‘Not since those star-spangled,
guilt-edged nights in 1970-71 when Leonard Bernstein threw his
Black Panther party and George Harrison organised the Concert
For Bangladesh have so many of the rich and famous stepped out
for the poor and famished…’ – The Observer
‘By mid-morning the American
Telegraph Company reported that the toll-free telephone line it
had set up to receive pledges, 1-800-LIVE AID, was overloaded.
The 1,126 circuits allocated were simply getting more traffic
than they could handle…’ –
New York Times
“Who the fuck are the Hooters?”
– Ozzy Osbourne
Ah, yes… who indeed? But that’s
a question you may never get answered. Not here certainly, not
this time. No, we are, after all, professionals with a
money-down obligation to address ourselves to only the most
important issues, at whatever the cost. So when the boss dished
this dirty assignment my way I sat there fingering the soft
flesh tyre hanging from my belt, dreaming of pizza and
wondering flatly just what a moonage daydream like me could
possibly say about this whole meals-on-mega-wheels deal Mr
Geldof had christened Live Aid? Gimme a menu and I’ll
think about it…
Maybe two-thirds of the way through the
show, the stage-lights dim, drummer Gregg Bissonette strikes up
a lookin’-for-trouble cha-cha-chasshhh on the cymbals,
and Diamond Dave saunters out from the wings under cover of a
lone spotlight. He sashays like Humphrey Bogart up to the mike,
lights one, rolls his shoulders and pulls his trilby an inch
further down over his face, then looks the audience straight in
the eye and holds it. He’s about to go into a rap. You
can tell. Somewhere far off a sleazy saxophone begins to wail
like a police siren. “My name is Roth. I’m licensed
to carry a microphone,” he begins, the crowd already
laughing. “I was in my office over on Main Street in
Worcester, Massachusetts (cue huge roars of approval, Worcester
being where the show is taking place) working kind of late one
night when I got the call…” He pauses, takes a
drag, continues… “She sounded like she needed help,
so I told her to come on over. She said OK… Sometime
later there’s a knock on my door. I said, come in. She
said OK ...” More pauses, more knowing looks. “She
walked in and blew me a kiss so hot I could feel the breeze go
right through the buttons on my 501 jeans… She was
wearing a dress so tight it looked like she’d been poured
into it and somebody had forgotten to say when… She
looked me over and said: ‘Nice gun’. I said,
‘Nice holster...’ We got to talking and she told me
she was having trouble with the law and wanted to know if I
could get her off...” Saxophone sighs deeply as the crowd
titter. He continues. “I said, ‘I don’t know
nothin’ about the law, sweetheart, but I know I can
get… you… off!’ She looked at me and said,
‘Oh, Diamond Dave! You’re just a
GIGOLO!’…”
Five weeks in Suicide City does strange
things to a man’s head. Berlin is a city of concrete and
walls situated smack in the middle of the great East-West
divide, its outer limits enclosed by forbidden lands governed
by sky-high barbed-wire fences and occupied by soldiers
carrying live ammunition guarding God-knows-what from
army-turrets surrounded by mine-fields. If you wanna rip it up
for a couple of nights in Berlin and shave a couple more years
off your life then you can, no problem: the brothels and the
clubs and the wide-spread availability of smack and coke
guarantee the action. But if you’re planning on spending
a month to six weeks in this joint, then bring along your
oxygen tent because, boy, you’re gonna need it. Not even
the hand of fate will help if you want to take a drive out to
the countryside maybe, or perhaps just get out and visit
friends in neighbouring towns and cities: there simply
aren’t any. You’re trapped until an air-ticket
tells you otherwise. Hansa Studios, by the Berlin Wall, is
where Marillion have been holed-up together these past six
weeks recording their all-important third studio album. This is
the one they’re going to be calling ‘Misplaced
Childhood’ and, as you will no doubt have read in issue
93’s news story, it’s very definitely a concept
album, in the tradition, perhaps, of ‘The Lamb Lies Down
On Broadway’ or, better still, Pink Floyd’s
‘The Wall’…
I know you’ve heard it all before,
but any day now Def Leppard are going to release their new
album. After two-and-a-half years behind closed doors waiting
for the mountain to come to Mohammed, the band have finally
finished working on what will probably be the most difficult,
time-consuming album they are ever likely to record.
Four-and-a-half years after the release of their last album,
‘Pyromania’, one of the most truly innovative hard
rock albums produced so far this ill-starred decade, Def
Leppard are at last ready to unveil a new masterpiece.
It’s called 'Hysteria'; the first single from the album
in the UK is called ‘Animal’; they’re both
released some time around the July/August cusp; and though I
can tell that you still don’t quite believe me, let me
tell you I’ve heard the damn thing, or most of it anyway.
I’ve even seen them playing half-a-dozen of the new
numbers live! In short, I’ve seen the proof, baby. It's
been a long time, been a long time, been a long, lonely, lonely
time waiting for them to finally do it, and nobody knows it
better than they do, but now, to steal a phrase, Def Leppard
are back. And very soon we’re all going to have to
believe it.
