editors: marty porter tony schwartz contributing editors: laura berman howie brick Sunday mcagazime inside: books-page 4 gifted children-page 5 looking back-page 6 Number 12 Page Three _________________FEA7 January 13, 1974 F IURES Alone and lonely Christmas day in a sleazy New By TONY SCHWARTZ NEW YORK CITY. I. EVEN THE diehard hustlers have gone home. It is mid-morning Christmas day on Broadway and Forty-Fifth Street and there are but a few people on the sidewalks, alone and lonely. They seem to be filling the void by talking to themselves in low, undistinguishable hums. A wizened lady looks in the window of a topless bar and notices a bumper sticker reading "SPIRO A G N E W LOST HIS JOB THROUGH THE NEW YORK TIMES." She turns away. "A bunch of fucking communists," she mutters acidly, to no one in sight, about no one in particular. II. THERE IS only one other person at the bar when the young custo- mer enters. He has been warned that, this establishment is a notorious clip joint, but his curiosity overcomes his better judgement. Rosie, the barmaid, -flip hairdo, a flower-print pants suit and 15 pounds of excess fat - approaches him quickly. "Wadda ya have?". "Scotch and soda." "Ya wanna buy Rosie a drink for Christmas?" The customer nods reluctantly. Rosie certainly doesn't need it. It may not yet be noon, but her voice already has a slurred quality, and it becomes more distant as time passes. While she's fixing the drink, Rosie decides to make introductions. Point- ing to one of two ageless dancers standing on a long, thin gym-board surface above her, she acts as if this is a wedding reception. "This is Hetty, one of our topless dancers," she says in a serious tone. Hetty, like her topless cohort, is wearing pasties, a bikini bottom, high heels and a distant gaze. From far away she isn't bad looking. Up close she's awful. Rosie serves up a drink with just enough alcohol to fill a hollow pista- chio nut. "That'll be six dollars, she says. "Cheers." ark topless III. THERE ARE people peeking in the bar window, but few of them come in. There aren't holiday decora- tions to relieve the bleakness. The bar is dimly lit, and the abandoned seat- ing area in the back is dark, but for a mysterious revolving red light. The liquor at the bar is obscured at knee level. They don't go for expensive brands here. Rather ones like Black and White Scotch, Morel Vermouth, St. Croix Rum. IV. There is a flicker of action as Can- dy replaces the two original dancers. Tall and overweight, with wavy black hair, a huge mouth and enor- mous, sagging breasts, the manager refers to her affectionately as "the big Mexican". The manager, in turn, might fairly be called "the fat Ital- ian." He has black, wavy hair which is slicked back, a menacingly protru- ding belly and a voice laced with tart, biting sarcasm. "Why do I work on Christmas?" she asks out of the blue, in a whiny joint high-pitched voice. "Cause you guys gotta have crotch to watch, right?" She breaks into an enormous laugh, which none of the patrons acknowl- edge. "You're crazy Candy," the manager says, pacing the aisle behind the bar- seats. "I brought my own bottle today," Candy replies. "And why shouldn't I? It's Christmas ain't it? Hey Rosie, get me a shot." Rosie has been hunched down in a corner of the bar downing drinks the way little old ladies jam quarters into Las Vegas slot machines: by rote, and from a seemingly unending supply. But she obliges. "See what I got for Christmas?" Candy says, lean- ing over to model a necklace. Rosie approves and calls the manager over. He doesn't see what's so nice about it. "It's nice," he tells Candy. "Very pretty." V. LATER ROSIE switches to what can only be called "chasers"; a con- tainer of coffee, a cup of tomato juice, and two pieces of greasy pizza. Hetty, the topless dancer on break, has been making the rounds at the bar and decides, finally, to approach the young customer. "Ya wanna buy me a drink?" she asks, nuzzling a face tortured by acne close to his. One clip seems like enough, and the customer politely declines. "Well anyways," she says, moving on quickly. "Mary Christmas." VI. CANDY'S sidekick and polar oppo- site, a thin, attractive Spanish girl named Lee, suddenly rushes into the bar, out of breath. She asks Can- dy to lend her an extra pair of stock- ings, disappears, and reemerges naked from the dressing room mo- ments later. Lee mounts the platform and floats off into her own world. Her compara- tively energetic dancing inspires Candy for a few minutes. No one talks to her, and that's apparently the way she wants it. VII. CANDY IS still talking a mile a min- ute. "I ain't givin to no man," she tells Willy. "Candy's got money now." "I could understand how you wouldn't like Jackie," Willy reasons. "But Rocky's back now. 'I gotta make Nostalgia takes a beatng: Bob Dylan opening night in Chicago By RICK STREICKER THE THING that got me was that the bastard didn't say a word all, night. For Dylan, it was the opening con- cert of his first tour in nearly eight years, a tour which, if he only played well enough, would be expected to make him a leading candidate for President and guru to all the young children who lately have deserted folk-rock for the likes of Donny Os- mond, Bobby Sherman, David Bowie and Alice Cooper. Not to mention the several million dollars he would have in his pocket afterwards. When the word came out that Dylan was going to make that tour and there was all that cloak-and- dagger bit about ticket drop-offs, I was one of the thousands of people who decided that the man was out to cash in one more time before every- one forgot about him and they start- ed selling "The Best of Bob Dylan" on late-night TV. The cheapo album Columbia released didn't help either. I mean, who the hell wants to hear Dylan sing "Big Yellow Taxi"? But Christmas is Christmas and you owe yourself a present, and when some- body calls and says that for a mere $9.50 you can buy that extra ticket and see that man you've been dream- ing about since seventh grade-how could I refuse? SO WE drove to the west side of Chi- cago, past the cheap liquor stores and the day labor halls and the flop- houses to the home of the Black Hawks and the Bulls where a million cops were stationed to protect all us kids in Pontiacs. In the lobby, it was a shock to see that, despite what Time magazine said, there were few "veterans of the protest movements of the 1960's for which Dylan's early songs had been the anthems." In fact, almost every- one there was younger than me. Since I was 10 when "Blowin" in the Wind" was composed and 14 when Dylan toured for the last time, it occurred to me that I was in the wrong place. But no-the faces were the right faces. I immediately liked everyone in the crowd, for they were the young- er brothers and sisters of the folkies who watched Hootenanny circa 1961, Now once these 20,000 earnest peo- ple have been lured into the arena by the returning knight errant, some- thing is supposed to happen, right? But as soon as the lights went down and Dylan and the Band struck up the music you could tell, you could song to start the things off right. He played a blues that nobody's ever heard before and nobody will ever hear again, a blues to which you couldn't even hear the words, for Chrissakes! The blues died down and the crowd got quiet. It was clearly time for talk and explanations. Dylan must have felt it, too. His answer was to play "Lay Lady Lay." Or, rather, a paro- dy of "Lay Lady Lay." From where I was sitting it sounded like barrel- house music. I've heard Robert Gou- let sing it better, and with more feel- ing. The applause was deafening. THE BAND played then, proving that they could match their re- cords note for note. They were good, as good as ever, maybe better because they were playing only the best songs from their five albums. But when a really going on than when they ar- rived. After intermission Dylan strode resolutely onstage to satisfy every- one's desire to mainline nostalgia. Playing acoustic guitar unaccompani- ed, he growled out "The Times They are A'Changin"', "Song to Woody", "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Car- roll." The crowd went nuts, of course. We were back in a Greenwich Village coffeehouse in 1963, only it was a lit- tle crowded in there because there were 20,000 of us. Dylan then played a new song, a good one, and without pausing for breath went into "It's All Right, Ma." He was angry and it was impressive. He sang the line about "sometimes even the President of the United States must stand naked" with a sort of a verbal wink and every- body ate it up. He slapped the guitar when it was over and stomped off to overwhelming applause. Then a most impressive thing hap- jened. One by one people all over the stadium lit matches and held them aloft so that the entire place glowed eerily with lights floating in the air. It was like standing on Venus watch- ing the stars come out. I'd only seen that once before, at Woodstock, and it bowled me over. It was a perfect moment, not only for the wonderful people in the crowd but also for Dy- lan, for he had indeed played well. It wasn't until later that I found out that Chicago crowds pull that trick for everyone who comes to town. DYLAN AND THE Band played the rest of the set together. The most not- able thing was "Like A Rolling Stone." Dylan forgot the words to the first verse again, as he did at the Isle of Wight, but everyone sang along as if to make up for the mistake. It wasn't the same song you heard on the radio in 1965; it was nostalgia road and no doubt about it. The Dy- lan onstage in 1974 was not the same fellow who wrote those songs in the 1960's. I was sure he was thinking it strange to have arrived where he was, and that he didn't quite know what to do about it. Dylan's no actor, never was and never will be, and the fact is that he can't and doesn't seem to want to put over his old stuff. He's written a couple of new songs, about his childhood in: Minnesota and, one would guess, about his wife. These he sings well because they come from the heart, present tense. But as for the others? When we cheered him back onstage for an en- that big Mexican' he told me." "Thanks Willy, I appreciate your tellin' him I was back." "Yea I seen Rocky, and he says to me, "Candy's back? I gotta get dressed up, put on my shades and come by.' He even took a shower-I think." Candy turns to a middle-aged man at the bar, who has been there for nearly two hours, not once changing his sullen expression. "Don't you ever smile?" "Not on Christmas," he answers. "Candy, where you been the last few weeks?" Willy interrupts. "I was in Springfield. I have to take a break sometimes. My nerves." "We missed ya." "I can't take it. I have to get away." "I've been to Springfield," Willy says lazily. VIII. ROCKY DOES exist, and he is stop- ping by. What's more, he is wear- ing form-fitting 'shades' and a silver- grey, thin-lapel suit with a dark tie and pointed black shoes. He looks like Ratso Rizzo. The jukebox is play- you," Candy says, greeting him affec- tionately. "Come on in the back right now Candy," Rocky replies, unleashing a grinding motion. "I'll fuck you right now." "I don't know what you want Rocky," Candy taunts him, laughing. "Ya wanna give me some pussy?" Rocky asks, pinching a cigarette be- tween the tips of two fingers and pacing the floor in an unconscious parody of Willy, the manager. "Sure Rocky, I'll give you a Christ- mas special - $150 - just for you." Candy breaks up, does a little jig. IX. A TINY woman with a grizzled face and a gaping toothless smile saunters into the bar bundled up against the winter, holding an old shopping bag. She signals Rocky, who is closest by, to her side. Rocky tow- ers over her, and they are wrapped up in conversation for what seems like a long time. She gestures, and he answers, looking away occasionally to catch a glimpse of Candy. Finally the old woman leaves. Rocky turns to everyone at the bar. He pauses. "She was hungry. I told her we didn't have nothin' to eat." ing 'Sunshiney Day'. "Fuck fuck fuck you fuck you fuck floating pair of binoculars came around it was Dylan that you looked at, even while the Band was playing "King Harvest." Dylan wasn't even playing; he was just sort of dancing with his guitar in time to the music. He was wearing blue jeans, a white shirt, and a black jacket. His hair was curly but not too long. It was better than five pages of pictures in Roll- ing Stone just having him there. But what was he up to? He certainly played some weird ones that first set. "It Ain't Me Babe" was bouncy, almost like a jingle for a television commercial. ("Underarm problems?" "No, no, no, it ain't me, babe.") Two new songs were delivered defiantly, their words unintelligible. It made you painfully aware that in a month you would have to trot out A New By MARTIN PORTER LONG BEACH, NEW YORK. EVERYBODY AT THE old-age home is talking about Marvin Bennett, a strong looking, grey haired fellow with thick horn rim glasses and a heavy Yiddish accent. His name is the primary topic of the conversation at the shuffle board court, the bridge tables, and in the dining room at the Schapper Hotel in Long Beach. A controlled sense of excitement has crept into this stagnant world of ca- nasta, bingo and memories. For the tenants, this is the first New Year's Eve they have looked forward to in quite a while. "I heard that Marvin is going to play the clarinet," one woman tells her partners during an afternoon bridge game. "I have been here three years and this is the first time we have actually had something to do on New Year's," adds a man whose arm shows the warp of chronic arthritis. AND THAT night, at 9:30 on New Year's Eve, Marvin Bennett quiet- ly but proudly watches the meeting room on the ground floor of the Schapper fill up. A big smile gives his ashen face a youthful glow as he ex- plains, "I found out that last year they did nothing for New Year's Eve, so I suggested a narty and they made did it to get rid of me," Bennett mut- ters so matter of factly that any ve- hemence is subliminal. "I was a pain in the neck but I was also sick." BUT IT is New Year's Eve, and be- sides Bennett's story is not unique. Bennett runs off to check the re- freshments, the sound system, and to greet people entering the room. At ten o'clock he takes the stage an an- nounces: "This is the first New Year's party at the Schapper ever." Modest applause. "I would just like to thank you for coming."' The music slips out of the two over head speakers, a number of couples get up and dance, others sit idly, some head for the refreshments. By ten - thirty the refreshments have started to dwindle and there is a steady but gradual exodus from the meeting room. "I am not used to these late hours," jokes one man as he heads up stairs to his room. "I never enjoyed parties," explains another. "I had a wonderful time," com- ments someone else. By eleven o'clock there are no more than ten people left in the room. Mar- vin Bennett appears slightly deflated, but with the determination and poise of an old trouper, he mounts the Year for the old Daily Photo by DAVID MARGOLICK ing company and the later years." entertainment for "I could accept the quiet and the rules," Bennett adds, 'but when they