The hurly-burly Taking it all in BY SCOTT DUHAMEL

Sex and drugs and rock and roll. That’s what my body needed. Let’s face the facts — the fertile playground that we traversed during the NewPaper’s infancy more than provided plenty of such snap-crackle-pop action. During the paper’s early daze it was indeed the epicenter of the pre-revitalized downtown rock-and-art scene. Everybody, everbuddy, not just read the rag — they devoured it. At the time you could literally fall into one of the many hipster and flipster haunts (Leo’s, 3 Steeple Street, Panache, Hope’s, the Custom House, the GCB, Tortilla Flats, the Hot Club) and it was in sight, flipped open (club listings first, always), and actually read by the resident proles and politicians, rockers and wanna-be’s, artists and scenesters. As one of the staffers, you were automatically in like Jim and, for those of us so inclined, the next step was always sex or drugs or rock and roll — or, yep, all three combined.

I walked into this hurly-burly in the early ’80s, poised and coiled to spew my rabid attempts at gonzo criticism anywhere and everywhere I could. Initially I spent a whole lotta time on the local rock scene and can still vividly recall the weird netherworld one enters when scribbling about the very guys and gurls you socialize with, always damned if you do and damned if you didn’t, and a certifiable kingpin in any band’s circle once you provide them just a touch of ink. As I latched onto the film nitcrit spot, eagerly reviewing two or three movies a week (the good, the bad, and the wholly forgotten), I continually discovered a crazed readership always ready to debate the merits of the latest cooldaddy movie-movie, or even my very own reviews. It was hog heaven for a certifiably callow, highly egotistical semi-youth, and I thoroughly embraced the good ol’ big fish in a small pond syndrome as if it would never end. The joke, of course, was fully on me as times changed, the NewPaper changed, and I slowly fumbled away my gig soon after the merger with Big Daddy Phoenix.

What stands out amidst all of the crapola I hacked and jacked out are a nice handful of decent bits, particularly my incendiary one-on-one with my then (and now) hero Iggy Pop, an interview and subsequent piece that was in turns high-flyin’, hilarious, and downright dangerous. I also won’t forget a quiet phone interview with the always thoughtful John Cale, or a comical ride in a limo with horror meisters George Romero and Stephen King from Cranston to Seekonk as they test-marketed their collaboration Creepshow sometime in 1982. Also burned in the memory banks are a batch of brilliant and indelible flashes of ferocity, sweat, and talent as the local rockers tore up stages at the Living Room[s], Lupo’s, and a baker’s dozen of live-act joints that sprung up and fell down during that glorious period.

Without a lotta effort, I can also put together a pretty good visual of the here and there films I chose to rave on ecstatically about: Do the Right Thing (’89), Purple Rain (’84), The Right Stuff (’83), Angel Heart, and Barfly (’87), Blue Velvet (’86), Diner (’82), Paris, Texas (’84), Something Wild (’86), and The Last Temptation of Christ (’88), fave raves all, still. There were also some fairly successful attempts at written hilarity, helped along by such easy targets as Sly (Shakespeare) Stallone, Richard (Puppy Dog) Dreyfuss, and such fabulously bad movies as Nuts (’87), Porky’s (’81), Runaway Train (’85), and Venom, a 1982 thriller starring a particularly unscary fake snake and an extremely scary Klaus Kinski.

What I recall most fondly from the aforementioned glory days, ironically enough, ain’t even about me. It’s the whole sound and fury of young, exuberant thinkers and shakers that filled the confines of the ratty old offices and the spaces between the advertisements. All of the usual suspects, including Bill Flanagan, Bob Giusti, John Rufo, Mike Tanaka, Rudy Cheeks, Steve Dubois, Ron Tannenbaum, Evelyn McDonnell, Jim Macnie, certainly myself, and Bob Angell (especially Bob Angell) rapping, debating, and riffing incessantly on all matters in the kingdom of hip as zen master (and master editor) Lou Papineau looked on, smiling imperceptibly and nodding quietly, essentially guiding us (at least me) into the deepest corners of pop culture, all the while overlooking yet another missed deadline or a rambling (drug- and drink-influenced) think piece, all of it done with absolute precision and capped off with terrific headlines. A bunch of us — most of us — talkers and squawkers, are long gone, but Lou is still there, overseeing what was once a ragtag underground sheet, which has turned into the essential political and cultural written barometer. And (yeah) a Rhode Island tradition of sharp, smart, and telling journalism.

Scott Duhamel writes about film for Providence Monthly.