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Page 32 text:
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o 00 registration... is it worth it photos by mike sajbel
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Page 31 text:
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Planter ’ s Punch by mike muckian But the years went by and rock just died, Susie went and left me for some foreign guy, Ix ng nights cryin’ by the record machine, Dreamin' of my Chevy and my old blue jeans. --‘‘Crocodile Rock’ According to historians and social critics, the antics of society travel in cycles. It is stressed that these cyclical patterns allow man to, above all, observe and anticipate his mistakes, hopefully preventing whatever harm may come from a reoccurrance of said actions. Generally this never works out. World War I was the war to end all wars, yet it took mankind another six years of World War II to relearn what we’re already supposed to know and even then the knowledge didn t do any good. Were still at it. Keeping this rather bleak attitude in mind, allow me to change the subject to that distinct American cultural trait that has spread around the world, rock n‘ roll. From the time when Bill Haley first rocked around the clock up to John Lennon’s controversial “Working Class Hero” the mouthpiece of young America thumped out a message not only to their elders, but to each other, creating what ever unity there could be among so many diverse cultures in such a large country. In spite of the progressions rock has made over the years from sloppy sentimentality to socially meaningful lyrics, from the two-and-a-half minute 45rpm to a full scale opera and from scratchy hi-fi discs to 64 track, multiplex, quadraphonic stereo tapes, there is a dreadful tendency as of late for a reversion back to what has been before, with an almost manic emphasis on good ol‘ rock n’ roll. In short, a lot of promising headway was tossed aside when America saw Sha Na Na do “At The Hop in “Woodstock. Sandwhiched in between many heavier acts, Sha Na Na seemed to jump up and sav, Hey! Look what fun we’re having not singing about strife and oppression. And we didn’t have to even write the song, it was already there for the taking. The problem is that too many people took up the same cry. Oshkosh is a perfect example of this train of thought. Every band that plays in one of the local pubs had better have a good “Oldies section to their act if they expect to be rehired next week. Songwriters in this town probably stand in mortal fear of performing any one of their works that is not either Boogie” or an old standby. Generally, even creative jams are frowned upon unless the lead player can introduce into it a few favorites to keep the non-musical majority from getting lost. And what about all those preposterous record offers on television? California Gold, The Number 1 Hits of the Sixties, “Leader of the Pack, Vol 1 and 2. The only way the distributor can make money on those anthologies is to sell enough to cover production costs and purchasing rights. Judging by amount of new volumes each week it’s a fair assumption that they’re making ends meet. Perhaps this diatribe against the dying Brylcream culture is too harsh. Certainly this was a time of innocence when the hottest thing going was petting in the back seat and everyone was a McCarthyite. They never did any harm to us. Yet I know that when Ten Years After winds up a concert with Sweet Little Sixteen it’s a whole different story from those guys who come to a Dr. Bop and the Headliners show with their shoulder length hair pulled back in a ponytail and greased, witn chains and boots and girlfriends in tight sweaters and bobby socks. How many costume parties can one go to in the same getup before he starts becoming that person? Some sort of bizarre identity crisis is at work here involving want of innocence, but it has reached epidemic proportions. Hospitals are full of people who think that they are Napoleon. How long will it be before they get their first Elvis Presley? 27
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