Beth Hyatt is out front again this month. (Her Playboy cover debut, as a tattooed secret agent heralding James Bond's Girls in November 1965, was among the most striking in our 161-cover history.) Beth's wind-blown trackside appearance signals one of the milestones ahead on the May Playboy circuit crowded with high-powered fiction, fast-paced articles and supercharged pictorial features. German photographer Horst Baumann and Playboy Contributing Editor Ken W. Purdy, who created this month's automotive extravaganza, The Grand Prix, are widely considered the world's best auto-racing photographer and chronicler, respectively. This makes the results of their collaboration here something of an ultimate essay on what has become man's most glamorous sport.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Return Postage must accompany all manuscripts, Drawings and Photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no Responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents copyrighted (c) 1967 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. All rights reserved. Nothing may be reprinted in whole on in part without written permission from the publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and Semifiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover: Model Beth Hyatt, Photography by Alexas URBA. Other Photography by: Jerry Bauer, P. 3; Don Bronstein, P. 3; Mario Casilli, P. 3 (2), 153; Alan Clifton, P. 3; Larry Gordon, P. 92, 109, 153; Marvin Koner, P. 63; Pompeo Posar, P. 97; Jerry Yulsman, P. 3.
Playboy, May, 1967, Vol. 14, No. 5, Published monthly by HMH publishing Co., Inc., Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its possessions, the Pan American Union and Canada, $20 for three years, $15 for two years, $8 for one year. Elsewhere add $4.60 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director: Jules Kase, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, MI 2-1000. Detroit, Joseph Guenther, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, YU 2-7994; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Deluged as we are with dull direct-mail solicitations, we're always on the lookout for an irresistible offer. We thought we had a winner recently when a letterhead emblazoned with large, carnivorous-looking insects caught our eye. The mimeographed missive was from one Hugh A. Carter of Plains, Georgia, who wasted few words getting to his point: "Sir: you can make thousands of dollars yearly raising gray crickets to sell as fish bait." This, frankly, is a way of making thousands of dollars yearly that had never occurred to us. Visions of early retirement danced in our head as we read that "a cricket lays approximately 10 eggs a day and lays from 20 to 30 days. With just a little figuring you can see what 200 breeder crickets will produce for you. If you sell retail, you can get 1 1/2-3 cents each for them. From 200 female crickets with the proper amount of male crickets you should produce 30,000-40,000."
The idea for Peter Shaffer's Black Comedy is an admitted swipe from a Chinese classical-theater scene in which two swordsmen pretend they are dueling in the dark while the stage is fully lit. Shaffer substitutes contemporary farce for ancient swordplay, but the effect is the same. The actors make believe they can't see, but the audience sees all. It is a stunning theatrical idea--for a while, until it becomes merely theatrical. The main problem is that Shaffer has settled for farce-in-the-dark, slight nonsight gags, instead of trying true black comedy. The plot is ten-watt. A sculptor (Michael Crawford) is in his studio-flat with his overcute fiancée (Lynn Redgrave), waiting for her father (Peter Bull) to arrive and give the match his blessing. They are also waiting for a filthily rich art patron to arrive and give them his patronage. To impress their elders, the young couple temporarily steal fancy furniture from the flitty decorator next door (Donald Madden). Then the lights blow and Daddy stumbles in, followed by the decorator, a matronly teetotaler, Crawford's ex-girl (Geraldine Page) and a stageful of complications and mistaken identities. The teetotaler swigs gin from the bottle. Crawford tries to return the furniture before Madden recognizes it. Miss Page, pretending she is Crawford's maid, insults her rival. In the absence of dramatic development, the actors fall back on their own invention; occasionally they just fall back. Crawford steps on a table, skids Keatonishly with the telephone as a skate. He switches Bull's chair from straight to rocker; Bull resits and, to his amazement, rocks. Miss Redgrave pours a drink in a glass and all over the floor. As busy as the actors are, the playwright is busier, making sure the lights don't go on too soon and end the play. So he hides the candles, extinguishes the matches. Actually, Shaffer is the one who is really in the dark--about what to do next. White Lies, the curtain raiser that precedes Black Comedy, contrasts with it in every way but one. The lights are on, lies are told and everything is more serious; but the one-acter, like the main work, is attenuated and unfulfilled. It is a tedious fabrication about a hard-up fortuneteller (Miss Page) who is bribed to misread a fortune. Still, it is notable for allowing Miss Page to give the richest characterization on stage all evening. At the Ethel Barrymore, 243 West 47th Street.
Petula Clark, the little girl with the big voice, has a big LP going for her with Color My World / Who Am I (Warner Bros.). From the lead-off England Swings, through the two ballads covered in the title and including the chart-busting Winchester Cathedral, Pet proves the adage that good things can come in the smallest of packages.
To be a Crook is a statement against the violence of an age, from a man who prefers happy endings and who comes only with reluctance to an unhappy ending here. But Claude (A Man and a Woman) Lelouch, having decided to go the way of probability rather than preference, engineers an unhappy ending to top all unhappy endings, a bloodletting conclusion that belongs more properly to grand opera than to the realistic terms of the tale he sets out to tell and tells so well, with such charm and invention, until the denouement. Four young men live in the same neighborhood, work in the same automobile factory, drink in the same bistro and go to the same movies. They have no education, no imagination and no prospects; and the American movies they love have given them the notion that their only route to success is via a life of crime. They quit their jobs, pool their resources and, together with the deaf-mute girl who is the mistress of one of them, they put themselves through their own crime school. However, everything goes wrong. They line up bottles and bring out a cache of stolen artillery; but even with a machine gun, they can't break any glass. They challenge the toughest gang in the neighborhood and, employing a strategy borrowed from "Revenge of the Comanches," get their heads beat in. Most humiliating of all, when they try to put the snatch on a trollop's German shepherd, in order to practice "le kidnaping," the dog puts them all to rout. It's great, good, frustrating fun until, at last and by a fluke, they have the misfortune to succeed in an unplanned crime, and events rush briskly into panic and tragedy. Lelouch, writer and director, gets appealing performances from his four boys and a winsome, enchanting one from Janine Magnan, who plays the deaf-mute. The dialog is consistently funny and lightly offbeat. From start almost to the unfortunately melodramatic finish, To be a Crook is a brilliant job.
In December 1965, three Americans defied the State Department and flew to North Vietnam, with stops in London, Prague, Moscow and Peking. Opposed to American intervention in Vietnam, they wanted firsthand information on "the enemy" and hoped to act as some kind of bridge to help end the war. One was veteran Communist Herbert Aptheker. The other two were Yale history professor Staughton Lynd, a New Left activist, and Tom Hayden, a founder of Students for a Democratic Society. Lynd and Hayden have chronicled their journey, with some updating and analysis of the background of the war, in The Other Side (New American Library). Although there is little new in their book for those who have read the late Bernard Fall, Jean Lacouture, and Harrison Salisbury's recent New York Times dispatches from North Vietnam, The Other Side is a useful guide to the reader who comes late to the complexities beneath the rhetoric. For example, Hayden and Lynd document their contention that "Vietnamese revolutionaries have not only been betrayed by the Western Great Powers but have received much less than full support from the Communist Great Powers, in particular the Soviet Union." Nor has China, they aver, been innocent of slippery conduct. The authors also define the distinctions between North Vietnam and the National Liberation Front in the South. Their book makes its greatest impact with its descriptions of some of the people on "the other side"--in Czechoslovakia and China as well as in North Vietnam--a graphic demonstration of the desirability of more direct observation of the differing life styles within the Communist world. As a whole, the book is an effective rebuttal to the main foundations and assumptions of official American policy in Southeast Asia, which is hardly winning converts for our definition of democracy. If and when negotiations finally take place in Vietnam, the next step, Hayden and Lynd emphasize, will be "to redefine America's interests, redefine communism... going beyond all conceptions inherited from the Cold War, especially beyond the concept of 'the other side.'"
How do those of us who are not so beautiful as your Playmates find masculine companionship? My face is sufficient, but I'm about 45 pounds overweight. And even if I were to shed this excess weight, as I have done two or three times in the past, I would still not be beautiful: I have large bones and a small bust. Please don't try to give me a lot of "personality" advice, because I've been around long enough to know that my personality is suitable to almost any situation. I'm sorry to say that I am overly particular when it comes to the men in my life. They must be very well equipped in manners, dress, looks and personality, not to mention status, job and wages. I refuse to become part of "social groups." And I refuse to hunt males down. What sort of hope is there for someone like me?--Miss J. D., Tacoma, Washington.
Notable for the number of English-speaking girls annually in attendance, and less relentlessly long-haired than most musical fetes, is the Edinburgh Festival, to be staged in Scotland's capital from August 20 to September 9. The event draws musicians, actors, film directors, writers and starlets from all over Europe. If you plan to stay at the famed North British, Caledonian or Carlton hotels, where most Festival stars will be quartered, reserve your room now. Once the festivities are under way, performers and visiting celebrities will be wining and dining nightly at such elegant Continental restaurants as the Epicure, the Aperitif and the North British's La Caravelle.
Sol Weinstein, debuting this month as a Playboy interviewer, has thrice regaled our readers--in serializations of "Loxfinger," "Matzohball" and "On the Secret Service of His Majesty the Secret Service of his Majesty the "Queen"--with the exploits of his seltzer-and-sour-cream superspy, Israel Bond. An ex-newspaperman, he drew on his deadline-at-dawn reportorial experience to beard this month's elusive subject in his New York den. Weinstein's dispatch--wired to Playboy collect--begins:
The valley has a name, and I could find it easily enough on a map of Korea, but to me it will always be Her Valley. It is a wilderness by now, and the village--Her Village--has been swallowed up by the tangled underbrush, for the armistice line that divides the country runs close by, and no one lives in the buffer zone between north and south, and no one may enter it to tend the ancient graves--or to chase down memories. She may still be alive, perhaps on the inaccessible side of that no man's land, perhaps on this side, where I could find her and thank her if I knew where to look, and if I knew her name. But all I have now is this memory of a spring day--and the knowledge that she found for me something I had lost.
Fresh from the set of the video sex opera Peyton Place, Barbara Parkins adds a slice of distaff life to our well-rounded collection of the latest in men's PJs. On the TV show, this sleepytime gal plays Betty Anderson Cord, a teenage swinger who grew up to become the town's sultry sophisticate. Barbara, too, has grown with the part: 20th Century-Fox has awarded her a lead role in its screen version of Peyton Place-ish Valley of the Dolls. Living doll Barbara, nominated for the Hollywood Women's Press Club's Sour Apple Award as least-cooperative actress of the year, obviously was the model of cooperation for Playboy.
I felt we made an embarrassing contrast with the open serenity of the scene around us. The pure blue of the sky was unmarked by a single cloud or bird, and nothing stirred on the vast stretch of beach except ourselves. The sea, sparkling under the freshness of the early-morning sun, looked invitingly clean. I wanted to wade into it and wash myself, but I was afraid I would contaminate it.
Two years ago, when I was a graduate playwright at Carnegie Tech in Pittsburgh, I sat down and wrote an original screenplay about three young women who are literally seducing to death a guy named Paxton Quigley, whom they have locked in the attic of their college dormitory. I wrote it out of venomous contempt for all the Hollywood claptrap I'd ever seen that presumed to examine the sex life of young Americans and succeeded only in vilifying our lower regions. During one flashback, an outraged mother screams, "Young man, my daughter better not be pregnant!" Quigley looks at her and says:."Lady, where you been the past five years, at the movies?"
The Grand Prix car is the epitome of the automobile. A dragster will outaccelerate it. A land-speed-record car will run faster by hundreds of miles an hour. A sports car is more civilized. Any kind of sedan is more comfortable. But the Grand Prix car is the ultimate expression of the purpose of the automobile: to run fast and controllably over ordinary road. It is all automobile, all function, weighing, usually, less than 1500 pounds, pushed up to 180 mph-plus by a rear-mounted engine of 400-odd horsepower, small, thin-skinned, fragile. The driver, half reclining, his shoulders tight against a wrap-around plastic windshield, holds at arm's length an absurdly small, padded steering wheel. A gear-shift lever two or three inches high lies close to one hand or the other, and the gasoline tanks are around, under and sometimes over him. Fat foot-wide tires on small wheels take the power to the road. The car is built to a precise standard, or formula, internationally agreed upon, and usually laid down, whatever else may be claimed for it, to restrict the car's top speed by limiting something--engine size, fuel capacity, minimum weight. Despite this, race-car speeds rise year by year in percentages that can be predicted. The Grand Prix car is built to Formula I, which is changed every four or five years. (A new formula came in last year.) Formula II and Formula III cars are smaller and slower, compete in their own classes. A Formula I car can cost $50,000, the engine alone, $15,000 to $25,000--and ideally each car should have two spares.
I know what spies do. I've watched enough of them in action by now. I've seen James Bond and Derek Flint and Napoleon Solo and that fellow who was such a good cook in The Ipcress File. I know all about them. They have attaché cases fitted out with death-dealing transistorized gadgets. They are quick on the draw and adroit at getting up ladders dropped from rescuing helicopters; they tend to favor blue shirts and wear wrist watches that broadcast their whereabouts. Often, in the course of carrying out their mysterious missions in exotic lands, they have their way with curvaceous, liquid-eyed and possibly treacherous ladies. Oh, yes, I know these fellows have their troubles, too. Didn't I see poor Alec Leamas sulking his way through The Spy Who Came in from the Cold? Let no one say, therefore, that I am writing on a subject on which I am improperly informed.
A Blonde who has more fun than most, Anne Randall, Playboy's centerfold choice for May, is a golden girl in more ways than one. Currently pursuing an acting career in Los Angeles, Anne is as candid as she is comely. "I suppose there are hundreds of other girls in Hollywood trying to break into films," she says, "but we're not in competition with one another--we're in competition with ourselves. I think there is a standard of professionalism I'll have to attain, and when I do, any success I'll merit will come to me." Anne's acting ambition did not come to fruition simply because she blossomed into a picturesque peach of a girl. "I've been acting--and loving it--since I was in elementary school," Anne recalls. "When I was very young, I sang in a talent contest, and I still remember how the audience's applause sounded to me. I decided right then, I guess, that I'd grow up to be an actress." A native San Franciscan, Miss May was a top teen model while in high school and also appeared regularly on a Bay Area TV dance-party program. She then acted out the role of drama major for three years at Fresno and San Francisco City colleges before deciding to pull up stakes. "I realized that if you want to make it as an actress," says the lovely 22-year-old, "there's only one place to be on the West Coast--L. A. And so here I am, ready or not." Since coming to the swinging city, Anne has appeared in a number of local productions and a few weeks ago finished a successful run in an original musical comedy staged in suburban Glendale. "It was my first singing role," says Miss May, "and it was great fun. Although I'm hardly an operatic soprano, my voice isn't bad. Last summer someone lent me a guitar and I immediately went out and bought a Beatles songbook. I've been taking lessons and I can now accompany myself." But singing is secondary to our Playmate. "Oh, I've got the acting fever, all right," Anne will tell you. "I don't like to analyze it, but I know I have to be an actress. It's a very compulsive thing--when I'm acting, I'm happy; when I'm not, I'm miserable." Breaking into movies, however, isn't easy. "The casting offices will only consider you when they see you on film. Who has film of me? No one! I'm trying to get a screen test." When the aspiring actress feels the need to unwind, she'll hop into her Austin-Healey Sprite for a spin along Los Angeles' famed freeways. "Only one complaint about the drivers down here," Miss Randall observes. "They sometimes can't resist passing other cars on the right. Of course, I shouldn't protest too loudly; I've smacked up my car twice since I've been here. How? I was passing someone on the right." Strongly tied to her family, Anne is never in a bind when her two younger brothers--Ronnie, 19, and Johnny, 15--come down from San Francisco for a weekend visit. "My brothers are an absolute gas," she says. "Johnny is a terrific athlete--baseball, football, basketball, all sports. Ronnie is a student at Fresno City College and wants to be an actor. But he's a very practical guy and he's going to study law so that he'll have something to fall back on. What I like most about being with my brothers is that when we're together we laugh a great deal. And that's a marvelous thing." Anne goes all out to make sure their weekends are fast-paced and laced with activities: Pool, bowling, swimming, ping-pong and horseback riding are among the family favorites. "I'm not a bad athlete myself," says our May Playmate. "I keep in condition by switching on the Jack La Lanne TV show and exercising along with him. The man's fantastic! When I met Jack, he told me he wakes up at four in the morning and works out till six. How's that for keeping in shape?" Fine for La Lanne, but somehow, we feel our readers will agree that exercise looks better on Anne.
We know a football buff who is such a compulsive gambler that he lost $50 on the last game of the season: $25 when the opposing team scored a touchdown from their own 15-yard line; and another $25 on the Instant Replay.
Velvety dark beer is intended for those who drink beer like wine, not like water. You pour it at the gemütlich dinner when you're serving whole roast tenderloin of beef, at the special board when you're carving a crown of lamb, or at the season's first feast of cold fresh Kennebec salmon. Even with fare as casual as roquefort cheese and sour-dough French bread, or with bowls of fresh crab lump and mayonnaise, it's an extremely pleasant turn-of-the-beer-tide to be able to ask your guests whether they'd prefer Danish dark Carlsberg or Oyster Stout from the Isle of Man. Understandably, beer drinkers are fiercely loyal to one kind of brew. But when four good men of different loyalties are sitting around a pinochle table, the most convivially ubiquitous balm you can dole out, after dealing the cards, is tankards of rich black beer. In food, rather than merely with food, dark beer imparts a mellow, offbeat accent that has absolutely no peer for flavoring dishes as varied as bacon-and-onion rabbit, minute steaks with beer gravy or a dessert of warm baked apples with bread-crumb filling mixed with dark beer, brown sugar and spices.
For even a mediocre conversationalist, the most frustrating cliché to deal with is the pointless question or comment. It's a kind of imbecile's one-upmanship, because you can neither ignore it nor acknowledge it without sounding like a boob. In the guerrilla war against hackneyed chatter, total victory is never possible. But one can learn how to derail an enemy train of thought. For such a campaign, the following answers are recommended highly. They may not blitzkrieg your interrogator, but they're bound to make him fall back and regroup.
The Building is on a Military Installation somewhere in the United States. It is a most inhospitable building. It has no windows and only one entrance, heavily guarded. Its administrators obviously don't want the public to know what goes on inside, and perhaps this is kind of them. Inside are nightmares.
While a physics major at Naples University, Sylva Koscina was chosen to award flowers to the winner of a bicycle race. Newspaper photos of the ceremony led to a screen test and to a role in Pietro Germi's The Rainbow Man. Sylva has since been a star in ascendancy, and in Federico Fellini's Juliet of the Spirits, her sensual side aroused international interest. This year, Sylva appears opposite David McCallum (in MGM's Three Bites of the Apple), Paul Newman, Horst Buchholz and Richard Johnson. In an exclusive Playboy portfolio, she intimately reveals the charisma that is Koscina.
When the Contented Passenger, dined to repletion on The King's Dinner aboard the altogether remarkable Panama Limited of the Illinois Central Railroad between Chicago and New Orleans, pushes back his liqueur glass that has lately contained Cointreau, dips his fingers in warm, lemon-scented water in a silver finger bowl upon a candlelit table and lights up a post-prandial Don Diego to relax in well-upholstered gustatory comfort, he will be among the last residual legatees to one of the noblest of American inheritances: a good dinner on the steamcars. There are only a prideful handful of trains now in operation where this pleasant practice can be enjoyed with all its old-time amenities intact, where once throughout the length and breadth of the land men gloried and drank deep aboard trains of ineffable splendor. But it is an inheritance honestly come by, for once, in a period known to students of surface transport as the belle époque of overland travel, the best food in America was served aboard the name trains of the land. This is not an idle phrase or glittering generality; it can be attested to by the record and the sworn testimony of living men and women and, furthermore, it obtained when such temples of gastronomy as the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, the Antlers in Colorado Springs and the Palace in San Francisco were in fullest culinary flower to supply competition. For perhaps three splendid decades, Americans ate better on the cars than they did anywhere else. Qualitatively and quantitatively, they put away a superb assortment of comestibles, gorgeously confected, lovingly served and generally regarded as the finest achievement of the industry that was for the better part of the 19th Century the preoccupation of the American people.
Balls were the big thing in the duchy of Milan, and to one of them came Bonnivet, a visiting Frenchman, all silk, beard and lasciviousness. Like a hunter on the trail, he moved among the dancers with a stealthy tread and a scanning eye, until he suddenly stopped, rooted to the parquet--he had a beast in view.
This summer, the cool approach to outdoor casualwear will be supported by a strong show of arms. Heading for the hills with a close friend, the young man has donned a fully lined sleeveless suede vest with snap-front closures, back yoke and snap side tabs, by Robert Lewis, $20. It is coordinated with his muted Mexican-stripe cotton slacks, by Carwood, $6, and his leather belt with raw edges and round, polished-brass buckle, by Canterbury, $6.50.
The Curly-Haired youth intones, in a quietly intense voice that makes teeny boppers sigh and hippies nod in approval, "Fly trans-love airways, getcha there on time." Known to the world on a first-name basis, Donovan Leitch, 21, is the minstrel of a wide-awake generation that loves its freedom and seeks to free its love. The Glasgow-born singer-writer put aside his art-student paintbrushes at the age of 18 and set off to roam Britain with his guitar and his longtime buddy, Gypsy Dave, absorbing sunshine and folklore and celebrating both in song. Since scaling the international folk-music charts with Catch the Wind, Colors and The Universal Soldier, he has graduated to the world of psychedelics and electrified, Oriental-flavored music. Sunshine Superman, Donovan's first Epic album--like its title song, a number-one seller--contained lush, mobile arrangements utilizing brass, strings, woodwinds and amplified instruments from around the world. The songs evoked a sensory kaleidoscope, and despite occasionally obscure images, the themes of universal love and drugs as aphrodisiacs of the soul were clear enough. Donovan sang euphorically of "happiness in a pipe." His latest hit album--named for his million-selling single, Mellow Yellow--further extends his communion with the world around him; at various moments he is humorous, lyrical, introspective and socially opinionated ("Yourself you touch, but not too much--you've heard that it's degrading," he sings to a symbolic single girl). Both LPs fuse elements of traditional ballads, blues, ragas, jazz and classical music; the key to Donovan's success is that his keening melodies and flexible formats approximate the shifting moods and life textures of his time. What's more, the bulk of his output is simply "happy." Resisting critical tags such as "message" singer ("the word 'message' is for the older generation"), the trend-conscious Donovan has made unique contributions to the growing body of "personalized" pop music. Now experimenting with films and stage productions designed to "engulf" the audience, the mild-mannered hit maker seems set to live his own lyric and "follow through a dream to the end." Considering his tender age and manifold abilities, odds are that the sunshine superman will continue to set the style for his contemporaries.
Not surprisingly, the pop-music scene is involved with "sounds." There is the surfing sound of the Beach Boys. There is the Lovin' Spoonful's good-time sound. There is the Detroit sound and the Chicago blues sound, and there are hard-rock, psychedelic-rock, raga-rock and folk-rock sounds. And a while back, the scene was buzzing with talk about the newest sound--out of California. The Mamas and the Papas had just released California Dreamin', their first big hit, and the word was: Dig the California sound. Only trouble was, the new group's roots were in Greenwich Village, where it started out. If the new style needed a tag, "the sound of the Mamas and the Papas" was the most accurate: The sound is a unique blend of voices that, in the old advertising phrase, has been seldom imitated, never duplicated; it belongs to them alone. "Actually," says bearded John Phillips, baritone, songwriter, arranger and leader of the group, "I've always kind of thought of it as the Virgin Islands sound. That's where we worked most of it out, lying around the beach two summers ago. That was 1965. We came back in September, formed the group officially in October, recorded in November and had a hit in January." Michelle, John's wife, provides the soprano that skitters around above the rest of the sound. Denny Doherty is the tenor. And Cass Elliott. Big Momma Cass. The mother of mankind, producer Lou Adler called her. Hers is the lusty contralto belting out leads, working around the other voices in the ensemble sections of numbers such as their Grammy-winning version of Monday Monday. Living in poverty only two years ago, the Mamas and the Papas today luxuriate in Underground splendor in their Southern California superpads. Where they used to scrounge for the bus fare uptown from the Village, they now own expensive foreign sports cars. Thanks to advance sales, their records win gold million-seller awards even before they are released. Through it all, the Mamas and the Papas manage to keep their cool. Cass says, "Oh, yeah. We had problems. But we aren't forcing it anymore. We worked only six weeks of concerts last year and that's more than enough." On tap: more records, some television, including an hour special on NBC scheduled for September, "and a lot of groovy times."
In a lot of ways, Simon and Garfunkel are weirdies. In this day of Electric Prunes and Grateful Dead, for example, Simon (left) and Garfunkel use their real names. For another thing, they do their own material, their own way. They don't go in for freaky frills: no long hair, no way-out behavior, no odd clothes. In concert, they eschew theatrics in favor of a straight delivery based on a rapport built up over years of working together. Their LPs show a consistent pattern of growth that can't be bagged: not folk, not rock, something new and different. "It's not really all that strange," says Paul Simon, who is the songwriter and guitarist of the pair. "We just try to be ourselves." Art Garfunkel, who does the arranging (when he's not studying at Columbia for his impending master's degree in mathematics), agrees: "We don't want to get too hung up on anything." They both sing, of course, and at 25, with ten years of experience and almost 6,000,000 records behind them, they are riding high atop a wave of enthusiasm that shows no sign of cresting. Simon's songs--understandably, given their popularity with the teeny beats--are about the pathos of being young. He writes about growing up ridiculous in an urban environment that is seldom controllable or comprehensible. His songs are about love and indifference and sex and absurdity. In compositions such as The Dangling Conversation, he cries out at man's failure to communicate: "I cannot feel your hand/You're a stranger now unto me/Lost in the dangling conversation..." Or, in a song such as I Am a Rock, he captures the defensiveness and self-protection that is a sorrowfully important part of life in the modern metropolis: "... I have my books and my poetry to protect me,/I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room.... I touch no one and no one touches me." Garfunkel's arrangements provide apt settings for Simon's lonely lyrics; the finely wrought harmonies he conceives, full of unexpected turns and quiet understatement, have become the duo's hallmark. On stage, Simon, short, playfully aggressive, commands the audience, makes it his; Garfunkel, tall, lithe, caresses the crowd with his gentle voice and supple gestures. Together they create gems of song, written by a youthful moralist and performed by a polished musical team.
Imagine! this man we are kidnaping knows how to make an isotope so cheap and powerful it can destroy the united states in 26 seconds. We must get him out of here before the police spot us! Stop worrying about the police. If I'm not mistaken, kidnaping is legal in Nevada. Everything is legal in Nevada!