Reminiscences

Now that I am seventy six years old my mind is taking inventory all on its own initiative, so I wake up about 8:20 in the morning with a song going through my head like some AI sub routine; faithfully reproducing a song from my past just behind my eyeballs as if I were still behind the drumset. This morning it is Robert Palmer singing: “You might as well face it you’re addicted to Love” This was the beginning of chic blue eyed soul music. It was produced in England. America didn’t have the cultural equanimity to come out with such a slick production Plus Robert Palmer was a suave dude. He didn’t look like a typical rock star: he wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a fore-in-hand knotted tie like he was a corporate executive. His hair was prefect but there was still the air of rebellious spirit. But the thing that really sold this song and sent it up the charts was the video. Specifically the women in the video. The all-woman band consisted of ultra hot European models that all dressed and appeared to be identical: tall with legs forever, pulled back hair so tight it made their perfect faces taught with restrained passion. They all moved together even though it was obvious they were not really playing their respective instruments. It was the typical set up; Drums, Bass, Guitar, Keyboards and Robert up front with a microphone on a stand and his professional look. They were thin and emotionless as they went through the motions of swaying back in forth in unison but not together like traditional groups. They were unattached in their own individual worlds while the song cooked in this nasty but polished groove. Robert didn’t have to acknowledge the women. He didn’t really even look at them. It spoke of a time of sensuality grown up, looking for its equal on the world stage. Hot and sophisticated. Not yet New Age, definitely not punk but an aloof ethic that was more seductive than any other song on the charts. I could go on like Lester Bangs at Creem magazine but the thing that hit me was the chemistry of their skimpy minimalist tube dresses, The material was black and sheer. So sheer that as they moved in their disinterested lasciviousness, their private torsos were betrayed by the bright rock video lighting. They all looked identical too. The song was good; a first class mix. But the women sold the video. It was the beginning of pulp rock and it really worked. So today that is what I am listening to in my Juke box of a brain.