ROBERT PALMER : Music & Style

Robert Palmer, who's Big In America, finds his musical progress rather cluttered with scantily clad femininity. Tony Stewart murmurs disapprovingly.

Somehow it's still hard to accept that Robert Palmer is becoming an established solo artist in America, even if he is now holding court in his dressing room, giving audience to an endless procession of adoring young ladies who have suggestions to whisper in his ear.

Only three years ago he was an undistinguished member of Vinegar Joe, spending most of his time ducking into shadows or playing the submissive partner to Elkie Brooks' on-stage tarty affrontry.

Now, as he graciously leans forward to kiss the cheek of an overawed admirer while simultaneously apologising for the constant interruptions to the journalist who's interviewing him, it's difficult to reconcile the two different images.

Through his first group, The Mandrakes, then the Alan Bown Set, Dada and finally Vinegar Joe, Palmer was an unlikely candidate for solo honours because of his own quiet introversion. But since the disbandment of Joe in February 1974 he has undergone a radical transformation.

Relaxed and smouldering in the glow of attention he commands, Robert sits with the writer on a sofa in the brightly-lit, bustling dressing room between sets on the first of two nights at the Great Southeast Music Hall, a small, slightly tacky club in a modern shopping precinct in Atlanta, Georgia.

He remains detached, possibly aloof to the noisy activity, playing out the character of Mr. Cool. He wears a snappy dark suit and open neck shirt, and his hair is expertly cut and groomed, brushed casually back off his good looks to complete the picture of fashionable elegance.

He has the bearing of the gallant young Englishman and if his assumed breeding and good manners didn't forbid it he would probably admit to being narcissistic; as much in love with himself as his many female devotees are. But then again, you might be in danger of misinterpreting his charming amiability and self-confidence as arrogant pretentiousness.

Publicly, Palmer's facade is invariably composed, allowing only the occasional glimpse beneath.

When, for instance, one Georgia peach shows her handsome Robert the oils portrait of him she's lovingly painted he grimaces scornfully and is oblivious to the tears of rejection in her eyes.

Shortly afterwards he is mildly disturbed by the behaviour of two of his road crew who're unceremoniously bundling out a persistent girl who's returned backstage for a second helping of kisses and cuddles. The girl shrieks blue murder and indignantly instruct Robert to call off his muscle. But he shrugs hopelessly, and when he starts to speak for her she's already been pushed out of the door.

"We're not being rude," one of the crew justifies, catching Palmer's weak gesture of reprimand, "we're throwing her out."

The incident is quickly forgotten and Palmer talks on to the journalist.

And taking immense pleasure in witnessing the interest and fans Palmer attracts is the founder of Island Records, Chris Blackwell. Seven years ago he saw potential in the singer and told him then he would like to be involved in his career should he choose to go solo. His faith has been consistent, and he now says that the only reason Vinegar Joe were signed to Island was because Robert was a member.

At the beginning of '74 Blackwell put Palmer and producer Steve Smith (of Smith, Perkins and Smith renown) on a plane to the States and told them to bring back an album. After recording in New York with legendary sessioners Cornell Dupree, Richard Tee and Bernard Purdie, and then at Allen Toussaint's Sea-Saint studios in New Orleans with The Meters and Lowell George, they did. It was called Sneakin' Sally Through The Alley.

As the volume of noise in the room increases, with visits from resolute reporters, congratulory chums and a parade of pretties who come on like they're auditioning for a position under Palmer's sheets, the patron and protege grin at each other. A mutual secret causes them both to chuckle with proud satisfaction, without a word being spoken.

The purpose of our journey into Presidential Peanut Power Country is to investigate an election of another kind: Robert Palmer being appointed a popular performer by the American public.

The promotional campaign for him is intense. His third album, Some People Can Do What They Like, has just been released and ad plays have been bought on the major radio and TV networks. Also behind this LP and Palmer's second States tour is the full might of Island's American sales and promo departments, led on this leg of the dates by Spencer Davis, formely the famous group leader.

Like President Carter, Robert Palmer is still very much an enigma, at least in Britain.

His reason for the low-profile, enigmatic image is this: "I've been playing music for 12 years and I don't want to make a mistake because I'm making my shot now. But I've been taking my time doing it because there are so many easy routes which look so treacherous to me that I ain't prepared to tread 'em. I enjoy singing; it's the only thing I do that gives me complete satisfaction and I don't want to jeopardise that."

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