JOHN DENVER IS GOD BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN IS GOD BLUE OYSTER CULT IS GOD!

I hate to be the one to bring it all up again, but goddamnit, the Seventies have to be dealt with. An ugly affair, to be sure, this decade leaves us stranded long past its midpoint at a bewildering crossroads. On the one hand, we have the punks; on the other, we have the Eagles; and, in between, we have all the groups we really like (need I make altogether hideous and unnecessary reference to that band with the puckering name...?). The fact of the'matter is that the choices for the rock ’n’ roll fan at this very significant juncture are narrow and completely discrete, with no satisfactory middle ground among Richard Hell, Kiss (sorry), and those puddinhead birds from South California. End of story. Turn off the typewriter. Brush my teeth. Go to bed. Goodbye.

Not quite. First of all, this magazine would never let me get away with a feature this short (Try us! Try us!— Ed.) and secondly, I really think I may have uncovered the Seventies’ sonic Shangri-La, the place where the decade’s perverse and opposing rock ’n’ roll needs may just be able to co-exist blissfully. Here, look at the Spectres in my little crystal ball.