Backed by the sign of the Rabbit, cover girl Claudia Jennings has been unanimously selected by our editors as 1970's Playmate of the Year. To celebrate her reign, we offer within a photographic portfolio of Claudia, surrounded by part of her queen's ransom of rewards. Treasure of another kind figures heavily in Nelson Algren's Get All the Money, an ironic race-track tale commingling the fates of a horse, its distaff owner and its win-hungry jockey. Perhaps best known for The Man with the Golden Arm and A Walk on the Wild Side, Algren wrote, some 20 years ago, a prose poem called Chicago: City on the Make, a new edition of which has recently been published. But Playboy's home town has been a city under renewed verbal and physical attack ever since the 1968 Democratic National Convention. In The Chicago Conspiracy Circus, Washington Post syndicated columnist Nicholas von Hoffman makes a persuasive case for his contention that both the establishment and the anti-establishment were on trial--and that both sides and the nation lost. Von Hoffman sat through virtually all of the proceedings and, after overhearing the judge (outside the court) call one of the defense lawyers a "wild man," was subpoenaed by the defense. Though Von Hoffman was barred from testifying, then-U. S. Attorney Thomas Foran--who headed the prosecution--was so angered by his newspaper accounts that he publicly called upon other journalists to run him out of the business. We're happy to report that Von Hoffman is still writing and has a collection of columns titled Left at the Post being published this summer.
Playboy, June, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 6. Published monthly by HMH Publishing Co. Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere add $2 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, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illiois 60611, MI 2-1000; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, 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, 434-2675; Southeastern representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Thin-skinned TV executives who were wounded by Vice-President Agnew's verbal shots have found, to their consternation, that even heavier broadsides are in store. Enter Groove Tube, the creation of Kenny Shapiro, a former child actor in what is now nostalgically known as the golden age of television. Today, grown chunky and vengeful. Shapiro delights in biting the hand that fed him. The most stinging assault on television since Newton Minow got his licks in at the "vast wasteland," Groove Tube uses the medium itself to transmit the message: Theater audiences are confronted not by the traditional trappings of a stage revue but by three video monitors, as lonely as the crosses on Calvary. The question of whether any TV show could possibly be worth a $3.50 admission is quickly answered in the affirmative.
That an audience still exists for mellow, vintage jazz is being proved by The World's Greatest Jazz Band in the Grill room of New York's Roosevelt Hotel. Although many would contest the hyperbole of their self-designation, there is no question that the high-spirited combo led by trumpeter Yank Lawson and bassist Bob Haggart is crisply, authoritatively entertaining as it regenerates such standards as Exactly Like You, At the Jazz Band Ball, Red Sails in the Sunset and Just One of Those Things. Though each player has a markedly individual style and sound--Bud Freeman, Bob Wilber, Billy Butterfield, Lou McGarity, Kai Winding, Ralph Sutton and Gus Johnson, Jr., complete the group--they complement one another with such zest and mutual appreciation that the band does have a strong collective identity. Its existence is the result of the proselytizing enthusiasm of wealthy patron Dick Gibson, who has now expanded his annual all-star weekend jazz parties in Colorado into a full-time commitment to bringing back mainstream jazz. Gibson guarantees The World's Greatest Jazz Band four to five months' work a year at the Roosevelt Grill and sets up replacement units of other autumnal jazzmen when T. W. G. J. B. takes to the road for Las Vegas and other dates around the country. Gibson has already invested $100,000 in his missionary project, but his weekly deficit is decreasing as growing attendance at the Roosevelt makes him sanguine about the future. "This band," he predicts, "can open the way for a lot more jazzmen who have been hidden in studios and pit bands for years but can still bring a lot of pleasure to people who grew up on their music and also to younger listeners who are drawn to authenticity." He may be right, for more of the young are going to the Roosevelt Grill to enjoy these irrepressible improvisers, who may not make up the greatest jazz band in the world but who are proving their ability to create their own kind of natural high.
William Burroughs, the author of Naked Lunch and other extravaganzas of underground junkie existence, might be called the avant-garde writer's writer. Indeed, few contemporary authors have received so good a press at their colleagues' hands. Mary McCarthy, usually hard as nails, compares his satiric vision with Jonathan Swift's. She sees his novels as a brilliant new form of "real" science fiction. Leslie Fiedler claims that Burroughs is killing the novel in the best possible way--by an explosion that leaves "twisted fragments of experience and the miasma of death." Norman Mailer regards Burroughs' work as "the finest record in our century of the complete psychic convict" and opines that he "may be the greatest writer of graffiti who ever lived."
Even those who went to Woodstock last summer find words inadequate to sum up the spirit of that remarkable rock festival, which drew nearly 500,000 peace-and-freedom-loving souls to an astonished village just beyond commuting distance from Manhattan. "It's some sort of epical, Biblical event," says one of the barefoot, bearded and turned-on cast of thousands that spread out to the horizon in Woodstock, the excellent documentary of that awesome gathering. Its sociopolitical significance may be exaggerated, but the three mind-bending days and nights at Woodstock have been distilled to three and a half fascinating hours of love, pot, nudity and music, music, music. To an interviewer who asks, "What do musicians have that speaks to the kids?" a listener replies pithily, "Music." Right on. Here are Joan Baez, Country Joe, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, Ten Years After, Joe Cocker, Richie Havens and many others, each with a brilliant demonstration of that simple truth. Producer Bob Maurice and director Michael Wadleigh--aided by a tireless camera crew of two dozen or so--make telling use of multiple images and multiple-track sounds. They also have the good sense to let the musical sequences run, without interruption, to the point of orgasm and sometimes even a little beyond--taking time out only to attend a charming nude bathing scene, perhaps, or to record the miracle of mutual admiration between the young and the local cops. The beautiful vibrations were tragically and perhaps irreparably shattered four months later at what one journalist has called "the My Lai of the Woodstock nation," in Altamont, California, where the Rolling Stones presided over a nightmarish rock festival that began in squalor and ended in wanton violence and death. But the innocent joy and gentle humanity of Woodstock have been preserved--on film, at least--for those who long to catch a fleeting and poignant glimpse of what may turn out to be history's shortest age: the Aquarian.
San Francisco, a city where dining out sumptuously is a way of life, boasts what must be the most authentic Elizabethan eatery this side of Blighty. Ben Jonson, located in The Cannery (Beach Street and Jefferson), serves up baronial English ambiance so thick you can practically cut it with a broadsword. Indeed, Jonson himself would be right at home in the downstairs Albyns Long Room, an exquisitely paneled creation of 17th Century architect Inigo Jones (one of Jonson's pals). Some years ago, the room was brought over in toto--ceiling, walls and hearth--by William Randolph Hearst, who promptly left it to languish in packing crates until resurrected by the Jonson management. Upstairs are two other Jones rooms, the Chelsea and the Radley (both also purchased from the Hearst estate), plus a detailed reproduction of a pennon-hung Tudor great hall, with its trestle tables and king-sized copper spit. A troupe of comely serving wenches displaying an appropriate degree of décolletage preside over this bit of old England as they offer flagons of the house wine or tankards of Watney's Red Barrel dark beer. Although the dinner is prix fixe (not including dessert), the "Fore-dishes" themselves are a lusty meal. Act I opens with "A Great Carrousel of Burnished Silver Containing Salads, Pâtés and Diverse Delights, According to the Season and the Whims of the Cook," quoth the campy menu in describing a Lazy Susan full of tasty appetizers. Following Act II, Pottage, often a delicious sorrel purée, and Act III, The Cellars (there's a wine list in addition to the house flagons), comes Act IV and Main Courses. Diners choose from prime ribs of beef, roast duck served with apples, a rack of lamb from the spit, a beef chop for two, carved tableside, or the fish catch of the day. At this point, you may want to take a break and stroll over to one of the nearby fireplaces. Following this brief intermission is Act V, Cakes, Kickshaws and Other Trifles, including an appropriately John-Bullish Cheeseboard with Port. Water Ice Splashed with Champagne, Caramelized Cream, Lemon Mousse, Sherry Trifle and Cheesecake with Brandied Cherries are the other distractions. The Mermaid Tavern, off the Albyns Long Room, is "open-air," which, in this case, means a glass-enclosed room that has a jousting canvas ceiling. There is also a less ambitious luncheon menu. Ben Jonson is open from 11 A.M. to 11 P.M. Monday through Thursday and from 11 A.M. to 12 P.M. Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Reservations are required. Telephone: 776-4433.
The Doors are back in their original bag on Morrison Hotel (Elektra; also available on stereo tape). Eschewing orchestrations, they depend on Robbie Krieger's guitar and Ray Manzarek's organ to put across Jim Morrison's angular ballads (Blue Sunday, Indian Summer) and blues-oriented rhythm tunes (Peace Frog, Maggie M'Gill). The group's weak link is Morrison, whose singing lacks conviction and doesn't do justice to his compositions.
Billy Noname is the sort of show that, several seasons ago, Hallelujah, Baby! pretended to be. A kaleidoscopic chronicle of the changing life of the Negro--from servitude to self-expression--Billy Noname is rambling and discursive, but it has guts, drive and passion. Its main fault is that there's too much of it. Yet, the unevenness of William Wellington Mackey's book is more than offset by the power of Johnny Brandon's music, which draws eclectically upon blues, jazz, Gospel and rock. The choreography by Talley Beatty is in tune with the beat of the show--it moves. Donny Burks in the title role sings well but seems to strain a bit. Part of the problem is his character; he's too many things--street kid, passivist, activist, sell-out artist. Alan Weeks, as his best friend, has the lesser, better part, and the resources to fulfill it. Best of all is Hattie Winston, who has the face of a buttercup and the voice of a dynamo--with soul. Billy Noname is playing at the new Truck & Warehouse, 79 East Fourth Street, whose name suggests the bold approach of its first tenant.
In a bull session, a friend claimed he had reached orgasm 20 times within a 20-hour period. Is this possible, let alone plausible? Or does my friend suffer from an inflamed imagination?--T. J., Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
On a Monday night early in 1968, some 35,000,000 viewers were chuckling through "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In" when suddenly and without warning, the kinetic frenzy of the show ground to a halt on a grotesque apparition: Herbert Buckingham Khaury--alias Larry Love, alias Darry Dover, alias Rollie Dell, alias Julian Foxglove, alias Emmett Swink, alias Tiny Tim--minced on stage in shoulder-length hair, dead-white make-up and rumpled. Goodwill castoffs, reached into a capacious shopping bag, withdrew a battered, ukulele and burst eerily into song. In the few minutes of air time it took him to finish warbling "Tip-Toe Through the Tulips"--to the accompaniment of much hand fluttering, eye rolling and effusive kiss blowing--this Greenwich Village curio had been elevated from what many feel was richly deserved obscurity to the rank of camp celebrity.
"Screw the war, screw racism. The big issue now is prison reform,"Abbie Hoffman said shortly before he and his six codefendants were sentenced to jail. Later, when a higher court let them out of prison, pending appeal, he and his buddy, Jerry Rubin, resurfaced in a fury of complaints about roaches, the plumbing and the food served in Cook County Jail. But he was wrong. The big issue for millions of people was how these men had come to be indicted and what had happened at their trial.
Although no one can say for sure that whatever Lola wants Lola will get, so far, Lola Falana isn't doing badly. When she was just one of many talented singers and dancers around New York, Sammy Davis Jr. chose her as his lead ingénue in Golden Boy, which turned out to be a smash Broadway hit. Lola played in both the original New York cast and the show's road company. Then came television, including a prominent role in the ABC special The Swinging World of Sammy Davis, plus appearances on Hullaballoo, the Tonight Show, Hollywood Palace and the late Joey Bishop Show. As her career picked up even more steam, the 25-year-old Philadelphian began sandwiching in night-club engagements at such money meccas as The Sands in Las Vegas, Harrah's in Lake Tahoe, Deauville in Miami Beach and Basin Street East in New York. Now Lola has made her debut as a dramatic actress with a star-making role in the movie The Liberation of L. B. Jones, directed by William Wyler, who has guided 14 stars to Academy Awards. In case you're wondering, Lola most certainly wants to be Wyler's 15th Oscar winner. In the film, she plays the recalcitrant wife of L. B. Jones, a black undertaker in a small Southern town. The melodramatic plot revolves around the efforts of the town's white establishment to dissuade Lola from contesting a divorce, sought by her husband, that would require the naming of a corespondent--a prospect that has more than one of the town's studs, black and white, rather nervous. Whether her performance will get her an Oscar remains to be seen--but there's no denying that Lola is a lalapalooza of a lady.
Rejection slips, as budding authors know, are those painful, cold, drab snippets of prose that publications return with an author's thumbed-over, unwanted manuscripts. And one is as unimaginative as another. They invariably speak euphemistically, using such drear expressions as "temporarily overstocked with this kind of material," or "not suited to present needs," or "although editorial requirements may change," etc. Although there's probably no way to keep them from being painful (there aren't enough euphemisms in the language for that), it seems to us there must be a way to keep them from being so uniformly dull. All the job needs is a little dash, a little strut, a little feeling, and you'd have rejection slips stylishly suited to their sources. Here are a few suggestions:
If anyone invented the automobile, the Germans did. True enough that Homer thought of it; so did Erasmus and Roger Bacon and Darwin; Leonardo da Vinci sketched it, Ferdinand Verbiest made a self-propelled steam toy in 1668 and the list of later pioneers is long: Christian Huygens, Nicolas Joseph Cugnot, Nikolaus August Otto, Alphonse Beau de Rochas, Etienne Lenoir and Siegfried Marcus. But the automobiles made by Carl Benz in 1885 and Gottlieb Daimler in 1886 were cast essentially in the same form we know today, were technically sound and eminently workable; and, unlike most of their predecessors, Herren Daimler and Benz persisted and went on to improve their originals. The Daimler-Benz company, maker of the Mercedes-Benz, is the oldest motorcar manufactory in the world.
George Harris is a tall, dark-haired, outgoing salesman in his late 30s. After graduating from an Eastern university in 1954, he spent two years in the United States Army as a personnel management specialist, worked briefly for a management-consulting firm, settled down to an office job in a large insurance company, married and started raising a family. Four years later, he decided that sales rather than office work was what he wanted and had no trouble securing a good sales position with an equipment manufacturer. He did well until the firm was merged with a larger company and most salesmen were not taken onto the reorganized sales force. This was in the early Sixties. Armed with good recommendations, George Harris--a pseudonym, for reasons that will become evident--applied for a sales job with a large manufacturer. He filled out the application forms and took a six-hour battery of intelligence and aptitude tests. At his interview, the sales manager told him enthusiastically that he had scored higher than anyone who had ever taken the tests at that firm and that he was an outstanding prospect. Three days later, he was hired.
Now, From the State That Brought You Lester Maddox...
It is, most of all, his good looks and his good manners, his prevailing courtesy--his grace--that civilized people find so attractive. He gives the distinct impression of being a gentleman, which he is, and that fact has confused a lot of people. He wears dark, three-button suits and buttondown shirts, and he smiles and says "Sir" to his elders, including Georgia's governor, Lester Maddox, who swears Bond is a Communist and says he can't bear to speak his loathsome name aloud.
Self-Expressionism is where it's at in men's fashions today, and the 1970 beach-garb scene is no exception to this sartorial rule of thumb--as the pictures on this and the following pages obviously attest.
Samuel Johnson, who thought that brandy was the drink for heroes, would have had some second thoughts if he'd been able to taste any of the present 151-proof rums flowing from so many of the old distilleries in the tropics. Heroes aside, rum in modern times is the special drink for youth, for those who--no matter what their chronological age--are in the flush of life and, above all, for hosts who enjoy creating and serving new cups, coolers and punches. Rum's appeal is twofold. It not only rivals vodka for its mixability but in its unmixed form covers a brilliant spectrum ranging in proof from 80 to 151 and displaying a spectacular assortment of flavors, aromas, colors and pungencies. What better moment could there be for exploring its varieties than at the beginning of summer, when rum takes on its most refreshing roles in tall, colorfully adorned glasses, in frosty (continued on page 130)Rum Antics(continued from page 113) punch bowls or in saucer champagne glasses as it contributes a cooling touch to pool- or surf-side get-togethers?
People would profit from a bit more "live-and-let-live" logic, says blonde Elaine Morton, who wishes that "everybody would just butt out of everybody else's business--as long as that business isn't harming anyone." Following her own recommendation, our June Playmate recently abandoned the comfortable confines of her family home in Burbank, California, and moved into her own bachelorette apartment across town. Just a year ago, she was working part time as a salesgirl in a Glendale flower shop and full time as a home-economics major at Orange Coast College in Costa Mesa. "I was all hung up in establishment modes of living," she says. "Then I decided to stop striving for those goals and find my own." Since that decision, Miss June has dropped out of Southern California's "straight" life and, with her boyfriend's help, converted a milk truck into a mobile pad and made the west coast of Baja California her home away from home. Traveling on her savings, she simply drives onto any unoccupied stretch of Baja beach facing the Pacific Ocean and camps there until the scenery gets "predictable," then drives on to a new location. "On an average day down there,"Elaine says, "I wake up at dawn, go surfing or swimming, cook breakfast, sun-bathe, go horseback riding, eat dinner and watch the sunset. Who needs more than that?" Obviously not the intrepid Miss Morton, who lives her liberated life style to the hilt.
The Package was lying by the front door--a cubeshaped carton sealed with tape, their name and address printed by hand: "Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Lewis, 217 E. 37th Street, New York, New York 10016." Norma picked it up, unlocked the door and went into the apartment. It was just getting dark.
When I Arrived in Paris last summer to watch the filming of Tropic of Cancer, the city lay under a hot spell worse than any I remembered from the ten years I had lived there. But despite the heat, despite the traffic, despite the invasion of tourists--and even despite the ugly, characterless clusters of modern apartments--Paris looked better to me than it ever had. Today's Parisians are privileged to look upon a city that only their ancestors knew. The effect of dazzling sunshine on her old buildings, now restored to their pristine hue, is striking and heartwarming.
Cornelius Platt had had a horror of violence from his earliest years. It was not merely the violence that resulted in damage to flesh or windows, to bones or buildings, but the violence that tended in any way to shake up the natural order of things, whether its manifestation was casual, in riots, or serious, in revolutions, or simply in the shattering of the primeval silence with oaths and obscenities. Platt, a thoughtful youth and a philosophic adult, had from the beginning suspected that those who went about tearing off carpets and covers, pulling down curtains and throwing up sashes, in restless, insatiable quest for the "basic," might in the end only discover that they had made a mess of the living room. For how much was there to any chamber but the grace of its decoration? And how much, when all was badly said and badly done, was there to the human race when it had lost its manners? But this horror of violence had always been accompanied by a very healthy respect for the perpetrators of violence, by a conviction, indeed, that such were the true rulers of the world, either boldly, with a display of brawn, or discreetly, with that same brawn concealed beneath traditional velvet. Platt's notorious father, the artist and sport, from whose custody he had been early removed by his scandalized dead mother's family, had been a proof of where people's real, if not professed, sympathies lay. For all the senior Platt's wenching and extravagance, for all his passion for killing that had started with ducks, matured to rogue elephants and ended with Spanish Loyalists (and his own extinction), his name, even in the minds of his bitterest critics, still evoked the picture of a man. And so his son, through school and college, through early manhood and middle age, right into the evening of his 60s, in the black silk of his court robes, Mr. Justice Platt, heir of the dead adventurer of Barcelona, still looked out with a guarded caution on the world below his bench, a world that, for all its lip service to his mistress of the balanced scales, was stubbornly inclined to equate violence with vigor: in sport, in love, in politics, in art.
<p>Our playmate story on auburn-haired Claudia Jennings ended as the hopeful young actress boarded a Hollywood-bound plane at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport, with her pet Samoyed, Latcho, safely kenneled in the baggage compartment. The enterprising Milwaukee native, who debuted onstage at the age of ten in a musical comedy, had decided that a transcontinental move was necessary to keep her starrising and opted for the West Coast rather than New York. So far, Miss Jennings' migration has had mixed results. She no longer enjoys the company of her doggy, who was abducted by an unidentified dognapper. But almost immediately upon her arrival in Los Angeles, Claudia secured a part in a Decca comedy LP written and produced by Bill Cosby, with Sandy Baron and Susan St. James in the cast. Then it was two months on the road, touring the South and Southwest in a repertory company's production of The Tender Trap. Back in Hollywood, Claudia had the good fortune to land a role in an independently produced film, One Too Many Mornings, which is slated for a showing at Cannes. She has also taped an interview for a network TV show, The Nudity Thing, which includes conversations with Otto Preminger and Barbara McNair, plus film footage shot at our Playboy studios. As we fade out on Claudia, she is once again heading for the horizon--this time for a well-earned vacation in Europe. When she returns, she'll have the enviable task of getting acquainted with the bounty she'll receive as Playmate of the Year. A queen's ransom, indeed, it includes Lincoln-Mercury's new import, the Capri, in Playmate Pink--and, for sunny days, a Harley-Davidson 125-c.c. Rapido motorcycle and a ten-speed Schwinn Varsity bike, both in the same hue. Should Claudia find time for athletics, she can head for the court with her new Spalding Smasher tennis racket or she can take advantage of an all-expenses-paid ski trip for two to Vail, Colorado, with transportation provided by Continental Airlines; she'll be set for the slopes with a rabbitskin ski jacket from Alper Furs, Henke boots, Hart skis and, from Peter Kennedy, a set of poles, plus additional ski fashions. She can photograph the excursion with her Minox camera, or write about it on her new Smith-Corona Electra 210 typewriter. In her chest of drawers from Drexel's Et Cetera collection, Claudia can store her new Aris gloves, Brentwood Bellissima wigs, Jantzen swimsuits and Renauld sunglasses, as well as her Saunda cosmetics kit and her Playmate of the Year jewelry: a Lady Hamilton diamond wrist watch, a Linde star-sapphire ring and a gold Rabbit Pin with a ruby eye, from Maria Vogt. To keep her supplied with contemporary sounds, Claudia gets a cassette recorder and library from Capitol and an LP library from Mercury; and her career may acquire a new dimension as a result of the recording contract awarded by Monument. To top everything off, there's a case of Magnum brut champagne, courtesy of Paul Masson. All of which adds up to quite a bonanza. When Claudia walks into Monument's studio, we predict that she'll be humming a happy tune.</p>
I wake from a bad dream (of Isabel, as usual) and find myself face down in bed in my one-room efficiency apartment over a stable for burros, horses, cattle and pigs. They thump at night, but I like the smell. I get up, go over to the window. I can see the Spanish coast far below, the Mediterranean beyond it, North Africa beyond that. It looks different from what it did 165 miles up.
If only all men were prudent enough to govern their tongues and to censor those words that spring from the humors rather than from the brain. If only all ladies were judicious enough to ignore the curious things they hear. Life would then be a great deal better ordered--and certainly somewhat duller, on the whole.
After ten years of bit parts on Broadway, numerous TV appearances and two unsuccessful films, Jon Voight's only recognizable achievement was a Theater World Award in 1967 for his performance in the Broadway production of That Summer, That Fall. But last year, at 30, Voight finally surfaced from anonymity with his convincing portrayal of Joe Buck, the swaggering young Texas stud on the make in Midnight Cowboy. That success--along with major roles in such upcoming films as Catch-22, The Revolutionary, Out of It and The All-American Boy--has launched Voight into the vanguard of the new generation of moviemakers and actors who have already replaced the old Hollywood glamor with sometimes grim screen realism. "People want to see things the way they really are, and that's what I'm into. I'm interested in characters who actually function." The son of a Yonkers golf pro, Jon showed his early interest in theatrics by acting out children's stories and doing imitations. "Sid Caesar was my idol. I modeled everything after him." Though encouraged by his father to consider a career on the links, Jon says, "I was a rebel and acting was all I wanted to do." Toward that end, he studied art and drama at Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C., picked up a fine-arts degree and headed for New York in 1960--"full of sophomoric arrogance"--to study acting. But things didn't really start happening until he met the daughter of Waldo Salt, author of the screenplay for Midnight Cowboy. She suggested him for the part of Joe Buck after seeing him on television in Harold Pinter's play The Dwarfs. Although the role netted him an Academy Award nomination and a substantial foothold in the business, he is careful not to be misled by success. Distrusting vanity and compliments, he declares: "I'm not interested in how many parts I play or whether a picture might be 'good for my career.' I want to do a piece of work that I'm proud of."
Bessie Smith, Charlie Christian, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Little Walter: All were giants of the blues and all died prematurely, from violence or illness, victims of a society that couldn't accept them as "artists" without qualifying and restricting them. Yet B.B. King has always believed that a black American can achieve both stardom and respect by singing and playing nothing but the blues. For two decades, he's been honing a style based on the oldest blues concepts but swinging with jazz-derived grace and electrified to the fullest. Born 44 years ago on a Mississippi plantation, Riley B. King paid his dues early; he had to fend for himself at nine, walked ten miles a day for his schooling and pushed a plow six days a week, six months a year, for a full decade. But inspired by such spiritual singers as the Golden Gate Quartet (and such bluesmasters as Sonny Boy Williamson), he took up the guitar and began performing on street corners. After World War Two, he went to Memphis, where Williamson got him a gig; to plug it, King secured a local radio spot that grew into a popular show and earned him his nickname, "The Beale Street Blues Boy"--shortened to "B. B." In 1950, he hit the charts and began the exhausting cross-country tours that still occupy much of his time. Seventeen years later, King had become a demigod to those blacks who were hip to their musical heritage; to those who weren't, and to whites in general, he was still a stranger. Then things started to move: promotion by a major record company (ABC); tribute from the pop-rock guitarists who had appropriated both his riffs and his technique of sustaining notes; and, finally, offers to play the lucrative dates that had been denied him for so long. B. B. remains a man of the people--but he's also become a confirmed member of modern technosociety, skilled in electronics, and a licensed pilot. Most important, he and Lucille--his guitar--have finally put the blues in their proper place: on top.
In chapter 13 of The French Lieutenant's Woman, Englishman John Fowles interrupts his 19th Century novel to remind us that he has been using "a convention universally accepted at the time of my story: that the novelist stands next to God. He may not know all, yet he tries to pretend that he does." But Fowles does not pretend to know all, and believing in what he calls "the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist," he breaks the Victorian tradition by writing three endings, leaving the reader to choose among them. What he has created is an 1860s story told from the anti-authoritarian vantage point of 100 years' additional experience. It works--so well, in fact, that the book has occupied U. S. best-seller lists since the end of November and is slated for a screen version next year. At 44, Fowles ("It rhymes with owls," he says) is becoming accustomed to fame: His first novel, The Collector, sold in the millions, became a movie and is still selling in translation all over the world. Next came The Aristos and then The Magus, another best seller and also a film. The product of a conventional English middle-class upbringing, Fowles played cricket at public school, became head boy ("a very efficient little Gestapo type" who used a cane on the other boys for their misdemeanors) and joined the Royal Marines, which he hated. He recalls, "I also began to hate what I was becoming--a British Establishment young hopeful." Armed with an honors degree in French from Oxford, Fowles supported himself with teaching jobs until publication of The Collector. Now living in Lyme Regis, Dorset (which, incidentally, is the setting for Woman), he's working on a science-fiction spy thriller. "I get much more pleasure from writing books than from having them published," he says. "While I'm creating a story, it's alive. But as soon as it leaves this house and goes into print, it becomes fossilized and there's a diminution of pleasure." Not for his readers.
13 Legal Questions Raised by the Trial of the Chicago 8 Minus 1 Plus 2
Jon R. Waltz,
The Chicago riot-conspiracy case came to a temporary end on February 18, 1970. The trial's histrionics and its veneer of violence have obscured significant legal issues that will receive a full hearing in appellate courts. The most important of these legal questions are: