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The band's been playing at least an hour, but it feels like five minutes. Besides "You Really Got Me," "Roll Over Beethoven," and Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me," they've done a dozen originals that seem like the beginning of a new age. There's one called "Roller Coaster" that sends shivers through the audience of 50, massed together at La Maison on the edge of downtown Houston.
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Joe Walsh is curiously indifferent about success. He gives you the impression that he has long outgrown awkwardness, but has never gotten used to felicity. Joe Walsh still sees himself as a swan in duck's clothing.
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I've known Led Zeppelin professionally for probably 4 years now, starting back in the winter of 1972 when I was sent out on the road with them only to find myself ending up in a fairly ludicrous but nonetheless highly tense argument with Jimmy Page in the dressing-room on the very first night.
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"What's so funny about love, pizza and misunderstanding?"
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It's four days before Christmas. A dark, early evening damp with snow and rain. Immediately south of the Thames, in the inappropriately genteel Victorian suburb of Putney, the Clash is stashed away in a rehearsal studio.
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Rod Stewart is a walking synopsis of British rock music. He's been in there from the golden days of CND, through the Rod The Mod era, until today when he's finally emerged as one of England's finest singers.
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"Will he burn it tonight?" asked a neat blonde of her boyfriend, squashed in beside her on the packed floor of the Fillmore auditorium. "He did at Monterey," the boyfriend said, recalling the Pop Festival at which the guitarist, in a moment of elation, actually put a match to his guitar.
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The object of this article is not to reminisce in the way so many writers do on the so-called "golden era" of soul, when, according to them, every record was a gem and masterpieces were produced daily.
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This interview took place in the New York apartment of the MC5's press agent Danny Fields, the day after the Detroit band signed their new contract with Atlantic Records.
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He stands there looking like a cross between Elvis Presley and a reject from Sha Na Na with faint Dylanesque overtones and a battered Fender Telecaster hung low enough for him to qualify for a place in the Ventures.
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Tommy Ramone don't wanna be a pinhead no more (that's assuming you
thought he was a pinhead in the first place -- in which case more fool
you). In fact, he don't wanna be Tommy Ramone no more.
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