P.H.: Dusty, tell me about how it all started.

D.C.: It's all very sad really.

P-H: How so?

D.C.: I mean life, in general. Look, you try your best. You go out there and make them laugh. You make 'em cry. And then the next day some critic says something about your weight or your toupee, then that's it. I don't know... Jesus…

P-H: Can we talk about your early life?

D.C.: Look, I'm not bitter but sometimes the whole thing makes me puke. I should have been an itinerant worker like my old man. Bless him. That's not a bad thing to be really... itinerant.

P-H: The early years Dusty?

D.C.: You know what really pisses me off? The fact that so much of what I developed, that I actually pioneered, is now accredited to other performers.

P.H.: Such as?

D.C: Okay, fair question. Take Dean Martin's act of 'I'm just a lovable juiced up drunk'. That's all mine. He saw me do that on Jack Parr's show, right from the wings. Or Tom Jones and the pelvis thrust junk. Again, all mine. Even Elvis lifted the snarling lip thing. I did that in 1951 for god's sake! All my stuff but nobody remembers, nobody...

P.H.: The early years Dusty?

D.C.: It's hard to... Umm, it's hard to concentrate... I was successful from an early age. A natural. Voice like a songbird. Cheep cheep! (laughs) Eight years old and I'm on the radio. Jack Benny's radio show. Big time.

P.H.: What did you sing?

D.C: I was Tiny Tot, the voice behind Triple Tipple Soda. (singing) "I look in my cup cup cup and see a ripple ripple ripple. My goodness me, it must be Triple Tipple!" … Shit… in some ways I hate my life.

P.H.: That sounds terribly humiliating. How did you survive?

D.C.: I did a lot of charities. But it marked the beginning of a dark decent into barbiturate addiction that took me years of therapy to overcome.

P.H.: What happened after Tripple Tipple?

D.C:I cut an album for Silly Sally Music, and the thing took off like a Greyhound with runs. Then my aunt, who was a talent scout for the Milton Berle Show, got me on his show and the people loved me. So Berle kept inviting me back and they kept loving me. I kept singing this song I'd written called 'You Are My Angel', which eventually became a big hit.

P-H: What year would this be?

D.C.: About 1953 I guess. Television was new, done live. No tape.

P.H.: What kind of songs did you sing?

D.C: I can't remember. Real crap. You see, my vocal range was pretty limited. Actually, it's never improved. I've always relied on my unique vocal stylings. I was kidding about the 'cheep cheep'... So I might kind of mumble through 'Blue Moon'.

P.H.: Amazing. Can you tell me about 'The Burp'?

D.C: You know what the New York Times called it? 'The Burp That Shocked a Nation' - in some kind of 50s retrospective edition they had a few years ago. What people forget about is the pain, oh baby, the pain. So just before the show I had sucked down about a fifth of Old Granddad to steady myself, that on top of the drugs, and they sit me down wearing my little shorts and Berle says, "Ladies and Gentlemen, back with us again is the singing sensation Dusty Carr." Then the lights come up full, and I open my mouth to sing the first line of 'These Foolish Things' and out comes this belch that sounds like a truck running real slowly over a fifty pound bullfrog. I mean, the belch extended for at least five seconds. And like an idiot I tried to sing - so the first line kind of came out in this singsong belch, like something terrible dying.

P.H.: What was the fallout?

D.C: A little regurgitation but nothing substantial.

P.H: No, I mean, was it the end of the Berle show for you?

D.C: Are you kidding! That was almost the end of my goddam life! Berle went completely apeshit. They had to shoot him full of Nembutal for about a week. Everywhere I went it was like "Hey Burp Boy, sing us a song Burpee." Man, there I was, a twenty-year-old drug addict burp boy walking alone on the beach on Coney Island. Jesus... I couldn't go on.

P.H: So Ed Sullivan actually spit on you? It actually hit you?

D.C.: Let me make it clear that it wasn't just a normal spit like you might do if a hair got on your lip. I mean, as I was singing I could see him in the wings, working his cheeks like a camel, you know, working up a honking bowl of phlegm in his mouth until it started to overflow his lower lip. I knew what he was going to do.

P.H.: But that seems like such a severe humiliation to inflict just for swiveling your hips a little.

D.C.: It wasn't so much the hip thing that bothered him. It was the profanity of the lyrics.

P.H.: What song did you sing?

D.C.: Alright, let me set the scene. You see, after the Berle burp thing, I had only my shadow for a friend. Baby, I was low down. I mean, when I finally got a job waitering at the Copa, I cried with joy. So one night this Capitol Records executive who's in the audience for, I don't know, Paul Anka's show or something, like he recognizes me. "Hey, aren't you Dusty Carr?" he says. "Man," he says, "you were special, real special. Love you. Too bad about the burp. Why don't you go up and sing us a song?" So I said no, that was all behind me. Then one of his friends belched loudly and everyone started to laugh at me. Burp Boy again. I just couldn't take it - the humiliation. I really had something to prove. Then this guy talked to the manager and the manager says get the hell up there, so I did.

P.H: What did you sing?

D.C.: I sang 'Good Golly Miss Molly'. Man, I howled it. Just screamed. I sang like the Grim Reaper himself was raking flesh off my ass. The place went crazy and the next day the New York Post wrote, "Carr is back on the road."

P.H.: That's an amazing story.

D.C.: Exactly. That's why my life continues to fascinate people. It's all so dramatic, so extreme. Most people live these little gray, boring lives, so someone like me seems like this beautiful, fascinating meteor racing overhead.

P.H.: So you got a recording contract?

D.C.: Goddam right I did! Capitol Records laid out the red carpet. I did a remake of my old 50s hit 'You Are My Angel'. This was about 1962 so we added some more electric guitars and electric organ crap. Anyway, it got into Billboard's Top Fifty - or something close.

P.H.: Then Ed Sullivan came a-calling?

D.C.: Right. Off to Broadway. So during my rehearsal Sullivan comes over and says, "Dusty, I hear you've got a pretty wild stage act. Well, this is a family show. Kiddies, you know. So no bullshit. You got it?" And I said yeah, whatever. Then at the show the next evening, they introduce me and I start singing 'You Are My Angel'. But it was weird because I suddenly felt stupid. It wasn't the real me. Dig it, this was the 1960s! I felt like a fraud, like some spit-up leftover from the Bobby- Frankie teen idol 50s. The real Dusty Carr is quite an adventurer, quite a free spirit and all that shit. In retrospect, this might have been inspired by mild substance abuse. Anyway, so like out of nowhere I started to toss in some words that, shall we say, described a few unnatural acts.

P.H.: So Sullivan spit on you?

D.C.: Yeah, in fact, if you look at that tape, you'll see that after I finished the song, Sullivan wasn't there to say thank you, like he usually did. That's because he was waiting in the wings with this big mouthful of spit. So after I finished I just ran, and he sped after me. Anyway, he finally caught me going down a staircase and just unloaded. A huge yellow stream. That was it. No words were spoken, but I knew that I was never going to be on Ed Sullivan again.

P.H.: What did you and Frank Sinatra have in common?

D.C.: More than you think. Both great performers. Both stood the test of time. Both known for their unique vocal stylings.

P.H.: You were friends, you say. Then why did he try to kill you?

D.C.: Because sometimes, even though a guy is your friend, he still might hire someone to kill you. That's human nature. Like the song says, love hurts.

P.H.: But what inspired such revenge?

D.C.: This would be about 1961 and I was the opening act in Vegas for something like Granny Harper and Her Dancing Dogs - real crap. Anyway, the Rat Pack was in town -Sammy, Peter, Joey, Dean - the guys, you know, at the Sands, and I thought it might assist my career, which was temporarily stalled, if I could shine some of their light on me. No big deal, right? So I heard they were having this huge party in Frank's suite after the last show. They had them all the time. So what I did was go into the hotel kitchen and borrow some waiter's uniform. And I got in Frank's suite that way, disguised as a waiter.

P.H.: Oh my god!

D.C.: Oh yeah baby! So there I am, and over in one corner is Cary Grant and in another is Angie Dickinson you know, more stars than in heaven. And I'm walking around with a tray of drinks, and maybe I drank a few of them myself. So I hear someone say, "Hey Frank, how 'bout a tune?" And everyone starts cheering. So Sinatra walks over to this piano and some guy sits down on the stool to accompany him. And he starts singing 'Make It One for My Baby'. So I see this as my big break. And I kind of wandered up behind him and started to repeat the lyrics, like an echo effect. Very pleasing. You know singing "It's quarter to three..." I thought he'd dig it, which he should have given his artistic sensibilities. Well, people started to laugh. Then Sinatra figures out what's going on and the next thing I know there are all these shoes kicking furiously at my chest and I'm crawling to the door, inch by inch across the carpet, bleeding like a stuck pig. And people are pouring drinks on me. I lost three teeth. Man! It was a wild scene.

P.H.: What about the threat to kill you?

D.C.: The next day I hear through the grapevine that Sinatra has paid Tony ('Ugly Man') LaMosa ten thousand clams to ice me. So I made like a banana and split. You don't jerk around with a guy like Frank.

P.H.: How do you figure you were friends?

D.C.: Well, years later, maybe 1985, I see him in LA at some restaurant. And he sees me and starts to get really red, like he's recalling a passionate memory, you know, something touching. And he gets up from his table and starts to approach me. And some of his friends are yelling at him, "No Frank no!" But Frank, god bless him, just keeps coming. And he wraps his arm around my neck and says real slowly and friendly, "You butt-sucking pig. They told me you were dead." And he laughs kind of crazy-like and walks away. Just like that. We bonded. A wonderful man. I always hoped we could have cut an album together - 'Frank and Dusty Live' - something like that. Beautiful baby - a memory that money can't buy.

P.H.: Can you describe your relationship with Elvis Presley?

D.C.: It was one based on mutual respect. I think we each recognized each other's unique vocal stylings and professionalism.

P.H.: You first met in Las Vegas?

D.C.: No, initially I'd met him way back on the Milton Berle show.

P.H.: When you first saw him did you say to yourself, 'Wow, this is something special, this is something different'.

D.C.: Not at all. I thought he looked like a goof. Plus, he hadn't had his plastic surgery yet so his nose was kind of flat and his cheeks were flabby. A real loser, I thought, strictly for the kiddies. In fact, after the show, his manager, Tom Parker, asked me if I wanted to take over Elvis' management because he, Parker, said the whole thing was boring him and he was tired of hanging out with low lifes like Presley.

P.H.: What did you say?

D.C.: Something like, "what makes you think I want to be around some grease head, right?" Plus, you see, I thought Presley was a few bricks short of load. His brain wasn't right. He'd say stuff like, "My mudda don't like me to boogie woogie woogie," and shit like that. And I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Never did. Anyway, I had enough problems of my own, so I said screw you Parker. Obviously, that was a major mistake and became a really serious regret.

P.H.: But you did strike up a friendship years later, correct?

D.C.: Yeah, Las Vegas again. This would be like 1968 or early '69. And I was living in some fleabag motel filled with toothless hookers and Superfly pimps. Man, I was low. But by that time Sinatra had long left Vegas and was doing his 'Blue Eyes is Retiring Soon' bullshit and selling out stadiums in Brazil or wherever. So I thought maybe I could resurface without getting my teeth kicked in.

P.H.: How were you making money. Royalties?

D.C.: Royalties? Man, I've seen about ten cents in royalties in my life! Every manager I've ever had has screwed, chewed and barbecued me. No, I was a caddy at the Las Vegas Desert Inn golf course or whatever it's called. That's how I met Tom Jones.

P.H.: Toreador Tom?

D.C.: The one and only. I was his caddy one day, and he recognized me because I was always big in England and that's where he's from. So he says like "What are you doing here? Why don't you help me with my act because half of it I ripped off from you anyway," or words to that effect. Bless him, always real class. And I said give me a time and place and I'm yours. So I helped him with his moves, the pelvic thrust stuff, you know, how to sing with your crotch. It really improved his act. So one night Elvis was in the audience because he was trying to build up a show. He saw Tom Jones and said, "Man, that's the ticket! Who did the choreography?" So, the next thing I know I'm sitting in a hotel room with Presley and his dad Vernon and a lot of chunky guys with big sideburns and red nylon jackets who kind of looked like Presley. And he asked me to help him. That, my friend, marked my comeback.

P.H.: Did you get to sing with 'The King?'

D.C.: Not professionally - because I believe he always regarded me as a threat. In fact, you will find very few pictures of Elvis and me together. I really intimidated him, which is sad, because I loved him like a brother. But we would sing together back stage, stuff like 'I Don't Feel Well' and 'Baby's Startin' To Bug Me'.

P.H.: Were you shocked when he died?

D.C.: Not at all. I was at Graceland the day he croaked. And I watched what had been going on. Elvis would say, "Hey man, you think I'm getting fat?" And all these people around him would reply, "No no, you look great, real skin and bones, you're the King man!" Behind his back they'd call him the King of Calories. And he spent most of his time eating - like all the time. He was either in the kitchen or on the toilet. And it wasn't normal stuff he ate. It was like fried chunks of pork in peanut butter or cheese coated bacon. Often he would leave the table to vomit and then five minutes return to resume the feast.

P.H.: Tell me about his last day.

D.C.: Well, this would be August, 1977. He was planning a new tour and he had called me up to get some help with the dancing crap. Although I was solely responsible for all of the Karate stuff he had been doing - especially the bit when he went into a kind of attack position and swung his arms around like a windmill - but I thought it was growing kind of stale. You see, he was about two hundred pounds overweight. I mean, he used to rip the behind out of those Karate pajamas because his ass was so huge. And you know how baggy those uniforms are... So I had a great idea that he do the whole concert dressed as a cowboy, you know, the pioneer Elvis, the trailblazer, a John Wayne type. But he said that was stupid, he liked his jumpsuits. So we got into a big argument and he started throwing dishes and screaming and stomped off real mad to the toilet. And that's the last that we ever saw him. You see, it's dangerous to get really mad when you're grossly overweight. But it was fitting the King died on his throne. In the end, baby, he was a real class act.

P.H.: Can we go back for a second to the Summer of Love?

D.C.: Absolutely... A really wild time.

P.H.: What were you doing in 1967?

D.C.: Just getting home from Vietnam.

P.H.: How long was your tour of duty?

D.C.: It was supposed to be eighteen months but I got dishonorably discharged after three months.

P.H.: What happened?

D.C.: Look, dig it, music is my life. When I'm singing, I'm in heaven. It transports me into heaven. And when you're in a hell like Vietnam, you really want to get to heaven. But as I didn't want to get there in a body bag, I got there by singing. I'm a together man, very centered.

P.H.: Why did they discharge you for singing?

D.C.: It was a matter of timing. They said I was singing at inappropriate moments.

P.H.: Such as?

D.C.: Well, on night patrol for instance. You see, going on a night patrol is incredibly dangerous. Really, you're sitting ducks. So I got the feeling that everyone was uptight. I was uptight. So to relax the situation I'd sing. Now, some of the guys would tell me to shut up, and maybe punch me in the chest, sometimes with great force. But I wanted to share my gift in that time of duress. But ultimately, they decided I was a safety factor, that I was attracting the wrong kind of attention, as in enemy gunfire. Some of the guys thought I was faking being crazy so I could get home. In fact, the doctors actually thought I was crazy. But I said whoa, hold on, I'm a performer man, it's in my blood! That's life baby, that ain't crazy! You see, nothing makes the military more uptight than true talent. No room for a little improv.

P.H.: So you went to San Francisco?

D.C.: You know it. Got there in March, 1967. I had no money, zilch. I started living on raw noodles. And to make it worse, 'Frisco was like, well, it was filled with a lot of dirty teenagers, real skaggy looking delinquents. And I couldn't stand the music. Too self-indulgent, those hour-long drum solos. Jesus! By complete mistake I attended a Grateful Dead concert and I asked some roadie if they could turn down the music - so they tossed me out… Real self-indulgent pricks.

P.H.: Then why did you stay in San Francisco?

D.C.: Two reasons. You could live like a king on a dollar a day, And two, there were lots of young women around willing to have casual sex with me. I can't thing of anything else. I mean, you try living on raw noodles for a few months. Your teeth begin to fall out and you shiver all the time.

P.H.: Then how did you end up singing with the Jefferson Airplane?

D.C.: Well, I got a job sweeping the floor at Bill Graham's Fillmore auditorium - the place where all the longhairs played. Actually, it was a very coveted job, but Bill gave it to me because of my reputation an entertainer. We both knew this drug shit was just a fad, a trend maybe. He said I'd be more responsible than the little faggy hippies. So one night I'm sweeping out this dressing room and in walks Grace Slick, the singer with Airplane. And she was on some pretty heavy acid. She kept asking me if I had seen her mouse.

P.H.: Her mouse?

D.C.: Right, her mouse. I don't know, maybe she'd lost a pet mouse. Who cares. Anyway, just to bug her, I said yes, I'd seen the goddam mouse, in fact, I just ate it because I was getting sick of noodles. So she hears this and starts crying, I mean, really wailing. So I go over to her and put my arm around her, you know, to comfort her - I've always been very good with women. I told her I was just kidding. Anyway, she stops crying and looks up into my face and says, "You are the nicest man I've ever met." Later that day she tells the band about me, and Marty Someone asks me if I can sing, because their regular backup singer had just swallowed some drain cleaner and wasn't feeling too good. So I said yes. I told them I knew how to style a song. And dig it, I was a monster hit! Between songs I'd talk to the crowd, loosen them up, do a few jokes you know. The kids went wild. The San Francisco Chronicle did a story on me. They called me a 'performance artist'. Just beautiful. So I toured with the Airplane for about a year and we recorded some crap.

P.H.: Why did you leave?

D.C.: I couldn't stand the music. Why do people pay to have someone yell at them? I don't get it. Never did. Plus all those pulsating lights made me want to vomit.

P.H.: Las Vegas gets criticized for presenting mediocre talent - people that could never work anywhere else on the planet. Yet you worked in Vegas for years. How do you explain that?

D.C.: Do you really know where Las Vegas is? Do you? Listen, it's in the middle of a goddam desert. It's a hundred degrees in the shade! The place is surrounded by rattlesnakes and riddled with the worst scumbags in America. So why would a truly talented person decide to perform there? Because they have to. Their careers have, like, expired. So Vegas gives them a second chance, a helping hand. Is that so bad?

P.H.: It depends...

D.C.: On what? Listen, most of the people who visit Las Vegas are looking for booze and sex, in that order. Entertainment, I mean, such as a dedicated artist like me or even Tom Jones, is just a bonus.

P.H.: I heard you made a lot of money in Vegas.

D.C.: True, but not from my music. It came another way... I was a messenger for Howard Hughes.

P.H.: What? No way!

D.C.: Dig it. Howard Hughes. He was in Vegas in, I don't know, the late sixties, something like that. Anyway, during the last year he was there, I got to know him and he asked me to help him deliver messages because he said that hey he didn't trust the people around him to do it.

P.H.: How did you ever get to meet him in the first place?

D.C.: I had been drinking pretty heavily for about a week. You know the kind of drinking when your hands start to swell up? Anyway, it was late one night and I was thirsty and broke - kind of a typical situation back then, and certainly now. So I decided to visit my friend Buddy Hackett, who had a suite on the tenth floor of the same hotel where Hughes had been living for years.

P.H.: Didn't Hughes actually own that hotel?

D.C.: How the hell would I know!.. Anyway, so I get on the elevator and I must have hit the wrong button, like the twentieth floor. Because the doors open and it looks like a hospital. Real quiet. Shiny floors and blue light. So I start to look for Buddy right, 'Hey Buddy? Where are you?' - like I'm pretty wasted, and I go into this room and there's this old guy in there lying in a bed. He looks at me for a second and says, "You peckerhead, I said change the reel about one hour ago! Where were you!" He looked real sick so I decided to be nice and play along. So I figured out he had been watching a movie - this was before videos, so he had to change the reel now and then. So I put on a new reel and sat down to watch, I don't know, some war movie, maybe The Green Berets with that guy from Star Trek. It ended and the old man starts squinting at me and says, "Are you Mormon?" I said, "No, I'm Dusty." Well, he thinks about this for a second, then says, "I can't hear you. What are you doing here?" So I tell him and he starts to laugh. Anyway, that's how I started working for Howard Hughes.

P.H.: Did you get along with him?

D.C.: I thought he was pretty creepy, and believe me, it takes a lot to creep me out. Definitely the strangest man I've ever met. Funny thing, he was an excellent whistler, best I've ever heard. Lots of light jazz, some Dave Brubeck as I recall. Just like a songbird. But the fact that he collected his own urine in jars beneath his bed made any kind of meaningful relationship kind of difficult. It's hard to get around something like that.

P.H.: You career has had a lot of ups and down...

D.C.: More than a Tijuana hooker...

P.H.: So what would be the lowest point and how did you recover?

D.C.: Well, the Berle burp thing was no joke, but I'd say the lowest was probably in the early 1970s. I mean, I had no money. I developed a really weird skin rash and I began dragging my left leg.

P.H.: What saved you?

D.C.: I suppose it was the Church of the Celestial Anointed. It was a... well really, a cult of sorts.

P.H.: How did that all start?

D.C.: It was sleeping in an abandoned refrigerator truck near the Hudson River, you know, New York City, and one morning I woke up and found this guy just standing there staring at me. I told him to screw off. He said his name was Kronar, from the planet Zefton or something. I asked him if he had any food. And off we went to this house in Brooklyn Heights, crowded with his friends, and they all hugged me and kissed my hands and said welcome brother, all that crap. So I played along with it while I wolfed down a platter of smoked meat. It turned out that these people, maybe thirty of them, really believed this guy Kronar was an alien or something, and they worshipped him.

P.H.: Did you believe it?

D.C.: After a while I did, because, hey, they fed me, got me lots of girls, and all I had to do was stand on street corners and say stuff like, "Watch the sky for the Big Light. The Big Green Light!" You know, kind of X-Files bullshit. So if a guy wants to feed you and to believe he's an alien, then I say sure, you're an alien. Whatever.

P.H.: What happened? How'd you leave?

D.C.: Well, for once my drug use can be seen in a positive light. You see, Kronar hated booze, barbiturates, amphetamines, you know, anything that gives you a little R & R. He must have come from a dry planet! Anyway, he discovered that I was carrying around this pharmacy in my pocket and he ordered my execution.

P.H.: He was going to kill you?

D.C.: I know, shades of Sinatra. Kronar had these hitmen disciples, Jeff and Gunter, try to nail me to a floor. They wanted to crucify me. I mean, they had these hammers and 3-inch spiral nails and sat on my chest and started to get busy. And at that moment, at that exact moment, I decided that I didn't like the turn my life had taken, that I no longer exercised reasonable control. I swore I would get my act together and take it on the road. So I reached up and gave Gunter what we used to call a 'Bronx handshake' - which is basically grabbing a guy's scrotum and twisting it like a door handle. Well, he let out this really sickening scream - and that scared them off. So I got up and walked out of that room a new man, reborn and strong, ready to take on the entertainment world once again. But sadly, these feelings faded rather quickly as the drugs wore off.

P.H.: Dusty, would you like to talk about your failed comeback concert in 1975?

D.C.: No, not really.

P.H.: But I'm sure NABS readers would like to know what went wrong.

D.C.: What didn't go wrong! Oh man... Listen, do you remember the shit that was going on in 1975? I mean, nothing! Nothing was going on! The 60s were over. Watergate was over. Disco hadn't started yet. So all you had was a lot of nothing. I said to myself, 'Dusty, you've got to give the people something, something that touches their souls, that moves them sincerely, right from your heart, and if you do, you stand to make substantial cash'.

P.H.: Elton John was recently quoted as saying, "Dusty Carr is a great example of what not to do on a stage."

D.C.: He said that?

P.H.: Yes, just last month.

D.C.: Bless him. See, that's what I mean. I'm a teacher. I taught those guys how to put on a show.

P.H.: I believe Elton was referring to the fact that he heard about your experience in 1975, and it really scared him that someone could generate so much hostility from an audience.

D.C.: Hey, it scared me too. I mean, it was the first stop of a nine-city tour. It was the "It's All So Groovy" Tour, and that was our first mistake. You see, it was too soon for 60s nostalgia, all the Austin Powers shit you see today. But as always, I was ahead of my time. Secondly, if I ever meet Elton John again, I'm going after him with a curling iron, if you know what I mean... Jesus! I mean, Elton owes me a lot. He worshipped me. Listen, do you know the original title of his song 'Daniel' was 'Dusty'?

P.H.: You're kidding!

D:C.: (singing) 'Dusty is flying tonight on a plane". And it was me who told him, "Get a gimmick, something so dumb it's cool." Hence, the crazy glasses he used to wear. I knew him in the Long John Baldry days. Anyway, jesus, what's the point...

P.H.: Can we go back to 1975?

D.C.: So there were about 3,000 people in this auditorium in Philadelphia, and I came out and the place went wild. Didn't say a thing and I got a standing ovation. It was a convention of young Republicans. Oh man, I should have stopped right there. So I decided to talk to the crowd for a while, you know, loosen it up with a bit of Vegas patter. And I thought it'd be hip to rap about politics, you know, because they were young Republicans and I thought it'd be cool. So I laid into Richard Nixon, and started going on about what a thieving scum sucker he was, and how he should be flogged with chains and fed to dung beetles. Anyway, the place went dead. Real dead. And then there was this low-level murmur that started to build into a riot of noise. And they started throwing things on stage, not just typical pop can garbage, but chairs and actual people. My drummer received a terrible groin injury. Anyway, the promoters pulled out and the whole thing folded, right there and then.

P.H.: What a shame!

D.C.: I mean, look, I had forgotten Nixon was a Republican, right? That's all. And who cares about politics. It's all just a game. It doesn't matter who is in power - it's the same bullshit. And the total irony is that I liked Richard Nixon. I knew the guy. I once dropped $200,000 into his lap - a gift from Howard Hughes. Listen, young people shouldn't be walking around at conventions in styrofoam hats chanting these mindless slogans. They should be out having sex and dancing and riding in cars. Man, the whole thing was so unfair and so goddam immoral.

P.H.: I understand your next comeback was a little better than your first.

D.C.: Yeah, a little better. 1978... I was part of nostalgia tour, which is awful, but it shares the risk.

P.H.: Who else was on the bill?

D.C.: They had The Monkees, let's see, and Herman's Hermits and Three Dog Night - you know, the real 'D' list. I was the only solo performer.

P.H.: Why did the tour break up after only three shows?

D.C.: It's a miracle that it lasted that long. You see, a big problem of nostalgia tours is health-related. A lot of guys have heart trouble, bad prostates, high blood pressure, you name it. The backstage shit isn't pretty either. Everyone is balder than a baby's ass. I mean, I used to walk into the dressing room and see about ten toupees just sitting on the makeup tables. They looked like a bunch of squashed rats. And that's not a touching sight if your stomach's full of beer. But the audience expects you to look the same as you did at your peak. So you have a guy like Davy Jones who was known to be 'cute', and now he's like fifty-five or something. He ain't cute walking out of the shower, I can tell you. Luckily, and I mean this sincerely, I've never had an actual 'peak' persay. My career has been in a constant state of... escalation.

P.H.: That's true, I mean, you couldn't go down any deeper.

D.C.: Exactly. So I don't have to look like I did in 1968, because no one remembers anyway. You see Tony, there's lots of freedom in failure.

P.H.: If my chronology serves me right - we're at the point where you received the injury that almost ended your career. Tell us about it.

D.C.: It's painful to remember and still causes sinus trouble. Really, I have very few pleasant memories of anything. You'd think with all my success, with the wounds, the victories, the triumphs and the defeats, that it would all be, I don't know, just more fulfilling. Ah shit, you know... But I truly feel that my best work lies ahead of me.

P.H.: The head wound?

D.C.: Alright, this would be around 1979. Disco was god and the Bee Gees were the disciples. I mean, if you weren't playing something that didn't have a thunka-thunka bass line in it, they'd piss you right off the stage. Dig it, I am a survivor... So I dug down into the basement of my innate talent and wrote the disco hit 'Gimme a Chunka Funk'. It made the Billboard top 1000 or something.

P.H.: Weren't you charged with copyright infringement over that song?

D.C.: Am I doing the talking or are you?... Okay then... So I got a gig in Los Angeles at the Whiskey A Go-Go. So there I was before the show in the dressing room trying to squeeze into this white jump suit - and I just didn't fit. I mean, this suit lifted, separated and defined my balls. It was friggin painful. It cut into my armpits and buckled at the navel. But everyone was wearing these goddam white jumpsuits, so off I went. So I get out on stage and led into 'Gimme a Chunka Funk' and the place went nuts. They really dug my message. But then I started to feel funny, light headed, and I realized this goddam suit was cutting off my circulation. I was actually dying! So I unzipped the whole thing and that really got the place going. So I said to myself, might as well go all the way. And before you know it, I was dancing around in my boxers and white boots.

P.H.: Oh my god!

D.C.: But dig this, I felt liberated! No more makeup, no more jumpsuits, no more nothing. It was just me, Dusty Carr, a man alone with his unique vocal stylings. What I didn't know was that there were some punk rockers in the crowd that night. They were from England. I mean, I'd never heard of punk rock, let alone England. So they see what I'm doing and they think 'Wow! He's one of us! This guy's the real thing'. So to show their appreciation, they came up to the stage and started to spit on me. That was their way of showing appreciation. But I didn't know that. Plus, there was that dark experience with Ed Sullivan - and something in my brain just snapped. So I started to spit back, but my spit hit the wrong guys, some cowboys from Dallas. And they went berserk. One of them climbed up on the stage, grabbed the mike stand, and whacked me on the side of the head. The last thing I remember was feeling like I could really fly. I woke up a week later in LA General Hospital completely disoriented and very afraid. Man, what a ride!

P.H.: 'Rolling Stone' magazine credits that incident with launching the punk scene on the West Coast. They treat you and Iggy Pop as the godfathers.

D.C.: Like I said, I am an influencer, a teacher. I remember someone told me about the Rolling Stone article. I thought about it a lot. Then it finally hit me, it really did. I said to myself, who the hell is Iggy Pop?

P.H.: Can we talk about your arrest at Elvis' gravesite?

D.C.: I explained all that in court. It was an act of passion. You hear that, passion baby, and I offer no apologies for passion.

P.H.: I can remember reading about it in The Telegram, and thinking about how it was both pathetic and touching. When was it, 1982?

D.C.: Around then. I was living in a friend's tent outside of Memphis. I was working as a car jockey at some garage. I hated my work and I hated my life. You see, talent is a burden. And success hangs around your neck like chains, not pearls, my friend. I had been to the tallest mountain and now I was in the darkest valley. So I began drinking... a lot, because I thought it might help things. And it did - and still does. But then I began to crash cars and they canned me. My problem was that I happened to have the wrong job! But I was still reasonably happy.

P.H.: Would you say you were, or are, an alcoholic?

D.C.: No, not at all. I just like to drink every day until I pass out. That doesn't make me an addict. That just makes me kind of sloppy.

P.H.: Elvis' grave?

D.C.: Right. Well one night I decided that I was going to visit my old pal Elvis Presley, even though he was dead. So I made my way into town and over to Graceland. But they had closed it for the day. So I started banging on the front gate, screaming out for Elvis. Then this guard came up and sprayed me with water and said go away. So I snuck around the side and climbed a wall. And I stumbled across the grounds until I got to his grave. There were these little pretty candles burning beside it and all of these flowers and, man, I felt spiritual. Tony, I took a look at my life and I started to cry, just like a baby. And I thought of Elvis and what a fantastic life he had, even if he had croaked on the toilet. And I realized that God had taken the wrong man. The wrong man! He should have taken me - some bargain-basement bottomfeeder, but not The King! So I kneeled down on Elvis' grave and screamed to the heavens, "Me Lord! Take me! Return our King, our beloved King! You return him right now!" And it started to rain and I was rolling around in the mud and flowers, crying away, and I cut my hand on something and started bleeding all over the place... Anyway, that's how the police found me.

P.H.: What did they do with you?

D.C.: I was charged with trespassing but the judge said it was... let me think, 'an act of both heartfelt passion and the doings of a sadly deranged man'. They found out that I was a Vietnam vet so they kind of felt sorry for me, gave me twenty dollars, and drove me to the city limits. But I'll tell you Tony, it was all about love, real love for a man - and I don't mean anything gay - you know, because I see a lot of Elvis in me, expect for the money, and it could have been Dusty Carr who croaked on the crapper and not the King. In fact, all entertainers have a real, deep-seated fear of croaking on the crapper. Look at Lenny Bruce, god bless him. I mean, my current constipation is quite complex in nature. So poor Elvis. Am I ashamed? Never! I don't need to defend passion and love, because those are the bookends of my life. (singing) 'I'm just a hunka-hunka burnin' love, just a...' What are the hell are the next words?

P.H.: When did you go to France?

D.C.: About the same time as the Elvis gravesite thing.

P.H.: Do you speak French?

D.C.: No. In fact I don't even like the language. It's so complex. I mean, English is very easy to understand. I think everyone should at least try to speak it.

P.H.: Why do you think the French embraced you like they did?

D.C.: You mean all the 'Vive la Dusty!' crap? Who knows. I think it may have something to do with the Jerry Lewis syndrome, you know, anything that Americans hate the French automatically love - because, hey, they hate Americans. So it all fits. Also, I was going through a very serious, dark depression, and the French like that spooky shit.

P.H.: I know you performed in at Le Club Pari, a very exclusive place.

D.C.: Right. Nice gig. I was scheduled to play just a weekend, again, as part of a nostalgia tour. But my heart wasn't into it. I mean, you can only sing 'You Are My Angel' so many times without feeling ill. And I did feel ill. So between songs I'd just rap about my feelings, stuff like, 'Each day drags me that much closer to the grave' or 'My digestion is bad, my bowels cramp, and I am without God'. You know, I mean, I was sick. Anyway, the Paris critics called me a raconteur, which is French for storyteller. And thank god they all spoke English - which is no surprise because Europeans tend to be smarter than Americans. In fact, everyone is smarter than Americans. It's a miracle we rule the world… Anyway, I stretched that gig to three months and came home with a lot of cash.

P.H.: And that European success got you your own ABC television special?

D.C.: Well, it was a kind of special. I replaced Glen Campbell's Christmas show - because Glen was having this conflict with the TV network about the length of his sideburns, and I happened to be in the right place at the right time. It was called 'On the Road with Dusty Carr'.

P.H.: I heard it was dreadful.

D.C.: Not for lack of talent. The concept was bad. They had me travelling from New York City to Los Angeles in a Winnebago. We would stop along the way and talk to people about Christmas, what it meant to them. But this was filmed in August or something, so people would just look at me as if I was a moron. In fact, I was seriously assaulted in west Texas. The ratings were so bad that they actually stopped the show half way through the broadcast and ran 'The Paul Lynde Story' or something. You see, sometimes talent is not enough. You need an enormous amount of luck and really good clothes.

P.H.: That brings us up to what, 1990? You met Ringo Starr?

D.C.: Right. I was on a triple bill with Gerry and the Pacemakers and Georgie Fame. We were playing some rat hole in Liverpool. And for some reason Ringo came to the show. Afterwards we had a drink and one thing led to another and he wound up producing my comeback album, 'Really Fast Carr'.

P.H.: Did you like working with Ringo?

D.C.: No, it was awful. He's a wonderful man but he doesn't know a thing about music. And that's a serious handicap for a record producer. He's not even interested in music. All he ever did was sit in the control booth and tap on the console with pencils while humming to himself. I think he was just lonely and needed an excuse to hang with some people. He's not exactly busy. At the end of it all Ringo hit a few wrong buttons and erased almost everything except my singing - so that's what we released. Thank god I know how to style a song.

P.H.: The so-called 'Garage Bands' loved that album, celebrating its minimalism.

D.C.: I heard that and it really pissed me off because I didn't know what 'minimalism' meant. But then I realized it was good. It means simple, pure, to the point. And that's me. Just raw talent.

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P.H.: What have you been doing for the past ten years?

D.C.: A bit of jail time, but mostly living in friends' basements and playing dinner clubs - which is fine, because I get to drink fairly heavily and meet women.

P.H.: Do you ever get the chance to see any of your old movies?

D.C.: A few years ago some shithole cinema in San Francisco had a cult movie weekend or something like that, and they invited me to discuss 'This Beach is for Swingers' and 'Smell a Rainbow, Watch a Flower'. It meant a free trip to 'Frisco so I said sure. Anyway, I get there and the people love me! I mean, they practically licked me all over. But then I figured out that what they were celebrating was how bad they think these movies are! What's the point? Why waste your time celebrating shit? Besides, those two movies are excellent - well directed, well written and acted. So ha ha, the joke's on them!

P.H.: I heard a rumor that you have formed a corporation and are attempting to raise some financing.

D.C.: That's right. It's a legal corporation simply called Carr Media.

P.H.: What is it you do?

D.C.: Personally, very little, but it concerns the Web, the Internet, or whatever it's called, which is good - so I'm told. Right now I'm working on a venture to sell fish bait on-line, you know, for fisherman who really need leeches, frogs, minnows in a big rush. Our slogan is 'Don't Wait for Bait'. It might take off. There's a web site about me that I help with, but there's no money involved so I don't work that hard at it. The address is w w w dot something... they're all the same. But I'm supposed to answer letters or some horseshit.

P.H.: What about the music?

D.C.: There's some kind of rap label in LA who wants me to do some stuff - Ho Boyz in da Hood or some name like that. I told them sure, why not, even though I can't stand that shit. Why the hell are they always so angry? Lighten up. But listen, I'm going to sing until the day I die. In two weeks I'll be headlining, at the Bangor Ramada - should be a hot gig - strong college town.

P.H.: Dusty, on behalf of NABS Music Magazine, I'd like to thank you for the past twenty-four hours.

D.C.: Wait a second. Let's end on something upbeat. I want to tell everyone that I've learned from my life, I've learned the hard way that most people are petty, cruel, stupid and vicious. Yet I still go on that stage. And that, my friend, is what it's all about - doing something you really hate in order to make some money so that you can keep doing it - and they should put that on my stinkin' grave stone.