BEACH BOYS The Beach Boys Love You (Warner/Reprise)

There is no TM song, no music-is-swell song, or “unfolding enveloping missiles of soul,” or political/ecological commentary. Instead, what we have here is a collection of 14 Brian Wilson compositions (three are collaborations) and a return to the Beach Boys’ musical-thematic values of the late 1960’s. If the group had been traders in the slobbery hogwash endemic to the era, that would hardly be news worth celebrating; but who would be grumpy enough to complain when faced with a distillation of Pet Sounds atmospheric cohesiveness, Wild Honey plains peak domesticity and stripped-body instrumentation, Smiley Smile jokiness and Friends unadorned sentimentality. It would serve people who cavil about Wilson’s lyrics right if Jack Rieley were to make a return as wordsmith.

All talk about Brian’s “comeback” aside, The Beach Boys Love You does show clearly how much his guiding vision was missed; his musicianship is continually surprising, subtle and tricky. This LP achieves through the use of synthesizer a unity of tone that has been absent

from Beach Boys albums since his role was usurped by participatory democracy. He really does give them direction, deepening the sound without being heavy-handed. Keyboards are all over the place, filling a variety of functions: organ-like flow, synthesized bass, forward motion, a sustained block of music behind the ' singers, startling rhythmic shifts. On some tracks it’s all done with keys and drums (Dennis Wilson, rock’s most underrated drummer, adjusts his two-fisted slamming technique with alacrity), and yet there’s a complexity in the arrangements that makes them endlessly listenable.

And then there are those lyrics. While one may be totally disarmed by couplets like “If Mars had life on it/I might find my wife on it” (“Solar System”) or “When guests are boring he takes up the slack/The network makes him break his back” (“Johnny Carson”), it’s easy to see how others might find them and similar AABB rhyme schemes embarrassing. The Beach Boys have always been Champions of Silly, but here the words are so unaffected, so “one equals one” that they’ve reached new heights. Coming from anyone else the lyrics of “I Wanna Pick You Up” (the title is all it has in common with Ramones diction) would be taken as fetiShistically infantile. Or the line “Tell her she smells good tonight”

( Love Is A Woman ) as_a commercial for cunnilingus. But Wilson’s words say what they say. “Well oh my oh gosh oh gee” (“Roller Skating Child”) seems like a reasonable critical response.

One thing that is missing is a sense of physical and emotional geography. Wilson’s songs are no longer situated in a tangible place; he’s been indoors a lot, but even if he were more social, the L.A. of the Eagles would probably be unrecognizable to him. T-shirts, cut-offs and a pair of thongs aren’t standard Southern California haberdashery anymore. He’s an isolated adult now, at a distance from the boy-girl encounters he’s creating more out of memory and imagination than current experience. It’s quite a jump from eulogizing James Dean (“A Young Man Is Gone”) to praising Johnny Carson, from sneaking into drive-ins to exploring the solar system. Wilson never was much of a participant, but at least Tie was in touch. The high school mentality and humor on some of these songs— “falsies” really is a locker-room anachronism— suggests his disassociation from 1977 teenage.

So many songs on the album, “The Night Was So Young,” “I’ll Bet He’s Nice,” “Mona,” “Let Us Go On This Way,” are captivating enough, and as texturally sophisticated as they are lyrically naive, to quell any resistance. “Good Time,” originally done by Spring and transposed here for male voices, still has irrepressible exuberance, a loping gait, and a melody on the verses that sounds like a song from a Spin & Marty episode (maybe a showcase for Darlene Gillespie). There’s so much happening: Dennis’ pounding on “Honkin’ Down The Highway,” the harmonies on “Let Us Go On This Way,” Brian and wife Marilyn’s charmingly inept duet on “Let’s Put Our Hearts Together,” the three organ notes that propel “Airplane.” Some of the lead vocals are a bit ragged (but not as bad as on 15 Big Ones), and Wilson frequently tests the dividing line between child-like directness and stunning banality. If you love the Beach Boys, though, you can’t help but feel immense affection for The Beach Boys LoveYou.

GARLAND JEFFREYS Ghost Writer

__ (A&M)__

I ain’t 'got no tales about catching this cat at some coffee house in the Village X years ago. No shit about how I been into him for Y length of time and why hasn’t the word caught up yet and all those other ZZZ’s. Out here on the West Coast, Garland Jeffreys has been little more than a rumor this entire decade; his previous albums are long out of print, blah, blah, blah. But the rumors persist and this baby backs ’em up but good.

First time through this thing, I flashed on Arthur Lee, like if Love had been spawned in NYC and grown up aping Lou Reed and Bob Marley. Like Lee, Jeffreys has the displacement boogie down pat but while Arthur was/is a black man in a white rock world, Jeffreys is only marginally black. And marginally white. And marginally Puerto Rican. And judging by this album, marginally brilliant.

Now I don’t know if this guy’s a fighter or not but he’s sure got the moves. Side one sets you up but side two is the knockout.

Jeffreys starts off with “Rough And Ready,” a simple, rocking statement of intent—-“Know my time has come”—that slips past you till the rest of the tunes convince you of the fact.

The following “1 May Not Bfe Your Kind” twists the pick-up game in two unusual directions. One is with the honesty of the lyrics, lines like “Show me baby everything you got/Then I’ll show you darlin’ everything I’m not.” But the second is in the music—reggae. Not roots reggae, for sure— these are New York session musicians, not rastamen—but not the usual pale imitation. Its authority stems partly from Garland’s gift of going deeper than dialects, to actually feel the culture he’s borrowing from and partly from his ability to inspire his sidemen to do likewise. Michael Brecker’s sax solo here contains more emotional power than all of his blowing on the latest Mel Lewis album.

And “Kind” is no fluke; -reggae is used effectively all over the place. In the repressive midsection of “Cool Down Boy”; as the basis for the autobiographical “Ghost Writer”; and “Why0,” which acknowledges the political roots of reggae by applying them to a U.S. social hangup, specifically, the confusing effects of enforced busing on already insecure five and six year olds. Were it only for this socio-musical breakthrough, the album would be a landmark.

But there’s more. There’s “Lift Me Up,” a powerful love song which nods to Jackie Wilson, m and the marching, desperate arrogance of “Wild In The Streets.” And “Spanish Town,” the grand finale, marries a Forever Changes sound to a tale of Third World cultural chaos unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

That’s a lotta ground to cover in one album. Too much maybe, at least for those who prefer their pop stars two-dimensional, so they can pin ’em down like butterflies in a box. Tough for them. Garland’s made his moves, sung his Songs. Now all he’s gotta do is find a band as heavy and hungry as he is and hit the road. And replace the rumors with his own reality. Michael Davis

BILLION DOLLAR BABIES Battle Axe (Polydor)

Remember how pissed we all were when Alice Cooper dumped his whole band because they were interfering with his golf dates? And how convinced we were that Michael Bruce and Co. would wipe A.C.’s dreadful ballads off the charts with traditional Alice Cooper Band screamrock if they just got a chance?

Guess again, kid. The Billion Dollar Babies’ chance has come, and, judging by the evidence of their debut LP, already gone. Not that the music’s not good mainstream hard rock— Michael Bruce, Dennis Dunaway and Neal Smith (plus new Babies Mike Marconi on guitar, and Bob Dolin on keyboards) could never let you down on that score.

What’s missing is the emotional authenticity that ties the lyrics and music together in successful hard rock—it’s absurd for a 29-year-old millionaire to adopt the persona of an anguished teen who can’t get out of the house (“Too Young”) for the big concert: “Even when I’m dressed up/My parents think I’m messed up.” This from Michael Bruce, the prime composer (Vince whatsisname wasn’t even around) of “Under My Wheels” and “Be My Lover,” two of the most sublimely metallic moments of the Alice Cooper saga (not to mention the whole fuggin’ r’n’r decade)?

“Shine Your Love”; “Love Is Rather Blind”; “Rock ’n’ Roll Ra’tlio” (a contradiction in terms for 1977, besides being a threadbare cliche); “Rock Me Slowly” (from Bruce’s “Only Women Bleed” period, as it were); the overblown “Battle Axe” miniopera, where rock defeats disco and saves the universe (a concept worthy of the current, TV-drugged Aahliss): the near misses just keep on coming.

Whatever else Battle Axe accomplishes chartside, it’s certainly going to force much rethinking of the whole Alice Cooper legend—maybe it was the terminal directionless of the Straight albums, or the bored, going-through-the-metal-motions of the post-Killer LPs, that was the real substance of this aggregation. Maybe the amazing Love It To Death and Killer sets were immense cosmic accidents after all, and maybe we sold Bob Ezrin short all those years. Just don’t know anymore.

Nevertheless, Michael Bruce is still one of my heroes (“Under My Wheels” is forever), and I’d be glad to help him write some more relevant material. For instance, let’s start with a screamer revealing what a snot Alice Cooper (the guy) really is. How ’bout that, Mike, you got a good rhyme for “Eddie Haskell”?

Richard Riegel

MILES DAVIES Water Babies (Columbia)

Aitho Water Babies is being offered with the kind of cartoon album cover that promises big fun on the corner, the music inside is from an era of more stately covers depicting stark Nerfertitis and Sorcerers and wistfully ’stoned visions of girls from Kilimanjaro. Specifically, the music is from two-sessions, side one being from sometime in ’67 and side two from sometime in ’69 (specifically guessing that is—it wouldn’t have busted any-

body’s ass to give some basic liner information but apparently someone was worried about screwing up the album’s decor—or, more likely, about letting the buyers know that this isn’t newly recorded Miles).

Not that the recording’s old enough to be merely a buffs document. The second side (the circa ’69 session) in particular sounds fresher and more engaging than most recent jazz releases and definitely more playfully explorative than any recent release of the fusion genre of which this session was an important precursor. It features the same group (Davis; Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, electric piano; Wayne Shorter, tenor; Ron Carter, Dave Holland, bass; Tony Williams, drums) that produced Filles de Kilimanjaro which was followed by In A Silent Way which was followed by Bitches Brew which was followed by a revolution. Filles was the album that kicked the electric piano squarely into the jazz mainstream and despite the proliferations and improvements nothing is quite as fascinating as the original. These (more or less) out-takes from Filles offer such fascinations as a Tony Williams still willing to take risks but always, seemingly, in control, and a covey of seminal electric piano solos by Corea and Hancock (a particularly fine and funky one occurs on “Dual Mr. Tillman Anthony” with some gracefully acrobatic bashing from Williams) . Davis is no washout either and he and Shorter manage to get in some impassioned licks while adjusting to the new rhythms and (dare I say it?) occasionally coasting.

The first side, the sometime in ’67 side, offers subtler and darker pleasures. Miles sighs a lot in his music—it’s a sigh that encompasses both discovery and loss and is prevalent throughout his playing. Even his “lightning” runs are imbued with a reticenpe which turns joyous shouts into anguished wails. The sidemen (same as side two, minus Corea and Holland) respond to Miles with restraint except for Williams who, tho restrained by his standards, was at this point still irrepressible. Shorter contributes (typically) slightly mocking melodies (“Capricorn” is a prime example) and his solo work runs a disconcerting gamut from highly emotional to I’m-not-quite-here. It isn’t a grim side of even gloomy, just extraordinary. And beautiful.

Richard C. Walls

PHIL SPECTOR Greatest Hits -_(Warner-Spector)

Phil baby, it’s about time you reissued this stuff. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Thanx to a pile of old Phillies singles I found in a Charlotte warehouse, I haven’t had to write a record review or show up at the unemployment line for three years. Space cadets who were born too late have

been more than willing to keep me in color TVs and tacos in exchange for original artifacts from the man who “invented” production. Now that the free ride is over though, I gotta tell the truth. A few of your contemporaries (Berry Gordy, Jr., Bert Bems, Bob Crewe...) have been unjustly ignored in the rush to elevate you to the post of patron saint of the equalizer board. Also, you weren’t the first guy to use glockenspiel on a rock ‘n’ roll record. I don’t care what it said in all those Bruce Springsteen reviews, Morty Craft did itway back in 1957 on “Alone" by The Shepherd Sisters (Lance 125).

But what the hey, you knocked the big-time record companies on their ears just when they thought they had rock ‘n’ roll figured out, and that’s good enough for me. One thing bothers me though, Phil. If you are truly a rock deity, howcum this album is so mortally flawed? Only one of the four sides is a listenable combination, and that’s the one with “He’s A Rebel”, “Uptown”, “Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah” and the rest of the Bob B. Soxx/Darlene Love hits, not really your heaviest stuff. The other three sides are murder. I hear better seques on TV oldies packages. Really, how could you follow “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ ” with “Then He Kissed Me”? In da foist place the baroque lushness of the former washes away the subtle intricacies of the latter. Secondly, the contents clash. Besides, “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ ” is as obvious a side climaxer as there ever wuz. Hey zoos! Whatever happened to your sense of drama, Phil? During the days of psychedelia I must have met at least half-a-dozen guys who, although unable to cross the street unescorted, had constructed convincing brain operas using just your ojd singles.

I assume that you aimed this album at the average thirty-year-old' with a twinge of sixties’ nostalgia. No serious collector needs another, copy of “Spanish Harlem”, “To Know Him Is To Love Him” or the four other pre-Phillies cuts you included; they’ve all appeared on dozens of collections albums. Well Phil, about half your potential audience will be too edgy to plunk down the bux for the album ’cause you accidentally on purpose forgot to list the artists on the back. A lot of civilians are gonna wonder if the whole album wasn’t recorded by The Sound Effects or one of those other mimic groups that does cut-rate cover versions.

No shit Phil, great as you are at producing a record, that’s how bad you are at packaging the* product. See ya on I Dream Of Jeannie. _(20th Century)_ For a pop-music decade which opened so dismally, with the ascendancy of the none-darecall-it-folk James Taylor and his “First Family of Rock [sic]”, the 1970’s are at last beginning to sound rather substantial indeed. And this is all without citing the exemplary New York bands I once again; I’m talking simply about those -solid middle-level rock ’n’ rollers who have a real opportunity to recapture the vital AM sensibility.

Mad Peck

PIPER (A&M) NITE CITY

The winningly attractive Piper should find hot prospects for sure; as exponents of a refined mid-60’s ethic, they may prove to be irresistible. Piper is the brainchild of one-time Sidewinder Billy Squier, whose best-laid plans of rockstar conquest dovetail perfectly with those of his Aucoin Management. Aucoin may well be developing Piper precisely for the task of mopping up those British Invasion holdouts who’ve thus far withstood the mechanized assault of Aucoin’s Kiss Army and Starz S.S.

Squier readily admits a debt of inspiration to the Rolling Stones, and Piper celebrate his homage with a cracking cover of their satanic majesties’ “The Last Time,” and with their own pulsating “Telephone Relation,” a slice of StonesJike topical-conceptual pizzazz. With three guitars up front bending the rhythms around the corners, the Piper r‘n’ r sound is as full as heavy metal, but far more supple.

The striking “42nd Street” in fact promises some highly potent Aerosmithing waiting in the wings; here’s some toys up your attic, babe. Piper’s only real problem at this juncture is a tendency (especially on the first side of their LP) to belabor their riffs a chorus or three too long for maximum rock ’n’ rolling efficiency, but it will take a while for the Ramones’ magnificent 2:00 cockteasers to filter down, after all.

Nite City’s sound is perhaps more contemporary (which is not to say “advanced,” not in this biz) than Piper’s, as it hearkens back less to the mid-60’s than to last week’s standard everyday Ell-Aay sleazations. “Midnight Queen,”' “Angel W/No Freedom,” “Nite City”; the titles speak for themselves, and herald lyrics which might have been inspired by a faithful reading of Rodney Bingenheimer’s column. Nite City have already accomplished the L.A. Blues Kim Fowley’s still trying to lay on those rebellious adolescent daughters in the Runaways.

Yet kidding Nite City for resorting to these lyrical staples is not to complain about their sound; within the context of the band’s postmetal, medium rock, the lyrics work as well as you and your radio could ever wish. N ite City are led by ex-Doors keyboard whiz Ray Manzarek, who doesn’t care to have his past employment mentioned,-but who seems more at home in Nite City than in any other role since he pumped that reverent organ at the feet of the effusive Lizard King.

In fact, Nite City’s first cut, “Summer Eyes,” opens with exactly that didactic organ march which propelled so many of Jim Morrison’s uptown-reptile pronouncements, but I won’t tell if you won’t—I’m just glad to have Manzarek back from the synthesizer void, putting whatever keyboards he chooses at the disposal of an ensemble' rock ’n’ roll sound. Ray can sit back on his piano bench and let ambitious young vocalist Noah James (a kind of Starzian interchangeable-part metalloid) handle all the public charisma; Jim would have wanted it that way.

Piper and Nite City: I don’t know how it feels out there beyond the shrinkwrap, but encounter-

ing debut albums as interesting as these two bodes well for your reviewer’s enthusiasm.

Richard Riegel

GONG

Expresso

_ (Virgin)_

...well, lessee, hmmmmmm, Gong, tyjh? Ay yi yi, this is gonna be like watchin’ re-runs of Turnips for Sandy (which don’t exist, but neither does Gong—at least no positive evidence of any such being on this recording). Kinda sneaky, but somebody didn’t press any music into these Gong grooves. I mean, literally, folks, just two blank empty sides with no sounds apparent nowhere (even played the label once, but no luck).

Sure, it’s some arty (as in ARTE Johnson, frequent klunk on the infamous Gong Show, see how it all fits) attempt to resurrect . John Cage’s theoretical notations, but still the record only puts ya to sleep. Essentially it’s the alternative to the METAL MACHINE MUSIC HOAX. Lou Reed’s opus forced ya to saw z’s by sustaining earsplitting noise thru four sides of torturous self-indulgence while this hokum does just the opposite: no noise, no notes, no music, not a dribble for an entire album.

Of course, the four million Gong fans are gonna be pissed. Ever since Gong’s bone-crunching debut, Zoot Suits Are Okay But We Like Seersucker, their success has mounted through the loyal support of enthusiastic Gong Gangs. These hordes of hoodlums (characteristic trademarks: ragged clothing held together only by sweat & drool, crewcuts smeared with butch wax and schnozzles pierced with popsicle sticks) roam the streets of urban communities, forcing innocent bystanders to purchase Gong records with threats of mutilation. Consequently, Gong’s rather mundane first release skyrocketed in sales overnite, but this time around even the Gong Gangs may blow a fuse.

‘Cause not only is expressionless vinyl being pushed here (minus “the sprawling tentacles of whirling madness,” as one erudite critic of Dream Whip zone so aptly put it, which so finely delineated the first release), but the band itself is remaining faceless and unidentifiable. Concert and tour dates are booked, sold put, and then crowds of screaming and shoving Gongnicks, expecting to see a deranged mass of palpitating zoot-suited gunk ravaging seersucker guitars and hacking wads of flaming blood in some awesome epiphany are greeted by the snickering void of an empty stage. The recent upsurge in attempted suicides is a result of many Gongers finally confronting the abstract truth: Gong simply does not exist.

A spokesman for the band, however, has

assured Gong zealots that the concert bookings are merely the work of imposters. He claims that Gong really is real but recently changed its name to the Marshall Tucker Band. Although he has not seen “their second and latest album,” Gong’s spokesman states that the real Gong can only be experienced on Zoot Suit/Seersucker. He even goes so far as to postulate that this “vacuum release” entitled Expresso actually is a printing and pressing mix-up by the record company. Says Mr. Gongee himself: “I think it’s simply a factory defect. The clue is obviously that awful cover art which closely resembles the album covet on Klaatu’s sixth release. Gong would never go for it, especially not a cheap trick like two bloody sides with nothing on ’em. It’s possible that this may be the latest album by Expresso called Gong, but hell if I know.”

RobotA. Hull

CATHY CHAMBERLAIN Rag ‘N Roll Revue

/ _ (Warner)_

I wonder if any performer ever deliberately sets out to have a cult following. If ever a performer sounded like she deliberately set out to have a cult following, it is Cathy Chamberlain. It’s probably no accident that her producer is Joel Dorn, who has worked with Leon Redbone and Bette Midler. Their styles pretty well map the parameters of what Cathy Chamberlain does.

She is what used to be called a belter. She has a big voice that she uses in an all-stops-out manner more identified with the Twenties than the Seventies, and her presence proves that Sophie Tucker wasn’t the.last of the red hot mamas, after all.

Cathy Chamberlain and her band call themselves the Rag‘N Roll Revue, and plays clubs like Reno Sweeney in New York, where some of this music was recorded live. Not to take anything away from the record, I get the impression that a lot of what the vRevue does would be more enjoyable seen live, in a club.

The album is made up about equally of what might be called nostalgia items and originals written by Miss Chamberlain and members of the Revue. In the former category, there is a fine vocal of “Old Rockin’ Chair” by 76-year old drummer Fred Moore, which also features a wonderfully apposite soprano saxophone solo by Kenny Davern, a woefully underexposed musician who is also one of the funniest men alive. Then MissChamberlaindoes asplendid, chillingly Brechtian version of “Mack the Knife,” probably the best thing on the record. She does “Brother Can You Spare A Dime” almost as well, until a strange, cantorial ending that I don’t understand. Can you really call “Brother Can You Spare A Dime” nostalgic these days? Then there are the originals. The originals are pretty peculiar. “Backseat Baby” tends to evoke, ‘in a pleasingly mild way, the Fifties. “Cement Dry” goes bouncing right along in what you might call neo-jug band style, and sounds pretty happy until you pay attention to the lyrics, or read the lyric sheet, and then it’s pretty grim stuff indeed. I imagine the most discussed number will be “See Her Run,” a kind of plight of the average contemporary woman number that contains a couplet which I will not quote, because 1 may be the only reviewer who doesn’t.

I don’t quite have a handle on Cathy Chamberlain yet. Maybe she doesn’t either. But it’s very good, unusual stuff, and I’ll be happy to hear more of it.

Joe Goldberg

DICKEY BETTS & GREAT SOUTHERN

_(Arista)_•_s ' •

MIAMI—Richard Betts, one-time member of the Allman Brothers “rock” band, died today in a recording studio here.

Guitarist Betts, 29, succumbed after falling into a self-induced coma some weeks ago, while in the middle of recording a “comeback” record album in Miami’s Criteria Studios.

His deteriorating condition had apparently gone unnoticed, as he continued to participate in the recording sessions with his band, Great Southern. The Miami chief medical examiner, however, upon listening to tapes produced at these sessions, determined that Betts, who was often called “Dickey,” had indeed been in a coma throughout.

Betts came to national prominence some years ago, as second guitarist in the well-known, nowdefunct Allman Brothers Band, whose starcrossed history was widely documented in the press.

After the death of two original band members, the Allmans broke up recently in the wake of a dispute involving trial testimony given by Gregg Allman, husband of the former Cher Bono. Although Betts and Allman were reported at the time to have parted on less than friendly terms, it was widely known that Betts was deeply depressed over the separation.

The medical examiner, who would not rule out the possibility of suicide, noted that the tapes

demonstrated Betts’ longing for his old friend had induced him, unconsciously, to take on Allman’s vocal tone and phrasing mannerisms in these last sessions, which had produced only 32 minutes and 55 seconds of material at the time of the “rock star’s” passing.

Witnesses at the recording studio told a bizarre story of the death scene, which occurred during the recording of a guitar solo on the song “Bougainvillea.” Betts was said to have been extremely familiar with the material, having previously recorded the same exact solo for an Allman Brothers song entitled “Blue Sky,” and no one present had anticipated any problems in “cutting the track.”

Observers began to suspect that something was wrong when they noticed that the guitarist had stopped breathing and that his face had turned an ashen color. Yet Betts continued to play. “Those fingers just kept twitching,” said an obviously shaken recording engineer, “up the scales, back down the scales...up...down...for a good couple of minutes, I guess, before the rigor mortis set in.”

Once the tragedy had actually been perceived, the band broke into a dirge, led by its organist, in honor of the freshly fallen musician.

“Poor Dickey,” said one member. “He just bored himself to death. And so young...”

Kevin Doyle

DORIAN

(Amerama)

The lower lid of my left eye has been twitching imperceptibly for a week now. The doctor diagnosed chronic fatigue and I’m inclined to concur. I’ve been awake, you see, for 192 hours—an easy 200 by the time you read this.

Let’s talk turkey. I’m afraid to lose consciousness. A flesh-crawling, finger-shredding terror.

Who knows what clammy fate awaits should I succumb to sleep, what hideous biological failure? Pulmonary collapse? Cardiac arrest? Spontaneous heartburn, peut-etre? Night Gallery gluttons will get my meaning.

I live alone. Renovated tenement, good location, reasonable rent. There are noises— moody plumbing, perhaps, or an angry platoon of killer ants from Katanga. Either way, I’m wide-eyed and hyperventilating. And twitching. Way Out savants should grok my situation. To sleep, perchance to dream, said the Bard on an off night. To see inside my skull: a semi-public lavatory of soggy synapses and old grey matter. A men’s room where enraged choir boys flee to seek oral satisfaction. Or is it just my lousy stereo spewing self-pity in the guise of rock & roll again? Gotta get me a Pickering cartridge. Or something.

“So please get on your knees, and kiss me/ Don’t resist me—cause I’ll love you in the Men’s Room.” He’ll buff your wingtips, too, if you pay him a quarter. He is Dorian Passante aka Dorian Zero and his “failure smells up the Hotel car.” He’s too stoned to light a joss stick and you’re too cultivated to comment, maybe. His debut disk proves that “life is meaningless there’s no doubt” —I mean proves it with atom counts, Canadian rats, the works. There’s no success like failure, mein Fuehrer, so praise the Lord and pass the Lysol.

It’s this Dorian, Doc. If I cop some zzzz’s he’ll materialize, an overweight wraith. A pasty-faced androgyne Jobraith with bushy sideburns and nasty internal bleeding. With a delivery like post-intestinal blockage Presley, straining the anal compulsive “Dreams of Mr. Pitiful.” God, I feel so inadequate. There goes my eyelid again. I can’t take it anymore. Yawn. There it is, right there on the front cover—see the “Madman” patch on Walter Egan’s jeans? Well, naturally, anyone who wears “Madman” on his sleeve most likely isn’t crazy at all (cf. Firesign Theatre), but rather, as the Audi folks say, “crazy like a Fox.” Only this isn’t an Audi Mr. Egan’s leaning up against while fondling those cheerleaders, it’s a Mercedes, probably Stevie Nicks’ personal Mercedes, on top of that.

Wesley Strick

WALTER EdAN Fundamental Roll (Columbia)

So how come Moshe Brakha’s not doing a tastefully twilit photo of your fave sex fantasy, bub? Well, you just don’t live right, kid, you didn’t pal around with Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham in their scuffling days. Now that the whole continent is in the throes of a Fleetwood Mac attack, S. & L. are returning the favor: Walter Egan is the Peter & Gordon of 1977.

And, just as those bonkers Beatles-collectors have snatched up every available Peter & Gordon 45, looking for obscure LennonMcCartney compositions, Walter Egan’s debut LP should be a prime catch for collectors of Fleetwood Mac ephemera. Not only do Lindsey and Stevie provide background vocal and extra guitars on practically every cut, but there’s even another photo of the lovely Ms. Caucasian-Lips inside! (Columbia’s got you there—can’t drool over her in the store, gotta buy the LP just for the privilege of slitting the shrinkwrap and beholding the private Stevie N,..)

What? After all those FM enticements, you still want to know about Mr. Egan himself? Well, he’s a singer-songwriter, of course (Is the sky blue? The Pope Catholic? Linda Ronstadt on Asylum?)., with pleasant melodies, laaaaidback vocals, and yawningly tired lyrical concepts (“Surfin’ &Orivin’ ”; “When 1 Get My Wheels”).

Sorry about that, but what can you expect from a rich kid (Walter Lindsay Egan, no less) with lots of studio time on his hands? Since the liner photos indicate that Mr. Egan is not only male but also WASP (blue eyes), *he really shouldn’t have any trouble finding work in any field—why should he clutter up the record biz,'traditional haven for struggling minorities?

Richard Riegel

EDDIE AND THE HOT RODS Teenage Depression (Island)

Eddie and the Hot Rods are an everyday bar band that’s more than an everyday bar band. As simple as the Ramones, and almost as fast. Stripped down to the bones with their tinny guitar, monotone bass and a tape of skittish rats on concrete instead of a drummer, they have to rely more on sudden impact than some. They always through, too, even though they bitch' and moan like all the new bands.

As a product of the latest wave of Limey club acts, the Hot Rods are faithfully predictable, adding greasemarks of respectability like “96 Tears” and “Gloria” to their own carefully bleak material. Two chord speedballs predominate, and Barrie Masters’ you-talkin’-to-me-punk voice is displayed prominently as a lemon yellow ’57 Chevy.

The best cuts are canary metabolism rockers like the title track and “Why Can’t It Be,” an inspired welfare state groan that sounds like what the lad on the cover is thinking as he blasts his' brains to Endust. Even the readymade remake of “The Kids Are Alright” is delivered with convincing numbness.

The final statement of this thud parade is “On The Run,” a closing epic that’s enough to make R. Dean Taylor chew his chains with its feedback German Shepherds snapping irritably at the evertightening guitar drone. This album looks best from the other end of a choker leash, but that’s just part of the-grime mechanics. Eddie and the Hot Rods are tuff and cool and deserve a jump at your dirt track.

Rick Johnson

RICHARD THOMPSON Live (More or Less)

(Island)

Were his music merely the realization of the potential Jimmy Page once showed, or evidence that Clarence White lives, Richard Thompson would be ok with me. But there’s more.

See, he’s got this wife, Linda, and I think I’m in love.

This two-record set makes a great sampler for those who want to get acquainted with the man for the first time, and should be a welcome arrival for people who have been following Thompson’s career since his days as a founding member of Fairport Convention. Certainly it demonstrates that he’s the leading purveyor of a peculiarly British style of music—call it Stonehenge rock.

The first half of the package marks the belated American release of Thompson’s second solo album, I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight, dating back to ’74. His first joint effort with wife/ singer Linda, and written exclusively by Mr. T., it’s impressive in its consistency of flavor despite a variety of ingredients that runs from gregorian-ish background chanters to Philly sax.

The second disc is a more curious effort, a hodgepodge of Fairport and solo Thompson outtakes and live tracks culled from various performances, all previously unreleased. The quality of the tracks here is uneven (a Fairport

cover of Jim McGuinn’s “Ballad of Easy Rider,” for example, makes for a nice tribute but not much more, especially with Sandy Denny’s uncharacteristically overdone vocal) but it’s still a gold mine of much archival and considerable ear pleasure value.

The set as a whole kicks off with two knock-em-dead arrangements: “When I Get to the Border,” striking in its similarity to brand-new Fleetwood Mac; and “Calvary Cross,” a scary Easternesque modal guitar dirge that recalls J. Page’s Danelectro days.

The rest of disc one is peppered with great little finds, including fabulous bar songs like “Down Where the Drunkards Roll” and “We’ll Sing Hallelujah,” both of which feature a bass background voice so heavy and so low you think Richard Thompson’s esophagus might just fall out of your speaker. It’s the kind of vocal I can see certain friends of mine lip synching dramatically at a certain Druid-Celtic watering hole in l’il ol’ New York.

“Dark End of the Street” on disc two, a Richard-Linda duet, hints at Ry Coodemas well as Linda Ronstadt, but Mr. Thompson manages here, as on the rest of the album, to get across the Ronstadt earnestness without the same tendency to bathos. Mrs. T. is an absolutely knockout singer, who evokes the “1 think I’m in love” response from me almost every time out (but a tender, romantic love that’s ultimately different from the sort of hot, cheapo lust evoked by the other Linda).

The last side is guitar tour de force, with long live versions of “Night Comes In” and “Calvary Cross” (yes, the same song as on side one, but it works). If you ever liked the Dead’s “Wharf Rat,” or the more meditative sections of “Dark Star,” you’re gonna love these. Among the several artists in what could loosely be called his genre, Richard Thompson seems to be the one who has

really assimilated his reference points and made them his own.

Kevin Doyle

STARZ Violation ■_(Capitol)__

When Starz rolled out of the Rock Steady test kitchens last year like a three-chord armed personnel carrier, fully greased and ready to produce a new wave of castration anxiety among' hard-cores everywhere, they were dismissed by some doubting Gubbins’ as just another diseased scale fallen from the back of Gene Simmons and nutured to adolescence in a media cesspool by the promo police. On the other hand, the true rock slobbership—who are always right—clutched Michael Lee and the boys to their Emergency Room hearts, O.D.ing affirmatively to Starz’ grovel instincts and inspired lack of brain power.

But whether you’re a believer or not, Violation is a textbook case killer album. The radio fluff is painless, the flagship longer cuts are true skin-bracers, and the cover is moronic enough to grace even the most remote Wishbone Ash album. While producer Jack Douglas is obviously force-feeding the band at the behest of the management, he doesn’t dare get too close for fear they’ll disable his knobs for good. It’s a draw.

With “Cherry Baby” currently ensconced on the airwaves like a fossilized tater tot, it’s best to deal with Starz vaseline side first. Easy enough— Douglas just figured that if Jimmy Ienner could haul “Bad Time” out of Grand Funk, why not throw a Neil Diamond oldie at these assholes and let’em run with it? Result: a prime radio magnet' about a guy in jail for Rape II just waiting to get out and do it again. If you think that’s class, there’s “Cool One,” a regular Coasters throwback (do these guys have roots or what?) concerning the do’s and don’ts of late 70’s dating etiquette: “She reached over and she squeezed my rocks/I lost it all in the popcorn box.” Who needs butter?

Plus there’s the massive cringe appeal they unleashed in their epic paranoid-pleasers like the title cut, “S.T.E.A.D.Y.” and “Subway Terror.” “Violation” is a future-fear number where the same menacing Committee that scared Rush and Amon Duul and all those guys returns to make everybody change their undies and drive Volvos. Drilled in as it is by enough fuzz tones to make your skin feel like taking a shower with a fever, the story line sounds believable until these huge disembodied Paul Revere and the Raiders voices start bellowing “NO THAT’S A VIOLATION” in the nick of time. “S.T.E.A.D.Y.” takes the behavior-alteration a stupid step further, and “Subway Terror” turns the victim-mentality around with refreshing violence as the listener gets to punch out some jerk reading Rolling Stone. Fuckin’ honky anyway, get done with him and he’ll sound like Michael Lee does on the token ballad, “Is That A Streetlight Or The Moon.” The winsome quality of a newborn pup facing a bucket of cold water.

But best of all, at least in the initial pressing, is the shiny orange vinyl of the record itself. What would Anita Bryant say?

Rick Johnson

STEVE HILLAGE L

__(Atlantic)_

Steve Hilage’s history easily qualifies him for a place in the who’s who of obscure British progressive/avant garde-ists; he’s worked with everyone from Mike Oldfield and Henry Cow to Gong. Afficianados of this genre and even tamer groups like King Crimson Will and probably do love this music. Like all good British future rock, this album requires a brief adjustment period but once you’ve gotten familiar with it you’ll be glad you did—you can even justifiably call it jazz and impress your friends.

This bio says “Steve Hillage lives comfortably with notions of electrick gypsies, healing music, cosmic symbols..." So be forwarned. All you strictly by the book, prove it To me, non-believers steer clear. You probably won’t get into the synthesizer washing the music in waves of mystical philosophical moods. Hillage characterizes a lot of his ideas with guitar sounds too. And if you look long enough, you’ll find a trace of rock V roll.

The best thing here is Hillage’s post-space age version of the Beatles’ “All Too Much,” heavily produced with a piercing guitar solo slicing through layers of drums and voices that slide along like Lennon’s. (Yes, 1 know George sings the Beatles version. Hillage didn’t choose to be

THAT obvious.) Hillage also adopts Donovan’s “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” transforming it into his own brand of extraterrestrial sleaze and following it with an equally captivating original, “Hurdy Gurdy Glissando.” Titles like this and “Om Nama Shivaya” would be offensive if they suffered from the pretentious mannerisms of commercial pro-

gressive groups like Yes, but Hillage is obviously not selling his standards for a piece of mass accessibility. The degree to which he takes himself seriously, (cover note: “ ‘Lunar Musick Suite’ recorded exclusively at full moon, May and June”) makes his music as believable as it is weird. Kris N icholson

Kris Nicholson