a scoop on the deal. O.K., so what`s the deal with your boyfriend and his old band then?
“Listen that is a secret. If I was blind drunk I`d probably tell you in full detail but I`m not and anyway, revealing such information would be tantamount to me being sent to a labour camp in Detroit. (Pause).

“Just write they`re the best of friends or something. That they attend each other`s Thanksgiving.”
Fired by the rebuttal, I even phoned up Bob Ezrin up there in Toronto for information. Ezrin was cynical and generally ballsy enough to come though, but he was tied up in a seven-way recording session or thereabout. “He`s recording the Johnson Family” his secretary said.
The radio back at the Hyatt House coffee shop was saying something about a blond Caucasian being released after police had suspected him of being the “Slasher” when I wandered in a couple of days after I`d concluded all my Cooper and entourage interviews. Connie the waitress came over and I just shrugged “I was right, see. I told you there`s better things to write about here.”
“Sure” I said “but it`s a living”.
It took me about five minutes before I remembered where that line came from.

A great double page spread  by Zeppelin in this paper.

A great double page spread by Zeppelin in this paper.

I have personally transcribed this from the original paper and you are free to use it as you like. If you use it on your own webpages – please credit me or put up a link to my blog.

This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: Lol Creme, Pilot, Ramases, David Bowie, Pub Rock Special, Charlie Parker, Genesis.

The original music paper this article came from (pictured at the top) is for sale!

1. Send me an e-mail, if you are interested. Send it to: geirmykl@gmail.com
2. The offer should be around or upwards of 20 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.