One day last winter, a clandestine squad of Playboy crazies staged an impromptu ticker-tape parade outside the CIA headquarters in Washington. They hired a brass band, a limo and a street-cleaning machine, hung a banner (Welcome Home, Howard Hunt) and, to the whir of paper shredders, trudged past that den of inquiry. Over the next few months, we sorted through tons of confetti and microfilm streamers and discovered Eyes Only, the Magazine of the Central Intelligence Agency. Obviously, we were duty bound to reproduce it.
Playboy, June, 1975, Volume 22, Number 6. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years. $10 for one year. Elsewhere $15 per year. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Richard S. Rosenzweig, Director of Marketing; Emery Smyth, Marketing Services Director; Herbert D. Maneloveg, Director of Marketing Information; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager: Lee Gottlieb, Director of public relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Don Hanrahan, Associate Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago, Sherman Keats, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
Brawley, California, like a lot of places, has an air-pollution problem, but this one is aggravated by the presence of stockyards. It's a unique combination of smog and cow manure. Local residents call it smit.
Its promoters describe it as a "permanent, revolving, floating, flying, disappearing, reappearing musical extravaganza of the MGM Grand Hotel." And it is all of these things: a musical extravaganza, as in the good old days when such things really were; permanent, since it looks anything but portable and is likely to run a long, long time; and the five other adjectives, to let you know that a whole lot goes on in the mirror-paneled theater of the Las Vegas hotel where Hallelujah Hollywood is presented twice every evening--and three times on Saturday.
The best way to make a first visit to Mamounia, a Moroccan restaurant at 4411 Balboa Street, San Francisco, is in the company of a warmhearted, dark-eyed and hungry Berber girl--which may, in fact, be the best way to make a first visit to any restaurant. But this rare experience is one of authentic Moroccan food plus inauthentic hygiene, in a romantic, busy Moroccan decor--brass lanterns, low couches and redolent leather pillows. Your hands are washed before and after your meal; scents of orange and lemon and spice fill the air. Your taste buds are tricked and fulfilled. The owner-cooks at Mamounia have a definite native love of lentils, eggplant, cumin and coriander--all staples of Moroccan cuisine. They seem to have practiced their art at the Marrakesh, a slightly sleeker and slicker restaurant downtown; and before that, in Rabat, from which they hail (or salaam). For those of you planning a pilgrimage to Mamounia, a few hints might help you understand what will soon run down your gullet, or up your sleeve, as you cover yourself with the ample towel that arrives with the welcome: Harira, a lamb, chickpea, lentil and tomato peppery soup; folds of bread for scooping up the chopped eggplant, pepper and tomato salad; chicken pie--mild and persuasive, eaten like handfuls of crisp candy; rabbit or lamb stews, imbued with lemon and honey and spices that go tripping on the tongue; couscous, that contagious blessing of semolina, lamb, vegetables and raisins. The ritual of dinner finishes with the tea ceremony--sweet spearmint poured from a great height in a precise stream that awakens exotic satisfactions in your average warmhearted, dark-eyed, formerly hungry Berber lass. Usually, Mamounia is crowded and somewhat noisy, a happy hullabaloo of festive dining. The diners are an informal bunch, from straight-arrow IBM to flower child. This is not a place for strict rules and clean fingernails. The music drones, the carpets soften, the nutriments console. A warm glow reflects from the clanging brass. For pure sensuality, this is good and kind and stimulating food. Forkless dining presents a challenge, but the opposable thumb helps us surmount such trivial difficulties. The waiters smile under their conical hats. One frequent diner reports that he has never had anything less than a superb meal at Mamounia. It's open daily, except Sunday, from 5 P.M. to 11 P.M. Reservations are recommended (415-752-6566).
A more appropriate title for writer-producer-director Peter Bogdanovich's At long Last Love might be The Big Blooper of 1975. Promoted as the only truly original movie musical in years, Love borrows or begs nearly everything from the great Thirties musicals, and botches it. There are 16 Cole Porter songs with witty, unexpurgated lyrics--at least a dozen of them sluggishly orchestrated and clumsily performed. There are sumptuous art-deco sets and costumes, photographed with real class by cinematographer Laszlo Kovacs. The good news ends right there, except for Madeline Kahn's cheeky rendition of a Porter oldy called Find Me a Primitive Man, and perhaps Eileen Brennan, setting the pace for Madeline and Cybill Shepherd in a song-and-dance trio devoted to the heresy that Most Gentlemen Don't Like Love. Most of the time, however, Kahn and Brennan wear the slightly glazed, embarrassed look of smart professionals trapped in a $1,000,000 gig that turns out to be amateur night at the Racquet Club. As nominal stars of the show, brawny Burt Reynolds and Shepherd--at their very best--may remind you of those guest shots by straight actors who pop up on TV variety hours to prove that they can almost carry a tune and even perform a few simple time steps. But what happens here to It's De-Lovely, Friendship and You're the Top puts Porter's lyrics to the acid test. Ten minutes of such studied cuteness on The Carol Burnett Show is usually considered enough. The sextet of evenly coupled performers includes all the above, plus John Hillerman, as Burt's comic butler-chauffeur (the role Eric Blore used to play), and Duilio Del Prete, an Italian discovery, who sings as if he came to paint the mansion and stayed on to regale the company with wobbly impersonations of Louis Jourdan and Maurice Chevalier.
You can't help but feel sorry for them--young rockers, musicians and fans alike. Look at it from their point of view, midway through the Savage Seventies with no relief in sight. The Golden Age of Rock is over, fading as fast as their older brother's Polaroids of Woodstock. The heroes of the Sixties are either dead or living in semiretirement on their country estates, emerging now and then for giant tours to finance a new recording studio for the château or that yacht the little lady has had her eye on. And, besides, how does an 18-year-old deal with The Rolling Stones, The Who, Dylan and the various former Beatles? These guys have been on top almost since he was born: Legends are fine, but listening to the big boys has taken on all the trappings of an official rock religion, worshiping images graven on vinyl. Times have changed, too. The Grateful Dead, the premier "people's band," has given up live performances, at a time when younger audiences are interpreting the Dead's countercultural litany of peace, love and dope literally to mean drinking rotgut wine and getting high off whatever's for sale in the men's room during concerts that more resemble the London Blitz--what with all the firecrackers and white-hot sparklers flying through the air--than any of the musical communal gatherings of years past.
Anyone who, as a child, ever fingered Gray's Anatomy and wondered how a series of black-and-white schematic drawings could possibly make our parents be fruitful and multiply into those colorful little creatures we saw all around us will appreciate at least some of the honesty of Show Me! (St. Martin's). Will McBride's photographs of children, teenagers and adults are each worth their full 10,000 words when compared with the word-of-mouth myths children pass on to one another concerning the eternal question, "Sex: Boon or Bane?" And the text, by Dr. Helga Fleischhauer-Hardt (what better name to have if you're looking for redeeming social value?), covers everything the kids will need to know to start them on their way to becoming full-fledged sexual creatures like the rest of us mammals. Because the book pulls no punches (that's right, complete, oncamera penetration of a live nymphet), some people will be shocked. (There was a minor furor when the book was published in Europe in its original German-language edition.) But if you remember how shocked you were when you finally found out the truth after leaving puberty behind, perhaps you'll see some of the advantages of being shown.
From old Frankenstein to Young Frankenstein, seemingly infinite variations have been worked on this creepy theme, but the Rocky Horror Show clearly must be the first time that the mad doctor has been turned into a towering transvestite from Transylvania. The doctor, Frank (short for Frank 'n' Furter), is played by Tim Curry, one of the two survivors of the original London production. He is suitably attired in ten-inch heels, black panties and net stockings. He is a scream (the other characters do the screaming, notably Brad and Janet, the innocent affianced couple whose car breaks down and sends them spinning into Frank's vortex). What kind of monster would such a preening queen create? A lank-haired bisexual rock star named Rocky, of course. The show is designed as a tacky rip-off of horror movies, a cabaret-style entertainment that provokes squeals of laughter and peals of fright from an indulgent (and young) audience. It is the self-mocking monstrous creation (book, music and lyrics) of Richard O'Brien, who, under the alias Ritz O'Brien, plays a twitching, cretinous hunchback named Riff-Raff. The riffraffish show began in a small theater in London, moved to a crumbling old moviehouse in Chelsea and then to success in Los Angeles. For the New York engagement, the beautiful old Belasco Theater has been over-hauled to resemble a cabaret (drinks and popcorn are served). Lightning strikes, rock rolls like thunder and, if you can afford the Broadway tab, you may have as much fun as you did at Saturday afternoon's creature features. At the Belasco, 111 West 44th Street.
I've talked several of my ladyfriends into posing for nude photographs, and I would like some hints. My roommate says that he remembers reading somewhere that Playboy has an ironclad rule--that no one may touch a model's breasts for 24 hours prior to a shooting. Is there a reason for this practice?--G. M., Phoenix, Arizona.
In 1961, Joseph Heller, a 38-year-old advertising and promotion executive for McCall's magazine, finally completed the novel he'd been tinkering with in his spare time for the better part of a decade. The book was called "Catch-18," a title that was later increased by four upon publication of Leon Uris' "Mila 18"--Heller's editors didn't think people would buy two novels with the same number.
On a certain beige day in late spring, I'm sitting in a room in New York Hospital, surrounded by the well-meaning, god awful gadgetry of modern medicine, earnestly scratching out notes while Richard Avedon, high on cortisone treatments for a heart inflammation, take my carefully considered questions, warps them into his questions, then spins out rich, seductive answers that he approves of with an ingenuous smile.
A funny thing happened to Valéry Giscard d'Estaing on the Avenue des Champs Elysées one fine day. As the president of France went riding along the thoroughfare that is the pride of Paris, he saw something he did not like: billboards. Never mind the ads for men's briefs and Pernod. Ça, c'est normal. But the elegance of the Champs, universally acknowledged to be the most glorious stretch of main street in the civilized (continued on page 146)Sex in Cinema-French Style(continued from page 85) world, was, Giscard noted, blemished by flagrant promotions for sexy movies--and even not-so-sexy movies--cheaply flaunting their charms from one end of the avenue to the other. Neon-rimmed bare breasts and bottoms, or thinly disguised phallic symbols--far larger than life--virtually leaped out at passers-by in shameless sidewalk pitches for such suggestively titled films as Les Valseuses, Les Seins de Glace, Les Mille et Une Nuits, Contes Immoraux and Les Couples du Bois de Boulogne (which, freely translated into English, would be Balls, Icy Breasts, 1001 Nights, Immoral Tales and Couples in the Park).
Derek first saw the hitchhikers when he took the expressway turnoff just after Rapids, Kentucky. The first thing he wondered was whether it was anyone in particular that they wanted to kill. They stood on what narrow shoulder there was to the tightly curving access road--a pinched lean man in a tennis windbreaker and a blonde girl, maybe in her teens, in denims and a T-shirt--and Derek thought that anyone who stopped for them deserved the Mack that you couldn't see behind you, 20 tons of kick and a long twisted roll.
For a long time I wanted to move to California, and now I don't anymore. For a long time the whole country wanted to move to California, and now it doesn't want to anymore. These several changes of mind go together somewhere along the line.
Arthur Wisener, while still in his 20s, had been on the team of physicists that developed the first atomic bomb; but in the year immediately following the war, he discovered that even though this was true--and it was--there was something about it that sounded unconvincing.
Several years ago, when model Azizi Johari posed for a poster titled Supernatural Dream, she had no idea what it would lead to. It was a simple enough picture--her face, encircled by a huge Afro, coming out of a cloud of smoke. But at the time, she had no way of knowing that the poster would strike the fancy of Sammy Davis Jr., travel with him from tour to tour and hang in every one of his dressing rooms, that her face, in effect, would be Davis' constant companion for two years. Then one day, she bumped into one of Davis' musicians, who told her all about it. "It just so happened," Azizi says, "that Sammy was looking for a dancer at the time I found out about his hangup with my poster. He took one look at me in the flesh and that was that. I was hired on a Sunday and was working in St. Louis with him on Monday." As a member of the Davis troupe, she has toured to Chicago, Miami Beach, Honolulu, Las Vegas, New York and dozens of other cities. Her role in the show is a small one, an ad-libbed skit in which she goes onstage between numbers, clad in a pair of superhigh platform shoes and an appropriately tight-fitting gown, and takes Sammy a drink. "Then Sammy tries to pick me up," she says. "In those platforms, I stand about six feet to his five feet, two. First he tries the Latin-lover approach, then the soul-sister routine. But I always put him down. That's what gets the laughs." But then, Azizi is used to getting good audience response, having been in the spotlight nearly all her life. In high school in Seattle, where she grew up, she and two friends started a singing group called the Marvelles and put out a single titled Call Me Back, which was a local smash. Bitten by the travel bug, Azizi moved to San Francisco and worked for United Airlines as a stewardess and later in reservation sales, until an old friend convinced her to join a new theater group called Black Arts West. After starring in A Raisin in the Sun, Black Girl and Ladies in Waiting, Azizi landed a part in McQ, a John Wayne detective flick. It was a minor role, but the experience managed to confirm a suspicion that had been brewing in her head for years: that deep down, her first passion was acting. "It's a really strange contradiction," she muses. "On the one hand, I'm a confirmed introvert, overprotective of my privacy. On the other hand, I want to be a star." Unlike some aspiring black actresses, however, Azizi Johari refused to compromise her values as a black woman. Raised from Creole stock, she gets a particular kick out of describing herself as "literally, the black sheep of the family," a reference to her very dark complexion. In fact, her blackness even moved her to change her name several years ago. The name she chose, Azizi Johari, is Swahili and was conceived by a longtime friend, jazz pianist Herbie Hancock, and two members of his group, who complained that her old name just didn't fit her personality. As for her new name: "Azizi means precious or rare," she explains. "Johari means gem or jewel." But, then, what's in a name? In this case, plenty.
Sixth-grader Tommy stood squirming in front of his grim-faced mother. "I've had a report from school that you went into an empty room today with a girl in your class and locked the door," she said tightly. "Now, tell me--what happened then?"
Three pages of handsome goodies for laying on someone special--and that, of course, includes yourself. 1. Wave oscillator that allows its user to quickly balance two- or four-channel stereo systems, check frequency response and determine the cause of resonance or other problems that might exist, by Wavetek, $149.95. 2. Calcron wrist calculator watch features nine-digit display and power-of-10 key for very large or small numbers, by Fondiller, $600. 3. Fiberglass seven-jewel stop watch that's shock-, dust- and waterproof, by Premier Products, $39.95. 4. Four ozs. of spray cologne, by Royal Copenhagen, about $9. 5. Ansafone Model 640 automatically answers your phone, plays a prerecorded message to the caller and records caller's voice; takes standard 30-, 60- and 90- minute cassettes for incoming messages, by Dictaphone, $375. 6. Protecto-Rac applies pressure to entire tennisracket head, thus keeping it from warping, and doubles as a ball compartment, by Ohio Tool and Tackle, $9.95. 7. Model XL-400 Super-8 movie camera comes equipped with a builtin intervalometer for single-frame exposures, 4x power/manual zoom, electromagnetic shutter release and through-the-aperture exposure meter, by Minolta, $290. 8. Aquarius Q speakers feature a three-way system that disperses sound in a 360-degree pattern; each stands 43" high and has a removable smoked-glass top, by JBL, $1266 the pair. 9. Radio-controlled Hobie Hawk sailplane with an 8-foot wing span, by Hobie Model Company, about $299, including radio. 10. The Cooler Carafe is a 36-oz. crystal wine carafe inside a widemouthed crystal ice bucket, by Flemington Cut Glass, $19.95. 11. The Carlisle, a 19-diagonal-inch solid-state portable black-and-white TV with a three-hour timer, by Zenith, $169.95. 12. Model GXC-510D stereo cassette tape deck features a four-track record/playback system; universal voltage selector can handle power from 100 V to 240 V, by AKAI, $349.95. 13. Australian outback rugby shirt is made of Creslan and cotton and comes in a choice of vibrant or muted blocks of colors, from The Chocolate Soup, $22.50. 14. Travel alarm that measures 2-3/4" x 3" x 1-5/8" comes in a telescopic case; features luminous hands and oversized Arabic numerals, by Bulova, $15. 15. The Tennis Attaché, a canvas, leather and brass tote, holds racket, after-tennis change, etc., by Function-form, $30. 16. Fountain-pen-style desk organizer for rubber bands, stamps, what have you, from Raymor, $16.50. 17. Digital wrist watch that features solid integrated circuitry; adjustable in accuracy to 60 seconds a year, by Concord, $275. 18. & 19. Rack Em Up triangle of jumbo billiard bubble gum, $8, and 4-1/2 lbs. of Non-Skid Licorice whirls that resemble tiny wheels and come packed in a tire box, $12, both from Food For Thought. 20. Brass, walnut and glass inkstand, from Sarreid, Ltd., $46. 21. Portable or permanent Handi Bar comes with a half-gallon siphon and four one-quart containers that deliver 1/2 oz. of liquid per stroke, by Dolphin Dispensers, $75.
During the more than 30 years spent eating my way through the meadows and backwoods of America, I have learned a great deal about the health-giving qualities of natural foods and the importance of a balanced diet. It has been a rewarding life--not so rewarding, perhaps, as the life of a stockbroker or a vice-squad detective, but at least my pulse, respiration and blood pressure are all normal and I haven't had to pick up a check or tip a waitress since the Roosevelt Administration. The fact is, there is scarcely a disease known to society that cannot be either avoided or cured by a proper diet. Proper eating habits are the most important factor in man's health. The American Indians knew this, which is why they avoided sweets, starches, junk foods and any packaged foods containing a prize (the quality of a product should speak for itself). The diet of the average Indian was remarkably simple usually consisting of (continued on page 170)The Wild Greenback(continued from page 131) pemmican, buffalo or ferret meat, berries du jour and a piece of flavored leather, which he could suck for quick energy. This unusually Spartan diet has led the famous anthropologist Niles Mull to theorize that the American Indians are descendants of the inhabitants of ancient Sparta who came to America by sea to escape the influx of greasy foods from Bulgaria. In any event, the point is that the Indian was a sensible and prudent eater--if only because delicatessens were so few and far between on the Great Plains.
The last time we tuned in on Marilyn Lange, she was about to leave Honolulu for Aspen, to see what she could get into there. At the same time, her boyfriend, Kip, was about to take his soft-rock quintet--appropriately called Long Distance--to Tahiti for a three-month gig. Well, Marilyn spent all of two weeks in Colorado before she realized how much she missed both Hawaii and Kip. His group, meanwhile, had run into a hassle--that's showbiz--and never made its trip. So Marilyn and Kip were back together in short order. They have since left their Honolulu apartment and moved to a brick house in a very green, quiet valley, where it rains all the time. There are lots of tropical birds--and avocados, papayas and mangoes free for the picking. Which is convenient, because Marilyn and Kip have both been vegetarians since a discussion they had with some Hare Krishna people about karma and killing. "Things come back to you tenfold, supposedly," she explains, "and if you kill, say, a calf, then something drastic will happen to you." Also, she points out, "In Hawaii, you don't need the warmth you get from eating meat; in New York or Chicago, you'd probably need a lot of steaks and stews, but not here." At any rate, Marilyn says she has felt better since giving up meat. She's also been keeping in shape playing forward on a women's soccer team. "I played softboll before, and you run a lot in that," she says, "but not continuously for an hour and a half, the way (text concluded on page 216) (continued from page 133) you do in soccer." With two games and three practices a week--that's about 14 hours of running in all--there are bound to be days when Marilyn doesn't feel much like getting out there and doing it; "but after I get started and work out for about ten minutes, I get my wind and it feels OK." Things are not made harder, of course, by the fact that the team plays in beautiful Kapiolani Park, amid the kitefliers and the picnickers. It sounds like an idyllic existence. But Marilyn is restless, because she hasn't been working (that's partly our fault; we've kept her on such a busy schedule, flying to the mainland for photo sessions, that she's had difficulty getting a job). She did fill up 60 hours of her time by attending an awareness seminar held by a San Francisco--based organization called EST (for Erhard Seminars Training). Kip had signed up, then found himself unable to take the four-session course; Marilyn went ahead with it--seminar people were delighted, later on, to discover that a Playmate had participated--and found it "kind of like the stuff Castaneda wrote about in the Don Juan books. You learn to look at the world from different points--and to stop your internal dialog. People talk about their hang-ups and find out that they're really OK--for what they are."
This happened in the days when Duke Ranier of Anjou, driven from the kingdom of Naples, was pleased to tarry a few seasons in Florence. Two of the cavaliers who followed him, involved in the shipwreck of his fortunes, were Filippo de Lincurto and Ciarlo d'Amboia, two sturdy, sportive, handsome young men.
We can still see it: Henry Fonda, playing the war-frazzled GI, sits by the side of a dusty road somewhere in France, a really mean-looking military radio on his lap. Then, from right out of the sun, Messerschmitts--and Fonda dives for the ditch, the radio under him, but you know they're both going to be OK. Well, the radios pictured here may not withstand a direct hit from the Luftwaffe, but for everyday knocking about, they're pretty tough to beat. All have multiple bands--AM/FM, plus various combinations of police, fire, land-to-air, weather--everything but Monty at El Alamein. And there are all kinds of nice little touches that don't come on those candy-assed models from the local discount house, such as knife switches, multiantennas, metal speaker guards and knobs galore. The sound is also great, but it's the knobs and switches that will get you every time.
The old chuck berry song No Money Down told about a fantasy Cadillac with a bed in the back, phone, TV, shortwave radio and other optional extras; but the machine Chuck sang about couldn't touch what's pictured here and on the following pages. The land yacht we commissioned Detroit designer Syd Mead to create is a six-wheel wonder vehicle that combines many of today's mechanical innovations with some space-age technology that you can expect to be incorporated into tomorrow's assembly-line mobile homes. Not only does it contain almost all the amenities you would ordinarily leave behind when embarking on an extended trip, or just out for a day's cruise, it can also drive itself--via electronic sensors--while you and a companion relax in the yacht's luxurious front lounge. But that's getting ahead of our story. Before entering the yacht, let's take a walk around it and examine some of the exterior features.
Still six weeks shy of his 21st birthday, with only an award-winning short to his credit, Steven Spielberg landed an assignment to direct Joan Crawford in a segment of Night Gallery for NBC-TV. Now, at the ripe old age of 27, he's just finished what should be the hot adventure movie of the year, Jaws, from Peter Benchley's runaway best seller. During the years in between, Spielberg won top awards for an ABC Movie of the Week, Duel (based on a story that first appeared in Playboy), and directed Goldie Hawn in The Sugarland Express, which Pauline Kael, the celebrated/notorious critic, called "one of the most phenomenal debut films in the history of movies." Pretty heady stuff for someone so young. Born in Cincinnati, Spielberg began making movies as a hobby in high school, after his family moved to Arizona, and raised the money to pay for developing his films by whitewashing citrus trees--sometimes 30 a day at 75 cents a tree. About his childhood, he says, "I was a TV kid--Mickey Mouse and Sky King. My parents were strict about the movies I could see, even before the rating system, but it didn't matter; I was star-struck. I still am." He went to California State College at Long Beach as an English major, still unsure about a career. But he did team up with a young producer who had access to financing and together they created Amblin', the short that earned Spielberg a contract with Universal Studios and set him on the road that led to Jaws. The book convinced him that the classic man-vs.-beast conflict would translate superbly to the screen. He describes the filming as "months of being pushed around in a boat by King Neptune. I'm not complaining, though. Having talent like Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss to direct was a great challenge." So was the shark--not the beast the studio built; that one took direction like a pro--the real one insisted on improvising. Spielberg's next project is a science-fiction movie and he's doing the story and the screenplay. Orson who?
To look at Londoner Ralph Steadman's book of drawings, America, you'd think he'd seen only awful things in this country. "Not at all," he says. "There was a certain shock. But I was looking for something to put my hang-ups on." Steadman, however, swings wildly from enthusiastic praise of some of the qualities he's seen here ("One morning in Brooklyn Heights we missed the garbage men. They were already down the road, but they came back and got our garbage. That knocked me out.") to bitter disappointment with others ("I think people are being dishonest with themselves. If they'd only bloody own up a bit. But instead, it's people grabbing around, it's rats in a corner.") He should know about rats. He was a ratcatcher before he started drawing, which was in 1956. Welsh-born Steadman began as a technical draftsman. After a failed attempt to become a pilot, he learned to draw through a correspondence course and started free-lancing. Though his work had appeared in most of Britain's magazines and newspapers, it wasn't until Hunter Thompson took him to the Kentucky Derby that his drawings became truly deranged. Because Steadman calls his current project an "impossible journey by an improbable crew in search of a creature that doesn't exist," it might sound as if he's headed for more insanity, the same old edge he and Thompson reached for in their Fear and Loathing pieces for Rolling Stone. Actually, he's illustrating a children's book by Lewis Carroll called Hunting of the Snark. "I think Hunter and I did a fairly good number and I also think it was time to wrap it up." At 38, he claims, "Working on the edge all the time can get a bit tiring. Certain things I did in the Sixties I know I couldn't do now. I wonder where I ever found the energy. I think The Snark is nicely different. There's no ax to grind. I'm just not vicious and nasty like my drawings. It may be that behind all that aggression is a man a little bit afraid of what he sees. I'd like to do happy things now."
Success, Leandro "Gato" Barbieri has found, is no magic pill. You feel good when it happens, but life remains the same; and for the politically conscious Argentine saxophonist--one of the hottest people in music since he composed the score for Last Tango in Paris--there are still days when he reads the paper and couldn't feel less like playing. But Gato--who at presstime was awaiting release of a live album and the start of a tour with his five-piece traveling group--does play, because he has to, and because "everything is different when you play." A 40-year-old native of Rosario, Argentina, where his dad was a carpenter and a self-taught violinist, Barbieri started playing the clarinetlike requinto at 12. At 17, he heard Charlie Parker and got into jazz. In 1962, after working with fellow countryman Lalo Schifrin, he and his Argentine-Italian wife, Michelle--fluent in English, she's the medium through which he communicates--left Buenos Aires for Rome, where he became friends with film director Bernardo Bertolucci and played with jazzmen such as Don Cherry, who brought him to the States (he now divides his time among New York, Europe and Latin America). It was in the early Seventies that Barbieri decided to find his own cultural roots. He went back to Argentina, which was not the easiest of home-comings, but he did manage to find some native musicians to play with; the resultant mixture of jazz and Third World sounds, topped by his emotionally charged tenor, sent his reputation soaring--in the jazz world. Then Bertolucci commissioned him to do the Last Tango music; the rest is ... well, you know.