PLUNGING THE VELVET KNIFE

Having been called upon to write an article dealing with Peter Frampton on an aesthetic plane (immediate confrontation inside my cranium as the all-in-a-day’s-work forces line up in formation to do battle with the troops of the inexhaustible WHY battalion—I just got off the phone with a publicist who, when I explained that the conversation would have to be brief because I was working on a think piece about Peter Frampton, quipped, “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”), I noticed that, in my record collection, in between Kim Fowley’s International Heroes and Connie Francis’ Greatest Hits (so much for the question of my relationship to the contradictions of my own taste terms), only one Peter Frampton album was to be found (Wind of Change). Now the necessary document, namely Frampton Comes Alive, was not there. I did possess a copy of it when it came out, but I gave it away. And the person whom I gave it to has, I think, as much to do with The Year of Peter Frampton story as he does with my general feelings towards the pop culture scene as a whole.

Before we enter our saga of modern times, however, I should like to point out that I attempted to borrow Frampton Comes Alive from friends, but not a one owned the record. So I went over to a department store and bought it. I felt very good about buying it, too. Because when the final figures are in, and Frampton Comes Alive surpasses Carole King’s Tapestry or Johnny Mathis’ Greatest Hits or whatever the hell else is the numero uno pop LP of all time, I will know that I had done my share to help shape the course of history. Just like when I rushed out of the house to a pay phone on Labor Day 1974 (had just moved and was sans service) and pledged five dollars to the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon, then came back home and saw that the total the next hour ended in a five—MY FIVE!—A chill went up and down my spine.