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I'd been to the Palladium in New York for the first time during Christmas vacation, 1961. Still called The Academy of Music — the name was a relic of palmier seasons — it was about as grubby then as it is now. Between showings of some wide-screen John Wayne oat opera, Murray the K was putting on his annual holiday extravaganza. Right there on a single stage in hot succession: Joey Dee and the Starliters with "Shout" and "The Peppermint Twist," Cary "U.S." Bonds howling "School Is Out," tiny Timi Yuro belting "Hurt" above the din of the band without seeming need of a mike. Bobby Lewis, asweat and possessed, in thrashing fetal position on the stage, "I couldn't sleep at all last night, just a-thinkin' of you!..." Heaven. A living jukebox of the year's top hits that wouldn't quit. Most of the audience stayed for all three daily shows, sleeping or making out while Wayne won the West.
I was back last fall, chasing Rockpile, featuring Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe. That they were opening for Van Morrison at the Palladium, site of one of my first multiple rock 'n' roll orgasms, was one of those meaningful meaningless accidents that Vonnegut has a funny word for. Rockpile is a semi-demi-supergroup among fans of so-called New Wave rock, but I was there less to ride the Trendy train than because its music seems to come so directly from the pure sweet fountain of Fifties and early Sixties rock, the source beneath the Murray the K cobwebs somewhere down deep near Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly and the Everly Brothers.
Edmunds, at 35, is among other things the grand old Welshman of record producing in England, with credits including Ducks Deluxe, the Flamin' Groovies, Foghat and Brinsley Schwarz. It was in 1969, as producer of an album for Schwarz, that he met Lowe, then lead singer-songwriter-hass player for the group. They became good friends — something you can see onstage — and Lowe began to absorb everything he could about producing from Edmunds. That was considerable, since Edmunds went through a period of re-creating such rock classics as "Da Doo Ron Ron" and "Let It Rock" down to the last note and muffled grunt.
Lowe, in the last couple of years, has been gaining his own reputation as a production whiz. He's played, written songs for or produced nearly everyone who's anyone in British New Wave, including most of the creatures in the Stiffs stable, most notably among them Elvis Costello — whose three albums Lowe produced.
He and Edmunds also have separate careers going: Lowe's Pure Pop for Now People (Columbia) was released last spring, and a new one is promised shortly. Edmunds' latest, Tracks on Wax 4 (Swan Song), was the reason for the current tour, since record-company wisdom demands touring to push what is lovingly referred to as "new product."
During last spring's tour, Lowe, who had the newest album, was billed as leader of the group. This time around, the new one is Edmnds', so he gets top billing. It doesn't appear to matter to them. One reason they're in the band together is the fun of it.
Their Palladium show is a rave-up.
From my balcony seat, Lowe, on bass, in football shirt and Levis, looks like a bean-pole Peter Townshend, while Edmunds, on lead guitar in a black suit and red tie, looks a little like Bonnie Franklin in Eliot Ness drag; and, come to think of it, the rhythm guitarist brings to mind a slightly wasted Beaver Cleaver. Pure pop for now people.
As opening act, they get maybe 40 minutes and no encores. They use it. Like a one-band Murray the K show, they rip out winners rapid-fire, much of it solid as the rock of Chuck Berry and some of it pieces of the actual rock. The set is a three-braid of original tunes from Tracks on Wax 4 and Pure Pop laced with such true grease arcana as Smiley Lewis' 1955 Imperial hit, "I Hear You Knockin'." As the set progresses, they seem increasingly like kids at play, truly plugged in to the raw atavistic fun that rock 'n' roll is supposed to be.
I liked it so much I saw them again in Chicago ten days later at the Park West, where they were headlining after Van Morrison crashed and burned following his Palladium shows and Saturday Night Live.
In Chicago, the survivors had them dancing in the aisles of the Park West as Lowe sang in merry triplet descent:
"And so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes,
But where it's goin', no one knows..."
Edmunds doing Chuck Berry's "Promised Land" is a killer: I don't think I've ever heard anyone, other than Chuck himself, do better Chuck guitar. They are on, and Lowe hardly takes notice when he sproings a bass string during "Heart of the City": he jes' plays on.
After the show. I talked with Lowe in his tour bus, parked outside, watching the rain fall on the black shining street as we talked, a gallon jug of cheapo California wine on the table between us... We began with metaphysics.
What's the appeal of it?
The reason why I started... I know it might sound very glib, but it's true... I started because I thought I could pull more chicks if I was in a group.
What would you have done if you hadn't been allowed to be a rock 'n' roller?
God knows. In real estate, or something like that. I don't honestly quite know. I was a journalist for a while. I was a waiter as well. I used to make the tea, basically, and they used to give me the odd story to write up. I always liked writing.
It shows in your lyrics.
I always liked Chuck Berry, for instance, because his words were always very clever and very... relevant, for want of a better word. Also, they always fitted the beat so well. It's like our song "I Knew the Bride": the words are very much a part of the beat.
When you produce an an album, how do see your function?
I'm not interested in sound, don't know how to work the board or anything like that. My function is to be a bit of a psychologist: what I do is get people to perform. I leave all the sound and everything up to the engineer. And I figure you can only do it two or three times. If I can't get 'em to play in two or three times, then we'll go on to something else. There's a lot of bullshit talked about sound, nowadays. There are gadgets and things on domestic stereo equipment that you'd have to be a bat to tell the bloody difference. I think it's a simple case of just turn it up and fiddle around with bass, middle and treble until it sounds good.
You don't need 32 tracks....
I don't think so, no, because then you start filling them up with all sorts of bullshit. Look at that great stuff on Stax — Otis Redding, Sam and Dave — four-track, all of that. We did our Elvis Costello album, My Aim Is True, in an eight-track studio, and it cost about, I don't know, about $2000 for the whole record.
How did you happen to get hooked up with Costello?
I've known him for years and years. I met him, of all places, at The Cavern Club in Liverpool. He lived there and he was a fan of a group I used to be in, Brinsley Schwarz. He just started talking to me. He was 17, 18 years old. He's not very old now — 23 or 24. And he used to turn up to the gigs, and whenever he came to London, he used to sort of sleep on my floor. And he played the guitar....
Didn't he have a day job as a computer programmer?
Yeah, he worked for Elizabeth Arden. He was telling the boss he was sick, and he was coming out and cutting his first album.
Getting back to Rockpile, which of you is really the leader?
At the moment, Dave is. I was, on the last tour. There's no rivalry in it at all; it's just good fun. We have such a good time up there, we're real good friends. We fall out with each other, but then, that's what friends are for.
Isn't that rather an unusual setup?
We're trying to change the rules, really 'Cos there's no rules rock 'n' roll. People have been saying, "You can't do this...," but we say why not? Honestly, we don't really care if we're bending a few of the rules. I mean, Dave is a motor mechanic, and I can go hack to the newspaper. For years, people wouldn't have pissed on us if we were on fire. It ain't that important, really. It's just real good fun.
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