BOB DYLAN AND THE BAND

The Basement Tapes

(Columbia)

Okay, here's where it comes from: Dylan had just finished a long tour of the U.S. and Europe with the Hawks. Not long after Blonde on Blonde was released, Bob had a bad cycle accident. Several neck vertebrae were broken, his face was cut up some. The accident was in August 1966, and Bob virtually disappeared from the public eye for a long time. The Hawks (soon to be known as the Band) also moved to Woodstock, rented a pjnk house and started putting together material for their first album. These tapes were made a year later—from summer to fall of 1967. In a way it was Bob's reentry to music—not long after this, John WesleyiHarding was recorded and released—the first public effort in a year and a half. In the meantime, though, Bob had been writing songs, and these tapes served as demos for others to work from. The Byrds did "You Ain't Going Nowhere," fManfred Mann did "The Mighty Quinn" (from these sessions, but not included on this set), Peter Paul and Mary did "Too Much Of Nothing," etc. Copies of the tape circulated in the music world, and more copies were made—and eventually much of thjs material turned up on bootleg LPs.

On this official release the sound is cleaned up a bit; tape hiss filtered,, some compression used to sharpen vocals—but the dry room sound of the originals has given way to the tinnier, more sibilant sound of reprocessed stereo. There has also been a tiny bit of overdubbing; not so much to sweeten as to just season a bit. Things like an added acoustic guitar on the intro of "Wheels On Fire"" (the front was ragged, the guitar pulls it together), or a few bars of drum added on the end of "Apple Suckling Tree" (which ended abruptly on the original tgipe). In other words, not really tampering with the myth, just making it a bit more accessible "—it's -basically the same as what went down eight years ago.

The Band has eight tracks of their own here—possible tunes for their debut album. For me this was them at their, best—full of drive and 'energy, with twisting and twining Vocal harmonies^ and a reckless^ edge that later was smoothed completely out. The Band is trying styles here; "Orange Juice Blues" is an easy rocker that could've been a regular bar song, "Katie's Been Gone" is a wistful lost-love ballad. There are several from the American-folk-myth area that Robbie mined so well later, like "Ruben Rertius" (with convoluted lyrics and feast of characters), and the almost a capella "Ain't N o More Cane. " But for me the kicker is hard-driving bluesy tracks like "Yazoo Street Scandal" and "Long Distance Operator." Robbie was an ass-kicking blues guitar player—and these tracks have a fire hnd nasty edge that have only been hinted at in later work.

Behind Bob on the other 16 tracks the band gives strong instrumental support, and adds frequent harmony vocals. Bob's voice is a mixture of the cosmic space-out of Blonde On Blonde and the warmth of Nashville Skyline; there's both passion and irony here.

Some of the songs are "serious," others are playful, some biting. Here Bob explores both country and rock styles, with occasional apocalyptic edges. "Odds and Ends" is a straightforward rocker with a Beatlelike guitar intro ("Ticket To Ride," maybe?). "Apple Suckling Tree" could've been an updated folk song, but it ain't. Both "Yea Heavy and A Bottle Of Bread" and "Tiny Montgomery" are surreal free-association word games, full of Fellini feels (check the inside liner photo). "Lo and Behold" has infectious melody lines and cowboy saga, Daliesque lyrics.

Several songs have a raunch and funkiness that verge on leering; "If I walk too much farther my crane's gonna leak" ("Please Mrs. Henry"), "Tomorrow's the day my bride's gonna come" ("You Ain't Going Nowhere").

But if there's play there's also des-' pair here; "Going To Acapulco"', —a previously unheard going-crossborder-ball-the-whores song, has an almost depressing chorus of "Going to have some fun"—there's desperation there. A potent line: "If someone offers a joke I always say no thanks/I try to tell it like it is, and stay away from tranks," Dylan also explores the darker side in songs like the classic "Tears Of Rage"—done here with an aching vocal and harmonies that sear your soul. "This Wheel's On Fire" is another classic, with almost perfect dynamics, passion and intensity. The Band included both on their LP, but these versions cut deeper.

My favorites of the "up" songs are "Clothesline Saga," a deadpan take-off on "Ode to Billy Joe" with mixture of boring details and "Downtown." "When?" "Last night." "Hummm...well that's too bad." Another nice country tinged cut is "Down In The Flood" with its chorus—"Oh mama, ain't you gonna miss your best friend now/ You're gonna have to. find yourself a new best friend somehow."

In total, a collection of some unimportant but fun tracks, some rollicking raunch, and some songs that convey Dylan's sense of mystery and irony in the passion and involvement of life. Eight years ain't really that long ago, and I guess we're all still working on some of the same questions these songs explore.

Dylan and TheBand, at work and, play—nice to share it again.

THETROGGS

(Pye Records)

I don't know about anybody else, but this is one I've been waiting for ever since I caught Reg Presley, 20 pounds overweight and stuffed into black leather, wallowing onstage on Bowie's TV special. Whatever your expectations—if you saw the show or merely remember the Troggs as one of the most preposterous incarnations of teenage lust frorrrthe 60s -Mhis new album ought to satisfy your curiosity. Yes, rock & roll can be this hilarious and devastating at the very same time.

Any half-assed aficionado knows the Troggs" "Wild Thing" and "I Can't Control Myself" virtually wrote the pamphlet on drooling leer-rock of the punk-swagger school. The surprise is that ten years later they're not only able, but more than casually committed to that musical outlook. It's a matter of perspective; neither age nor the changing colors of* the pop landscape can deter Presley from his task. What more could one ask; a rough, breathy "Peggy Sue," totally irrelevant covers of "Memphis" and : "No Particular Place To Go," a grossly overread "Satisfaction." Presley's hot-blooded reading of the overtly lascivious "Good Vibrations" is a stylistic tour de force and the. original "Summertime" ("I like the summertime when the girls wear their dresses SQ low you can see the sun on their t-t-t-t...tanned skin") equals "Wild Thing" itself.

"Wild Thing" gets a second chance; if it's a little less urgent -75 style, the lustful call-response between Presley on vocals and the guitarist is as great as the ManitobaShemoff trade-offs in "I Got You Babe." Like the Dictators, it doesn't even matter that the Troggs are fully cognizant of what they're up to (the late Lizard King himself may have known how ludicrous the Doors Were and who's to say Maestro Barry White isn't laughing up his thick sleeve with every baton pass?). Records as convincingly brazen and ridiculous as this don't show up every day and they obviously say a lot to a certain audience. You know who you are. Enjoy.

Gene Sculatti

RONWOOD

Now Look

(Warner Bros.)

Figures. Soon as Ron Wood's new elpee got airplay, this deejay starts gushing, "And Keith Richard plays on a few cuts..." which demonstrates that Ability Ain't Enuff in rock anymore cause you gotta have friends or a gimmick or a name or a pretty face to carve a njche these days. Duespaying used to matter most; not it's all-right-guys-let'selbdwrub at vinyl pressing time.

An utter shame in Woody's.case. Here's an unsung impeccable bloozy raunch guitar great ever since he joined the Sma|l Faces on the rebound in "69, after getting the boot from Beck—a blessing in disguise, for bassplaying wasn't Ronnie Wood's passion. Follqwing suit, Rod Stewart joined the Faces—-only to become a focal sot/vocalist with solo commitments and a comparatively faceless backup cre'w when it came to their fair share of limelight and press coverage,

Six years musical growth subsequent, Ronnie Wood's on the rise. Parading his prowess first with the solo eyebrow-raiser of "74, / Got My Own Album to Do. Second time around, Ronnie surpasses tys solo debut with Noy Look, a transatlantic genre hop that fuses American Soul (Bobby Womack on subordinate vocals and guitar, drummer Andy Newmark, bassist Willie Weeks) with Anglorock (Keith Richard and Faces Ian MacLagan, Kenny Jones), playing up Woody's simplistic sublimity. Funkierthan My Own Album by far, partially due to Womack"^ influence, Now Look resounds with traditional R&B lament themes (infidelity, lost love, the whole slew...) in "I Got Lost When I Found You," "If You Don't Want My Love," "I Can't Stand the Rain," stressing Woody's emotional vulnerability,1 real or feigned. With unwonted vocal bravado, Woody rasps steady elpeelong, bolstered by Richard/Womack backup vocals and, on "It's Unholy," "I Can Say She's Allright," "Big Bayou," elec-trie slide ferocity.

Now Look is as engagingly vibrant as 47 minutes of unrestrained eclectic wonderment can get, but can— will—it snag Ron Wood long-deserved mass acclaim? Or will his stature still be determined by Facedom and surrogate Stones gigs? Don't look at me—I ain't no hip FM deejay.

Trixie A. Balm

ZZTOP

Fandango

(London)

That Little Ole Band From Texas now delivers their first album as fullfledged stars. Those^of you slinking around at David Bowie press parties and wondering where the STP is may not realize it, but this threepiecer is incredibly popular in. some sections of the country, mostly the parts in which concert halls are filled with liquor-addled dopesoaks, who keep missing when told to put they hands tagetha. The guitar prowess of Billy Gibbons vis-a-vis a Marc Bolan, say, is cause for perceptive debate at these joints ("Y'all fulla sheyit!" "Go hump a turtle!"), dnd most patrons are struck with the profundity of the opening line&'^on the live side of this album: "Get high, everybody, get high!"

The point that many seem to be missing is that there is nothing intrinsically swrong with all this. The best bluesmen are hardly virtuosi: they simply stake out a limited musical territory and explore as much as possible while remaining true to it. The scrunchy sound of Z Z Top is greasy on purpose, Viot out of incompetence, and like few other bands, Z Z delivers what it promises: a roarirtg good time, albeit one that pales with fading boozebuzz.

Half of this album is recorded live at New Orleans" Warehouse, a rough joint that appreciates the karrnic sound of the word "boogie." I have heard the band play better live, and I'm sure most Z Z Top fans will be slightly disappointed at the Get Down level of the "Back Door Medley," the best part of which is some vocal tikkatikking performed to a persistent drum beat.

Most will be far more enamored of the studio side of this record and the remarkable changes it produces wheni heard in tandem with Side One. Gone is the rough edge and kamikaze presence of Z Z on stage, back is the intricate guitar work and faithful adherence to the simple constructions of ZZ's music. Billy Gibbons is quite a guitarist, though he could play anything here with one hand tied behind his back. It sharply points out the reason that many Toppers have been mystified with the way the band could kill them daid on stage,' yet sound so sanitized and ...respectable in the studio! If you like the band anyway, you'll find nothing wrong with TexMex meaners like "Tush" and "Heard It On The Ex" (Texas Radio & The Big Beat? Is this it?), and if a song called "Nasty Dogs & Funky Kings" doesn't turn you off with title alone, there's a good chanGe you'll enjoy the entire LP, especially if used as Muzak for your next Irish Whiskey "n" Brandy party. Don't knock it until you've tried it.

„ Tom Dupree

THE ERIC BURDON BAND

I STOP I

THE ERIC BURDON BAND

Stop

(Capitol)

Ever the compulsive protean, Eric Burdon seems almost embarrassed by whatever critical and popular successes his recent Sun Secrets enjoyed, as though ready acclaim was a violation of the narrow duespaying odyssey of The Blues he has imposed on his career. Sun Secrets was a highly accessible album, even coming as it did after Burdon's three-year layoff from recording, accessible from the mainstream (if supercharged) rhythm & blues sound to the four old Animals standards to the Norman Seeff photogenics of the cover (for once Burdon looked as big as his voice).

On Stop, Burdon has partially dismissed his carefully-drilled Aalon/ Rice/Taylor power trio, stars of Sun Secrets as well as of his recent tour (perhaps the best group of instrumentalists Burdon's authoritarian vocals have ever dominated), replacing them with the John Sterlingled band of studio musicians who did such fine blueswork on Guilty!, Burdon's last MGM album. Diversionary tactics or not, this bandjuggling has caused no interruption in the hard \discipline of the blues Burdon set for his band on Sun Secrets, and Stop is consistent in metallo-r&b intensity. Even if you swore that you would never listen to an Eric Burdon cut titled "The Man" (yep, it's about what you think it is), the aggressive rhythm is more than a match for the racial polemics and the police sirens therein. ,

The opening cut, "City Boy," the twentieth installment in Burdon's extended autobiography, presents his characteristic themes of urban squalor, racism, and sex as a struggle, themes which color all of Stop. In these days of almost complete racial segregation within music, it's a bit disquieting to discover a white musician who not only is still harping on racial injustice, but also has sufficient oddball charisma to inspire black musicians to share his cranky visions. At thirty-four, it's probably too late for Burdon to become a "Negro" (he says he doesn't want that anymore, anyway) , but he just might make it as a latter-day bliiesmensch, the first member of his English Invasion generation to transcend the limits of his own 1964 roots.

Richard Riegel

BETTY WRIGHT

Danger: High Voltage

\ (Alston)

I sure am glad I got this record. I'd fallen into yet another period of despair over what seemed to happening to music—forgetting once again that the one thing music doesn't need is my worrying about it, since it always seems to take care of itself—and I opened it up absentmindedly and put it on* Never—NEVER!—have I found a more aptly-titled record. Dc not attempt to touch needle to vinyl unless you are ready for some heavy physical exertion. This is old-time party music, music that would be rock and roll if it weren't simultaneously rhythm and blues and soul music too. In fact, I haven't heard simplicity with such power since the early days of Stax.

If you've had a radio on during the past year, you are no doubt aware of "the Miami Sound" which, along, with the Philly sound and a revivified Motown (the Commodores), is in _^he process of making the airwaves worth scanning again. I haven't really had the chance to research the subject as I want (it's hard work, all that dancing!), but this is arguably the finest album to come out of Miami yet.

Side A is probably the most getdown, stompin" lp side anybody has made recently. It starts off with one of those irresistable Miami rhythm riffs backing up some delightfully negligible lyrics about a zodiac party ("Everybody Was Rockjn" ") and just doesn't stop. In fact, I can't imagine which song would make the best single—either "Rockin" " or a blazing revival of a Rascals" song, "Come On Up," or the Toussaint-penned "Shoorah! Shoorah!" which certain^ ■ ly lends itself to being indelibly imprinted on your brain after two spins.

Betty Wright, in case you've missed her, has been recording solo since ^he was 14 ("Girls Can't Do What The Boys Do, - "Clean Up Woman"), and today, at 20, she is a mainstay of the Miami scene. Her voice is young, strong, and full of nuances that can carry any kind of song well, as witness the album's one ballad, a tender song about a girl losing her virginity entitled "Tonight Is The Night."

The arrangements are absolutely no lusher or bigger than they need to be, the material is totally first-rate, Betty Wright is a fantastic singer, the backup (which includes such Miami stars as Little Beaver, Timmy Thomas, Beeny Latimore, and K.C.) is unbelievably strong, and if you've got the dough to buy this album and don't, you deserve the huge hole you're gonna have in your life as a result.

In sum; This album is so hot that I can't believe I've written a whble review of it without a) shortcircuifing my typewriter or b) burning a hole in my desk. Scuse me, I gotta go party.

EdWard

GEORGE McCRAE

OK)

George McCrae and the TK studio hands don't sell songs on his albums, they sell a mood, an am^ bience. Last year's best summer song, McCrae's "Rock Your Baby" was something of an accident. The song was originally intended for his wife Gwen McCrae, butshe couldn't hit all the notes, so it was given to him. It has come to define his style entirely. "Rock Your Baby" featured disco rhythms that were vaguely Latin and vaguely Caribbean, topped with swirling strings and keyboards, McCrae's plaintive voice, and some, falsetto harmonizing. When it came time to make an al\ bum, they simply stretched that formula out another 35 minutes and changed some lyrics.

That it worked at all was a testament to how fresh the approach was to begin with, but even then it was definitely an acquired taste, something to be taken at face value and either enjoyed or not. The best way to describe his most recent effort it to say that it's just like the last one only not quite as good. There are minor variations from song to song—the rhythm track kicks "I Ain't Lyin" " along a little harder, "You Got to Know" offers a taste of shuffle, "Take This Love of Mine" has a particularly committed vocal. There are moments when a McCrae album-is the next best thing to air conditioning. But the formula is not meaty enough to sustain for very long, and he seems more and more a minor talent who is occasionally capable of providing a major pleasure.

Jdhn Morthland

DAVID CASSIDY

The Higher They Climb

The Harder They Fall

_(RCA) _

You have to realize that David Cassidy has been immensely popular (five gold records!) to appreciate the fact that with this album he may be Throwing It All Away of at least so he thinks. And vyhy is he Throwing It All Away? Because he's disillusioned with the ephemeral teen idol status he achieved through the Partridge Family and seeks acceptance on a more "serious" level. You know, like Rick Nelson did.So legitimized here by the presence of such serious folk as exBeach Boy Bruce Johnston (who contributes arrangements, backing vocals, piano, and one song), Carl Wilson, America's Dewey Bunnell, Jim Keltner, Jim Gordon, and Flo and Eddie (?), among others, he has produced an album about love and stardom—a curious juxtaposition that makes me read the two together as narcissism—gained and lost. The record is unoriginal and mild, the only offensive cut being the spoken vignette about a fallen popstar as a broke eind diseased park bench bum. Cassidy sounds like Harry Nilsson (who wrote one of the songs) and the Beach 'Boys (of whose "Darlin" " he does a choppy, totally unnecessary cover). He does "Be^op-A-Lula" to indicate that he remembers his rock "n" roll roots, though he admits quite rightly that he "ain't got nuthin" on Gene Vincent.",

I don't exactly know why Cassidy thinks he is taking big chances. Despite the dramatic title and cover art and the self-consciously self-effacing concept, I don't think he will be losing one fan with this album, but rather is revalidating himself to his legion of (formerly) pre-teen shriekers who are themselves older now and at least attempting to grow up. As for gaining listeners, well, the psychological melodrama is lost on me and this record doesn't indicate that I am missing anything. "

Robert Duncan

JEFFERSON STARSHIP

Red Octopus

RCA)

Grace Slick is as arrogant as Mick Jagger, but probably not as happy. The only white rock and roll queen hasn't come' up with a line like "The human name/Doesn't mean shit to a tree" in years. The most arrogant move she's made in the last two" years, besi^s releasing three unremarkable albums, is saying that she likes Cher Bono.

This may not mean she's unhappy, but it does /mean that she hasn't been living up to her reputation. In interviews she has always combined honesty with humor, pride with censure, what Lester Bangs called "disarming frankness to the point of s^lf-effacement." But as a musician she has been about as enthusiastic as a steel cutter at an auto plant, albeit as hard working. After seven years as a recording artist, she cut her first solo album, Theme From the Movie Manhole. You'd think that it would matter to her that it be consistent, her best effort, something like that. Know what she said about it? "It's a little loose, because we didn't really know what we were doing. Parts of it, though, are very nice."

Not much of a recommendation, but typically candid and lackadaisical. About Red Octopus, she would probably say, "It's a little loose. Marty Balin's backhand we hadn't all played together in a while so we didn't know exactly what we were doing. Parts of it, though, sound a lot like Paul Kantner."

If her reputation for stubbornness had any merit (she once explained it as a personality flaw that made her unfit for the modeling career she left behind to join the Great Society), she would have more songs on this record. If she did, then 9 out of 10 8f the tunes present would not have lyrics like "Let's try to get along with one another, sister and brother, father and mother, all together. " We know these have to be Paul Kantner songs, and that they're really, as Slick said once, the band's "let's-gettogether" songs. Only at the same time she also said that she wrote the band's "sarcastic!" songs. If so, then the only, song on Red Octopus that isn't about love In General, "Fast Buck Freddie," which goes "Hold up a dollar bill/I'll show you it's a fast buck/It's so hard to make that kind of money," must be by the band's accountant.

Buying a Jefferson Starship album is like buying Hamburger Helper. The real basic stuff is for sale in the same store. For synthesizer music, take instead One copy of Innefvisions; for memorable love ballads, take instead one copy of Phoebe Snow; for outtakes from the session work of one of the oldest rock bands, take Metamorphosis.

Because at best, outtakes is all this is. The music on Red Octopus has been in the mental carr since Paul Kantner thought David Crosby was nothing but a harmless dope dealer) at college. And look what they've' done to his song, Ma.

Georgia Christgau

SLEEPER OF THE MONTH

FUGS

Fugs 4, Rounders Score (ESP-Disk)

If nothing else the 1960s brought to the world of pop music extremes; both relevant and just plain absurdist. Of the latter form no group was more practiced than the Fugs. This compilation of the Fugs at their most insane shows the degree of creativity that can be had in the musical experiment that is best known as "getting crazy." Top cuts for strange tastes include "Boobs A Lot," "New Amphetamine Shriek" and "I Couldn't Get High." Something tells me it's all happening at the zoo. I guess it is. This record.

FUGS 4. ROUNDERS SCORE

(Reprintedfrom Cash Box.)

EDGAR WINTER

Jasmine Nightdrehms

(Blue Sky)

With Jasmine Nightdreams Edgar Winter serves up a cornucopia of styles—he manages to gp from Top of the Pops slick to circa-White Trash funk to jazz to discorock ad nauseum, which proves that you could plug this boy in and he'd make a good jukebox, but so what? The different styles always seem to master Edgar, instead of serving as vehicles for whatever he wants to do.

The best cuts on this album are inevitably the ones like "Shuffle Low;" when Edgar steps out of his Perfection Man studio persona and gets raunchy, and the jazzy cuts where his dirty sax playing takes over. On "Shuffle Low" he gives a nice growly vocal which plays against Rick Derringer's roughhewn guitar and Bro" Johnny's slide licks.

Too often, though, Edgar seems intent upon regurgitating various other people's styles whole, ahd hot damn if he doesn't almost pull it off.

But why not just do a cover version of Stevie W."s "Livin" (n the City," for example, and be done with it? Edgar even goes after Elton and throws pff a pop song with just the right quiver of rock W roll melodrama in his voice. And there is the obligatory shuffle into discorock, which can turn anybody into Homogenized Vitamin D.

E.W. uses what is naturally a limited voice to good advantage, and is a flexible singer—he has to be to accommodate the diversity on this disc. He does some passable scat-singing, but it just ain't Ella, honey.

There's nothing wrong with wearing masks like the one sported by Egg on the cover, but let's hope that he sheds a few next time out and leaves the pop impersonations to K-Tel.

Sue Whitall

CHARLES MINGUS

Stormy Weather

(Barnaby)

Mingus is fast becoming the most re-issued jazz artist still working, but jf there's any one package to pick up, it has to be this one. Now about 15 years old, this music has worn extremely well; today, it sounds as vital and free-wheeling as ever, teeming with more ideas than most musicians, jazz or rock, can conjure up in a lifetime.

Both albums, one with a quartet and the other with a 10-piece group, were originally recorded at a time when Mingus was finally securing a foothold, however small and tenuous, in a jazz world that had previously not been too kind to him. His insistence that jazz stay close to its blues/gospel roots, and that it retain a spontaneous feel, no longer seemed so eccentric after a generation of "cool." As a bassist, composer, and a band leader, Mingus was at the peak of his ample powers, and through Tiis workshop passed a Who's Who of 60's jazz musicians— Ted Curson, Dannie Richmond, Booker Ervin, Clark Terry, Charles McPherson, Mai Waldron, Roland Kirk, Jaki Byard, Clifford Jordan, John Handy, and the nonpareil Eric Dolphy.

Dolphy, who repeatedly stressed his concern with approximating the human voice with his bass clarinet and alto sax, is all over both albums. The fruition of his concept is captured on the quartet album, when he and Mingus stage their legendary "musical debate" over Dolphy's decision to leave the workshop. Mingus's bass pleads apd cajoles;. Dolphy remains understanding but firm. "MDM," a 20-minute composition that masterfully weaves together tunes by Mingus, Ellington and Monk, is the highlight of the set by the larger group; it's chock full of soaring, passionate solos and exuberant ensemble playing.

But to single out those two tracks is more to demonstrate depth and contrast than it is to slight anything else from either date. Both records showcase some of Mingus's most dazzling sidemen playing some of his most engaging compositions. And that's saying plenty.

John Morthland

BE-BOP DELUXE

Futurama

(Harvest)

Bill Nelson. What kind of a name is that for a 70's pop star? Shades of Ozzie and Harelip and the days when clean-cut referred to toothpasted moral fibre instead of shiv technique. Nope, if you're gonna keep a name like that, better hide it under something ludicrous and ostentatious like Be-Bop Deluxe.

Of course Nelson isn't a pop star yet, even in this age of self-fulfilling propaganda, but he will be shortly unless deaf and taxis get in the way. You see, he's the first contempo to combine sophisticated conceptual considerations with devastating pyro-technical displays in such a manner as to abolish the imaginary lines between them forever.

Huh? Well, it's Tike this. Nelson comes out of the sophisto-rock School of songwriting (Ferry, Eno, Cale, Harley, etc.) and he's good at it. Occasionally threatening ("I know my way around your throat like a knife"), often romantic and cute at the same time ("We pressed close to the moment/We were Siamese twins in ecstacy/While the company derided me"), but unlike those artists mentioned above, he's also a heavyweight guitarist of the first echelon so he doesn't need to employ people like Phil Manzanera to get his sound across.

Not a little bit. When this guy tears' loose, on cuts like "Between The Worlds" and "Sound Track," he approachesthe Cult's Buck Dharma in terms of power and fluidity and his fellow Be-Boppers play their supportive roles to the hilt. Musical, mebdic metal served up in concise doses for your delectation.

Not much more to say. Nelson sings nicely, a little too nicely, kind of like Pete Frampton with more personality or Freddie Mercury with less affectation. The album was produced by Roy Thomas Baker who does Queen's recorded stuff so you know this is clean, well-organized, and the bass drum thumps your gut good.

So, fine. Nelson isn't hurrying things; he knows his worth. At the same time, he's no self-important brat like Harley; when he sings, "This guitar does not lie," he backs it up. Get the picture?

Michael Davis

MAHOGANY RUSH

Strange Universe

(20th Century)

Rrring!

"Hey, Paul, get the phone, will ya?"

Rrring!

"Kee-rist, 1 always end up doing everything around here. And right in the middle of Midnight Special, too...Hello?...Yeah, this is Franke Marino. Who wants to talk to him?

..."Jimmy? Jimmy who?... J-j-j-jimi?!? The J-jimi? But I thought Y-you were...Well, yeah, Jimi, I'd he the first to agree that You're immortal, b-but...What do you mean, "Quit putzing around with My memory"? (Quick, Paul, get our Canadian-Spadese dictionary' so I can find out what He's talking about!)... Well sure, Jimi, nobody could play guitar exactly like You, but don't

You think my vocals...But Jimi, Noel and Mitch were wh-white too, and..."B-buddy Miles? But he's a joke by how, and besides, he's not even a'Canadian...Y-y-yes, Jimi, yes, Lord, but 1 even play Your "Star-Spangled Banner" in concert now..."P-p-purple Haze? But Jimi, no one likes that d-drug stuff any... "Eric B-b-burdon"! Well, that's what he said, but..."Thanking God and Richard Meltzer in the same breath? Why yes, Jimi, but Meltzer's done so...Yes, Jimi! Yes, Lord! Right away, Jimi!"

Click.

"Nah, Paul, forget the damn dictionary now. Never mind, you (wouldn't believe me if I told you. Now listen, guys, I'll be 20 next month, and it's time 1 outgrew this adolescent fixation with Hendrix. Do you think we could work up "I Shot the Sheriff in time for our next gig?"

Richard Riegel

THE GUESS WHO

Power in the Music

(RCA)

Right off the bat, the one thing you can say for Power in the Music is that it is everything last year's predecessor Flavours wasn't, i.e. a successful assimilation of new gui-" tarist and co-songwriter Dom Troiano into the operating structure of a band well into its second decade. If the new album contains no instant classics like "Dancin" Fool" or "Diggin" Yourself," it is a more than competent album by a group in transition. In its way, Power is as enjoyable as Road Food and only a cut below Artificial Paradise.

Despite the contributions of Troiano, drummer Gerry Peterson and bassist Bill Wallace, the fact remains that the contingencies upon which Guess Who albums must still be judged center around the writing and performing of Burton Cummings, who, while he may have taken on a new co-composer in Troiano, retains a firm hold. That Cummings" considerable melodic skills are underscored by a lyric deftness that enables him (without trying too hard) to be petulant, snide, sincere, frank and embarrassing without ever betraying an innate rock "n" rolLsense, is a Guess Who given. When he's really on—as in "When the Band Was Singin" " (rhyming "Juicy Lucy" with "Watusi," relating some quintessential rock "n" roll rush to his "best buddy") or "Rich World-Poor World"—ypu'fe hard put to come up with a writer as brilliantly idiosyncratic.

"Coors for Sunday" may be entirely pointless or hopelessly obscure* (as obscure as the identity of side two's "Shopping Bag Lady") but it soundsfine, as does the Doobies-ish "Roxanne""cmd "When the Band Was Singin"," a history-of-the-band narrative as literal as any of Ian Hunter's running Mott diaries.

Old-line fans will probably rejoice in the fact that Troiano maintains his distance instrumentally on Power, in contrast both to recent concerts and on Flavours. Power isn't Jikely to ignite any mas§ conversions or reenlist the backsliders who bailed out around #10, but it serves its true function well; as a temporary stopping point, it's a convenient place to refuel and rest up, and it makes its successor look that much more appetizing.

Gene Sculatti

MIKE GREENE

Pale, Pale Moon

(GRC)

The best album GRC has ever released? Cheap shot, because when your competition is the Rhodes Kids and the Ebony Godfather, you don't have to be that good to earn the title. The.fact remains that Pale, Pale Moon would be an important album no matter what label: it is a pivotal record for the artist, the label, and what has become known as "Southern" music.

It's strange that a record full of such engaging melodies, such beautiful tracks that sound plenty commerical but still manage to come off intelligent, should b^squeezed out of the mind of-Mike Greene, whose last claim to fame was as a member of the ill-fated Hampton Grease Band. The Grease Band used to play around Atlanta in the late Sixties and, in their day, were even more daring than Frank Zappa at his avant-gardest. You loved "em or you hated "em: if you can get through the side-long track "Halifax" at one sitting (it's on their only LP, the two-record Music To Eat, which the Grease Band's former manager told me was . the second biggest disaster in the history of Columbia Records), you have the qualifications to join the elite corps of impudent Greasemourners. Mike was among the "guys from Atlanta" who played on Lumpy Gravy, and he knows his way around an 11/13 chart.

But the Grease Band's very aggressiveness caused some division within the group and, when added to their astounding lack of general national acceptance, forced their split. The band is still remembered in the South, and so is Mike by virtue of his association with them. This record, then, comes as a surprise to the prejudiced and a sheer delight to the sensible.

It is rooted in jazz, but never is a number allowed to stray so far away that it is difficult to get a handle on it. As opposed to so many first albums by Next Big Things, Pale Pale Moon is extremely unpretentious: the music is laid out honestly and played efficiently, and rarely does a soloist call attention to himself except in retrospect. Greene plays keyboards and saxes, and he has assembled a journeyman crew of little-known area musician^ to join him: Mike Holbrook on bass, David Michael on guitars and Rande Powell on drums. Each member of the quartet is pleasantly confident without seeming boastful; Greene's production with Lew Futterman is crisp and right.

It is only when the 'album is viewed as a whole that it becomes a very important record. Greene is a Southerner all the way, and has * been influenced by Dixie sounds, but the album has absolutely nothing to do with Lynyrd Skynyrd (though I imagine the members of that group, and others, will probably admire it). It is a testament to the fact that there is a cosmopolitan South, for this album is as sophisticated as any debut by a New York or West Coast band. Besides the astonishing instrumental ability displayed, Greene's record haaa liberal supply of very nice vocals, the bestarranged being on "Valdez Bailey," an uptempo smiler which I hope will be selected as the single, and on another track very suited to radio, "In The Morning."

The gentleness of the record will also be surprising to those who think all Southern boys are taught to kick their women around and say "LawdameSsy" all the time. Greene is an artist with a number of interests; Jhis feeling extends musically and makes the LP a sensitive y eclectic one. It te one of the debuts of 1975, the Dictators notwithstanding, and it will make-us all eat .our sneers the next time GRC tells us it has a "progressive" album ready. I hope Mike Greene's record company, and fans, appreciate what a fine album he has given them.

TomDSpree

ROGER McGUINN & BAND (Columbia)

Let's be frank about this: I haven't bought an album that included this guy since Turn! Turn! Turn! The Byrds then proceeded to get a bit too uppity for me, and the last time I heard the old Rog (or Jim or Biff or whatever he was calling himself in between) on the radio he had something called Peace on You that was strictly from Three Dog Nightsville.

Roger McGuinn & Band has onq good cut on it: "So Long," a rockerthat could schlump up the charts, but I don't think McGuinn has the brains to perceive that. His instincts have always been wrong—all that "Easy Rider" claptrap, and that pseudo - mysterious - studio - genius image he a tried to maintain—the man just has no real feel for good popular music.

And the title is foolish: beyond supplying their names and photos on the back cover, McGuinn's "band" is invisible; we don't know who plays what, and Roger hogs everything. He certainly^ sings "Knockin" On Heaven's Door" with more passion than Dylan did, which is one of the reasons Dylan's version was so much better—what a soupy joke. McGuinn's apparent manifesto,/"Born to Rock & Roll," sounds like America. He's probably sincere, and he may be pursuing his vision, but by^now this old dolt needs contac lenses'to see his granny glasses.

Kenneth Tucker

THUNDERMUG

T a-daa!

(Mercury)

Tantalizing (smack, smack)! One joyous note right after the other linked by every cliche riff in the book. Creating sounds left in the wake of such disbanded notables as Big Star, Blue Ash, the Raspberries, and Pagliaro. It's a boost, a real boost.

YESTERDAY: Thundermug was only mere pups when they recorded the unforgettable "Africa" on Big Tree. The record flopped like a cold fish. It smelled for weeks. The public wouldn't touch it. Thundermug lay awake all night in lonely Holiday Inn beds, hoping for SUCCESS (!!!). Fingers crossed, the hand toured the ^continent. Nobody showed up at their concerts. (Take that back, in Pittsburgh, there was one Kool Ray Dip, fella who operates a gum counter in the inner city: he enjoyed "em and asked for their autographs.) Feeling totally rejected, Thundermug appeared on the Tomorrow TV show and shared their problems with Tom Snyder. Kathryn Kuhlman prayed for the band. They did a guest shot on a Johnny Mann Stand Up and Cheer Special. Finally, Dick Clark was persuaded to rate their next single, "Orbit," on American Bandstand. "Orbit" was a primitive "Autobahn" (you can't dance to that) so the record stiffed and got five points. Depressed, Thundermug decided to call it quits and consider slitting their wrists.

TODAY! (Ta-daa, drum roll please): Lucky for us, they didn't. My gosh. Just as they were about to split the scene permanently (see The National Star, Aug. "73, for the gory details), their manager, Big Jugs, called to explain that the Harlem Globetrotters wanted them to be their warm-up band. Sweet Georgia Brown, at last! Thundermug made enough money doing the stint to record Ta-daa. And the years of experience have shaped these nobodies into GIANTS. The control in evidence on this spotless elpee is a talent that only five people have ever, accomplished: Kjm Fowley, Screaming Lord Sutch, David Peel, Wild Man Fischer, and Rufus , Thomas.

"Big City"—a 'deranged cut like lightning bolt striking Bobby Golds* boro.

"The Look In Her Eyes"—Sluggo slams into Nancy right down the middle, HARD.

"Drive My Car"-the token Beatlesque tune.

"I Feel Lonely"—a sensitive recording bout how empty it feels with no hit records under your belt (sob). "Duckworth Stomp"—gives the Blue Oyster Cult some hysterical competition.

"Jeanie"—love song to a recent Oui pin-up girl.

. "John"—love song to a recent Playgirl pin-up dude.

"Let's Live Together"—ok, but first lemme whiff yr underpants.

"Rock & Roll Concert"—Thundermug explains their craft.

"Penny Babe"—boring song.

"Hard Luck"—Monty Python is gawd.

That bout wraps up the album. EZ 2 C why THUNDERMUG spells GENIUS. And...

TOMORROW: Thundermug appears on Upbeat on a regular basis. Billboards advertise their records, magazines feature the band in headlines, and cars stop when they cross the street. Fan clubs sprout overnite. Thousands crawl sprawling naked at their feet. The Rolling Stones surrender their throne. THUNDERMUG IS THE NEXT BIG THING!

Whoopitydoo.

Robot 4 Hull

JAMES BROWN Sex Machine Today Disco Soul Dance Dance Dance (Poly dor)

The blood mean biness. Am I bein" heard? Do you catch my woofcookies? I mean—I be addin it all up fuya. Dig my rhetoric. I be grabbin the new James Brown plate and taking it back to my crib when I kick back on damn cover. Lemme jus relate one thang. THE BRUTHA BE STROLMN. DO I relate, Jake? I may joke, smoke, drink coke with the ol folk...but I do not jive. THE BRUTHA BE STROLLIN. Brown is the baddest Tom,in t.own.

I bet he get down with a lot o bitches. Hear me? Yeah. You jess know them foxy little squeezes skate back to his dressing room and be fightin each other over his chocolate crank. An Fred Wesley (he be from the J.B.s) too, nig. Damn right he's somebody. Yeah. Am I communicatin? So Brown put naked bitches on the cover o his plate. An the bitches—just like at haff-time—be spellin SEX MACHINE TODAY DISCO SOUL DANCE DANCE DANCE. I hear him. Papa don't take no mess. Yeah. J.B. be welcome in my crib anyday, an he can bring the bitches with him. ,1 can thank o a few thangs they can spell out for this tar baby. Yeah. Catch a chuckle? Yeah.

As for the tunes, you better ass somebody else, blood. I ain't got no time to be tissenin to no damn records. Whatchoo thank I am, a lazy damn cocoa bean? You Crazy. My' box don't even work. Am I bein lissened to? Bloody ain't got no time fa lissening to no muthafuckin damn records. I don be needed no damn plates. This is the Bronze Prince of Rhythm flapping gums atchoo. Haff sum respeck. Besides, I drutha dance to the damn cover. Yeah.

»Can I turn a phrase Or wha? Keep a clean tool, fool or she see the rise in yo Levi's.

Otis Flourine Blabaar III

BEE GEES Main Course (RSO)

The Bee Gees are back. If you said it's like they never left you'd be absolutely right, and would win the $5.98 question, redeemable in vinyl. Bee Gee black vinyl that goes by the name of Main Course.

The only reason anyone thought that the Gibb brothers went back to the Outback to some qozy koala exile was that their last few albums were so low voltage that they couldn't even crawl on the charts. The world had outgrown those darlings of pop, just like they had long outgrown their training ,bras. The Bee Gees" shameless pop sentimentality and unabashed Beatle mimics became tiring slobber after they tried to recycle the 46th version of "New York Mining Disaster," disguised that time as "Gotta Get a Message to You." They rode _ their maudlin epics to the point of exhaustion, until people even pegged "Timothy" by the Buoys (the story of men marooned on a desert island: when they are finally rescued only two remain. The survivors have eaten Timothy, the third) as penned by'the Bee Gees.

It has become faintly ridiculous to be the Bee Gees in a world of Enos, Alices and Bowies, blit the Bed Gees were determined to bounce back in the biz like a wad of silly putty. The first order was to get rid of their anti-perspirant appeal, and buy some goddamned long pants. Under the armpit of Atlantic's house producer, Arif Mardin (2 gold albums for AWB), Maurice, Robin and Barry were bound on soiling their Ivory Snow reputation, in the smoky fluorescence pf Miami's; discos—soaking in all the sweat and fast action. Next a crash course of American AM, coupled with some steamy cruising sessions down Collins Ave. |

Always the impressionable imps, the boys borrowed the street bugaloo, added those same nasal harmonies that would wilt a chrysanthemum, and came out with an embarrassing cross between Elton John and the Dramatics. But I have to admit it did sound urban, even if Barry's sobbing vibrato of the past had tbned down into an ailing black Bryan Ferry.

The soul kissers and jitterbugs were buying the line, calling the Bee Gees the band to bump by. The next thing we knew, "Jive Talking"" was heard in thechichi-est of discos, and it looked like the Bee Gees were passing right through the color line, like a K-Tel's Greatest Hits of the Ghetto. In fact some, even swore that the Gees were the rock version of Black Like Me—mimicking such colossal coloreds as the Chi-Lites, the Stylistics, and the Spinners. Their repertoire ranged from tan to mahogany, stocked with songs like "Blaming It On Broadway," "All This Making Love," and "Fanny." "Winds of Change" is very Stevie, wouldn't yob say: "In the streets of New York City/Every man can feel the cold/And I don't want no pity/ But I want my story told. " As for the rest, it seems ironic that it took them 20 years to go from being prehistoric Osmonds to a faceless disco Jackson Five.

JaanUhelszki

FELIX CAVALIERE

Destiny

(Bearsville)

GINO VANNELLI

Storm At Sunup

(A&M)

Italian-American cosmic rock? Hardly, fellow compartmentalizes, since Vannelli (rhymes with Danelli) is Canadian, and Cavaliere, musically, has gone through an evolution more typical of a black pop-jazzman's.

Felixptook his band, the Rascals, through over half a decade of hits that seemed just as comfortable on the AM black stations as they did in the hands of every teen band On Long Island. Years before anyone had ever heard of the Average White Band or reverse crossovers, "I've Been Lonely Too Long" and "Groovin" "" made Cavaliere the most effortless ofay since Mezz Mezzrow.

In the Rascals" last years, Felix followed the tendency of black jazzmen to seek spiritual release through his records. He even had Alice Coltrane on one of the Rascals! albums, and as expected, the band dissipated into the satchidananda haze. Now, with both disco music and the resurgence of pop jazz (Herbie Hancock, Grover Washington Jr., Donald Byrd) ^turning these once forlorn seekers into million dollar babies, commerciality no longer seems to be the enemy of either the people or the "true artist."

Last year Felix resurfaced with a superb Todd Rundgren-produced "solo" album. Songs from that album like "High Price to Pay" still stick in the mind, while Destiny lacks both compelling material or diversity of tone. It is yet another sideman's paradise, with New York regulars like Buzz Feiten, Rick Marota and Elliot Randall mingling'iwith more esoteric guests, from Leslie West to Laura Nyro to Dino Danelli. (Put them all together and that would be a band!) But the sound of the city captured so instinctively on Felix Cavaliere seems absent on Destiny. We are left with the usual tasty studio licks (though Jeff Southwind's guitar and Joe Farrell's sax solo on "Love of My Life" stand out), apd homilies about love, peace, and kumquats.

Nevertheless, when a song connects—even the weaker cuts bear a superficial relationship to the earlier Rascals—Destiny doesn't send me back to Collections as much as it convinces me that Cavaliere still has something I need, and which he had in spades on his first solo album. Hopefully, he'll return to form.

Gino Vannelli is a bit of an enigma. This is his third album, and I like it quite a bit in spite of itself. In spite of the massive string*arrangements that make the Bee Gees sound like a piano bar trio. In spite of the wildly fluctuating tone of the lyrics, that doesn't allow me to grasp whether Vannelli is kidding or not when Kte precedes a saccharine ode to "Father and Son" with a percussive, sweaty, arousing declaration of lust for a( black woman: "Mama Coco, I'm just a male caucasian/Mama Coco', I'm just a virgin to your kihd/Now don't get paranoid/I ain't a horny little mongoloid ." In spite of the fact that I can't imagine who Vannelli's audience will eventually be, though he will become immensely popular. Suburban supper clubs? Nightclubs? Rock halls? Is he a young Tony Benhett, or the new Van Morrison? v

He's got me intrigued enough to find out. There's no one making music like this, with ripe, rain-forest orchestrations and funky bottoms. The arrangements, while elaborate, do maintain a certain intimacy, and when he feels a lyric ("Where Am 1 Going," for example), he sings with the urgency of a pre-schmaltz Tom Jones. He and arranger Joe Vannelli create atmospheres which are both soothing and engaging at different times. Anyway, in a season of mere competence and overwhelming predictability, that is a gift. I'm still listening.

Wayne Robins