BAD COMPANY Straight Shooter (Swan Song)

Bad Company was conceived by a collection of musical misfits. Paul Rodgers and Simon Kirke from Free, Mick Ralphsfrom Mott, and Boz Burrell from King Crimson were dulled with discontent and bored with their respective bands. They all needed a new lease on life, and wanted a stab at surmounting the rock mediocrity that the seventies had spawned so far. Like a rock version of The Towering Inferno, this star studded cast had more than an even chance with a rat-shrewd manager like Peter Grant, and Swan Song’s high voltage VP, Danny Goldberg behind them, their eyes cocked on success. Unfortunately this notorious lineup was burdened with the tag of supergroup, when all they wanted was acceptance as a new band, losing their past that dragged behind them like an ugly shadow. They didn’t have to worry for long, their first gigs in early June of last year were smashes, their popularity blazing like summer sparklers. It was as if Bad Company were a candle that had suddenly flashed incandescent. Whether it was accident or design, this hybrid band was becoming known as the great white hope of the seventies.

What was the secret of their rapid rise? Hardly an overnight success, since,all four were veterans of the music machine. The way Mick Ralphs explains it: “People needed a band like ours. At the time there wasn’t anybody doing what we were. Everybody was too much into theatrics. It y i was getting a bit sour, so we came in-as a complete opposite to that.”

Bad Company had no inclination toward progressive rock, shunning sophisticated recording techniques, and any mascaraed gimmickry. Instead the band has the look of that scruffy archetypical British rock musician who invaded the States during the summer of 1967. In fact, their sound is reminiscent of the traditional, first generation British R&B. A portion of the band’s success lies in their ability' to recreate some of , the lost essence of rock; that vitality that the Animals, the Yardbirds, and the Who possessed.

Bad Company’s sound was rock and roll at its most formulaic, as predictable as multiplication tables. They have a love of heavy metal and intend to enjoy themselves. “That’s what we’re in it for,” states Ralphs. They apply the rare quality of economy in their music. Spontaneous and simple, where no one instrument dominates. Bad Co. are a band by the strictest definition, ' they have an even, overall sound, resulting from a balanced blend of the four instead of being a sideshow to showcase a stable of stars. Though they profess that there are no stars, Paul Rodgers’ vocals communicate at least the assurance of a superstar, if not the unique personality; but at no time does he attempt to overwhelm the rest of the band. The guitar playing is short and to the point, underlined by the unobtrusive drive of the rhythm team. They carefully balance even the high energy tunes to avoid any messy overkill.

Bad Company are usually commended on their unique phrasing, and one writer has explained it like this: “It’s not how many notes that they cram in a bar that impresses, but the spaces in between.” And, oh, mama, those lusty pauses and intimate interludes that Paul Rodgers renders make you envy his mikestand. Basically, their sound and success relies on interdependence. The band have excellent communication among the members. Ralphs explains the relationship as “a crisscross. We’re all dependent on the other, and with Paul being such an emotional singer, he’s sort of unpredictable, so we have to watch him closely in case we suddenly have to improvise...To be a good musician and guitarist, you have to play in sympathy with the singer and the other musicians in the band and complement r what they’re doing.”

The rock marketplace was all mouth, eager to drink of this heavy metal music, as if it were a tonic. Mass acceptance pulsed from city to city spreading like a terrestrial amoeba. New ears pricked with interest, while those same eager faces, pill-blurry and left over from the last Rod Stewart concert, followed Bad Company’s every motion like a metronome' The capricious and the curious flocked to the concerts, as if they expected to see a three-toed hermaphrodite swimming in vinegar. Bad Company were unofficially the new tinsel god-things.

This was all a surprise to the band; they were still babes in the bed of budding success. They hadn’t let any boa feathers imbed themselves in their brain plates, and they took care to pick the sequins out of their teeth. They were unaffected by their popularity. These guys had been around long enough, and were level headed enough to know that a vinyl accomplishment, and a Billboard bullet can melt like jello. Bad Company isn’t ready to lounge on a damask divan, biting into bon-bons—they’d rather work. They’re still a gigging band, admit they are quite pleased with their first album, and love touring. Paul wrote “Shooting Star” (the only non-love song on Straight Shooter) on a plane. The band rehearsed it in the dressing room, and played it that night. This band has drive, the kind that produces gold albums, as both their records have reached that status.

Straight Shooter is a more varied and polished version of their stage show. The almost nonexistence of overdubbing, and the lack of electronic devices, gives the album a near live sound. The songs are arrogant and studswaggering glimpses of love, in some Merry Olde macho manner: “I’m a sqd man/don’t stand in my way/because baby, I’m a bad man/I’m a man, f got my pride/don’t need no woman to hurt me inside/Good lovin’ gone bad.”

Straight Shooter shows many aspects of love or the lack of it. There are songs of yearning, of lust, of need, of exalted romance, and of non> meaningful relationships. All are delivered in the now characteristic style Bad Co. has claimed. No phony posturing or any social commentary. It’s just dirty rock and roll, unadorned and simplistic, punctuated by Ralphs’ excellent repetitive guitar work which seems to lend a familiarity to all the cuts.

The lyrics are comfortable and accessible, and some are almost autobiographical. It’s easy to form an emotional affinity with Bad Company, because their lives become intertwined with the lives of the listeners.

Their music is erotic with none of the euphemistic suggestiveness of the Motown School of Sex. Thankfully, Bad Company are refreshingly pedestrian, without class, principles, or pretensions., They know what they want and how to get it. What they’ve got, currently, is two gold records, another American tour—presiding as headliners—and the ability to straddle both the AM and FM markets with their heavy metal singles, proving that they can please all of the people all of the time. So far.

KISS Dressed to Kill (Casablanca)

“C’mon and Love Me." “Rock and Roll All Nite.” “Rock Bottom.” “Anything for My Baby.” “Room Service.” The song titles on Kiss’ latest set read as though they were taken directly from a list of suggested topic phrases for the first essay of the term in Rock Criticism 101. Nonetheless, I rather doubt that the august instructor of RC 101 will choose Kiss’ works as his text, as Kiss have yet to inspire wholehearted critical acceptance.

' Each Kiss review I’ve seen so far has grudg. ingly acknowledged the impressive visceral thrills of Kiss’ riffing (they wield the true stun guitars of r’n’r), while at the same time withholding that kiss of, rockliterary approval that, Casablanca’s ad department so badly needs. The only substantive complaint I’ve been able to identify, in all this approach-avoidance toward Kiss is that kids like them! Uh-huh. I thought Grand Funk had cured us of such condescension forever.

What everybody, even the messianic great gatsbys panting for the New Beatles, has seemed to miss, is that Kiss are the authentic Punks of 1975. Nope, they don’t play “Louie, Louie,” and they don’t wear polkadot shirts, and this ain’t 1966, baby. But Kiss do fit the classic definition of punk rock: provincial American reinterpretation of the reigning stylistic establishment.

Kiss’ avidly-discussed clothing and makeup are the real tipoff to their punkishness: their rigidly stylized leathers represent nothing more sex role-challenging than the immemorial game of keeping up with the English. (Ace Frehley is to Overend Watts what Jim. Sohns was to Brian Jones.) Even Kiss’ unvarying whitefaces are not street-theatre snobbery as much as they are earlyBeatle identity-interchangeability. (Speaking of which, how come drummer Peter Criss got stuck with the pooch face? Are we to believe he’s another bozo in the Ringo Starr tradition? Seems to be some kind of instrumental racism going down in Our Music.)

Punkishness is hardly a sine qua non of record choice today (yeh, that spasm’s over with too), but for those of you who weren’t yet rock-conscious in 1966, picking up on Kiss will give you some impression of how the Standells were •, regarded in their own time. I saw Valentino & co. live at the Cincinnati Zoo that golden summer, but, was only half-excited, as they weren’t the teen dictators of the day (i.e., not English). Prophets w/o honor... .

Not only that, but if you pass up Kiss now, you’ll be paying $20 or more for their records when they finally become retroactively fashion? able in the pages of The Rock Marketplace in 1985. Now’s your chance to get in on the ground floor of the Next Big Undiscovered Thing. Rumors abound that twq versions of the first album exist...

Richard Riegel

IAN HUNTER (Columbia)

On Brain Capers, the last great Mott album (containing songs like “Death May Be Your Santa Claus” and “Sweet Angeline”), Ian Hunter was able to pull off a feat unparalleled in modem rock; making the record Bob Dylan would’ve made had he died on that motorcycle. Then, as Dylan discovered country pie, Mott the Hoople found David Bowie. That “All the Young Dudes” didn’t enable Hunter, Ralphs and Co. to loiter all winter in St. Tropez was at least Mott’s fault as much as anyone’s: they spent so much time denying the Bowie-glitter connection that they derailed their own bandwagon. Maybe they were afraid people would think them homos.

This leather band with a death wish and soft heart possessed a peculiar ability to make songs that sounded like hits, but which could never be hits—at least on American radio. As “All the Way from Memphis,” “Roll Away the Stone” and “Honaloochie Boogie” fell from the charts barely penetrating the top fifty, so did Mott’s dreams of final chakra superstardom. Ian Hunter even wrote a tour book called Diaiy of A Rock Star, which did as well as Mott’s singles in America, since Hunter—awful truth—was never really a superstar. /

I’d enjoyed some of Mott the Hoople’s moments enough to hope that the reason for their failure was some peculiarity of chemistry among the band’s members. (Remember how we gloated at that foolish Mick Ralphs for leaving Mott just before the big break was certain to come, as he joined that new configuration that hardly stood a chance—Bad Co?) But despite the enticing possibilities indicated by Hunter teaming up with Mick Ronson (sorry now you didn’t stay a dude, Ian?), the only reason I keep playing this album is a kind of morbid curiosity. It’s not that this is a bad album, just a useless one.

There are some memorable fragments. They are: “The truth, the whole truth, nothin’ but the truth,” “I get so excited...I get so excited,” and most of the lead sqng, “Once Bitten Twice Shy.” The rest of the album consists of Ian Hunter’s two dominant songwriting motifs, which are “Fast” and “Slow,” though there are occasional excursions into the realm of “Medium Tempo” as well. The slower tunes are especially baffling, in that they seem to be sensitive and introspective, but are rarely well enough focused for us to empathize with their composer-singer’s most pressing obsession. Which is: how can I keep from ending up like Micky Dolenz five years from now?

Wayne Robins

RICK DERRINGER Spring Fever (Blue Sky)

Nary an infectious rocker can Derringer wheedle out of his latest plastic paradox, Spring Fever. Affiliated with Steve Paul and Proteges (the Winter brothers, especially Edgar), Rick’s still striving for a dynamite rock sound under the guise of self-delusory superstardom, drawing from the technical abilities of drummer John Siomos and bassist John Siegler, as well as moogsax-piano tracks by Edgar Winter. Even Chick Corea, Johnny Winter, and Dolly Davy Johansen cameo on Derringer’s latest, but all the biggies in showbiz can’t ameliorate an artocity.

' Ever since 1 compared Johnny Winter’s “Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo” to Derringer’s (on All American Boy), I’ve had my reservations about Rick’s abilities as a rocker I detest third-rate renditions of first-rate original material. Derringer can write well, but regardless who wrote it, if another performer conveys a song better, stands to reason good enough should be left alone (Derringer’s compositions, in this case), anjl not reclaimed by the composer to mangle. I also prefer Johnny’s febrile “Roll With Me” to Rick’s feeble version. Most despicable hook to Spring Fever, though, has to be “Hang On Sloopy,” almost an exact copy of the oldie hit with an almost indiscernible syncopation, slightly reggae, and a steel drum section (cf. Bryan Ferry doing Sam Cooke’s classic “Wonderful World”).

Spring Fever, condensed: “Don’t Ever Say Goodbye” opens like “Moonlight Mile” (muted, coked-out, introspective tone) with world-weary lyrics (“Here 1 go again singing the same old song, Some folks think it’s all been said before ...”), deceptive because it’s a hearts-and-flowers entreaty instead of a Jaded Rock ‘n’ Roller Syndrome kvetch. However, “Still Alive and Well” is a farce, letting us know that “even though it’s getting hard to tell” and his idols are now six feet under, Rick’s still hearty and hot and living his rock ‘n’ rofl. Hmmm . . . most impressive element of Derringer’s version is Edgar’s sax work. Ohter than that, come on. Really, Rick - leave well enough alone. Same goes for “Rock,” a track ruined by apatheia and humbrum verse (“... put on my red-hot sox and razor shoes,” “Spin ’round and ’round like a hurricane,” etc.) and an intro that sounds like a .washed-out swipe from “The Love’s Still Growing” ’ la Carly Simon. ‘Course that doesn’t mean the cut can’t “Rock,” but the tone’s too soporific to take seriously. Ditto for “Walkin’ The Dog,” more accurately entitled “Lugubria Incarnate.”

“He Needs Some Answers” and “Skyscraper Blues” manage to transcend tedium, the former sounding like a Led Zep, Lou Reed, David Bowie crossbreed (imagine ... the pastiche to outdo all, theoretically). “Skyscraper Blues” is right out of the standard blues idiom, featuring Davy Johansen on harp (“electric harmonica,” acc. to credits), Johnny Winter on slide, Edgar on piano, and a message simple as “Livin’ in New York City, 1 got the country in my bones...” inspiring a Back-toEarth yearning on account of city filth and claustrophobia. Though “Skyscraper Blues” is the album’s most enjoyable departure, it bothers me (theoretically) that city dwellers have to take this Granola flack from commercial provincialists like Derringer - who doesn’t seem to give a shit about musical growth in Rock unless he can get his twocent embellishments in and emerge a STAR in one form or another, letting' artistry take a back seat, whether it’s a question of making it on his own efforts (as a composer, perhaps; as an interpreter, never) or through his associations with Johnny and Edgar Winter.

In short, Rick Derringer proves himself an ineffectual rock ‘n’ roll diehard with loyal buddies on his most recent release. I’ll take Jellybeanitis over Spring Fever anytime. Rather be delirious than diseased . . .

Trixie A. Balm

HAYWARD & LODGE , Blue Jays (Threshold)

I hunger. I wait in silence in the fetid caves far beneath the earth. I chew stalagtites and spit them out, the taste sucked out like a cheap popsicle. I eat and am unsatisfied. I drink hot lava, chew poisonous mosses, gnaw the bones of powerful subterranean mammals, and am unsatisfied. It is not hunger fpr food that announces itself in my .abdomen. I have eaten heartily with both body and soul and remain hungry. I reject art, Christ, macrobiotics, philosophy, and television. Deep in my heart is a Moody Bluesshaped vacuum.

I hear. I hear music faintly from far above. I hear the violins flow forth from loudspeakers like syrup. I hear lyrics that make the Strawbs sound like Yeats. My gelatine mass shakes with delight. The Moody Blues! I work my way slowly upward through the dim passageways. The music becomes louder.

I turn the last corner and find Justin Hayward & John Lodge. I stop only momentarily, then begin to eat. It is not the Moody Blues, but it tastes the same. The goo sticks to my tentacles as I absorb them. They are almost too sweet to stand, but I don’t hesitate till the/last morsel is gone. Soon I am alone in the dank cavern. All looks the same, but my stomach has quieted. I no longer hunger. I wriggle home satiated, but with vague doubts. Will more ex-Moodys release solo albums in time? I don’t want to have to eat Yes.

H.P. Jenkins

THE MANHATTAN TRANSFER (Atlantic)

I can’t just sit down and type out the obvious things about this record, because if I do, everybody will think the galley slaves in CREEM’S composing room fucked up and put the heading for The Manhattan Transfer on top of an old review of Bette Midler’s first LP.

(I mean, the same exact things deserve to be said: this is an album of old jive standards, a little early rock and roll, and an occasional recent original in the mode of one or more of the first two; this is an act which is handled by Aaron Russo; this is an act which deserves to be seen live and that will likely never, and I mean never, be able to do thq same kind of job on record that they can do in person; and this act is not bad at all. See. Just like Bette Midler’s first LP.)

Anyway, this Manhattan Transfer (a name calculated to bring a wry or is it rye smile to the lips of all you John Dos Passos fans) is only distantly , related to the earlier group of the same name that recorded on Capitol (wasn’t it?) and that was either before their time or after the fact. They do smash-up jobs on light, swinging stuff like “Tuxedo Junction,” “You Can Depend On Me,” “Blue Champagne,” and—probably best of all-— “Java Jive.” They’re less successful on things like “Sweet Talking Guy” (I mean, we’ve heard “Leader of the Pack”) and Allen Toussaint’s rather feeble “Occapella.”

Manhattan Transfer is a boy-and-girl group (two of each) that works with a big band and sometimes with strings. One of the girls, Laurel Masse , is enough to make grown men cry with lust and sad longing (this grown man, anyway), but that part doesn’t come across on record ejther. The big band part does, though. It adds a certain ironic authenticity to most of the proceedings.

Ah, but there’s the problem: it’s hard to tell— even in person, but particularity on vinyl—just how seriously Manhattan Transfer take their material. If it’s dead seriously, they’re in trouble, ’cause who wants to hear them do “Java Jive” when you can just as easily listen to it by the fucking Mills Brothers? If it’s riot seriously at all, then why are they dealing with it? It’s not comic material, and it’s not played comically. All right, then. Somewhere in between? Bemused affection? Confused inflection? It’s hard to tell, and I think that’s one problem the group is going to have. They’ve got the voices and they’ve certainly got the tone. Now what they have to get down is the tone of voice.

Colman Andrews

DAVE CLARK FIVE Glad All Over Again (Epic)

From the party-pink cover pic with paint splotches to the re-ordering of cuts in MONO, this compilation of DC5 stompers represents one of the most hypnotic, frenzied workouts since Raw Power. This collection of hits marks an attempt, in other words, to flash an image of true DC5mania, respecting the trashy nature of their thudthud sound. It’s a landmark in that it’s the only DC5 album of hits which is Untenable in its entirety (well, sides one and two are great). Side three is structured around the idea that these were re-workings of R&B classics (like Chris Kenner’s “I Like It Like That”), and side four is a mishmash of “rarities.”

The drive, j though, being a wholehog DC5 fanatic, is that the first two sides BLOW YR MIND (in no nostalgic fashion to be sure). The DC5 cultist who screams his throat hoarse when “Any Way You Want It” booms from his hi-fi, in echoing multilayered fashion (best super effects of all-time next to “Whole Lotta Love”), who sniffles like a lost pup when he hears a tearjerker like “Come Home” (featuring the dumbest bass notes in the entire history of the British Invasion), ana who practically swoons at the first destructo pounding of the skins on “Glad All Over" (“Ah’m feelin’ (PLOP PLOP!) glad ahhll ovah...”), is no mere dingo nut trapped in his childhood era,j clutching the innocent dreams of his fanciful youth, but just the opposite: HE’S A VISIONARY! To appreciate fully the monstrously wild spirit of this band, absolutely beating their chords into pulp, is to understand somewhat the nature of MANIA IN ROCK, and how it can lead to complete idolization by fans (mobbing teenagers and other nauseating assortments).

Next, link this with the same support Led Zep is getting in the 70’s, and the DC5 reflect not only a transceridance of their own crassness (their inability to cope with musicianship, for instance) but also a projection away from mere stereotyping (like lumping them with just jbther midsixties British bands dishing out hits) into a awareness that these guys filled a gap desperately needed to run a course parallel with the Beatles: get it, the DC5 paved tKe way for the Seeds paved the way for the Stooges, etc. Without the maniacalmindlessnessof the DC5, then, the Beatlie imitators would hold the fort. As it stands, trash is here to stay, and the strongest evidence of this fact is that the DC5 can constantly be repackaged and sold, relying upon fandom for their timelessness. Millions loved em, crazy kids ripped ’em apart after their concerts, and in the summer of 75, it’s safe to say: THEY NEVER SOUNDED BETTER!!

Robot A. Hull