ROD STEWART

Foot Loose & Fancy Free

(Warner Bros.)

R. Meltzer

Hey hey hey...another swell dynamite longplayer from CREEM coverboy Roderick Stewart—or is it Rodney? Anyway geez they’re all swell and wonderful and can’t be beat and even tho I got a HANGOVER from drinkin’ beer while Metal Mike Saunders was over here diwyin up the assignments on some new Vom vocals with me I’m sure I can review this latest effort of Rod’s without too much strain or pain or anything cause, y’know, good’uns are e-z.

“Hot Legs” is real good—as legsongs often ARE. Better’n that actually cause like, well, urn...hey lemme just get outrageous as hell and say it’s the best legsong I’ve ever heard. True, it’s the best. Reminiscent of Fagliaro’s “Laser Gypsy” which I think I mighta mentioned in my Dead Boys review but let me just mention it again cause I play it every day and well, Pag’s the real Rod Stewart so comparisions’re cool and even the unreal one can deliver sometimes too. Sometimes? Nah, what am I sayin, he always delivers, a real Delivery Man even if it ain’t always the Total Goods. Total this time tho (true). As total as “Maggie May’?,Um...yeah. F’re sure.

“You’re Insane” has real good “Under My Thumb” type occasional syncopation type whatevers goin on below the surface, hence you might say it’s more than okay. “More than okay”—truly. “You’re In My Heart” sounds kinda like it must be about Britt or somethin, like he’s bein real tender so she don’t go THRU on that threat to sue his ass off. “My love for you is immeasurable, my respect for you immense”—Blood on the Tracks type loveydoveysong, good stuff. Uh, y’know, good stuff—oh I said that already.

“Born Loose” at the tail end of side one is “Laser Gypsy” again, a bouncy rocker, real quality with a capital Q from start to fin. You can always play an entire side of Rod a party and know you won’t hafta go over and pick yer cuts and ruin the dancing, Rod’s good LIKE that, y’might even call him helpful. Helps your party (a real swell guy).

Side two’s no exception, a real dandy outasight version of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On.” As good as or better than the Vanilla Fudge version? Yes, as good as or better than the Vanilla Fudge version. Better? Yeah, ’s better. “(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don’t Want to Be Right” is better TOO, better than if they ever did one his would be the better of the two. Real good. “You Got a Nerve” which is just startin to spin right now sounds like an anti'Britt lyric, c’est la vie. Fine tune and I’m sure when “I Was Only Joking” comes on it’ll be just as fine...and I was right! Fine!

I mean like you can always tell in advance with Rod, like he’s always good if not better, like what’s he ever done that wasn’t good, he’s always good. Consistently good. More consistent than most, I mean, uh, well maybe he’s even the most consistent, you tell me. I’m not sure cause would you believe I’ve never listened to Gasoline Alley? Wait a minute, maybe I have, I guess I’ve heard em all. So anyway: one of the more consistent (if not most). Like he always sings better’n me and that’s his biz, just as it’s my biz (with the fabulous new aforementioned beat comberoo Vom profiled in this mag last ish) to sing worse. Both doin our bizness. But sometimes I’m good insteada bad so it’s me who’s the inconsistent one, Rod’s consist. Always good. Yeah and this elpee is of course no exception, y’might even say it’s as excellent an example of real-good-fine-swellokay - fine - & - dandy - excel lent - all -reet-&-nothin-but DISPENSABLE ARCHAIC '60S-'70S ANTIQUE OLD-FART ROCK ROLL MUSIC as you’re likely to find in ’77 going into ’78.1 only got the test pressing now, when 1 get the “real thing” I’ll donate it to the Retired Fishermen’s Home, they’ll enjoy it even more than me. And as I said, I enjoyed it a lot.

BLUE OYSTER CULT Spectres (Columbia)

The Blue Oyster Cult have been able, in the past few years, to abandon their critic-induced anxieties

about striving on as the vanguards of N. Y. Rock or of intellectuo-metal or whatever, and to get on with capturing the lay fans stackedojp by the radios and at the record counters. Ergo, last season’s “democratic” LP, Agents of Fortune, and the resultant hit single, “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, two of the Cult’s biggest popular successes ever. Proving, perhaps, that ex-Nazis do make the best postwar economic recovery.

Popular demand thus validated by civilian enthusiasm, B.O.C. manager-producer Sandy Pearlman’s presence is even less evident on the new Spectres than it was on Agents of Fortune. He co-contributed only one song to Spectres, .the boogie-anthemic “R.U. Ready 2 Rock”, which seems (to us connoisseurs of the B.O.C. extended family) more “Meltzerian” than “Pearlmanic” (goofball wordplay vs. obfuscated dreams of new order). R.U. Ready-to-Meltzer himself got in only one tune this time (“Death Valley Nights”), as did actual Cultists Eric Bloom (“Goin’ Through the Motions”) and Allen Lanier (“Searchin’ for Celine”); Patti Smith is completely absent.

The compositional movers & shakers of Spectres are instead that hot Agents of Fortune bunch; the ubiquitous Bouchard brothers, new star collaborator Helen Wheels and, pre-eminently, Donald “Who the fuck is ‘Buck Dharma’?” Roeser. Flushed with the success of his existential-proud “Reaper”, Roeser has come back with the rousing, Black Sabbath-like “Godzilla”, a fairly literal tribute to the Japanese movie star; “I Love the Night”, a sentimental wages-ofdesire ballad; and “Golden Age of Leather”, a sarcastic tour de force which may or may not celebrate the demise of the band’s pseudo-S.S. period (1 still gotta send my 5(X to that P.O. Box in Setauket, L.l. for a lyric sheet, before I render any final textural analysis).

The Helen Wheels-Joe Bouchard collaborations on “Celestial the Queen” and “Nosferatu” are equally obscure lyrically, but the band’s adept vocal harmonies readily convey familiar Gothic moods in these cuts. Interestingly, Bloom’s “Goin’ Through the Motions” (written with one “I. Hunter”) (smirk) is a highly conventional groupie-lament, complete with pumping organ (as it were) and earnest 3 Dog Night-like vocal, all this tackiness redeemed by the bracing context of the B.O.C.

Throughout Spectres, the Cult’s patented hooks are much more subtly-ensconsed than they were on the early albums, and thus, as on Agents of Fortune, more overwhelmingly there with each fresh listening. Allen Lanier’s aching piano on “Searchin’ for Celine” and “Death Valley Nights” is a particularly attractive facet of the complex layers of sound on Spectres.

The Golden Age of Leather may well be over, but the Golden Age of the Blue Oyster Cult (commercial success will be welcome as it comes, thank you) is just beginning, and I’m still pulling for the Cult and their idiosyncratic-by-reasonof-manifold-personality visions. They’re as beautiful as a foot (some would say). Rjchard Riege,

STEELY DAN Aja

_(ABC)_

Steely Dan, in case you don’t already know, isn’t a group in the conventional sense (tho it began that way) but rather the umbrella name that the duo of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker give to whatever group of musicians happens to be playing their compositions at any given time. There are seven cuts on this record and seven different lineups—and tho a lot of this involves different combinations of a basic pool of studio musicians, they do manage to use six different drummers (Bernard Purdie appears twice). The reason for pointing this out is to be able to marvel at the coherence of the record, it’s a remarkabje continuity of conception and execution—an indication not only of Fagen and Becker’s control over their music regardless of their physical presence (Becker doesn’t even appear on two cuts and Fagen’s synthesizer contributions are minimal tho he does sing lead throughout) but also of the assertiveness of its originality. Steely Dan isn’t a group; it’s a concept.

The concept, as of Aja, is cynicism tempered by romanticism, dark without being brooding, resulting in an engrossing midnite album. The famous enigmatic Steely Dan lyrics are not much in evidence here, tho it’s not all directness and clarity either. There’s a healthy appreciation of the oblique phrase to describe the elusive emotion but insular references are kept few and unobstrusive. The only lyric that can really be regarded as obscure as far as intent is concerned is the title track whose main appeal is musical anyway. An eight-minute track with a jazzy start/stop rhythm and subtle Latin and Oriental motifs running through the melody, it’s highlighted by a too brief full-bodied tenor solo by Wayne Shorter (mpre reminiscent of his Art Blakey days than his wispy Miles day) and Steve Gadd’s imaginative and energetic drumming. Another musical highlight is provided by yet another jazzman, Victor Feldman, perhaps best known for his sympathetic ballad playing on Miles’ classic Seven Steps To Heaven album. Here, on “I Got The News”, a reasonably straightforward love and lust song, he gets in some angular Monkish licks that enhance an otherwise monotonous rhythm backup. But despite all these jazz references, this definitely ain’t no jazz album. Nor is it (God forbid) a fusion/crossover album. I’d prefer to leave the labeling to someone else.

Despite the varied groups of musicians, the record’s continuity comes from Fagen/Becker’s insistence on writing songs with long melodic lines and almost somber harmonies (even on the uptempo cuts). Fagen’s singing is appropriately dramatic without pushing it too hard, i.e., he’s not a very good singer but he sings it well. The lyrics have a way of covering themselves, of protecting themselves from the vulnerable emotions they arise from. “Black Cow” is, on the surface, a song of rejection, but it doesn’t take too much scratching to see the feelings of compassion that inform it. “Deacon Blues” is a romantic loner’s song but when the singer reaches the point of self pity that lurks behind the loner’s image —“I cried when I wrote this song”— he immediately regains his distance from the listener with the next line—“Sue me if I play too long.”

If you’re willing to invest some feeling with your listening, you’ll discover a richness of emotion here, both musically and lyrically, that make this one of the most satisfying records of the year. And even if you’d prefer to listen casually, there’s enough hooks here (as opposed to The Royal Scam) to keep you coming back for more. *

Richard C. Walls

JOHN CALE Animal Justice (Illegal Records)

Affable accountant-type Britisher’s voice opens side one: “Hi. My name’s Arthur, and I quit—” Sinister twist to the last word, pronounced “Kuh-witt,” and then a quick, nigh inaudible sucking-in of breath. “Chickenshit!” John Cale and Co. scream to their throats’ ravaged extremes.

For the remainder of “Chickenshit” and through the rest of side one of Animal Justice, rampagin’ John Cale’s new three-song EF, that dearly familiar booming bassbottomed out rusty-wire guitar and vocal blend of sound that is so uniquely Mr. Cale’s throttles the (as those people at Island put it after bounding dear John off their label) guts. Like insatiable semi-gears always cranking in the wrong drive, the archetypal unsweet brashness of clamor-loud R&R (!) bashes across both stereophonic channels as maniacally, almost, as “The Gift,” White Light/White Heat’s best-delivered (i.e., most pleasing to the ear) monotone vocal. Both stories are set to jarring distorto accompaniment; “Chickenshit” is less comprehensible, more crazed, quite sillier and devised in part, seemingly for shock value (equals $ & 4).

Since Velvets days, Cale’s let down his Welsh reserve, let the ambient outrage of the times affect his art. (You’d best believe he’s encountered plenty of artistic opposition through the years to warrant mad rage.) Easily, this man’s voice is the most outrageous, runnin’-scared deranged yet capably varied shriek machine in the current age of rock, punk (oh, excuse me: p***) or no.

Also only a little over three minutes in length, Chuck Berry’s “Memphis” closes side one with gusto, moog, and updated strangeness while not forsaking original lyrics or sense of fun. On side two of this otherwise Cale writ/produced/ performed EP, “Hedda Gabler,” another possible slowrock magnum opus, wends its essence majestically into one’s memory:

“Hedda Gabler/Had a very funny face/Hedda Gabler/ Tired of the human race...Hedda Gabler, she’ll go down in History—” on and on, every phrase, each “Hedda Gabler” sung dreamily, sensuously long and low like a fairytale mystery thriller. (John Cale’s voice is as hypnotizing as a sexy Edward Everett Horton doing his Fractured Fairy Tales!?) Accompanied by electric piano, moog, viola, oddlybeating (well done!) drums and bass, “Hedda Gabler,” though langorous, sustains enough tension and weird atmospheric calm to keep it unplodding, and repeatedly listenable. As a mood-piece product of an original imagination with a classic literary slant (hear also Cale’s “Graham Greene,” “Child’s Christmas In Wales,” “Helen of Troy,” “Macbeth”), this Ibsen portrait, as interpreted by John Cale, serves as another reminder of the timelessness of great Art, themes and characters.

Next in store for Cale: a vinyl version of “Jack the Ripper.” I hope it’s even more successful, sales and soundwise, as Animal Justice, already over the 40,000 mark. Go Johnny, go go go!

Trixie A. Balm

MARK FARNER

(Atlantic)

Mark Farner. What a goony name. Farner: Saxon for “he who farns.” Go take a flying farn at a doughnut. Some manners, you musta been raised on a farn. “Corky had always dreamt of be coming a jet pilot, but grew up to be a farner instead.”

Yet even though he sounds like somebody who can barely tap ouf his name in Morse code with his hoof, Mark’s no dummy, and his first solo album proves it. Easier to swallow than any Grand Funk LP, it’s got ten tight cuts, all under four minutes, and a neat stiletto production by Dick WagnerSome good pop, some speedy rockers, ■some G. Funk doom music. No bluegrass.

Mark’s pop side has been coming out more and more the last couple of years, and now he’s got the chance to really \et it show. It’s not like somebody had to hold a loaded tuning fork to his head to get him to do this stuff—he’s just got an Eric Carmen streak in him, only with male reproductive organs instead of doll cookies down there where it counts. “You And Me Baby” is tops of the handful of fine pop cuts, a radio necessity that takes up where “Bad Time” left off. A fine little riff, with vibes no less, leading into an impossibly magnetic chorus of “You and meee baby/Are very orrrdinary.” Sung with that aw-shucks tinge of Indiana fried chicken in his heart that makes you want to go pinch the next person you see wearing cut-offs. A real gem.

Don’t go thinking the record’s all wedding cake though, because there’s plenty of dognuts, too. “Street Fight” and “Second Chance” are hard knockers only slightly removed from Robitussin’ GF, with Farner’s trademark detective-show-aura power chords and deep echo vocals that make it seem like he’s a little teeny guy who casts a hugh shadowy voice, kinda like Mr. Big. Tuffer yet is “Lady Luck,” a nasty bad news speeder full of gloves-off guitar/piano combat that’s pushed along by a bass that thumps like a neutronium yoyo.

This album is so sharp, in fact, that he almost slipped his protest junk by without anybody catching it. “Social Disaster” is tolerable, although the key lines about freedom, America, the promised land and Our Ancestors leave you wondering whether to bop to it or salute it. “Ban The Man,” however, is a guaranteed forehead-slapper. Destined to be a smash at Concerned Citizens get togethers and nuclear power plant takeovers, it’s fairly painless neo-punk until you hit the chorus: “It’s time we ban the man/With the aerosal can.” No deal, mister—that would mean no more Tickle commercials.

That one fleck of MONUMENTAL STUPIDITY aside, Farner’s solo debut is one fine album. Only maybe he should think about changing his name to something catchier like Cheetah Chrome or Mel Schacher.

Rick Johnson

THE DEAD BOYS YOUNG LOUD AND SNOTTY _(Sire)_

Shit, I just ran out of chewin tobacco, gonna hafta write this one “straight,” I think it can be done. Also: my stereo’s only playin mono this week, no skin off my ass tho, hope it’s none off yours...

Okay. Anyway, the story goes like that: Detroit ain’t no good for nothin no more but professionalqual luvclam (Nugent) and proqual sensitive (Seger), ain’t no new wave-ish noise & torment in the whole dang town (town that could once lay claim to “fathering” the genre). But the Great Lakes’re still the fuggin greatest (whew!) only this time it’s Cleveland (next time maybe it’ll be Buffalo or Toronto): Dead Boys, dad. Greater than that crap was even then (true).

To wit: 1. “SONIC REDUCER” BEATS HELL ON “ROCKET REDUCER” BY YOU KNOW WHO.

The direct ref to the MC5 makes em come off a little too inadvertantly highfalutin —I mean reducer is a word some people might hafta go look up, ditto for sonic—but otherwise this whole damn album is nothin but the god’s honest pavement-licking bottom-of-the-barrel shitfuckpiss like y’ain’t even gettin from Johnny Rotten or the Adverts. 2. “AIN’T NOTHIN TO DO” MAKES‘“1969” BY YOU KNOW WHO ELSE SOUND LIKE HILLBILLY MUSIC. In fact, last time I heard the Ig do his version of “Search and Destroy” he sounded like some third-rate hickster all the way, must be at least 30 bands right now who do it hotter (even the Nuns kinda do it sleazier at least, no foolin). The lesson being: aim for the Meat Award and it’s yours, I mean at no time prior in the history of the whole goddamn thing have so many reg’lar joes been so able to just walk off the street and onto the stage, like that goes without sayin. But it’s also a matter of knowin y’can actually get unselfconscious enough to surpass yesterday’s tentative unselfconsciousness (which was almost always PRETENTIOUS and often MERELY POETIC anyway) just by wanting it in a goshdarn stoopid enough way, triumph of the will and all of that claptrap, been talked about so many times but this time ifs for “real”...

“I Need Lunch” is more, um, direct than just about anything original those limey fops the Stones ever did except maybe that bit about stickin “my knife right down your throat,” it sure as hell kicks mud on Muddy’s own “I Just Wanna Make Love To You”: “I JUST WANNA GET IN YOUR PANTS.” A great handjob line, too: “Girl, you were born with dishpan hands.”

“High Tension Wire” is every bit as hotte as Michael Pagliaro’s “Laser Gypsy,” which you most likely ain’t heard, but it’s fuggin great, lemme tell ya. “Don’t touch me tonight, I’m a high tension wire.” More threateningly incendiary—as delivered—than any of that firefight stuff in “S & D” f’r sure. Doncha think?

“All This and More” is the noncheezy version of “Tonight’s the Night,” y’know like what genuwine hungry-tween-the-legs muhfuh can take the time to wax as poetic as Rod in the face of impending poozle? “I’m just a dead boy.. .I’ll die for you if you want me too.” Hungry but it still is tender.

Vocal on “Not Anymore” sounds in spots like the vintage Adny Shernoff rendition of “I don’t wanna die poor (“Next Big Thing”) transmuted into something less mock-desperate, more “authentically” pained...(Great sources.)

“Hey Little Girl”: checkin into the REAL & QUASI-ORIGINAL roots o’ punk (i.e. Syndicate of Sound et al) by which I don’t mean Lou or the Ig (altho the two of them ’ve been known to check into the quasi-originals now & then, too, but they themselves sure ain’t gonna suffice as the be-all & end-all roots-folk much longer and if they do, somethin’s fuckin wrong: just as much art ’n’ pretense in them as in Roxy Music).

GENYA RAVAN produced this???? Hotte stuffe!!!!

(Still could use a chaw; maybe the 7-1 l’s still open...)

R. “Vom” Meltzer

CARPENTERS

Passages

(A&M)

Everybody knows Karen Carpenter’s got the best damn shoulders in rock, so when injury comes to these angular delights it’s cause for alarm, and alarmed I was when I picked up a copy of UFO Report and saw blurbed all over the cover: MUTILATED COW CORPSE MYSTERIOUSLY LANDS ON KAREN CARPENTER DURING FAMILY PICNIC—and in lower case letters: Recording star suffers damage to shoulders. A gasp and a sigh, the strangest thoughts began surfing through my brain. Was this the long awaited reply from that interstellar craft quietly orbiting the dark side of the moon? Was it some sort of cruel alien criticism perpetrated by some idiot three-eyed bowl of intelligent jello? After all, we know they’ve been monitoring our airwaves since the Fifties, so wouldn’t a response to the Carpenters’ latest musical effort be in order? Especially since Passages has to be one of the most rabid examples of weird since Yoko Ono stole her act from Yma Sumac, a lady so obviously otherworldly she goes beyond modern cultural understanding.

On Passages, Karen and Richard (who only produces on this one), sibling strangeloves to the last, concoct cavatines of cosmic code more effective no doubt (if indeed they are being monitored by shapeless aliens) than the recording of Chuck Berry the U.S. Government slopped into a satellite and sent on its merry way into the outskirts of the Crab Nebulae.

Billed as a radical departure for Ithe infamously wimpy Carpenters, this album contains two of the most candescent displays of “off-thewalldom” this listener has ever heard. These two songs are so strange it took me three weeks to get up the gumption to even play ’em. It was with a scintilla of apprehension that I waded into the CarIpenters’ version of the Klaatu song, “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft.” Hearing this combination of song and singers was like hearing Peter Frampton doing “Ork Alarm” by Magma. Really, this song really burrados my niktoe and stuns my gort.

If you listen closely, you’ll notice that Karen and Richard play the parts of the inquisitive aliens hinting at the true nature of their origin. Look, if Bowie can fall to the earth and try to make passage home by selling inventions, why not send some advanced scouts in the perfect guise of harmless, well liked, pop musicians? Think about it; the plot potentials here are staggering. So everyone thinks the Carpenters are wimpoids, but could it just be they’re spewing worth a kind of sonic salt peter that’s slowly working its way into the electronic brain flow of Earth’s citizenry?

As far as “On the Balcony of the Casa Rosada/Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” which should’ve been the flip side to the single of “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft,” what can you say? Fer crissakes, it starts out in some sort of language which they’d like you to think was Spanish or whatever but could just as easily be Kobian or even some sort of alien code for “Okay boys, get your tentacles shined and make that grand entrance” segueing into Karen playing the role of Evita Peron. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. This song cuts Mel Brooks’“Springtime for Hitler” for the simple fact that it’s serious.

The rest of the album is a hodgepodge of typical Carpenters outings with Michael Franks’ “B’wana She No Home” standing out. I don’t know, maybe it was justified for those aliens to dump that cow on Karen’s shoulders, maybe it’ll knock some sense into her and make her realize that the best move she could ever make is to play drums wearing a dress. I like this album. I like the Carpenters. Why? ’Cause I’m smart enough to know if you butter up the invading armies, maybe you’ll get a good job—like swabbing up the alien latrines or hauling out alien garbage or maybe even...well,, never mind, just get wise and keep looking over that shoulder ’cause some day the guy or gal next to you might be a clone of Karen or Richard waiting to shove a mind control cattle prod into your neck—maybe that’s why everybody’s cutting their hair and...

Joe (Son of Sumac) Fernbachet

LYNYRD SKYNYRD Street Survivors _(MCA)_

Southern rock—whatta crock! Ya wanna know the truth bout whas hoppin’ down in Carter Country? Not a goddamn friggin thing!! Everybody’s mellowed into oblivion, stoned silly, watching the same episode of Green Acres for the 33rd time, completely baffled cause Black Ox Arkansas didn’t turn out to be the next 13th Floor Escalators.

Back when Redneck Rock was gonna be man’s salvation, well, there was some action...maybe. At least half the Allman Bums weren’t yet dead boys & Capricorn was buying every available hobo rock crit free booze but, after the . boom, cracker boogie became just another con like MGM’s Bosstown Sound during the Age of Psychedelia. And Lynyrd Skynyrd could easily be the next Ultimate Spinach, as pass^ as 37t bargain bins.

Can’t really present a synopsis of Skyn’s fascinating career either, since having once heard their home-sweet-Dixie cheer I promptly dismissed ’em as Johnny Rebs tootin’ platitudes. They seemed 2nd-rate, anyway, up against CapriCORN’s onslaught of bourbonized boys. Plus, being a Tenn, rockahillbiliy myself, never expected I’d get stuck having to assassinate in print the Southern Mello-Mood Orchestra or anything.

So how many albums Skynny Lynny got out? Whaz their best record? Dunno, nary a record by ’em in my entire kollectshun. Can’t keep up with every crack release, but here’s some info: one hi skool in Florence, Ala., plays “Sweet

Home_” at all the pep

rallies! Also, Lynyrd Nimoy plans to take his video crew into the wilds of ’Bama to film a segment for In Search of Southern Rock, featuring Lyn Skyn as a shadowy figure haunting the fringes of a terrified hick community.

Street Survivors? Briefly, couple Allman flashbacks, one Foghat boogie, a preachy tune ’bout clean livin’ & no hard drugs, one honky tonk ramble, some slow blooze, and much stuff too tired-ass to enumerate.

Yet, don’t wanna totally besmirch & smear the good name of the South by no means. Passable hummable music did develop from, the Southern rock campaign (see Capricorn’s South's Greatest Hits), and it’s no fluke, but a logical consequence, that a laid-back style did grow in reaction to Sun’s explosiveness and shitkickers in general. Heck, most yanks even figured it was like Tobacco Road down where the darkies dwelled; therefore, in order to compensate for the damage done the Southern Image, longhairs accumulated in the South like tribbles. Hippies in droves slurped Pabst, bought pick-up trucks, farmed the evil weed, and above all, formed rock bands. As with the Contemporary Case of the New Wavy Gravies, rock bands down South had nowhere to roam. The Southern Wave groups were too numerous to contend with so Capricorn grabbed the best, and the rest is boring history.

Meanwhile, Lynyrd Skynyrd & other Southern cohorts remain as archaic and irrelevant as Prez J.C., Petticoat Junction, or Gone W/ Wind. At this rate, the South ain’t never gonna rise again, especially not with bands like Skinnard •Innard contentedly chawing on a cud.

Robot A Hull

QUEEN

News Of The World (Elektra)

Queen is, if nothing else, tasteful: Consider if you will the impeccable tact of a band which actually honors such an oft-abused notion as respect for the dead. Another band, with less class, might have entitled this disc Duck Soup, for indeed this is what much of it sounds

like. But not these true Brit gents. In an age when rock ’n’ roll deals in such trade as “Pull The Plug,” it’s refreshing to see that good boys can still make good.

And I propose that Queen will be allowed to do better still. To my ears, this album proves conclusively that Queen is the Sha Na Na of rock’s modern age; now, the exceleration of nostalgia being what it is, they should probably have their own weekly TV show by the beginning of the “second season”, if there still is such a thing. It’s perfect. Like Sha Na Na, those wonderful new tube stars, Queen consists of basically nice, clean cut boys—oh, they do pose with a certain strangeness, but it’s all in such obvious good fun and, after all, Bowzer does the same thing.

Also, Queen has perfectly assimilated the various musical moods and modes of its chosen period. These lads can do all the standards, from heavy metal to soprano/faggot zo cum orchestra, and it comes out sounding just like the original stuff. Truly remarkable. They can do accurate note-for-note renditions of even the most obscure hits of the 70s. If you doubt me, listen to their version of Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll Part II,” inexplicably listed on my copy of this album as “We Will Rpck You.”

I can see the day—not too far off—when this package’s single, “We. Are The Champions,” played in the grand style of “Bohemian Rhapsody/Somebody To Love,” is featured by the organist at Yankee Stadium. Nothing is too good for these boys.

Kevin Doyle

P.S. “Sleeping On The Sidewalk,” a late Sixties-ish British blues-rocker by Brian May, is the knockout song on this Lp, though totally out of character. Underproduced and everything. Could’ve been a Bluesbreaker tune.

P.P.S. The best lyrics are on something called “Get Down, Make Love,” for which Freddie Mercury is responsible. To wit: “1 suck your mind/You blow my head.”

K.D.

BLACK OAK Race With the Devil (Capricorn)

Along with the Allman Brothers, Black Oak Arkansas was the first Southern Band with roots way back in the Flower Power days. Trouble is, unlike the Allmans, nobody ever took ’em seriously, at least not the critics. But, touring incessantly, they discovered two Golden Axioms of the music biz: hit the audience over the head with what you do often enough and they’ll wind up liking it, and if you’re the only “name” band to play a given place regularly, the fans there will love you for that alone. These two principles, along with the best P.R. money could buy and a policy of releasing albums every other week or so, built BOA into a force to be reckoned with. They made good bucks, gave a lot of them away, and generally epitomized the Good Old Band.

That was Black Oak Arkansas. Now, I don’t follow these things, but I’m told that, save for Jim Dandy Mangrum (now referred to as either “Jam^s>:>Pr “J.D.”), Black Oak is a whole new band. And it’s true that, unlike what 1 remember of the old band, these guys can sort of play their instruments, and I’m surprised to say that I liked the first two cuts, “Race With the Devil” and “Freedom,” but the same old problems are there: James or J.D. or Jim Dandy still sounds like a guy being strangled while imitating Caruso, which maybe you can ignore while you watch him destroy a washboard or stare at his tight pants, but not on a record; and the old devil Excess still stalks the band. Why else would they stretch “Not Fade Away” out to over seven minutes including a drum solo (and on a studio album, yet!) that ranks among the most witless ever? No, don’t fear, BOA fans, they may have changed their name, but they’re as lame as ever.

' Ed Ward

JOAN ARMATRADING Show Some Emotion _(A&M)__

This is Joan Armatrading’s fourth album. Many acquaintances of mine who subscribe to the intense persuasion swear by her. I think she’s a jerk. Talented to be sure, but a jerk nonetheless. Her last album, Joan Armatrading, led me to believe that we finally had an artist who could fill the wimp rock void created by Henry Gross’ inability to followup his brilliant “Shannon.” For one thing, Joan’s vocal style is refreshingly sophisticated for a singer-slushwriter. Born in Jamaica and raised in England, Joan has developed a delivery that rivals that of Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder for richness. If A&M could swing her a shot on Merv, she would cut Barry Manilow, Paul Williams and Neil Sedaka so badly it would be ridiculous..

Some of the songs Joan writes aren’t half bad, either. “Love and Affection” off the previous album was a turntable hit in the Northeast Media Corridor last spring. It might-have even gone all the way had A&M not confused the issue by supplying the interested FM outlets with a special live recording at the crucial momento.

I figured that Joan would get some feedback on her radio success and that Show Some Affection would rocket her to stupor stardom. Instead, I’m stuck reviewing a turkey which I cannot in good faith recommend the spending of hard-earned cash on. Many flashy elements are present as before, but they are spread too thin and as "a result most become tedious upon repeated listening. “Mama Mercy” comes closest to capturing the infectious, goodtimey feeling that made “Love and Affection” a sleeper-flash. The rest of the cuts are about as inspiring as Deputy Dawg. I could have spent my time more profitably by contemplating Meltzeroonie’s used plug collection.

The Masked Marvel

DWIGHT TWILLEY BAND Twilley Don’t Mind (Arista)_

Sorry, I don’t hear anything here. Nothing at all. Too bad, too, since on the basis of their first album, I’d have said that the DTB was one alloverdub studio unit that was actually making music instead of masturbating. All too often people get lost in the studio, confusing what goes on in those cloistered conditions with Real Life, swept away by what their own assumed cleverness can do with all that technology at their beck and call. But somehow Twilley avoided that.

1 guess Arista gave them too much money, or else the success of the earlier album intoxicated them! so that this time they decided onl strings and brass (!) instead of good| hooks. The only hooks I hear on here are on “Trying To Find My Baby,” an okay song that wpuld have made good filler on the last album. The rest of it, try as I may, merely takes up time without producing any entertainment.

Look, if Twilley don’t mind, then I guess I can’t very well, but if you don’t mind, I’ve got quite a few records in the next room that I’d rather listen to. Whatever’s gotten into these guys may pass, and • that’s just what I’d advise you to do with Twilley Don’t Mind.

Ed Ward