Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste - Lester Bangs [29]
So the great night fell and the groupies were swarming like flying poltroons, having come from far and wide to check with their very own accoutrements the efficacy of this legend I had blabbed up to them via phone. They were gathered around in packs preening and pouting away to beat the band senile, and I just kept on smiling and drinking till I got so drunk I ran wild, which is what always seems to happen to me whenever Wet Willie's around and playing. Which they did in a supertight set of old faves and new raves double-clutching out of nowhere to get an encore from a packed arena of the sickliest Detroit jades.
It was a heartwarming sight and when it was all over I went back up to the dressing room to see how the romancin’ was enhancin’. Shame to my eyeballs, what do I see but a whole room fulla hot giggling tease and in the eye of the storm these five musical-type busters lookin’ sorta confused though not half as hangdog as the Blue Öyster Cult whom I had seen trying with even less fervor in identical circumstances a week previous. These chicks wasn’t the best in the world (fact they wuz ogly as weasels)—but then again there is an old Southern motto having to do with draping one part of the anatomy with a flag thereby to attend to another part sans distraction. But this one bitch steps into the room and looks at the table and says something about the lunchmeat laid out for sandwiches, so Jack Hall starts leering under his breath: “Yeah… meat… uh… ah lak meat… you meat… uh, meat…”
Hailfar and bustification! I could see they needed a little prodding, so I grabbed this one notbad missy and sayd: “Hey, waht's yore name girl?” (Every time I get around these wino saltines I start talking like ‘em too, can’t help it.) “Mary Lou.” “Mary Lou, woo hoo!”—yanking her and Wet Willpower lead guitarist Rick Hirsch Certs-range—“Mary Lou, meet Rick Hirsch of the famed and brilliant hot fire lickin’ Wet Willie Band.” And then I jutted my jaw through Rick's right eyeball: “This is mah sister boah yo better take good cair of ‘er you hear?” and walked away.
I turned around and looked at them. The damsel was trying to engage her temporal and wavering swain in the patter precipitating carnal envelopment, but he just stood there, like a water moccasin on a rock in the Gobi, and when they had parted in brief and minor sorrow I went up to him and shook that diz down straight: “What's the deal here? Doncha wanna get laid?”
“Sure,” he admitted to me, “but I don’t wanna put any effort into it. They gotta take me by the hand and lead me right into the bed or I don’t even try.”
Judas Priest! Did you ever? Well I never! My career as rock ‘n’ roll pimp came to a timely end right then and there. Now, as we all know, limeys are incapable of getting it up unless receiving head while prone on silk sheets in a hundred-dollar-a-day hotel room, but these Southern boys are asskickers and poonlikkers from way back, and the only way I can account for this generalized lapse in the humpadelic heatwaves is that they’re jes’ plain bone lazy.
But there is hope for this band yet in the poontang glorioski department. Dori McMartin, a young lady of Canadian extraction acquainted with the author and a dues-paying member of the Rock Writers of the World, reports that whilst sharing a joint with Willie pianist John Anthony she inquired, “Why are all you Southern boys so shy with the girls?”
He looked deep into her guileless Ontarioan eyes with his bulging booglarizers, took her hand and swelling and drooling intoned: “Now do you think all Southern boys are so shy with the girls?”
I’m not able to tell you whether or not John got his willie