Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste - Lester Bangs [114]
They’re a motley clutch of frogs and excited as hell to be playing this third-level sweatpit, and the star of the hour is bassist Jacques “Petit Pois” Grande. Jacques has been pulling yuks right and left trying to talk in a Michigan accent, which from his French gullet comes out something like a catarrhed Mexican trying to imitate Donald Duck. But now he is preoccupied not unnaturally with things carnal, importuning me, practically shaking me by the shoulders: “Ze groopeez, Lestair, wair are ze groopeez?”
“Look man,” I diplomacize, “I don’t have to hassle with that shit, I got my old lady with me.” Who then gives me a look that could wither a barracuda, as I steer Jacques in the general direction of the poon pool. There is indeed a whole row of them up ‘gainst yonder's wall, poised on high school cafeteria scratched-iron chairs with their legs crossed smoking cigarettes, casting appraising glances every whichaway like iguanas’ tongues uncurling in a rain forest. But en route poor Jacques’ eyes get snagged by one of the Creem girls, who is a classical looker but also happens to be accompanied: “Ah, Lezlee Brown, ze beeyootivul Lezlee, I love you but you are wiz zee uddair buoy, oh, what can I do?” Wailing his heart out, jeez, now I understand Charles Aznavour as well as why they lost the war, but I try to set him straight, pulling him aside and epitheting him upside the ear: “Look, you bimbo, they’re right over there, now get to it while you’ve got the chance!” “Oh no, I love Lezlee, but zhe doz not love mee, oh…” Meanwhile Leslie is giggling, the rest of the room is in an uproar, and I’m getting to like these guys.
New York City-May ‘74—I’m in New York for Mott the Hoople's opening at the Uris Theatre on Broadway, when who do I spy in the lobby milling amongst the general scenemakers and rock critics who have fled Queen's set but Les Variations. First up is manager Alain to greet me so effusively it's almost embarrassing: “Lestair, my good friend, how ‘ave you been, you look magnifique!” meanwhile hugging me and pinching my cheeks, practically kissing me in a typical display of warmth that has the prominent homos in attendance just standing around and laughing. And the thing about it is that it isn’t hype, he's genuinely glad to see me, as are they all, like a pack of frogified Will Rogerses they are so full of openhearted excitement and affection simply at being in America that the poor sweet fools just go around hugging everybody in delight. Now if you’ve ever been to New York City you can imagine what an incongruous spectacle their ingenuousness makes, and further how they manage to charm the hell out of the rock press and most of the other people they met here. I run into Jacques and even though he had a moderately classy groupie on each arm the first words out of his mouth are: “Eez Lezlee Brown here?”
Paris, France-July ‘74—I’m sitting drunk on absinthe in the George V, one of the classiest hotels in the burg, having made my way clear across the pond to catch Les Variations, who have by now become my fast friends even though I still haven’t seen ‘em live and don’t much like their album, on their home turf. Paris would be a great city if you’d get rid of all the people, who are the deadest, coldest, glummest, most maudlin clot of sad sacks I have ever witnessed in one place in my life. I had heard of their legendary hostility and anti-Americanism, and was