JONATHAN RICHMAN AND THE MODERN LOVERS Rock ‘n’ Roll With The Modern Lovers (Beserkley)

“Soap soap soap soap soap soap soap soap. ”

“What’re you doing, Tommy?”

“Just singin' about eight bars, Dickey. ”

—Smothers Brothers, 1963

Yep, Rock ‘n’ Roll With The Modern Lovers sure is a regular laff riot, right down to the title of the record —if Jonathan “Call Me Stupid” Richman and fellow wimpoids the Modern Lovers think that this stuff is rock ‘n’ roll, then I suppose their idea of heavy metal must go along the lines of “Lemon Tree” and “Kumbaya.” Actually, the album title shoulda been I Love Myself, since only a narcissist like Richman would dare attempt to pawn off a Hefty bag full of garbage like this and call it an album. Perhaps the most interesting thing about this record is that it shows that, in his rush to the giant sandbox of life, Richman has taken his two baby steps over the dividing line between cute and obnoxious without even waiting for the command of Simon says.

I suppose that the venom pouring out of my typewriter stems from the fact that, once upon a time, Jonathan Richman was a promising and gifted songwriter and performer. The infamods Cale-produced album, finally released last year, was a downright masterpiece, and as long as I live, “Roadrunner” will be in my rock ‘n’ roll Hall of Fame. And to see someone deliberately pervert their own talents for no other apparent reason than simply not givings hoot or a holler about nothin’ no more is a goddamn disgrace.

Maybe we should have seen it coming on the last album, a silly and innocuous mess, but at least some 'of it was genuinely funny and besides, when Jonathan said, “Let’s rock,” the band did, and I still believed them. Here, though, it’s not just the songs that are almost all throwaways and decidedly not funny (“Rockin’ Rockin’ Leprechauns” aptly demonstrates lobotomized overkill at work)—it’s the entire feel of the record. Rumored to be recorded in a bathroom (my, how cool), all of the performances are throwaways; Jonathan clears his nose on “Summer Morning” and wanders away from the microphone about 20 times too often, and what is most clear about this recording (and it’s certainly not the instruments) is the condescending attitude inherent in both the singing and the playing.

There are a few good songs crawling around on all fours“Dodge Veg-O-Matic,” “Fly Into the Mystery,” “Afternoon”—and, because they’re good, they sound pitifully out of place. Even “Ice Cream Man” which, when I heard it at Jonathan’s big New York concert last fall, seemed to me to be a natural single (armies of tots prancin’ down the streets singing it while mommies harriedly rummage through their change purses for dimes and nickels), is ruined by the disinterested and amateurish aproach.

Ever run into a gang of drunken sots at a bar who think that every word out of their mouths is hilarious and don’t seem to know or care that no one else except them thinks they’re funny? Well, that’s how I feel about the Modern Lovers. 'Jonathan, allow me to be not the first, and certainly not the last, to tell you: You are an asshole.