Page 49 - Demo

Computers and Monsters Waiting to Grow UpThe trouble with all too many of the practitioners of science fiction is that, like Alabama, they can%u2019t seem to wait for the day when they will achieve grownup%u2019s estate and take their rightful place in the congress of nations. And in the meanwhile, again like Alabama, they waste a simply appalling amount of air proclaiming in the most strident of tones that such a day has already come to pass, and it is the world%u2019s fault that the noble occasion has gone unmarked and unhonored. In token of this, the genre%u2019s apologists persistently shoot off their own toes by insisting that the stories of, say, Robert Silverberg are fully as splendid as those of Ernest Hemingway (a perfectly tenable position, by the way, provided you have never read any of the stories of Robert Silverberg and/or Ernest Hemingway), while the elegant planetary fables of Poul Anderson have come in for the full academic shave-and-a-haircut, complete with footnotes, prefaces, acknowledgements, and appendices.All of which, of course, is nothing but a big waste of time that plays wonderfully into the hands of those%u2014and they are many%u2014who profess to view the reading of science fiction as a pastime about as engrossing as the operation of a Venetian blind. In short, it is silly, counterproductive, and dumb.A QUICK THAWCall me a pointy-headed intellectual if you will, but in truth mine is the crie de coeur of the dved-in-sheep%u2019s-clothing fan. I make this admission despite the fact that I am currently residing in the future, and the future, like so much of life on earth, isn%u2019t what it%u2019s cracked up to be. I am awakened each morning by a tiny sonic robot. The air-temp hums faithfully in the background, and room integrity is tight%u2014 so tight, in fact, that local atmosphere seems compounded largely of the effluvium of old socks and stale tobacco. After a quick visit to the waste removal and depilatory room, I grab a cryopak out of thedeepfreeze and pop it into the quickthaw, then sprinkle some coffee crystals into the bottom of my cup. In scarcely twice the time it took my grandmother to whip up a mess of sunnysides with country sausage and home fries on the side, the cover of the autochef pops up and I remove a meal that encourages me to concentrate on my newspaper with commendable urgency. Tossing the debris into the disposal chute (and wishing I lived on the floor above thebrain surgeons upstairs so the ensuing clatter would do something to pay them back for all the empty bottles they threw down last night after the party), I sprint to the lift, tear open the thermal lock, and%u2014using old-fashioned shoes%u2014raceacross the stretch of artificial rock we call The Anvil of the Sun, and gratefully strap myself into my groundcar, turning the coolahuman on high. Scant nanohours later I am at my desk in a building I could earlier have seen from my window if I were more given to masochism than your normal run of space dog. There is a message from Computer on the blotter. I am a great favorite of Computer%u2019s, don%u2019t ask me why; Computer seems to think that it is Bob Haldeman and I am a Democratic holdover, and it is fond of asking me to do such things as count all the paperclips in the hydroponics lab. Today it informs me that three members of my section are still missing. We have had these talks before. I have told Computer that I have never laid eyes on these three people, never expect tolay eyes on these three people, and if these three people ever do show up, I propose to tell them to go get drowned together. Computer just wants me to know that they%u2019re still missing. 'Later in the afternoon, after standin, line behind a man evidently probating fits estate, I will allow another computer%u2014whose copious paperwork I have already done for it%u2014make a hash otr f my personal finances.) There is also a handwritten notefrom the Skipper.SHIPS GO NOVAIt says that e coli bacillus from the biology section has gotten into the water supply again. Around here, you really pay attention to the handwritten notes.Thus begins another day in the life of Lance Davis of the Federation.Science fiction deals with mistakes but it has no truck with problems. Sure things go wrong, ships go nova, planets are scoured with radiation, aliens make trouble, that sort of thing, but nowhere in my friend Commodore Grimes perigrinations around the galaxy in his solid gold space pinnace (in A. Bertram Chandler%u2019s series devoted to his doings) will you find him worried about a missing crown on one of his teeth. Commodore Grimes is much too busy to be bothered by things like that, what with being skyjacked by royalist insurrectionaries and battling carnivorous homunculae in his yeast tanks. Listen, all hail to Commander Grimes and I wouldn%u2019t have missed him for the world, but the point I%u2019mtrying to make is that science fiction is one of the last places where romantic tragedy is still allowed to flourish. Herein lies the nature of its appeal to the American reader, a person who has otherwise been given the comical task of reinventing himself on a day-to-day basis; in science fiction, everything matters. Whole planets if not whole universes are at stake, devil take the hindmost, and if you perish in the attempt, the boys on Earth will keep your memory green; it is like dying and going to heaven, and although it can hurt, it%u2019s usually fun while it lasts. Science fiction is not about bug-eyed monsters%u2014although Heinlein, breaking his usual ubermenschen mood in %u201cHave Space Suit, Will Travel%u201d had quite a high old time with a story that was about precisely that%u2014but adventure and the stuff of songs. It is no accident that in the genre%u2019s best book of the decade, Donald Moffitt%u2019s %u201cThe Jupiter Theft,%u201d the protagonist%u2019s problem is to find out first what the alien convoy is up to and then to prevent the zealous knuckleheads of his own expedition from causing the earth to be sterilized by x-radiation. And this is down against the backdrop of an alien biology and technology that is wonderfully imagined. In science fiction, the universe is always new, and in it we reclaim the amazement of the West and the elegant simplicity of being boys and grown men together, forever twelve years old in the country of the heart, and very brave. I submit that this is no bad thing, especially if you%u2019ve just lost the crown off your tooth.Poui Anderson. The Book of PontAnderson. Daw. $1.95 [paper]. 284pp.A. Bertram Chandler. To Keep the Ship.Daw. $1.95 [paper]. 175pp.Robert A. Heinlein. Have Space Suit,Will Travel. Del Rey. $1.75 [paper].255pp.Donald Moffltt. The Jupiter Theft. DelRey. $1.95 [paper]. 374pp.... Computer seems to think that it isBob Haldeman and I, a Democratich o l d o v e r . .. asking me to countpaper clips in the hydrophonics lab.The Shirts: Will They Create a New Rock Wave?BY ANDREW JUDE ABERThis is the tale of six Brooklyn musicians%u2014The Shirts%u2014who are on their way to making it big. Now this is a personal prediction, and you may be questioning my power of clairvoyance, to this 1 offer three events, all of which proved correct:(1) The breakup of Sonny and Cher,(2) the breakup of Liz and Dick, (3) the cancellation of Dobie Gillis.It all seems like a dream to the six Shirts, who look back on the many years of hard work, playing with %u201c nothing%u201d bands, or playing at Brooklyn street fairs and a few small rock clubs. They review with mixed emotions the days they drove cabs or did moving jobs just to pay the rent.'Now the > have an upcoming tour of Europe and the United States. They have just finished recording their first album in London for Capitol records.My first encounter with The Shirts was three years ago, when my friend Frank convinced me to part with a precious two dollars. I was particularly hesitant about going when I discovered that they were performing at the Bowery%u2019s C.B.G.B.%u2019s, but I ventured anywav.I WAS TRANSFORMEDine lights dimmed, and six motley guys and one attractive girl took the stage. Within two minutes 1 was transformed into a dedicated Shirts fanatic. I sat in shock, as I listened to the most amazing sound in music. Vocalist Annie Golden%u2019s voice sent chills down my spine; her mixture of vocal power and%u201clittle girl lost%u201d image was unlike anything I had seen or heard before. The two lead guitars blended so well that at times they produced a %u201cbag-pipe%u201d like effect.Full bass guitar lines, imaginative percussion, and steady keyboards complete the line-up. Alone members of The Shirts are all songwriting machines, but when they merge together it is total magic, the perfect mixture of force and vocal harmony that forms The Shirts%u2019 own unique sound.Since then, one of the two drummers has left, only proving the talent of the remaining drummer, John (Zeek) Criscione. Annie Golden starred in the film, %u201c Hair.%u201d The Shirts signed a record contract with Capitol/EMI. And I shaved. The one thing that always seemed to be moving up was the quality of their music.The group%u2019s steady personnel for over two years include: Artie Lamonica, lead guitar, vocals; Ronnie Ardito, lead guitar, vocals; Robert Racioppo, bass guitar, vocals; John (Doom) Piccolo, keyboards, vocals; John (Zeek) Criscione, percussion, vocals; Annie Golden, vocals, dancing.It would be impossible to comp a re i n e o m its w m i a n y o n e e ls e . Their musical influences are simply , %u201c good music.%u201d They are bound to create new waves in this New Wave music. The album, entitled %u201c The Shirts,%u201d will be available next month: so to coin an old cliche, %u201cdon%u2019t take my word for it,%u201d buy1 the album. It promises to be one ofthe year%u2019s best musical invest ments. If for no other reason I hope the album sells for the sake of my string of predictions, and besides, they%u2019re a heck of a bunch of nice kids from Brooklyn.One postscript: the band found its name when one day before a gigwhile trying but not succeeding in choosing a name, bass player Robert Racioppo came out with one of his many deep insights and exclaimed, %u201c The Shirts, The Shoes, The Pants, who cares?%u201d The rest is history.The Shirts [l to r]: JohnCriscione, Robert Racioppo, Annie Golden, ArtieLamonica, John Piccolo,Ronnie Ardito.July 20,1978, THE PHOENIX, Page 17