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November 08, 1983 - Image 5

Resource type:
The Michigan Daily, 1983-11-08

Disclaimer: Computer generated plain text may have errors. Read more about this.

Tuesday, November 8, 1983

'he Michigan Daily

Page 5

It's Three O'Clock and not

all's well

By S. King
about the dead bodies on the floor
Af the club. Something even stranger
:han the fact of their death.
Their faces were frozen in grimaces
of horror - happy, manic horror.
Rhett Mandrake squatted down,
examining the corpses like a little kid
turning over a log or a rock to see what
bugs were underneath. They had all
apparently died while in the middle of
dancing. One second they were there
and then zap!, as quick as you could
say "we all fall down" in an obscenely-
serious game of "Here We Go 'Round
the Mulberry Bush," they all collapsed,
victims of the alien, indefatigable
terror that stalked Ann Arbor.
The juke box was strangely silent, set
off in a corner like a tipped-up coffin,
awaiting its occupant's return from the
rest-room. Rhett leaned against it, ap-
preciating its hard safety, and suddenly
everything swam in front of his eyes -
he became woozy with the day's
horrors and his legs felt like Q-Tips, the
bendable, plastic kind. He bit his lower
lip until he felt a trickle of blood oozing
out, reassurance that he was still there
and not, 0 God not in chemistry class.
Lying amongst the legion at his feet.
Regaining his senses, he combed the
mass of bodies for , a face - a
recognizable face. So many of his frien-
ds patronized this place. While Rhett
didn't hope to find a friend there
amongst the cadavers, he nonetheless

had the weirdest sensation of
loneliness, and a part of him -
something deep within the dark of his
inner spirit - longed to see something
or someone with which it could
empathize, even in death.
Happily, however, the faces all
seemed foreign to him; alien,
mysterious. A few looked like
classmates of his - but they had
always been like this to him before:
dismembered faces without names,
without personalities; the minion of
quiet, introspective visages taking
notes in an Engin'class without word or
opinion. Rhett giggled for an instant,
thinking of the band Talking Heads -
here were the real Talking Heads, all
right - only they weren't talking now
- nor would they ever be talking again.
Behind Rhett, a sound. Low,
"Help ...
Rhett turned, his eyes fixed in the
direction of the feeble cry, to the stage.
The amplifiers belonging to the band
that had been playing were still turned
on, their LEDs glowing an eerie red,
like demons' orbs. One of the guitars -
a hollowbody - lay broken in two neat
chunks on the stage; a slow, steady tone
of feedback whined from the amplifier.
The drums, once white, were now
blood-spattered, and a single drumstick
had been thrust into the bass drum like
an arrow piercing the heart of an
unknown assailant. One microphone
swung on its cord like a pendulum.
Rhett thought of that story by Poe,
"The Pit and the Pendulum," when he
saw that microphone hanging there. He
glanced at the neon-lit timepiece and
noticed it was 3 O'Clock. Then he heard
the cry again - a clear, definite cry for

He approached the stage, hesitantly,
stepping gingerly over the bodies piled
up on the floor. One, he noticed, was his
Bio TA. "No big loss," he thought,
before chastising himself for such an
inhumane quip.
The keyboard, he saw, had fallen
over. Behind it, half-obscured by the
monitors, was a boy who looked like he
couldn't be more than 15. He lay in a
crumpled, almost fetal, heap, and ap-
peared to be bleeding profusely from
the stomach.
"Oh my God!" screamed Rhett.
"Who would allow this kid in a bar?
Hell, even Icouldn't sneak in until I was
17!" The tragedy of all those corpses
had been great, but not as great as
when Rhett saw this young boy, cut
down in the prime of his life by a
horrendous, evil force. The stuff of
Rhett cradled him in his arms. His
Buster Brown hair fell away, revealing
a cherubic, oddly peaceful face.
"Help," he moaned again.
"Shhhh. Don't talk. Save your
strength," Rhett whispered, almost
cursing himself for the triteness of his
sympathies. He didn't come to the
University to study Creative Writing
for nothing, after all.
It was dead quiet in the Star Lounge,
except for Rhett's low sobbing and the
gentle breathing of this sole survivor of
a night of terror; they were posed in a
weirdly-abstracted reenactment of The
Pieta on the small, wooden stage.
Overcome by tediousness, Rhett asked,
"Is there anyone I can call? Your
mommy?" A tear streaked his stubble-
laden cheek.
The lad opened his eyes; they were

The clocks tolled as 3 O'Clock came to Joe's Sunday night.

dark with acceptance. "No. No one. I'm
not from around here. California," he
managed, coughing a little. "It was a
good turn-out, wasn't it?" he asked
Rhett plaintively.
"I don't know. I missed the show."
"Well, your tough luck," the boy said.
"I guess you'll never see us" - cough!
cough! -- "play again." His tossled
hair flipped over his eyes. He seemed to
be drifting off to sleep. Rhett's arm

began to do the same, tingling as if an
electric eel had brushed it. He laid the
boy down, and stood up.
"Anything I can do at all, kid?
The small figure stirred. "To begin
with, you can stop calling me 'kid'. I'm
20, and I -"
He stopped, dead in the middle of his
sentence. His eyes had become huge,
bulging dishes.

Rhett thought he was on his final leg.
But the kid's eyes stared at something
behind him, something on the dance
floor. Suddenly Rhett felt heat on his
back, like breath from some gigantic
mouth. A shadow fell over his shoulders;
.and covered the stage like a monstrous
Linus' blanket - only Rhett felt no
The kid continued to stare, and Rhett
turned around.

Elvin Bishop

>roduces a mad mix

By Mike Cramer
I T'S YOUR LOSS GANG. Yeah, there
vas a steep cover charge, and it was
Sunday night, but you folks missed a
good show at Rick's. See, Elvin Bishop
was there, he's got a fab back-up band,
and boy can he play the guitar. He's
down-homey, unpretentious, and more
fun than a keg and a mud fight.
Elvin Bishop grew up in Tulsa,
Oklahoma, listening to country and.
western music because his "Daddy
wouldn't allow nothing else." But, says
Elvin, "Once in a while I'd sneak and
listen to a little blues." When he was
18, Elvin went to college in Chicago.
There he listened to a lot more blues,
and he took up the guitar, ""cause I
wanted to be around girls and I saw
guitarists were doing pretty well."
Bishop played with the Paul Butterfield
Blues Band for several years, and later
became a prime act in the San Fran-
sisco rock haven of the late, '60s.
What all this means is that Bishop has
a mixed-up musical background of
country and western, Chicago blues,
and psychedelic rock. He sites ex-
tremes B. B. King and Hank Williams as
two of his biggest influences. But, says
Bishop (in a friendly Oklahoma drawl).

arms and legs. Although Bishop owned
the stage, no member of his four-man
band was ignored. All were impressive.
Second guitarist Mike Riley played a
really hot solo and oh that fiddle
player! Maybe it's because you don't
see very many bands with fiddle
players, but Tim O'Connor's fiddling
sounded awfully good and awfully fun.
I guess that's the thing - fun. There
are musicians who are good at playing
instruments and there are musicians
who are good at being fun. Elvin Bishops
is very good at both. He wore faded
overalls, and a bent-up straw cowboy
hat over his long frizzy hair. He made
funny faces. He said funny things and
sang funny songs ("Here's a little old
fishin' song for ya now"). He drank
cans of Budweiser and tried to balance
one on his head. He wandered through
the audience, grinning and twanging
his chordless red Gibson. He also
spared us the hearing of his one pop hit,
"Fooled Around and Fell In Love".
Elvin Bishop was friendly, unpreten-
tious, and played lead guitar with daz-
zling skill. He didn't even seem to mind
the small crowd. "We sure had a good
time bein' with you folks," he drawled
as he stepped off the stage, Budweiser
can atop his straw hat. You should have
been there.

Daly photo by SCOTT PRAKKEN
The crowds bowed and prayed at Elvin Bishop's Sunday night performance
at Rick's.

"That whole San Fransisco thing kind
of rolled off my back. . . I could listen to
that psychedelic stuff, but it didn't
really affect my style. . . I think I just
liked it out there (San Fransisco)
because people wouldn't fuck with ya'
for having long hair."
So Bishop's show was a rowdy,
pleasing mix of hillbilly, R & B, and

Chicago style blues, with an occasional
hint of psychedelia. The songs ranged
from pure country to pure blues, but
most were a blend of genres, sort of like
the style of The Band or CCR.
Bishop was an extremely impressive,
guitarist - he seemed to handle his in-
strument as if it were an extension of his
body - like the way most people use

Martin Carthy keeps the Isles from sinking

By Elliot Jackson
A LL RIGHT, adoring fans and
groupies, listen up. No, scratch
that. The adoring fans and groupies
may doze if they so choose. They need
no convincing. In fact, by the time this
article appears, they should be camped
out on 'the front doorstep of the Ark, that
Midwestern mecca for folk music af-
ficionados. No, it is the people who have
never heard of that living-legend-in-his-
own-time, that great and only Martin
Carthy, that I wish to reach.
To these people (who have been
waiting all their lives to hear my
tidings, if they only knew it) I say: if
you have only a passing interest in folk
music, go hear Martin Carthy. If you
think that folk music is Peter, Paul and
Mary singing "Puff the Magic
Dragon", definitely go hear Martin

Carthy. If nothing short of the Who at
120 decibels will satisfy you, maybe you
had better not hear Martin Carthy. In-
deed, maybe you can't hear Martin
Carthy. Still, I would be the last person
to discourage you.
Martin Carthy, and friends John
Kirkpatrick and Howard Evans, play
music of the British Isles on instrumen-
ts of the British Isles. They are
originally members of the fabulous
Albion Band. Good Heavens, what more
do you need to know? Except that Mar-
tin Carthy is considered to be an
eminent singer/guitarist/interpreter of
English folk music. He has sung with
the Watersons, a musical family some
folk fans place only slightly below the
Holy Trinity as an object for
veneration. His companions are no
slouches either. John Kirkpatrick is a
morris dancer, so he certainly merits

our sympathetic attention. In addition,
he plays a variety of "squeeze" or "but-
tonboxes"; the concertina, melodeon,
and accordion. Howard Evans plays the
It may sound like an odd com-
bination. Rest assured, however, that
the combination will sound anything

but odd. Come to the Ark Tuesday night
prepared for some fine playing,
singing, and joke-telling. Two out of
three, at least, will be good. The Ark is
located at 1421 Hill St., 3 houses west of
Washtenaw. The doors open at 7:30


The Amos Tuck School
Business Administration
Dartmouth College " Hanover, N.H.
Men and Women Seeking
Graduate Education for Management
are invited to discuss the

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-includes all faculty and staff salaries
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-available in the regular
Thursday, November 10

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