CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

by

Robert Christgau

After succumbing to the highly communicable Melancholia Goldstein Manus, known to we vulgar as the rock critic blues, for most of the latter part of 1972, I had felt that things were looking up. All those good black singles uplift the spirit, but imagine my dismay when I looked down Consumer Guide 34 or whatever it is and discovered two A records, which isn't bad — only to count the B plusses — also two, a new record, I'm sure, and maybe I'll start keeping them. There were six .300 hitters in the American League this year - Carew, Pinella, May, Allen, Rudi, Scheinblum - but number fifteen was the old National Leaguer, Vada Pinson, checking in at .275, and the league batted .239. I mean, there's nothing as awful as mediocrity — only one D record here, too. It’s enough to tempt a man to start picking on the little kids. Well, never fear, four of the first six for the next month are B plusses and, come to think of it, the fifth picked on a little kid. Also, I just wrote 2,000 words on the new Mott the Hoople album. Mott the Hoople: uAll the Young Dudes" (Columbia). The more I play this, the more I’m reminded of middle-period Stones up-to-date. A.

Rita Coolidge: “The Lady’s Not For Sale” (A&M). In which Our Lady of the Recording Studios sings “Fever” with all the heat (and none of the charm) of Keith singing “98.6.” C.

Mac Davis: “Baby Don’t Get Hooked On Me” (Columbia). I will resist the obvious one-liner (well, not entirely — it’s “Don’t worry, daddy-o”) to note that Davis has genuine credentials. He’s even composed with Delaney Bramlett. What happens to these down-home boys when they hit Hollywood must be even more gruesome than what they always complain happens to the down-home girls. D plus.

Family: “Bandstand” (UA). On the surface, this is even rawer and uglier than your average English hard rock. Roger Chapman has a freak voice that stands out in a music that is anything but short of freak voices; also, he is bald and has a pot and seems quite capable of throttling your mother with the mike-stand. But beneath it all, there is not only real class consciousness, but surprising lyric intelligence. Could be a little catchier, though. B plus.

Gary Glitter: “Glitter” (Bell). The hit - “Rock & Roll, Part II” - is reputed to be reggae, but I don’t understand why, unless reggae has been reduced to a catch-all for anything with a simple beat. As for the album, it’s easy to categorize — unreconstructed rock and roll revivalism of the most reactionary sort. Dumb. D plus.

The Grateful Dead: “Europe ’72” (Warner Bros.) My non-Dead-freak compeers want to put the quietus on this three-volume live collection, but even though the Dead are beginning to sound very complacent, I kind of like it. Sure, they indulge themselves — the whole “Morning Dew” side could be scratched, and the long version of “Truckin’ ” demonstrates conclusively that the song really doesn’t truck much — but the best stuff here (the ensemble playing on “Sugar Magnolia,” the lyric of “Ramble On Rose,” Garcia’s solo on “It Hurts Me Too,” etc.) is much better than laid-back good. In fact, it’s brilliant. And I like the way they sing. B plus.

Norman Greenbaum: “Petaluma” (Reprise). At last — a record about living in the country, instead of escaping to it. Who can complain about a singing goat farmer, even if dairying cuts into his music? Docked a notch for time: 25:13. B.

James Gang: “Passin’ Through” (ABC). OK, boys, just as long as you’re out of town by sundown. And leave your guitars with me. C. .

Waylon Jennings: “Ladies Love Outlaws” (RCA Victor). Waylon lets you know he has balls by singing as though someone is twisting them. C.

Laura Lee: “Love More Than Pride” (Chess). The title says it all — in her previous incarnation, the militant black woman was only a great voice in search of a gimmick, just like so many of her sisters. For some reason, two chart titles from 1967 (“Wanted: Lover, No Experience Necessary” and “Up Tight Good Man”) are not available on this repackage. If they were it would run 30 minutes, but as it is it’s docked a notch for time: 27:30. C plus.

Megan McDonough: “Megan Music” (Wooden Nickle/RCA). A male pianist co-wrote a few of these songs, presumably concentrating on the melodies, since the lyrics run the gamut from rock and bands to failed love affairs, most of them with rock and roll musicians. Maybe she should find another scene, but as a singersongwriter she doesn’t have much choice. Best line: “But babe I get lost takin’ off my sweater.” C.

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CONSUMER GUIDE

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Bette Midler: “The Divine Miss M” (Atlantic). I protected myself from anxiety tremors by expecting the worst of Bette’s recording debut. Perhaps consequently, I find myself overjoyed with it. People who’ve seen her like this more than people who haven’t, which isn’t good, but as someone who’s been entranced by her show half-a-dozen times I’m grateful for a production that suggests the nutty quality of her live performance without distracting me from her voice, which is what a recording is all about. It turns out to be a rich instrument of surprising precision, simultaneously delicate and vulgar. I’d ease up on the ’60’s nostalgia by replacing “Chapel of Love” with “Empty Bed Blues,” but that’s a cavil. A minus.

“Mom’s Apple Pie” (Brown Bag). At first I wanted to say that this was Finger-licking bad, but the ad campaign pre-empted that, and anyway it’s not (quite) that bad, bearing the same relationship to Chicago that Grand Funk Railroad does to Cream. Since Chicago’s problem is otiose filligree work, that’s a plus. So now I think this is thick as a brick crap table. C.

The Moody Blues: “Seventh Sojourn” (Threshold). This group once told a kindly interviewer that they would be honored to record an album with Montovani. I call him kindly because he repeated this only in private, but even though I’m feeling conciliatory — this isn’t as gloppy as their former future passed — I feel it is my duty to make the story a matter of public record. Maybe now they’ll do something as good as “Go Now.” C plus.

Osibisa: “Heads” (Decca). At its best, this London-based African and West Indian band does Afro-rock better than anyone. It’s hokey, of course — it’s so eclectic that it couldn’t very well be anything else — but at its impure purest it’s a spirited delight. If only they could cut down the “we are all brothers” stuff. That’s hokey, too, but it’s not so much fun. B.

The Osmonds: “Crazy Horses” (MGM). This is the Osmonds’ white album. Every tune is lovingly gimmicked up with its own hook. Since I’ve always liked their singles (especially “Yo-Yo”) I expected to like this album, but there’s something so forced about it that instead I can hardly stand to listen to it. I think it’s the vocal ensemble — oh for one of Donny’s Michael Jackson imitations. C.

Bonnie Raitt: “Give It Up” (Warner Bros.). At 22, Raitt has developed a mature, laid-'back style (shades of John Hurt and John Hammond, touches of Aretha Franklin and Bessie Smith) unique in its capacity for active warmth and intelligence, and comes up with the most consistently satisfying record by any female interpreter this year. But it’s too subtle for its own good, and ours. Even the most brilliant cuts (Chris Smither’s “Love Me Like A Man” and Sippie Wallace’s “You Got to Know How”) only grab those who are inclined to be grabbed. If she wanted to risk it, I bet she could reach further than that. A minus.

Lou Reed: “Transformer” (RCA Victor). All that’s left of the genuine power of a great singer-songwriter is his subtle intelligence and sometimes I’m not so sure about that. Effete, ingrown, stripped to its inessentials. First line of strongest song: “You’re

vicious, you hit me with a flower." C plus.

Johnny Rivers: “L.A. Reggae” (United Artists). Despite the modernization moves, (two lame get-out-thevote songs, something called “Memphis ’72,” and the somewhat mystifying reggae conceit) this is basically Rivers a-go-go, which is fine with me. His cover versions are always good reminiscing, and “Rockin' Pneumonia” and “Knock On Wood” are better than that. B.

Santana: “Caravanserai” (Columbia). I’m not quite sure I like this — some of the slower electronic stuff bores me, as such stuff always does — but I’m happy to report that it represents an honest and mostly successful experiment, away from the old Latino schlock towards multi-percussive Mahavislmu. B.

Barbra Streisand: “Live Concert at the Forum” (Columbia). She’s a great comedienne, but this isn't funny, just Barbra putting her pipes through their paces on a depressing variety of vapid songs and lighting a joint for George to show how cool she is. She isn’t — she’s just cold. C. minus.

Conway Twitty: “I Can’t Stop Loving You/(Lost Our Love) On Our Last Date” (Decca). Twitty has a journeyman’s talents, but sometimes slow and steady wins the race. After listening to his earnest, craftsmanlike rendition of “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” I put on Elvis’ live Las Vegas version. For the First minute, Elvis cut him cold without trying, but by the end he had gone sloppy. Twitty tends to finish as heartfelt as he starts. Some of this is pedestrian, naturally, but its solidity is gratifying. B.

©1972 Newsday, Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.