THE WHO

The Who By Numbers

(MCA)

The Who may be painfully aware of their elder statesmanship, but they are aging gracefully and they ain't sold out yet. That’s the concisest assessment possible of this album, which is a tight piece of commercial and very 70’s-technological rock craftsmanship; but beneath the sheen there's real agony. It is not, like the recent output of, say, the Allman Brothers, a piece of product posing as a journey to the end of the night. Townshend’s integrity remains armored.

. Most readers are familiar with the recent Townshend-Daltrey volleys , so I’ll merely add that Pete, still runs a,tight ship even if, according to rumor, everybody’s part was laid down at radically different times. A rock auteur of supreme discipline, he’s hardly a one-take-and-let's-rape-it-man. He’s a 63-takes-and-let’s-rape-it-man. And he somehow (manipulated spite?) manages to keep Daltrey warm most of the time in spite of the fact that the latter’s singing is of course in a state of progressive degeneration that’s at least interesting to chart as he hews ever truer to Hollywood musical soundtrack pomp and turgidity.

Entwistle delivers his best song jn ages with “Success Story,” a great mechanical riff which work? so well you’ll even forgive lines like “Saturday night gotta gig in a band, play an electric guitar/Gonna make it, be a superstar.” It may be the Who imitating Elton John imitating Slade imitating the Who but, unlike Slade or Elton, they don’t drop the, ball halfway through the rush.

We can break Townshend’s new compositions down into three general categories (wimp, rave, world-weariness), with one transitional sociobbligato taking the fore and the radio play. P.T.’s preoccupation with his own aging iS‘ by turns eloquent, self-indulgent, and plain syrupy. If all we had to go on was/‘Imagine a Man” and “Blue Red and Grey,” we might easily write him off as soft in the head, if never the tibia.

But to the meat. The ravers here are pure (if not always simple) and a couple of them are just good old horny goathumps. “Squeeze Box” is the best tit song since “Silicone Grown,” while “Dreaming From the Waist” takes us in one fell whack from the object of teenage virginal onanism to the act itself; “Pictures of Lily” may have been more artful, but this is easier to identify with: “I got the hots for the stuff I’ve seen in the pages of a magazine...I know the girls that pass me just ain’t impressed/I’m too old to give up, too young • to rest.” But still young enough to remember well.

What he is beginning to forget is how it really felt to storm the barricades, or even fantasize it. “Slip Kid” is “Magic Bus” fueled by technology, with socially self-conscious lyrics: “I’m off to the civil war/Slip kid I’m a soldier at 13/Realize there’s no easy way to be free.” Townshend is getting corny at this stuff. What I’m wondering is, does “I’m a soldier at 63” refer to Malcolm Mugger idge? jj

Ori the other hand, Townshend could teach Muggeridge a thing or two about being an artful '.curmudgeon. “They Are All In Lov^” depicts the poor old geezer watching the young molls hot out full Spring with their bullyboys — it’s the real “Aqualung” Jethro Tull were too pretentious to hawk spittle on: i'Goodbye all you punks, stay young and stay high/just hand me my checkbook and I’ll crawl off to die. ” The old bastard gets magnificently drunk in “However Much I Booze,” as Townshend instrumenfally proves that he’s still capable of the intricate bitterness we’ve always Relied on him for, while handing Daltrey gems like “The children of the night they all pass me by/Try to drench myself in brandy and sleep all night/But no matter how much I booze/There ain’t no way out.”

Sure there is. But you gotta fighf your way. The final proof that the Who can still slash lies in the last song, “In a Hand or a Face,” where Pete and Moon carry the ammo while Roger rides' it neatly, never stepping oyer the line. Schmuck. The guitar is all over the pl&ce, drums crashing and building, a late welcome reprise of “Anyway Anyhow Anywhere” components on a stage of terminal anotnie, which is all right for alkseasons, kid. Just hang loose, keep your guitar primed, and if the singer whimpers bash his face in with it. Nobody anywhere is'young anymore anyway.

RODSTEWART Atlantic Crossing (Warner Brothers)

Coming as it does amidst sweeping changes in Stewart’s career and personal life, the unsettling nature of Atlantic Crossing isn’t that much of a surprise. It’s simply Rod Stewart trying to get a firm footing on some new ground, succeeding c stupendously a couple times but more often 2 falling a little short.

v For the first time ever, Stewart has put his solo £ sound in the hands of a strong-minded producer, Tom Dowd. The band is made up mostly of Southern session pickers, not Rod’s usual crew of drinking buddies. That they still come up with something approximating his old sound is -testament to that sound’s efficacy and Rod’s own uniqueness. But it’s the differences that stand out most sharply.

Stewart albums used to hold a new surprise on virtually every song — the shifting tempos, short, punchy soloes, and dramatic silences were as much a signature as his own raspy voice. On this album, the rockers'all steamroll straight ahead, and the ballads are all drawn out to uniformly slow tempos. Also for the first time ever, his vocals on some songs are mixed down into the instrumental tracks so far you can’t even understand what he’s singing; he’s just another bloke in the band. (This from the guy who cut “Street Fighting Man” because he was worried people couldn’t hear Jagger’s great lyrics on the Stones version.)

When it works on this album, it works quite well. “Three Time Loser,” an audacious V.D. song delivered with a whoop and a wink, is one of the finest rockers ever, with a smoking band track, a perfect vocal, and an unobtrusive soul chorus. It’s hard to imagine anyone else even attempting a song like this, let alone pulling it off. “Stone Cold Sober” is nearly as successful; what with the band hammering out that chorus as Rod assesses his, condition with the usual mixed feelings.

While there’s not an outright bad track on the album, though, the pickings get disconcertingly slim after that pair I from the “fast side.” Two ballads (his own “Still Love You” and Gavin Sutherland’s “Sailing”) come close to previous standards, but the former is hoked up with some studio echo and the latter swamped in a corny string arrangment. And “Drift Away,” whiah is seemingly right up Rod’s alley, is so overstated (by him, not Dowd) that it strains the credibility.

Stewart is still capable of convincingly expressing more feelings and situations than anyone else in rock; what’s more frustrating about Atlantic Crbssing is that while he is consistently on the verge of doing just that, he is so often boxed in by rote arrangements, material that doesn’t quite measure up to him (“I Don’t Want to Talk About It” and “It’s Not the Spotlight”), or the insistence on dividing the album into a “fast” and “slow” side. If a new label, new home, new love life, and no band don’t add up to a whole new ballgame; they certainly create a situation in which he is forced to feel things out a little more than in the past. And if two great songs and eight near-misses don’t add tip to a failure, neither can it be considered very satisfying. Stiff, Stewart has taken his fair share of first steps in the past, and always managed to come out on top ultimately; the real test will come on his next solo album.

John Morthland

MARSHALL TUCKER BAND Searchin’ For My Rainbow (Capricorn)

The whole Southern rockband renaissance has been passed off by many observers as a footnote to the Allman Brothers saga, since so many of the groups owe so much of their sound to the Brothers’ unique fusion of blues and Sixties technology. What demurrers overlook is that each of the post-Allman bands has its own unique facet that dilates with time and consecutive albums until individual identities are established all around. It takes time for any emergent rock artist or group to find their own voice, and it’s especially complicated if you and those who come up with you share regional and musical roots. The divergences are subtle but crucial, and it usually comes down to a matter of attitude; or, in other words, how do you get loose on Saturday night?

Wet Willie are hot bar funk, out of Paul Butterfield and J. Geils as much as the Allmans, not to mention James Brown. They like to cook until it smokes, then up the heat until the whole joint is swimming in sweat. Their music is tight and moving North, and there are times they indeed seem driven.

Saturday night the Marshall Tucker Band is simply out for a good time hoot. Toy Caldwell is a jug champ in an expansive, whoopup way in distinct contrast to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s relatively grim let’s-get-drunk-and-mash-sornebody alcoholism. Toy is the apotheosis of the really good old boy — at peace with himself, which allows him to be wild without being ugly, brutal or sleazy, a healthy troublemaker. He strikes a nice balance between the dark, ominous dissipation of the Allmans and the frenetic partyjive of Wet Willie; he knows there’s plenty of room to stretch out and let tomorrow bring its own good times.

In much the same way, the whole band has taken the best of all their kin and come up with their own sanguine style. They’ve got Allmanlyricism and country influence, Wet Willie uptown blues, and Skynyrd drive. They’ve been very much influenced both by traditional country music and the more Northern urban shouting blues; their second album’s “Blue Ridge Mountain Sky” is a classic realization of the former genre in a 70s rock production style that fuses crisp, clean guitar lines with lyrics that come as close to folk poetry as the legendary ancestors.

Meanwhile, they’ve been listening attentively and intelligently to country music of all kinds — I hear Western swing, Appalachia, - and pure beerbarrelhousing honky tonk. It’s happy music, and doesn’t have to strain to be that way. And all the exuberance never overcomes the discipline either — the Tucks got their chops up instrumentally, and their jamming forays never get selfindulgent or pretentious.

They’ve been steadily, methodically improving, album by album. The first was beautiful, if a bit too Allmanish, and the Jethro Tull associations you got from the flute work didn’t help. But it had soul all the way. A New Life, with the exception of a couple of songs, seemed basically like a recap, and some of the songs dragged on too long; one began to wonder whether one’s initial enthusiasm had been misplaced, but all doubts were disspelled with Where We All Belong, which was tight and right all the way, live and studio both. This one is their most balanced set yet; never lags, more diverse, and all the different strains that make up the Tuck sound have been fully integrated into one tight package that’s solid but smooth, and refutes the cliche that all Southern bands sound like the same cliche by achieving a flow and a goodtime country backporch jamboree ambiepce that’s unique in its league. If the depths of the new Allmans set are dragging you down, cop this and throw it on the box — it’ll pull you straight up. Lynyrd Skynyrd may take it by brute force, but I’d say that when it comes to Southern music, the future belongs to these boys. Toy, have one on me. Lester Bangs

GRAND FUNK RAILROAD

Caught In The Act

(Capitol)

It wouldn’t be hard to slam this album; I’ve always held it against Mark Farner that he never wrote another “Closer to Home,” that after that initial burst of fresh air on my stale 1970 ears, Grand Funk slid down into a heavy metal boogie rut.

Well. I tried. Thinking back on Grand Funk’s last live set was no enticement either — it captured GFR’s energy but revealed a sloppiness • around the edges that sapped some of the LP’s impact. Not this time; Caught In The Act brings you Grand Funk’s kinetic live jams but they’re tempered with tighter arrangements this time around. So what? So it’s nb sin to need to boogie, and better that you should spend your bucks on this and bhy Mark Farner another tractor for his farm than pump any more life into the corpse of Disco.

Make no mistake about it, the people making this record and the people listening to them do it had a hell of a time while they were at it. Which can be incredibly obnoxious or incredibly infectious, depending upbn whether you’re alone or partying down. Al| I can say is, if this album doesn’t have you jitterbugging while you empty the kitty litter, it’s not for lack of trying. There’s even a passable cover of “Gimme Shelter” here, but the best cuts are Farner-Brewer party classics, delivered up by the boys from Flint with unabashed glee. Classic Funk. Pass the Thtmderbird, please. Susan Whitall

RITCHIE BLACKMORE’S RAINBOW (Polydor)

If you’d hoped that Ritchie Blackmore formed Rainbow to axe ape, exploring new feedback frontiers and proving once and for all that he’s the premier heavy metal gearhead, forget it. The main stripe in this raihbow is Purple..

In the fine tradition of the Protestant ethic and the profit motive, Blackrnore drafted an entire t Southern band named Elf (minus the guitarist,, of course), stuck his name on it and locked them all in a weekend party at which only Deep Purple albums were played. The group got the message and made the switch over to English Heavy easily enough, which isn’t that surprising considering that bands like D.P. and. Free were among their major inspirations anyway.'Vo,calist Ronnie Dio underwent the biggest transformation of all, dropping his Southern mannerisms in favor of a metallic funk vibrato that sounds remarkably like Glenn Hughes and/or David Coverdale. Penis imitations.

Dio is as much the star as Blackmore due to the emphasis on concise, radio-bound cuts with little guitar herPics. He shares the writing labors also, supplementing Blackmore’s test tube riffs with intermittently medieval lyrics that are less

like the grit & guts stance of old than the kind of bedtime stories you’d tell the kids in the guitar castle on the cover. Monks crouching in the gloom. Ritchie’s only self-indulgences are ICatch The Rainbow,” a Hendrix rental that answers the question: how many “Angel’”s can boogie on the head of a Shure cartridge, and an instrumental takeoff on the Yardbirds’ old “Still I’m Sad,” in which you can hear the sound of TV cameras being smashed in the background.

When all is said and done, Rainbow is Deep Purple for all practical purposes. Lucky Ritchie didn’t chew off his leg to get there. Highly enjoyable for fans of the old band, , if not unlike having incest with yourself.

Rick Johnson

JETHRO TULL

Minstrel in the Gallery

(Chrysalis)

A minstrel in the gallery? — Better to be an exile on main street. Yet Ian Anderson as minstrel is a more self-enhancing fancy; it’s his way of declaring inner purity , as if a few scraps of food and a cup of ale would be payment enough for his ditties. I’m not a rock' star, see, I’m just a wandering troubadour.

Small surprise then that much of Minstrel is vocally reminiscent of that other sainted wayfarer, Donovan,, With Anderson trilling and fluttering every syllable in tongue-vibrating exaltation. However, Anderson g?ts imprisoned within another pose, that of the Misunderstood Artiste, a role which has been consummated by Todd Rundgren. The operating sentiment is: Nobody understands me (except my millions of fans). Or as Ian Anderson puts it: “I have no time for Time magazine or Rolling Stone.”* (What about U.S. News and World Report?) So the elitism of the Artiste collides with the down-inthe gutter romanticism of the Troubadour, and Anderson can’t seem to decide where to set up residence. >

The song titles capture the confusion of his trying to have it both ways: “Cold Wind to Valhalla,” “One White Duck/(J0 = Nothing at All,” “Black Satin Dancer,” “Crash-Barrier Waltzer.” All that poetic archness meant for the masses — it’s a fraud. And it’s the worst kind of fraud because Anderson (unlike Rundgren) isn’t cynical, he’s frighteningly sincere. I think he’s gazed so long into his navel that his navel has become the world. Nothing else can explain lyrics like: “He polarized the pumpkin-eaters — static-humming panel-beaters — freshly dayglo’d factory cheaters (salaried collar-scrubbing).” You can’t be fake to croon such incomprehensibilities; you’ve got to be an authentic fool.

The sound of the album is lush and fluid, with elegant violin plucking, sweet cello sweeps, and low-grade honey vocals. Playing the album at top volume won’t cause the fish to careen around in the aquarium. (Just pray your fish can’t hear the

Ian: the unkindest cut of all?

lyrics; otherwise next morning they’ll be floating face up.) So those fanatics who adored “A Passion Play” are going to gleefully dive headfirst into this damned thing.

Doesn’t matter. In 1975, Jethro Tull is a totally irrelevant band. The disturbing thing is that it’s hard to think of any totally relevant bands, right now — the Stones, no; the'Dead or Jefferson Starship, no; the Wfjp, lamentable no (unless the new album’s a killer). Come to think of it, aside from Springsteen and Patti Smith, there are only two vital rock phenomena: Television and Talking Heads. And they’re not teven signed to labels yet. The message of this digression is that Tull is -now just as trivial as everybody else.

One last reverie. On “One White Duck” Anderson says, “I’m a waiter on skates — so don’t jump to your foreskin conclusion!” And on “Baker Street” he sings of characters “circumcised with cold print hands.” He seems obsessed -V did the blade cut too far? Perhaps he’s a castrato in the gallery...that would explain the trilling.

James Wolcott

*From “Mother England Reverie”

All Ivrics © 1975 Five Star Published Ltd.

JOHN FOGERTY

(Asylum)

It’s been ten or twelve years since the East Bay Golliwogs traipsed onto some crepe-strewn highschool gym floor and set up, almost a decade since Creedence Clearwater Revival took the stage in a smoky Avalon Ballroom, nearly half as long since John Fogerty assumed the identity of the ill-fated Blue Ridge Rangers. Now he’s back with a long awaited solo album. The good news is he’s no closer to middle age nor muzak than in 1965 or 1969. The less-than-great news is that there’s little here that’s new under the sun, nothing in the way of revolutionary advances. In face, some of John Fogerty reads like a chapter from Creedence Clearwater, Volume 57.

Which shouldn’t be taken as a slight either. After all, most of Fogeriy’s music — from garage band apprenticeship to bayou feedback and the stylistic spin-offs of the Rangers — has displayed an obsession with form, with finding some way to

create within conventional structure. The new album is rich in pure veins; traditional country (“Where The River Flows,” “Dream/Song”), Fifties rock ‘n’ roll (“Rockin’ All Over the World”) and New Orleans (“You Rascal You,” “Sea Cruise”). If his covers sound perfunctory at first, they deserve a cbser listen. Beneath the surface, Fogerty’s singing — generally more inspired than in the last days of Creedence — is full with the nuances, eccentric toss-offs and the momentary sense of abandon that’s characterized the best rockers.

Odd as it seems, his linear, no-frills budget attack on “Sea Cruise” is just what the doctor ordered after the excesses perpetrated by more famous acts in the name of “Oldies authenticity.” Fogerty, above all, knows when to blow arid when to quit. His reworking of Jackie Wilson's “Lonely Teardrops”^ gives off the unmistakable glow of a solid rocker at his strongest; in one fell swoop he brings the song down out of the hysteric pop clouds Wilson had placed it in and onto the dance floor, beer-stained and ragged, revitalized for the first time in seventeen years. The accomplishment, like most of Fogerty’s past triumphs (“I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” “Ninety-Nine and A Half”), runs the risk of being overlooked for the fact it represents a mastery within, not over, an admittedly fanrtiliar form.

The point being, Fogerty can probably be counted on to retain a comparatively low profile for the rest of his natural life. It’s hard to imagine him ever striking blows for the New Music, guesting on some cybernetic jazz set with Mahavishnu McLaughlin. On the other hand, Fogerty’s likely to maintain his adherence to the conventions of the most simple and direct music around. He’ll go down rocking, which is more than can be said for all the superstars whose faces and.fame surpassed his along the way.

Gene Sculatti

KISS

Alive

(Casablanca)

Kiss is the musical answer to what to do after Mark Farner goes home to the farm to chase cows one last time, and Alice Cooper cops a final nod at the nineteenth hole.

Kiss are the heirs apparent to that brand of audial overkill called heavy metal. These hulking electric mobsters, lumbering on stage like gameleg Rockettes, are easy rivals for the Kangaroo tag team title — outdistancing and overamping such worthy contenders as Black Sabbath, Foghat, and BTO. These guys were weaned on cold concrete and steel girders so of course they are going to rock with all the ferocity of a runaway garbage disposal. Don’t let the rubber fish suits and roller skates fool you, the bold cream and the Cover Girl came later. These are Bowery Boys underneath, looking for a good time, finding it and passing around — by making a live album, uh, cqincidentally called Alive.'

Actually the word is out that underneath all the pancake these leather invaders are actually the Blues Magoos, and are due to unmask themselves on January 17,1977, the tenth anniversary of the birth of Psychedelic Lollipop. (In fact, “Strutter” is actually “We Ain’t Got Nothing Yet” played backwards, and the walrus isn’t Paul, but Peter Criss.)

Although it might sound strange at this late date, I must confess that up till now I haven’t been infatuated with Kiss’ recorded sound, Th^ gore and hiwatt gimmickry of the stage, sure; but by some sleight-of-hand, Kiss have managed to capture the Godzillian charm of their live show on Alive. The question now is, where do we flap from here?

Jaan Uhelszki

LABELLE

Phoenix

(Epic)

Some key items — a barrier breaking (“first blacks”) performance at the Metropolitan Opera; the anthemization of “Lady Marmaladte;” Nona Hendryx’s proud lesbianism — have' thrust Labelle into a socio-sexual vanguard. To third world bisexuals, Labelle are demi-goddesses; and to a spectrum that includes, disco scene makers anpl the women’s movement, Nona Hendryx is called upon to articulate the hopes and frustrations of an urban Stew in much the way thatJoni Mitchell speaks for lonely college students.

Don’t think that Nona Hendryx isn’t aware of this responsibility. In'“Black Holes,” she seems to relish it. “Listen to me please/Even if I’m sounding strange/And my rhetoric is uneased.” And “Slow Burn” is explicit exhortation to raised consciousness: “We live on the doorstep of pleasure/We bury our martyrs in vain/We must raise ourselves up much higher/To renig is to live it again.” ,

Clearly, it is a dangerous position for a songwriter to take'. And that, perhaps, is why much of Phoenix is so wildly successful, so joyous and uplifting. More dangerous than speaking out — with the risk of sounding semi-literate, inarticulate, foolish — is complacency. Nona Hendryx has embraced the task, and without pandering, has developed a mature songwriting style that, for all the occasionally “uneased rhetoric,” is capable, of stirring body^and soul. Highlight: the title song, with a hook that is only slightly less inspirational than Victor Lazio singing “La Marseillaise” to a bar full of Nazis in Casablanca. Highlight: the elegant and powerful “Black Holes in the-Sky,” which, for once makes effective use of outer space metaphor, a kind of feminist “Rocket Man.” Highlight: the lusty “Messin’ With My Mind”: “If you keep it up/I’m gonna give you uja”: another bold riff fpr liberation, an undeniable hit.

There are some slight moments here. “Action Time,” “Cosmic Dancer” or “Chances Go Round” aren’t in the same league as the Hendryx compositions on side one. And Bob Crewe and Kenny Nolan’s “Far As We Felt Like Coin’” is little more than sloppy seconds oh “Lady Marmalade,” forgivable mostly for its absurdly catchy hook. But Labelle’s singing is not only awesome, it’s committed to every important line; and Allen Touissaint hasn’t matched singers with a sound this well since Lee Dorsey’s YeS VJe Can album. All considered, Phoenix is something close to a masterpiece.

Wayne Robins

THE J. GEILS BAND Hotline (Atlantic)

Although diligent critical inquiries have at last established the color and texture of Peter Wolf’s ever-shaded eyes, this fan still wants to know: Does Wolf do The Lean when he drives his sunsign-emblazoned Riviera? I mean, anyone with such an assiduously-cultivated spadebuck image has to practice it 24 hours a day, doesn’t he?

Wolf’s continued immersion in the trappings of a presumed Negrityde is probably irrelevant by now, as he and the J. Geils Band have long since achieved that fabled white blues synthesis so many blues bands of the late Sixties busted their axes searching for. The irony, of course, is that hardly anybody in the rock universe gives a damn about The Blues here in enlightened 1975. ‘ Our bellweather black bruz knew what they were, doing when they dropped blues like a hot mojo back in 1965, didn’t they? Ah, man, disco’s the thing...

Sensitive to critical taunts about their repetitive style, yet chained to the blues with the stubborn commitment of their original Atlantic-ratherthart-Atco demand, the J. Geils Band have, over the years, experimented with blues-as-heavymetal (FullHouse) blues-as-reggae (Bloodshot), and blues-as-lyrical-introspection (Ladies Invited). With Nightmares, and even more solidly in the new Hotline, the J. Geils Band are back to blues-as-blues.

Excellence within one’s chosen genre is nothing to be ashamed of, after all, and by this late date, much of the general rock audience is top young to remember all those ambitious; search-for-a-Northwest-Passage-of-rock-bluesfusion bands of’the past decade anyway; by now, the J. Geils Band can pass as a bonafide boogie band on most of their venues. In view of this assimilation, 1 can only assume that the Kiss-identical opening bars of “Love-itis” are a cosmically private joke from these ol’ Jewboy jiveasses.

Hotline has a markedly relaxed ambience in comparison to the last few J. Geils albums; the music is as tight as everything the band’s ever touched, but the group seems much more Comfortable in their South Side womb. They even felt secure enough on Hotline to include the most non-original cuts since Full House. Hotline's reaffirmation of the blues actually, caused the stolid J. Geils hisself to blossom out with an extended solo on “Orange Driver” — for the J. Geils Band. 1967-68’s just around the corner, now that they’ve so thoroughly conquered 1965-66.

“Be Careful ”, among other recycled blues, is a resurrected Chess rouser whose surging vitality should dispel any doubts about the timeliness of the blues, though labels are incidental to the alive music of our best rock 'n’ roll band — all that, and the good life with Faye Dunaway, too! Gregg Allman should only be so lucky...

Richard Riegel

GRATEFUL DEAD Blues For Allah (United Artists)

It’s not strange that the Dead; one of the prototype “underground” bands and assertedly anti-commercial, have now got an album in the Top Ten. There was never anything about their sound that was extreme, “avant-garde” or whatever, in the peculiarly unnerving way that sends the mainstream record buyer fleeing with his hands over his ears and his innards jangling. The Dead could never do to you what the Stooges or the early Velvet Underground were capable of. Their first (and best) album was quite commercial San Francisco folk-rock, and the instrumental excesses of Anthem of the Sun and the live sets were more numbing than irritating. One could shut them out at will. Their Workingman’s/American Beauty phase was country-rock piddle, although some of the melodies were breezy and thp solos could be pleasantly diverting. About the most outre thing about them was Jerry Garcia’s and Pigpen’s respectively wheedling and clumsily grunting vocals. The only thing I ever found strange about them was that people could continue to listen to such blandness.

So, if I’m correct in assuming that it was mainly the vocals that held tjiem back from the mass acceptance accorded equally insubstantial entities, then it makes sense that Allah’s their hottest chart item yet. Because the vocals here generally take a backseat to the instrumental interplay, which is intermittently interesting, just as it has been on previous product by these old Haight Street Regulars. And the jamming now finds their folk and rock proclivities married to a jazz ^interest (in the sense that cowboy movies have a “love interest”) that causes much of this album to differ little in style and mood from any of the countless MOR jazz LPs filling the racks and currently moving quite briskly.

I have been told that there is an easylistening station in California (San Jose, I believe) which regularly segues cuts from Dead albums like Wake of the Flood in between pap much farther afield like Bert Kaempfert. It’s easy to believe, because a record like Wake of the Flood is almost invisible, less presence than Bert Kaempfert, who at least is capable of being bouncy.

There is no point in assessing individual tracks here, except to say that if you were put off or to sleep by the long solo passages on live Dead albums, you should probably stick to side one, which is relatively concise and structured. They begin to lose themselves in the ozone again on side two, and as with past excursions their entire concept of improvisation is so dumb that it’s beneath criticism and you’d do better to plug into one of Herbie Hancock’s interminable ARP pinball ricochets, which at least have some bite and the sense of an intelligence gone awry.

Come to think of it, most of the Dead’s oeuvre, recorded and'live, amounts to MOR. Over the years I have found it eminently ignorable, whether in its presence or not. But if you dig into this bowl of farina, maybe you should move on over to something a bit more slick, cool and accomplished,, like maybe Lonnie Liston Smith & the Cosmv: Echoes. After all, they’re black, which is a hell of a lot hipper, and their lyrics are standard Afro-Cosmo love ‘n’ peace cliches, which in their clean, spare fatuity are infinitely preferable to Robert Hunter’s unending string of dependably gauche and murkily pretentious non sequiturs.

Lester Bangs

BAY CITY ROLLERS

(Arista)

The Archies were the most radical rock ‘n’ roll group of the last seven years. And it’s about time everybody owned up to their considerable accomplishments; the invisible gum gang proved for once and for all the absolute pre-eminence of the record over such throw-away accessories as the dust sleeve, the cash advance or the Artist, setting the stage for the ultimate, inevitable arrival of the most prominent aspect of rock of the 70’s: the disintegrating role of the performer in rock ‘n’ roll. Period.

Here. Identify the members of the Eagles, America, the Edgar Winter Group and the AWB from these photographs. Configurations of sound, sonorous or dissonant, is what makes a record’s appeal, more and more. Artist’s personalities and special (other than technical) qualities matter less and less. The proof of which has been validated repeatedly over the past four years or so by English hotshot hacksters like Chinn and Chapman; writers/producers who go out and round up five or six cheeky dudes and pte-fab ’em into hit-makers. What a beautiful detached process.

• These Bay City Rollers — five guys whose collective pre-frontal dental work and hair coloring alone must total well into six figures — are merely the latest exponents of blazing pop anonyrock. They’ve made, under proper supervision (Sweet producer Rhil Wainman, Bill Martin and Phil Coulter), one white dynamite album. No solos, no sidemen, no cutting up, no.nothing but eleven hot, high sides (“175,000 copies in 3 weeks!” cry the trade ads, and while Clive Davis is stocked up with grainy artistes in the Gil ScottHeron/Outlaws/Eric Carmen mold, he wisely put the Rollers into the Arista stable, Just In Case).

Records, not artists. Reasons: the guy singing “Give A Little Love” sounds like Davy Jones and even recites a spoken solo like “On The Day We Fall In Love” by the Monkees; along with their version of “Be My Baby,” the Rollers’ reading of the Four Seasons’ “Bye Bye Baby” is conceptually perfect: to haul those hoary gems into the present decade, they merely take on some fuzz guitar that would make Tony Peluso blush. Perfunctory and Perfect. “Shang-A-Lang” almost has the same title as an Archies’ opus, but the sound is closer to recent Flash Cad carpentry. “Marlina” has teenbeat appeal in continental abundance: Eurovision flavoring a la Abba. “Keep On Dancing” won’t dislodge the immortal Gehtrys but it’s commendable.

If you can remember what any of these Rollers look like, where they hail from or their religion two minutes after you’ve put the album away, then you’re missing the point. This LP is a tremendous utilitarian triumph. Shiny like a Kiwanis gumball bowl in a bait shop, BCR is as good as an Andy Kim alburh, better than Paul Simon and Phoebe Snow, more memorable than anything EricClapton has ever done, twice as ingenious as any three Rick Wakemah extravaganzas. I have seen the future of radiorock and it’s called “Saturday Night.”

Gene Sculatti

STEPPtNWOLF Hour Of The Wolf (Epic)

John Kay has finally made it. He’s an “O.K.” guy now, you probably went to school with him. He consistently allows his eyes to be photographed. You could buy dope from him and not get burned. The old growl has been housetrained. It will not shit in the kitchen. In “Hard Rock Road,” - he even sings the word “concentrate” just like Shelley Fabares did in “Johnny Angel.” She gave me chills. He makes me want to wash my hands. , ,

It’s a well known fact that Kay reformed Steppenwolf just to pay off the debts from his unsuccessful campaign for the school board, so it should Come as no surprise that this new band has received the necessary distemper shots. All the old jerks are gone — one became a faggot, one a sports statitician, etc. Drummer Jerry Edmonton is the only survivor. Who cares about drummers? For the lack of mangled fuzz guitar, cyclops organ and nagging vocals/ the group should have been rechristened Steppenpussy.

Kay and the boys are still obnoxious to the point of distraction though, so all is forgiven in a way. “Two For The Love Of One” and “Someone Told A Lie” are trademark Steppenwolf rockers, with the new organist forgetting all the ’chords he knows and the guitarist beating his dog. The token Mars Bonfire cut, “Caroline,” haa some great slippery rhythm guitar and parenticidal lyrics, but all the potential meanness is smothered by the ubiquitous Tom Scott hqrns. The man’s a mellotron. “Just For Tonight” uses their old start-slow-then-bite-’em-onthe-aSs technique, but the choice of chords is somewhat unfortunate, being the only three chords the Who ever use.

The rest is basically forgettable hard tedium and armpit sounds. For a band that once seemed ready) to take on all of L.A. armed only with filed-down Silvertone guitars, the trip to obedience school was apparently near-fatal. But John Kay is now acceptable.

Pin the tail on the donkey.

Rick Johnson

TED NUGENT (Epic)

You gotta like Ted. Even if you hate his music (and there are legions who would hardly blame y6u). It’s his attitude — the cat, whatever gravel grinds outa his guitar, is undeniably smokin’. Like Popeye,he yam what he yam and That’s all what he yam, for at least eight years now, and he’s still proud as ever, a strict destructionist who’s stuck to his guns through trends and obsolescence-in-his-own-time. The Detroit Scene Boom of the late Sixties came and fizzled — did Ted care? Naw, he was off shooting wild bears, skinning ’em alive and snacking on their intestines. The man stands outside history. Which is sensible, since the latter (post-“Joumey to'the Center of your Mind”) has consistently icjftored him. But l love him, I think he’s a prince among putzos, and herewith is a numerously pointed program of divers reasons why you too should like Ted even though you’re an idiqt if caught dead buying this record:

1) He doesn’t and never did give a piss in the wind about ecology or the preservation of our national resources or any of that pussy-ass let’s-stick-flowers-down.-the-barrels-of-their-rifles bullshit propagated by all those peace queers when the time seemed right. Ted, a Noble Savage standing atop a rock in his vestment of triceratops hides, just kept on shootin’.

2) He cusses a lot, but doesn’t drink, smoke cigarettes or anything else, and hates drugs of all sorts with a Cossack’s passion. Brotha be clean — easy for him, he manufactures his own el crazo organic, inside.

3) Ever watch Gunsmoke in its last strange seasons when Marshall Dillon kept getting called off to the hills where grizzled old mountain men had been holed back up there so long drinking homebrew and pickin’ off porkypines that they’d gone koogle-brain and started ramblin’ around the countryside, shootin’ up wagonwheel families, blasting babes from arms, farmer’s mulesi mere living beings of any stripe at random? And Marshall Matt always hadda ride on outa Dodge to quell the loons, who were really tragic but also the last of the great American human wildebeestes. Episode always ended with Marsh Dill having to plug the poor postJhoomin varmint tween the eyes because he was top far gone for reclamation and anyway it’s heavy toting a maniac who hasn’t taken a bath in 3 years 40 or 50 miles back to Dodge City just so you can throw him in the clink and hang ’im. Well, if Ted lives to see their age, “and he will, Ted’s gonna turrf out one of those selfsame American legends. Except that who’s gonna have to be sent out to cut him down? Coleman Young? The STRESS squad? Naw, he’ll just rot out there a legend, picking off a snowmobiler every now and then. Which is small price to pay for,preserving our national folklore.

4) Ted is never afraid to speak his mind (viz. “Allman Brothers junkies deserved to die” rap).

I would vote for him if he decided to go into politics, because

5) Rock ‘n’ roll needs more right wingers, sides, can you imagine a President — or

even an alderman — who shows up at conferences dressed in the skin of a mountain lion he’s just shot and still reeks and is bleeding? Also, more harmony in government; anybody disagrees with his policies, he just pulls out his bow and arrow and shoots ’em.

6) He is too wacked-out to ever get selfconscious.

7) He has been slogging the same venues year in and out for all this time, never gotten any more popular, never gives up. What an animal.

8) The Museum of Natural History is in New York City, and I live in Detroit.

9) His rage, hatred and frustration — unlike the ugly, pathetic spite of Todd Rundgren and .the ennui of I’m not gonna mention his name — are jpcular and expansive.

10) He never bought that pantywaist hipadelic stuff about “transcending the ego” — he’s not ashamed to wallow in himself.

11) He thinks that he is God, and on all the available evidence from the Old Testament, he may be right.

None of which is any reason why you should blow your money on this record. It sucks. I’ve only followed Nugent intermittently, and I’m not familiar with the comings and goings of his vocalists (not that it makes any difference anyway — the main thing is guitarguitarguitarguitar guitarguitarguitaarrrrr...), but I do know that in terms of sheer animal energy and visceral attack. Call of the Wild shut this deck down from cut one,-and Tooth, Fang & Claw was even better, a Nugent/metal classic for its machine-gun guitar forays alone. This album sounds tired, plodding, not at all like the carnivorous careens we’ve come to expect from the young goat. You’d be better off even with that old weirdity Marriage on the Rocks/Rock Bottom. Or better yet, the Stooges’ Funhouse, which made Ted wet his loincloth in envy because it’s perhaps the most savage, snarling, atavisting, bloodlust feast ever committed to wax.

Natty Bumppo