ERIC CLAPTON 461 Ocean Boulevard (RSO Records)

There are some terrors which are admitted to be more than human nature can face. Terrors of that order are experienced, of course, by every sane person.

Aristotle

From then on I became a devout Christian until this situation occurred — the triangle ... I still pray and I still see God in other people more than I see him in the sky or anything like that.

,Eric Clapton

Me and the Devil, walkin� side by side Gonna beat my woman til I get satisfied.

Robert Johnson

It probably seems presumptuous to call Eric Clapton�s first album in three years one of the most intensely religious recordings I have ever heard. But it happens to be true. 461 Ocean Boulevard contains some of the sexiest, slinkiest music Clapton�s ever played or sung, but it also has some of the most profoundly spiritual imagery in all popular music.

Like Bob Dylan�s John Wesley Harding, which represented on one level his return to Judaism after the terror of his mid-sixties �Blow Torch In the Middle� period and his near-fatal motorcycle accident, Clapton�s religious imagery is not always straight-forward. Because we do not think of him as an artist

with a particular creed, the specifically theological manifestations of his work-song titles like �Please Be With Me�, �I Can�t Hold Out�, �Let It Grow�, �Give Me Strength�; for instance — do not leap out at us as they would from a George Harrison, John McLaughlin or Peter Townshend album. But they are no less real, no less committed to one man�s vision of the Lord: it is no accident that this album opens with �Motherless Children,� a traditional song, which is almost, but not quite gospel. I doubt that Clapton set out to make an album of spiritual songs, as Harrison or McLaughlin might have. He just happened to end up with one, as Dylan and Robert Johnson did.

As with Johnson, whom Clapton calls �my' guru,� it is easy to miss the side of the man which is not fleeing the hellhound on his trail. Yet, even amidst the panicky emotional hurricane of �Layla,� there came a lull when this most driven, of rock musicians could let his dread momentarily lapse and contemplate the sweetness of the moment. The final segment of �Layla,� perhaps the most sensual music ever made, is surely Clapton�s greatest moment. If he has not eclipsed it here, it is also true that Dylan did not eclipse �Like A Rolling Stone� with Blonde on Blonde. Nor did the Rolling Stones eclipse �Gimme Shelter� with Sticky Fingers or Exile on Main Street. 1 think that is the league in which the languid, erotic laid-back music of 641 Ocean Boulevard stands.

The tension where Clapton found his blues and discovered their depth — nearly drowning in the process, is we are to believe the tales of

his heroin addiction - is still here, but it is a tension which the man has accepted. This does not mean that he is succumbed to it, or that he is turned to a life of sanctity. One of the best numbers here is a re-worked �Willie and the Hand-Jive� slowed down, bouncing through subtle twists Johnny Otis� -original lyrics: the utter delicacy with which Clapton sings makes it clear that rhythm and blues was an original source of his vast love for black music and the blues. But he still revels like Otis, in the pure carnality of the dance. Once possessed by Robert Johnson�s gloomy spirit, it seems unlikely that it could ever be shaken completely.

But throughout this album, the terrors are hidden, relegated to a place behind whatever hope he has discovered. The fear of possession, that dread that the devil might actually occupy the deepest recesses of his soul, is the source of the album�s languid but nervous laid-backness. Clapton seems to know he needs to lay back, because if he doesn�t, he can easily be overcome by the very demons which laid him low before. This is not an uncommon discovery, particularly for former members of the acid-decimated sixties counter-culture. Clapton has used that discovery to build music which is resilient and strong, and which does not attempt to deny the ugly horrors that still prey on his mind. Like Robert Johnson singing �Come on in my kitchen/There�s gonna be rain in our door� Clapton knows there�s only so far to retreat. Outside, the storm still beats against the panes. �Loveless, loveless,� he sings in his prettiest song, �Let It Grow.� Any number of great musicians (not to mention artists and writers) have found solace from their demons in a more self-consciously spiritual life. In general, however, whether for a poet such, a? T.S. Eliot or a singer such as Son House or Little Richard, a return to the church has meant the desertion of the popular arena. Jerry Lee Lewis didn�t want to record �Great Balls of Fire� because it secularized Pentecostal imagery, but nothing he could have done as a gospel-singing Christian -however valid and meaningful it might have been to himself - could have meant so much to so many others. Solipsistically speaking, rock and roll really is devil music. Its ideal of community forces us to recognize each other.

For' a man as shy and complicated as Clapton, suph an admission must be truly painful. To be forced to confront tens of thousands nightly, even at a reported $75,000 a shot,, must be as scarring in a way as Robert Johnson standing at the crossroads, trying to avoid the Klan. If we�re willing to allow singers like Elliott Murphy their �White Middle-Class Blues,� even in jest, then we have to be prepared for singers like Clapton, who have no choice - at $75 or $75,000 anight - but to take them seriously.

Clapton has chosen to face those terrors within the context of the Western church. Unlike Eastern religion, the religions of the West demand a confrontation with our own alienation with that �cronic uneasy conscience,� in Alan Watts� phrase, which characterizes Western thought since Socrates at least. How uneasy must the conscience be of a man who earns $75,000 for a single hour on the stage?

But 461 Ocean Boulevard is self-confident, without the blustering machismo which tipifled Clapton�s work with Cream, and successful without the lapses of taste and technical blunders which characterize almost everything he has done since his earliest work with the Yardbirds. If he has always been a great guitarist he has also, and all too often, been too self-righteously the purist. Songs like �Blues Power� didn�t really work, because he didn�t really believe-ihem. (Since that wasn�t a particularly good song, there wasn�t much reason why he should have.) Still, there is a distance from even a song as good as �After Midnight� which doesn�t need to be there, a failure to commit himself fully, which makes the song less than it could be. He seems to have felt guilty, not just about singing pop, but about enjoying it and being good at it. That�s what makes �I Shot the Sheriff� a Jamaican reggae about justification and guilt, so appropriate here.

�Layla�, which is Clapton discovering not only that his blues are legitimate, but how overwhelming they are, is full-blown. But �Layla� is a masterpiece. A measure of his new maturity as an artist is his ability to fully involve himself with less powerful but often moving songs on this album. As a result, 461 Ocean Boulevard does what it says it wants to. It grows. Few artists are able to act out their own good ideas so successfully.

DR. JOHN Desitively Bonnaroo (Atlantic)

Dr. John has come a long way from his Guilded Splinter nightwalks — this LP is a continuation of the feel of �Right Place�.

Which means greasy R&B sinuous sound-riffs, bubbling under and Mac�s sensual growl vocals.

The set was produced by Allen Toussaint which of course means nice use of horns thruout - rhythms tend to be cyclic (the robot dancer riff) and good for ass-shaking, since the bass is mixed way up front on many tracks.

�Stealing� is a Moody Blues tinged cut with fine lines like �Your love for me was a dirty trick/You left me holding the short end of the stick/Just like stealing medicine from the sick.� �Me - You = Loneliness� is a gospel blues ballad with a strong feel of Ray Charles early Atlantic sides — and a nice vocal workout by the Dr.

The album has two kinds of songs on it mainly — the up tempo riff numbers, where lyrics are catchy little phrases repeated with little variations, and the ballad numbers with more expansive structures.

Some of the former are �Mos Scocious� (really catchy), �Can�t Get EnuF� with nice interplay and vocal trade-offs with John and the back-up singers. My favorite along that line is �(Everybody Wanna Get Rich) Rite Away� rnonsense lyrics and a popping rhythm track make this a hell of an infectious mother.

Toussaint contributes �Go Tell The People� - not a �lets-get-togetheror �wash: behind-your-ears-children� kind of scam as you might suspect, instead a sad ballad about love problems; �Your day is filled with money matters, My day is filled with sound�.

All in all in all, another 12 songs in the short and catchy format that drove �Right Place� onto the Top 40 .. . a few so-so tracks but the standout so far that as a whole the album is worth it. Desitively.

Tony Glover

THE KINKS Preservation Act 2 (RCA)

Calling Ray Davies a genius is like calling Richie Ashburn or Phil Linz a superstar. Both former ball players had their ups and downs, and they made their minor contributions. Davies possesses a better-than-average intelligence, and a cynicism that he�s clever enough

to attach to a rhythm section. His contributions remain minor.

Preservation Act 2 is perhaps his most minor accomplishment to date. It�s a story record featuring characters with names like Mr. Black, leader of the nation and guardian of the public morality; Flash, ex-petty gangster (�Second Hand Car Spiv� to you, mate) and now political leader; and the Tramp, Davies specific alter ego. The story begins with some rigamarole about a new, people�s army: �A military coup has been long overdue/Now there�s fighting and panic in the streets...� Meanwhile: �Flash and his men drink champagne in their den /and debase life with crude ostentation ...� So much for the proud art of lyric writing.

It�s a shame that the thinking is so trite, because much of the music is quite decent. �Money Talks� is hooky and powerful, strong enough so we can excuse lines like �It rots your heart, it gets to your soul, Before you know where you are, you�re a slave to the green gold.�

�He�s Evil� is really good too, the lyrics don�t offend, and there�s a riff from �Liar Liar� by the Castaways thrown in. And �Mirror of Love� is a great idea for a song, though it could just as easily be covered by Mungo Jerry.

That�s about all, though. �Nobody Gives� and �Oh Where Oh Where Is Love?�, the Tramp�s own songs, are merely the whining, self-pitying whimperings of a professional kvetch. �In a world full of jive, full of homicide and suicide, there�s no room for love and romance.� Icky-poo.

One of the problems built into the record is the reduction of the Kinks from being a band that Davies was in, to merely his backup band. Not that democracy ever did anybody any good. It�s simply that maintaining the concept of Kinks is something of a fraud. There, is no evidence that anyone but Raymond Douglas Davies does anything more than execute a mechanical process called playing a musical instrument. That�s not to say the players aren�t good, or that the arrangements aren�t sometimes imaginative.

So what we have are three, maybe four good songs (�Shepherds of the Nation� is amusing) sticking out from a mess of concept, story, talking transitions and the like. A few good singles on an album with vast pretensions that is merely a mediocre record by an idiosyncratic personality and his studio backing group. In other words, it�s another two-LP set that would�ve made one really fine EP. The trouble is that people have got the wrong idea about Melanie. You shouldn�t put her down because she isn�t Joni Mitchell or Bonnie Raitt (or even Maureen McGovern). Instead, you should judge her in the context in Which she belongs — that of the contemporary, post-Piaf, Western European chanson tradition. And in that context, she doesn�t fare too badly at all.

Wayne Robins

MELANIE Madrugada (Neighborhood)

She�s a romantic, relentlessly histrionic vocalist. Her intentional values are different from the values of most American female singers of her approximate generation. She sings to the housewife�s soul, from a position slightly above it. She wrenches, she cries, she struggles on bravely. She is emotionally unsophisticated, but passionate. She is.(and I�m speaking here of her as an image, derived from her music, and not of her personally) - a girl with a heart, which is most often a broken heart. She�s like a character in one of those black-and-white romantic-tragedy comic books everybody�s Mexican maid in Pasadena reads. She�s like a cover story on an Italian scandal magazine. She is Basic.

Unfortunately, she is not Basic to our culture, but to another, more European one. (It is no. coincidence that she first gained praise in places like Amsterdam, and that her records are big sellers in Rome and Paris even now.) Because her artistic sensibility is not ours, we cannot really appreciate her. That�S why a lot of people think she�s just some whining kid.

Her voice is, admittedly, not exactly a straightforward one. Personally, I like it fine. I like weird, highly-stylized voices (Michael Hurley, Kevin Coyne, Mabel Mercer..) And, however you feel about the way she sounds, you�ve got to admit that she does things with songs. She doesn�t just sing the words and get the notes right. In fact, she doesn�t even sing the words and get the notes right some of the time. But she bothers to interpret what she�s singing. She makes something out of it.

^ Take �Wild Horses� for instance. It would drive any self-respecting Stones fan (or even Marianne Faithfull fan) absolutely bananas. Big gushy string arrangements. Notes flattened out right and left. Total redirection of emotional meaning. But it works, goddamn it, and it works proudly and boldly. Woody Guthrie�s �Pretty Boy Floyd� works too, similarly disfigured. So does Randy Newman�s

I Think It s Going To Rain Today. And Croce�s �Lover�s Cross� would have worked, too, if it had been a better song to begin with.

Melanie�s own songs don�t usually fare as well. She can certainly write goocT lyrics, especially within that Mexican-comic-book romantic framework. Sometimes she even writes lyrics that are just plain good in any context. (Like �Gather round the flying lady/ Feather down to nothing better than/ Weathering a storm off the ground and off the bone/ And holding on, holding on, holding.� Except for the repetition in the last line, that could be fucking Van Dyke Parks, for chrissakes, or at least Brian Wilson.) But her original music is dull stuff most of the time vas befits but bedevils this whole European tradition we�re talking about.

Colman Andrews

THE GUESS WHO Road Food (RCA)

Well fercrissake this here Guess Who group is what you�d call yer real Canajun rock stars, they get to play all over the whole godamned world, and host the Midnight Special and get to do a song with Wolfman Jack. They get ta do their own record covers (like the sleeve of the five of �em stuffing themself at a roadside grease), and record in Hollywood and Chicagd as well as Teronna. Not bad fer a Canajun group, eh? They've been around ten years so it must�ve been hard work that did it. However, the best thing they ever did was �Shakin� All Over,� which when it hit the airwaves in those cool Beatlemania nights up in Canada sounded invigorating (probably the echo on singer Chad Allen�s neo-Mersey rendering of �Shay-kin� alllovahh...�). But when Burton Cummings became the vocalist and guitarist Randy Bachman left, the group�s image changed. They weren�t gonna do rinkydink northern production work anymore, after all Burton had just as much on his mind as some of yer other rock stars, so why not, eh? Don�t ferget the other guys in the group, they can play just as good as some of yer American groups. And that�s what the Guess Who are all about; the strangest thing about them is their transparency, �covering,� as it were, a number of pop and rock styles to make their own �sound.� If you turn up the volume, they�re just as loud as some of yer other groups but with the Guess Who you can always hear every word. Burton Cummings has real good pernunciation, even when he�s sayin� some of them dirty things.

Road Food is surely the Guess Who s most transparent assimilation of styles; there�s a little bit of everything here, all washed over so there�s nothing left but the Guess Who. �Star Baby� opens it up with a catchy fuck song (Burton luvs �em), backed by a bubble-gum Stones sound. Then comes some quasi-Zappa weirdnesses on �Attila�s Blues�: �I had a pet pitiful penguin and made him watch the six o�clock news� and it continues with something about a housefly �Flying head-on into the plate glass window.� �Straighten Out� features the group�s peculiarly square vocal harmonies (arrangements in the Mills Brothers and Lettermen style). �Don�t You Want Me� is another idle throw-away by Burton and side one climaxes with the group�s �Day In The Life/Ballad of a Thip Man,� entitled �One Way Road to Hell,� complete with jangling piano at the beginning. Dullard lyrics: �Working like the devil at my desk all day, wishing that my paperwork would fly away,� great stuff. �Clap For the Wolfman,� a real commercial number, with asinine comments by Jack. �Pleasin� For Reason� is their road song with all that �in� stuff Burton loves to flaunt: �Connie my love, our movie was great and so was the taste... Hello L.A., I hope Miss Dee is waiting...� Geez, not bad fer a Canajun, eh? �Road Food� follows with more �Jollywood, Jolly wood/ Chippa Chippa Chee Cliee� tripe. The opus is the last cut, called �The Ballad of the Last Five Years,� another of |, Burton�s neo-Van and Jim Morrison confessionals, clocking in at 7:14 - �Gary lives with Rose/ And BeBop got something old and new... there�s Jackie and there�s Brian/ Then there�s' four, then there�s five, and then a couple more.� Pretty obscure fer a Canajun, EH?

Juan Rodriguez

QUEEN Queen II (Elektra)

Eclectic and flash a la mode, Queen!, on record at least, epitomize contemporary British hard rock. Like a true English band, they are also currently caughf between unadorned pop and loftier aspirations. After an impressive recording debut, they have ventured, somewhat timidly, into the cluttered arena of concept albums. It�s a mistaken direction for this band.

Queen�s forte lies in fusing fuzzy sonics with gauzy group harmonies, Led Zeppelin meets the Bee Gees. They can play �heavy� minus the boring solos; they can sing pretty minus the saccharine goo. Although they generally write dense compositions, overstuffed with complications, their poppiness usually avoids that arid pomposity which widely passes for profundity in British artrock. On Queen�s first album, these strengths catalyzed tnree years worth of material, alternating between guitarist Bryan May�s soft acoustic style and lead vocalist Freddie Mercury�s involuted metallic approach.

Queen II, in sad contrast, segregates May�s writing from Mercury�s, indulges a newfound penchant for fairy tale fantasies, and features several lackluster exercises in soft core pomp (mostly from May — �White Queen (As It Began)� for example). Mercury�s harder style fares best, although most of his songs suggest overambitious convolutions in search of a melodic hook. Despite a dumb lyric, Mercury�s �March of the Black Queen� has a certain breathless flair about it, as does �Funny How Love Is,� a credible evocation of Phil Spector in heavy metal drag (featuring some 14 overdubbed guitars).

But the bulk of Queen II suffers from stagey non-tunes, hokey lyrics and handmedown glitter. If they�re going to make it as nouveau rockers, Queen will have to forego fondling sequins long discarded by other stars. Sheer energy sustained Queen�s eclecticism on their first album. But this second, album suggests that their jumble of cliches badly needs an original style — and at least a hint of some taste.

Jim Miller

TANGERINE DREAM Phaedra (Virgin)

NEKTAR Remember the Future (Passport)

Glub, glub.

The hype on Tangerine Dream protrays them as playing �Music that Melts,� but I think their record company has its elements a bit messed up. Each time I put this record on the turntable, all I keep thinking about is drowning. Three Krauts that all play keyboard instruments so don�t look for the beat �cause there ain�t none unless you�re into sonar. Just minute upon wet minute of murky swamp wading muzak and undertow synthesizer pull, with a pause here and there for some sea gull imitations. �Phaedra,� the title track, takes up all of side one and it ends with some little kids out on the street shouting

�Phaedra, Phaedra.� Side two has three compositions that all sound like side one.

B.ut it isn�t all bad when you think about it. I mean besides the classic Song of the Humpbacked Whale on Capitol a few years back (never couldfigure out where the royalties on that one went — maybe to explore the sounds of the deep) Jacques Cousteau might find this album inspiring.

Now as to these Nektar characters (they must eat lotsa fruit over in schnitzeland), they�re not really Germans, just Limeys who couldn�t hack it in England, maybe they were afraid of scurvy, but anyway, their debut lp is a concept job about.. .well, you�re not gonna believe me if I try to deal with this even objectively, so let me quote from the liner notes, letter for letter:

�Having visited the planet many times before, Bluebird had always found that the people he met couldn�t accept him for what 'he was rather than how he looked, with his blue skin and wings. They either ran away from him or tried to harm him. He makes mental contact with a young blind boy and tells him stories of past and future in the form of visions... The boy is not disturbed by the visions but confused by all that Bluebird tells him.�

AND THAT�S JUST THE INTRODUCTION TO SIDE ONE! Got enough spare marks in your pocket to try out this one? Ever notice that Henry Kissinger looks, talks and acts exactly like Peter Sellers in Dr. Strangelove? Will the real Martin Bormann please stand up?

Billy Altman

BILL WYMAN Monkey Grip (Rolling Stones Records)

Hmmm, from out of the frozen shadows of stage left Comes Henry the Eighth to front his own fantasy — in the form of an LP full of his own songs.

Wyman wrote, arranged and plays and sings on all material here, helped along by Danny Kootch, Dallas Taylor, Dr. John, Byron Berline etc. As is often the case when members of groups do solo sides, the sound is only generally in the same arena as the Stones — more a matter of attitude than style, right?

Wyman wisely gets a lot of vocal and instrumental help, using his okay but nonfan tastic voice as an ingredient in an overall parfait of cosmic proportions.

Songs seem to run in a few main categories; there�s the �Wow-I�m-in-love-with-an-

outasite-chick� riff, and the signifying �I�ma-bad-ass� comeon ... badasses are usually more interesting than happy lovers — peace don�t always make for creativity.

�I Wanna Get Me A Gun� (�and scare the shit out of everyone�) is a nice badass move — but it�s Wyman thinking about being a badass, rather than being one. �Monkey Grip� is from a Sonny Boy Williamson song about sticking together like �that old time Monkey Grip Glue� . . but Wyman�s song is a little singsong riff that bounces happily along, like a spaced out salamander on a counter at Baskin-Robbins.

�Mighty Fine Time� is almost nostalgia before it�s even over, with the �Bah.. .Bah ... Bah� chorus (has zero to do with sheephumping, by the way). �Pussy� is a little cuntry (sic) riff with fiddle and jews harp — lyrics probably incense the shit outa various mssssssssssss (how many �s� are there to make it plural)?

�What A Blow� is the heavy track, �I�ll Pull You Thro� is a nice love song.

Altogether, a nice generally up and goodtime album x>f straight-ahead rock and roll and country shaded music — nothing spectacular, but some good professional chops, and a few songs that really stick the synapses together — like, glue, and later for the monkey.

Tony Glover

THE GODZ Godzundheit (ESP)

In a recent poll The National Enquirer discovered that 90% of its readers believe that the world is being invaded by beanz. Yeah, well, if you took a poll of file people who listen to Godz albums, you�d probably find that 90% of em were beanz. Beanie wienies, no less!

Damn, no big muzz in the entire solar system has ever made it thru the skin dunk on the first three Godz lulus, and now here�s a fourth that�s got songs on it urging the women of the world to unite and all you slobz out there to give a damn. The Goddzz have become froggzz for peace even. Almost a good seven yrs after Country. Joe arid other moldie weirdos and the Godz decide to plaster slogans onto their music. Amazing! No more beating on dead katz and flopsy penguinz or banging on pots �n� pans, and no more smashing in aluminum amps or twanging on demolished cardboard Silvertones, and however else they got their stupid primordial sound. There is nothing on this record that even hints remotely of a blast like �Traveling Salesman� or any of those lengthy theatrical rape scenes which you could never listen to all the way thru. I mean, the Godz were never just plain dull like David Peel or Lord Sutch; they were worse than dull. But on this album they�re about as exciting as a new Baby Snoots comic. Too boring even for Ed McMahon.

Yet, there is one brilliant screech here that�s worth digging around for the alburri. It�s called �Whiffenpoof Song,� and it comes right after their version of �Jumping Jack Flash� (which is better than Dylan�s if he ever did it). The Blues Magoos oozed the same thing on a cut called �Dante�s Inferno� years back on which they stroked their notes like mothers of Flipper and gasped into the mikes. You couldn�t hummit cuz it wuz lotsa noize and worthless to boot (but not as worthless as A1 Green, tho, who does the same thing but people buy him so congrats, Al, and thanx for the lucky charmz). And this Godz song which I�m babbling about sounds just like it cept looser. It begins with the singer getting on his knees and whining: �We are poor little lambs who have gone astray.� Then there�s a pause like sucking slurps on a wet balloon and then ten thousand voices are crying all at once: �Baa! Baaaa! Baaaaaa!!� That�s over and over until you�re sick of it and then the return of the sleep-eze drone about the poor little lamb and then more �Baaa�s,� and finally it all begins to resemble a lethargic �White Light/ White Heat.� But by that time you really don�t care cuz you�ve already ripped the record off the turntable and keep staring at the hole in the center but still there�s those haunting �Baaa�s.�

Da Godz got gutz to stammer grog like that right in yr ears. It absolutely drives ya crazy, which is all along what the Godz were trying to do anyway. Like, they must make Jap sci-fi flicks in their spare time or something. Christ, they may not know how to boogie, but they sure play a mean nqvacaine slide guitar.

The Godz — that�s the jellyfish that Henry Mancini couldn�t use. Elmer Fudd�s favorite band — the Godz. Famed stars of the shocking and repulsive movie, Battle Beyond the Gravy Galaxy of Wormz, in which they puke thirteen ft. of green slime and screw their heads completely off and devour the insides of a rhino from inside out?? (clue: Vomit bags are distributed.) Answer — the Godz! 90% of their fanz are not only beanz but harelips, too. Of course, it�s the magnificent

Godz, the band that TV Star Annual won�t even touch cuz THEY�RE THE DUMBEST BAND IN THE WORLD!! Too stupid to even make a comeback.

Bromobot A. Hull

WET WILLIE Keep On Smilin' (Capricorn)

The only thing missing from Keep On Smilin� is one of Capricorn�s �Support Southern 'Music� buttons on the jacket of that blind old black beggar with the beat up old guitar who adorns the front cover. Colonel Sariders finally got his hands on the little �Red Hot Chicken� just like when the Big Money in Detroit discovered stock car racing. In its own funky sort of way, Keep On Smilin� is Wet Willie�s renaissance. It�s one of those good news/bad news albums. The bad news is that Wet Willie, probably the hardest core Southern band, has finally gone commercial. The good news is that it sounds great. Keep On Smilin� is the essence of Wet Willie; a little pseudo-spade jive that, being from Mobile, Alabama, they can get away with �cause you know they got more genuine SOUL than anybody from Philadelphia^ a little too much of that good old religion that reflects their gospel roots; and some classic greasy spoon tunes that are so thick you can practically taste the barbeque sauce and hear the flies buzzing in the background while the album�s on.

More than anything else, it�s Tom Dowd�s production that makes Keep On Smilin� stand out from everything else that Wet Willie ever recorded�before. He slickened it up and funneled the group�s energy down distinct channels for a clear, concise, cohesive, and well-layered sound. Through it all, Wet Willie still emerges with that same sticky downhome funk that always reminds you of guys you probably went to high school with. Jimmy Hall�s harp and horn aren�t highlighted to their usual degree, but they played up his Jaggeresque and rounded out their whole approach to music. As always, John Anthony�s keyboards supply a solid backdrop for Rickie Hirsch�s jazzy Fender lead, and even the Williettes jive a little tight this time around.

Basically, Keep On Smilin� just seems to fit together nicely. The songs run the usual gauntlet from funky black/white/black bluesy tunes in the same vein as the single and title track. There�s a religious rocker thrown in to square everybody with the Almighty, and some hard core R&B just to show off; namely

�Soul Sister� and ��Soul Jones� - obviously enough. You know. When you�ve got'it... Eventually it all settles down and even the bad stuff seems to even out in the end. �Don�t Wait Too Long,� a poor attempt at something meaningful, is rescued by a dashing young Prince with some nifty MOOG licks, but it�s still a frog. You can laugh �Alabama� right off. That�s the album�s other absolute nadir. Incidentally, there�s only one absolute nadir per side, just like there�s only one soul song and one gospel thingie per side, too. It�s one of those �be proud of your roots no matter what all them damn Yankees and city slickers say about Mobile� songs that seems to be all the rage in Southern music circles lately. Of course nobody means 'em as comic' relief, but you can�t very well believe a redneck. That�s Catch-22. Anyway, Lynryd Skynyrd said it best when they told Neil Young to flat fuck off.

Jim Esposito

LARRY RASPBERRY AND THE HIGHSTEPPERS Highsteppin' and Fancy Dancin� (Enterprise)

Ever since this quintet of rhythm crazed yokels played before an extremely wasted bunch of rock writers at the infamous Memphis meet last summer, there�s been a good degree of anticipation regarding their debut LP. No panting or nail biting, mind you, but those writers not already blasted senseless (Raspberry and band were first on bill) will tell you of the funkifled rock �n� roll band that had everyone dancing from their first chord on. (Considering the general slothfulness of the audience, that was an extraordinary feat.) )

Well, the wait for their album is over (as if you cared), and, surprise, surprise, those often times pretentious, even more often trendy gang of pen-pushers were right — Highsteppin1 and Fancy Dartcin � is pretty neat. It�s Delaney and Bonnie and Dan Hicks and his Hot Licks shot full of hominy grits. In other words, Larry Raspberry and The Highsteppers are the first top-notch Southern bar-dance band to make it onto record in a long time.

And this crew�s got the whole bag o� tricks. Formerly lead mouth of the Gentrys (�Keep On Dancin��), Larry Raspberry�s songs are strong and filled with humorous below-the-Mason-Dixon-line sensibilities. There�s a bit of punk about them, and Larry�s vocal interpretations, with pianist Carol Ferrante�s blue, sweet �n� tangy tones aiding, do �em up in a most spirited manner.

The only standout instrumentalist is harpist Greg �Fingers� Taylor who may someday challenge Magic Dick, but this is by no means a jam or riff band. These guys and gal have had to sweat out sleazy bar scenes where ya gotta hit �em with hot song after hot song in order to stay alive, and they�ve got it all tight and downpat. Theirs is the kind of Southern music that deserves support.

Andy McKaie

THE BLACK MYSTICAL ABSTRACT BADASS ART ENSEMBLE Spirit Feel Power Unity Conk (Sheet)

This first recording by the BMABAE is a must for anyone interested in the current state of black mystical badass art. The ensemble consists of two men-Mason Jarmen playing bells, windpipe, holyhorn, space flute, spoons, and temple tuba and Tyrone M�Willie playing bass piccolo, 12-string gourd, musical fruit, nose sousaphone, and his tummy.

Side one consists of one long composition (26:14) entitled �Hands Back Jack, I�m Having A Religious Experience.� It begins with a simple four note melody thumped on M� Willie�s tummy. This goes on for ten minutes and the effect is so prim ally transcendental in nature that it�s a wonder no one�s thought of it before. This wonderful mood is interrupted suddenly by a brief but stark recitation by M�Willie — �Why didn�t you tell me/ the tape was running/ motherfucker/ What the shit/ Leave it in/ Those jive cracker critics will eat it up.� Jhis is followed by five minutes of guffaws. .The remaining 11:14 minutes is a tour-de-force as each man goes from instrument to instrument, displaying an interplay that is truly a matrix of tones and colors, of ups and downs, of... mere words fail me.

Side two also consists of one piece featuring a guest stint by black poet/ warrior and professional honky killer Imamu �Leroy� Baraka. Entitled �Blacker Than Thou� it starts out with some haunting temple tuba by Jarmen (ten haunting mintues) after which Baraka screams at the top of his black lungs (he�s a heavy smoker) �Kill the racist subhuman jews/ & the sexist wop cunts that plague the holy city/ of Newark.� Heavy stuff indeed. The rest of this unspeakably innovative composition is a duet between spoons and musical fruit, with some amazing resonance resulting from the pinto beans.

I have seen the light I believe I shall get low. It was truly a black day when this record entered my life.

R. Calvin Walls

CURTIS MAYFIELD Sweet Exorcist (Curtom)

Like you, I still await thib reappearance of an album as good as Super fly. In retrospect, that record seems like the very best of 1972; certainly, it is the best work Curtis Mayfield has ever done. But like another great writer of �60s soul romances, Smokey Robinson, Curtis Mayfield�s talent for writing love lyrics seems to have disintigrated. Sweet Exorcist is an album, more or less, of songs about love but there is no �Gypsy Woman� here.

Super fly stands with Stevie Wonder�s Innervisions and Music of My Mind, and Marvin Gaye�s What�s Going On and Let�s Get It On, Sly�s Riot and Fresh, and the best of the work Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong have produced, notably �Papa Was A Rolling Stone.� But unlike the others, Mayfield seems unable � to consolidate his success with Superfly into another masterwork. Back to the World, the album which preceded this one, was equally diffuse; it purported to tell the story of a returning Vietnam veteran, but finally' told no tale at all.

Beyond thematic considerations, however, it is also true that Mayfield isn�t writing the sort of excellent, inventive music which is — even more than the horrors of heroin — the essence of Superfly. Perhaps he needs to have a film to work with, for his work with Gladys Knight on the recent soundtrack to Claudine is nothing less than excellent (if not as inspired as Superfly. But this album�s cute, kitsch'-y swipes at visual pop themes — �Sweet Exorcist,� �Kung Fu� - are really disasters. The titles are tacked on, as they are to muzak, without regard to the context of the songs.

I�d pick up Claudine�s soundtrack long before I�d listen to this album again. Curtis Mayfield, like those beleaguered souls of whom he wrote in �Superfly,� is still trying to get over.

Dave Marsh

JERRY GARCIA Garcia

ROBERT HUNTER Tales of the Great Rum Runners (Round)

I tyied, you know I really tried. Bought four bottles of Pagan Pink, drank all night till I dropped, got up at two p.m. the next day, threw on my dirtiest green T shirt, laced up my work boots, tossed a pair of overalls over the whole thing, and then sat down to listen to the latest offsprings from the gods of the collegiate �Dad�s footin� the bill on my dope money, hey wanna.. see my Master Charge card?� crowd, the Grateful Dead, in the form of new solo Ip�s from Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter. Unfortunately, I found the labels more interesting than the records. I mean, they went to all the trouble of establishing their own independent record company and now they�ve changed the name already. Now

it�s Round Records. Or maybe it�s a subsidiary of Grateful Dead Records, but that�s strange �cause now there�s two albums on Round and only one on the GD label. Competition within the ranks? Ah, the free enterprise system — it�s a beaut.

The new Jerry �Fingers� Garcia record is entitled �Garcia.� Seems Jerry�s decided to drop his given monniker. Which gets me thinkin� that perhaps the big difference between the 60�s and the 70�s is that 70�s musicians eliminate the first name (Bowie, Nilsson) and 60�s musicians severed ties with their family names (Donovan, Keith). Actually, Jerry shoulda called this one �Songs I liked when I was younger but now believe would have been better had they been a lot more laid back, and in some cases laid out.� And so we get a version of the Stones� �Let�s Spend the Night Together� that Ed Sullivan would have been proud to present on his show, and Chuck Berry�s �Let It Rock,� slowed down to a pace impossible to do the duck walk to.

The neatest thing on Garcia is JG�s homage to Irving Berlin, as he turns big Irv�s �Russian Lullaby� into a Dixieland swing number (I can just see Anastasia truckin� her way down to the train station with the comrades in hot pursuit). On this cut Garcia plays Classical Guitar. I know this because it says on the sleeve �Russian Lullaby — Garcia, Classical Guitar.� Funny, it sounded to me like a plain old acoustic being sloppily finger picked. Live and learn. There�s even two songs with strings, as in Jerry Vale, who by the way Garcia don�t hold a candle to. That is, if this record had enough energy in it to light a candle (Household Hint: when throwing a birthday party for a tot, be sure and save the little candles after they�re blown out. One nineteen cent package can last a lifetime).

Now as for Bullet Bob Hunter, intrepid lyricist for the Dead, his first recorded effort is called Tales of the Great Rum Runners and it sure is just that, an effort. Possibly the longest record I�ve ever encountered in terms of songs sounding like they will never end, and with one cut clocking in at just twenty seconds and still sounding tedious, that is long folks. I thought at least,I�d get a lyric sheet to mull over between nods, but no, it�s strictly get your pen and pad out if you wish to decipher the plethora of profundities abounding on this platter. Such as: �When a new child is born, cut the cord and tie the knot/be sure you cut it with a keen blade/life is short and full of thorns.� This pithy exerpt comes from �Children�s Lament,� on which Hunter plays bagpipes! Well, gotta do something to keep busy while the band�s away. My favorite line on the record comes from �Boys in the Barroom,� an acapella number which states �many�s the night we�d spend picking and singing in the hopes it be pleasing both here and above.� Are you listening, Pigpen?

On �I Heard You Singing,� Hunter builds up the question of just what is being sung and it turns out to be /�Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye.� Obviously an allusion to the climactic verse of Simon and Garfunkel�s �Leaves that are Green.� These word writers are mighty strange in their ways. Is Hunter slipping? Is he just getting the footlight cravings out of his style? The answer to these questions and more on the next Dead album (Oval Records? Obtuse Records? Washed Up Records?). RICK WAKEMAN — Journey to the Centre of the Earth (A&M):: Shucks, not as we had hoped. Not inspired by the Pat Boone flicki Rick Wakeman has bought another book. Who will still maintain that reading does not cause brain damage! Anyway, �production -marred by David Hemmings� (of all, people),

Billy Altman

B.S

KING BISCUIT BOY (Epic):: Biscuit Boy is the great suburban bluesman. For peoples who likes New Orleans rock and roll {circa Dr. John), tops, the �with production� oldies.

B.S.

BOB WILLS AND HIS TEXAS PLAYBOYS - For the Last Time (UA):: it is a damned shame that the best Bob Wills album .ever (two albums, actually) has to be accompanied j by the worst death sob packaging ever. But it is packaged so that you can throwthe package away. Get it. Bob Wills was the 4Q�s version of rock and roll, and this? is a super crystal exactly wonderful rendition iOf living living music.

living living

BEE GEES - Mr. Natural (RSO):; The last laugh is on you Ringo ringers who 'have heaped and variously otherwise scorned upon the Bees because of their image-^and overt giggles. This is the best album for downright listening that I�ve heard since Roxy Music�s third. B.S.

B.S.

BAREFOOT JERRY - Watchin� TV (Monument):: This is the third album of this absolute test pattern city-country band of exact note pickers. Each of the three albums has been superb and of a 'distinctly higher commission. * ..

higher

WHITE WITCH (Capricorn):: I really don�t know what to make of this album, It is screech variety upon first listening and appears to be designed to turn you on to Jesus or some other method of getting high. Those of you who aren�t too crusted are just bound to like it. Maybe a lot. B.S.

B.S.

RY COODER — Paradise and Lunch (Warner Bros.):: Ry Cooder, oh the other hand*, ain't about to eat your lunch or your paradise. Eventually (maybe now, what with Maria, Pointers, et at) old time excellence will, have its day, and you may listen to real superstar. Goofus. *• B.S.

B.S.

VARIOUS — Muleskinner (Warner Bros.):: The Boston-Marin County country bunch for lunch mob strikes again, but this time an �all-star� crew (Richard Greene, Clarence White, etc.) do alright by bluegrass. A little more personality would�ve made this �un a' dandy, in fact. A.M.

�un a' A.M.

MAHAVISHNU ORCHESTRA - Apocalypse (Columbia):: Gettin� back to da roots British muzak style. A boring soundtrack for what was probably a very du% movie in Guitar John�s mind. A.M.

A.M.

BETTY EVERETT - Love Rhymes (Fantasy):: The ol� �Shoop Shoop Song� lady captured in her most schizoid setting yet. The glossy, upbeat Aretha-isms lack real punch, but the jazzy^ blue ballads a la Dinah Washington are great. Absolutely ciassicjpefsion of Charlie Rich�s �Who Will The Next Fool Be� almost worth price of Ip. A.M.

A.M.

HARRIET' SCHOCK - Hollywood Town (20th Century):: Low-keyed, pretty voiced singer-songwriter (straight pop division) that has a way with storyline cliches. Weakness: hooklines. Strengths JLbelievability of songs and performances, Recommendation: Good for late night listening and rainy days. A.M.

A.M.

BILLY "CRASH� CRADDOCK - Rub It In (ABC/Dunhill):;A once-proud rockabilly gone to seed. Tsk, tsk, Billy should leave schlock country to the Loretta Lynns of the world, and get back to chugalugging. There might not have been much mullah in it, but at least his records were Ustenable. A.M.

A.M.

XAVIERA HOLLANDER - Xaviera! MHidomo):: Penthouse's Happy (looker waxes erotic * the ads tell ya all ya have to know; Xaviera! is definitely? a no-no for.children, moralizers and tenants with thin walls... The segments include �My 'Attitude Towards Sex,� �Telephone Conversation� (so this is wherej Lou Reed gets his songs!), �Michelle,� �The Threesome,� �Why Do Men Go To Hookers,� �The Hippie,� �TheQbeStion� and �The Bar Scene.* � In the grand tradition of Knockers Up and The Sensuous Woman, this one�s for wankos only. I P

I P

DON WILLIAMS - Volume II (J,M.):: Not everyone�s into Nashville' space, bht if ya�Ii can get behind % little Cash or pasteurized Krisfoffejson you Jrhighit just dig Williams, a man undeniably voiced in country tear-jerk. I He�s ,a sagebrush Texas sod-buster not long out of the saddle, so catch him while he�s still warm, before Nashviile pfogjfamming sets in.

F.M.

RAY STEVENS — Boogity, Boogity (Barnahy);: �The Streak� was one of the most unlistenable novelty. jingles to peak since �Sukiyaki� and �Tiny Bubbles.� And now the man digs up a whole album of similar mediocre trivia. There�s a parody of The Midnight Special and Wolffnan Jerk called �The Moonlight Special� that is esp. poor and a waste of time; also, a Martin Mull imitative spoof called �Bridget the Midget (The Queen of the Blues).� There�s even a re-hash of the ole Freddie Feelgood bif. If �Ahab the Arab� had never made it big, this asshole would�ve gone to novelty heaven with Yogi Yorgesson and; Pigpen, Crown Ray Stevens the King of Diarrhea Fluff.

R.A.H.

JIMMY CASTOR (The Everything Man) And The Jimmy Castor Bunch (Atlantic):: Outasite, baby, with an absolutely right-on inter-

pretation of �Walk on the Wild Side� that makes Lou Reid sound like Andy Williams. The new �Troglodyte� (silly bubble-gum scuzz in the trad, of Johnny Thunder�s �I�m Alive�) take-off is �The Everything. Man� which lacks the spark of the Butt Sisters� beaver shots. The reason is that slick Jimmy, has got real smooth in his habits and can�t explode no� mo�. Show yr white pearly chompers, Jim, and grin wide for de folks.

folks. R.A.H.

Chicago — VII (Columbia):: After getting that tongue lashing from Chicago on their last album, I decided to approach this new effort with a full appreciation of their seriousness of purpose. I listened hard and with all possible respect for their work. They�ve hit their stride. Maybe two songs on a two record album. No more, R.G.H.

R.G.H.

THE GENE PRICE COUNTRY EXPRESS (The V.S. Army Recruiting Command):: �This is Gene Price for Today�s Army!� And whatta collection! This be a two-record set of softie country schlock like �On the Cover of the Music City News� by Buck Owens and Charlie Rich tearjerkers. That�s 24 songs and 94 minutes? of powerhouse music all sandwiched between some snotbrain DJ promoting the Action Army after each cut. Better than any bargain you�re apt to find on the tube, though. K-Tel and Telehouse should use Wilson Pickett, Trini Lopez, Chubby Checker, or Hans Conried to gyp the southern market with this one? However,, mainly it�s a promo album for radio stations to play at two in the morning to goof the speedfreaks into joining up. Hitler returns incognito. R. A.H.

R. A.H.

JERRY GARCIA — Compliments of Garcia Round .Records);,ROBERT HUNTER -Tales of the Great Rum Runners (Round Records):: Ain�t it cute?! Get about 200 sessionmen dupes together, load em up with booze, play em Grace Slick�s Manhole and then torture their sanity with re-runs of Hazel til you got em playing screwy John Denver acoustic rip-offs. That�s these two discs in a nutshell.list of instruments include: bagpipes, guido, cowbells, E flat clarinet, and LOTSA STRINGS!! It�s all worthless tripe cuz they stink like potheads and are so bored that the only hip doll chick they can find to bail is Maria Muidaur. In the infamous words of John Sebastian, �Yeah, whaddaya want, Sgt. Pepper or something?� Anyway, studerrts will lap it up. R.A.H.

R.A.H.

RIOT —,Welcome to the World Of (Motown):: Yipes, the vibrant sound of Joe Cuba and Santana -battling it out in the twilight zone. One track, �Put Your Gun Down Brother,� is straight ahead muzak for the local boutique scene, man. This scum is for drunk one-legged strippers. R.H.

is for R.H.

STEVEN GROSSMAN - Caravan Tonight (Mercury):: Just what the world needs: a teenage-Merle'Miiier. - L.B.

L.B.

This month�s rockaramas were written by Robert G. Houghton, Buck Sanders, Lou Papineau, Robot A. Hull, Andy McKaie, Frank McMartin, and Lester Bangs. Unsolicited contributions to this column are encouraged.