This made the choice for the next focus of my investigation easy - I found him lounging out by the hotel pool, being interviewed by a reporter for Entertainment Tonight.
"Now Mr. Rommel, how do you respond to charges that the music to your latest song, 'What A Bunch Of Bimbos', is in fact the same melody found in 'He's So Fine', except that all the notes are reversed?"
"Well, seeing as that's going through litigation right now, I'm not really in a position to comment on it. But seeing as my song has sold about seven million copies more than their song, I suspect the jury will probably consist of a majority of people who liked my version better, so I'll probably get off."
The reporter turned to face the camera. "Yet another case of a rock star getting off. Back to you, Mary."
As the camera crew packed up, I slipped over to the chaise lounge next to Rommel's, slipped on my best Hollywood shades, and got into my best Southern California Hip jive. After all, when in Rome...
"So Rommel, baby, what's the deal on this Nazi gig? Is that the real thing, or just some of that nutty-marvelous show biz hype?"
He shifted over on his chair to face me, a big dumb smile spreading across his well-groomed face. "Hey, get real, man. It's the act, ya dig? People got such short attention spans these days, ya gotta grab'em with whatever you can. Today, seeing Hitler in a punk rock group gets them off. Tomorrow, it's earrings made from razor blades, and nude football. Folks just like to be shocked, that's all. That's what this is all about."
"And you ain't worried about shocking the wrong people just a bit too much?"
"Life's too short, dude. If I'm gonna spend all my time worrying about when it's gone too far, when am I supposed to work on my tan? It's easier just to hire someone to do it for you - like yourself, fer instance."
"While we're on the subject, maybe you could vector me toward a shocked suspect or two."
He stared blankly at me for a moment, then he started smiling again, then finally burst out laughing. "Man, have I got a suspect for you! This dude's been on my case since BBS."
"BBS?"
"Before Bruce Springsteen."
"Oh. Of course. How stupid of me..."
"Hey, it's cool." He fumbled around in his terry-cloth robe, and produced a crumpled-up newspaper clipping:
MUSIC SCENE by Guy Giddings
When Will It End?
I cannot fathom this sick fascination the rock 'n roll regime seems
to hold for Grated Chez. The lyrics, if that's indeed what they are
(personally, I've had my suspicions for some time that the way they
actually write their songs is by tacking random phrases to a wall
and then throwing darts at them), make about as much sense as a
ski jacket to an Arab. But even they might be tolerated, if one could
bear listening to the music! I've heard torturous synthesizer chords
before, but keyboard man Rommel should be tried for war crimes!
He must be violating the Geneva convention somehow! Stop this man
before he 'entertains' again!!!
"Sounds like strong stuff. Guess I better check him out."
"OK, but whatever you do, don't let him near a typewriter, or you'll never get out alive."
"No problem, I'll just break his fingers."
"Far out, man. Say, if you can hang a rap on him, I'll do a song on you."
Somehow, I couldn't manage to figure out if this was a compliment or not. Well, that's show biz.
TO BE CONTINUED...