Peter Wolf and the J. Geils Band
A lady approaches. The Wolf is instantly alert. Blond, beautiful, long-legging her way down the aisle toward the restroom at the rear of the bus. The Wolf slyly eyes her over the top of his shades, his lips pursed in appreciation as she passes: ooohhh. The Wolf is inspired. He twists slowly around in his seat, his black beret clutched in an earnest wad over his heart. He rolls his eyes roofward. “I have to say my grace when a beauty walks by,” he croons, like some backwoods Bible-beater striving to testify above the tinkle of coins in the collection plate. “Because my heart” –– he thunks his chest, right on cue – “my heart starts flickerin’, but I know the good Lord will see after me if she lingers too long.”
The object of these effusions is actually a familiar member of the J. Geils Band’s small, closely knit tour party. She is wise to the Wolf’s raps. She flips him an amiable “Oh, Peter” look, and the Wolf settles back in his seat with a contented cackle.
The rented Greyhound scuds on through the icy Rhode Island night, bound for Providence. Another sold-out headlining gig. Another incremental indication that, at long, long last, the year of the J. Geils Band is finally at hand. At a time when fewer and fewer rock fans can afford to buy records, and many bands are afraid even to venture out on the road, the Geils group –– keyboardist Seth Justman, guitarist J. Geils, harmonica virtuoso Magic Dick, bassist Danny Klein, drummer Stephen Bladd and, on mouth and mike, the irrepressible Peter Wolf himself –– are selling out big halls and arenas around the country. They’re riding the commercial and artistic crest of Freeze-Frame, their 12th and most ambitious album, which is already perched on the brink of platinum just a few weeks out of the box.
This must be the big one: Fifteen years after first hooking up in their hometown of Boston, the J. Geils Band has finally blossomed. It’s been a long, traumatic haul, and some of the personal wreckage they’ve left bobbling behind them –– Wolf’s broken marriage to Faye Dunaway, the band’s busted bank accounts – is still painful to contemplate. But even at their financial nadir (not so long ago), they never lost the rock & roll faith –– that touching belief in the music’s transcendent magic, so common at the outset of careers, so rare among older rockers. Geils never entertained outside options –– never went disco, for instance. And so now it is with no little elation that the world’s greatest party band realizes that the ultimate payoff –– not just big bucks, but major stardom –– is within their unwavering grasp.
And yet, even as Geils attains that elusive pinnacle, Peter Wolf looks around and wonders: where’s the party? Inflation, recession, depression –– what a time to finally grab the brass ring, just as the merry-go-round seems to be clanking to a halt.
The public Peter Wolf wouldn’t worry about such things. The public Peter Wolf hangs out in bars drinking dark beer and double shots and buying rounds, while spinning out the world’s longest-running line of syncopated jive. But there is also a private Peter Wolf, a man of many travels, a connoisseur of art and food and fine wines. The public Wolf, with his man-in-black persona and finger-popping patois, dates back to the beatnik days and is firmly rooted in Fifties rock & roll. But the private Wolf is brainier, even has a political bent, and it’s pure Sixties save-the-world. And on this tour, the private Wolf is starting to go public.
“There are two directions America could go in now,” he says. “One is fascism. The other would be a real collective sense of community, almost like what happened with the New Deal. It’s madness out there – libraries are goin’ bankrupt, the cities are goin’ bankrupt. It’s insane. They got their fuckin’ bomb, they’re startin’ the war drums goin’ again. It’s got to come to an end, man. But it don’t look good –– there’re no major leaders out there.”
Uh-oh. In the Sixties, you’ll recall, rock stars were also going to lead a revolution. The return of the political lectern as a stage prop does not seem a particularly zingy idea.
The Wolf can dig, but he’s undeterred. “It’s just that there are a lot of people that are interested in us now,” he says. “So maybe we can… guide them. We’re not a band that really comes on like preachers. All we gotta do is say, ‘Tune in and get involved. Don’t tune out and drop out, man –– tune in.’ If a lot of young people will get involved, there’s hope. If they don’t, we’re fucked.”
Wolf’s serious air is suddenly shivered by the mock-obnoxious bray of Danny Klein, the mad bassist. Sensing a non-party vibe in the back of the bus, he is wending his way down the aisle to whip up any sagging spirits.
“Well, this is wonderful,” he cracks, descending upon the sober-faced Wolf. “Let’s wrap some bandages, okay? Am I interrupting something? Am I being obnoxious enough? Medic! Medic!“
Klein halts in mid-rant and cocks an eye at my tape recorder. “Say, if I gave you my new diet, could you put it in the Star?” he inquires. “Oh, well, when you wanna know my influences, call me. I’ve never played upright bass, in case you’re wondering – I’ve never played bass upright. What gauge strings do I use? H.O. My favorite color is gray.”
“To match the personality,” Wolf ripostes, brightening under Klein’s bilious harangue. “D.K.,” he says, addressing the mustachioed bassist. “You wanna do some press after the show tonight, meet some radio people?”
“Only if they’re holding,” Klein replies, citing his general criterion for initiating new friendships. “And no call letters. I can’t remember call letters. I can’t remember anything before 1975, really. The cells get soggy.”