Street Hassle

(Arista)

by Joe Fernbacher

Mewing forth through the traipsing haze of the street corner comes Lou Reed, the acknowledged mahatma of punkography, acknowledging the homage that's been paid him for so long and setting about showing the kids just how it's supposed to be done with Street Hassle. His tremulous asphalt scenes and back alley scenario have been mainstays for so long that it's become all too easy to dismiss his lack of real out of control energy as artistic complacency and/or outright boredom. Not so; Lou has always been the master of the back beat, the honcho supreme of slippin' in and out of life with as much aplomb and reserve as possible. He's the ultimate disciple of cool—and he knows it.

As the only truly transitional cultural form ever created, rock 'n' roll, with its sense of humor, its ability to seriously make fun of itself, has continued to survive. And despite all the portents of grim, sleazy "art" that many choose to see his work (especially as a solo performer) as being, Lou has always had that innate sense of rock 'n' roll humor; it's enabled him to survive the rages of changing musical idealogies. So no matter how many "serious" reviews of this album you read, always keep in the back of your mind the fact that underneath it all is a subtly hidden smirk.

Right from the opening song, "Gimme Some Good Times," Reed gets into a self-parodying rank out session, just like the black kids talkin' down on their mommas; in the background the various strains of his greatest hits, mainly the ever sublime "Sweet Jane" motif, with Lou meeting the ever present friend on the pavement. "Hey; there's the rock 'n' roll animal-whaddaya doing?" Lou replies, in punk nasal drone, "Standin' on the corner, suitcase in my hand..." etc., endingup with the imaginary acquaintance calling him a faggot. Smirk one.

Smirk two come a little later when he does the much anticipated and long awaited "I Wanna Be Black." This song has long been an underground classic with variations of the lyrics having been circulated over the years like secret, holy tomes expressing the inner wishes of so many of the so-called critical establishment who know that things would be a helluva lot easier if they were black, you know, readymade political heritages and readymade funk: now you're gonna tell me that lines like "1 wanna be black and shoot my jism twenty feet/I Wanna be black and have a girlfriend named Samantha" aren't funny. It's here that Lou takes the essence of the street and carries it through to its sort of logical conclusion. Back in the heyday of New York's musical mania the Velvets were pulling the heart muscles out of a listening audience who needed the surgery. Lou was quoted as saying that when the Velvets had their doo-doo-wahs and sha-la-las down they were as good as any band around and they were (makes sense then that on his one radio hit as a solo—"Walk On The Wild Side"-Lou had a chorus of mean sounding ladies-supplying him with the necessary do-wop quotient).

On "Street Hassle" he has transformed the do-do-wahs of his earlier efforts into a blanket statement, i.e., he just wants to be black. As a matter of fact, he's even gone so far as to make the background sha-lalas into one of the main characters in his "Street Hassle" epic, thereby showing his need for the languages of the street as well as his ability to transcend them. The need for these gutter rhythms are essential, though somewhat diminished in this day and age of two-chord wonders what can't sing their way outta plastic body bags if they tried (and they don't). Back when it was all on the streets, a common sight was a group of kids collected in a musical pool singing the songs of the day while passing the wine and time of day. That was the spark of the rock 'n' roll spirit and that spirit still lives, Only nowadays kids are gathered on the corners on their bicycles mimicking the stage antics of Kiss while singing "Dr. Love" 'til the sun goes down and it's time to watch James At 16. The spirit of the motion, the spirit of the emotion, is still there and still vibrant and still as intoxicating as ever, so when Lou pays homage to it, he's doing what more people , oughta do—he's paying rock 'n' roll back for what it's given his soul.

So the best thing to do with this album is blink your eyes and think of this as Lou Reed's first solo album since he left the Velvets and the whole thing will hit a clear cut and precise perspective in your head. Street Hassle is as perfect an album as you'll ever want to hear. This is definitely the time for Lou Reed.

PATTI SMITH GROUP

Easter

(Arista)

Charles Olson was invited to give a reading at Berkeley in 1965. It was a time—a springtime—when rose incense bore a scent of spiritual exclusivity, and the universe was a young, baring breast in the adolescent hand of a New Age. The assembly, which was considerable, shifted nervously, then began to disperse with a sort of cosmic indignance as Olson, who was drunk, put aside the reading of his poems in favor of running down the wife of a friend who lived in Olson's hometown, Gloucester, Massachusetts. "I mean, God, what a tuckin' bag," America's greatest living poet bellowed into the microphone, and hunters after enlightenment closed their notebooks and made for the door.

The real poets have had the least poetic natures. In a corner of some Italianate hell, Ezra Found still carries on about the Jews. In that celestial wheatfield beyond the last metaphor, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Hank Williams share another vial of chloral hydrate and talk dully of straightening out tomorrow. Somewhere Jim Morrison hears Pamela scream, "You ruined my last two Christmases, you sonofabitch, and you're not gonna be happy 'til you ruin this one, goddammit." And, of course, Charles Olson, sitting to the left of Zeus, still thinks his friend's wife is a bag. Patti Smith—who wreaks her poetry in the New Jersey voice and ratted-hair rhythms which belong solely to those girls who, in the awful and mystic surety that there never was, is not, and" never will be anything else to do, spend their dreams on violently nondescript boys who sit, like stains on the shirt of wonderment, endlessly drinking in bars with blue linoleum floors— is one of that scoundrel, immortal elite. When Smith performed at poetry readings at St. Mark's Church in New York five years ago, the usual crowd of sissy poets were so intimidated that no poet dared follow her act (which consisted of her and Lenny Kaye on guitar), just as none of them would have dared follow Ezra Pound or Jim Morrison.

Patti Smith is the first poet born of rock 'n' roll; raised on the Crystals instead of the classics. There has always been great poetry in rock 'n' roll, but the best of it has been intuitive. Little Walter did not consider himself a poet, and was not known to read beyond Jive, but he must be recognized as one of the awesome men of modern verse. Smith has not yet given us anything as fine and powerful as Olson's Maximus Poems, but she will.

Truer and surer and less uneven than her previous albums, Easter is Smith's best work. Easter is a much better title than Rock 'N'Roll Nigger (as Smith originally wanted the albunq to be called), not only because the concept of artist as nigger is silly and trite, but because this is an album of Christian obsessions, especially those of death and resurrection.

"If we die, souls arise," Smith rejoices in "Till Victory." In "Ghost Dance," the music of which is remindful of the tribal sounds of East Newark, what dominates is the dire, repeated chant, "We shall live again." The 23rd .Psalm finds a place in "Privilege (Set Me Free)," a song that starts with a high-mass organ.

"Easter" itself is a song of blinding sunshine and desolation. There is a child, the desperation of hand and cunt, and the recurring and mournful "Isabella, we are dying," followed by the no less mournfulsounding "Isabella, we are rising." The song (and the album) culminates in a slow, fevered orgasm of Christian imagery: "The spring, the holy ground. I am the seed, of mystery. The thorn, the veil. The face, of grace...I am the sword, the wound; stained, scorned, transfigured child of pain..." Then the iron bells of Easter.

In a more secular vein, there's "Space Monkey," a Coptic hymn to Io Rhesus Rocket, replete with group monkey sounds. "Because The Night" and "We Three" show Smith's increasing powers as a torch singer. She has in her voice a rare quality that conveys, simultaneously, the lure of romance and the threat of feminine evil.

Karen Ann Quinlan may be the state vegetable of New Jersey, but I'm proud to call it home—because that's where Patti Smith is from, and she's the greatest broad poet that ever was.

Nick Tosches

WALTER EGAN

Not Shy

(Columbia)

We have entered the era when any manifestation of imagination— from Warren Zevon to the Ramones to Fleetwood Mac—is immediately taken for genius; considering that enthusiastic adjectives nave been devalued at a rate which makes the decline of the British pound seem like stability, this was to be expected. It is of greater concern that any listenable approximation of an earlier, saleable vision (Billy Joel's synthesis of Bruce Springsteen and Harry Chapin or Foreigner's melange of a thousand journeyman British rock bands before them) is taken to be the true test of artistry.

Walter Egan is a perfect case in point. What he offers is pastiche: one part Beach Boys, one part Springsteen, two parts Fleetwood Mac. What little wit he brings to the project (this is his second album) is mostly juvenile, but he's taken fairly seriously anyway. Lindsey Buckingham produced Not Shy (as he did Egan's First LP) and Buckingham, Stevie Nicks and Mick Fleetwood all play on it. What Egan offers, though, is motivated as much by impulses to greater creativity or credibility through assoction (the sin of earlier super-sessions) as an attempt to match as precisely as possible the sound of Fleetwood Mac. The fact that this marks him as an "artist" utterly Without identity—the first requisite of successful art—is presumably inconsequential. I'm sorry, but I can't buy it. Maybe for one album— Fundamental Roll showed promise —but not for two.

None of this is meant to imply that Walter Egan is a contemptible performer. There isn't a bad song on Not Shy, if by bad one means without hooks or commercial platitudes. But there also isn't anything here that didn't come easy—nothing that costs anything, no hint of effort. It's seamless, of course, but so is most plastic.

Dave Marsh

VAN HALEN

(Warner Bros.)

Let me tell you about dinosaurs. No, "dinosaurs" may be too harsh a term, even if Van Halen-style rockers do find their evolutionary fulfillment in a quick extinction. Maybe the best, most contemporarily useful term for the H/M we celebrated only yesterday is Helen Wheels' succinct "big rock".

Okay, that settled, Van Halen are archetypal big rockers, out to make a big noise on a fluid rock scene, if Warner's promotional efforts are any indication. By geographic origin, Van Halen are onehalf Dutch (the Van Halen brothers, Alex on drums, and Edward on guitar), thus suggesting immediate (and appropriate) images of Focus —or Golden Earring-like pompotechnoflash; and one-half Californian: Michael Anthony on bass, and Dave Lee Roth as vocalist (enter equally telling imagery of Black Pearl and their redoubtable B.B. Fieldings).

The back cover shows Roth barechested, hippie-haired, leathertrousered, back arched in supplication to the immortal spirit of Jim Morrison; his vocals contain all the above influences, and more—unreconstructed sexism, if you want it—and should be mightily pleasing to fans disappointed with Jim Mangrum for getting (organized) religion or with Mark Farner for going collegiate.

The band has all the late-psychedelic/early-metal pyrotechnics down solid, especially in Edward Van Halen's snarling-Dutchman solos. Sure, they're barband veterans, more accomplished musically than many punk upstarts, but style is essential to slicing the mustard these days, guys.

Van Halen have shot off several marketing harpoons, including covering the Kinks' "You Really Got Me" (which should do the job, it Robert Palmer's' simultaneous cover of the tune doesn't get there first), doing an old blues number ("Ice Cream Man"), and writing one tentative, semi-punker ("Atomic Punk"), with its Dictators-rip "I am a victim of the science age" tag. The rest is metal/metal/metal, sometimes as tedious as your average hockey-arena concert evening, but more often plain old kinetic.

Van Halen. Big rock. Remember the names. Extinct is forever.

Richard Riegel

JEFFERSON STARSHIP

Earth

(Grunt)

Earth is the logical successor to Red Octopus, whereupon the Starship stumbled into the realization that love is platinum in the sexedup 70's. From "Caroline" on, it was apparent that Marty Balin's romantic rhapsodies had the most widespread appeal, but his standoffishness and the group's democratic ideals kept any one person from gaining full time featured status.

That's changed somewhat for Earth. Of the nine tunes, four have Marty out front and four are done by Grace Slick, with one left over for yet another Paul Kantner variation on the "We Should Be Together" theme. Stressing the band's big one-two punch gives the album more unity by cutting down on the variety of approaches the Starship favored in the past. And though there is an energy reduction from last year's Spitfire, the production is so smooth and seductive that you hardly notice it.

Take the opener, "Love Too Good." Gracie communicates compassion like she used to scream out her scorn, as she apologizes to some dude who can't hack the freedom she thrives on. But what's that rhythm guitar doing? And the rocksteady drumming? And the strings? Oops. This is d-dangerously close to d-d-disco. And I like it! Oh Gawd! What'll thjs do to my reputation? (shudder.)

Oh well, may as well enjoy it while I'm here, even though the rest of Slick's stuff doesn't quite measure up to "Love Too Good." "Take Your Time" is an admission of her speedy tendencies but the music shadows rather than spotlights the subliminal impatience of the song. "Show Yourself" is an empassioned but somewhat belabored plea for openness from the powerful, while "Skateboard," written with Craig Chaquico, of course, is catchy, but it'll never replace "Sidewalk Surfin'."

Marty's tunes are a whole 'ndther thing, though to call them his is kinda misleading since he only had a hand in writing one of them. But whoever penned them, they're the Starship's now. The lyrics may be slight but Marty makes the songs work and the band really takes off on the melodies. Most of these tunes contain rhythm and tempo changes but they're played with such sublety and assurance that you might miss 'em unless you're paying close attention. There isn't a whole lot of soloing but Chaquito's guitar and Pete Sears' keyboards provide enough tasty fills to keep you licking your lips for weeks.

But the very success of this record has me just a little worried. This crew obviously spent a lot of time in the studio, and the best parts of the album flow together almost perfectly in a lively, if premeditated, fashion. And therein lies the record's only weakness—spontaneity; no real chances are taken. So even though this is the fullest, most perfectly-realized production that these people have ever achieved, I hope they loosen up a bit next time. Perfection is an admirable goal, but ya need a few rough edges to be real.

Michael Davis

WIRE

Pink Flag

(Harvest)

Wire isn't just another crew of limey gearhogs dropping empty black paint cans down the trash chute of some hovel skyscraper. Besides reducing punk noise to a drone essence not unlike strippeddown Ramones, they've left incriminating thought-prints all over their lyrics, suggesting a deadly Ibeam intelligence pure enough to measure red shifts in the reflection off a greasy urinal handle. Late night TV news captioned for the comprehension-impaired.

Their sound captures not only the electric pencil sharpener amped through a T-bird tailpipe guitar churn of most punk outfits, but also the buzz-laden sludge confrontations of the early Stooges, although purposely lacking the power unleashed. B.C. Gilbert's guitar buries the rest of the band, leaving the tap dance drumming and crossword bass paying lip service to the concept of "band" dynamics. Singer Colin Itus (recently voted the rock personality least likely to be asked to join Angel) delivers with a passionate deadpan that sounds like Johnny Rotten and Joey Ramone taking turns-dropping rotten fish in a garbage can. Sneer, plunk.

In a move that should go over big in Japan, Pink Flag contains 21 cuts, ranging frorh a very concise 26 seconds up to the grandaddy, "Strange," which turtles in at 3:55. If these guys ever put out a threerecord set, I quit. This transistorized approach to songwriting does make its point, though—and besides, the songs are real good. They're about half demonic-fast and half beehive-mung in the cement mixer, except for two tight, melodic cuts that appear back-toback from nowhere on the second side and quickly exit, leaving you wondering. The latter of the pair, "Mannequin," even has strong back-up vocals and the overall sound of one of those "pretty" midtempo tunes like "Blue Turns To Gray" that the Stones used to try but could never quite pull off. It could be a single, of all things.

Wire spit out some of the best lyrics in a long while too, falling into that echoey missile silo of fleeting anxiety somewhere between G.M. Hopkins and MX-80 Sound. You find instant cliches like "It takes one to catch one" or "You ain't got a number, you just wanna rhumba," as well as brow-bending excursions into prehensile emotion such as "Fragile:" "Tears fall in slivers/You broke my shades/The light too bright/Let me bury my heart." Who says beatniks are dead?

Pink* Flag is so confoundingly simple and direct at times that it appears dense or merely stupid. But Wire have a clear shot at taking all this punk clunk to an entirely different conclusion, one that could easily push them and their listeners into a blissful state of catatonic puzzlement. At least you don't have to drive.

Rick Johnson

SUICIDE COMMANDOS

Make A Record

(Blank)

Their bio reminded my sister of the resume she trumped up after graduating NYU in liberal arts— "actually kind of sparse," she said. But my sister got her job through the New York Times ($96.69 takehome) and the Suicide Commandos inked a contract with Blank (Phonogram's punk label) to Make A Record for a similar figure. "Make A Record is something they should just tell their mothers," my sister said. I speculated that, rhetorically, Make A Record functioned along the lines of the Ramones' Leave Home. We listened to the Suicide Commandos on my sister's cheap "turntable" that turns way too fast —she thinks Kris and Rita are New Wave—while I read up on the kamikazes from Minneapolis. "Who can turn the world on with her smile?" I wondered, tapping my feet. We debated the ethics of yelling "onetwo-three-four" in the middle of a song (well, excuse me) and then my sister decided that bassist Steve Almaas (this here's a power trio of young guys who use real names) was "cute." Track Two sounded "respectable," if "a bit lohg-ish," at 1:25 (probably clocked a minute on her turntable). Guitarist Chris Osgood's mosquito impression seemed "okay" on Track Three (it's called "Mosquito Crucifixion") but the singer's threat ("You're gonna die 'cause you are so dumb") was judged "unconvincing." Not just for the "nellie" vocals that plague this record, but because Billy Joel has already explained (to my satisfaction) why only the dumb die good. At Track Six, my sister thought the Commandos "could be anybody." At Track Seven, she announced that Dee Dee Ramone was "witty." Track Eight precipitated this outburst:

"Oh God, the Ramones, are good!"

Track Nine broke the spellsounded like the Ventures playing "Do The Strand" on three whiffs of Locker Room. Furtive, I rechecked the bio for the Commandos' Third Commandment: "Have Fun." "I don't believe they have fun," my sister, groused. Track Twelde could've been the second decent song (see Track Two) but the Suicide Commandos sabotage it with a truly stupid break (true to type) and so my sister screamed:

"Joey Ramone is a genius."

Quickly, 1 reached for the phone. "If only punk was as good as it should be," my sister moaned. I dialed Sire Records (direct) to demand the copy of Rocket To Russia they promised me six months ago. Got a busy signal.

Wesley Strick

TUBES

What Do You Want From LIVE

(A&M)

Describing a Tubes show isn't easy, what with half the population of San Francisco running around onstage spraying clown ointment on each other while dodging tutu fumes and imitating the various plateaus of tuna ontogeny. I think an unidentified Danish critic, whose tear sheets somehow found their way onto the LP liner, summed it up best when he wrote that the Tubes are just a floating Angus banquet of "din perverse void, kolde sex, vulgaere reklamegas— og dodbringende smoger!"

Smoger indeed! Trying to grab a handle on all of this band's screamy ideas at once is enough to give you mental fruit-bruises. But taken in thought-sized bits, their blend of musical carpet shocks and so-what provoking kradsende parodi is just so much detergent burn. Take the din perverse void of "Mondo Bondage," for example. So what if you stick leather Band-Aids on your tits and jump around to a riff that sounds like an automatic garage door opener thrown into treadmill anxiety by a passing alien toaster. If that's hot kink to you, you're probably a 57-yr-old apron fanatic with infantilism breath (P.U.!).

The kolde sex isn't so great either, but what do you want? They warned Fee about dipping his wick in Tarn-X for the Quay Lewd number. So now he's got ? permanently silver surfer and an ornery disposition. What turns Quay on? Not Re Styles glowing with suspect wire-want in "Don't Touch Me There," or the dreamland reverseprojection of "Boy Crazy" or even fifteen naked dancing girls onstage humming ramalamafafaFA in his ear. One listen to "Smoke" tells you what this dike-dome wants: veal. Plain old, inner-snail-like veal. Now that's kolde sex!

Vulgaere reklamegas is the Tubes' strong suit. Any hint of good taste thankfully left the scene of the accident long ago, leaving them free to pick on heavy cultural icons like game shows and punk-rock. Cadillac tailfin humor. After all the blow 'n' oink over "White Punks On Dope" and "I Was A Punk Before You Were A Punk," I'd have to concur with our Danish correspondent, who queried "wat punks, wat dope?" I think this is what New Wave commentator Elvin Bishop had in mind when he coined the term "imitation punk music." Quadriplegic nose-pick.

Of course, this being a showcase double-live set, you have to commend the Tubes for not including any puppy-arranged Stevie Wonder songs and Mr. Waybill in particular for never once telling the audience he feels like a Fee bird.

Rick Johnson

BE BOP DELUXE

Drastic Plastic

(Harvest)

With Drastic Plastic, Be Bop Deluxe auteur Bill Nelson continues cultivating a love-among-theruins vision of life in the technocracy. Unfortunately, his lyrics here are neither colorful or witty enough to be effective fantasy, nor are they real enough to serve as chilling prophecy. At the same time, the music is rhythmically rigid and melodically limited, as it seemingly attempts to create a technological milieu by gimmicky imitation of the machines.

Bowie of late, Roxy Music in its heyday, Kraft werk, and Todd Rundgren have all successfully plumbed these depths and resemblances to each of them abound here. Except for the catchy "Panic In The World," however, Nelson and company do not pull it off. Nelson lacks Todd's and Bowie's theatrical flair for the grand statement, is not perverse enough for Roxy and, like the rest of us, finds himself incapable of the icy precision of Kraftwerk. (That latter fact is all too clear when he goes toe-to-toe with the Teutons in "New Precision.")

It may be that Bill Nelson does not have the reach to achieve such compelling extremes. Or maybe he doesn't believe in them and is just an aching Romantic stuck with the modes of the Seventies—a thought which begs the question: Which came first, the synthesizer or the apocalypse?

Robert Duncan