Month: March 2016

ARTICLE ABOUT Black Sabbath from New Musical Express, October 25, 1975

What is so fascinating with these older articles? Well, one of the things that I like is in the way that the articles are absolutely candid with their subjects. I feel that we lost something important when the music business “professionalised” and bands started to use press officers that controlled what were allowed to be written.
Probably sometimes under the threat of being sued by their lawyers and at other times with the threat of losing access to their stable of artists. A music paper without access to musicians wouldn`t be much of a music paper, you kow?
This is written before the days of contracts regulating what the papers could write, and it`s quite refreshing to read something like this even if it is over 40 years later…
Have fun!


Have you heard about Ozzie and the Good Book?

BLACK SABBATH, in a new incarnation as a series of contrapuntal anecdotes.

By Kate Phillips

“The cat died, Ozzie.”
“What cat?”
“That horrible-coloured thing you shot in the garage.”
“It`s like bleeding Daktari in our garage,” mumbles the star. “You could go on an expedition in there and never come back.”
This makes The Horse That Fed Steve Marriott assume a minor perspective. A little later a friend who lives near Ozzie`s stately home reports that a Gentleman`s Shoot the star was asking about who will be charging £1,000 per gun per week. Too much.
“A thousand pounds?” repeats Ozzie, mildly disgusted. “I`d do better to pick off some more of the chickens.”
We`re into our sixth Pernod and water by now, but Wednesday night in Bradford still ain`t looking too wonderful. Geezer had some sense: he shot off home to Worcester right after the gig.


A young man reclines on a hotel divan. His long, fair hair criss-crosses the pillow and his triple-decker platforms are hurting his feet.
He lifts the telephone.
“Reception? Listen, how about coming up here to keep a lonely man company? No? Well listen, how does a sparrow make an emergency landing?
“With a Sparrowchute!”
Tony Iommi, I hear later, once punched Ozzie on the nose for repeatedly ripping up hotel-supplied Gideon Bibles. I don`t know if you remember Tony with long hair. He`s worn it short for a long time now, with a neat moustache and knife-edge cream trousers. Oh yes, and the same old steel cross, resting atop the immaculate pullovers. In Bradford, when it`s time to change, he disappears from the bare, echoing school cloakroom that serves St. George`s Hall as communal dressing-room and secretes himself in the upstairs chamber (with the star on the door) for more than half an hour.
Ozzie`s still here: he didn`t bother to hide while assuming his yellow fringed shirt, tight yellow trousers and painful white boots. Now he leaps playfully round from one member of the band to another and pulls down their panties at crucial stages of undress.

Bill Ward endures these onslaughts without excitement. Gnarled and taciturn, looking very old, much older than the others, he`s climbing into bright red tights and the red tent-shaped maternity coat he “found in the wardrobe” this morning. He rounds off the tights with a pair of old blue plimsolls.
He looks like the Frog Prince.
There`s only one thing on Bill`s mind right now: the sins of a music journalist who`s been less than complimentary in print about Bill`s wife.
Bill reckons he`ll sue.
Are you very angry about it, Bill?
“Me and Melinda are used to being slagged off in the press” – he stares hard into my face – “but… well… No Comment. I don`t want to say any more.
“My wife will though,” he adds, glumly.


Gerald is sitting alone on a hard chair in the middle of the room. Gerald is rather a well-kept secret. He plays keyboards for Black Sabbath, and every night he dresses up in his own version of the fringed costume – but he and all his equipment are always completely hidden away from the sight of the audience.
Still, he`s honoured to be playing with his local heroes, and soon he`ll have his own album to do: musical variations on “The Ascent Of Man”.
“Ozzie`s going to help out with the singing,” he confides.
The last time Gerald tried to make a record, the studio burnt down.
“Our next album`s going to be a concept album,” Ozzie remarks, some time during the next two days.
“What`s the concept, Oz?”
“We dunno yet.”



Bradford isn`t a riot, not like Sheffield turns out to be, but the kids still pile up over the front of the stage and no one sits down all night. The imaginary axemen, who are present in large numbers and “Sabotage” teeshirts, turn their backs on the band and get heavily into miming Iommi`s riffs.
Iommi`s manner is stately. No fringes for him: in white satin, with gold braid and knee-length trumpet sleeves, and slightly embarrassed smiles at the other lads, he squirrels about on the guitar like someone demonstrating a knitting machine; and these breaks are generally the signal for relative hush. But it`s more fun when Oz doesn`t leave the stage, but totes his invisible axe as well; Ozzie`s performance is one unbroken act of communication across the barriers.
So Iommi`s effective but a bit of a smoothie, pretty Geezer camps it up like a King Charles spaniel, Bill flails his drums like a demented Thorin Oakenshield – but Ozzie is the natural-born star, and the Sabs could never have lived this long without him. Ozzie can howl out lines like “No more war pigs out for power! Hand of God has struck the hour!” and get straight back into bouncing up and down, peacesigning (“I just did it to them one day and they all did it back”) and inciting the crowd to boogie with the minimum of incongruity.

He actually notices individual faces in the crowd below him. He bridges the tuning-up gaps that straggle out numbers with “Are ya having a good time anyway? So are we!” so that the audience won`t feel ignored; and as the pain threshold mounts, and the din in your head becomes a blessed haze, the leaping yellow figure and square, hurt-looking Ray Davies features dominate the Town Hall`s trance.


We were playing this baseball stadium in the States. We`re in the middle of a huge field and there`s a high wire fence all round it, with the kids outside. So I say to them, you know, come on, come inside, and suddenly they`re all climbing over the fence and running towards us like a human stampede, and we`re playing away, waiting for them to get up to us.
“But when they do, they don`t stop! They just trample right over the stage, bust up all our equipment, and rush away across the rest of the field and out of the stadium doors! `Cos the police are after them…”

In Sheffield City Hall, Lady Tony Iommi seats herself onstage. She crosses Aristockinged legs and smooths her blonde hair. She must be all of 24. “Aren`t you awfully young to be a reporter?” she enquires.
Tomorrow, the Daily Mirror is to interview the Iommis about their lifestyle. Like Ozzie and his Thelma, they too have a country house. It`s not quite so easy, though, to make the connection between Ozzie and Gracious Living.
Tony Iommi has patented a system of cartridge-type pick-ups which can all be slotted into one guitar. He says he may be appearing on “Tomorrow`s World” to demonstrate them. He doesn`t know a similar device has already been marketed in America.

Scene in the pub across the street from the hall: a becrossed and beteeshirted fan has been eyeing Geezer Butler longingly from the next table. Finally, he approaches.
“Geezer, will you dedicate `Megalomania` tonight to Sandra, Glennis and Bongo?”
“We`re not playing it,” counters a laconic Geezer.
“Oh!” says the fan. “Oh, that`s nice, innit?”
Geezer smiles seraphically.
The fan, nonplussed, backs away.

Why do you think it is, Bill, that all these really young kids like the band so much?
“I`m not sure I could tell you.”
Do they just like to get into a heavy daze and forget all their teenage troubles for a while?
“Oh yes, I thought we were assuming that. I was trying to think of some more profound reason why they get off on us.”


“Grand larceny. I was in Winson Green for two months. Once I stole a telly and I was balanced on top of this wall, one of them with glass along the top, and I fell off; this 24 in. telly was sitting on top of my chest and I was screaming, Get me out, get me out!
“I had nothing to do inside; you did about two hours work a day and the rest of the time you were locked in your cell. That`s when I did these tattoos, with a sewing needle and a tin of grate polish.”
Were you into music in those days?
“Not really – maybe just the Kinks and the Beatles.”
So how come you`re a singer?
“When I came out of the nick… had to do something, didn`t I?”

Geezer`s back just in time for the gig. He clambers into dirty silver sateen jeans and a white fringed shirt lately liberated from Ozzie. But he retains the filthy blue braces that have been holding up his offstage trouserings.
“Those are disgusting,” pronounces Ozzie. “Here, let me put them straight for you.”
At this point, the latest issue of NME arrives in the dressing room. It`s a tense moment: the paper carries a lambastic review of the Sabs last week in Birmingham. Lucas, road manager, is incensed. “To think we`ve been looking after two of their girls for the last 48 hours,” he mutters accusingly.

Ozzie, who has naturally good manners, turns his back and studies his reflection in a glass at the other end of the room. He`s not about to get involved. When asked for an official reply to the review, he responds, simply (and justifiably), “Bollocks”. And that`s all anyone`s going to get.


`Twas Christmas Eve in the stately home, and Ozzie Osbourne, opening his bay window, leaned out to survey the snowy countryside. He sniffed at the icy air. Suddenly, right in front of him, he espied a tiny stoat, sitting up on its hind legs, gazing into his face (rather like a Sabfan, in fact).
And what happened, Ozzie?
“Nothing happened. We just looked at each other for a while.
“Then the stoat went away.”

And on to Sheffield.
Sheffield audiences are well known, nay notorious, for enjoying themselves without restraint, and one can excuse the elderly security men at the City Hall for panicking a bit last Thursday. They caused some unnecessary trouble, it seemed to me, at the sides of the crowd they could reach, but no one could have penetrated the middle of it once the Sabs were onstage, and the tiers of bodies in there were left to sway and fall about at will.

Iommi scuttled up and down his instrument with his usual static elegance, and Bill Ward`s drum solo – that`s the Drum Solo I`m talking about – sounded more like the Approach of World War One than ever – but me, I got bored whenever Ozzie wasn`t onstage to vibe things up. Ozzie gives the whole thing heart; Ozzie is power; Ozzie is the reason I`d go to a Sabs` gig any day rather than, say, the Hairdresser`s Ball (Roxy Music) I attended at Wembley the night after that.
Make no mistake – there`s no two ways about it. And you can`t say fairer than that.


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: David Bowie, Elton John, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Roxy Music, I Roy, Steve Hackett, Milt Jackson, Mason, Larry Coryell.

This edition is sold!

ARTICLE ABOUT Budgie from New Musical Express, October 18, 1975

Whatever went wrong on the way to superstar status with this band? Was it the lack of one large single hit? Was it the lack of image? In 1975, they ruled the concert circuit in England and were a very popular live act. They could have, should have, and probably deserved to make the big time, but this is the way the music business works – not every band rises above cult status, no matter how many albums they made or how many concerts they played.
Enjoy this article.


The Stupendous Challenge of raw Budgie

By Chas De Whalley

It`s true, Budgie have nothing new to offer and to resuscitate a deadly phrase, they`re not even “progressive”. But neither are Elvis Presley`s Sun Tapes, which are currently selling like hot ones… but nobody complains about that.
History alone will tell us who made the greater mark on the story of mankind, Elvis or Burke Shelley, Tony Bourge, Steve Williams and new boy Myf Isaacs.
But for the moment, they share the same qualification, dubious or otherwise.
Budgie play for an audience the business still doesn`t quite understand. As usual the tingods down Pan Alley don`t really know what the kids want, and all over the country the kids want Budgie. They`ve been from the Roundhouse to Cardiff City, Birmingham to St. Albans Civic Centre, they`ve played every kind of gig that you can think of and, with little media exposure they`ve broken all the house rules and have gained one of the largest, most loyal cult followings in Britain.
Seven million flies can`t be wrong.
But a couple of dozen denizens of the airwaves and the column inch don`t an authority make. And, come to think of it, what`s authority got to do with rock anyway? Budgie play the kind of stuff you were humming under your breath when the maths got boring and the headmaster was coming on strong about the ciggies in the laurel bushes; only difference being that Budgie play it 1975 style.

Burke Shelley is the bass player and singer and he writes much of the material. He`s a slight Welshman with exceedingly long hair who looks like the boy next door`s elder brother, the guy who dropped out and used to tell you exciting stories about what it was like to go and see a rock band live.
And that`s the thing about Budgie.
Steve Williams, the drummer who`s been with the band for the last ten months, puts it into one sentence: “Our fans are the kids who`ve heard in Budgie their very first album band, and they`ve bought the record and become fanatics.” Budgie`s music is homely Heavy Metal for rebellious adolescents, but which offers little or no threat to the established values which are still very central to the kids` lives. Your mother won`t like Budgie, but then you don`t expect her to, and the amiable antagonism suits everyone.
The average Budgie fanatic may be young and, perhaps naive, but he seems surprisingly level headed beneath the euphoria. Whatever the music may be about, the audience`s identification with the band comes from that music alone, for there`s little or no stage act or image to latch onto. There`s none of that exaggeration of a single aspect of everyday life on which many another “working-class hero” band base their appeal. In these days when the Heavy Metal Market – what remains of it – seems glutted with outfits who work hard on their visual presentation. Budgie are all the more unusual for having no immediate identity.

Steve Williams doesn`t think their audience want that kind of thing anyway. “If they saw us on stage dressed like a bunch of ponces, I think they`d be put off, cos they`re there to see the raw Budgie, and it`s always been the same.”
For five years now it`s been the same, except that Budgie have been getting bigger and bigger. Burke Shelley thought their last tour was good enough, but it seems this present one, which ends this week, was a real eyeopener. “It really surprised me, I wasn`t expecting it to turn out like it did, you know. There`s been a few banana scenes, absolutely fruitcake. Birmingham Town Hall and Liverpool – they started streaking there! Insanity was the order of the day.
“But they`re zany in Liverpool anyway, you know, and they really know how to enjoy themselves. I could have done anything with them, you know, I could have gone up to the mike and just asked them to do most things and they`d have done it. I`ve never asked them to do anything naughty, mind you. I say let`s have a good time, but I don`t say let`s wreck the joint, cos apart from anything I`ve got too much respect for other people`s property. And besides, we might get wrecked ourselves.”
It isn`t quite hysteria that Budgie excite in their audience, but it comes mighty close. Live they play all their own material, drawn largely from “Bandolier” and its two predecessors “In For The Kill” and “Never Turn Your Back On A Friend”, and every number is greeted with the kind of applause usually reserved for much-loved standards. But then, as far as the audience at St. Albans was concerned, every song was an old favourite.


The music isn`t all mindless heavy riffing either. The addition of Myf Isaacs` rhythm guitar to fill out the gaps adds texture to Budgie`s sound, which is what was conspicious by its absence in their pre-“Bandolier” days. Lead guitarist Tony Bourge had just too much on his plate when the band was a three piece. Now he`s free to be a little more tasteful, and despite having to use alien equipment at St. Albans, his playing on the more atmospheric material like “Napoleon Bona Part 1” was very exciting.
Shelley`s “Parents” was really nice too, cleverly avoiding a lot of the traps heavy bands find themselves caught in. “Who Do You Want For Your Love” could easily be a hit single with its catchy, almost funky riff and some nice harmony guitar work. But pick of the bunch was “Zoom Club”. On “In For The Kill” (LP) “Zoom Club” misses completely. But live, with Myf Isaacs in there, Bourge`s raunchy chords hang in the air like a night-time neon sign over an L.A. freeway as you speed past in the Dodge with the cruise control set at sixty. It isn`t all as good as that of course. Frequently Budgie are too loud and too messy, but some times they really are breathtaking.

It all comes from a faith in themselves and their fans, and months on the road with few breaks. As Tony Bourge explained, there`s three ways to break a band: radio, record company and press hype, and hard work. “If the record company and the radio don`t really want to know,” as Bourge claims is the case, “then it`s up to the band to go out and play. That`s what we`ve been doing for the last couple of years.”
The music papers haven`t exactly been kind to Budgie either, but it doesn`t concern Burke Shelley unduly.
“Why should we worry? I mean after five years we`ve got our own following, people have had plenty of time to shoot us down in flames and get us off the road, but we`re a working band, we enjoy playing to the audiences and we have a good time. So we get some bad press, but any news is good news really, isn`t it, as long as we get our name in the paper. What a rock critic says is only one person`s opinion. It`s just tough on us if people believe what he says.”
The spirit of Heavy Rock is alive in Budgie, it`s pure and simple and could save you a lot of money. Buy something like “Bandolier” and you will have the best bits of almost every Heavy Metal Act you care to mention, all together on one record. What you won`t have will be the irritating, pretentious trappings and posturing that haunts this end of rock. See them live and they may be a little crude and outdated, but only as much as being outdated and crude matters to you. And if it matters that much to you – you`re getting too old to rock`n`roll, my son. They don`t rule but they`re alright.


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: The Who, Eric Clapton, The Tubes, David Bowie`s Mum, Blue Öyster Cult, Bert Jansch, Van McCoy, Thin Lizzy, Gerry Johnson.

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

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ARTICLE ABOUT Thin Lizzy from New Musical Express, October 18, 1975

The style of this interview is, in my opinion, kind of strange. But we all love a dose of Mr. Lynott, one of the greatest rock`n`roll lyricists and composers ever. A bonus of doing the interview like this, in parts written out in a phonetic spelling, is that you can hear the great man speaking inside your mind. His music lives on for the world to enjoy even if he has been gone for over 30 years now. Now enjoy this article from way back.


I take it serious wharrado, know wharramean?

There was Thin Lizzy. They were in Germany. With them was Chris Salewicz. The rest you know.

Is it odd – or merely the ultimate surrealism of this efficient economic miracle – that members of a certain Very `Eavy english Band (who play a quite passable “All Or Nothing”) can be found backstage in the bicycle-watching pavilion letting German groupies scarf up fistfuls of their legal Mandies.
“It… errh… makes them randy,” the lead vocalist suggests half-heartedly as he turns an already wall-banging young fraulein`s brain into a mixture of marrowfat and mung.
Such is pleasure in the land of over-the-counter leapers and sleepers.
And what of Mama promoters who, at every gig they put on, are obliged to take the security out of the hands of the khaki-garbed kraut fuzz and to put it in the care of the Bones, the German Angels?
Christ, easy-going pleasant British Hell`s Angels come close to giving me apoplexy. But Angels who communicate in German…!?! Bit heavy, man.
So Mama promoters just present these acres of psychedelic storm-troopers with free beer and a few human beings to roast in their own special enclosures and the official polizei back off.
Such delicious Animal Natural, no?

Ace, brought in on a morning flight to replace Supertramp at this festival, prove too mellow – pensive even – for the 25,000 wasted bodies out there to digest. They die. So does an Angel. At the side of the stage during “How Long” one of the Bones ODees, pukes up and has a heart attack.
His body is removed from the backstage area with a certain expediency.
“You`re over here to preserve a way of life: Your own.” It is probably doubtful that the third ex-GIs who make up the Bones` ranks pay too great heed to the American Forces Network radio station based just up the road in Frankfurt.
The Yanks in the audience, though? Well, theirs is quite another story. Their way of life is indeed being preserved. Right down to their imported Alfa Sweet Banana Skin skins. Get on that Frankfurt Special to Obliteration Row. Go, dunebuggy, go.
Thin Lizzy are big in Germany. Lizzy have cracked the Fatherland. Lizzy were, in fact, saved from extinction by the Fatherland.
Transformed yet again – after the departure of their second lead guitarist, Gary Moore – into possibly the first British bass and drums outfit since Jet Harris and Tony Meehan, Phil Lynott and Brian Downey brought in the axes from the remnants of heavy horrendoes Atomic Rooster and toured Germany at the beginning of last year.

The tour earned the rhythm playing duo enough money to hold auditions. Teethed on “Whisky In The Jar”, a Decca Top Ten hit at the beginning of 1973, Lynott and Downey knew what not to do.
No more hit singles. No more ballroom tours for audiences expecting Thin Lizzy to come out and play a rock`n`roll workout of “Danny Boy”. Thin Lizzy as a mean, stack-heeled, bloozy rock band that keeps splitting up, got itself 17-year-old Brian Robertson and Scott Gorham – an American over here playing with Slim Chance – in on twin lead guitars.
They left Decca, signed with Vertigo in the summer of 1974, and got “Night Life”, their first Vertigo album, into the outer edges of the US album charts.
And started selling out at club and college dates in the UK once again. And put much time into the making of “Fighting”, their new Vertigo album.
Back in the car, Lynott`s pants firmly tethered, we`re talking about the problems of being Thin. A suggestion has been put forward that possibly these former troubles could be linked with a certain mental rawness on the collective part of the original members.
“Jeeeeee-zuz. See this,” says Lynott as he pulls up the sleeve of his right arm. “Me skin wasn`t brown – it was green.”

Lynott is not just Irish. Lynott is an Irish half-caste – “Just imagine it: I get both Irish and Nigger jokes” – though the voice has more of the intonations of a Scouse `Comedian`.
Try out this lesson in jive blarney: “You know, like me and Brian came down to London and we hit the Underground…
We met this Irish fella at Euston Station and `e took us and we got smashed. And we thought `e was gonna rip us off, you know? And I was getting really paranoid and saying `Let`s get out of `ere`. So we split – and it was the first time in London. And like, you know, into this guy`s house. Get stoned. And we said `Let`s get the Underground`, you know?
“So we were standing there at the tube station – and this`ll tell you how green we were – and we see the tube coming and we say `This is ours`. And we stuck out our hands. Stop, you know. HARGH-HARGH-HARGH-HARGH!! The thing nearly took `alf our arms off.
“That`s how fookin` Irish we were.”
Such earthiness, huh?
But come, chaps. Surely there must have been just the odd moment when yet another guitarist would jack it in and you might think “Why Me?”. Or even question if it Was All Worth It? Surely just now and then you must have been a little down.


“Well, wouldn`t you? Two changes of line-up in one year…
“But anyway de “Vagabonds” (here Lynott is referring to “Vagabonds Of The Western World”, Lizzy`s third and last Decca album)” went into the charts in the States and we got a bit of readies in and we were able to carry on.
“That was it. So finally we got up again, you know.
“And this to me proves the power of the band if nothing else: that three times we set out to do it and this time we`re really gonna do it because we`ve got a line-up now that`s stable. We`ve been together a year. And we`re ready to crack it.”
A touch more solemnly: “I`ve never worked in me life. I`ve always made me living with…”
“Yeah. `Ard neck. Really, you know?” he splutters with strange giggles.
Scott Gorham slumps in the back seat of the car. He says little. “Pull my finger?” he asks his bass-player. Lynott obliges. Gorham shifts his position slightly. There is now an aroma of undigested schnitzel in the car.
“Tomorrow,” Lynott carries on, “Tomorrow I know I can go out and do this, this and this. Wear this, this and this. Pull these strokes.
“And we can break.
“But whether I want to be famous in that way is another thing.

“When I first started I was like… I believed that if these guys wore denims and striped T-shirts like Peter Green they were like paupers and really playin` the blues and feeling everything they played.
“And then I came to England and watched guys get out of suits to get into denims and go on stage.
“I thought `What`s going on here?` You know? (pauses and laughs)… I watched really nice guys with great attitudes take off their jeans and stop smoking their dope and get into the biggest fookin` pop outfit you`ve ever seen.
“You knowharramean? I`d seen complete reversals.
“So I just levelled out and I said `Well, I don`t wanna be like phoney` and I don`t wanna be like…flash… just to make money.
“So somewhere in there… I`ve got an ego,” he free-associates, “I don`t jump up in front of 20,000 people and not have ego. You know. I think I`m great. Knowharramean?… But I levelled out. I don`t wanna be famous just for the sake of being famous. I like to please people as well, you know?
“The Brinsleys, like, were a nice band. But they tried so hard to underplay it, you know, that in the end they killed themselves. They made themselves into a pub band, you know?”
The essential cream-your-knickers ingredient in a good stage show is mentioned.
“I came up on bands like The Small Faces, The Yardbirds, the Stones, The Kinks,” notes Lynott.
“Spare me the bands who just stand there all night,” adds Gorham in a rare moment of decisive speech.

It is perhaps apposite that at this exact moment we hear “Ladies and gentlemen: Status Quo”. “`Ow are you?” screams Francie. And into that shuffle-boogie rhythm. They do not stand there all night. They go down very well indeed. It is necessary to close the car roof to continue the conversation.
“Sly is me man,” continues Lynott, “People say Hendrix…I love Hendrix as a guitar player but Sly to me has more finesse. I liked (One notes that Lynott speaks of Sly in the past tense) his whole style. Sly was there. He was hip. He was cool. The way he could come up with a very simple line like, “Thank you falettinme be mice elf agin”. Wharrafookah! Sly had class, man.”
Soul brothers, ehh?
“Well, cos I`m Irish I only heard of the black problem when I looked at the size of me mickey… No, in Ireland they don`t realise that the immigration laws are stricter than they are in England, knowharramean? I`ve watched people in Ireland saying, `That`s terrible: the way the English are turning the black people away`.
“But I regard meself as `alfcaste, really. Me mother`s white. Me father`s black. So I regard meself as half-caste. I relate to them people. I relate to the Chinese man that has a Scottish accent, the dago.

“The half-caste is gonna take over in the end, knowharramean? It`s got to. I mean you`re half-fookin`- Polack, I`m half-Irish Brazilian; `e`ll fookin` tell ya (pointing at Gorham)… `E says `e`s American. `E`s got Irish relations.”
Back to rock music`s more relevant essentials, however: “The nice thing is since we`ve had the change in line-up…
As you can see (pointing at Gorham) he`s a good looker and Brian is young and he`s a good looker too. And a lot of the chicks… we have a great time,” Lynott splutters lasciviously, “We`re very popular with the girls. Really. `Cos he speaks with the American accent and I give them the Irish blarney. And when we went to America it was us that had the different accent and `e was just another long-haired Californian.”
Heavy pulling, ehh?
Lynott foams at the mouth: “Ye-ahhh. All you had to say was `London. Carnaby Street`… And you were in.
For some reason we all begin to feel hungry.


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: The Who, Eric Clapton, The Tubes, David Bowie`s Mum, Blue Öyster Cult, Bert Jansch, Van McCoy, Budgie, Gerry Johnson.

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:
2. The offer should be 15 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.

ARTICLE ABOUT Blue Öyster Cult from New Musical Express, October 18, 1975

I like the writing style of Mr. Bell, making this an excellent report from the frontlines of the BOC tour with added interviews as a bonus. The band are still actively touring in a “tour that never ends” and I hope to get the chance to see them play in Norway at the start of August 2016. You either get it or you don`t with this band. I like them a lot! Enjoy reading the article!


The Triumph of Insanity

It seemed like something was rotten in the State of Georgia. Something that needed checking out. But relax, it`s OK. Violence, rock`n`roll and schizophrenia are reassuringly alive and well. And here`s Max Bell`s report from Klu Klux Klan Kuntry on the BLUE OYSTER CULT on the eve of their long-awaited British visit.

The last time I saw Sandy Pearlman he was sitting on the floor of an Atlanta hotel room having just guzzled several bags of takeaway ribs from Ma Hall`s Southern Fried porched diner. Maybe he ate himself to death, I don`t know, but he certainly wasn`t there in the morning; just a heap of charred and chewed bones plus a few fragments of tomato-stained meat smeared over the counterpane.
Pearlman likes eating. Buck Dharma says he likes it even more than the Blue Oyster Cult, which is where we come in.
Atlanta, Georgia is adopted Blue Oyster Cult territory, the home of Coca Cola, the city with the highest cancer rate in the U.S.; it`s also Ku Klux Klan Kuntry which fits in neatly with BOC`s underskin of Colonial influence nurtured from the dusty archives on Providence, Rhode Island and Lovecraft`s rotting manuscripts in Brown University.
The exclusively white, “snob”, end of Atlanta`s famed Peachtree Street boasts some of the finest English settlement buildings in the world on Colony Square. But despite this Anglo ambience, the standard conversation still consists of three questions: “How ya doin` today? Take care d`ya hear? Have a nice day y`all, okay?”
Such mechanical good manners make it tempting to answer with the inanities: “Rotten. Shan`t. Get lost.” But since a lot of people wear guns next to their smile badges, it`s easier to settle for a deft grunt.

However, enough of this. What we`re here for is to witness the heaviest band in the States (in terms of subject matter if not sound) at a time when it seems increasingly important to see them vindicate the championship belt of twilight insanity.
The Blue Oyster Cult have already cancelled three British tours (although now they`re due here in a few days` time) for no other apparent reason than that their live album was selling like hot cakes in the U.S. – 20 with a missile on Billboard and Pearlman predicts that the next album will break seven nationally.
Why should it be necessary to see them vindicate the championship belt? Because that live album was almost universally panned in America, often by their staunchest supporters. Someone, somewhere along the line had to be wrong and I wasn`t keen on the idea that it was me.
Critics who should know, Cognoscenti, Mike Saunders and Lester Bangs, both self-elected doyens of the heavy metal afterworld, were getting the knives nice and hot. The Cult had blown their bolt,, become stagnant tools in the hands of power-crazed Oberfüehrer Pearlman, and yes we would let these guys carry our girlfriends` satchels.
Too bad for a band with an umlaut and a reputation for coming on like a concrete fix in the afterglow of Hiroshima. It may be fine administering clever albums, but only cutting it live up there on stage gives the mystique any real credibility.

So I was worried. Georgia is a long bus ride if you`re gonna see your favourites go under in disgrace. On the eve of the BOC`s major European tour I was hoping for at least a sliver of solace, just so the folks back home wouldn`t end up thinking they`d wasted October`s beer money on reckless pursuits.
Well, someone was holding out. But it wasn`t the Cult. Because I saw with my very own eyes the most positive rebuke possible to any number of snide untruths.
Yes, the Cult won.
Yes, this is one of the most infallible live shows ever devised for getting an audience off by the shortest sensible route… in through the ears and out the soles of the feet.
Outside the Stones Who league, a particularly English syndrome anyhow, I cannot imagine any other band promoting such a spontaneous response as the one I saw at the end of aforesaid bus ride. Moreover, the above mentioned are forefathers of a movement that won`t last for ever, whereas BOC are aimed at a different generation.
The Cult`s formula works in the heat of the moment; there`s none of the expectancy that you get waiting for “My Generation” or “Brown Sugar” to come up because they don`t have hits as such. There are preferences, obviously, but the show is balanced destruction.
The proof was in the auditorium where 15,000 teen archers were blitzed, digested, devastated and all the other things BOC are presumed to inflict via their base metallic arsenal. Not since the arrival of General Sherman had the Peach State been so effectively turned over.

Forget all the cliches about cooking, boogie and “This is a track off our last album.” The Cult are simply dirty, explosive urban league operators out to dazzle and by the time they`ve finished everyone is on his feet, no-one is on his knees.
As a venue the Omni Sports Theatre is horrible, fine for baseball acoustics and not much else. At first the sound problems nullify any enjoyment in what`s going down on stage.
“Stairway To The Stars” implodes, a slow motion replay with the volume off. Sandy Pearlman paces around the console muttering blue murder while mixers mix furiously for a reasonable balance and the rest of us twiddle our thumbs.
During “Harvester Of Eyes” it`s apparent that the synthesiser opening fails to get much past Eric Bloom`s fingertips. Allan Lanier spits out his fag in disgust and gives the equipment a good boot. Wham. Must have worked, `cos the audience rise as one at the wave of aggression channelled off that stage.
Bloom, resplendent in jet black hari kari costume straps on his stun guitar… “Just last week I took a ride. So high on eyes I almost lost my way”… and Dharma escalates the solo into open mouths. The crowd are drained and elated, and this is the second number.
Pearlman stomps time on his right foot and smirks through the compulsory shades. His whole attention is fixed on watching the 24-hour adrenalin flow seeping off the platform and making sure it stays that way.

Now the juice is on and “Dominance And Submission” gets into some real Cult fantasy. Bloom strikes a neon leather Rodin pose and sings about that unfortunate car ride. The Bouchard brothers, Albert and Joe, notch onto a neat, sullen beat, buzzing the song to death throes with all the vicious love of a gang war chainfight in a Brooklyn car lot.
Of course the aura is a joke, no-one but an imbecile would build a lifestyle round this kind of sickness, but then only an imbecile could fail to respond to the invention.
A poisonous “Flaming Telepaths” manufactures equal overkill but half the kick is laughing with the Cult. They are tactless, no argument, but they are also extremely funny in a nasty kind of way. When Bloom reaches the line “And the joke`s on you” the stage darkens. A hideous answering chuckle reverberates through the entire hall and sparks cartwheel from his fingers.
The effects used throughout are surprisingly few; sparse but effective.
If you think you know what to expect from a rock `n` roll concert, think again. That was just the chaser. During “Cities On Flame” Bouchard takes lead vocal at an agonisingly slow melting pace, his voice resembling a berserk buzz-saw eating dinner.
The pocket version white-suited Dharma steps out for their re-tuned Yardbirds tribute, “Maserati GT,” once known as “I Ain`t Got You” and then slots straight into ten minutes of unbearable riff magic – “Buck`s Boogie” – which is all right by me because he may well be the best hard rock guitarist functioning today. He has none of Townshend`s athleticism or Jimmy Page`s flash frisson but he burns the hell out of every precise lick and he`s only five foot two.

Just as the audience is at breaking point the Cult all file off stage, leaving one spotlit Bouchard storming his kit for the original amusing drum solo. Albert laughs his head off as well he might because he looks ridiculous; leather hot pants, top hat, striped socks like a perverted Hamburg Scoutmaster indulging the dumbest stately battle on throbbing skins.
Once the Mutron synthesiser is turned on he really fools about, skimming rolls off the wall in some gruesome imitation of a sheet metal worker banging rivets into your head.
Just when the crescendo is at the level where the band left off they race back and kick into “ME 262″… “Hitler`s on the phone from Berlin, says I`m gonna make you a star.” The audience is delirious and the riot cops are nervous. Off goes the bomber warning, Lanier switches from keyboards to rhythm, and suddenly all five of them are in a line playing guitar. Five screaming dizbusters switched into the ultimate rock fantasy and the new definition of heavy metal.
Bloom slides over the piano Minnelli style, smoke engulfing the stage and flames jut into the pit setting fire to the lap of some unfortunate in the 20th row. The fire marshal races towards the exit but he can`t get there because Bloom is growling “See these English planes go burn” and they won`t let him through.
There`s more murky excitement generated in this one moment than we in Britain have seen from a visiting band in a long time. It makes “On Your Feet” look insipid. It`s irresistible.

Off stage, the Cult are the very antithesis of their projected heavy duty image. For starters there`s their height, or lack of it. Eric Bloom is potentially the toughest, punk stare and grounded air ace junk jacket. Actually, even he is friendly and small: “I often have to apologise to fans for not fulfilling my reputation. Sometimes I think we ought to bust a few heads and rape the chicks who hang around.”
It becomes obvious during the next two days that constant touring is wearing down the band considerably. After one publicity visit to a local record store where they have to sneer to order and autograph records menacingly, Bloom corners me on the way out to the car: “See how mundane all this bullshit is, doing the same thing day in, day out.”
Albert Bouchard is even more emphatic: “You just wouldn`t believe how bored I get playing the same songs every night. I want it to change all the time.”
All this puts my impressions badly out of synch. On the Sunday Cult share the bill with Uriah Heep in Knoxville, Tennessee, to a smaller crowd of 3,000 and it`s possible to ascertain traces of a group going through the motions.
After that gig we hold an interview in the hotel with a cavalcade of groupies frothing outside the door. Eric Bloom slumps down crossly:
“Got any Machiavellian questions? Would you guys like to kill your mother? The apocalypse is coming huh! That Lester Bangs is an asshole. He won`t talk to us anymore but if I ever see him again he`s gonna get outta my sight. Asshole.”

What`s eating Eric?
“Those critics who say we`re a tool of Pearlman and Murray Krugman. OK, they got us off the ground…” Cut to Albert Bouchard on the window sill “… and they channelled us towards heavy metal but we still come up with the ideas. We`ve never been their gimmick.”
But if Pearlman walked out now would the Cult continue, bearing in mind that he writes a fair percentage of the lyrics?
Joe Bouchard pours out his Christian Brothers brandy into a tooth mug and takes a stiff snort: “The opposite is Sandy`s big worry. A lot of our popularity has to do with the way we play live. He`s not as necessary as he was.”
Allan Lanier pitches in thoughtfully: “He was a useful exposure to influences, he had this energy… he found us when we were so poor we couldn`t afford to go to the beach. He opened certain doors and he was in the band. Then we didn`t say he was our manager. Now he`s definitely our manager but he`s not in the band. He works in an office and he just isn`t as exposed as before.”
The description of a bureaucratic Pearlman is pretty hard to take and only partially true. In addition to being their manager he also handles Handsome Dick Manitoba`s Dictators and is constantly looking for other creative outlets to vent his madness on.


If Murray Krugman hadn`t said no to The Tubes their names instead of Al Kooper`s would be on the credits. He`s very pissed off about that, I can tell you, though as far as Lanier`s concerned he can do what he likes: “More power to him. His riff is to walk in on raw potential and say `I can give you this, get you that.` Sure it`s a gimmick but so is everything else in rock.”
What`s the gimmick?
“That it`s a business. That we didn`t get to England because of the money… a lot of politics. Columbia wanted their own agency handling us to underwrite expenses.”
And then the Cult are doing so well in America that coming to Europe wasn`t a wise move until now. They have other reasons for wanting to do well here though. Lanier`s Henry James story of the yank who needs to put one over the culture superior renaissance elders over the pond is a real emotion to many thinking Americans:
“On a personal level it is very important to go and do great in England and France. The typical American ego of going back to the roots and impressing. Also it will be such a relief to play for an audience with a different programme of responses. We`re all agreed on that.”
And they are, even Joe Bouchard who so far has been the only one prepared to find some satisfaction in their Stateside mission.

Bloom has the strongest anti-viewpoint: “If we look bored that`s `cos we are bored. I often sleepwalk through a show, I know I`m gonna be good anyway.”
Joe interjects on cue: “I dunno, I kinda enjoyed Atlanta.” “Well, that was different. We hadn`t played there for two years. But Knoxville… what are we doing here? The place is dead, man.” Bouchard hastily: “But the kids are never disappointed. They can`t afford to be.”
Much of the enervation lies in not having produced a studio work since “Secret Treaties” from which to mould an act, hence the fact that there`s nothing new in the equation. They`re not too thrilled with the live album either, despite Pearlman`s assertion that it made “Live At Leeds” look like “weak tea.”
They say they`re fifty per cent satisfied with it, though Albert rates it less: “I`m really pissed off with it… didn`t even want to do it, but they committed us too early. After the last night I was so fed up with the engineers that I threw my guitar into the amp after “ME 262,” which is immature but that`s the way I felt.”
The violent atmosphere they`re supposed to promote is getting them down as well. Ask Eric:
“We all have our chains and mirrored ceiling of course, and swings in the living room.”
Albert: “Well, I do have an extensive comic collection.”

Lanier has the coherent answer: “Being on the road it`s hard to pull through with the image psycholitically (he hates flying for instance). I want calm homely surroundings, like watching Johnny Carson or playing Beach Boys` records. We`re all schizophrenic. I compare it with Brian Wilson. He couldn`t swim and was a lousy hot rod driver but it`s all a hallucination of repressions. America is so redolent with violent images.”
Bloom has another version: “Growing up in New York in `58 there were real hitters at school and I was a little guy. If I wore a leather jacket I got stepped on, now I can do all that without my mother stopping me.”
“Yeah, you`re a cheap snot.”
“OK, but I enjoy it, it`s fun.”
One of the reasons why they have to live up to something false is to do with their own refusal to give out lyric sheets, hence people often fail to understand the acute tongue in cheek content. The Cult don`t believe in the kamikaze Avengers trip themselves and certainly don`t foster it off the boards:
“How can we be our size and be serious about it? What do people get attached to about us? We`re not so into impaling the audience as Black Sabbath so you have to be funny unless you feel possessed by strange spirits. If you were serious you`d just become a massive ego out there.”

Lanier seems anxious to keep the star allure absent from his life:
“Do they think we`re all barbarians over there? Do those stories about Patty Hearst and Manson fascinate people in England?”
Bloom, who is Jewish, sticks his neck out and cuts in with a remark of his own which has nothing to do with the conversation:
“One of the problems is that so many rock writers are Jewish. We were banned from Circus magazine `cos the editor`s Jewish and thinks we`re all Nazis. Then Lester puts that we are all Jewish which is crap.”
Albert slides onto the floor with a loud guffaw:
“I`ll bet Abraham Lincoln was Jewish, he liked negroes and stuff. Yeah, Abe Lincoln.”
Two Southern Belles walk in and plonk themselves at Eric`s feet. I wonder how much the group can grow in terms of popularity? An unfortunate question:
“Well, we`re all past puberty.” Funny guy, eh, Dharma? “Sure I`m planning on it, but the business gets more disgusting the further you go into it. So many rock stars are divorced from real life.”
Lanier agrees that there is a particularly English class syndrome which involves rich rock stars buying mansions in the country and then giving reality the two fingers. He bats around the proposition that the biz is sleazy and in the grip of a definite middle class stranglehold:

“There`s no charm or inspiration left. When you begin you`re naive, y`know. The long haul is just, `Great, will my mum give me some cookies to take on the road?` But then I don`t agree with the people who say rock`n`roll is arrested adolescence and that one day you`ll grow up.
“There aren`t many live phenomena that people go out of their houses to see. Rock is one of the few, and also theatre `cos TV is so awful. But even so the old concept of downtown as a place for meeting in clubs is dead. We`re all stuck in front of television.”
On to new material, of which the Cult have plenty. At present there are two separate plans. I heard snippets from both. One is the new band album yet to be recorded but which should be mixed in England and released in February. This has the working title “Fire Of Unknown Origin” and includes three or four Patti Smith songs which were written with boyfriend Lanier.
The rough cuts I listened to were the title track, “True Confessions” (Patti singing harmonies), and a very heavy Dharma song, “Don`t Fear The Reaper.” They all sounded like something of a departure from usual Oysteroid style and they were all goodies without any softening up on subject matter:
“It`ll be bold, brave, sexy, very sensual, a lot more human than we`ve been before. `Secret Treaties` was a political dissertation but we won`t do any more pamphlets or broadsides. There`s still going to be a lot of good old death songs, though, `cos we like `em and there aren`t many things you can write interesting songs about. It`s hard to get politically involved with Ford in the White House.

“The album will have jagged edges and be like us, evolutionary of course. We will all lose two incisors and one toe.”
Pearlman and Albert Bouchard are working independently on another scheme called “The Soft Doctrines Of Imaginos” which continues in the vein of “Astronomy” and keeps the Lovecraft character Desdanova alive.
Numbers include: “Immaginos,” “I Am The One You Warned Me Of,” “When The Party`s Over,” “Siege And Investiture” and “Del Rio Song.” From initial hearing it sounds like it could be the first important concept album, a new horizon altogether.
“When The Party`s Over (Magna Of Illusion)” is wipeout. A song about a mirror endowed with destructive qualities and the influence to set countries at war, a tyranny and mutation magnum opus that ends with the advent of 1914. Originally the Cult weren`t prepared to tackle the idea. Bloom particularly because he has to cope with Pearlman`s lyrics which are all straight non-rhyming prose, but they`re being won over.
Maybe the biggest compliment you can pay this band is that they`re totally unlike anyone else when it comes to the execution of interesting themes: Lanier`s theory for that is highly tenable:
“We don`t want to be so much ominous as radically different. See, rock is getting very traditional. The 70`s are crazy. In the 60`s poverty was noble until people realised what they were paying for gasoline. Suddenly it isn`t romantic at all to be poor so the music is very conservative.

“You can`t be static though, that`s why we like the polarisation of those who like us or hate us, or just like one album and not the rest. We`d never put out a record similar to the others. We never have done, and we have presentation ideas that lead up to making the stage show appear to be a hallucination, as much like cinema as possible.
“How are we going to do in Europe though? I imagine there`ll be such a big push people will be sick of all the hype.”
Unlikely. There are enough of us over here who`ve waited too long for that to be true. Besides, any band who employs the touring legend “Blue Oyster Cult – On Tour For Ever” and has Nuremberg on the date list must be worth checking out. Then there`s such a hiatus in excitement that we need all the BOCs and Springsteens we can get.
Even as I write the tarmacs are being prepared for the arrival of the 1277 express so go and see for yourselves and let no-one tell you you should have been there. Because you should.


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: The Who, Eric Clapton, The Tubes, David Bowie`s Mum, Thin Lizzy, Bert Jansch, Van McCoy, Budgie, Gerry Johnson.

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:
2. The offer should be 15 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.

ARTICLE ABOUT The Tubes from New Musical Express, October 18, 1975

What a great debut album this was! If for some reason you haven`t heard it, now is the time to go to Youtube and have a listen. And afterwards find a place where they sell the album and buy it- this one deserves to be in anyone`s collection. The production, the musicianship, the songs, the stage show – this band had it all from the start!


THE TUBES: The Tubes (A&M)

By Max Bell

It`s best to be wary of deliberately “funny” rock records, especially ones from new bands who are claimed to be the greatest thing since sliced bread. For instance, if anyone tells you that The Tubes is/are very good parodists and extremely hilarious you can assume one of the three following possibilities: (a) that person is jaded, (b) he`s lying, (c) he`s very easily amused.
Having said that, let`s examine this month`s phenomenon for what it`s really worth, laying odds of two to one that The Tubes will indeed be vying with Springreens as the act most likely to this year. Apart from the promotion campaign the “I laughed `til I cried” backslapping, and the buzz surrounding their appearance, do they really have anything to offer?
W-e-e-ll. I recently saw a video film of the band at work and wasn`t unduly excited.
They played and sounded sloppy, most of the fun was sunk by its overkill quotient, and in the audience there was too much nervous sniggering of the “I know I`m supposed-to-like-this-but-I-don`t-really-although-it`s-unhip-to-admit-it” variety. On the other hand, the spectacularly ungullible Mick Farren says that their cabaret extravaganza is “OK”.

Since then they`ve definitely improved, because the music here is one of the more impressive features – as it has to be in the absence of their excessive visual experience, which utilises all the rock-glitter cliches for their own ends. That in itself is nothing new. Mouse and the Traps were pretty adept piss artists when everyone was still into beads and kaftans (cf. The Turtles, Wild Angles, Bonzos, Barron Knights, Zappa etc.) More recently, The Dictators tried to pull a similar number and failed miserably, much to several people`s acute embarrassment.
So on with the show and “Up From The Deep” with its pointedly cynical only-in-it-for-the-money lyric:
“Tell me how you want it / That`s how I`ll have our guitar player, Roger Steen, play it.” Betcha chuckling fit to bust a gut. Pleasantly spooky orchestral backing (Dominic Frontiere) conjuring up watery images and more than good synthesisers and keyboards from Mike Cotten and Vincent Welnick. There`s partial continuity on all the tracks, and this one ends in fine style with William Spooner and Steen trading some powerful bridging guitar.

“Haloes” is deliberate verbal indulgence in the CSN&Y earnest dullard mould, with more deft melodic touches such as the rippling guitar that accompanies each end line and Al Kooper`s clear show-off production. The very fact that someone as supposedly staid and establishment as Kooper can become involved with The Tubes says a lot for their aspirations and abilities (still, Al must have had a sense of humour to ever get mixed up with Blood, Sweat and Tears). Again, the soap opera arrangement is paramount (hope they can play like this live).
Side one closes with the slightly predictable “Malaguena Salerosa”; castanets, mock Andalusian sentiment, dramatic strings and all. It`s funny if you think singing in Spanish is sufficient cause for merriment.
“Mondon Bondage” is a highpoint in The Tubes set, and lends itself admirably to their way with props (the luscious female Re Styles breathing heavy into rope `n`rubber mag titillation). Lyrically, it sucks:
“I`ve been tied up so long, there`s no escape… I could run off to Jamaica, If this bondage I could break”
Alright lads, you can go now. I do like the demonic power licks, TV takeaway muzak and crass echo on the drums, though; also the strangulated 3rd. Reich post-Bowie vocal from lead vocalist Fee Waybill (bet he gets a lot of mileage out of that name).

Because of the lavish production, confident packaging and “how-did-we-ever-do-without-`em” permancence of their presentation, it`s often easy to forget that this is only their first album. By any standards the music is good, and there are frequent flashes of real inspiration to indicate that they are an exciting prospect, potentially as interesting as Roxy Music (who they`ve already outpaced in the States).
The self righteously aware satire “What Do You Want From Life” is one reason why they can`t just be another hype (it owes a lot to The Mothers). “Boy Crazy” is another. This should become some kind of anthem for permissive sisterhood everywhere it inverts the usual boy meets girl hogwash that passes for soda pop rock `n` roll into flunked eight grade sex-hungry heavy metal. Full marks for being the world`s first band to put an inter uterine device in a song and make it effective.
Tubes` piece de resistance “White Punks On Dope”, is ultimately their best, and simultaneously their most objectionable number. Who really relates to this specifically Californian rich kid rap except specifically Californian rich kids? It`s the old Ziggy/Iggy/Bingheimer legacy and sounds exactly like an “Alladin Sane” outtake:
“I go crazy `cause my folks are so rich / Have to score when I get that rich white punk itch.”

Note that it sneakily manipulates what it pretends to despise (albeit cleverly and will ironically appeal to the ennui-striken shell-shocked victims it describes so accurately. Prairie L`Emprere Prince`s crazed drumming, the catchy chorus, expertly timed double fade and fake raucous laughter finale cannot disguise the fact that this is a grand preconceived put-on.
Sure, there`s room for a group able to expose the chicanery prevalent in rock music by doing the same things well and making them look dumb, but it`ll have to be done a lot more carefully. A few steps removed from The Tubes is a band doing something similar to an audience of bored trendies in an expensive niterie while the rest of us push our noses against the window. San Francisco here we go.
If you don`t want rock to metamorphose into customised cabaret, have fun with your new Tubes album and leave it at that. They aren`t yet all they`re cracked up to be, though for starters this is super glossy. The cover is ace in true Pirelli calendar style.
I think they`ll make a load of bucks.


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: The Who, Eric Clapton, David Bowie`s mum, Blue Oyster Cult, Thin Lizzy, Bert Jansch, Van McCoy, Budgie, Gerry Johnson.

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:
2. The offer should be 15 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.