WHERE ANCIENT ROCK STARS GO TO DIE

WHERE ANCIENT ROCK STARS GO TO DIE

RECORDS

Rick Johnson

CROSBY, STILLS & NASH CSN (Atlantic)

How time flies when youve been having fun. Seems like only last Wednesday that all the cool kids were zooming around town with the tops cut off their Volvos, and from every tape player came the sounds of this great new “super-. group," Crosby, Stills & Nash. We all thought that putting together these Diverse Talents, all three at the Peak Of Their Careers, would be the musical highlight of the Age of Aquariums. Restless but serious musicians—stubborn, wildly creative and most importantly, tired of The Bullshit.

Ha ha ha.

Take a gander at these sad dumbshits now. Crosby looks like a scaled-down Gene Shalit, the perfect backdrop for a cup of coffee. Stills features have finally reached the squared-off perfection hes been seeking since he crawled down that first hotel hallway; hes one of the popular robots from Starfish Wars. And Nash, once fresh from the orphanage, has since bought the place and installed a coal mine.

They make records as well. Wouldnt you know it? Every couple of years, when the bills start to mount and tax time is approaching, they get together—occasionally conning Neil Young in as well— and hit the studio. This time, the result is being hoo-hawed as a comeback of sorts, but it aint cause they havent been anywhere since last time.

CSN is the usual collection of Nash weepers, Crosby confessional doodles and Stills congo-bongo. The famed harmonies rise like puffed fleas, the trademark cut-up lines and offhand remarks appear and disappear and the Enigmatic Lyrics (first line of the LP: “Oh captain, what are we hiding from?") cast appropriately thoughtful shadows over the proceedings.

Graham Nash not only wrote the first hit from the album, but his songs are pretty much identical, so lets deal with him first. He is still the closest thing to a songwriter in this outfit, and “Just A Song Before 1 Go," with its pretty melody and catchy chorus, almost gets off the ground until they beat it to death with gigantic Q-tips. The rest of his tunes are based on unfocused piano motifs that dribble away like a stream drying up. Keith Jarrett with crayons. “Cold Rain" and “Carried Away" are just two faces of the same clam, and the mini-epic, “Cathedral," never goes anywhere despite some “nifty" tempo /changes. That song also contains the line of the eon: “and my head didnt know just who 1 was." Mistuh Kottuh„Im so confused1... David Crosby had sound-alike problems as well. To his credit, he collaborated on “Shadow Captain," sort of a disco takeoff on “Wooden Ships" and by far the best song here. But then he has to drag out “In My Dreams," an inconsequential harmony exercise thats so soupy you have to listen to it with a spoon, and the big Personal Statement, “Anything At All." That goddamn piano which infests the whole album twaddles in and then its “Almost Cut My Hair" all over again. “Anything you want to know, just ask me," Davey insists, “Im the worlds most opinionated man." I know, I know, for crissakes, I read the interviews, I heard the songs, now SHUT YER FUCKIN YAP! Ah—this clowns entire existence is a glorified bruise.

As for Stills, after all these years of trying to swaillow his voice, hes finally succeeded. “Hey Harrison, piove over!" called Daltrey from the pit, “Here comes Steve!" You know what to expect from him by now and thats what you get: some proto-Latin throwaways, one entitled “Fair Game" (the author is forcibly restrained) and a couple of bloato rockers where Steve got hurt and now were gonna have to "pay for it. Even honkies get the blues.

Taken together, these guys just aint got it anymore. Their first album was pretty good, even though it was there that they introduced harmony-for-the-sake-ofharmony, an idea which has since done in countless lesser vocalists. Thereve been some scattered highlights, collectively and individually, through the years (“Ohio" in particular comes to mind, but there ya go—Neil Young) but the fact remains that this is one band that invented itself into obsolescence on their very first try.

To think that these jokers were once actually looked up to as some sort of great white hope that would pull the various categories of rock music together into one big mollusk of sound is sicker that a truckload full of dead-baby jokes today. Maybe we were naive enough to be had by this supergroup shit back when the idea was fairly new to rock, but theres no excuse for it now. I honestly cant see how anybody except the most mindlessly dedicated CSN fanatic could like this record, -even in the name of nostalgia. If it goes over as well as its threatening to, it only goes to show that theres a whole new batch of suckers out there dying to be had.

I think I can see the tunnel at the end of the rainbow now.

STEVE WINWOOD (Island)

Geez. Its kinda nice to have a leftover 60s superstar actually come through when tackling a “solo" project for the first time. So many...but why go into all the disappointments of this decade? Im not gonna bother cause this is a nice album. Maybe not as innovative and diverse as the first few Traffic outings but strong and moving in its own right. And consistent, probably the most consistent album Winwoods been a part of since Traffics John Barleycorn LP seven summers ago .

There are undoubtedly reasons for this aside from Steves basic talents: great voice, very good keyboards, good guitar, good melodic/ rhythmic writing feel. Like his age—though hes been in the foreground of British rock for over ten years now, he still hasnt seen his 30th birthday. Too young to poop out, maybe.

But about the new album. Six tunes, four with lyrics by Jim Capaldi, one with lyrics by Viv Stanshall. Stevie (oops, thats Steve now, gotta remember) co-produced it, wrote all the music, sang lead, played all the keyboards, most of the guitars, and played everything on one track (“Midland Maniac"). The studio pro team of Willie Weeks and Andy Newmark took care of the bass and drums on four tracks and theres various percussion scattered about.

I guess the one disappointing thing is Winwoods choice of sidemen. Id hopetf that during his travels hed have discovered a dynamite new crew to inspire him to further heights of glory and all that jive. 'But it turns out that for his first solo flight, Steve has settled for comfortable competence; aside from Newmans stiff handling of the polyrhythms on “Lucks In," he and Weeks follow impeccably and give the music a relaxed, sure-footed air that is apparently what Steve was after.

Mostly slow to medium speed stuff here, but if you prefer things fast, you can treat them as contrasting window dressing to the uptempo track. “Time Is Running Out" is just bursting with paranoid urgency; it sounds like an update (lotsa clavinet) of “Gimme Some Lovin " or “Im a Man," cause its funky but still rocks like mad. Kinda reminds me of Stevie Wonder in a way, but Ill be damned if I can find anything on Songs In The Key of Life that cooks like this mutha.

So thats it. No drastic new directions but no fuck-ups, either; I cant see many of the thousands who gobbled up John Barleycorn and Low Spark being disappointed with it, thats for sure. Now if some of Steves contemporaries can come through in similar fashion, I just may begin to believe the myth of musical maturity after all.

Michael Davis

KISS Love Gun (Casablanca)

Okay, Kissers, you dont have to smooch and tell, but aint it a fact that even though the tried & true

hard rock of Rock and Roll Over rescued you (critically speaking) from the ..relatively radical moves of Destroyer, you still yearn to crank out “progressive" product? That your impressionable minds were not simply touched by the expertise of the worldly Mr. Ezrin, but had long since been branded with the dogmatic “those who are not busy being born etc." watchword of Big Daddy Dylan?

Right, guys, dont bother answering me now, I know it must be traumatic to pick up rockmags these days, having to read your real names in this mag, having to endure your long-forgotten acne scars 'being stripped of makeup in that mag. The carefully-constructed Kiss edifice is finally beginning to crumble, yet the band remain obligated to working within the limitations of costume, makeup, and rock 'n roll style which define them. Without the whitefaces (or whatever), theyd be simply the EisenKlien Soft Decay Band, at best.

So, bearing those image constraints in mind, we get Kiss new Love Gun LP, crafted with as many compromises as a 1978 auto, and as many workable paradoxes, too: gleaming metallic stylings with crashproof bumpers; good aural takeoff with high turntable mileage.

The fact that the jacket of Love Gun lists the cuts in a different order than they appear on the record seems to be a sign that the steal is on. The first side acquits itself conventionally enough' with its quota of well-loved Kiss riffs from time immemorial (some from 1974 and the first album, even): “I Stole Your Love" (aspires to Aerosmith), “Christine Sixteen" (you already know which beats Genes going to accent), “Got Love for Sale" (ditto), “Shock Me" (the Kisschorus perfunctorily intoning, “Put on your black leather"), and “Tomorrow and Tonight" (Chuck Berry softcore hischool rebellion lo these many years later).

Flip Love Gun over to Side 2 and -its title cut, and you get calculationrock of a different color (or should I say “colour"?)—sounds like Dirty Tricks or maybe Widow-

maker. Which is followed quickly by an odd, fascinating trilogy, wherein Kiss briefly turn the sarcasm away from the dopey groupies who haunt their nights and days, and back onto their own masked selves: “Hooligan," authored by the “Beth"-validated Criss-Penridge team, burlesques the groups need to keep their music, shall we say, unchallenging; Gene Simmons chimes in with the great “Almost Human," a sort of vintage Alice Cooper genre-piece, or even more exaictly, what Paul Revere and the Raiders would be doing right now if theyd followed “Hungry" s musical implications to their logical conclusion rather than going Las Vegas; and Simmons “Plaster Caster," where Gene dabbles in his Polaroid-fellatioid autobiography, maybe incidentally suggesting just how those serpentheaded boots really feel.

Having been privileged to glimpse behind the makeup just for a moment, were brought back out to Kiss-reality with the coldwater shock of a cover (first since “Kissin Time" on the first LP) of the Crystals ancient “Then He Kissed Me" —arrangement courtesy of the Beach Boys version, but passive narrators rble (as it was in the original) strictly 1977 and Kiss: “Then SHE Kissed ME." Could “SHE" be one of those S&M handmaidens swarming over the cover? Only Gene knows for sure.

Love Gun: the transitional rock 'n roll album of the season.-Play it for all your passages.

Richard Riegel

ERIC CARMEN Boats Against the Current (Arista)

A Comical scene: Eric Carmen and Neil Sedaka, cooing over Cher in a beauty salon, flanking her as only the choicest epitomies of hairdresserdom. The Shampoo connection is even carried over to Carmens new album—some Beach Boys sing a bit. “Wouldnt It Be Nice," I wondered at first...

Boats Against the Current was originally tove been produced by Gus Dudgeon of the Elton John aegis. Elton John, though he may be on the Bluer side of Lavender yet, hasn't too far to go before hitting the ranks of hairdresser musicianship—the mushy middle ground,omnivorous sweet-goo swampland of rock, pop, MOR & classical influences.

For the first in Carmens career, his musicians arent supporters like the Raspberries (sigh) or the Eric Carmen band, double drummers and all. Boats Against the Current utilizes session men like Nigel Olsson, Bobby Keyes, Tom Scott and Jim Horn. Sounds it: best described in four-letter words, itsuniformly b-l-a-h, f-l-a-t, p-u-r-e(-e).

Alas, too, like the sorely lacking/ needed energy of Carmens musical yore (not just Raspberries uptempo stuff—-“Thats Rock & Roll" and “Never Gonna Fall In Love Again" had their own boppish allures), Erics once sunny, young and naive voice has become another yesteryear fixture.

Boner of a quote: “Certain artists...recording today are bringing a certain degree of literacy to rock &. roll. I dont know if thats what everyone should be trying to do, but it seems like a logical avenue [italics mine] for me to pursue." (And I always thought it was venues!)

Boats Against the Current is supposedly less a collection of songs, more an conceptual LP about the last ten years of Carmens life, an experience which he described as “frightening."

Actually, the albums most recurrent cuewords better indicate Carmens frame of mind: Run away, (let your love) set me free, in a trance/take a chance, struggling so hard for freedom... Makes me think this mans artistically cramped, bound by contracts he now wishes had never tempted him.

Lyrical themes aside, except for the Rod Stewart mimicry on “Take It Or Leave .It," the songs are brooding, somber piano and orchestrated pieces—only “Take It Or Leave It" contains any energy worth transferring. Eight tracks in all, none under 3^ minutes, and if you can tell why a song should be elongated without saying a damnblamed thing, Ill eat my Dickey Betts cap. Based on repetition for effect, only so much of Eric Carmens compositions are bearable over the three minute mark, let alone eight minutes plus: “Runaway," despite sweeping arrangement and capable production, seems tritened, due to its overlength. Stretched points become flaccid. On a similar train of thought, goodbye to the law of thermodynamics on this LP— though there are few better examples on vinyl of all-the-way entropy.

Perhaps Eric Carmen should seriously consider opening his own hair salon soon.

Trixie A. Balm

THE STRANGLERS IV Rattus Norvegicus (A&M)

IV Rattus Norvegicus by the Stranglers is the moon hanging high in the midnight sky, gleaming silver and handicapped, the speedometer crusin over 55 mph—way over 55 mph—the erosive melancholy of the beach air still careening, fresh and crisp, through your head, and

your girl sleeping gently, quiet on your shoulder as you head for the concrete wall—all this and: Squamaceous organ moans, animal bass lines and a set of vocal meanderings that come on like an old leather chair.

The inevitable cpmparison of the Stranglers with the early Doors is too easy; to really find out where this group of musical spadones comes from you have to know how the Music Machine did Neil Diamonds “Cherry Cherry" or the Beatles “Taxman." Sure, everybodys gonna say that its the Doors all over, because everybody iuanfs it to be the Doors all over again. People are in such a pique over lost causes and lost moments that theyre constantly seeking out replacements for whats already gone down the tubes of time.

Out of all the new wave'punkaholics the Stranglers will no doubt take top honors as time goes by, because theyve got a sense of humor as well, as a musical proficiency attuned to the realities of the late-. Sixties and honest punk ethics. With little trouble the Stranglers will outshine the likes of the Sex Pistols, Clash, Damned, etc. who are only phenomena in search of definition. The Stranglers are already as defined as they want to be.

Most of the songs here are blunt edged swipes at a self-proclaimed and self-promoting1 new feminism, but its a kind of sexism thats born and bred in an urban consciousness. A sexism where the city becomes more than the sexual urge and. creates an impotence easily accepted and rechanneled into violence and strutting machismo.

A lor of credit for the forcefulness of this record has to go to producer Martin Rushent whose grasp of Sixties texturing is refreshing. A summary of his technique is ably displayed on the epic “Down In The Sewer," a subtle combination of early Vanilla Fudge and mid-stride Iron Butterfly.

IV Rattus Norvegicus is one of those rare entities where no song is bad. Personal favorites are “Sometimes" and “Hanging Around" for their meanness and “Peaches" and “Goodbye Toulouse" for their humor. The Stranglers are a good argument for reinstating the death penalty for spitting on the-sidewalk.

Joe Fernbacher

BAY CITY ROLLERS Its A Game (Arista)

Personally, Im grateful that Ian Mitchell departed the band after a mere eight months of service. Mitchell was adorable, of course, but he looked underageV-jailbait, as it were. He was brazenly Irish in an aggregation of Scots and, according to one reporter, held strong (if unspecified) views on the IRA and related matters. He will be missed. Nevertheless, his surprise resignation made possible the ascension of one Pat McGlynn, recruited from

an apparently endless line of tartanbedecked teenagers. Despite an announced determination to surmount the pressures of instant superstardom, Me Glynn proved even less hardy than the feckless Ian Mitchell. He exited after a swift (albeit hectic) few weeks.

What we are left with, then, are four Rollers, none of whom hail from Bay City, Michigan: Eric, Derek, Woody and Les. Admittedly, the only true survivor of the original line-up is Derek; he founded the BCRs first incarnation, the Saxons, back in 1969 with brother Alan Longmuir. Still, there is a sense of getting back to basics with the stripped-down outfit of Its A Game, much like the Stones apres Mick Taylor and their landmark Black and Blue set. A reappraisal, if you will, of rock and roll priorities.

Its A Game opens with a Chris Adams song called “Its A Game," an upbeat number proclaiming that life is, in fact, a game. The Len Boone tune that follows, “You Made Me Believe In Magic," (a monster hit for the,Rollers) features a plaintive, Dionne Warwickestyle vocal from Les and a classic Eric Faulkner guitar solo that cuts across the string charts like a Trac II through soybean oil. “Dont Let The Music Die" begins as a soft, introspective ballad (sweetened with woodwinds) only to burst— gloriously—into a Manilowesque anthem of immortal MOR. Should Grossingers ever secede from the Union, this could be its “Dixie."

Teddy Vanns “Love Power" is chilling evocation of the giddy high induced by lithium overdose, similar in tone to Ted Nugents recent “Death By Misadventure." And “The Way I Feel Tonight," by Harvey Shield, is a symbolist apotheosis, with its Rimbaud-like “Let us taste each others wine" lyric— true sensory dislocation. Side Two offers an uninterrupted string of Roller-penned tunes, four in all. “Sweet Virginia" and the Herb Alpert-influenced “Inside A Broken Dream" are the standouts here. Finally, as Side One of Bowies Diamond Dogs closed with “Rebel Rebel," so does Side Two of Its A Game close with “Rebel Rebel." This is a great song and a morethan-adequate side-closer, although Les substitutes the word “sexy" for “tacky" and somebody (Eric Faulkner, I suppose) pukes horrible psychedelic guitar all over the track.

In all, the best Rollers since Dedication.

Wesley Strick

YES Going For The One (Atlantic)

Its better to hear the sibilant shriek of technology going sweetly mad than to wade through a syrupy swamp of feigned industrial pretensions. Progressive music proclaims itself art when all it really is is nothing more than a repository for ex-conservatory rejectamenta who havent got the chops to rock 'n roll. So they hide behind a mass of convoluted fugues and structured regressions pretending theyve got the musical ability to handle the classical gases of Bach, Beethoven or Ravel, but if they really did, they wouldnt be playing mass electronics in front of audiences mindblanked and repressed to a point of illiteracy:

Yes, with Rick Wakeman—^he Sabu of the synthesizer—are ergless perpetrators of this so called progression and Going For The One is almost as self-effacing as jumping off a skyscraper in the middle of lunch hour. At first I thought going for one more meant that maybe Yes had gone so far as to add another maraca to their act (one maraca amidst all that technological roughage—its almost obscene, like having one testicle and wanting to be a porn star) but as life would have it theyve not added that extra maraca so theyre still boring.

Theyve even gone so far as to give us an absolutely stagnant album cover. For a while Yes album covers were exciting but now, well, lets just say that the more I think about Yes the worse I feel. There is absolutely nothing of any redeeming value on this album, so why continue to make these pyoids rich? Yes, no not really.

Joe Fernbacher

ONEOFTHEBOYS Roger Daltrey

_(MCA)_

Tis a peculiar disease which afflicts rock stars of, let us say, a certain age. And like sickle-cell anemia, it strikes not indiscriminately, but rather attacks only that class made of unillustrious members of highly illustrious bands.

The disease of the overshadowed, you might call it. Or the moniker I prefer: Bill Wymanitis.

The symptoms are gruesome to describe, and the effects exzematic. The aging pop star, caught in the grips of a particularly nasty bout with Wymanitis, has been known to rush headlong into one or more recording studios without any clue as to what to do once he gets there. He has even been observed dragging otherwise healthy musicians in off the street with him, only to forcibly hold them there by weighing them down in their chairs with large coins. And, once so sequestered, he has been heard to shriek and warble piteously. Near the end, the once-healthy rock figure begins to excrete plastic discs that have no known function.

Roger Daltrey is excreting— again. (Wymanitis often exists as a chronic, recurring malady. In some cases, its been known to flare up dozens of times, over a period of years.)

Yet, Mr. Daltrey is to be commended for his bravery in the face of what must be excruciating circumstances. You see, hes chosen to show all potential victims of the illness which has befallen him just what could lie in store for them, should they fail to adequately heed the demand of rock health.

In a nutshell, poor Roger has provided, on his excretion wrappers, a visual image of Wymanitis in its advanced stages that should warn even the most reckless to stay off the course which he himself has followed. The photograph to which I refer provides irrepressible proof that Wymanifis makes your face fall off. And if that werent enough, inside this wrapper—in addition to the useless plastic excreta—is an offer to sell, to anyone interested (for a mere $9.95), a holographic pendant which bears witness—in 3-D—to the horrible contortions of the Daltrey face just before it finally melted away.

Thank you, Roger. If someone is reading this to you—indeed, if you still have ears—know that your horrible demise has not been totally in vain.

Kevin Doyle

JAMES TAYLOR JT

(Columbia)

Its tough to break a critical sweat over JT. You have to work yourself up to it. Slightly watery lemonade is what it is; pour over ice and sip while watching a YankeeRed Sox game. Cool, with no real kick, no gin and tonic jolt. After eight albums you give up expecting anything from James Taylor in the way of startling ideas, assertive vocals or risk-taking musicianship. If theres a cluster of pleasant melodies and an avoidance of obnoxious gaffes, thats about as much as the non-fan can hope for. On his newest collection, made for a new label but texturally indistinguishable from his past work, Taylor is making drowsy, inert music, an implosive reversal on the summertime blues. Tunes for swaying in a hammock; any more brains or brawn would upset the narcotic equilibrium: when he deviates from the reflective mood, hes way out of his range.

There are four fine tracks here. The single, “Handy Man," at first seems another insipid whitewash of a black hit in the mode of “Mockingbird" and “How Sweet It Is," jaut it becomes mesmerizing because a. the song is terrific, a prowessproud promo like “Sixty Minute Man" and b. Taylors lackadaisical reading is an effective soft sell: hes obviously depending on satisfied customer referrals rather than the Jimmy Jones “commacomma" barker spiel. “Terra Nova," written and sung with Carly Simon, has a subtle melodic flow that mirrors the lyrics call of the water, and “Another Grey Morning" and “If I Keep My Heart Out of Sight"are both unusually well-etched songs, strong on the detail that eludes Taylor elsewhere. Their recognition of the itchy discontent that strikes even an ideal couple and of the complicated strategies of seduction are a relief from the soporific, sophomoric ideas and executions on the rest of the album.

Good as this quartet of cuts is, Ill probably never play JT again in fully conscious moments. Theres simply too much nonsense to put up with, too much L.A. smug insularity, too many mediocre songs. Whether hes being US Magazine coo-y about his happiness with Carly, gimmicky and mannered on “Traffic Jam" and “I Was Only Telling a Lie," or platitudinous on “Looking For Love On Broadway," Taylor seems to be dashing off songs unself-critically. “Bartender Blues" rehashes every bartender cliche (and wastes a Linda Ronstadt harmony vocal in the process), and on “Secret OLife" Taylor becomes an estian Phil OSopher, dispensing such nuggets of profundity as “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time" and “Now the thing about time is that time isnt really real." Hea-vee.

Most of the time you want to grab James Taylor by the lapels and shake him up a little. JT is all craft and little zeal, and since his songs, his voice and his attitude toward his material are unexceptional, the craft, as provided by producer Peter Asher and the usual gang of cronies, feels like a cover for a sort of creative cowardice. Finally, compared to many of his singer-songwriter compatriots who take more chances, James Taylor is marginal, and more than a touch dull. Due to a mailing label foul-up, the UPS man brought two copies of JT to my door. A lucky event, as it turned out. Because if I had to get up .twice as often to flip the record over, I might have faltered during one trip between the chair and the turntable and sacked out on the sofa, &nd this review might have ended in mid-

Mitch Cohen

THE STEVE MILLER BAND Book of Dreams (Capitdl)

THE SEEDS Failin Off the Edge (GNP Crescendo)

Book of Dreams has gone platinum, and young turks everywhere slump and shrug in a state of total depression. Steve Millers anachronistic rise to stardom ever sinceThe Joker is still a puzzle. His one great moment: “Somebody give me a cheeseburger!" And that was virtually IT. Logically, he should be washing pots n pans in Denton, Texas right now, instead of numbing yr ears with paraffin rijffs and synthethic enthusiasm.

Nothing actually offensive about Steve Millers collection of mundane fantasies, ysee, its just a Question of Temperature. No warmth! Minus zero heat! NO FIRE!! Just ten mediocre cuts, enough to get by, enduring the endless motions, patiently awaiting the Rolling Stone endorsement while record prices soar to an amazing SIX BUX (holy hell, when I was a wee squirt, you could get 2 LPs for that price, & THEY WERE IN MONO).

Cause its a trap, man, and youre the sucker. WHY DONCHA WHITE RIOT & BURN THE DAMN PAP, YA SCHNOOKS?! How come theres no ANARCHY IN THE U.S.A.? (the Archies are anarchists, why not YOU?) DIDJA SLICE OFF YR EARS OR WHAT?!

A possible solution to this general apathetic condition and mass absorption of cliched software would be to give everybody a quick dose of the Seeds new album. Yep, this is still 1977, no curves, same ole Seeds. Book of Dreams is Steve Millers 12th release, and ya wont find him doing anything else but chunkin & churnin thru the same hackneyed punches. FailinOff the Edge is the Seeds 6th, and mostly its out-takes, b-sides, throwouts, REALLY GARBAGE, and yknow, it never sounded better.

Rejects, 1 mean, SEEDS REJECTS (10 mins, of Sky Saxon rubbing his peach fuzz against a mike while the band singes the surrounding air in an epileptic seizure), alternate versions of “Tripmaker" and “Pushin Too . Hard," crosseyed tunes like “Daisy Mae" and “Chocolate River," even a stupid trick like using the same song twice (“The Wind Blows Your Hair") only calling it a Reprise. AND IT STILL MAKES STEVE MILLER SOUND LIKE A PALE SCARED RABBIT!

Alt ho ugh a te n year gap separates the Seeds music from the cybernetics of Steve Millers latest, both bands are similar in one way: each has mastered the knack of monotonous overkill. Every Steve Miller song reminds you of “Living in the U.S.A." featuring that immediately identifiable Texas draaawwwl. And can you really distinguish between “Space Cowboy" and “The Joker" or “Jet Airliner" and “Fly Like an Eagle? Not to mention every filler cut on every filler album.

The Seeds, of course, managed to work “Pushin Too Hard" into every song they ever did. If some old fogy wanted to prove all rock & roll sounded exactly alike, he could just use the Seeds first album as a prime example cause each cartoon tune has that rippling “organ melodica." No melodies, just the creative ability to overwork one good idea.

Admittedly, both bands incessantly repeat themselves, but thats simply their obsession. Book of Dreams has four passable cuts •outa 10 (maybe) because Steve Miller has spread himself too thin (repeated himself until he became an endless stutter). Failin Off the Edge has 11 immortal cuts outa 11 (for; sure!) because the Seeds (being zombies hypnotized by the primitive rhythms of their own one true oeuvre) never had a chance to break through the barrier of their monotonous sound and image; they went berserk trying, anyway. “Theres a lesson in there somewhere, Sherman," as Mr. Peabody used to say.

Robot A. Hull

ORNETTE COLEMAN Dancing In Your Head (Horizon)

It must be nearly ten years since Ive listened to a new Ornette Coleman album. I used to have them all.

I was very much involved in the New York critical infighting about whether or not Ornette was going to be The Way (I was a Cecil Taylor man, myself), and watched and participated in what we now know as the Springsteen Syndrome, and got to know and like Ornette, and write about him, and then the main impulse of creativity shifted to rock, and it became less urgent to find out what the newest thing from thechief avatar of The New Thing was going to sound like. And anyway, with the sleight-of-hand of a master prestidigitator, John Coltrane had done what we were all talking about while our backs were turned and we were looking somewhere else.

At any rate, when I was asked if I wanted to see what I thought of Ornetts new record, the first hes made with a small group in some years, I was eager to (I lost track of him about the time he made those records in Sweden for Blue Note). And Im glad I did. Hes really made a terrific record. It shows, onceagainr that probably the greatest impact Ornette had, for all that talk of “freedom from the harmonic prison," was on rhythm. Dont forget, hes the man who found Charlie Haden and Billy Higgins, and a whole platoon of bassists and drummers blossomed under his influence.

Now hes found a couple of guitar, players, Bern Nix and Charlie Ellerbee. Because of the billing, I take it that its Nix who comes leaping out at you when the record starts. One of those rhythm openings before the theme that lets you know, before the music even gets into what its really going to be about, that something special is going to happen. I havent heard a record come out swinging like this in years (the rest of the section is Rudy McDaniel, bass, and Shannon Jackson, drums), and I dont care who your favorite rock guitarist is, he isnt this good. The record mostly consists of two different takes of a piece Ornette calls “Theme From A Symphony" (a simple, childlike calypso not all that different from “Ob-LaDi, Ob-La-Da") which Ornette heats up with his field-holler phrases for all of one side, and most of a second.

The rest of side two is Ornette with those mythical Master Musicians of Joujouka, Morocco, whom Brian Jones recorded a long time ago, and for me, it doesnt repay repeated listenings. But Ornette cooking on his plastic alto over those marvelous guitars does—and will for a long time.

Joe Goldberg

OLIVIA NEWTON-JOHN Making A Good Thing Better _(MCA)_

The assignment came with anticipatory yahoo...dreams of rubbing pork-rind across the pearly whites; squirting sticky goo into those bright eyes of blue. As she would spin helplessly on the turntable, 1 would violate her cover.

Peeling off shrink wrap, like panties, gently spreading the cardboard labia, prodding blood-gorged joystick into wobbly gash; probing the dank void.

No sooner than my purple-tipped tool of eros could struggle up to the top of the gaping orifice (where I presumed her pleasure button, must lie; quivering and greasy) the title track with its squeaky refrain of “Better, better, better" (reminiscent of Linda Ronstadts piggy squeal of 'Yeah, yeah/Yeah, yeah! on her version of “Heatwave") poked into my aural cavern, than pain like no other, shot from pumping pendant to skull, serving the sweaty illusion of my erotic expectations.

Olivia Newton-John is the kind of a girl every boy dreams of taking to the senior prom—blonde hair, blue eyes, white teeth, rosy lips, pert nips and firm hips—the kind of a girl that always ends up going to the senior prom with that lucky s.o.b. from the student senate. (Which only serves to make her even more desirable than ever because she is that much farther from your grasp.)

Olivia Newton-John is also the kind of a girl that has a voice just like your sister. Which only leads one to inquire why she is making albums while little sis is singing in the shower (excluding the probability that your sister is so ugly she has to sneak up on a glass of water). Its simple. Olivia Newton-John hit it big singing in the shower in Australia. So big that she made enough money to come to the United States to make albums. (Which only indicates how upside-down Australia really is.)

Olivia Newton-John is also the kind of a girl that the average CREEM reader (a single make of 21.3 years of age, according to the 1976 Reader Demographic Survey conducted by Carpenter & Associates for CREEM Magazine), demands to have reviewed if only because Olivia Newton-John is such a snappy snatcharoo.

But take it from the pen of experience...dont mess around with this Olivia Newton-John album unless you like paper cuts.

Air-Wreck (Now they call me “Stubby") Genheimer

JOHNNY WINTER Nothin But the Blues (Blue Sky)

Nothin But the Blues is the blues album that everyone whos ever been thrilled by Johnny Winters guitar playing has been waiting for him to produce. Winter has been, virtually from the moment he burst onto the scene, one of the premier and most dedicated guitarists in all of rock and, as a player first and foremost, he does his best when his band is pushing him. The last time Winter went over the edge into majestic territory on an album was the Johnny Winter And Live LP, a document of the celebration of rock 'n roll, and Nothin But the Blues similarly takes off for the skies in its irrepressible spirit, and respect, for the blues as a form.

The key to this album is, of course, Winters partnership with Muddy Waters during the last year.

If you were lucky enough to catch . any of their shows together, you were witness to Winters transformation from a guitarist who loved to play the blues to a bona fide bluesman. Being onstage with Waters apparently taught Winter much, because his.playing on this album is incredibly refined, combining a marked degree of subtlety with the usual Winter riff explo sions. With a band composed of Pinetop Perkins, James Cotton, Bob Margolin and the rest of the men who played on the Winter/ Waters tour churning around him. Winter here is truly inspired—he wrote eight of the nine songs on the ( record and if you know anything about Johnny Winter, you know that that is verging on the miraculous.

Good songs, too—the best ones are “TV Mama," a classic with Winter accompanying himself on metal body acoustic slide guitar as he gets his tube fixed and “Bladie Mae," an ode to a switchblade (“You can always tell its her/even if you feel her in the dark"). Hard women, hard times and hard liquor all floating about on virtually every track. And as an added bonus, Muddy shows up for a guest vocal on “Walkin Thru the Park" for the perfect finale to the proceedings. Nothin But the Blues is nothin but a fine, fine record. Christ, Johnny'Winters got class.

Billy Altman