Without a doubt, the sixties belonged to the Beatles. They shaped its span of years, followed and maneuvered its trends, thrived and ultimately fell apart becoming the decade�s chief set of musical spokesmen. Like no others could before or after, they caught the spirit of the time at the height of every directional change, working with a versatility and pop intuition that never failed to give them the last (or more usually, the first) word; a unique collection of individuals, as you�ve surely heard many times before, perfectly suited to the role they had been chosen to fulfill, their shadow dominating all that we were and will become.

The four (two plus two) records that comprise The Beatles 1962-1966 and The Beatles 1967-1970 are, at long last, the group�s Greatest Hits, and despite prior misgivings generated by the speed at which these albums were gathered (thanks to some offthe-cuff bootlegging in the midwest), I must say that I�m pleasantly pleased by the efficiency and general good sense of the production. Far from the overblown graphic packaging that might have been expected, Apple has opted for the simple approach — clean, symmetrical layouts, as suitable for a Woolworth�s as an undercover record store; concise and readable lists of the included songs; lyrics tastefully hidden on the recording�s inner sleeves. It might�ve been nice to have a souvenir booklet included, replete with photographic momentos and other career memorabilia, but the Beatles were probably the most documented rock and roll band to walk the face of this globe and maybe it was thought here that enough was too much, save for a deluxe boxed set around Christmas . . .

No matter. The Beatles were never a group to let their music falter in the face of image, and this collation does its best to present them in their most appealing light. If the song selectibn seems curiously incomplete, attribute it to the fact that the Beatles not only recorded a prodigious amount of material, but that the greater bulk held up remarkably well during its commercial life. This is due in part to the tremendous variety of styles the group employed throughout their development, as well as a near-mystical ability to seldom, if ever, repeat themselves musically or lyrically. Their widespread crossover popularity also contributed, converting each new album into a dozen instantly familiar songs, well-destined for solid gold status. In a sense, every Beatles� track was a hit of some magnitude, and from there the determination of which could be called their best is only a matter of coin-toss.

As it is, Apples solves the problem by sticking to the tried and true formula of most numerically popular, meaning sales figures, or those cuts exactingly illustrative of some phase in the group�s biography. So you have most everything the Beatles put out in singles form, along with chosen album and movie bits that are usually composed of choicer selections. There are no clinkers, of course (in fact, I can think of only one or two songs in their whole repertoire that I find nigh-impossible to listen to), and the ones I particularly feel missing (George�s sublime �Do You Want to Know A Secret,� or �She�s A Woman� for instance) might not be yours. I would�ve liked to see �Rain,� now that we�re on the subject, perhaps in place of �Drive My Car.� Pick pick pick.

The albums are arranged chronologically, after a fashion, beginning with the boys� first nudge at the English charts (�Love Me Do�) and winding up amidst Paulie�s �The Long and Winding Road.� As said before, this set-up is both the albums� strong and weak point: the newsreel programming not only suffices to give an excellent reading of the group�s on-going progressions, but also shows ho>v inadequate the given eight sides are for such a task. Side one .on the first album, for instance, has to take you through a year and a half of the Fab Four�s earliest development, during which time they were striding over country after country in their. initial allencompassing wave. The seven-tune receivable taste can only leave you itchy for more. Things aren�t quite so hurried in the second pair of the set, when the band�s output allowed for a more obvious distinction between major and minor songs, but you still can receive the impression of being rushed from one climactic juncture to another.

Basically, the Beatles were a pop group. They had rock and roll roots, as all those venerable cover versions on their earlier albums will attest, but as they grew older, they apparently tried their conscientious best to avoid formula songs and reworked traditionals. Even the most basic material (up to the stringed invasion of �Yesterday�) shows that they were quite concerned with songwriting as such, with breaking boundaried ground rather than hashing over it again and again. Broken down into chords, their tunes were amazingly complex in comparison to most of the standard chart material, full of diminished�s and ninths, along with a particularly biting use of the seventh. The lyrics were elementary, yet never did they stoop to an obvious (unless intentional) or simply bad rhyme. Together, this combination of fresh music over carefully chosen words matched up perfectly, and the great accompanying compliment I can think of at this point is that never did the Beatles sound forced in what they were doing, never less than precise and very much in control.

This was equalled by a discipline in the recording studio and on their instruments which notched as nothing short of flawless. The, Beatles — all of them, even Ringo in his own way — were excellent singers, with voices immediately, moldable to the material at hand and instrumentally they were to have no peers until late in the decade. The Stones might�ve had the energy, the roots, the dirt and the elan, but the Beatles sought after and grasped perfection. George�s leads were almost mathematical in their unerring arrangement, Paul�s bass channeled the group like a tight shoe, John provided the rhythm drive; as for Ringo, leave it be said that the thunderous drumming on �Can�t Buy Me Love� should snare his place in the percussion hajl of fame for a long time to come.

The thing which is most surprising to me, though, is that despite all the predictions of an imminent onslaught by the Dave Clark Five (or other such pretenders), the Beatles kept up their mastery to the count of these nine encapsulated years. Throughout, they showed an ability at absorption and stylistic movement that made each step upward at once natural and a major breakthrough. In one swoop, they created the idea of the album-as-change, of progress being not unusual but expected. Elvis, after all, had only moved slightly in his years as king of the mount. But the Beatles� path arrowed ahead so quickly, so in tune with the times in which they dealt, that they in essence suffered no challenges to their dominance until long after they broke up, and even then it was doubtful that any could fully take their places. Only Dylan, as far as I can tell, worked within the same rapid-fire change of pace, and his movements were not only more abrupt but less conciliatory.

The particulars of the Beatles� growth can be found in the middle section of this set, on sides three and four of album one and the first two slabs of the second volume. There, moving from �Help� into pieces from Yesterday and Today and Rubber Soul (their best early album), you can literally hear the group stretch out and mature, find their stride, expand into it. Though the album has only one cut from Revolver (�Eleanor Rigby�) that record captured them directly at the end of their first phase, and when 1962-1966 closes off with �Yellow Submarine,� there is a semi-perceptible anticipatory quivering that seems to signal the entrance into their fullest and most final flowering.

As it did in real life, �Strawberry Fields Forever / Penny Lane� provides the physical link between Revolver and Sgt. Pepper, and when the goods of the latter begin to traipse across your needle in 1967-1970, let it be a sure sign that. the wrapping up is about to begin. Fragmentation steadily follows, the holy unity of the early Beatles making way for the individual statements increasingly made apparent after �Hey Jude.� By side four�s highlights of Abbey Road, the group slowly winds into its swan songs, still capable of extreme care and beauty (�Across the Universe�) but tired and looking for a way out nonetheless.

Unlike many steadfast fans and amidst continual rumors of a moptop reunion, I don�t especially mourn the passing of the Beatles. A good series of years is all one can expect in the best of circumstances, and in retrospect, I can�t see very many places they could�ve gone after the final choruses of Let It Be. Better short and sweet than a painfully protracted plummet, and if their passing is made even' more lamentable in the light of their subsequent solo careers . . well, we all knew the bubble had to burst sometime. Silver dollars over their eyes, a healthy belong to the ages. Or rather, 1962-1966 / 1967-1970, remaining a fine, essential and immeasurably important legacy.

Lenny Kaye

BECK, BOGART AND APPICE

(Epic)

Beck, Bogart and Appice are one crunching mother of a rock band.

Unfortunately, however, Beck, Bogart and Appice is one soggy dildo of a rock album.

Not living up to potential and expectations is nothing new in the world of rock music, of course. It is a curse that can affect every performing artist from the high-school hot-shots who finally cut their first single on Pucci-Disc to the absolute pinnacle of the rock hierarchy. As a matter of fact most of 1972 and a hefty portion of what is fast becoming known as 1973 is taken up by my being disappointed. Disappointment with music (indeed, with just about everything) is becoming such a way of life that the somewhat negative feeling of merely hot being disappointed is beginning to take on an aura of triumph.

Therefore, like so many good ideas gone sour, Beck, Bogart and Appice is a nice album in spots, hints at what the band is capable of, but ultimately fails because fully one-half of it is disappointing filler, sentimental crap or boring cock-tease.

What the entire album should have been is reflected in the second cut, �Lady.� Containing devastating poly-rhythmic drumming from Appice, captivating time-changes and remarkable Cream-like harmonizing, it is without doubt the high point of the entire album and the only cut on all of side one worth returning to. The rest of the side is taken up by a medium paced nod out that reeks slightly of J. Winter called �Black Cat Moan�; one of the band�s .disastrous attempts at seducto-rock, a wimpy dreg called �Oh ToLove You�; and an interesting but questionable remake of Stevie Wonder�s �Superstition.� There�s lots of experimentation in side one with varying styles and such, but unfortunately none of it makes much sense.

Side two hangs together a little better. It begins horribly enough with another of the band�s concessions to suck music, this one entitled �Sweet, Sweet Surrender.� It bears no resemblance either in melody or class to the Bread composition of nearly the same name, and its.inclusion points out as well as any other one of the major failings of the band - the absence of a forceful or even passably convincing lead throat. The final three songs on the side make up for the best patch of continual listening, containing a great power-trio Grand Funky number called �Losin� Myself with You,� a Beck virtuoso piece called �Livin Alone� (at which point we may claim Beck Superstar is cast in his most technically brilliant light), and ending up with a beautiful rendition of Curtis Mayfield�s �I�m So Proud� to finish off the side.

It�s a passable enough album for the most part, but shit, I�m a great fan of Beck�s, and maybe that�s why I�m kind of pissed off with the thing. I mean, I have this old, dog-eared, torn paper poster of Beck (from an old copy of Sounds, an English paper) taped to my wall to which I sacrifice a neighborhood child every full moon. And Rough and Ready is one of my three favorite albums of all time, §o it�s natural that I expected a hell of a lot more.

But then again, my old man always wanted me to be a dentist, too.

Alan Niester

" T-REX

Tanx

(Reprise)

Song for song, this might be Marc Bolan�s strongest album. Certainly, it�s the most varied, and the most musical. One instinctively looks for the lyric sheet one expects to find with any Bolan record, since as a writer Bolan�s lyrics have always been as important as, if not dominant to, the music. But there ain�t no lyric sheet and that, I think, is the point of Tanx. It�s the real T-Rex non-verbal boogie album.' \ .

The problem here is that it�s not realLy, enough for Bolan to make a good album, even an album as funky as Tanx. Because of the demands of his pose, his aggressive, even competitive star drive, we�ve been conditioned to assume that the next single, the next� tour, the next album, is all Bolan needs to push T-Rex over the top into American pop-cult adoration land.

The fact is, you�ll never find Star Magazine type girls and boys bopping in packs, wearing platform shoes and Marc Bolan t-shirts in Des Moines, or Cincinnati, or Los Angeles or New York. In England the minis who wet their pants at T-Rex concerts could well do the same for Donny Osmond, or Slade, or maybe even Jethro Tull.

In other words, the T-Rex culture seems to fit precisely into that transitory stage, between Donny Osmond and Noddy Holder. Americans are either diddlybops or sport rats. The Tull-Yes crowd think Bolan�s for babies, and the Osmond-Jackson-Sherman axis thinks he�s too much of an intellectual. When T-Rex tours America, it�s usually forty days in the chasm. �Bang-A-Gong� was a hit because it remained specific, and sounded accidental. �Telegram Sam� sounded just like it, but it tried too hard. Since then it�s been nowhere in the U.S.A.

There�s thirteen songs on Tanx. Most of them are strong, structured like singles, even if there aren�t any AM hits here. Structurally, there are few surprises, since Bolan is probably the most accomplished anti-eclectic in rock today. But there�s substantially more variety than one might expect, thanks to Tony Visconti�s production, which uses lots of saxophones, pianos, and voices to build color on the sometimes bland Bolan base.

Interesting moments include �Shock Rock,� with its typically catty, jealous message to fellow stars: �If you knQW how to rock, you don�t have to shock.� There�s also the usual interesting collection of Bolan�s internal East Side Kids and alter egos, like �Electric Slim & the Factory Hen� (chickenrock?), �Mad Donna,� �Mister Mister,� and �Left Hand Luke and the Beggar Boys,� which is Bolan�s most,direct step into Garnet Mimms and the Enchanters stuff.

Lucky for him, Marc Bolan makes good albums, even if he doesn�t have the slightest idea of what American hit singles are supposed to sound like. Tanx is far more immediately accessible than The Slider and more consistent than Electric Warrior. I just wish he�d get away from the mirror, and really learn how to rock. Before Little Jimmy Osmond busts his jaw.

Wayne Robins

FLO & EDDIE

(Reprise)

I first met Mark Voln.an (he�s Flo the fatso with the flamingo helmet) whilst attending a ludicrously oversolemn and undercatered press party for Frank Zappa�s 200 Motels. Several hundred rock kritix and assorted sponges were crammed into somebody�s murky loft in the Village, and when you came in the door you were handed a multipage mimeograph marshmallow where Zappa had the effrontery to ask himself and answer questions about the fine technical points of his latest masterpiece. Then he held court downstairs in case any of us wanted to probe any deeper. The whole thing was incredibly supercilious, but CREEM�s publisher Barry Kramer egged us in the direction of the basement for some Zappappeasment I could never quite rationalise. So I grabbed a bottle of wine and went down there and sat at the asshole�s feet, when who should I find myself next to but Mark Volman. �Hey!� I said. �You useta be in the Turtles!�

�Yeah!�

�You remember that record you guys had, �Grim Reaper of Love?� That was the best thing you ever did!�

�I know it! Those were the great days of psychedelia!�

�Yeah, remember the Seeds?�

�Yeah! Remember the Leaves?!...� It went on like that for awhile, both of us hollering swapped trivia from the LA heydaze at the top of our lungs. It totally blew Zappa out and ripped off his press conference, and pretty soon he got up and stalked out. Did we give a shit? No, just like Mark and Howard (Eddie) couldn�t give enough of a shit about Zappa to put up with him. They were out for a good time, so they skedaddled his concentration camp and transmogged into Mo & Eddie.

A boon like poon, too, cuz this is the second Flo & Eddie album and it�s brilliant. It�s not just that these guys have a great sense of humor, although they do. But they avoid all that queasy camp shit that mired even the Bonzo Dog Band. It�s American humor above all, even when they�re doing songs by Ray Davies and the Faces, and funnynosed furrin.ers can eat it. What�s more, they�re still writing great original songs just like they useta in the Turtles, and their new album has a scintillating production by Bob Ezrin that�s just gotta be one of the best of the year from the greatest producer around.

I�m not gonna go down the list of trax one by one; they�re all great and the album never palls. But both �Carlos and De Bull� and �The Zanzini Brothers� are great comic vignettes that kick ass on the Firesign Theatre, one about bullfight throwing and the other buttfucking. �Afterglow� and �Best Part of Breaking Up� will squish tears from your aortic bivalve. �Another Star�s Life� is thorny rampant with screams, Alice Cooperian deft mallets, and the best ain�trockbiz-awful fantasy since the Byrds� �So You Wanna Be A Rock �n� Roll Star.� The album�s real epic is �Marmendy Mill,� a truly dazzling production number that�s almost Hollywood bold in a Summer of �42 sort of way; just that corny, but it manages to pull off the potentially sticky wicket of childhood reminiscence fantasy with grace to spare, even saving lines like �I�ve got electrified wire/ I�ll set your keester on fire.� It�s kinda like taking all the old Lassie and Ozzie & Harriet and Leave It To Beaver reruns and crunching �em down and shooting �em up. The whole album is as fine a splat of solid mainstream rock as we�re gonna get this year, and I urge you with brickbats to pick it up, because these guys deserve to be stars!

Lester Bangs

FACES-

Ooh La La

(Warners)

Sometime Rod Stewart or the Faces (or both) should make a record that is enjoyable without being enervating. The effect of each of their records is at first disappointing, then frustrating, and finally (and sometimes inexplicably) exhilirating. So it is with Ooh La La.

This is an unarguably two sided (hard/ soft) record. There are few truly bad songs (aside from the instrumental which opens side two, which is a truly gargantuan bummer), there are no surprises (aside from two Ron Wood vocals) and there are almost no moments when the band strikes with either the flash of its lyric insight or the power of its music. The Faces are capable of pop profundity and dazzling musical flourish, and each of their previous albums has had at least a couple examples of each. But Ooh La La plays it safe: the music is, for the most part, formulaic, and the lyrics seem fragmented, as though they weren�t completed before being set down.

Ooh La La is, I suppose, a very consistent record. The songs grow with repeated listenings and there are three or four fine ones, each marred by some error — sometimes of omission, as with the title cut, which is haunting but so low-key it is almost invisible; sometimes through some lapse of taste, as with �Silicone Grown,� which is a dumb tit joke at best.

The music on the hard side grows from two sources, Dylan�s middle period (the rock stuff) and Chuck Berry. The album�s �hit,� �Cindy (Incidentally)� is �Memphis� filtered through the rhythms and phrasing of �I Don�t Believe You.� �Cindy� is an enigmatic song, so much so that I wonder if a verse hasn�t been left on the cutting room floor.

�My Fault� is another good one, homespun philosophy that — as with �Ooh La La� — really works. Some of the best lyrics on this album remind me of minor Smokey Robinson songs, the banal rendered profound through ... who knows? Alchemy? �Ooh La La,� the song, is the epitaph for Ooh La La, the album: �I wish that what I know now, I knew when I was younger, when I was stronger.� Unless, perhaps, the epitaph is �People don�t change overnight. It ain�t nat�rl.�

I�d say Ooh La La disappointed me' if I hadn�t listened to it more than I ever thought I would when it first arrived. This is still a frustrating record, made by a band that refuses to cut loose, but there is something valuable about it.

If you are interested in this month�s great record, the one that will be reviewed and broadcast, filed and forgotten, this isn�t it. Nor is it a classic. But Ooh La La, like the band which made it, is solid, expansive — it grows on you. Rather like the strapless bra to which the Faces may someday write an ode, this group - and this record - is stronger and better constructed than appearances indicate.

Dave Marsh

-SIR DOUGLAS QUTNTt I-

Rough Edges

(Mercury)

The first night after I got Rough Edges and played it 17 times I had a dream: I was wandering down in San Antone on a hot and dusty night. Strolling along the riverbank I became entranced by a vaguely familiar ditditditditditdittadit swaying rhythm. Pursuing the droning atonations, l realized those ditdit�s weren�t cosmic radio waves but were emanating from a Farfisa organ in a state of levitation. Matter of fact it was Augie Meyer�s Farfisa, with Augie himself pumping its keys. Then a white flash bust forth and suddenly the whole Quintet appeared. Yes, Doug, Frank, John and Harvey were there. So was Bongo Joe, another S.A. musical legend, but that�s another dream in itself. Doug talked alot, then struck up the band. He said, �Joe, Nick come on up and hit a few on the harp!� Frankie said it was o.k., too. And never being one to disappoint a musician I WAILED AWAY WITH THE SIR DOUGLAS QUINTET! Sure as shit beats reality but that�s o.k., too, cause there was/is no better band in Texas or the world than the SDQ.

Mind you the above statement doesn�t come easy after Doug�s much-hyped and ill-fated Atlantic sessions were schmaltzed up by those New York schmuckoids whose idea of soul is the bottom of a shoe. But it�s no use crying over warped vinyl. Teaming Doug up with Dylan the Myth made him a star. And Mercury had the greed and foresight to cash inon on Doug Sahm�s Bonanza. They drug out some SDQ tapes circa 1968-69 and voila! it�s music enough to make me walk a mile for a Big Red. The words and music are as soulful as ever. A Doug Sahm tune in three minutes surpasses the complete works of Sartre, Mao and Stan Lee combined. Try �Spearfish By Night�s� refrain:

Don�t care how many dues you paid or how many girls you made, What have you given to the world?

True music for thought. Blows the existential myth to dits. But don�t get spooked; on the whole, Doug�s no rank intellectual:

She�s a dynamite woman never gonna let her go She�s a dynamite woman and I love her so.

Doug Sahm�s merely a Buddy Holly reincarnate of the sixties and seventies. But just as Buddy needed the Crickets, Doug needs the Quintet. All are important, but the two most dominant sounds of Rough Edges belong to Augie Meyer and Frank Morin. Doug�s last solo album sorely lacked the pulsating Farfisa rhythms. The Augie Meyer sound remains as obscure as the Tyler sound (Mouse recorded �Public Execution� there. So did John and Robin.) That organ is strong enough stuff to satisfy even Linda Lovelace, ? and the Mysterians, Ohio Express and every house band in Juarez have borrowed heavily from Augie�s frantic keyboard kinetiks. Frankie toots his harp with 83% more conviction than B. Dylan ever did. He particularly shines on �Sir Doug�s Recording Trip,� an autobiographical saga, and �Too Many Docile Minds.�

The high points are everywhere. Ain�t a bad cut on this mutha. But especially look out for Doug�s fiddling on Huey Meaux� Kajun Klassic, �Colinda,� and his perfecto Ray Sharpe vocal imitation on the first verse of Forth Worth�s �Linda Lou,� which ranks with �Hey Baby� by Bruce Chanel as the top o� the crop in Cowtown. The four minute jam on �Doin It Too Hard� shouts what the Grateful Dead couldn�t mumble in 20 with �Dark Star.�

It all amounts to the smoothest Sir Douglas Quintet disc ever assembled. A dash of blues, pinch of Texas swing, C&W, Chicano soul (con salsa) all mixed into Texas Rock & Roll. This number marks the last of the great Quintet that emerged from Texas with roots intact. Fame brings changes and change ended the SDQ. Harvey�s probably lurking in some bar and John maybe works in a headshop somewhere in South San Antone, but as long as the grooves last, I�ll be grooving with my rockin soul next to that great big Farfisa in the Sky.

Joe Nick Patoski

PROCOL HARUM

Grand Hotel

(Chrysalis)

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is difficult to understand. They impale the garnishes in their drinks with special platinum martini olive spears, and fill their ample leisure time with frivolous, but engrossing activities such as lepidoptery or tarheel hunting. They emulate, in a way that spreads unjustified glory on their kind, the customs of the poor, while simultaneously mocking through their very attentions the conditions of the socially deprived.

Their presumptions know no bounds. While perfectly aware that their kind lacks all creative energy, they feel no compunction about robbing others of that very grace and drive that the rich are without, and then impose their standards of art on those whom they have stolen from. A good example is the way that they have appropriated the power and raw energy of proletarian rock and roll.. . Yes, that very same Life Music that was adapted by suburban youth from the blacks has gone the way of other cultural trends: into the providence of the capricious rich, for reasons that can only be breathlessly guessed at.

To a casual observer, Procol Harum would appear to be another rock and roll group. But their class biases, the secondary levels of associations that they layer onto their music brands them unmistakably as rich man�s rock and roll, which is to say, no rock and roll at all.

Grand Hotel shouldn�t become a gold record. It should be pressed as one and sold only through the mails from Neiman Marcus in Dallas and only to those whose names are in the social register. To aim this album to the broad rock market is to clearly miss its audience. The lush orchestrations which so often bury the fine lead guitar, and shackle the songs under mountains of glitter and plush won�t be appreciated by middle class kids. It�s too foreign to people used to economy-minded boogie music.

Which is not to say that there isn�t anything in Grand Hotel to admire. The rich want nothing if not quality, and if a little softening at the core has to be withstood, there are still some scrumtious crumbs on the edges to enjoy. �Bringing Home the Bacon� (what a droll title) and �For Licorice John� on side two are good melodramatic songs in the old fashioned Procol Harum style. �Toujours L�amour� on side one has one of the few moments where Mick Grabham�s guitar is allowed to shine, if only for a riff or two.

Otherwise, the potential power of Procol Harum remains locked up in the duo of Gary Brooker and Keith Reid. Brooker is a fine songwriter and musician, and is also able to sing very well. Reid is the spectral figure who is reputed to write the lyrics. When they join in the compositional conspiracies they tend to bind the group into a rarefied plane, hobbling its rocking potentials. The in-jokes and nuances get to be too much and the audience often wishes that they would drop the Byronic pose and just GET DOWN! But each album just gets thicker with schlag and Procol Harum becomes more and more what they always had suggested: elitism personified.

Robbo Houghton

GLADYS KNIGHT AND THE PIPS

Neither One of Us

(Soul/Motown)

The latest effort by Gladys Knight and the Pips isn�t likely to cause much of a response from critics and promotion men who have just exhausted their grey matter interpreting Aretha�s return to her gospel roots. Knight�s no rising star, so her copy�s liable to sound a little staid alongside the likes of an Ann Peebles or a Valerie Simpson. She�s not a late-blooming jazz singer (Diana Ross), a movie star (likewise), or a spokesperson for women�s lib (Laura Lee). Obviously, she�s not really a man (Sylvester). She�s merely a magnificent workhorse of a singer. How you gonna get a flashy lead out of that?

But — in the language of bullets and red stars that is spoken in the trades - Gladys and the Pips in their twelfth year of recording together are once again on the tip of everyone�s tongue. Neither One of Us, the album and the single, are hits.

The album�s essentially a corporate pasteup job, the work of five different producers or production teams, none of them slouches. It�s the last record for Motown (why is it such a pity to repeat that phrase? And is the question just a purist�s complaint?) The Pips� earliest records for the label were undisguised R&B, strikingly suited to the group previously known for �Letter Full of Tears� and �Every Beat of My Heart.� But, as is their wont, successful companies often aim for much more than excellence. And, just as predictably, we wind up with much less (totally foreign-sounding versions of �The Look of Love� and �Valley of the Dolls� and, with the change of consciousness, �Everybody is a Star� and �Fire and Rain�). At the same time, though, came the perfection of a style modelled after those first, pristine songs (�If I Were Your Woman,� �It Takes A Whole Lotta Man for a Woman Like Me�). Knight became the most popular, most accomplished blues singer Motown had going.

Fortunately, Neither One of Us leans heavily to the latter state of affairs. It adheres strongly to the blues in form and feeling, and the arrangements, though they�re scarcely cloaked in simplicity, expand from the songs; they�re not just tacked on to them. There is little need to overachieve with material like the title cut: from the instant Gladys sings �It�s sad to think we�re not gonna make it,� the tone is set, you�re caught, supsended. I heard �My Girl� in the car the other day and the same kind of satisfying magic applies. What she does to you as she moves lucidly through the emotion of resignation and its special kind of despair, building to the final rush of release, is practically indescribable. �Who Is She (And What Is She To You)� similarly weds the arrangement to the song�s intent: the jarring basswork and percussion echo Knight�s contempt. The Pips slip into one of their most effective collective persona, that of an ongoing, organic encouragement to the lead.

Most of the other cuts, while not quite hitting these high points, serve just as fluently. The traditional �It�s Gotth Be That Way,� �Daddy Could Swear, I Declare� and �Don�t It Make You Feel Guilty,� a sort of streetcorner sermon, may be the product of several different sensibilities grasping for that last straw. But the genius of Gladys Knight and the Pips pulls it all together. It�s evident some people up in the front office regard them as a second-line act (like Martha Reeves and the Four Tops). Maybe not. That�s a shortsighted attitude toward pne of the best groups ever to record and flower under their banner. Meantime, hit-and-miss and all, this is a damn fine album. As that sour purist might put it, Sorry, Motown, you�re stuck with it.

Mark Vining

MAHAVISHNU ORCHESTRA

Birds of Fire

(Columbia)

Passing over the devotional aspects of this music (McLaughlin�s muse) and the packaging, which is easy, this is a not very spectacular album with some highlights (mostly during the ensemble playing) and some lowlights (mostly during McLaughlin�s deja-vu guitar solos). What old Mahavishnu (John McLaughlin�s religious alias) needs is more contrast up front to play with, and against, than just Jerry Goodman�s violin. A fine violinist, but by the time you�re well into the first side he sounds like a third fingerboard on McLaughlin�s guitar. He already has two, you see.

This is very much McLaughlin�s orchestra (actually a quintet). A bit too much. Even Miles Davis, who certainlly dominates his own albums when he�s playing, always allows the individual characteristics of his co-players� talent and imagination to develop to the fullest extent possible in a group context. Nothing like that here. This is the fatal limit in the orchestra�s conception, a limit which gives the record the overall feeling of a dead end. While it�s pleasant enough to listen to, with a few minutes of actual excitement when idea 'and execution form a worthy mesh, it�s too easily assimilated by the listener (this listener, anyway) to prod, provoke, excite, amuse or raise any questions except �Okay, what else can you do?�

And then there are times when the record is plain silly. The title �Celestial Terrestrial Commuters� can be forgiven because the song has a loony sci-fi melody and a brief fuzzy guitar bit that�s a nice change of pace. But �Sapphire Bullets of Pure Love� is 21 seconds of Moog and Strange Sounds and I have the nagging feeling it isn�t a put-on because the image McLaughlin projects is so very sincere. And if it isn�t, then this whole �We�re off to visit the Godhead� stance of McLaughlin�s becomes, at moments like this .. . silly. (Silly but sincere. It�s hard to kick a man when he�s down on his knees praying.)

The final impression is that this group is vastly overrated, has explored its possibilities to the point of repetition, or has to be heard in person. Take your choice.

Richard C. Walls

TRACY NELSON AND

MOTHER EARTH

Poor Man's Paradise

(Columbia)

When is Tracy Nelson going to become a goddess? It�s taking people an unconscionably long time to accept and embrace the obvious. Miss M may be divine, but her voice isn�t and to find a white woman who is as fine a singer as Tracy you have tq turn to Barbara Streisand, Liza Minelli, Tammy Wynette, or Dusty Springfield, vocalists whose music is so different from Tracy�s that comparison is meaningless. Tracy�s only real competition is dead and gone, yet even if Janis,were still alive, Tracy would win hands down. Because Tracy has power. Janis never did, which is why she had to work so hard, trying to conceal its absence behind a frenzied, pathetic theatricality. But soul is more than sweaty excitation. All Tracy has to do is open her mouth — no tricks, no gimmicks .— and there it is: one of the deepest, strongest, richest voices to be heard. (By the way, don�t be fooled by the mere slip of a girl who poses on the album covers. The real Tracy Nelson weighs 240 pounds. You have to weigh that much to support a voice like hers.) Listening to Janis often made one agitated; she was so uneasy and uncertain. Listening to Tracy is both exalting — she is a goddess - and soothing -because she has the serenity that comes with power and the ability to control it.

Exalting and soothing? That sounds like gospel, and yes, whatever Tracy sings comes out gospel. The same fervent earnestness and stately simplicity, a bedrock dignity. And although Tracy�s voice can express endless sorrow, behind it always is a consoling confidence and faith, utterly secular, but not that different in effect from gospel. Tracy, no matter how down she may be, is always ultimately uplifting.'

If anything has held Tracy back, it�s been her band, which despite any number of personnel changes has been consistently dull. And sure enough, whenever a guitar or keyboard break comes along, this record flags. The horns and rhythm section could be snappier too. Maybe Tracy and her manager/ producer Travis Rivers just don�t know how to whip a band into cooking shape, nor how to record it properly. An outside producer might turn the trick.

But this is a minor cavil, which in no way makes Poor Man�s Paradise less than a very good record. For as if Tracy�s voice weren�t enough, the material is splendid and varied, running the gamut from blues to rock to pop, yet all converted by Tracy to gospel. Willie Dixon�s �Whatever I Am, You Made Me� is a sassy, up tempo urban blues demanding so much brass (brazenness, not horns) that few white singers could pull it off without sounding ludicrous. But coming from tough Tracy it�s completely credible. On the other hand, David Buskin�s �When I Need You Most of All,� on its way to becoming a pop standard, seems too innocuous to be affecting. Tracy, however, gives it an emotional depth which makes it another song entirely.

The two other outstanding cuts on the album were penned by Jack Lee, who, whatever his shortcomings as a guitarist, ought to be retained in the band for his writing abilities alone. �Jack�s Waltz� may be a love song, but it has all the moving grandeur of an old spiritual. And �Going Back to Tennessee,� well, this is the track that should sell you on the album, and it ought to be a single. It�s a joyous, surging rocker, all the more overpowering because Tracy rides it almost effortlessly. Like a goddess.

Ken Emerson

SHA NA NA

The Golden Age of Rock 'n' Roll

(Kama Sutra)

RUBEN & THE JETS

For Real ,

(Mercury)

NRBQ

Workshop

(Kama Sutra)

MISTAH TOUGH GUY on Rock Revival, 1973 grease, and the oft-committed scent of emission (or with friends like these who needs enemas?): Good oP rock �n� roll, in the person, of course, of a gorgeous nippleridden blonde (wit a ponytail) has been rendered unconscious, drownin� in a sea of Pab. A host of dandy admirers rush to the rescue. They have not, however, been instructed in the fine art of mouth-to-mouth recapitulation; so, instead of imparting the breath of life, they simply, as is their wont anyway, merely tongue her roundly, achieving a certain amount of self-satisfaction, but leaving her (good ol� rock �n� roll) cold and with a bad case of hepatitis to boot.

Sha Na Na have a new album. You ve heard Sha Na Na. Here they�re doin� mostly live versions of the same boogers they�ve been pickin� for the past few years. The only time they really screw up badly is when they try to do rock-a-billy. When they stick to group sounds and crud (�roll� music) they�re nifty enough, �cept when they try to play it too darn fast and change the beauty of the melody (reference �Get A Job�). You�ve heard Sha Na Na. OLD MIST AH SOFTIE sez the Golden Age of Rock �n� Roll is a myth just like the Golden Age of Television is: Good 01� Rock �n� Roll, in fact, always was havin� a periodic attack of zits and was, indeed, at best a slut* (*�slut� is a �50s term, from the Latin sluthomo, meaning, literally, �Best friend of man.�)

Remember when that moment of realization finally hit you that you were hipper than Frank Zappa? One of the great moments it was, in becoming the super rock and roll punk you now are. For Real, unlike the first Jets album, is pretty close to the real thing in 50�s group sounds, but it does have that particular strained Zappa version of the goo, like on some of the other Mothers� albums. Again, if you really like this sort of thing, you like it, and there ain�t nuthin� I can do for you. One thing, though, I will mention, the Joan Baez �some old cavalry� syndrome: �Almost Grown� and �Dedicated To the One I Love� are the references here.

The only reason NRBQ are grouped with these other turds and turks is for balance. Workshop is NRBQ reaching the better direction they were heading in with Scraps. The only other gfcoup really comparable is fantastic Brinsley Schwarz. Together, NRBQ and BS evoke the spirit and jollies of mid-60�s rock far more effectively and delightfully than do the current critical causes, Raspberries, Stories and, sigh, Fanny. They are mood elevators and, be warned, they are addictive. I only hype when either I need the money or I�m genuinely enthusiastic; I always need the money but this time I am genuinely enthusiastic too. NRBQ are actually better than the mid-60�s Beatles were, whatever that means; they do a Fogerty-cutting proper version of �Flearts of Stone,� wreck Sir Doug and friend on �Blues Stay Away From Me,� have the nerve to wax twelve singles (just that good) prospectives on one outting and are fun all the way through. Listen, when�s the last time you really had FUN. Well, I tell you what: If you buy this record and you feel that �Get That Gasoline Blues,� alone, doesn�t justify your purchase, you do this. Write me, Buck Sanders, c/o CREEM, Michigan, U.S.A., and I promise to personally let ypu know what a dumbass creep you really are. This offer void where prohibited.

Buck Sanders

TEMPTATIONS

Masterpiece

(Gordy)

It is 1978, and for the first time in half a decade, three consecutive Alice Cooper singles fail to reach the top fifty. Burbank has millions invested in their multi-dollar babies, so an emergency executive meeting is called. Shep Gordon, Alice�s manager, is made a vice-president and given a considerable amount of Kinney stock. Then they fire' Alice.

Actually, Alice quits, but he�s still under contract as a solo artist. His first solo LP is a collection of Anne Murray songs, produced by Joe Smith�s nephew Moose Haberman. Glenn Buxton is made lead singer of the Alice Cooper Group, which is still called Alice Cooper. It doesn�t work out, and Glenn quits, but he�s still under contract, too. He does a solo album, which is canned. Then he joins the Association.

Eventually every one of the original members of Alice Cooper are replaced by five black androids, programmed to say �yassuh.� Their first album sells 750,000 copies, with two million selling singles as spin-offs. From then on, the hits keep coming, the number one singles and albums flow as if pre-selected by a computer. For a break in the action, their record company decides to release a two-sided oldies-but-goodies single. One side is a remake of �I�m 18.� The other side is �Papa Was A Rolling Stone.� A new generation of rock fans make it record of the year (1979), and producer Norman Whitfield accepts the Grammy on behalf of his group, Alice Cooper�s Temptation.

Sound a little far-fetched? For Alice Cooper, maybe. For the Temptations, it�s top late for fantasy. Of all the golden age Motown groups, the Tempts probably had the widest and deepest mass following. Blond white cheerleaders may never have heard the phrase �rhythm �n� blues,� but the ones I knew had all the Temptations� choreographed dance routines down flat. Crew-cut frat jocks might just as soon cracked some coon�s skull with a tire iron, but come the Saturday night beer blast, the album that kept the adrenalin running like an open keg was The Temptations Greatest Hits.

Where are the Tempts now? Not on this album. Eddie Kendricks and David Ruffin, the one-two lead voices of the golden era, have been floundering for years in Motown�s barber college, getting the worst material and novice productions on their erratic releases. The other three have gone their way, and what�s left now is the five androids, whose names are not mentioned on Masterpiece (though even the studio musicians are credited) and producer Norman Whitfield.

Whitfield�s possessed of a substantial conceptual brilliance when he�s on', he�s a producer�s producer unmatched in technical versatility and mechanical ability in the studio. In other words, one can hate �Papa Was A Rolling Stone� or �Masterpiece,� but love Whitfield�s production. He�s the ultimate personification of form over content (in black music, anyway) and parts of this album work because of Paul Riser�s equally brilliant arrangements. Most of it, however, sucks.

Just try on �Hurry Tomorrow,� which opens with black street jive talk, fading into delayed echo, as the mournful lead vocal comes in: �Melting colors that paint a picture of a new day in my mind/ That I can�t find at the present time.� What the world needs now is Norman Whitfield�s impersonation of an acid trip — the perfect follow-up to Martha & the Vandellas �Psychedelic Lollipop.�

What does this have to do with �The girl�s all right with me/ You know the girl�s , all right!� Nothing, of course, except the name of the group. And that�s my objection. Whitfield can do whatever he pleases, and if chart action is any indication, then what Whitfield does pleases a lot of people. But the name Temptations should be retired, and further releases should be named after the man responsible for them. The Norman Whitfield Experience might be a good place to start, and if he gets tired of that, there�s always Mau Mau�s Apple Pie.

Wayne Robins

RORY GALLAGHER

Blueprint

(Polydor)

Whatta name, huh? Rory Gallagher. Almost sounds like the streetsaint kid boxer in all those countless sleaze epics of the past couple decades, punchy before his prime, who loses his mouthpiece in a shower of sweat and teeth halfway through the fight to a terrific left hook from some gorillo-hulk, proceeds to eat fist round after round ad nauseam until the gore is like Niagara pouring down his busted mug and is decked out so many times and drags himself up so many times (Look! That�s Peg out there, ain�t it?) ya begin to wonder is this a ring or a time-warp trampoline vacillating between methedrine and molasses mentalities? The guy that used to play Dobie Gillis� old man is hysterical in the corner; he�s on the verge of tears in his three-sizes too-small sweatshirt with �The Kid� on the back in bowling alley embroidery and screaming at the Kid to go down, go down and stay down and don�t try to be no friggin� hero �cause yer gonna get killed for sure, but the Kid doesn�t even see him, let alone hear him, all he knows is that somewhere out there is Peg, he�s gonna do it all for Peg, God love her, and somehow he comes alive, he�s swinging wildly, insanely, fighting on sheer will and heavy-duty Hollywood guts, spittle and blood flying through the air like spilled minestrone, staggering like a tightrope artist on a sopor jag, miraculously keeping his balance, actually landing some desperate punches now, yes, a big right cross, another oner a left, another left! A combination! An uppercut rocks the champ against the ropes, a left, a right, another right to the solar plexus! Jeezus!! The champ is hurt! The Kid looks out into the crowd, exhausted but exultant, knowing that the Big Punch is still there .. . but Peg is gone (quick burst of super-realization-of-how-fucked-up-everything-is type of music). Well, the champ shakes off his daze and ends up chopping the living shit outta the Kid who ends up looking like a damp Kleenex somebody had a bloody nose on in the middle of the ring.

Rory Gallagher is not a chump, not yet, but another album as depressingly. anticreative as Blueprint and it�ll be time to hang up the gloves for good. How he could have fronted such a progressive group as Taste (who did material at least four or five years back that could stand up easy right now) and decide to devote himself to de blooze again mama seems a hell of a waste of his considerable talents as a rock�n�roll instrumentalist (there never was a voice)/songwriter. Glamrock or sham-rock, when a fave rave is going down the tubes it�s a throb in the wrong place.

Dann DeWitt

FANNY

Mother's Pride

(Reprise)

Germaine Greer once observed that what the Women�s Lib movement needed most was a distaff band that �could lay down a really heavy riff.� Now regardless of whether or not you agree with that statement (about which more later) I am saddened to report that only the most cant-ridden Female Chauvinist could make such claims for Fanny and her All Girl Orchestra, at least on the basis of this latest collection of hot numbers. Saddened because there were moments on some of their other albums when they came reasonably close; stuff like �Charity Ball� and �Ain�t That Peculiar� may not have had the capacity to destroy minds, but they were at least solid, enjoyable rock and roll, played with real spunk. But Mother�s Pride is pretty much of a dud, despite (or maybe because of) producer Todd Rundgren�s feverish attempt at making the whole thing sound as much like Abbey Road as possible. Somebody (I forget who) once said that if Fanny were men they�d be playing in bars, and this is the album that definitively proves the truth of that. Of course, there are plenty of musical macho types that have achieved vinyl immortality these days who should be playing in bars also, but that ain�t much of a consolation.

Anyway, given that the vast bulk of the record buying public is comprised of women (you don�t think adolescent boys are shelling out dough for Donny Osmond, do ya?) it seems almost futile for a group like Fanny to try to achieve stardom merely by competing with men at their own game; what they should be doing is inventing a whole new one, and I don�t mean pursuing a Really Heavy Riff. Rock and roll is as much an attitude as a music (which, at the risk of offending some of my more right on sisters, is a fact that precious few women understand) and what we really need is a female band that projects an attitude, a lifestyle, a militant man-eating sexiness. American men being the masochists that they are, 1 bet four dazzlingly glamorous tough chicks playing aggresive high-energy rock could absolutely clean up. Certainly they would do more for the Lib movement than Fanny�s wistfully depressing obsession with proving they�re good musicians. Imagine, if you will, a female MC5 or Rolling Stones. I mean, guys would be creaming in the aisles.

Meanwhile, I have decided that regardless of all this, I think that since Alice de Buhr got her hair cut she became one of the all-time cuties. My number is Beech wood 4-5789, Alice. You can call me up for a date any old time.

Steve Simels

KIM FOWLEY

International Heroes

(Capitol)

I was talking to Vince Aletti on the phone the other day, when the subject of the Stooges came up. �I think the picture of Iggy on the cover of Raw Power is terrifying,� he said. �He looked so waxen and inhuman. Maybe that means they�re gonna make it now, because I had the same reaction the first time I saw the Stones.�

Hope you�re right, Vince. But look, you ain�t been really shook till you�ve seen the cover of the new Kim Fowley. It scared the pants off me, anyway, and I even laughed when I saw Transformer. It�s not just the makeup, nor the modified bulldyke haircut: It�s That Face! Those blasted eyes, that twisted nonsmile (though maybe that�s just because his lipstick is uneven) — this is the face of the original perverter of the New Rock, the man who has seen and done it all. Just dig him on the back cover in that T-Shirt that says �Space Age,� flapping our way like some strange starved glaring bat: AURRRGGGGHHH! Madre mio, no! It�s too much. I can�t take it!

But I can�t help myself. I keep coming back to it, driven by some strange compulsion I dare not name; there is . .. something . .. about this album . . . that reaches into your very soul and claws it out your craw! Just listen to �I Hate You,� a seething dirge (�I feel so dead inside/ I hate you/ For givin� me all your pain�) and you�ll begin to understand that, in the immortal words of Iggy Pop: �Honey, this ain�t no romance!�

No indeed. Because in this album Kim Fowley turns his baleful gaze upon the aging, wiped out, washed up rock stars of our culture, and finds every last one of them wanting. The �International Heroes� have all had it (�A change�s gotta come soon�), outdistanced by their audience which is still �lookin� for somethin� to do,� and even though �it was okay bein� far out and hip,� all that shit�s been flushed off in the levee melee. �Think I�m gonna cut my hair off,� concludes Kim, and go �Dancing All Night.�

It is only fitting that this message of profound psychosocial upheaval should be delivered by a voice that sounds like nothing so much as a dog with its foot caught in barbed wire (when he�s not crooning like Lou Reed smouldering with a 103 degree fever), and an ensemble that�s not only vicious as a face fulla ragweed but actually can play their instruments as well. International Heroes is a masterpiece that ranks right up there with All the Young Dudes, Transformer, Ziggy Stardust and Some People Will Drink Anything — claw marks all in the sequined sea horse head of a decadent pomegranate planet spinning dizzily down into the throaty vortex of its own nihilistic follies like t some painted, tainted drag queen rapt in the throes of OD. But Kim Fowley has gone all the Bowies and Reeds and Mendelsohns one better by turning the glare of their own rayguns on their ultimate impotence and the obscurity which�ll be as instant as their ascendance. Kim Fowley is no flash in the pan; Kim Fowley is the intergalactic laxative of the future! He�ll be the Bob Dylan, perhaps even the Joseph Byrd of 1975. Remember, you read it here first.

Lester Bangs

TOM T. HALL

The Rhymer and Other

Five and Dimers

(Mercury)

Tom T. Hall has a face which resembles a sideways football, but football is already past its peak and Hall is just reaching his. His new album is not so much a breakthrough, nor is it better or worse than his last three or four. It is more of a composite, a display of his considerable songwriting ability. Hall has settled down into an illusively-defined writing style and feels at home in it. The impression in �Five and Dimers� is that he is perhaps too conscious of his role and reputation.

The two songs most likely to provoke conversation are �Too Many Do-Goods� and �The Man Who Hated Freckles.� Both can be intrepreted from the ttaditional liberal and traditional conservative polarities. Neither one of them makes a definitive statement and that is Hall�s point. The first verse of �Do-Goods� goes:

We got too many do-goods and not enough hard-working men

We got too many hands and not enough lending a hand

We got too many thinkers looking for the answer in the wind

We got too many do-goods and not enough hard-working men

�The Man Who Hated Freckles� is an allegory to the bigotry of a stubborn segragationist, but the bigot�s personality is so sharply defined, so well-colored that true bigots will identify with the song disregarding its obvious intent. These two songs represent as well as any other pair the strongest face of Hall�s songwriting personality, his outspoken ambiguity.

Hall didn�t sing any of these new songs at his Carnegie Hall show, he stuck pretty much to his well-known material. It�s too bad, because this new album has four or five catchy tunes, grabbers which should have given the show more life. �Spokane Motel Blues� manages to mention half of the country music industry without being an �in-crowd� song — its message: what am I doing writing songs when I could be out having a good time?; �Ravishing Ruby� makes no sense but has Hall�s best staccato poetry along with a Marty Robbins-style western back-up; �Don�t Forget the Coffee Billy Joe� is a highly visual vignette; and �Song for Uncle Curt� is simply a pleasing tune. .

Hall has a somewhat disconcerting habit of stealing material, but the sticky problem is resolved when you find that he�s only pilfering it from himself. There are a few lines and ideas, both lyrical and musical, which are direct cops off previous albums. What does this mean — is it all over for Tom T. Hall? After hundreds of published songs is the creativity gone? Just as he enters his most popular state, just when he is trying to break through to the pop market, has Hall had the biscuit? Must he now steal material? No. At least if Hall is relying on past output, he�s got the good sense to cop it from one of the very best songwriters in the country.

Tom Miller

FLEETWOOD MAC

Penguin

(Reprise)

Fleetwood Mac have always been basically a one-man band, though that one man has changed often: when Peter Green split the original blues band, Jeremy Spencer took over for the eclectic Kiln House', when Spencer in turn left to join the Jesus kiddies, Danny Kirwan shouldered the load, resulting in the brilliant Future Games. But Bare Trees was a little limp, and Kirwan walked, leaving diehards Mick Fleetwood and John Me Vie with the latter�s wife (the former Miss Perfect — what a handle), two California rocknrollers, and old Savoy Brownie Dave Walker. Inasmuch as none of the four can touch Kirwan as a Songwriter, that more or less amounts to being left with nobody. Christine McVie�s three songs — especially the lovely �Did You Ever Love Me� —. are Penguin�s best; but they�re all nice and sweet, whereas �Sands of Time,� �Station Man,� �Bare Trees,� and Kirwan�s others are sweet and somehow vaguely nasty at once, as well as lyrically and musically more intricate and original. Guitarist Bob Welch�s �Revelation,� from this record, owes its heartland soul to Kirwan, and even so is distinguished only by McVie�s tasty bass solo — his first, I think, in the band�s recorded history. And Walker, as out of place as a Boy Scout at Bonwit Teller, contributes nothing but one Motown travesty and a witless exercise in fake country music.

Their live show has gotten very reactionary, and that�s where Walker fits in — he sings all the old singles: �Green Manalishi,� �Oh Well,� �Rattlesnake Shake� off Then Play On. Which is what their audiences seem to want to hear. But on the other hand, those songs have nothing to do with what they�ve been into for the last three albums, as demonstrated by the fact that Welch plays one of those double-necked Gibsons and, though Penguin has a certain amount of twelve-string work, on stage he never touches the twelve-string neck. Penguin is fuzzy and directionless, and at its best merely good. If they figure out what they want to do, Mac�s next one might be great, but they�re gonna have to pee or get off the pot. Meanwhile, where�s Kirwan?

Gerrit Graham

THE GUESS WHO

Artificial Paradise

1. Burton Cummings is a musical genius, eclectic expert at molding gungerock, all of jazz from Ellington to Ahmad Jamal (tho he stops short of Coltrane and all that grok, which is a good move these days) MOR for good garnish, a sprig of folky dau - everything. Not only are they the most tasteless band in the history of North America, but thanks mainly to Burton, the Guess Who got more musical taste than just about any other band extant. This marriage of tasty sound and tasteless content is the key to the Guess Who�s consistent profundity.

2. One of the big reasons I like the Guess Who is that they�re all fat and so am I. I certainly can�t dream I�m Mick Jagger at night, and the ascendance of these fellow bloatos of mine has renewed my confidence in the manifest destiny of us belly billowing lazy gluttons. If the fat people ruled it would be like having Santa Claus for president.

3. This album has the best packaging of 1973. The Guess Who understand the garbageness at the core of rock so well that only they would now show such cool as to dress themselves up as junk mail. While everybody else is oozing around putting green Vaseline on their eyelids and greasing their bungholes with Phisohex, the GW show what it means to be really ahead of your time by plowing drag culture to its logical terminal as sheer, instantly perishable trash.

4. The music is wonderful. The Guess Who will steal a riff from anybody, then always reprocess it til it�s uniquely the product of Guess Who mentality and nobody else. Here they�ve picked up some clanging Alice Cooper guitar moves, especially on �Bye Bye Babe�� which could be a hit single real easy. Burton�s piano work continues to grow by leaps and bounds, digesting everybody from Leon Russell to Lennie Tristano, and his flute is also impeccable in �Follow Your Daughter Home,�� the GW�s wholly successful swipe at reggae. The lyrics are real nice and sexist, so crassly ribald you�ll dimple in delight. It�s all about poor harried fathers with ripe and ready young pineapple princesses to ulcerate over.

5. The Guess Who are the best band in the Western Hemisphere, except for the Stooges and Blue Oyster Cult, but with one main difference: the Guess Who turn out single HITS. They stand alone, and will be the biggest band in the world as soon as the fat people take over. Set your calendar for 1975. In the meantime, Artificial Paradise is the best album the Guess Who ever made. Don�t hesitate.

Harry Vernon

HUMBLE PIE

Eat It

(A&M)

Ahhh. Well, the balance was off on Smokin probably the new line-up feeling things out, but they�re back a-doin� it again, good as ever. This time they�ve gone and done what every second-rate act in the world tries to do to make themselves sound beter, and unlike those second-raters they�ve succeeded. The gimmick in question, of course, being the addition of the three lovely Blackberries, Venetta Fields, Billie Barnum and Clydie King, who sound here like they should — never instrusive, but always there, sweetening the proceedings.

The album�s set up well, too. Side one is new, loud, electric music done like they haven�t done it since Rock On, each cut a gem. Side two is the fun side - HPie interpretations of standards, including a funny obscurity by Edwin Starr called �Shut Up and Don�t Interrupt Me.� Side three I like least of all, being mostly acoustic stuff which doesn�t quite come off, with the notable exception of �Oh Bella.� And side four is live, before a wildly appreciative audience.

Throughout, Steve Marriott acts like the bantamweight punk and heavyweight talent he is — strutting, screaming, mouthing off. The band backs him Up — it�s less a band now, and more The Steve Marriott Show — with solid rockin� beat and the Blackberries . . . Wow, they are great. I hope it doesn�t go to their heads and make �em wanna make solo albums, though..

In fact, I�ll go so far as to say that this new Blackberry Pie flavor is one of the best confections since Licorice Pizza. Eat it? You bet!

Ed Ward

FRUT

Spoiled Rotten

(Westbound)

Those of you who loved their last album can rest assured that, by all normal standards, this album is even worse than Frut s first, which means that it is one of the greatest trash classics in the history of rock. If you felt as disgusted with root-rock a la Razzberry as I did, that would be enough moral rearmament to send you scuttling to the record shop.

What I mean by �bad� of course, is out of key and out of tune and off pitch. What I mean by classic is, who cares? Frut are modest, in a way, but they aren�t self-deprecating, particularly; the modesty isn�t false, I guess I mean. They write their own songs now, or some of the songs on this album are their own, but the originals are as insipid lyrically, as vocally greasy and as musically inept as the oldies, so that�s okay too.

But the major point of departure betwen the Frut and all other oldies groups is that Frut are so broke and non-collectable that they aren�t record collectors, so they gotta get their oldies the way most everyone else does: off the radio or .from memory.

To raise all this to a higher level, as they say, this makes the Frut the perfect representatives of the collective unconscious of rock. Not monastic scholars of rock history but keepers of the oral tradition. Magicians, not accountants. Which also means that they are accurate in terms of the spirit, not the letter of the law. Which makes this record sort of a contradiction, but unless you want to be left out in the cold with all them monks when the Renaissance and the Reformation come rolling in some day, you oughta buy it anyhow. Besides, we listen to it all the time in the sanitarium I live in, and it sounds better every day. Long live Napoleon XIV.

Dave Marsh