Touching down in January 1978 tonight, and who is here to greet us but the Motor City Madman, Ted Nugent featuring on the cover of Crawdaddy magazine.
With an M-16, a doberman pinscher, and what looks to be a hand grenade on his utility belt. Rock N Roll Madman indeed. And since you're here, I'm here, and we're rapping about scans and rock music, I'm gonna spin some tunes to listen to as I bang out another post here at Darwination Scans. Not Ted's version but Fudge Tunnel's of Cat Scratch Fever.
I don't quite have the time I wanted to have for a post tonight, as my Saturday largely involved shooting the shit and catching up with some old friends. And later a largely surreal experience, a "pre-prom picture party" at a rather large spread that seemed a modern take on plantation life among many folks I haven't met before and about 30 girls and their dates taking pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures before the big dance. Life in the South still gives me that stranger in a strange land feeling even though I've been down here for nearly 25 years. A yankee never does quite settle in. Those of you like me know what I'm talking about. Probably works the other way too for southerners dislocated in the northern climes, but no one has ever confided this to this yankee at least.
After sitting down, scanning a magazine and finishing the cover edit I started last night, here I am in the midnight hour. Which is fine cuz pops needs to be ready to pick up princess at a moments notice on prom night, eh? I don't have enough time to get to the mag I hoped to get to tonight, so instead let's take a look at an issue of Crawdaddy. My scans, McCoy's edits, the mf link: Crawdaddy (1978-01)(D&M).cbr
Or you can view it at the Internet Archive and download in alternate formats here.
Usually when I do a representative scan of a title, I like to start towards the beginning, tonight it's an issue from the twilight of the original run of the magazine which began publishing in 1966 by then 17 year old Paul Williams before beating both Rolling Stone and Creem to the newstand. Old rockers speak reverently of the magazine and the wiki lists a parade of rockers, writers, celebrities, and artists that graced its pages. I'm a proof is in the pudding sort of guy, though, so let's thumb through the issue and take a look see.
Damn, on the inside front cover, a Camel ad. I still want a camel every time I see a cigarette ad in a scan - even after quitting fifteen plus years ago when the kids were still tiny. It never fails, Joe Camel worked his voodoo on me, or maybe mama just made it too easy to steal her smokes.
It's ok, chicks dig it o.O
Fender. When you mean business, versatile.
contents, appearing later in the magazine than I expected.
But, hey bartender, jobu needs a refill. I better spin more tunes. To accompany the first article, Funkadelic
Sometimes, we forget how far out the Funkadelic really is. It's not simple feel good funk by any means. On display in the first article is the deeply macabre and acid-fueled artistry behind Maggot Brain. The album begins with a long and soulful contemplative and screeching track largely featuring plaintive and expoloratory distorted solo work from guitarist Eddie Hazel. A pretty damn deep intro for what the modern listener might expect to be simply some party funk. And the article isn't much easier to digest. When is Clinton gaslighting, when is he serious. My man certainly is funky, but he likes to funk with the interviewer and reader, too. I'm not sure you leave this article with any better understanding of the workings of Clinton's acid scorched mind, but it's a wild ride. Click the pages for a slightly better view. Have I mentioned I hate Blogger's images, maybe I have 😑
Damn, look at George in the Parliaments before he got funked up. Hard to imagine my man wearing that get up on stage, no doubt.
On the run from the law, Abbie Hoffman was Crawdaddy's travel editor. STEAL THIS MAGAZINE
By the time we get to the late 70s the peace and love of 60s rock and roll has morphed into something different.
The generation that should have gone to Vietnam is trashing your town tonight, ROCK IS HELL.
I WANT TO BE ANARCHY and the graphics oblige. Fuck your boring and placid advertisements, here comes punk fuckin rock ablaze in abrasive red and green, the Sex Pistols (brought to you by Warner Brother records and tapes, lmao)
I still love my records even if I've gone largely digital (so easy, I have a hundred albums on my phone no problem). Last year was the first year LPs outsold CDs in the US in decades. A friend from the UK pointed out the likely reason. New records are stoopid expensive. On my last trip to flip through some records on visit to my hometown, Lawrence Fuckin Kansas, I hit an old downtown haunt Love Garden Records. At a previous location and in a previous life, I recall smoking cigarettes on the coach perched on a second floor above Mass Street with cats meowing about and the windows wide open. You could listen to new music and just hang, flip through seven inches and LPs. They still have a nice selection of records, but it's not quite the same feel (or maybe it's the nostalgia talking). I headed straight for the jazz LPs (my flavor of choice) and was somewhat shocked to see classic reprints going for 50 or 60 bucks. Fuck that, man, I left with a stack of about 15 out of print or obscure jazz records mostly from the 60s and 70s for about 3 or 4 bucks a piece. That's a pretty simple choice in my book. If Gen Z is gonna pay 50 bucks for a platter, no wonder CDs are getting outsold, eh?
Can't forget your LP paraphernalia. I seem to do just fine without, though.But if you're gonna pay 60 dollars for a record you might want to😝
I dunno, I found the record reviews and most of the other content outside of the Parliament article kind of stale. Maybe Crawdaddy was trying to tack towards where later commercial music mags like Spin were going to go but not nearly fast enough. This incarnation seems at least a little adrift. I'll have to check out some earlier issues before passing judgement, though, as perhaps there was more to offer earlier in the run. A dying magazine usually has symptoms of decay, and I smell em here. The maggots are crawling.
Well, no call from the princess, so I can only assume prom night has safely passed and all is well, so time to drift from scanland to dreamland.
Tomorrow! No longer adrift and likely in a coffee fueled post, we'll set the scan machine down with purpose and meet Dashiell Hammet's iconic P.I. Sam Spade in the pages of the slicks in The American Magazine, July 1932.
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