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Eagles-Filling the void
By BILL DAVIS
Long ago there were groups
that played music that gave
you a good feeling inside; not
supposedly "progressive" mu
sicians from across the ocean,
but people from the good ol’
USA who played music that
made you want to get up and
dance. Groups like The Flying
Burrito Brothers and the early
and middle editions of The
Byrds were almost like institu
tions Every new album
brought new joys and delights
as Roger (Jim) McGuinn.Gene
Clark. David Crosby, Chris
Hillman and the late and great
Gram Parsons made nice mu-
A roll. No matter what the
song, their is always that tinge
of electricity that seems to
invite the listener to tap his
feet, or even to get up and
dance Powerful instrumenta
tion has brought the merger of
country and rock A roll, and it
has done so thru the music of
the Eagles.
All of this brings us to their
latest adventure, entitled "On
The Border." With a little
something for everyone, this is
possibly their best album yet
The only changes from their
previous works are the addi
tions of Don Felder on electric
and slide guitars, and the
takeover of producing chores
by Bill Szymczyk (of Jo Jo
Gunne A James Gang fame).
The loss of producer Johns is
unfortunate, but any difference
in the sound of the group is
slight.
Songs range from rock & roll
("Already Gone," “On The
Border," "James Dean"), to
"mellow music" (“You Never
Cry Like A Lover,” "My
Man," "The Best Of My
Love"). Receiving their usual
helping hand from friends John
David Souther and Jackson
Browne, the record is one no
admirer of fine music will
'want to miss. Even loverS of
just plain "Boogie” music will
enjoy the sound of "James
Dean." a song in the style of
1 early 1960 RAR. So do yourself
a favor, and if you have not
generally cared much for “d-
tybilly" music, give the Eagles
a chance. There's a fair possi
bility that they’ll change your
mind.
a night of sophistication
sic for the listening public But
as things happen, these groups
began to cease to exist, and
suddenly a great gap was left
with no one to fill it. Then the
Summer of 1972 arrived and a
group of four individuals came
together to fill that void. Their
name: Eagles.
When you turned on your
radio that Summer of '72, you
probably heard a song called
“Take It Easy." This was the
Eagles first claim to fame and
it helped pave the way for the
success of theii debut album.
All ten songs were distinctive,
and more importantly, they
were all quite good When
listening to the song “Peaceful
Easy Feeling,” that's exactly
what you felt.
After a year of travelling on
the road in the studio, they
released their second album,
the excellent "Desperado.” Al
though they did not realize it
when they began to record the
album, it was one which told
an entire story (the story of
the Dalton Gang of the wild &
woolly west). Produced by one
of the best studio men around.
Glyn Johns, it was an album of
outstanding achievement, one
which was quite powerful in-
strumentally. But how did the
group called Eagles begin, and
who are the four individuals
who are involved?
The Eagles-Glenn Frey. Ber-
nie Leadon, Don Henley and
Randy Meisner — have steadily
improved during their short
existence All four members
have had vast experience —
Poco, The Flying Burritos,
Rick Nelson A The Stone
Canyon Band and Linda Ron-
stadt — and thru these groups,
each member has learned to
master his instrument Because
of their mastery over their
music, the Eagles are not like
every band — they are an
organic band, musicians play
ing music for people to have a
good time as they listen. Their
music extends from the "city-
billy" music of The Burritos to
the folk-like kind of music that
Poco (and sometimes even
America) does so well Many
influences exist within their
music — Bluegrass, Steel Gui
tars. Voices in Harmony — but
their most'important asset is
their true committment to rock
The air was strangely quiet. It had just stopped raining, and
Ken Watson, his arms crossed on the roof of his candy blue
sports car and his head resting on them so he could feel the blood
surge in his adam's apple, watched the white, almost blue, light
spin out of a nearby street lamp
Ken Watson had been the smartest person he'd known ever
since he could remember And since his memory was nearly
infallible, he knew that he'd never met anyone smarter than
himself and forgotten about them. This knowledge gave him a
smug feeling of security and he laughed self-assuredly
Across from where he stood was a row of 1948-ish apartment
buildings, that in the wet nighi light resembled the dead and
pulpish brown leaves of winter. Light came from only one of
their many windows, and Ken felt very alone.
He ran a hand through his strawberry blond hair, and then
with the flat of the same hand pushed hard against his forehead.
Ken was 28, and most of his friends were married What he had
thought was a love affair with a younger girl had, he was sure,
ended for him two weeks ago He glanced at the solitary lighted
window, trying not to think of love He thought about numbers;
an endless series of repeating decimals. But what did any of his I
smartness matter? He was the head engineer at WOLD-TV and
would probably own the station by the time he turned 40. but
what did any of that mean’ Where would that put him? Alone
and intelligent and well off He hit his hand against his forehead I
again and laughed
"Pity is for sissies; pity is for sissies." He recalled an old
childhood taunt from fourth grade in Mrs Bright's class "Mrs
Bright with sweetness oozing from her over ripe breast Sally
Hurlbut sat next to me in class Thought I loved her I wanted to
be an artist then, but hadn't any feel for it. My trees never
looked like trees. They were always too straight The lines were
They always looked like boxes or triangles or pieces of sheet
metal fit together in wierd but geometric shapes; never like
trees Got 780 on math S.A.T., but couldn't draw trees Couldn't
draw trees.” He laughed again
A loud voice suddenly startled him from his reverie It came
from the lighted window. A woman: "Oh Lordie, Lordie where
does it stop’’ When are you gonna realize that 1 love you. I need
you Luther Jones, for whatever you may be. I've picked you out
I've picked you out of all the men I 'd ever known and I want just
you — just you — just you." The voice softened, became almost
indiscernable.
For ten seconds that seemed like an eternity to Ken there was
silence Then the female voice again, but angry: “Luther, you’ve
been with that woman again haven't you? And you come home to
me at 4:00 in the morning smelling like whiskey "
A rough male voice cried out, "Shutup dammit."
Then another pause, and suddenly the sharp report of a gun
shot came from the window.
From around a comer, a police car screeched into the street It
was steel blue, burnished and glistening like a locomotive The
siren wasn't on. but the car’s red light was flashing chalkily into
the night and its headlights threw stark'shadows on the dark
buildings Two officers got out of the car and ran into the apart
ment building
Ken watched in a stupor of surprise. "What am I doing here?”
he mumbled. He remembered parking the car at the comer One
time, he remembered farther back, she saw a stray cat at this
comer and she wanted it and that's what I'm doing here.
Memory never fails me; damn smart sonuvabitch.
Can't think about her anymore, he thought as he got into his
car and pulled away from the curb An ambulance drove onto the
street, and he wondered about what a 35-year-old bachelor friend
of his told him: “Only remember not to love her so much that it
costs too much to relinquish her." He watched the flashing light
of the ambulance through his rear-view mirror, and turned on
the radio. To his right was a grove of trees. He didn't notice
them, and he didn't think about her He thought about some
transistor work he |iad to do on some of the video equipment at
the station as he drove away into the morning of his most intelli
gent and sophisticated night
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By STEVE ONEY
Fiction