Reviews (January 1973)

On Books

Robert N. Winter-Berger, The Washington Pay-Off (New York: Dell Books), $1.75.

"I practically raised that motherfucker, and how he's gonna make me the first president of the United States to spend the last days of his life behind bars."

"It's me they're after. It's me they want. Who the fuck is that shit-heel? But they'll get him up there in front of an open committee and all that crap will come pouring out and it'll be my neck."

"Tell Nat that I want him to get in touch with Bobby Baker as soon as possible—tomorrow, if he can. Tell Nat to tell Bobby that I will give him a million dollars if he takes the rap."

The makings of a cheap political novel? According to Robert Winter-Berger, the above quotes were made in his presence by Lyndon Johnson to House Speaker John McCormack during the breaking of the Bobby Baker scandals. If this is your kind of meat, then this book is a gourmet's treat.

And who is Robert Winter-Berger that he should be privy to such delicate information? He is a former public relations man who decided to take a fling at the lobbying scene. And this book is a disclosure of the events that surrounded him.

Winter-Berger worked very frequently out of the office of John McCormack, the Speaker of the House. There, he became good friends not only with the Speaker, but also with Nathan Voloshen and Martin Sweig, who were the subjects of criminal prosecutions for their operations out of McCormack's office. (Winter-Berger explains how it came to pass that the Speaker wasn't also indicted but was permitted to resign quietly).

The advertising for this book alleged wide-scale attempts to suppress the work, and when you read the wealth of details and names provided, it is not hard to understand why. Winter-Berger exposes large chunks of the underbelly of corruption that envelops Washington. In this work you will find out what judges had to be paid off to get cases squashed or sentences reduced; you'll learn how to buy an ambassadorship for only $125,000; you'll learn many of the real stories behind the headlines. Winter-Berger lays out the whole Washington social scene and the rules of operation for ambitious men and women on the political make. This is one of the few how-to-make-a-million books that really makes sense.

After spending considerable time in Speaker McCormack's orbit, the author decided to branch out and purchase an introduction to Minority Leader Gerald Ford. This purchase was well worth the price, for the one rule that is quickly learned in Washington is that who you know is what gets results. The rules also provide for a rapid fall if you get caught. Of course, all the fixes don't always come through. But even the losers make money.

It is difficult to grasp the depths of the corruption that pervades our government, but books like The Washington Pay-Off help. Robert Heinlein once wrote that the only honest politician is one who stays bought. I guess that's because you have to be honest to live outside the law.

Reviewed by Gary Greenberg

On Film

Sleuth

When I first saw the play Sleuth on Broadway, I was excited and thrilled by the sheer craftsmanlike ease of its excesses and surprises. At long last, after quite a few years, a miracle had appeared on the Broadway boards: a well-made play. And what originally made the play such an exciting and thrilling experience was the perfection of its acting: Anthony Quayle and Keith Baxter were beautiful together; the chemistry between the two was electric. I felt at the time that no other actors could ever play those roles and get away with it.

Fortunately, I have been proven wrong. In Joseph L. Mankiewicz' film version of the Anthony Shaffer play, Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine now have those demanding roles, and they deliver their respective lines with just the right amount of mayhem, larceny, and, above all else, aplomb. The chemistry is made even more exciting by the fact of Olivier's return to stardom. In the last few years, he has been weighted down by small character roles in such minor and excruciatingly dull films as Franklin Schaffner's Nicholas and Alexandra and Richard Attenborough's Oh, What a Lovely War! Now, Joseph L. Mankiewicz (All About Eve, A Letter to Three Wives and There Was A Crooked Man) has had the good common sense to cast Olivier in the meaty role of Andrew Wyke, and Olivier sinks his teeth into it accordingly. He is certainly the greatest actor of our time. Even in an atrocious mystery thriller as Otto Preminger's Bunny Lake is Missing, where you can see he doesn't care very much about the movie (he supposedly did it only for the money), he is still fascinating to watch; he makes Carol Lynley and Keir Dullea look like kindergarten children playing house. Watching him as Andrew Wyke (his eyes glinting with satisfaction, his face muscles twitching with mischievous delight) is to marvel at his powers of concentration. He throws himself into a role, no holds barred.

And Michael Caine is no slouch either. His urbane, dry line readings work just right for the role of Milo Tindle. Alfie was certainly his best role for a long time, but I think his acting in Sleuth beats it by far. He is the perfect foil for Olivier and they work wonders together.

However, the film itself does not work. The excesses and surprises that so thrilled and excited me on stage leave great gaps and holes on the screen. The objectivity of the screen becomes the subjectivity of the stage. Whereas in the play the distancing effect of the proscenium stage helped tremendously, the screen shows too much; the camera is too close for comfort. Andrew Wyke and Milo Tindle are shown to be what they really are: two small children playing sick, perverted games. The camera is able to probe into characters and situations sometimes much too deeply, and a majority of films suffer for this. Of course the movie is still moored to the stage, and Mankiewicz wisely notes this by bringing down the curtain at the end. He keeps the production moving along nicely, but still he disrupts the action by continually editing in short insert shots of the games and moving figurines situated in strategic areas around Wyke's manor house; after a while, it becomes pat and trite; it then becomes nerve-wracking.

But it is still a delight to watch Olivier and Caine going at one another with, figuratively speaking, sledgehammer and spike. I hope other film directors will have the foresight to cast Olivier in their movies since we now have him back. The plight of the movies being what it is, we need more brightening up.

Reviewed by Cary Leiter

On Music

Looney Tunes & Merry Melodies

It would appear that ancient Greece and 19th century Vienna were eminently successful in weeding out their underachievers so that only a Plato or Beethoven could fill the spotlight of history. Until now, societies have been biodegradable to the extent that only a genius could stand the test of time.

In today's steel and glass land of equal opportunity, Norman Rockwell stands the same chance of being unearthed as Paul Klee. Russ Meyer and Bunuel, Partridge Family and Stockhausen will be preserved side by side. In fact, Plazas may come and go, but Howard Johnson's is forever.

The medium of the Old World was Classicism or Romanticism. The Third World's medium is jazz. The New World seems to be thoroughly engaged in mediocrity. Not only is the bulk of AM middle of the road pop-rock mediocre, it is stifling. As a case in point, I will use Soft Machine (which is to say, Soft Machine was stifled, not mediocre).

Lilian Roxan and her Rock Encyclopedia pay tribute to the group by categorizing its music as jazz. The group's long-haired, tie-dyed appearance make it unacceptable to the jazz community, while its avant garde style make it unacceptable to the pop-rock community. And so the band was forced to turn to underground sound-and-light shows. Soft Machine debuted at St. Tropez, filling the first half of Jean Jacques Label's and Alan Zion's Festival Libre, doing background for Picasso's play, Desire Caught by the Tail. After traveling the south of France in a panel truck stashed full of electric hardware, they gave their American premiere at the New York Museum of Modern Art on the same bill as Jimi Hendrix. It should be noted that Hendrix stepped into the limelight behind one of the most boorish, adolescent groups in rock history, the Monkees.

Both Soft Machine and Hendrix surfaced around standardized predilections. Jimi's distinction was his instrumental capability. Rumor has it that he once did a Long Island performance on three tabs of orange sunshine, and all went fine until he fell off the stage, landing atop his fully amplified Les Paul. Be that as it may, Hendrix was a fine instrumentalist. But his compositions like "Red House" and his voice were liberally copped from Muddy Waters. This presents an interesting side issue. Only Paganini and Liszt have come through the ages by merit of their playing abilities. This generation might tape and film such performers as Hendrix, Jagger, Ella Fitzgerald, Heifitz, Rubenstein and Bessie Smith for posterity. Within the next hundred years, the classical performer may stand in contrast to the classical composer.

At any rate, mediocrity still governs the airwaves. And if you don't listen to the radio, or keep your dial tuned to a classical station, you still won't find much satisfaction at the marketplace. Personally, I can relax to good boogie and blues. I enjoy Allmans, Dead, Humble Pie and Savoy Brown. I enjoy the raw acoustic sounds of Jimmy Reed and Fred McDowell. But nothing creative or revolutionary comes of it.

I suppose it's generally agreed that Copland, Gershwin, the Beatles and Zappa will find a place in history. To that collection of New World musicians I would like to add the Stones, Steve Winwood and J.R. Robertson.

"Caucaphonic junk" or "the Beethovens of rock," the Stones represent rock & roll itself. Jagger can relate to each individual in a concert hall while bringing out the "cry of the world" in his voice. With "Satisfaction" and "Jumpin' Jack Flash," Keith Richard has come up with the two all-time rock numbers. If rock is ever to be remembered, the Stones will be remembered.

Steve Winwood has been in the biggest rock bands since he was fifteen. He is English ballads, white soul and jazz melodies. He handles at least six different axes. Along with Garth Hudson, he is rock's finest keyboard man. Winwood is a virtuoso, and I will devote an article to Traffic and him later.

Finally, I think, Robbie Robertson merits some attention as an intellectual relief in a sea of Tom Joneses & Three Dog Nights. In the November 26th issue of Rolling Stone, musicologist Ralph J. Gleason reviews The Band's live album as being the best live electric album in history. Better than the Stones, he says, up to par with his favorite jazz performances. The more I listen to it, the more I tend to agree. As a whole, The Band knows more about music than any other group around. As composer, Robertson takes boozy-Bible-music-campfire-sing-along-gospel-rock and turns it into an imaginative, creative gesture.

I won't say that Beatles, Gershwin or Band will rate alongside Mozart of Coltrane. But they're better than AM Hojo Cola.

Reviewed by John Large

Led Zeppelin (Picture of the old hermit carrying wood) (Atlantic)

For a group which began as an imitation of the Jeff Beck Group, Led Zeppelin has come a long way. The raspy Rod Stewart-ishness is no longer dominant in Robert Plant's voice, and John Paul Jones no longer needs to place the fact that his brother is famous above his drumming and Jimmy Page can look back on the Yardbirds as his practice years. Led Zeppelin has finally made it.

Old fans will feel at home with the first cut, "Black Dog," which starts out with Plant's screech, "Hey-ey, momma …" This is the Led Zeppelin that has made instant success as a bluesy gut-rock group. "Rock and Roll" is even harder rock, but quite different from "Black Dog." "Rock and Roll" is somehow tighter, certainly clearer, definitely more mature. And hard as rock can be. Fast, too.

Just as you've been shaken and rattled and are ready for more, the tension drops. "The Battle of Evermore" is trippy, smooth and silken. It is a spacy tale of the Queen of Light and the Dragon of Darkness. A contest taking place in the dead of night on a level above and beyond that of human action, it is described in sure but caressing notes from all instruments and voices. Although the falsetto back-up will remind you of Grace Slick's weavings, it certainly stands on its own and any similarity is probably a coincidence. For those whose idea of falsetto is Tiny Tim, this will be a warm surprise.

"Going to California" is wistful and sad; everyone, it seems, wants to make it to the coast. But once you're there, so what? Where are your dreams when you are disillusioned? The weariness of coming thousands of miles to find emptiness.

While I found side 1 more enjoyable than side 2, the price of the album is certainly worth the best half of the music.

Reviewed by Mick Marotta

Alice Cooper, School's Out (Warner Bros.)

When Underground music first came out, hot on the tail of the Beatles and Barry Goldwater and the Free Speech Movement, one facet of the Longhair cult was to look at the inane way in which most people live and to show it for what it really is. So groups like the Fugs and the Mothers of Invention took hold of our sense of decency and smashed it against a wall of music. Alice Cooper carries on this atrocious tradition in one of the best albums Warners has put out.

In case no one told you, Alice, the lead singer, is a guy. Flipping a bird at cultural standards of "masculine" and "feminine," Alice Cooper is by far the most outrageously ambisexual happening of our time. But sex isn't the only thing that they've got going for them.

Musically, they are adroit. Even when they second-hand music from West Side Story (and even The Sound of Music on their Killer album), they are unquestionably original. They are a tight group.

The first cut, "School's Out," sums up our entire generation: "We got no class and we got no principal [principle?]." School's out for the summer, all right; it's been blown to pieces. Continuing in this vein, "Street Fight" brings together the Gutter Cats and the Jets. It's hard to prove, but I think their sentiments (if they have any sentiments at all about anything) are with the Gutter Cats. Personally, I find the kittens much more intelligent. The Gutter Cat is flipped out over a little pussy while the Jets just like to beat people up. The music slinks along for the Gutter Cats and jumps hard and cool for the Jets and then they rumble. Shouts. Punches. Alley noises. An occasional meow, and finally the sirens. No sound of the Jets as meows echo back and forth from hiding place to rooftop.

Gaily tripping along in further pleasantries, Alice Cooper's look at the hard times of a grammar school juvenile delinquent ("Public Animal #9") carries with it memories for almost everyone who went to school and got caught at something. "Hey, Mr. Cranston, where are you takin' me?" Or maybe didn't get the grades that others expected of you. "She wanted an Einstein, but she got a Frankenstein … Public animal number nine."

If you have a predisposition towards the outrageous, plug in to Alice.

Reviewed by Mick Marotta