ROCK FOLLIES (PBS)

by

Suzi Quatro

We had just returned from a gig and I switched on the television for Rock Follies.

After a couple of minutes I realized I was watching yet another cut-em-off castration of “Girls In Rock.”

I don’t know how they manage it, but every time we end up looking like (a) boring, hard-ass chicks or (b) thick sex-maniacs.

It seems odd to me that since Bessie Smith bluesed out her first note, nobody’s come up with more accurate assessments than these stereotypes. If my 13 years in the business and on the road is

supposed to be what’s crammed into this series, then I think I’ll give it up.

A small detail, I realize, but nevertheless one that really gets up my nose: every time they break into a song the legs fly apart (yoga training perhaps), the old arms start flapping up and down (no matter what the tempo) and the mouth gapes open (visions of the dentist’s chair).

If nothing else, rock has always survived through its redeeming quality, its basicness.