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became the most prolific writer in the genre \(using such pen-names as Borneo booted out of the graduate philosophy program at Yale for titling all his papers “Rock and . . . .” Crawdaddy! never achieved true mass popularity, mainly because it took itself too seriously. Its writers considered themselves pop sociologists and cultural historians and grappled mightily with the real and imagined metaphysical questions posed by the music. “Does Al Kooper,” one of them wondered in a Blood, Sweat and Tears review, “realize the incredible transcendence he and his ex-associates created in their gestalt’s trembling moment?” Again: “My mind is beginning to reel. There are unexpected implications in this whole rock thing. We are on the edge of something.” That “something” was never explained. Williams’ preoccupation was with the rock experience: what music makes the listener feel. “Understanding is feeling,” he wrote, “the ability to explain means nothing at all.” Unfortunately, he carried his beliefs in the importance of feeling, and feeling alone, to almost disastrous consequences when he left Crawdaddyt \(which has been twice resurrected and joined the Mel Lyman family, a know-nothing cult based on feeling and personal submission to a leader who thinks he is God. There ends Paul Williams’ importance as a writer. group writing was proliferating but was momentarily obscured by the entrance into rock journalism of the vested money interests investors who spied a quick buck on the horizon. In 1967 there were 20 million teenagers in the United States and they were spending $12 billion each year. By 1968, when record sales passed the billion-dollar mark, they were buying 81 per cent of all records sold. That kind of market is irresistible and the first businessmen who turned to a “hip” youth publication were Leonard Mogel and Matty Simmons, former publishers of Diner’s Club magazines. They launched Cheetah in September, 1967, in New York. The first 96-page issue was graced with a nude fold-out of 200-pound singer Cass Elliot. The first editor, 32-year-old Jules Siegel, was fired when the publishers realized that first issue contained at least one reference to dope per page. Four issues later, the publishers were optimistic. Simmons, 41, claimed a circulation of 200,000 in December and said of his brainchild, “People over 30 either hate Cheetah or don’t understand it. People under 30 flip over it.” Apparently the under-30 generation didn’t agree. By March of 1968 it had dipped to 100,000 in circulation and Cheetah soon expired. Simmons and Mogel went on to start a magazine called Weight Watchers. By far the most ambitious venture into the field was announced in September, 1967. Hearst Magazines president Richard Deems revealed that Hearst would sink $2 million in a new monthly, to be called eye. Editor Susan Szekely, 27, the former “Teen Talk” columnist for the New York Post, planned such regular features as “The Elevator: People on the way up and people on the way down” and instructions on how to wire an electric dress. eye’s 130-page first issue appeared in March of 1968 with a press run of 500,000. It covered such “underground” subjects as rock, astrology, drugs, Warren Beatty, Tim Leary and skydiving. A bonus was a “Big Fat Wall Poster in Psychedelic Color.” Said editor Szekely, “You sort of need a retooling of your mind and a real effort to stay open to new things. I really hated rock ‘n’ roll music a few years ago, but now I love it.” A year after the first issue, eye was in trouble. It had not sold well and Cosmopolitan editor Helen Gurley Brown was called in to try a facelift. Many staff members 75 per cent by one estimate quit immediately after a lengthy editorial meeting with Brown. Xeroxed copies of the proceedings of that meeting were soon making the publishing rounds in New York and quoted Brown’s comments: “Take my word for it, it’s a lqusy book . . . when girls march, I know they dress up and look pretty to do it . . . maybe we can’t be an intellectual magazine because we don’t have enough money to pay for intellectual articles . . . talent has nothing to do with it . . . too much space was used on the Steve McQueen pictures, we could have used the extra page for a story, say, on acne.” On March 26, 1969, Hearst announced the demise of eye. It had been “far short of profitable,” said a Hearst emissary. That was the last attempt by high-powered publishing forces to gain a foothold in the , “hip underground.” It had become apparent, even to Hearst, that the executives in their towers and the youthful consumers on the street were light-years apart. The young wanted something that was theirs; a separate culture and separate institutions. \(It was immaterial that their music was being peddled to them by the giant record companies. A warped sort of Horatio Alger mythos evolved, exemplified by a group like the Jefferson Airplane which, after all, could pass for the freaks next door thumbing their noses at society while collecting boodles of cash from RCA. The OF THOU separate institutions, the one closest to being autonomous was the alternative press meaning virtually anything from a mimeographed flyer. on radical politics to a rough, offset tabloid devoted to music. At the height of the underground phase \(“underground” being there were between 200 and 600 of them were in large measure underwritten by advertising from record companies, which were trying every means possible to reach the “hip” buyers. Hip journalism meant big money for a few people. The Village Voice, which had started the field of alternative tabloids in 1955, had grown fat and respectable. Its circulation was 122,000 in 1969, it had about ten rock writers and, significantly, its advertising page rate was $1,100. The Voice’s formula printing whatever outdoes the regular press was being tried in hundreds of locales. Underground papers were being born and dying so fast that no one could keep track of them. Many were devoted exclusively to rock and roll and perhaps the most engaging of them was The Royal’s World Music Countdown, published in Los Angeles in 1967 and 1968. It was a pastiche of psychedelic art, record company handouts, pirated stories, rock and roll gossip and cosmic interviews \(“. . as we sat slightly stoned in the Panhandle of Golden Gate the embodiment of the spirit that moved many to become editors: he loved the music. He was a fast-talking Englishman with a mop of * Little Orphan Annie locks and a decrepit Cadillac. He also had a blonde wife and eight blonde children who could be seen straggling after him as he sold his paper. Royal was always involved in minor hustles, never anything big. He staged high school “battles of the bands” and traded ad space in his paper for records, which he then sold. He collected Fillmore and Avalon posters from the streets of San Francisco and then sold them in Los Angeles. In 1968, he and his brood disappeared and it was not until Sept. 8, 1972 21