LICK MY DECALS OFF - CAPTAIN BEEFHEART - STRAIGHT

Gazing across pop music’s stale horizons, past all the cynical ineptitude, pseudo-intellectual solemnity, neurotic regression and dismal deadends for great bands, there is one figure who stands above the murk forging an art at once adventurous and human: Don Van Vliet, known to a culture he’s making anachronistic as Captain Beefheart.

Though there are still lots of people around who just don’t read the Cap at all, who think his music is some kind of private joke or failed experiment (or as a local teen band told me, “Most of that’s the kind of stuff musicians always do when they’re just fucking around”) or merely a porridge of noise, the appearance of T-out Mask Replica, last year was a real musical event, a signal that there was finally so ething new in the air. And even people averse to contemporary “avant-garde” mu. ight find in Beefheart a continuation of traoicions they loved and a sensibility refreshingly healthy in these days, when so many experimental artists feel compelled to shroud their innovations in manifestations of madness and destruction.

Beefheart may be verbally obtuse and look like a trasher of everything “beautiful” (or euphonious) in centuries of Western musical tradition, but what he’s really doing, along with people like Cecil Taylor and Albert Ayler and the early Velvet Underground and the Tony Williams Lifetime, is creating a whole new musical vocabulary out of the ashes and dead air left by a crumbling empire of exhausted styles. Instead of destroying, Cap is taking forms with no seeming mileage left and reworking them into prophecies of tomorrow which will be as far-reaching for rock and the new free post-idiomatic music as Ornette Coleman’s radical divergence was for jazz a decade ago.

The comparison with Coleman is apt on more than one level: both ushered in new decades with conceptions of ensemble improvisation so unheard-of as to raise wide controversy; both have concerned their music with the rising spirit of man, the unforced compassion and insight that led Coleman to write songs like “Lonely Woman” and “Beauty is a Rare Thing,” Beefheart to “Frownland” and “I Love You, You Big Dummy”; and most significantly, no matter how far out both have gotten, the primitive American, blues heritage has always been implicit in everything they’ve done. The essential cry of joy/anguish that courses through Coleman’s plaintive birdlike squawks is merely genius echoing the earliest changjng moans in an age of atonality and distortion. And the more you listen to it, the more you realize that for all the rambunctious waywardness of Beefheart’s wooly excursions, the seeming cacophony always swings as

surely as the finest in the jazz and rock traditions it draws on. The rhythms may be shifting a lot, and the players all jutting off at squiggly angles, but that heartbeat always rocks on as surely as an old up-and-down boogie.

People who want to hear some music that breaks through the sound barrier without tromping on their sensibilities, who shy from Archie Shepp’s black rage, from Sun Ra conducting his Arkestra through the Nova galleries like a Babylonian priest from some old Hollywood epic, from Alice Cooper’s geek-feast and Iggy Stooge’s torpedo microphone (“Here’s your throat back /Thanks for the loan”), should find a more congenial spirit in Beefheart. Which is not to say that he’s more nor less valid than any of the aforementioned, but simply that in an age of pervasive artistic negativism, we have in Cap a new-old man refusing to discard the heart and humanity and essential innocence that Western culture has at least pretended to cultivate for three thousand years and which our electrified, relativistic generation seems all too willing to scrap as irrelevant sentimental bullshit. When Cap beams: “My smile is stuck/ I cannot go back to your frownland / My spirit’s made up of the ocean/ And the sky/ And the sun and the moon/ And all my eyes can see... Take mjr hand / And come with me / It is not too late for you/ It is not too late for me....” he stands at a point of pristine enlightenment and sanity that acid can’t confer. This is primal instinct rather than mutant flash, and showers its wisdom on us from the ingenuous eagerness to share what he’s found, sans false pride. Because even if he has The Answer, Cap is not Mr. Natural. His humor is lusty, Rabelaisan and perennial: “Mama was flattenin’ lard with her red-enamelled rollin’ pin....” Anybody who ever dug Looney Tunes or W.C. Fields should be able to relate to that, as surely as any Luther Burbank of bush and snatch should pick up on “Sweet sweet bulbs grow/ All in my lady’s garden,” and the whole state of mind that was the 1950’s becomes

surrealistically animated in lines like: “When she drives her Chevy / Sissies don’t dare tuh glance.../ Her two pied pipes hummin’ carbon cum...”

Vast scholarly dissertations could be written on Beefheart’s brilliant new approach to song lyric. Leaving in the dust both post-Dylan “poetic” pretensions and the primitive approach which too often mistakes simplemindedness for simplicity. Cap’s lines are magic flashfloods of free-association that somehow never get murky, strange jewellike clusters of images, hilarious little vignettes from the lives of raffish louts and juicy mamas, half-muddled mammals in coveralls and zoot suits. Robert Crumb could draw them, though in his vision they’d be vaguely threatened or threatening. This scene is simultaneously Beefheart’s own inner world which blooms as wildly as a Van Gough landscape, and something very like America, from “bowed goat potbellied barnyard” Pappy to Mrs. Wooten and Little Nitty cutting revival capers under the Vermont moon to the Ishmael homecoming after being “shanghaied by a high-hat beaver moustasche man” — persona in various chapters of an American dream revealed as richly affectionate even though the Captain sang, in his own sort of crunching “Tears of Rage”: “ I cry / But I can’t buy / Yer Veteran’s Day poppy....”

In Lick My Decals Off, Baby (Straight RS-6420) this vision is extended, and even though the sonic textures are sometimes even more complex and angular than on Trout Mask, the lyrics have taken on added universality, many of them stepping back a stride from the kaleidoscopic image-clusters of last year’s songs. “Lick My Decals Off, Baby” is just great bawdy music, as sanguinely sexual as a tale out of Boccaccio: “Rather than I wanna hold your hand/ I wanna swallow you whole/ ‘n’ I wanna lick you everywhere it’s pink/ ‘n everywhere you think/ Whole kit ‘n kaboodle ‘n the kitchen Sink...”

The spirit behind that proposition is one of primal orgasmic joy, sung with all the sly tongue-slithering glee of an old Delta bluesman at a backyard barbecue. Despite the possible “kinkiness” of what he’s asking her for, the sex is celebratory, affirmative, in the dying tradition of seduction through laughter, Tom Jones and Moll Flanders. The sense of desperation which runs like a bruised nerve through modem art’s handling of sex, from Couples, and Naked Lunch, to the downtown skin flicks, never shows in Beefheart’s universe.

The new album radiates the Beefheart wit all the way: “I Love You, You Big Dummy”; “Woe-is-antne-bop”; “I Wanna Find a Wpman That’ll Hold My Big Toe Till I Have to Go”. Who has titles like that? Who else would think of them, when they’re so obvious they’re classic, real rock’ ‘n’ roll song titles that tell you that the music behind them no matter if it aims for the stratosphere, has that gutbucket Little Richard/Chuck Berry ethos running through its veins. “Big Dummy” spotlights some of Cap’s ripping harp and ecstatic falsetto counter-whoops, while “Woe” is an amazing little progression that crinkles along mechanically like walking Tinkertoys, making good use of the marimba introduced on this album to underscore a seeming jive incantation whose syllables hook together and twist like “The-leg - b one’s-connected-to-the-knee-bone.” Again, it seems to harken to the jive talk stanzas of some early 50s R&B and farther back into Mezz Mezzrow’s “Really the Blues” Harlem streetcorner jargon and the Joycean word-stew of Black folklore.

But this album hardly finds the Beefheartian vistas curtained by levity. It also shows an organic maturation of the environmental concern which was only hinted at in songs like “Bill’s Corpse” on Trout Mask., “Petrified Forest” compressed an outraged indictment of the polluters and a hair-raising picture of an Armageddon-like natural revolt, all in 1:40 : “Suck the ground!/ Breathe life into the dead dinosaurs/ Let the past demons rear up ‘n belch fire into the air of now/ The rug’s wearing out that we walk on/ Soon it will fray ‘n we’ll drop.... If the dinosaur cries with blood in his eyes/ ‘n eats our babies for our lies/ Belches fire in our skies/ Maybe I’ll die but he’ll be rumblin’ through/ Your petrified forest. ..”

Ever since Dylan wrote “The Times They Are A-Changin’, “minstrels, poets and pretenders by the truckloads have failed in a thousand righteous songs to make the crucial distinction between art commenting on society and flat polemics. That song is art.

And lest you think that only the defoliating captains of American industry (villians as handy to the self-righteous myths of the 70s as the Prejudiced White Southern Redneck was to the Brotherhood liberals of the late 50s) fall into the sights of Cap’s topical pen, dig “Space-Age Couple”: “Space-age couple/ Why don’t you flex your magic muscle? .... Why don’t you drop your cool tomfoolery/ And shed your nasty jewelry?/ Cultivate the grounds/ They’re the only ones around. . . . Hold a drinkin’ glass up to your eye after you’ve/ scooped up a little of the sky/ ‘n’ it ain’t blue no more./ What’s on the leaves ain’t dew no more. . .”

If all the propaganda of the counter culture is true and there really is a New Man, perhaps enlightened by acid or Esalen and mutated by these and the beneficent proximity of millions of freaks just like him past the materialism, waste and cannibalistic selfishness of the old world; if all of that is true, it seems that the Movement-should be finding some alternative to the desperation and romanticized rage which now prevail, and “our” People relating to something besides each cabal’s separate pocket of fantasy. Beefheart will challenge the myths and lies of the counter culture as unflinchingly as he spurned that “Veterans Day Poppy” and paid the dues down to “Dachau Blues”; it’s up to us to find the difference between a Space Age Couple and Maggie and Jiggs with long hair and sweet smoke. The song ends with a terse twist that sums it all up and seems to comment in passing on our' increasing chemical alienation from our bodies: “Space-age couple/ Why don’t you do just that?”

The Beefheart sound moves through Lick My Decals Off in two main streams:

relatively noncomplex songs like “I Love You, You Big Dummy” and the strange, ominous “The Buggy Boogie Woogie” tone down the baroque structures of Trout Mask,

but on the other hand many of the songs, especially on Side Two, leave at least an initial impression of diffused energies that make Trout Mask’s, wildest excursions seem relatively tame. “Japan in a Dishpan,” for instance, is a crashing jam built on an obsessively repeated sax riff that sounds sort of like some “Aooh-gah!” horn from an old auto. Subsequent listennings, however, clarify songs that hit you like a tidal wave at first, sorting out the brilliant comers of collective improvisation and revealing all those incredible lyrics.

Captain Beefheart takes some getting used to at first, just like Ornette and Ayler and the Velvets and even the Stooges (and didn’t Dylan sound pretty strange the first time we heard him?). But if it does sometimes require some patience and close attention, it is also one of the most rewarding musical experiences available today. The fact is that this man’s music, probably more than that of anybody else working in rock now, is breaking ground for an awesome superhighway leading us away from the decadent era of Superstars into a future where every man shall have ears to hear music beyond our wildest dreams, music like

nobody s heard on earth before. I don’t want to get into apocalyptic statements, but I think the time is rapidly approaching when almost all styles but free music, music encompassing everything in our traditions (even harmony and lush lyricism — dig Pharoah Sanders’ new stuff) and transcending it, will begin to exhaust themselves. The same old song can keep grinding outa the AM tubes and FM tuners from here to Alphaville, but more people are getting restless to move on all the time. So Fiji gonna go not so very far at all out on a limb and say that Captain Beefheart is the most important musician to rise in the Sixties, far more significant and far-reaching than the Beatles, who only made pretty collages with materials from the public domain when you get right down to it; as important, as I said, for all, music as Ornette Coleman was for jazz ten years ago and Charlie Parker 15 years before that, as important as Leadbelly was for the blues Cap teethed on. His music is a harbinger of tomorrow, but his messages are universal and warm as the hearth of the America we once dreamed of. That’s a combination that’s hard to beat.

Lester Bangs

JOHN LENNON - PLASTIC ONO BAND -APPLE SW3372

YOKO ONO - PLASTIC ONO BAND -APPLE SW3373

Both of these records are remarkable in • some aspect, a sort of East-West five years after Butterfield and Allan Watts. Certainly, until this point, John and Yoko had not been among my favorite artists, most certainly not the mind-blowing couple they appear to be here.

John’s record, of course, has been righteously raved over ever since its release, justifiably. It’s interesting and even enlightening to see a man working out his trauma on black plastic but more than that, : it’s totally enthralling to see that Lennon has once again unified, to some degree, his life and his music into a truly whole statement. I don’t know how far the political implications . of that will carry us, or carry John (which is the really cogent point), but they are none-the-less present in a perspective that is much more revelatory of the change in the Ono/Lennon fabric of perception than any in ours, I’m afraid. I’m unsure whether this record is going to be appreciated for what it is — a very, very political statement, even if on the most personal level. Certainly, it is as political as some that jazz artists have been making for the last ten years and in the same individual vein. (In other words, Archie Shepp pulled it off first, or rather Charlie Parker and Charles Mingus did.)

Unquestionably, Lennon comes from an elitist perspective on the entire matter. He might not interpret his situation in the political light at all (though, after reading the second part of the Rolling Stone interview, one can be pretty sure he doesn’t deny it totally) but the fact remains that anyone that blatantly realistic cannot be involved with the traditional stance (Beatle-wise) of denying politics any place in his own personal universe.

There are few individual statements here that aren’t exciting, and there are also few that stand out. To be sure, the two most obvious are “Working Class Hero” and “God”. They are also the two most discussed and over-interpreted; one would really be farther ahead to deal with some of the other statements and leave these alone. On the other hand, the entire album has; been over-worked to a vast degree, such that any individual assessment of the work must stand

more in comparison to other interpretations than to the work itself. Almost.*

Thus Yoko and her importance. Now, as far-out as John is becoming, Yoko has transcended him and she’s done it with a back-beat. Yoko is the first rock scat singer. A major portion of her increased validity must be credited to the fact that she works on one cut (“Aos”) with the Ornette Coleman group^ Coupled with the fact that this cut was recorded several years ago, long before it became “hip” in the youth community to be involved with avant-jazz figures, one begins to get a real feeling that it is Yoko who was brought artistically downward by her Beatles’ involvement rather than vice-versa.

This is a brilliant work in several senses. The pain John Lennon measures so tenuously with his occasional yelp, is further developed and more primitive (thus more honest) on the Yoko sides. Her work on “Why” is especially impressive. She uses her voice here much as John Coltrane used his horn; that is, in order to explore every possible nuance of the word-sound (chord) she scats about, using the word as a base for all but never quite saying it simply.

These are not lovely records and for those who still find Yoko appalling, it isn’t going to sink in the first time around. Still, Yoko’s record is unquestionably farther out and you have to be there along with her, let her take you along for the ride ... you have to give it up, as they used to say, or the whole thing gets really impossibly horrid, and your own demons are conjured up and swirl around you like some Aleister Crowley nightmare. At best, she conjures the demons and shows you their powerlessness.

It is interesting that Yoko, too, has turned from her obviously Eastern approach of the past (even as John has left the nascently Oriental work of the Beatles) to a true return to the post-Westem climate in which we presently exist. Certainly, in the sense that this is not an artificial reading or the quasi-humor of the paper bag, in the sense that this is the real torture of the soul, the music (or whatever appellation occurs as most suitable) is totally transcendant. But again, one can’t really escape from the fact that it is totally relevant.

The very primitive factors that make Yoko so exciting are exactly the factors that make traditional rock and roll so energizing. And, at a time when rock values are being pandered and solipsized all over the planet, when the contention that rock is music that must be formalized and formulated to be apprehended is most powerfully in vogue, Yoko’s work could not be more important. For those who can hear it (and I don’t mean listen) it should serve as the final proof positive that great artificial constucts do not necessarily make great art; that rock and roll is not in any sense to be judged by the standards of any previous form (thereby pretty much negating the necessity of the Nice, Deep Purple, the New York Rock Ensemble, et. al.) and that rock and roll will stand, if we’ll only get the fuck out of its way.

Strange, then, that in the most male chauvinist medium ever devised that a woman should strike the killer blow to liberate it. Yoko Ono cannot be ignored any longer, on any grounds. And, I’m afraid, those who can’t relate to her are going to find themselves

relegated to the absolute back of the bus. This is the wave of the future and there is no denying it. Not that all music need be this un-defined, structurally, but that all music should be able to be. (And of course, to impose confines of structurelessness is to put yourself right back in the trap of structure — even structureless structure.) As Chairman Mao says, one must pick up the gun to put down the gun. Perhaps one must pick up -the challenge in order to see that the challenge doesn’t exist. And in the sense that Yoko Ono is an extremely challenging artist, she is also a very revolutionary performer. If she can deal with the situation on that level, we’re in a very good shape indeed.

Dave Marsh

STEPHEN STILLS - ATLANTIC SD 7202

I always kind of suspected that Stephen Stills was a monster talent. Oh, I know its been rumoured in hushed tones since the days of Buffalo Springfield, but we could never really say Stills was a monster because, well, it might have been Dewey Martin or Graham Nash who were really the forces behind it all. But I think I should be the first to tell you for real. Friends, Stephen Stills is a monster talent. You mean I wasn’t the first to tell you? Well, I suppose I should have suspected. After all, my promo copy already had one of those RIAA million seller stickers on it, so somebody must know something;

I think I will make a few pertinent observations as to the person of Mr. Stills, monster talent, and his record.

1. The monster sure knows a lot about music. He arranged much of it himself, and did a rather superb job on it. Blended all the vocal choruses and horns and strings together real neet. Best example is “Cherokee”, and I \yould hazard a guess that he has been listenin to If, because the blend of horns and reeds is fairly similar. (But exciting nonetheless). I figure anyone who thinks he knows enough about music to undertake a job as big as this, really does.

2. He sure can play good. He reaffirms his position as guitarist by playing funky and dirty for 5:28 of “Black Queen”. What I didn’t know was just how great a keyboard player he is. The organ on “Old Times Good Times” the Hendrix feature, is just this side of unbelievable, and how come I never knew this before? Maybe I wasn’t listening. His keyboards on “We Are Not Helpless” and “Love The One You’re With” are also highly competent.

3. Stills sure has a lot of friends. Clapton, Hendrix, Sebastian. Also, somebody named Richie plays drums. I didn’t know he played drums. Boy, that Havens sure will surprise you sometimes.

My personal favorite on the album is “Love The One You’re With.” It should hit home pretty hard with all you losers who live a little in the past. I guess there’s a little of that in everybody, (probably because the present always seems so bleak). Even Stills, because he sings about it pretty well. As for picking your own favorite, you have a wide choice. He goes from early Springfield, (“Do For The Others”), to late CSN&Y, (“We Are Not Helpless”). All the while he shows just how much of himself was the heart of those groups.

Just in case Atlantic wants a quote for an advertisement or something, I’ll finish this review with a dazzling conclusion. Unimportant readers may stop at the next period. “Stephen Stills is a complete artistic talent. He is a master of all facets of the current rock experience, a complex, involving individual who has taken the melodies of his mind and interwoven them with all the necessary trimmings to produce a truly outstanding example of modem music”. How’s that?

Alan Niester

PTAH THE EL DAOUD - ALICE COLTRANE - IMPULSE AS9196

I might well purchase this album before any other recorded in the past year. Alice Coltrane has developed and matured her music into a statement of astounding beauty and power, at once thoroughly universal and uniquely feminine. Further, she is now almost alone in venturing directly along the lines of exploration initiated by her late husband, John. While Shepp, Sanders and the late Albert Ayler have turned towards either rhythm and blues (most perceptible in Ayler’s latest works) or vocal choruses (which I suspect is a harkening back to those blues roots), Mrs. Coltrane moves ever onward, ever outward.

Her constant advancement would seem to indicate a familiarity with, and security in,

roots which the others may lack to a certain degree. Certainly, she is older and has lived through more periods of the music than the others. Yet she is self-assured in a way that* has little parallel with any current performer, in any genre. Assured the way ‘Trane, and Cecil Taylor and Mingus and Miles Davis (her only present-day peer, Taylor and Mingus having disappeared for the nonce) have been assured. She moves astoundingly well, with a simplicity and grace, a force and range that few pianists have ever matched. With Taylor and McCoy Tyner seemingly pretty much off the set (and maybe even if they weren’t) Alice Coltrane is the stellar pianist of the seventies.

The first side is the most entrancing, with “Ptah the El Daoud” leading the way. Pharoah Sanders’ and Joe Henderson’s tenor statements are direct, powerful and strikingly melodic. Ron Carter’s bass line is invariable, Ben Riley’s drumming exquisitely proper for the understated mood. Mrs. ’Trane rides above it, gigantically on her solos, discreetly when she plays fills behind the horns. The theme is almost tv-dramatic, but nonetheless chilling and meaningful.

Closing the side is the seeker’s song, “Turiya and Ramakrishna”. The horns are absent here, the piano alone sustaining a worshipful yet upwardly moving mood. There’s a real feeling of blues, a quintessential gasp of pain that goes along with the beauty inherent in that search; the only comparable cut, placid yet strong, is “Welcome” from John Coltrane’s Kulu Se Mama.

“Blue Nile” is perhaps the album’s weakest spot, precisely because here Mrs. C. is featured on harp, an instrument not unworthy but merely foreign to most persons’ (at least, most uncultured white rock and roll kids’) pleasurable experience. Its power is more felt in Henderson and Sanders’ alto flute and tenor work; the alto flute duet at the beginning is literally charming. In fact, this record probably exhibits Phaioah’s most relatable and sustaining .work since Karma. Indeed, the second cut on this side, “Mantra”, seems based on the horns; some of their work reminds of ’Trane, some is a true progression of the master’s songs. (A contributing factor to the dissatisfaction I feel with this side exploration is never as comfortable as the familiar. But that very discomfort ^nd dissatisfaction is positive, in a sense.)

Throughout, the piano work is fine, displaying emotions that any key-board artist might find worthwhile study. Of all the female musicians presently performing Mrs. Coltrane is the single one who most strikes a blow for women’s liberation. It may not be true that she is the only woman, presently performing, capable of leading a group in this dynamic manner but it is true that She is the one who is undeniably BEST at it. One leally wishes that he knew the proper phrases with which to praise her stature. One would hope, indeed, that this record might strike a blow for that most significant movement of the seventies. Hopefully, that apprehension is correct.

This then might stand proudly alongside the genius work which John Coltrane has given us. It does not reach his heights but it is a true source of confusion to me as to whether anyone ever will eclipse the giant. Yet that is unfair. Certainly, Alice Coltrane need not stand in her husband’s shadow. She

is capable, as we see here, of producing music that is at once explorative and satisfying. We could ask no more, no more at all. Save that there be more

Dave Marsh

BLOWS AGAINST THE EMPIRE - PAUL KANTER -RCA LSP 4448

At this year’s West Coast Science Fiction Convention Ray Bradbury made a rare appearance and in an impromptu talk told how a member of The Jefferson Airplane (he’d forgotten which one) had phoned him and said, “ ‘Man, I’ve just got to come down and talk to you! I’ve got a great idea for a movie, and I want you to write the script.’ ” Bradbury said okay, so Paul Kantner (for it was he) came down to L.A. with Grace (“Is that right?”) and they sat on the terrace of Frascati’s and “rapped”.

“So I asked him to tell me about this great idea he had, and as he talked I began to get more and more depressed. He said he wanted me to do a screenplay, but at the same time it wasn’t supposed to be a screenplay. So I asked him who was going to be the director and he said, ‘We’ve got a new thing - we work as a team. There isn’t a director. I couldn’t feel much worse so I asked him to tell me his great idea.

“ ‘Well, there’s these five rock groups, see, and they steal the first starship and fly to Alpha Centauri, playing all the while!’

Bradbury: “ ‘Yes! And when they get there they’ll be 40 year old hippies like me!’ And she looked depressed!”

Bradbury found the story laughable because it was‘“an old idea”, and lord knows the market is glutted with old ideas. So Kantner returned to Airplane Mansion and turned his great idea into a 22 minute song. A great song, but one Bradbury will probably dismiss, since Bradbury and Kantner relate differently to science fiction. Bradbury sees Kantner’s and any other person’s story as nothing mor than print on a page or frames on a strip of celluloid; Kantner sees it as a reality he is working towards being part of. Bradbury dismisses Kantner because he’s seen stories about hijacked starships; but has he seen a starship hijacked? Neither has Kantner, but he’s working on it.

Actually, “Blows Against The Empire” is more than a song: it’s an idea. Changed so that the five rock groups are now 7,000 freaks, the story avoids intricate detail and instead is a catalog of thoughts, episodes, ideas and theories, engendering the idea, why not hijack the first starship?

“It’s my answer to the ecology problem.It’s the only way it’s all going to get together and work. Unless we have a war or a big disease or a famine, there’s just too many people, and they’re gonna have to get off the planet. This is my way of starting to get off a little earlier.” (Paul Kantner, Rolling Stone, No. 70.)

It’s also in the American tradition of onward and upward. We’ve explored the planet and our minds and now the region between is the only place left. So why not move on out and travel the Andromadean galaxies, the suns, the Universe, “just keep on going till you stop, to see what stops you, until you run into the side of the bowl or something and see this guy out there'looking at you.”

Although the first side contains references to the starship, it’s mostly about Us (the Future) and They (the Past) better get out of the way. It’s great self-aggrandizement, but it’s also for the children of Middle America, playing on the romance of outlaws and “flashing sunshine children”. It doesn’t do much for me, but if it turns on a child of the tract home society it has accomplished its purpose.

But Paul doesn’t fall into the protest song trap and rely completely on lyrics. It was the music that brought us together in the first place and a true rocker like Paul isn’t about to break tradition. It has an Airplane-like quality at its core, which is to be expected, but Grace’s glorius piano and, on the starship side, Paul’s acoustic guitar lift it into a musical realm unquestionably his. Additional embellishments by David Crosby, Graham Nash, Harvey Brooks, Jack Casady, the Dead drummers and Jerry Garcia really make the music stand on its feet. Jerry first fades in on pedal steel as the successful hijackers start on their trek. Then, as the Byzantine dancing astronauts and pantechnicons discover the “hydroponic gardens and forests glistening in the Jupiter starlight” Jerry takes off with his famed cosmic guitar, producing music about 20 light years from “Dark Star”. The other major figure is Joey Covington, whose singing is as powerful as his excellent drumming.

So now you know what Paul is doing; but what of Mr. Bradbury? Well, he’s working on a time consuming story entitled Leviathan 99. It’s an old idea, a science fiction version of Moby Dick.

Jonh Ingham

THE BUTTERFIELD BLUES BAND LIVE ELEKTRA 7E-2001

This album is not to be taken lightly. Most 2 record sets at a special low price contain one real album and one filler record containing a low energy jam, a twenty minute guitar solo and an equally long drum solo, along with a visit by a Beatle or Leon Russell, documented in the liner notes.

The latest Butterfield incarnation holds nothing back on any of these four sides. The music is intense, loud and hard-driving; There are no compromises to the fans of Ten Wheel

Drive or to any of the pop-jazz, rock-pop, soul-jazz-blues, etc. conglomerates. The band comes in, sits down and gets down. That’s all. No hit singles, no audience pleasing medleys of past glories. The only familiar songs are “Driftin’ and Driftin’ ” and “Bom Under A Bad Sign” and even these are in new versions.

The band consists of Paul on lead vocals, amplified harp and occasional electric piano, along with musicians on keyboards, bass, drums, one guitar, trumpet and saxophones. All eight together sound like a twenty man big band but the tight sound they put out is more like a three or four man group. They have a clean, economical sound which accents the solo work which, in most big groups, might have been lost in the volume explosion. The brass riffs, for example, are flawless and clean. The lead guitar solos are rare and not very long, perhaps part of the Mayall-inspired movement toward forgetting superstar lead guitarists and getting into new things.

The key to this band is found in its rhythm work. The jazz Chording rubs notes against each other to provide heat for the solos. Once you get into the rhythm work, the rest takes care of itself. You’ll really be into the album. This is true of most bands like James Brown’s or Buddy Miles. Butterfield knows what to do with soul in music as few other white bluesmen know. He gives his five black musicians the opportunity to make their unique contributions felt in this band. It is a matter of doubt whether an all-white band could sound as soulful as this band. No matter-the group is far out and a killer band no matter who they are.

You will either love or hate this album. If you can’t handle intense, undiluted and loud blues or jazz, this album will be harsh, grating on your nerves and an all-around bummer. If you get into the beat, the rhythms, the sound of it, you’ll be hooked on this album. And glad to be.

, Tom Staicar

TEA FOR THE TILLERMAN - CAT STEVENS - A&M - SP-4280

Listening to Cat Stevens is a bloody pleasure. Whenever I hear him I feel like I’m in a sultans tent waiting for Fatima, or else like I’m in the Parthenon listening to Carlos Montoya. What it is is Greco-Latin Mediterranean soul.

As an ex pop star (“I Love My Dog”

“First Cut Is The Deepest”) Stevens knows what to do with a song to make it stand up over repeated listenings. While recently there have been releases of fantastic songs, by people who weren’t previously known as singles artists, on 45 rpm records, few were good listening material out of context. Taylor’s “Fire and Rain”, Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind”, Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” and Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” are all fine pieces of music, but after a while it gets to be like chicken every Sunday. You’d rather have hamburger made 57 different ways and save the special stuff for special occasions.-

However “Wild World” which has been released as a single from this lp is at once a great song and a great single. Cat Stevens has retained the pop star’s listenability but has gained the artist’s integrity and quality.

From writer of semi-respectable top 40 music, he has attained the level of lyric poet. He, like Van Morrison, is one of the few of today’s romanticists whose lyrics are sometimes as earthy as their music is ethereal. For example is there nothing flowery or traditionally romantic about a hard headed woman?

“I’m looking for a hard headed woman/one who will make me do my best/ and if I find my hard headed woman/I will need no body else.”

On each of Steven’s “new bag” recent albums, Mona Bone Jakon and this one, there has been a song about death. However he approaches it without morbidity or fear. On Mona Bone Jakon it was “My Lady D’Arbanville”;

My Lady D’Arbanville,

Why do you sleep so still I’ll wake you tomorrow and you will be my fill “Lady D’Arbanville” was essentially about the same thing as J. Frank Wilson’s “Our Last Kiss” (quite a moldy oldie) except that while Wilson’s is nearly distasteful in its morbidity, bemoaning death and his personal loss, Steven’s song is more like a Polynesian wake than a funeral dirge.

On this album it is “Miles From Nowhere” which speaks of “the mountain I have to climb... to reach there/Lord my body has been a good friend but I won’t need it when I reach the end.” Therein lies the prospect of not ending life but of transcending it.

“Longer Boats” could have been a Jamaican fisherman’s song, or a lament by a Hawaiian chorus about to be “civilized” by Julie Andrews and Max Von Sydow;

“Longer boats are coming to win us, hold on to the shore

or they’ll be taking the key from the door.

I don’t want no god on my lawn, just a flower...

cause the soul of nobody knows, how a flower grows.

Mary dropped her pants by the sand, and let a parson

come and take her hand, but the soul of nobody knows where the parson goes.”

Paradise lost.

Other than “Longer Boats” it is hard to pick out an outstanding song because the album is, for the most part, a whole pie not a bunch of slices. However, lyric-wise, one, “Into White” seems to stand out.

I built my house from barley rice, Green pepper

walls, and water ice, tables of paper wood, windows

of light, and everything emptying into white.

It’s Graham Nash with brown sugar instead of molasses.

“Father And Sort” is from Stevens’ play, “Revolussia”. It’s sort of like “Younger Generation” in dialogue. Taken out of the context of the play it is sometimes weaker than the rest of the album, but it’s only concrete fault is that what is said in this song has been said so much before (though seldom better).

I’m not sure whether the title song is an illustration of the cover or vice versa. A painting by Stevens, it is one of the most self effacing covers I’ve seen in quite a while, yet some surrealistic quality about it makes one look closer for the “meaningful” subtleties within it. It’s like a sunshine illustration of Darby O’Gill drinking tea while two elfin moppets play near him, but in the distance there stands the banshee, “the woman who made the rain come”, commanding the lighting like a French starlet with her pet oceltit.

I think that if I were walking through a Japanese forest I’d like Cat Stevens to be piped in on invisible Muzak speakers. His music is delicate and fine like a goose quill painting, and I get the feeling that, after going through the whole Bobby Sherman-Led Zeppelin teeny-bopper thing, he, too, is enjoying what he is doing, no longer feeling that he is whoring himself.

Richard A. Pinkston IV

“CHUNGA’s REVENGE” - FRANK ZAPPA - BIZARRE/REPRISE 2030

This album is a preview of what is the ultimate rock opera-symphony, 200 Motels, which is constantly growing and taking on amazing proportions. 200 Motels began as a huge orchestral-choral piece that had its premiere in Los Angeles with the L.A. Philharmonic and Mothers. Although the longest movement, involving the chorus, dancers, a film and Chunga the vacuum

cleaner, was omitted, it was still easy to get a view of the enormous scope of the piece, incorporating almost every major Zappa composition. Sometime after that premiere, Zappa decided to add a vocal story line, and the idea of 200 Motels grew to reflect the life and times of a rock star in our Pepsi Generation. I had the good fortune to hear the first public performance of the material on this album, and although some of my favorite songs are left off, most of the tale comes through on this LP.

The personnel is mainly the new Mothers, with some Hot Rats thrown in, but that isn’t too important since only the best follow Frank around anyway. For the record, this album includes Ian Underwood, George Duke, Aynsley Dunbar, two Turtles and other folks. Musically, everyone rips any other band around. Zappa has finally lost some of his penchant for extended wa-wa solos, and settles down here to play some highly electric blues and rock, his guitar being handled with more guts and bite. Underwood and Duke freak constantly on the keyboards, especially electric piano and organ. The group, although varying in personnel from cut to cut, is incredibly tight with the kind of purposeful

direction that only a leader like Zappa can provide

Being on Bizarre/Reprise now, Zappa has no worries about censorship, which plagued him on Verve. Most of the text for “200 Motels” is concerned with a couple rock “stars” trying to get some nookie while on tour in a small town. Zappa contents himself with being merely suggestive on this album, but the full live version I heard was far more explicit. Frank’s melodies are bluesy and jazzy, carrying lyrics like this description of a gig in Middle America: “The P.A. system eats it/ and the band plays some of the terriblest shit you’ve ever known.” The songs tell of a road tour filled with promoters and groupies and Holiday Inns, and manage to convey some of the boredom and lonesomeness that goes along with that scene. This album is best called a mini-opera, like the Who’s “A Quick One While He’s Away,” it ties itself in for a feeling of coherence and meaning. This is the fourth album from Zappa in a little more than a year, and that makes it all the more amazing that his LP is as successful as it is.

Mark Leviton

BACK HOME AGAIN - NORMAN GREENBAUM - REPRISE 6422

Look, Norman Greenbaum is a kinda dorky name for a rock and rool star. Not only that, but his songs are, well, I mean, look at his hits—“The Eggplant That Ate Chicago,” how ridiculous, and “Spirit in the Sky.” So, who’d ever buy a Norman Greenbaum album, anyway? Probably he’s got a lot of friends.

Dear Reader, do you think like that? Well hide your head if you do. Obviously, you haven’t heard Norman Greenbaum’s new album. I, too, thought for the longest while that Reprise had signed him just because of his funny-sounding name, and that a record as good as “Spirit in the Sky” was a fluke, but it just ain’t so. Of course, this may be a contrast effect caused by the rapidly deteriorating condition of today’s music, but I’ve sat through this album a couple of dozen times, skeptical at first, but rapidly seeing that this is, to coin a phrase, happy, good-timey music. The lyrics ain’t much, the music contains nothing incredibly original, but the performers go at it with zeal, and the ease with which one falls into the groove is pretty startling in these cerebral times.

Yeah, this may well be what you need to restore your faith in rock and roll, or at least shore it up some. Check it out and see if I ain’t right

EdWard

LOLA VERSUS POWERMAN AND THE MONEYGROROUND - PART ONE - THE KINKS - REPRISE RS 6423

Well, all right. It took two months but I think I begin to understand the meaning of this album, which is that the, Kinks understand, too. Potentially, they are the only British rockers who do, or the only ones who do that are willing to own up to the fact. Indeed, Ray Davies has always been peculiarly relevant to the American aesthetic, at the same time being so idiosyncratically British that it can get terrifying. (Like when “Waterloo Sunset” and the like threatened to send the band off the edge into pretty-boy dreck, w la the decline in viscera that characterizes the downfall of the Pretty Things and later-day Zombies.)

Certainly, this album is decidedly unspectacular in production. If this was deliberate, it fits perfectly into the plan, for Davies and the Kinks have included so much of real importance here that to clutter it up with music (or any pretension) would only obscure the reality of what the band has accomplished.

Several things stand out immediately, of course. “Lola”, the first significantly blatant gay-rock ballad; “Top Of the Pops”, what it’s really like from the inside; a pair of Dave Davies’ compositions, “Strangers” and “Rats”, the former notable for its understated beauty, the latter for the manner in which it out-Zeps the Zep.

Unfortunately, the album opens extremely weak. The most notable facet of “The Contender” is the excellent keyboard work, presumably by the new member of the band, a gentleman so obsucre that even true Kinks’ freaks fail to remember his name. (Or I do, anyhow.)

Certainly, the rest of the first side is as fine as anything we’ve been presented in a long, long while. I don’t think this record matches up to Village Green, but it eclipses the rather limited Arthur. Lola of course, initially succeeds because of the political/sociological/music-biz fusion of “Denmark Stret-Lola-Top of the Pops-The Moneygoround” that occupies the bulk of the first side. The Kinks were always the most socially aware of the Britons anyway, and that can’t be forgotten. Unless I’m wrong and “Satisfaction” happened before “A Well Respected Man” but I doubt it. (Same song, anyway.)

The strength of the record, as always, is its lack of pretension. Even “Apeman” which talks about some pretty obvious problems, deals with them in a way that I can find inoffensive. It certainly isn’t a single with the vast implication of “Lola”, unless you missed “Eve of Destruction” and “The Times They Are A-Changin’” but it really outdoes 85% of the present pop pablum. Obviously . .. they still are the Kinks, after all.

On the other hand, if one is supposed to write a romantic “God Save the Kinks” epic review, I can’t help out. But, in my high school, the Kinks were one of the top three bands. All the dudes I drank all that vodka and rum with in ’65 and ’66 and hung out with til I split remember the Kinks ’cause they were the band whose records you could still dance to. And that four-piece band meant a whole hell of a lot more to some of us than the entire George Martin orchestra.

The inherent cynicism that/runs through “This Time Tomorrow” and “A Long Way From Home” is what makes them eventually jump out at you; that and the excellent drumming, which after all is what rock and roll os all about. And “Rats” is pure 1971, yes, the Zep but at a level the Page and Plant contingent will never key into. (The worse for all of us.) I bet if Dave Davies was really cut loose he’d re-write “My Generation”—maybe even better. The beauty of it is that the conception os so simple, even so simplistic. And simplistics are still what our music is all about, still, even now.

That is the generality which shapes “Ape Man”: “I think I’m sophisticated/Cause I’m livin’ my life like a good home sapiens/ ... (but) I’m no better than the animals sitting in their cages in the zoo, man/Cos compared to the flowers and the birds and the trees/I am an ape man” And he really revels in it. I remember a dude named Bob Serling telling the Free Press that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for us all to go back and live in caves and get it together that way. That was in ’67 and the call of the wild still appeals. On a certain level, you dig, the—whatever is, the id—in us all still has that charm. It’s the re-discovery of the body, it’s the tribal rites, it’s the whole thing. When it comes right down to it, the denizen of the alternative culture IS the missing link, at a higher level. And that was where it was at all along. Thoreau knew but I wouldn’t trade him for Dave Davies, not at the moment.

And the strength of it all is left to us in the end-f“He’s got my money and my publishing rights/But I’ve got my girl and I’m all right.” Which is o.k., I mean, it’s not a defeated attitude at all. (And it stresses people as the real value, which is always proper.) Davies is still right there, on top of it all, even when he’s fucked over. Primarily because he knows.

And “Got To Be Free” reminds me so much of “I’m Free”-“Got to be free to do what I want/Work if I want, talk if I want/Got to be free to say what I want”. If we haven’t advanced any farther than that, in the last five years, at least we haven’t lost the essential nature of the vision. Which is the core and substance of our lives.

The Kinks understand. God . Save the Kinks.

Dave Marsh

ANY WOMAN’S BLUES - BESSIE SMITH -COLUMBIA

This is the second of a projected five record series of the music of Bessie Smith. It has been thirty two years since she died, but the music on this record is still alive and full of all the emotion that any good blues singer — and Bessie Smith was one of the best — would put into a song.

Most of the reviews I read of the first release in this series took the form of either a eulogy or biographical sketch, and though it is true that we should remember our great artists after they are dead, and since many of you probably don’t know who Bessie Smith is, a biographical sketch would be useful. However, I don’t think it is necessary for me

to perform that function, since that information is readily available either by going back to those reviews, or better yet, by buying the record, since those things are in the liner notes.

The important thing on this record is the music. We probably both know the name of the beast that killed Bessie Smith, and that something must be done to stop it. But when you buy this record, take it home and put it on the turntable, you won’t go through all this music frantically ranting at or secretly plotting against the Great Amerikan Monster (but then, you just might). This record isn’t here for that (but then again, to someone, it just might be. But music, whatever else its “puspose”, is to be enjoyed).

“Jailhouse Blues” is one of the most alive songs I’ve ever heard. It’s real. “Woah this house is gonna get raided, yes sir!”, are the first words on the record. The song, obviously, is about a jailhouse, where the singer “Don’t mind bein’ in jail, but I got to stay there so long”. That’s the good thing about blues, it’s real, and a good blues singer will make you believe the lyrics. And the words Bessie Smith sings, given her strong, seeminly all encompassing voice, are very hard - almost impossible - to ignore.

Most of the songs on this record aren’t blues in the familiar sense. Bessie Smith sang her songs in both theatres and in minstrel shows that traveled throughout the rural areas of the south, and her repetoire consisted not only of blues, but of popular songs of the day, vaudeville type songs, for example, so that quite a few of the songs on this record aren’t strictly blues.

But everything Bessie Smith sang was blues. Blues is the basic quality of any legitimate Black Amerikan music. We call it soul today - same thing. Without blues, John Coltrane’s music would be much less than it is. Ornette Coleman, Cecil Taylor, Sly Stone are all blues musicians, and everything you hear on Any Womans Blues, whether it follows the traditional 12-bar style traditionally associated with blues or not, is injected with blues, the blues impulse, soul. Listen to side three.

Side three is the best side of the album and there isn’t one blues on the whole side. That is, no blues in the “traditional” sense. But the eight songs on this side are full of all that feeling that only a blues singer can bring a song.

These are beautiful songs. Some have lyrics filled with erotic symbolism which are sung with a wonderfully unpretentious attitude. A typical example is “Kitchen Man”, with lyrics like “His frankfurters are oh so sweet, how I like his kosher meat”, or “His jelly rool is nice and hot, never fails to touch the spot”. The way Bessie Smith handles this song makes it very believable (for example, those lyrics coming from someone like Joan Baez would bring peals of laughter, even if she managed not to muddle the words) and very, very beautiful.

But my favorite song on the whole record is “I Got What It Takes”, a song about a woman who is saving her money — and herself, for the right man. “I got what it takes, but it breaks my heart to give it away. These sissy men, they wants it every day”, she sings. Let anyone who believes in male superiority over women never run into this lady. That voice is incredible. It booms all over the room, so that you think you’ve turned the volume up too high, only to find that is “normal”, but it’s that voice.

I believe I ought to stop at this point, and let you find out the rest of this record’s beauty by yourself. Have fun.

Geoffrey Jacques

THIRTEEN - THE DOORS - ELEKTRA EKS74079

The unfortunate situation epitomized here is that of the record company which has to resort to the “greatest hits” ruse when a band doesn’t meet its production quota. Sad but true. And the result of this could truly be damaging to the Doors prestige, if nothing else.

It would seem that the Doors need another smash to make it back to the AM bigtime. “Roadhouse Blues” didn’t exactly do it, at least it didn’t make that many waves that I noticed. And the situation would still be in the hands of the AM stations, if not for the blessing, not unmixed of course, of progressive rock FM freeform psychedelic under-ground pud radio.

The saving grace of this album is that those FM djs axe now so bored that they’ll play anything new. So the record companies throw their most outrageous brands of garbage at them, and lacking the apparent taste to distinguish ( or the time to take notice) the heavy d.j.s put’em on, one after the other. As long as it’s a new release. Sound like any other “format” we once knew?

Anyway, there are at least thirteen classic songs, which is much, much more than can be said of the Airplane’s recent schlocker. Even if the mere existence of this album is a tad like the male nipple (totally unfunctional, except in terms of arousal and desire for more) and even totally consumeristic, you might want to pick it up. Supposing you missed the Soft Parade album. (Of course “Five to One” isn’t here; funny thing, outside of “Unknown Soldier” none of the Doors’ more controversial subject matter is included.)

There are no magnum opuses mind. No “The End,” no “When the Music’s Over,” no “Soft Parade” — but that doesn’t have anything to do with the Doors’ success. I guess. Otherwise it would have been here.

It also would have been decidedly uncommercial to have them included here. All of these can be squeezed in between Rubber Ducky and Elton John on the Golden Oldies Week-end. And of course it cannot be ignored that the Doors are by now the most successful of “our” bands (Creedence Clearwater having no implications that extend beyond 3:05 on anyone’s turntable). So it’s all o.k., probably. Never mind excitement.

It is probably more interesting to note that the credits are now Morrison — Krieger or even solely Krieger (e.g. “Light My Fire”) rather thanthe former conglomerate. Which is excellent for Robbie, if he gets more bread. Give’em their due, I always say. It’s probably like Apple anyhow and all goes to some corporate window.

Still, in the end you know all about these tunes and either think that the Doors are one of the best, most effective bands in the land or you hate them. Whatever, nobody at all except those mentioned above and the lunatic teenybopper autograph fringe is gonna buy this one. And if it goes solid gold tomorrow we’ll know who ( or at least how many) to watch out for.

Raise the conciousness.

Dave Marsh

CHARLES LLOYD IN THE SOVIET UNION - CHARLES LLOYD QUARTET -ATLANTIC SD-1571

Charles Lloyd currently has two records out. One is on the Kapp label and is called Moonman. It is, if you will allow an exercise in exactitude, shit. The other, recorded in May 1967, is on the Atlantic label and is (exactitude, again) excellent. Brilliant. If you trust me even a little, lay your money on the counter. This record is a bastard.

The reason of course, is not Lloyd, who was never the monster some people imagined him to be (although I would hardly go as far as Frank Kofsky and call him a “fake”), but rather the rhythm section which was, and remains, through the magic of recording, blah blah, and so on, a genuine monster. Even when Lloyd is soloing I find myself listening to the rhythm section.

De Johnette is an exciting drummer, capable of being as heavy and graceful as Elvin Jones or as swift and subtle as early Tony Williams. And as cute as Ginger Baker (not really). He excels particularly on the

up-tempo numbers, here particularly on “Bright”. Some people might accuse him of excess, but if you like the sound you won’t know what they’re talking about. Jarrett has a variegated approach to the piano from a swift accurate attack reminiscent of Cecil Taylor to more impressionistic post-Herbie Hancock lines. McClure’s bass playing is firm but moves with the flexibility of the other members of the rhythm section. He shines best on “Love Song”.

But the components of this rhythm section were not to be taken apart. Their telepathy when playing together is a joy to beheard.

I should say some more about Lloyd since he is the leader of the group. He plays O.K.

Richard C. Walls

CHIMO - EPIC

EDWARD BEAR - ECLIPSE - CAPITOL GUESS WHO - SHARE THE LAND - RCA

If you haven’t noticed it yet, then you just haven’t been paying attention. You are now being barrage by the biggest thing since the Liverpool sound, also the Bosstown sound, the Memphis sound, the San Francisco Sound, and the Motown sound. Hell, roll them all together and still you won’t have it. Because sucker, you are being hit by the would-be sound of tomorrow - the Canada Sound. There are many people about who would have you believe that the Canada Sound is very much the sound of tomorrow. All Canada is now being scoured by big-league scouts grabbing off anything that can hold a guitar upright. Thus, in the weeks to come you will be hearing names such as Simon Caine, Madrigal, Steel River, Thecycle, Perth County Conspiracy, Pagliaro, Blakewood Castle, Pepper Tree, Wizard, Canada, Freedom North, and more, more, more. It is hoped that the time will come when every self-respecting rock fan will have at least a dozen Canada based l.p.s, and if you don’t, you’re gonna be a social disgrace, Bob, so get with it and be the first on your block to flaunt your Canada Goose album with the reworked Jackie Wilson “Higher and Higher” thing on it.

Why the big rush on Canadian talent all of a sudden? Well, the reasons are basically two. Firstly, it has long been planned for a Canada sound to break open. I’ve been hearing about it for years, ever since Paul Anka broke so many hearts out there in radio land. But now, with the great improvement in studios and techniques, exposure is more likely because the music is less embarrassing. The second reason is a political one. To make a long story short, it seems that the Canadian Radio-Television Commision, (CTRC for you code fans) very correctly decided that there just wasn’t enough local home-grown influence on domestic air-waves. Too much influence by “foreign interests”, (read “Amerikan”). So what they did was, they made a nifty decree whereby a full 30% of all the music played in Canada has to fulfill certai regulations. The song has to be either performed by, written by, produced by a Canadian or manufactured produced, etc. in Canada. (Interesting to note that such luminaries as Neil Young and Stephen Stills qualify by birth, yet they have become largely Amerikanized.) All this means that Canada needed much more native music than it had. Hence, the creation of countless thousand recording contracts, to be recorded in countless new studios, all in the hope of creating a new national image. With all this new wealth of talent about, the Yankee companies have become very interested, and that brings us back to where I started. The birth of the Canada Sound. a -i

And that brings us to where I am at now, with three honest-to-Trudeau Canadian albums in my hands and something to say about them.

For purposes of organization, I would first like to divide all Canadian rock music into three general categories, (which will, by some remarkable coincidence, have for an example one of the three records listed above.) First we have group number one, “We ain’t made it

yet, nowhere near, but let’s put out an album and see if anybody thinks we’re neo-Beatles”. There is a lot of this about, about one-tenth of which I listed above. A lot of it is surprisingly competent, largely due to the fact that the big American companies are luring these neophyte groups into the studios with promise of unlimited studio time, and a group of recording pros to cover up the mistakes. The second group is “Look out world-we’re about to explode all over the place any minute now because we’ve obviously got what it takes”. Of course, there are less of these than the first group, but the number is steadily growing. Finally there is the top-class, “the sitting on top of the world-pass me a groupie and she’d better be good” class. We only have one of these, but back to that later.

The first album is merely an example of group one. It could well pertain to any one of innumerable groups, but it doesn’t, it pertains to Chimo, which is Eskimo for “Hello” an a dozen other things. It is also Canada’s national toast, like “skol”, “cheers”, o its American counterpart, a loud belch. Chimo seems to be a very competent group with all the prerequisites except originality. The group slushes through old Puckett and Association influences, and is rather a pain to listen to when in the mood for rock ‘n’ roll. However, the group bears watching, mainly on the strength of a keyboard player named Tony Callacott, who always seems to be somewhere hovering around the fledgeling scene, (last I heard of him was a year ago when he was in the reformed Luke and the Apostles, who are incidently, going to be very huge one of these days). “Day after Day”, a well rehearsed studio jam of 6:33 is rather neat. So I won’t hock the album, but keep it, and maybe some day I can say “Well, yeah, I’ve been into Chimo for a long time and I knew they’d make it someday”. Doesn’t seem likely, but I’m a flag-waver, and I like to see our boys take your Yankee bucks, so I’m hoping.

On to group two. There are a few truly talented Canadian groups who are bound to make it any day now. Lighthouse is going to put out a superb album one of these days and shut up a lot of people. Crowbar and Steel River are just about there too, and so is Edward Bear. If you ever listen to AM radio, (and you oughta, at least once a week, as a form of penance if nothing else), you may have heard a banal little ditty called “You, Me, and Mexico” last summer. Edward Bear’s first album was chock full of “You, Me, and Mexico’s” so it’s not surprising that the album didn’t make tremendous strides outside of Toronto. This second album, “Eclipse”, is a much more varied assortment of good things. Lead vocalist Larry Evoy has a strange, high pitched voice. (I don’t think it’s changed yet or somethin’). You will probably never hear another like it, and there’s nothing wrong with that because a group needs a distinctive style and it usually stems from the singer anyway. As for myself, I get sick of his voice after a while, but my tastes are a little strange anyway. But there is enough variety and fine instrumental work to keep me happy. Edward Bear are definitely coming, so write that down somewhere and see if I wasn’t right.

Finally we have the Guess Who, the only examples of group three. Yep, the Guess Who are in a class by themselves. It used to be very

unhip to dig the Guess Who, now its even hipper to say “Damn, I don’t care what anybody says, I dig the Guess Who and I ain’t afraid to show it.” Yes, the Guess Who do it all-they rock it, they roll it, they shout it, they cry it. But mostly they sell it. If I may lope off into nostalgia* for a minute, I will try and arrive at the basis of the G. Who’s success. It stems from the fact that the boys have been around the scene for so long that exposure was bound to occur. (The Creem always floats to the top-just like Darwin said). These guys were living off “Shakin’ All Over” since ‘65, playing Winnipeg high schools, Alberta bam burnings, and Nova Scotia Trout festivals. Used to be you could walk into any drug store in Ontario and get a new volume of Guess Who’s Greatest Hits, each volume made up off “Shakin’ All Over” plus a selection of local bombs. As a matter of fact, just a few months before “These Eyes”, they released a joint album with the Staccatos (now the Five Man Electrical Band), called “A Wild Pair” and showing a sike-ee-delic pear on the cover. This album was an advertisement for Coca-Cola, and you could only get it by drinking six cokes, sending in a buck, and waiting patiently by your mailbox for about a yean Not too many people were willing to make the sacrifice, so I guess this is kind of a collector’s item. (I’ll sell mine in auction if there’s an interesting-enough starting bid, say $10). Anyway, the Guess Who gigged and starved, (although a few of the guys they got now sure don’t look starved), and finally all the long years paid off. I don’t think I need say too much about “Share the Land” except that it’s their best and it’s great and you oughta buy it. Needless to say, it was done to make money, and it will. We’ve always needed something like the Guess Who; something to sing along with like we used to do with “Ticket To Ride” and “Paperback Writer”. I think I should note that it’s only a matter of time before Burton Cummings pulls a Puckett bit. The next album will be “The Guess Who featuring Burton Cummings”, the “Burton Cummings and the Guess Who”, then just “Burton Cummings” and you really will have to guess who is backing him up.

Anyway, the snow is piled up outside my window, and if you don’t think this is Canada, go out in it for a while. But there’s music in the air, lots of it, so turn your ear to the north and listen. It’s a faint sound now, but its gonna get louder.

A1 Niester

JG MAMA - JO MAMA - ATLANTIC SD 8269

I had held high expectations for this album. Jo Mama are an L. A. band that deserve to be a lot bigger than they are. They’re super-tight and dynamite live. Which is not to imply that the album isn’t good, or tight, just somewhat of a disappointment.

The record would have an entirely different effect had it come in a different cover. The photo is a shot of the band sitting in the window of an oldtimey pizza house, bearing the same name, in neon lights. The five of them look as though they’ve just finished gobbling down a greasy skonky pizza. A sort of Morrison Hotel revisited number, but not as well executed. From the first side, though, it’s as though you were in a Jo Mama pizza parlor with the jukebox jumpin!

Probably, the best first side song is “Machine Gun Kelly”. The sound is country rock, a trifle like Smith. Nothing really exciting happens after “Machine Gun” though, until the second side. There they wail into “Great Balls of Fire”, easily the best tune on the album. This is the only song on the album that they didn’t write, most of the rest being penned by guitarist Danny Kooch.

They fuck around with horns a bit more than they should have. The trumpet almost totally screws up “The Word Is Goodbye” and the piano is used to, the same tiring degree in some sections. ItTs a case of too much studio trickery—they’ve never used horns or piano live, to my knowledge.

For the most part, the heavy harmony portions of the disc are most successful. The second side never recovers from “Great Balls of Fire”. The album does end with a striking piece called “Love’ll Get You High” though. A nice thought, a nice full song and a most appropriate way to end this album. This is the only song where the brass is used to advantage.

It’s just nothing spectacular, which I had hoped for, even expected. I know what this band is capable of—keep ’em in mind anyway.

Danny Sugerman

EMITT RHODES - EMITT RHODES -DUNHILL DS50089 JAKE HOLMES - SO CLOSE - SOVERY FAR TO GO -POLYDOR 244034

MAURY MUEHLEISEN - GINGERBREAD - CAPITOL ST644

If Badfinger isn’t Paul McCartney, Emitt Rhodes sure is. Not only is his voice almost identical but as somebody around the office is fond of saying, “They’re on the same trip.” i.e. egotism. Just as McCartney multi-tracked himself into a solipsistic corner, so may Emitt Rhodes.

Young Master Rhodes plays organ, piano, bass guitar, does all the background voices and everything else that’s in there that I can’t pick out (and he ain’t even got Linda to help him.) Why, when there are so many good studio teams to work with, is it necessary to try and play solitaire on four different sides of the table?

In previous stages of rock and roll it was important to give the impression that each Raider, Monkee or Hermit was playing every

sound in your vinyl pleasure package, when it was actually a Leon Russell, Eddie Hoch or Jim Sullivan rather than Phil Volk (“Fang”) Keith Hopwood or Micky Dolenz. However, as a slight bit of integrity entered the album packaging business and credits began to appear instead of liner notes (the Stones used’em from the beginning, even when it was only Gene Pitney Phil Spector and Ian Stewart), studio people began to emerge as stars and personalities in their own right and it became more important that one made good music no matter who it was.

What I’m getting at is this; all this ego-tripping is just not necessary. If Dunhill can afford to spend all that bread on those insipid spots I keep hearing on the radio, then they could have done better by Emitt and he could have done better by himself.

What Emitt’s music is, it’s good music to write a review by, it just sort of fades into the background. In fact, if it weren’t for the lyric sheet, I wouldn’t even notice many of the words, or sometimes that there even are, words. Gazing over the sheet reveals more similarities to McCartney., Like Paul, his lyrics perch on a pinnacle of pleasantry, leaning cutely toward the sugary and dangerously to the sacchrine. He also has an unfortunate habit of coupling some lively energetic rhythms with the most inane lyrics. The “heavy” of the album, then, his ironically and unquestionably “Fresh As A Daisy”. But, as the title implies, much of the lyric promise goes unfulfilled.

“Well tell me can you feel it?

I’m feelin’ all rights, myself (Traffic cop)

I’m changing my old habits and

I’ve found a new bill of health

Don’t, you’re fresh as a daisy.”

“You Must Have” is instrumentally the outstanding cut. It sounds sort of like a cross between David Crosby and the Bee Gees. Here again, however, Rhodes seems to be tripping down Abbey Road again, “Just spread a little sunshine/Everything will be fine/Spread a little sunshine.”

Actually the album isn’t too bad but it is easily pushed aside, it’s the kind of record that someone takes off to put on Livingston Taylor, who is probably the real thing.

Jake Holmes is a different story. If you’ve heard the Marathon “get it in writing” spot or the Jello 1-2-3 commercial (or if you’ve heard the Frank Sinatra album which he wrote all the songs for), then you’re familiar with his voice (parenthetical writings). But he proves that commercials do not a commercialist make. True the album is at times a tad overproduced what with the strings and all but I got used to that on a half dozen Gordon Lightfoot albums. ( I heard Jake do “So Close” on the Tonight show with just two guitars and I was a trifle blown back.)

Holmes reminds me of John Sebastian, an easy going, paper licking good timing sort of dude who always makes it with some mysterious type on the high school ski trip or at camp and never wants to tell you about it. The kind of cat seems just a bit above it but condescends to fake it most of the time. (R. Farina’s “Hard Lovin’ Loser” paragon.)

Musically, he’s tight, he seems to know where he wants to be, how to get there and where he actually is. Unlike Rhodes and

McCartney, Holmes’ lyrics are romantic and pleasant without being honey-combed (here he differs ever so slightly from Sebastian who can go overboard and become embarassing).

Two songs knock me out. Both are love songs, “Her Song” and “The Paris Song” though every time I think of them I recall the time a woman was expounding the glories of Rod McKuen (“I mean he knows!, I mean ... how does he, know?”), but the ultimate is “Django and Friend”, a beautiful ballad during which, for some reason, I always think of Billie Holliday, and which has an ungodly bossa nova violin solo.

The only songs which strike a negative response are “We’re All We’ve Got” (which suggests some civic conciousness commercial I’ve heard) and “Population”. They come close to being offensive because, maybe, I don’t like Apocalypse with my Sunday afternoon coffee.

Maury Muehelsein is almost a combination of the two only it’s mostly the bad parts ( I mean shit, would you want to buy an album named Gingerbread?,). The entire album, lyric sheet and all, is illegibly handprinted (probably in Maury’s own) and on the back cover is a quote from one of the all time great non-entities by the name of Bobby

Glassenberg. All about “dropping out of college to get an education. “That sort of reveals the flavor of the whole lp. It’s one big snowy, sincere cliche. There’s a song called “Mister Bainbridge”, “an executive, eclectic and a mystic personality divine.” One might as well listen to Boyce and Hart’s “Mr. Webster” on the Monkee’s Headquarters, lp. (There is one good line “He owns a private yacht that he can sail on anytime/Because he never wants to miss the boat again.”). However I get more pleasure out of imagining Mr. Webster in the tropics giving the finger to Mr. Frisbee than thinking of Bainbridge thumbing through girlie magazines “looking for the girl he left behind.”

There are a few salvageable numbers, like “Rocky Mountains” which is a nice little traditional country ditty, and “One Last Chance” which is no less cliched than some of the rest but I have a certain feeling for it because it was one of those songs and I was in sort of a self-pitying mood when I first read the lyrics.

There are about eight million cats who were given Silvertpne guitars and Mel Bay songbooks on their fifteenth birthdays back in 1965 and they all seem to have landed recording contracts. These three just a small part (a justly small part) of the New Amerikan Troubador Movement. I wonder how many will make it past their first album? Muehleisen might not, Rhodes certainly will and Jake Holmes already has. Who knows, your brother, Alex, could be next.

Richard A. Pinkston IV

CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD - IN SESSION - INVICTUS

This is reputedly a live set, recorded in Harlem at the Apollo but I doubt that. But regardless of that little caveat emptor, the Chairmen of the Board are the most listenable of the black rhythm and blues groups on the scene this year. General Johnson’s voice, with it’s Billy Stewart tinge, is unquestionably fine and all in all these boys can shore sing pritty.

The majority of their material hits with a verve that hasn’t come out of Motown and its derivants since the early Tops, Temps and Miracles sides. And whoever backs these guys up plays like a real rock and roll band. By most any standards, this is a vital and fulfilling record, essential in these days of Broadway and Copacabana pap.

The record would be almost totally uriflawed if it were not for the two ballad numbers, ‘Twelfth of Never” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water”. Why anyone would put lame material on a record as exciting as this one gets to be after a couple seconds is mystifying. Even a few of the filler tunes here are more worthy of listening and that’s not saying much for ‘Twelfth” and “Bridge”. It ain’t even that I don’t like Paul Simon as

much as I don’t like emasculated Mptown singers.

There are some great songs though. “Patches” was written by General Johnson and it’s a true toss up which of the two versions is better. “Everything’s Tuesday” would be as good a single as the group’s current 45 “Pay to the Piper” but they’re both here so that don’t really enter into it. “Pay” sounds strangely like an early, pre-slicko Supremes tune. This is one of the few songs where General Johnson isn’t the lead vocalist and it merely serves to bear out the reality that Danny Woods or any of the others could be fronting bands of their own. Someday, due to the nature of these things, they probably will.

Suprisingly, the only Holland-Dozier-Holland number is the opener, “Chairmen of the Board” and it is here that the band really cooks. Johnson’s harp playing isn’t exactly up to Sonny Boy standards but that’s all right, the band riffs behind him the way Keith Richards and Mick Taylor and the rest of the Stones might. The drummer even sounds like Charley a little. It’s the only place on the album, as well, where you could believe the tune was live, by the way.

For the rest, most of it is strong — especially well-done is ‘That Was Almost Something”, a Smokey Robinson ringer -though their occasional forays into social consciousness stuff just don’t swing with the rest of these jams.

All in all, a fine, fine record, the hardest kind of thing imaginable from the basically soft sounds of HDH Inc. The Chairmen are gonna be around for awhile and that’s a gas.

Dave Marsh

THIS IS SAM COOKE - SAM COOKE -RCA VPS - 6027 (e)

Sam Cooke has always seemed, to me at least, the most underrated (or simply ignored — you don’t really rate these people) of all the great fifties rhythm and blues singers. As good as his gospel sides are, and they’re tremendous, in a whole lot of ways he was even better when he went on to do “commercial” music, for there he reached a truly huge audience.

Cooke had easily the best voice (carried down, in some aspects, in Rod Stewart’s rasp, though Rod certainly lacks the almost syrupy sweetness that Cooke could reel you back with) and a great sense of rock and roll material, especially for that rarest of all potent forms, the dynamic ballad. Taking and making it listenable, much less as evocative as Cooke’s rendition, is no mean feat.

It goes right down to what so many current performers lack, a sense of the material presented and how to present it — if Sam Cooke was a singer’s singer, that was not his primary concern. Today, when so many musicians are so overconcerned with their prowess vis a vis other musicians that the entertaining side of rock and roll is nearly lost under a blithering morass of minor seventh chords and pseudo-cerebral gimmicks, the purer music of the fifties must blow in like a. breath of fresh air. When everyone with a dimestore amp and guitar and a friend with an

un-fettered voice (regardless of any sense of relating to an AUDIENCE) can step to the stage and bash out another set of theoretically great, supposedly heart-felt, marginally raw and hopefully palatable jams that will serve to impress, not entertain or enlighten, their .listeners (and when the relationship has deteriorated to that level of total separation), it’s more than convenient, it’s absolutely essential to have this music around as a reminder of what things were like once. (And could be again, one would hope.)

Not that music was in that much better shape then, at least as an industry. Sam Cooke’s records come across with such force precisely in contrast to the mediocrities of his time, even in contrast to the oft lame arrangements that Hugo and Luigi gave him (somehow strings will never set right with me; reiterating images of Moody Blues scarfing dogeared Beethoven riffs out of Viennese gutters, I suppose.)

The fact that Cooke could use the kind of cornball arrangements he frequently did is yet another testimony to the sheer power his voice possessed. You can ignore the near-vapidity of tunes like “Cupid” simply because his voice has all those internal catches and twists that drag you out and into the music.

At his very best, Cooke utilized a perfect lyrical sentimentality that only Smokey Robinson has ever equalled. Occasionally straying dangerously close to the saccahrine but listen to “Good Times” — “It might be one o’clock and it might be three/Time don’t mean that much to me/Ain’t felt this good since I don’t know when/And I might not feel this good again/So come on baby, let the good times roll/We gonna stay here til we soothe our soul”. That summed up perfectly what rock and roll was about, and still is, in so many ways.

Or the blues shout, “Bring It On Home to Me” - “I’ll give you jewelry and money too/And that ain’t all, ain’t all I’ll do for you . . . You know I’ll always be your slave/Til I’m buried, buried in my grave” and the perfect chorus “Bring it to me, bring it home, bring your sweet lovin’, bring it on home to me” and the gospel oriented exchange of “Yeahs” with the unnamed accompanist

Then there are the worker’s dirges, “Another Saturday Night“ and “Chain Gang”, “Saturday Night” - “If could meet ’em/I could get ’em/But as yet I haven’t met ’em/Here’s another Sat’day night and I ain’t got nobody/I got some money cause I got paid/Now how I wish I had some chick to talk to/I’m in an awful way”. ‘‘Chain Gang” yips and sco.wls and howls and groans, with that same basso, accompanist, then “You hear them moaning their lives away/Then you hear somebody say/That’s the sound of the men working on the chain gang.”

It’s a tragedy that three of his greatest performances aren’t included in this set, “Change Gonna Come”, the absolute epitome of what he could do, “Shake”, “Good Times” ' — because, at least in the case of the latter two, it would serve as some sort of comparison to latter versions of the tunes (by the Stones and Otis Redding, primarily).

. While Otis and Jagger certainly pulled the tunes off admirably (much much more worthy efforts than Herman’s Hermits “Wonderful World’’ or the Animals over-raunchization of “Bring It On Home to Me”) Cooke’s versions are an incredibly high standard.

At any rate, this is an excellent Sam Cooke sampler, the primary misfortune being that the three tunes named above and all of the gospel tunes are missing. Still, “You Send Me”, “Chain Gang”, “Another Saturday Night” and “Bring It On Home” are here. All of those are well-known to one degree or another but there are also some surprises here, if one will listen - “Everybody Loves to Cha Cha Cha” and “Twistin’ the Night Away” are not as dated as they might seem, “Cupid”, treading the line between mawkishness and true sentimentality exquisitely and the weird rock ballad “Baby Baby Baby” in which the female voice makes one of its finest contributions to rock and roll.

Here then, a set worthy of FM airplay than many a two-record Judy Collins set, and somehow in a similar vein. Sam Cooke was a singer and he was also exceptionally human. He could put it all together and let you know about commonality. There’s little more we dare ask of our artists.

“C’mon and let the good times roll

We gonna stay here til we soothe our soul

And it might take all night long”

Dave Marsh

NO DICE - BADFINGER - APPLE ST 3367

If you pride yourself on being a member of the generation that battles hypocrisy, shuns prejudices and easy labels, and fights to the death to tell the pigs (boo) what it’s all about (yay)—and won’t listen to Badfinger’s No Dice because they’re a “teenybopper group,” then it’s your own tough luck.

Not to mention that the No Dice album sounds like what the Beatles might have done had they gotten it together after their white album—and we all know how hip a record that is—and not to mention that Badfinger is one of the best songwriting groups around, one of the best singing groups anywhere, and now has an absolutely great lead guitarist in Pete Ham, they’re really one fucking whale of a group anyway.

It’s really late-Beatles music Badfinger does, if you’ll check out the white album I Abbey Road style of production and the distinctly similar instrumental sound.

Then there’s even exact imitation Ringo ker-plod drumming. However, in songwriting and singing Badfinger shuts the post-Pepper Beatles down cold, and that, I feel, is something most comparisons of the two groups sneakily evade talking about.

Finally, if you can sit around grooving on Paul McCartney’s solo album, when there’s a group right around the corner—Badfinger— that can do everything McCartney can do (Pete Ham sings, writes, and even has the gall to look like McCartney), that’s your tough luck too, I guess. When Badfinger gets around to making the record they’re capable of making, it may be as good as everything the Beatles ever did after Rubber Soul, all rolled into one. In the meantime, No Dice is merely great.

Mike Saunders

A PAUSE IN THE DISASTER - THE CONCEPTION CORPORATION -COTILLION SD9031

I cannot quite understand how Atlantic-Cotillion Records, a recording firm generally notable for its quality control, let this one get by. Four longhaired gentlemen calling themselves The Conception Corporation have produced a genuinely forgettable piece of trash, bringing back memories of Jerry Lewis’ crippled-child imitations, in the name of satire. It’s nothing to laugh about.

Certainly, these folks deal with a lot of controversial subjects: mulattos, blacks, Puerto Ricans, religion, Ed Sullivan, Lyndon Johnson, Groucho Marx, and (you’ve gotta have these to be contemporary) sex and marijuana. They’re all there, wrapped up into an embarrasingly unconvincing production that seldom gets off the ground. Poor original, material would be bad enough, but it is maddening that nearly each of the 23 bits on the album reflects inspiration (?) from earlier and far superior comedy material. Lenny Bruce’s “Religions, Incorporated”, Stan Freberg’s version of “Banana Boat Song”, or any Firesign Theatre LP works in the same medium but is infinitely more rewarding than this puerile attempt at humor or social comment or whatever. I think I might melt my copy into an ashtray ...

Kenneth Werner

STEPPENWOLF 7 - STEPPENWOLF -DUNHILL

Clark Dickson looked meticulously at the master-clock. Beads of perspiration worked their way through the layer of PhisoHex, and glinted on his forehead. After this commercial, his favorite segment of the show. The segment where new records are played and judged by a select panel of teenies. He would need a little boost to get up for it, so shrill with excitement was he becoming. He grabbed a can of Nutrament, downed a shot, and turned around just in time to see the finger of the floor director pointing at him.

He introduced his panel of experts to the overseers grooving along at home. This week, he had a black girl, a Puerto-Rican boy, and a token white to calculate the scores. After the usual preliminaries, he introduced the first record. It was a new “45” culled from theSteppenwolf 7 album. The chug-chug organ and the familiar rhythm sections filled the air. In came Kay, as surly and raunchy as ever. The cameras panned the sweating young mods jerking on the technician-enclosed dance floor. For three minutes, the absent John Kay ruled the studio.

The record ended. The flustered Clark, Clerasil running down his face in tiny rivulets, turned to the judges.

“And what did you think of that record, Wyomia?”

“Well, I liked it a lot and it was real good and you can dance to it and I gave it a 90.”

“And how about you Juan?”

“Well, I liked it a lot and it was real good and you can dance to it and I gave it a 96.”

“Gee, some pretty high scores there. What does that average out to, Lyndon?”

“That come out to, uh, 86, sir.”

“Right you are.”

A gleam of satisfaction crept over Clark’s face. He dismissed the judges with Mirror-GoLightly’s, Bic Pens, and sample Zig-Zag papers.

He slept that night secure in the knowledge that his case of Canadian Club, courtesy of D unhill, would be waiting under his pillow for him in the morning.

This is Steppenwolf 7. Can you name the other six? (answers found elsewhere on this page.) ,If you can, this album is obviously for you. Run right out and complete your set. If you can’t (I got five), then it really doesn’t matter.

A1 Niester

THE ANIMALS WITH ERIC BURDON - IN THE BEGINNING - WAND WDS 690 LIVE AT TOPANGA CORRAL - CANNED HEAT - WAND WDS 693 SHARIN’ ALL OVER - GUESS WHO -SCEPTER S533

Scepter and Wand, previously distinguished for releasing Dionne Warwick, Maxine Brown and Chuck Jackson sides, has now decided to issue these Canned Heat and Animals tapes, both first releases, and to re-issue the Guess Who album ... which is, believe it or not, the same Guess Who presently scorching the airwaves with “Share The Land”. (And if someone doesn’t pick up on how that whole riff is copped from McCartney’s “Maybe I’m Amazed” pretty soon, I definitely will be.)

The Animals set has the most value, a true representation of the fire that the band possessed in the early days, with Alan Price crunching home all those flash organ riffs and Burdon’s voice at whatever peak it managed to achieve. These tapes have the kind of crisp frenzy that only Five Live by the Yardbirds and Got Live If You Want It by the Stones have. Though these tapes are seven years old, in comparison to the rest of contemporary rock history thoroughly ancient (it doesn’t begin here til the advent of the Ed Sullivan Beatles ruse in late 64), they are easily a match for anything released in the last year or two.

“Let It Rock” is a fine Chuck Berry composition, perhaps the finest lyrics that old greybeard ever hung on a tune (it’s available on a Berry album called Twist or Twistin or something like that). Burdon is in fine form

and Hilton Valentine and John Steel never sounded finer, though Price and Chas Chandler’s work is merely their usual super-competence.

“Gotta Find My Baby” and “Almost Grown” (mis-titled “I’m Almost Grown” here are also Berry-pickings, “Bo Diddley” the theme of that master and “Dimples” and “Boom Boom” come from the venerable and crusty John Lee Hooker. “Bo Diddley”, especially, is finer than the other Animals’ recording of the tune, simply because it doesn’t include Burdon’s incipient but diffident ego-tripping (later to be brought to full rot with War, with the dismal Winds of Change album and assorted others.)

Instead this “Bo Diddley” features an audience response ^segment that blows off almost any other recorded attempts at it in recent history. Sonny Boy Williamson is listed as drummer on the final cut, not impossible but a decided unlikelihood. Contrasted to the brilliance and joie de vivre of those initial Animal tracks, Canned Heat’s blues riffing quickly becomes boring, even on such a dynamite number as “Dust My Broom”. All the tunes that aren’t available on the first Heat album (a killer effort, incidentally, that puts their later pop works to shame) are filler and the new versions simply don’t stand up to the old.

“Bullfrog Blues” for example, is a high-energy flash on the Canned Heat record while here it drags and sags and just generally sputters out. Like most of the rest, it’s under-recorded and simply lacks the spark that ignited Canned Heat (and sometimes still does when they aren’t shuckin’ and jivin’. It must be admitted, however, that Bob Hite is the primo shuck and jive man on the planet at the moment.)

“Shakin’ All Over” epitomizes rock and roll in so many ways that it is a true shame that it has never been recorded decently (though the Johnny Kidd and the Pirates version might do it... I’ve never heard it.) This version is less dynamic than the Who’s, though less pretentious. Perhaps the UP will come up with it on their album, it seems to be their strongest tune at present. At any rate, “Shakin’ ” in any version would be a hit and this one was. It sustains itself the way it was made to and all but it could be better (oh, when will we get those bootleg MC5 tapes we want so bad?) Most of the rest of this record is mere sham and pretense. “Hey-Ho, What You Do to Me” is the kind of pap “Undun” was, before the G.W. got straightened about and started kickin’ ’em out for real. The churning passion of the guitar line is the only strong point and it gets worse from here. “Tossin’ and Turnin’ ” has little of the potence of the original, the vocal is horrid and the general quality of the tune is merely abysmal. The one advantage is that the tune has an organ line so obviously stolen from ? and the Mysterians that it’s painful. But fun, which counts for a whole lot. It ends on an echoed line that is a real rut.

“I Should Have Realized” sounds like 69-70 Guess Who with a John Lennon harp and vocal that rolls in from around the Early Beatles lp. (Consider that this album was probably done in ’64, sometime.)

Any remaining strength the band may have had is totally lost with the Dionne Warwick-like “Hurting Each Other”, a

Righteous Brothers rip-off without the advantage of Phil Spector. “I’ll Keep Coming Back” is a Gene Pitney style number that sounds like it would have been a Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas hit. Terrible.

The second side is thoroughly unredeemable, even through Rueben and the Jets reminiscences, which is what it sounds like at its most mawkish.

Still, of the three, the Early Animals riff is truly far-out and exciting, music the like of which we could use a lot more of and haven’t had since the Who opted for the Met and Life,. the Stones allowed Mick Jagger to become the Aleister Crowley of rock and roll and the Yardbirds decided to split up and form secret cabals of phony musicianship rather than excellent joy. Perhaps the original liner notes to the Guess Who album spell it out best. (By the way, they were known around Winnipeg as Chad Allan and the Expressions back then and only Randy Bachman, the lead guitarist is still with the RCA version. And the cover is even more incidentally, one of the most garish and offensive pieces of art since the hideous second Orpheus album on MGM.) “It is, by the way, with some reluctance that I fill in the big blank created by the two big words GUESS WHO?. Some of the magic of this group and other groups such as Them and the Who may be lost when we can no longer really guess, but that’s the price of the fantastic success of GUESS WHO?.”

Ah, if only ? had taken off his sunglasses.

Dave Marsh

BLACK MAN’S BURDON - ERIC BURDON AND WAR - MGM

Something new from Eric Burdon — rock savior, original flower child, and Hendrix’s best friend. It’s damn hard to be unbiased against this clown, but I tried very hard. I sat down and played the album a couple of times, and I must admit I liked a lot of what I heard.

I liked the backing group, War, very much. They are a very tight and versatile band, capable of moving in many directions, be it jazz rock, blues, or Santana — like African rhythms. Six blacks and one white whose nature flows uninhibited through their instruments.

But, as usual, Eric Burdon is just too full of bull-shit to be taken seriously. This is his band, he made them, and you don’t get a chance to forget it. Right there on the cover it says “Album concept — Eric Burdon.” Jesus, I’m glad God didn’t stamp His name on the prairies. “Planet concept — God.” Then there’s his rap on side one (sort of a hip Moody Blues rap) in which he talks about raping the Queen, I think. I’m not really sure of the content, though. As a poet, Eric ranks right up there with Casey Stengel, Dick Nixon, and Emily Grangerford. Then there’s the line on side one “I have created children for you to adopt.” Kee — riste! Remember in high school how some ass would come in on Monday morning and tell you about the big time he had with Stella Cheerleader, (wink, wink). You were really interested, right? Well, that’s about where Burden’s at.

Then there’s the finale. “They Can’t Take Away Our Music.” Very exciting musically, but still bullshit. “Yes, this is our, music, brothers and sisters. I’m up here putting out for you, and all you gotta do is put down $8.00 for my neatly-packaged two-record set.” And by the way, Eric, if you really think “they” can’t take our music away, you’re more naive than I thought. They could, if'they wanted. Then we would all take up knitting. ( I’ve always wanted to learn to knit, but my fingers are too long and uncoordinated or something.)

At one point, Eric says “People say they understand me, but I ,, can’t stand to be understood.” Well, Eric baby, I think I understand.

A1 Niester

SISVPHUS - COLD BLOOD - SAN FRANCISCO SD-205

Cold Blood is one of the finest of the new wave of San Francisco rock bands and this, their second album, displays marked improvement in terms of originality and maturity over their previous effort. The older bands, like the Dead, the Airplane, Quicksilver, and Big Brother, that emerged in 1965-66 were composed primarily of musicians who had been active in the folk movement. Players making the newer sounds represented by such groups as Cold Blood, the Tower of Power, and Santana came out of a different bag — one rooted in jazz and soul. They are not as concerned with distortion and mystical lyrics. The basic ingredients in the new San Francisco sound are tight, burning rhythms and raw, yet controlled energy.

Lead vocalist Lydia Pense is perhaps the finest white soul singer in the world. Ralph Gleason once dismissed her as a Joplin

imitator, but close listening will reveal similarity in tonal quality only. Lydia’s phrasing is much different, indeed, more sophisticated. When Janis was still singing at hoots in the coffee houses of Grant Avenue, Lydia was pouring out her funky soul in ghetto bars throughout the Bay Area. To black audiences she was known as the little blonde who sang like Etta James and moved like Tina Turner. For a white girl still in high school that was quite a reputation.

The rest of the group, which started out as essentially a copy of the Memphis sounds of Booker T. and BarKays, has really moved into its own. The horn arrangements have picked up much of the brilliance and excitement of big band jazz. The complex interplay between pulsative bassist Rod Ellicott and crisp, cooking Sandy McKee on drums also borrows from jazz, as well as from Afro-Cuban music. Cold Blood’s outstanding soloist is sax man Danny Hull who gets a raunchy rock ‘n’ roll tone from his tenor.

All selections are original with the exception of “Your Good Thing,” an inferior copy of the fantastic version by Little Willie John’s sister, Mabel John, that appeared on Stax a few years back. The only other weak cut is “Shop Talk,” a series of short solos that lead nowhere but to a tasteless Stan Kenton-ish finale. The album’s strongest track is “Funky On My Back.” From pianist Raul Matute’s gentle McCoy Tyner intro to Hull’s flowing flute to Lydia’s mellow vocal, this multi-textured Latin-soul number builds into a warm feeling that is the essence of control and subtlety. “Understanding” is a simple riff-based rocker on which Lydia lets it all hang out. The “hardest” cut is “I Can’t Stay.”

It showcases McKee on vocals and Larry Field’s Hendrix-inspired guitar. “Too Many People” closes the set with its funky syncopation and group harmony.

This album is an important contribution to the legacy of San Francisco music and is recommended to anyone who digs hard driving rock and soul.

Lee Hildebrand

AMON DUUL - PROPHESY PRS 1003 BIRTH CONTROL (PROPHESY PRS 1002) BRAINBOX (CAPITOL ST-596) ) JOY UNLIMITED (MERCURY SR-61283) THE MARBLES (COTILLION SD-9029) 45 LIVES, THE CATS (RARE EARTH RS 521)

When Savage Rose’s great first album appeared in the States last summer, it generated enough excitement all by itself to make you wonder if we weren’t due for an upsurge of strinkingly original European groups. And when I got that package of Finnish albums (Wigwam, Tasavallan Presidentti, International Harvester) which I reviewed hr Rolling Stone, I was convinced that even many European groups imitating American and British bands were already groping towards very individualistic statements. But when I hauled this bunch of flops and outright monstrosities up from the siltbeds of the river of records sloshing through here and totted them up, I realized i that not only does the United States hold no monopoly on bad hyped bands, but there is j

no reason in the world why American record companies will import and promote any but the Godawfullest of European groups.

Beginning with the one glimmer of talent that may not even belong in such company, the Cats are a slick Dutch outfit with glossy harmonies and poetic, melancholy originals showing distinct Simon Garfunkle and Bee Gees influences, with arrangements (mostly strings) reminiscent now of Phil Spector and then of Percy Faith. If you like any of those people, which I don’t, you’ll undoubtedly like this album, which is so professionally and feelingfully done that it can only be criticised along lines of taste. You might even find it touching, which is more than you can say for the Marbles, a German duo who have obviously worked hard at sounding as close to the Bee Gees as possible, paid homage by recording five Gibb songs, and filled out their album with things like “A House Is Not a Home” and “Storybook Children” done in the same saccharine style. Once again they’re competent, well-behaved vocally and as consistent as the studio arrangements ts if .they had more original material they’d, probably be as good as the Cats. Bee Gees ], fans will most likely dig them, especially since) they even look a little bit like the Gibbi brothers.

Joy Unlimited is a German sextet with, promise and problems similar to those of the Cats and Marbles. The lead singer is a looker named Joy who closely resembles Lulu. Put the record on and dumed if she don’t sound, like Lulu too, although she sounds a lot more like Aretha Franklin. Even more than someone like, say, Lotti Golden. Her backup is pretty faceless, and the few originals reflect those influences even more absolutely than the arrangements of things like L&M’s “All Together Now,” which you’d swear was an outtake from Aretha’s ill-conceived This Girl’s In Love With You, album.

Now we come to the real slush. In a way I feel bad about criticising European groups like the Cats and Joy Unlimited, because at least they’re trying. But bands like Brainbox, Birth Control and especially Amon Duul are no more than the Continental reflection of the gimmicks grasped at by mediocre American and British groups who want to maintain a hold on the airwaves even though they never had and never will have anything to say.

Brainbox is the least offensive of the three. Holland again, these four musicians of admitted ability have made one of those albums where every riff in every song is such an exact copy of established groups’ styles that the record represents little more than a looting spree. Thus, “Dark Rose” is pure Jethro Tull, “Reason To Believe” recites Tim Hardin, “Baby What You Want Me To Do” is every other sloppy runthrough of Jimmy Reed’s song overworked by beginner bands around the globe, and the 16-minute “Sea of Delight” pads out the second side with some nice (somehow it always is) Byrdsish electric twelve-string and the obligatory nerve-numbing drum solo. What rankles about this one is that these guys have obvious musical abilities if they’d just get off their asses and start working it all out.

The other two albums shouldn’t happen to the deaf. It’s great that Prophesy records, a new small label with a beautiful logo, should want to introduce European bands to the American public, but they can undoubtedly do better than this. Birth Control are a German band who admit to admiring the Doors greatly in their liner notes, and also show a trace of the Iron Butterfly. They have lots of organ, and scratchy guitar reminiscent of the fuzztone elephant bleats in the middle of “In-a-Gadda-da-Vida,” and a singer no better nor worse than a thousand other growling Jim Morrison/John Kay teenagers in the hinterlands of America. It’s just that their record is not very listenable, and doesn’t even leave promising prognostication.

Amon Duul is the monstrosity. I don’t know who at Prophesy ever dreamed that this album deserved the States, or vice versa, but that man is lost in space. This record, which was called Psychedelic Underground, in its German edition, is thirty minutes of the kind of clattering “space jam” that is likely to result anytime you get a hunch of amateur musicians together with huge amps and too much dope for them even to say something musical by accident. Lots of percussion and one-chord guitar. This is undoubtedly the worst record out this year, and the most inept, sludgy album I’ve heard since Hapsash & the Colored Coat’s first effort, which formerly qualified as the worst rock album I’d ever heard. You just couldn’t believe this shit if you heard it, but take it from me, it has none of the inspired insanity or so-bad-it’s-good redeeming factors of purposely primitive bands like the Godz. Although it might be interesting as an artifact — the first group on LP that nobody could like.

This has been a very depressing review to write. I don’t like to put down European bands, especially when so many of them are making the transition from woodshed to personal statement, and I feel like some selfimportant punk’s notion of God sitting up here arbitrating the efforts of bands from climes where the scene is just beginning. But except for the Cats, the music on these albums ranges from the pitiful to the cynical shuck to the cabaret band. What’s really a crime is that while releases like these glut the American market still further, truly inventive and sensitive bands like Tasavallan Presidentti and especially Wigwam can’t even get contracts over here. It’s all a damn shame.

Lester Bangs

DEMON’S DANCE - JACKIE McLEAN -BLUE NOTE BST 84345 ROOTS AND HERBS - ART BLAKEY AND THE JAZZ MESSENGERS - BLUE NOTE BST 84347

THAT HEALIN’ FEELIN - HORACE SILVER QUINTET - BLUE NOTE BST 84352

In 1963, at the hardened age of 13, I began to take an interest in jazz (what are these people doing. . .)-a result of flipping stations on an FM radio and of complete boredom with Top 40 radio slobber (never an elitist I always thought there was something wrong with me.., still do . .. and I’m right.) The first three heavies that I hit upon (this naturally excludes Dave Brubeck . .. Paul Desmond would qualify but I didn’t really listen to him until much later) whose music not only mystified and aroused curiosity but also inspired excitement and caused enjoyment (pretty stiff) were Messrs. Blakey, McLean and Silver. This came about because I discovered a Detroit station which seemed to feature mostly Blue Note records but now features mostly bad note singers, whiGh is a shame, their decline and all.

And now, lo, these seven very strange years later, I received all at once, having risen (?) to the position of writer of as well as listener to, courtesy Blue Note Records, the “latest releases” of my first three heavies. (I write this way on purpose.) Of these three Jackie McLean is the only one I’ve maintained a constant interest in. And of these three McLean’s record gets the lowest number of stars.

It’s really a disappointment. Around ’63, McLean released a record called “Let Freedom Ring” which was, and is, a masterpiece. A complete summation of his art up until that point with definite directions toward the future. This was followed by a series of records, all with moments of brilliance but none of them approaching “Freedom”. He seemed to be taking small steps backward, being very cautious with the vocabulary he forged on “Freedom”. Not an unusual way to go about things and I could list half a dozen fine and enjoyable albums that were released during these years. But when does the exploration begin again?

Maybe he’s doing it now, I don’t know, I haven’t heard, but this “latest” release recorded over three years ago, finds him in a context not too far removed from a record called “Jackie’s Bag” which was released about ten years ago. Traditional instrumentation, traditional playing of lead arrangements, then lead solo by Jackie; then Woody Shaw’s solo, then piano solo, then perhaps a bass and/or drum solo, then a repeat of the head arrangement and out. All the songs follow the same format. All the songs follow the same format. And there are chord changes —clever, perhaps, loose, maybe, but confining. All the “Tunes” seem to have been written mainly to set up the soloist and only Woody Shaw’s “Sweet Love” has enough melodic inventiveness to be memorable. And even it sounds familiar.

Then there’s Jackie’s playing. I love it but it’s the same. Fire and ice, strong and bittersweet, and entirely his own, like. Miles. But he’s starting (as of 1967) to repeat himself too often.

Of the other players on the album, I’ll mention Woody Shaw, who always seems to be playing in the contest of other people’s music (sort of the Richard Davis of the trumpet) and who I know is a heavy in his own right but whose sound is too often abrasive for my taste (I’ve never pretended to be an objective critic). Jack De Johnette was playing a lot looser for Charles Lloyd at about this same time, which just proves his versatility and virtuosity.

All the complaints that apply to McLean’s record, mainly the traditional strictness of its structure, can be applied to the Blakey record (recorded in 1961 although never before released) but there are enough compensating factors to make it a “better” record—at least it lands on my turntable a lot more times than the McLean record. First, there’s Wayne Shorter who composed all the songs. Though he wasn’t the prolific and well-respected composer that he is now, each composition has some original touch or melodic twist to sustain interest. And his tenor playing-more forceful; (perhaps even clumsier) more interesting in coloring than in his later years—odd coloring at that. (“Hair raising” one critic said about it in them days). Then there’s Lee Morgan, as ever, with all his quotes and squeezed notes and long snakey phrases. And then, of course, Blakey himself—who is the reason that you can dance with ease to any cut on this album. And dig his solo on “United”, always burning but so leisurely ... deceptive.

If you still have time for relevant history, and I could understand it if you didn’t, this record is a tasty textbook. Pretty cute, eh?

The Horace Silver record is a little weird. Silver, a pioneer of modem funky piano, has always been a model of consistency and integrity (like Monk) and never faddish. Now a record arrives with a picture of Silver on the front looking like a benign swami — open the cover and we find a complete set of lyrics for all the songs (except the title cut, which is an instrumental) all pointing the way toward spiritual enlightenment (dimestore variety). For a moment I was fooled.

Silver has written a number of jazz standards (like “The Preacher”, “Doodlin’”, “Song For My Father”, etc.) many of which eventually had lyrics tagged on to them by someone other than Silver. What he’s done here is simply write the inevitable (?) lyrics himself. Overlooking the lyrics and the delivery of the three vocalists (who each possess a style that should have been shot in the forties sometime) what we have here is standard Silver. The tunes are all attractive and funky and Silver’s solos are the same as ever (you didn’t really think electric piano would make any difference did you?) and there is the usual very very tight ensemble playing. Silver fans may be able to get to this. Hard to .tell with Andy Bey standing in the way. The only other thing worth mentioning is that it’s hard to believe that the George Coleman playing tenor here is the one that used to play with Miles. He plays with some real gritty funk. Horace must have kicked him in the ass or something before the session to make him play so mean.

Richard C. Walls

PENDULUM - CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL - FANTASY 8410-

You you you kinda kinda kinda got got got the the the impression pression pression that that that Creedence Creedence Creedence Clearwater water water keeps keeps keeps doing doing doing the the the same same same thing thing thing over over over and and and over over over again again again. Too too too bad bad bad their their their first first first single single single was was was Suzy Suzy Suzy Q Q Q, too too too bad bad bad because because because it it it was was was itself itself itself an an an attempted tempted tempted imitation tation tation of of of early early early Stones Stones Stones plus plus plus some some some new new new stolen stolen stolen guitar guitar guitar riffs riffs riffs. That that that way way way they they gave gave people people people the the the wrong wrong wrong impression pression pression when when when their their their next next nextsingle single single was was was different different different. That that that Way way way it it it took took took until until until around around around two two two or or or three three three more more more singles singles singles before before before people people people realized realized realized that that that all all all they’d they’d they’d be be be doing doing doing from from from then then then on on on would would would be be be echoes echoes echoes of of of Proud Proud Proud Mary Mary Mary.

Well well now now they’ve they’ve got got this this brand brand new new idea idea that

that it’s it’s time time to to stop stop the the echo echo. Well well they’re they’re wrong wrong because because the the camouflage mouflage isn’t isn’t so so good good. It’s it’s still still the the same same old old (good good) shit shit but but pendulums dulums only only move move this this way way and and then then that that way way. Just just two two ways ways. Just just two two. Rather rather than than more more. No no reverberation ration therefore therefore. And and who who needs needs rock rock and and roll roll that that isn’t isn’t an an echo echo anyway nyway?

Can you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?

Practice, man, practice.

On January 25, Sir Lord Baltimore, a new American group, made their first public appearance. It was at Carnegie Hall. The next week, the Fillmore East. With opening gigs like that, they must be pretty heavy.

A Product of Mercury Record Productions, Inc.

Well this whole thing sounds pretty fake to me, “Chameleon” is different from “Molina,” which is different from “It’s Just a Thought,” which is different from “(Wish I Could) Hideaway,” which is different from “Pagan Baby,” which is different from “Sailor’s Lament,” which is different from ' ‘‘Have You Ever Seen the Rain,” which is different from “Rude Awakening No. 2,” which is different from “Hey Tonight.” Or was it they were supposed to be the same? Shit, I’m losing track of what’s supposed to be the story, or is it that I’m stupid? All I know is that if they’re gonna start doing weird stuff two-three years after weird stuff got crossed off the list, and if they’re gonna take that weird stuff and start duplicating that from here on in THEY’RE GONNA TURN INTO A BUCKET OF SHIT. And they won’t even have an easy time of it either. So there.

Billy Hoabs

WRONG END OF THE RAINBOW RUSH - COLUMBIA C-30402

TOM

The minute I laid eyes on the cover of this album I knew that it was fated to be a much better Tom Rush offering than was his debut Columbia disc. Replacing the dull wallpaper portrait which graced the earlier front jacket is a considerably more vibrant photo of Tom backed by framing rays of sunlight. Earthily colorful and sparkling, it promised music more along the lines of his tastefully vital Elektra performances. And you know something, it wasn’t too far off the mark.

The major improvement here seems to be more understanding interaction between Rush and his guitarist Trevor Veich. And while I’m told that this is belied by their live performances, Veich’s licks now seem to more float with Rush than fight him (though it is Rush who appears to have made the major steps necessary for compromise). The backing in general seems more intelligently disposed toward the understatement of Rush’s delivery; the string and horn arrangements do not interfere nearly as often.

The four songs Tom was responsible for writing here (three of which he co-authored with Veich) constitute the strongest dose of his compositional abilities to date. And “Wrong End Of The Rainbow” and “Starlight” would seem to say that it might be our healthiest dose as well. The title song, with its, captivating structure and fabulous pedal steel from David Bromberg, could easily be the album’s finest cut, and that says a lot for Tom’s development. The other two, “Merrimac County” (dull atmosphere) and “Rotunda” (partially successful rocking), are not quite as encouraging.

There is, however, a question which must be brought out. Rush made his artistic name as the first significant song-finder (i.e. — a person who seeks out worthy, but uncirculated, material and through his

interpretation brings the writer into the spotlight). Under such conditions, is it possible to accept a Rush offering of material which is any less than uniformly outstanding?

I mean, if his responsibility is to find solid material (and I am fully aware that from here that is a matter of taste and nothing more), should not his field of selection be certainly wide enough to insure consistent quality? Or when he fails to present unerringly killer music (as was the case on his last album and the same to a lesser degree here), are we to take this as a reflection on the general quality of today’s young songwriters? Or could it be that Rush’s intuitive sense is failing?

What, for example, is the use of repeating James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James”, a song which, although done admirably by Rush, was perfectly defined in Taylor’s own recitation? And most especially when there are songs like “Riding On A Railroad” to be interpreted, songs which will not so forcefully demand comparison. Tom’s version of Jesse Winchester’s “Biloxi” is an exception, for while it was earlier recorded by Winchester himself, the original was not so sufficiently known as to make Rush’s version an obvious cover. And Tom’s version of that song is such that it assures that the name of Jesse Winchester will register in the future with those who hear it here. I wouldn’t have complained if Tom had included a couple more Jackson Browne beauties (and I guess I’m even a little disappointed that he didn’t because he’s so successfully fired my craving for a set from Mr. Browne himself that I’m nearly to the point of offering a reward for any information leading to the capture, alive of course, of the elusive boy. Direct any information regarding this matter to me c/o this paper. Please) but the songs that work here may be sufficient for now.

Yet despite the cuts that make it, the ones that don’t tend to throw a damper on things. Or maybe I’m taking this whole thing a might too seriously. At any rate, although this isn’t exactly the Tom Rush total triumph I so wanted, it will most probably sustain me until I see what he comes up with for the next go ’round, and that’s more than I could say for the last one.

Ben Edmonds

THE TWELVE DREAMS OF DOCTOR. SARDONICUS - SPIRIT - EPIC

I suppose I should know who Doctor Sardonicus is, but I don’t. I looked around a little to try and figure it out, but all I got was “sardonica herba”, a Serbian herb said to cause a peculiar twitching in the face when eaten. I don’t think that’s what the group had in mind, but it will do. The peculiar twitching of the face throughout the playing of this album was a smile. Spirit always make me smile. It’s like the way you must have to shake your head and grin when you see someone so much in control of a situation that you can’t really believe it. Like, you have

to smile when you see Dave Bing pivot in mid-air and deck out some clumsy behemoth who’s trying to swat him out of the air. Or you have to smile when you see Ali float around the ring like a ghost and mess his opponent’s face at will. Its the same with Spirit. They are just so much in control of their element that every once in a while you have to smile and say “Yeah” or “Wow” or something else irrelevant, and shake your head. Like for instance, the first time you hear “Space Child”, you will smile. It just can’t be helped.

You will also arrive at the conclusion, again, that Randy California is the most underrated rock guitarist on Planet Earth. (Can you really say that rock guitarists are underrated like a particular defensive tackle is underrated? Sounds odd, so lets say he’s “unappreciated”. But that’s dumb too, because I know lots of people who appreciate what he does. But obviously there are not enough because this album will still not make the Billboard top ten, and yet Carlos Santana isn’t fit to scrape the lint out of California’s guitar case.) Randy California is one of the most original and versatile guitarists anywhere, and you should hear this album for that reason alone, if no other. Almost nobody, including Page and Clapton, is bringing the new life to the instrument that California is. (Nobody except McLaughlin, but that’s a different review.)

But enough pointless comparisons. It’s been a year and a half since Clear. I must confess that I don’t know if there has been any change in personnel, but it doesn’t sound like it This is still very much the Family playing together. This album is a letter from the valley saying that everything is just fine here at home. Each cut retains the distinctive spirit sound that I’ve spent so many cold evenings digesting. I picked out “Spade Child” and “Soldier” as the cuts which impressed me the most. A hanger-on who appeared here about the same time Dr. Sardonicus did, says that he thinks “Nature’s Way”, a slower number is about the finest thing the group has. ever done. I disagree. “Mr. Gramphone Man” from the first album, and all of side one of The Family That Plays Together, are my all times. But we listened to Dr. Sardonicus, four times while we were thinking about it. And we smiled a lot.

A1 Niester

CHILLIWACK - CHILLIWACK - LONDON

This is one of the finest rock albums ever to come out of Canada. Admittedly that isn’t saying a hell of a lot just yet, but as a whole, this album has a professional poise and maturity that was lacking in any of the group’s previous recordings. (They then paraded under the name of The Collectors but the profound maturing process exhibited here makes the Collectors “seem a little silly”). Chilliwack is nowhere near as commercially orientated as the Guess Who, but they are more satisfying. They have mastered the art of creating mood, and the whole album is one of constantly shifting moods, both through the album as a whole (that is from song to song) and also within the songs themselves in some cases. “Sundown,” for instance, moves from a very mellow flute opening to a sprightly chorus, (a monster ‘45 with a little editing). “Rain=o,”^ one of the best and most complete songs ever put on wax, moves from very mellow to raving and then back to mellow again. Also, the lyrics are some of the most relevant and straightforward I’ve heard.

“In Vain In Vain, I Tell you we’re all the same cause there you stand, saying man its not for real cause we’re the ones who get to steal the show and I don’t know, I guess you’re right, but even so If there’s no audience there just ain’t no show, Rain-O, Rain-0 won’t you fall on me again”

That is something a lot of people, like McCartney fr’instance, damn well ought to remember. We made,we created, Me Cartney and the Beatles: made it so not one of them ever has to work again in their lives if they don’t want. They owed us at least a yearly tour, Paul owes us a show-yes he damn well owes, it to us. And if we had any sort of movement going here, we would boycott people like him. But that smacks of politics, doesn’t it, and why should we deprive ourselves the pleasure of putting out $5 for his albums. (Yes I know the whole damn idea is stupid and impossible, and we are all so young, but it is a nice idea, I think).

Anyway, Chilliwack is a band you should be hearing much of. Bill Henderson, (the strangest looking cat since Leon Russell) is a fine singer, and Claire Lawrence on flute and sax is extremely talented also. This is a damn fine album, and I am eagerly looking forward to the next one.

A C Nester

CARP - CARP - COLUMBIA

Out of the long rolling plains of Kansas there comes, along with other wonderful down home mannerisms, a rock group called Carp. Bom in the heartland of this nation, its music is a good example of a synthesis of Rock and Roll, Honkey-Tonk piano and back fourty corn. Its music resembles to a reasonable degree that of The Band, not so much as in imitation, but because both groups

have their roots deep in hillbilly blues country.

Formed by four students at 'Oklahoma State University four years back, this is the group’s first album. Comprised of an electric guitar, bass, piano and drums they generate music that is refreshing after some of the cliched and overdubbed fossils of country and western genre. With one exception, “The Great Kansas Hymn,” all of the music on the album is composed by their drummer Gary Bussey, who also sings lead. The lyrics are produced by different members of the band in* conjunction with Bussey.

Singly, then in pairs, and sometimes in a trio, the down-home quality of Carp is never felt more than in their vocalizing. The mainstay of most country-western music, the pedal-steel guitar is used on only two cuts, “Circuit Preacher Brown” and “There Goes the Band”.

Being their first album there are of course some rough edges. The inclusion of the electric blues song, “Mammoth Mountain Blues” adds little to the album except demonstrating that they can play blues with a good degree of technical proficiency like quite a few other people. The chorus in “He’s Cornin’ Back To Check On What You’ve Done” conjures up odd messianic images of Christ as some sort of Mr. Natural, which might make people in some quarters wince.

The majority of the songs possess a rather sorrowful devotional type of music coupled with some good guitar technique. Some dilletantes may laugh up their sleeves at the titles of these songs, but irregardless of any affected cynicism, the album is a pleasant enough change from the usual hick hype. There’s enough' here that one will not be pained by more than one listening; however there still is a great deal of area on the record that was not exploited to its fullest potential. All in all it is a pleasant, though not particularly outstanding change of pace from the mass of recordings this year.

Art Grupe

BRINSLEY SCHWARZ - CAPITAL ST-589

Brinsley Schwarz likes to harmonize. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they are another group riding the coat-tails of Crosby, Stills, et al. But as long as we’re on the subject of artistic sterility, I’d like to take this opportunity to say that because we live in the age of crotch bending bedroom screeches does not mean that if you sing pretty you’re some kind of faggoty eunuch. I’m here to tell you that you can sing pretty and still look up to Joe Namath. Listen, I’m so objective that I don’t mind telling you that I am proud to be the worst kind of chauvinist pig, a submissive honcho. I agree with anyone who manages to be vehement over anything. Not only that, I like Brinsley Schwarz. They sing ril smooth. Driftable to.

Personally, I think side two stinks. So stick to side one. (That’s an objective personal judgement.) Just remember, kid, you’re old enough to pick your own side of the record. Its not a tough decision, but you’ve got to start somewhere.

But wait, the critic changes his mind!(!!)

Thanks to my new stereo side two has broken through. The lead into the second track, “Mayfly,” has a transcendent meaning. Only now was I stoned enough to catch its universally enduring message. These new earphones are a godsend.

I still think Brinsley Schwarz is a dumb name for a group, though. Brinsley may have to live with it, but we don’t. Why don’t we just call them something else. Jacques Babeuf. It is revolutionary, afterall.

Jack Hafferkamp

JUICY LUCY - LIE BACK AND ENJOY IT -ATCO

FAT MATTRESS II - ATCO

Two more albums from a very confused English scene. (Did you know that each of the three former members of the Nice now has his own group. How nice.)

“Lie Back and Enjoy It” is an extremely apt title for this second Juicy Lucy album. Nothing especially new or original, just a very tight, very enjoyable album containing everything that is pure “today” in the bluesrock field. A little bit of Willie Dixon, a little bit of Delaney and Bonnie, a little bit of slide guitar, and a lot of Paul Williams, who is a very fine blues singer. The album shouldn’t rip your head off, but it won’t put you to sleep either, and it certainly won’t hurt you any.

As for “Fat Mattress II,” they were merely a backing group for Noel Redding, who merely backed up Jimi Hendrix. Now Jimi is gone, and so is Redding, as far as the group is concerned. So what’s left? Nothing, right? Right!

Hey, I see where Spooky Tooth is reforming. (Wake me when its over.)

Alan Nester

/ said goodbye, to my romanticism properly, publicly, pretentiously,

Not bidding a respectful farewell, with a nod in private.

A schizophrenic who hasn’t been fucked in five years, sits beside me.

A couple pretend certain things never happened, to continue talking.

“Another shell, please”

A girl with the misery of sophistication, blows smoke rings of dissipation, while, the experienced bartender, is familiar

with useless kindness.

It, is so much easier to part 'in company.

Donald Jennings