The face is a little weathered and the eyes are framed by crow's-feet. The hair, however, is eerily familiar-a shoulder-length brown shag, parted in the middle. It is the coif of a teen idol circa 1971, the only difference being that this is 1990 and the teen idol is now 40 years old, about to discover whether anyone cares to see his face or hear his voice again. In the early '70s, David Cassidy was the original new kid on the block. Costarring with his stepmother, Shirley Jones, future L.A. Lawyer Susan Dey, and future recovering drug addict Danny Bonaduce, Cassidy was the androgynous Keith Partridge in the sitcom about an average suburban family that doubled as a rock band. Silly, yes, but The Partridge Family was an instant hit. Cassidy became a TV and recording star, with his mug gracing everything from teen magazines to coloring books. Girls longed for him; boys longed to lead a ''band'' of their own. Then it was over. In 1974 the faltering series was canceled, and soon other teen idols took his place. New albums, a TV cop series, and Broadway roles came and went with scant public fanfare. But deep inside, Cassidy felt he was ''robbed'' of his musical career; he had to rock. So, next month, he will release his first album in 14 years, simply titled David Cassidy. To alert the media, he is passing through New York during a midsummer heat wave, visiting radio stations, engaging in any and all photo opportunities, and drumming up interviews. The responses he receives are varied. Some of those he meets will see him and squeal; others will groan at the thought of yet another old pop star itching to be famous again. On an artists' panel at the New Music Seminar, an annual industry gathering, Cassidy receives as many cheers as fellow panelists Flea (of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) and rapper Ice Cube. It is frighteningly exuberant applause-the sound of a generation facing a relic of its past and guffawing loudly. But is David Cassidy hip to the joke? Apparently not. ''I feel very lucky,'' Cassidy says soberly. ''I feel very flattered by the fact that people are that interested in what's going on with me. I think they have seen that I have paid a lot of dues for being me. And they genuinely want me to win.'' In other words, he thinks they love him.
Back in his hotel room on this muggy afternoon, Cassidy doesn't feel like a winner. ''This is bad, really bad,'' he says, flipping through a script sent over from VH-1, where he will tape a video countdown later. Slouched in a chair, he is wearing a T-shirt and faded jeans with holes ripped in the knees and butt. There are no mobs outside, no ringing phones -just Cassidy, a table full of chicken-salad sandwiches, and a script that is not up to his standards. He starts reading his introduction in the exaggerated tones of a Veg-O- Matic salesman. ''Hi, I'm David Cassidy, and I know what you're thinking! But when you were listening to the Partridge Family, I was into Jimi Hendrix and Cream! Can you imagine what it was like to stand there and watch Danny Bonaduce playing bass?'' He grimaces at the thought of having to rewrite the script. ''The things you have to do to save yourself from looking like an asshole.'' He shoves a sandwich into his mouth and talks about the past. ''The last time I did a really big media blitz,'' he recalls of the early '70s, ''I was still the young kid and they were these hardened journalists who thought that the Beatles and Stones were the only guys that really counted. Huh.'' He laughs. Cassidy, for one, has come to realize the merits of the Partridge clan. ''Artistically very frustrating, but, man, we made some great records, it was a very good television show, and I worked with some unbelievable people.'' Still, he adds, ''I was playing a part on television, and that became the David Cassidy story. But underneath, there was this guy who was dying to do 'Purple Haze.''' Listeners won't necessarily hear that side of Cassidy on his new album; the record sounds more like Donny Osmond's comeback hit, ''Soldier of Love.'' But Cassidy says he snubs contemporary pop. ''It's this robotic urban thing that has very little humanness to it,'' he says. ''They're these technically great records that are kind of hollow. Know what I mean?''
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