TODD RUNDGREN

Hermit Of Mink Hollow

(Bearsville)

That bell which Todd hasn't babbled about for years now—that "little bell" which rang in Todd's head when he "Saw the Light" in 1972—that "little bell" which peals pure joy: well folks, it's ringing again. Not just in Rundgren's head, but in mine, too, and in yours—can ya hear that dulcet mother? Sounds awfully pretty, after those awfully putrid treatises on cosmic fire and fucking Ra. Know what I mean? Utopia. Yech.

God, it's good to see Todd's own, lonesome, funny name on twelveinch vinyl. Screw democracy, and dig those classic credits: "Produced and arranged by Todd Rundgren. All vocals and instruments by Todd Rundgren. All songs written by Todd Rundgren." And not just pertaining to one side, like the (literally) half-baked Faithful, which contained the most heartrending warble in Rundgren's post-Runt career "I've been burned in my prime." Todd's chords cracked on the word "prime," and I cried. Not sobbed, just sniffled. Because Todd once told Rolling Stone that he wanted to be "the Elvis of the Seventies." And Patti Smith once believed that Todd had "Beatle magic" in his soul. Since we all expected bigger things, let's forget M. Frog Labat, twenty-six minute fairy tales, pyramid power and Kasim Sulton. Let's concede that Todd's been burned in his prime, wipe away the tears with a satin hankie, and take it back from that "little bell."

The first cut on Hermit Of Mink Hollow assures that "a bell in your head will ring." Like, revelation. Like, ecstasy. Like, maybe my girlfriend will come to her senses. Partly, Hermit is that kind of record. Plenty of "love hurts" tunes ("Can We Still Be Friends," "Hurting For You," "You Cried Wolf") that harken back to earlier Rundgren songs and in general, melodies and structural effects the likes of which we haven't seen for some time from Todd. Like "Wolfman Jack," "You Cried Wolf' is Todd's idea of a Motown production value. Like Franz Kafka's idea of Amerika, it's naive and totally disarming. Plus the persuasive metaphor about talking through hats which harkens back to "Love Of The Common Man." Melodically, "Can We Still Be Friends" quotes "Long Time, Long Way To Go." and "Onomatopoeia," a seduction of scatological effects, justifies itself by the leering line, "My senses tell me hubba." Hermit closes with an ode to erotic metempsychosis called "Fade Away" which resembles "I Think You Know," an ode to erotic metempsychosis which opened Todd. But Hermit is really Todd with all the fat cut away as by a hamboner with the digits of a neurosurgeon.

By the by, don't let the title spook you. Todd may hole up on secluded Mink Hollow Road in scenic Woodstock, but there's no anticulture "Abandon City" isolation here. A beautiful, chilling "Bag Lady" proves that Todd still wonders (and cares) about West Broadway. The "Son of Sam" reference could've been sensational or stupid, but it actually makes your spine itch. And there's no sanctimony either; a harrowing songpoem of world hunger called "Bread" acknowledges the singer's karmic debt. It's like watching Nils Lofgren transmutate into Dmitri Karamazov. Strong stuff.

Todd has divided Hermit into "The Easy Side" and "The Difficult Side," but for once, "difficult" means provocative, not torturdus. "Out Of Control" demonstrates that the Wizard has finally learned how to mix his antic "King Kong Reggae" ravers for listenability. And the last, piquant twist of "Lucky Guy" shows that Rundgren's still the vulnerable punk of "We Gotta Get You A Woman." Hey, it's the only way to make you feel sure you're alive.

As our boy re-finds his bearings, there's a startling spirit in Rundgren's creative resurrection; "The angel of the Lord just declared we aren't worth a thing," Todd merrily chirps, "the galaxy is null and void... all the children sing." And lately, I've been hearing voices—cherubic laughter—or little bells. Or something. Qr anything.

FOGHAT

Stone Blue

(Bearsville)

Multiple choice Stone Blue Examination (Cheating Optional)

1. Foghat has a fetish for: a) cute little cabooses; b) nanny goats in black net stockings; c) singing the blues on reds.

2. Red Price plays a fearsome slide. His biggest influence is: a) Lou Brock's hook slide; b) a California mud slide; c) the giant slide in the K-MART parking lot.

3. On Stone Blue "Sweet Home Chicago" is credited to Robert Johnson. He is: a) Rick/ Dick's older brother; b) the author of the Faustian blues epic, "Hell Cat On My Trail," which depicts the agony of a rock critic who sells his soul to Morris the Cat for the ability to be finicky; c) too dead to receive royalties.

4. Complete the following lyric: "When I was stone blue...": a) "my little red rooster took the limberneck and died"; b) "a shot of Furex bleached me through"; c) "I was a tombstone moon in a cemetery sky, I've turned twenty-one but I don't remember why."

5. Before they assumed their current name Foghat was known as: a) Bruce Bruised and the Blue Ball Boogie Band; b) Savoy Zeppelin; c) Free Company.

6. The second cut on side one of Stone Blue is: a) "Sweet Home Chicago"; b) "Dust My Broom"; c) "I'm A Man"; d) all of the above.

7. "It Hurts Me Too" is: a) a song about telling your girl friend that there's something between you more infectious than romance; b) a love song for the ^hip and chains set; c) a blues moan about a blade that cuts every which way.

8. "Lonesome" Dave got his name from: a) an acquaintance who misunderstood when Dave was called "loathsome" by a lady in a bar who didn't appreciate his assgrabbing ways; b) his uncanny resemblance to "Lonesome" George Gobel; c) the fact that only wolves and other wild animals can bear to be within sniffing range of Dave's mangy musk.

9. "Chevrolet" is: a) hokey, overblown, and obnoxious; b) see "a"; c) ditto.

10. Stone Blue answers the question: a) Can a band forge a career by being exceptionally mediocre?; b) Can 28 million record buying Americans be considered the world's largest class of nitwits?; c) Can Foghat go platinum without including a humping the highway song?

11. This examination was prepared by: a) Emile "the Cat" Francis; b) "Sleepy" Harold Rosenbloom; c) m. bridgewater.

KINKS

Misfits

(Arista)

The Kinks have a long and tired history of chronic disappointment. Since shortly after they began their temporary stay with the RCA Snail, they've been putting out one comeas-you-are album after another, each one watery enough to float on styrofoam. But thanks to an entrenched following of water-winged Clarabelles who'll beat you bruisy with their baby umbrellas if you get down on their boys, the Kinks just go on and on like a particularly stubborn cloud over a foundry smokestack.

Well here comes the Clean Air Act, clowns. Kinks mopes have these five big reasons they use to defend their seat-wiped heroes: 1) Ray Davies writes great songs and/or melodies, 2) He sings 'em prettier than Silly Putty on a skillet, 3) They're one of the Great Live Bands, 4) For no extra charge you get social comment (with a human face!) plus 5) There's always their secret weapon, Brother Dave, not only an "underrated guitarist" but a mean song scribbler in his own right.

O.K., let's look at the evidence here on Misfits. Ray Davies did write a great melody here—the title cut but the rest of these tunes are plain clothes at best. You get little hints of his stabbed-sweetly melodic turns here and there ("Perm Waves," "R&R Fantasy") but that's all. A lick and a promise ain't what I call a great songwriter. As for Davies' voice, it's still functioning, but except for some tiny flicks of defiance in "Get Up," well, let's just say that George and Roger are probably fluffing up his pillow at the Old Voices Home right now.

Now as for this Great Live Band stuff, let's go ahead and give 'em that one. Just because the ones that say they're so great are the very same ones who've seen their show ten or twelve times doesn't necessarily mean anything. Godz fans probably say the same thing.

One cut, Dave Davies' "Trust Your Heart," covers numbers four and five sufficiently. Ever since he grew that beard, Dave's been slipping, and this is the last bounce. One of those "hey you Angolans, forget that hatchet over your head and just trust your heart" type numbers, it snowshoes through several styles like an underture from Consequences. Catchy sample line: "what on earth do we need government for?" The real question is what on earth do we need 'musicians asking us dumb things like that for? They should ask stuff about bottle snafflers and doorknobs.

Spread the word, Introducing Sparks is the great lost Kinks album.

Rick Johnson

PEZBAND

Laughing In The Dark

y (Passport)

If we're about to welcome pop (power or otherwise) as the wellscrubbed urban cousin of punk and its discontents, I'll gladly extend the key to my city to the pros in Pezband. They began working up their particular vision of pop five or six years ago, in their native Chicago, where "punk" was a term you might have applied to those classic Shadows of Knight LPs still glutting the bargain bins then. Pezband chose not to draw from the bluesbased excursions of their S.O.K. townsmen while also avoiding the horrendous bombast of Chicago's namesake band; instead, they harkened back to the virtues of long-forgotten Windy City mods like the Buckinghams and New Colony Six.

So much for hooking sentimental Midwesterners with subliminal new-colonization; for the larger world, Pezband's first album carried an English LP's \Jvorth of reminders of those super Beatletudes of 1965-66, from the casual punch of rockers like "When I'm Down," to the File under: Pop Vocal designation on the cover, reverently copied from old Capitol jackets. Mimi Betinis's smooth, earnest vocals were perfect for capturing that flavorful mod romanticism that flourished just before the psychedelic revolution set in:

Laughing In The Dark is a harder-rocking album than its predecessor, with Betinis taking fewer lead vocals while his keyboards and rhythm guitar bolster the rOugheredged vocals of Mike Gorman and Mick Rain. The opener, "Love Goes Underground," may be a response to the competitive reign of the punks, as that pocket of love cherished by the Pezbanders is driven subterranean in a tingling 1984 scenario, with certain Jamlike urgencies of its own.

Most Pezband compositions detail the bewildering exhilaration of late-adolescent, early-collegiate affairs of the heart (and to the band's credit, the genitals). "Come On Madeline" rocks out that staccato desire, while "Gimme Gimme" poses the eternal adolescent demand in less-negotiable terms. "On And On" opens Side Two with a biting tune built on modified "Louie, Louie" chords, and snarling Tommy Gawenda guitar solo, that mood flowing right into the saxpulsated poundings of "Lovesmith." Mimi Betinis's vocals recall the suave appeal of the first album on "Stop! Wait A Minute," and even more potently on "I'm The One," a sweet, swelling melodrama of a rocker, moved on by the crackling drums.

Pezband just may be the great lost Amerorock avowal some of us mourned when the Raspberries broke up; at their least, Pezband might give today's kids some small impression of how fresh, how inevitable a style the Beatles brought, when they first burst upon our inhibited teen years.

Richard Riegel

LEO SAYER

(Warner Bros)

One can't question what Leo Sayer does without questioning what Leo Sgyer represents: the entire estate of soft core pop, for which Sayer is simply a high officer and not the sole offending member. .You see, it's difficult to dissect songs which are as vital, sanguine and moving as space candy, and to consider as serious artists those individuals who register all the wit and fury of the Comet Kohoutek. Still, the dazzling success of an artist so vapid that he would make Jimmy Osmond look like Paul Robeson is worth a 'peek. Why should Leo Sayer leave such notables as Dmitri Shostakovitch, Anton Dvorak and Freddie Chopin in the dust when it comes to holding reign over the entire typing pool at NBC?

On a positive note, one must credit Sayer for not jumping onto the Disco bandwagon and for sticking instead to a callow, smarmy, Robert Palmerish imitation of reggae-inspired pop. After all, Sayer's most successful songs are about dancing anyway, and disco does guarantee the big bucks these days. But, as the press kit bio so tastefully indicates, "...the blues, the music that evokes the misery of Black Americans, is no stranger to White working class English families like Sayer's." Swell, I guess, his new album reflects none of these so-called blues influences at all; the only influences reflected here are his own last five albums. Sayer does at times sound a bit like Robert Palmer, as in a two dimensional, over-orchestrated version of Andy Fairweather Low's "La Booga Rooga," my vote for the LP's best song. Frequently, though, he bears a tragic resemblance to Tony Orlando and Dawn, as in "New Orleans," my vote for the worst song on the album and possibly the face of the earth. It's a Ray Coniff ready made, complete with the phrase "I've got my top hat on," and lots of fake, rag-time Vaudevillian hoopla.

After 36 listenings (yes) I was finally able to distinguish the rest of the songs from each other, so that's a point in the album's favor. "Stormy Weather" (not ‘the') and "Dancing the Night Away" had a certain slow-moving, seasick charm, and I can even hum their refrains from memory. But it upsets me that an album this bland and uninspired will probably net these clods another half a million in album sales...and one or more of the 10 cuts featured herein is bound to climb the charts and worm its way into our collective psyche. Why do people like this stuff?

More important, why does Sayer pretend to be offering something of worth and substance? This is a completely undistinguished album. It's not even interesting background music, and despite the Fairweather Low selection, cannot be counted on to produce 3 memorable fuck. Leo Sayer has a lovely, flexible tenor...why does he waste his considerable vocal talents on this shlock? Sayer seems so determined to remain little boy cute at the age of thirty that he'd probably shoot off his own foot to avoid getting drafted into the Kiss Army. Music this dull and noncommital -should be banned, but that would put it in the company of such masterpieces as Tropic Of Capricorn and Candy, lending it undeserved weight and dignity.

Fran Pelzman

BOB SEGER & THE SILVER BULLET BAND

Stranger In Town

(Capitol)

Hot fun in the summertime from the Midwest's Main Man! At this moment on every turnpike, car radios are blasting out Seger's latest as if it were the Last Record on Earth. Fer chrissake, every human bean on this planet already has a copy so there's no point in my reviewing it, but (nyah nyah) I'm gonna anyway.

Well, a Night Moves, possibly this decade's equivalent to Highway 61 (w/ all due respect to Bob Z.), it ain't. That 76 meisterwerk was the inevitable fruition of Seger the Wonder Craftsman working himself to a frazzle for ten years with very little recognition; in other words, the attention bestowed upon Night Moves was long overdue. Seger's Cameo singles, his earlier Capitol LPs (esp. Mongrel), his Warner Bros, career—all contributed in creating Night Moves' raw edge and, in total, reflect a respectable climb. At this juncture, it would be terrific if a Seger Anthology were released as a monument to such industrious strength.

Instead, Stranger In Town is whatcha got, an outright attempt to repeat its predecessor's success (commercially; hardly an unforeseeable task) not with unscrupulous promo tactics, but with sensible and honest rock 'n' roll strategy. Critically, this LP may cause nary a respondent ripple, but no one can argue that Seger has become lazy and weighted down by platinum, for his approach is still dead ahead w/ lotsa elbow grease.

Obviously feeling punked up the butt and dumped into a state of disco doldrums, Seger cut "Old Time Rock & Roll" to breathe life back into the party ("I'd rather hear some blues or funky old soul"), which really has been his motivation from the beginning. In fact, this LP is just another case of Seger knocking himself out to eliminate mass stasis: LEMME HEAR YA SAY YEAH! "Hollywood Nights," "Ain't Got No Money," & "Still The Same" (your li'l sis knows all the words by now) manage to nullify the prevalent AM mush through the pleasures of neanderthalic noise (simple stoneage rock: a genre pathetically exploited by other Midwestern clods like Kansas and Styx).

Don't mean to imply that Seger doesn't possess poetic charm (Bohemia ain't got a monopoly on lyricism, y'know); au contraire, mucho mucho sensitive moments on this bruiser, sport! The LP's most inspired song, "Till It Shines," with its "Mainstreet" guitarwork and Seger's "mmm" 's may sound misplaced (like a coda to Night Lilt now-What) but effectively does not overpower the other songs. At first, "We've Got Tonite" may resemble Billy Joel doing a Debby Boone tune, but eventually Seger's hoarse, raspy pleading begins to get to you, developing into a tender ballad from this gruff soul. A special surprise occurs smack dab in the middle of "Brave Stranger" when Seger pulls his punches & the horns fuse & the tempo shakes & slows down for a. Van Morrison type of ramble through the subconscious.

Any assumption that Seger is paying tribute to Del Shannon crumbles as soon as he sings the lines from "Feel Like A Number": "Gonna shout out at the ocean, hey it's me!" Suddenly the significance of the LP's title falls into place. This guy has been watching The Prisoner (HE IS NOT A NUMBER! HE IS A FREE MAN!), and like McGoohan's fight for the self, Bob Seger throughout his struggling years has steadfastly labored to preserve his identity among the faceless numbers of hard rock pretenders. But he no longer has to, making the LP's title an ironic boast and the LP itself a statement of wholesome self-confidence.

What's more, as conclusive proof that fame and fortune do not necessarily breed conceit and indolence,on Stranger In Town you can still feel the dirt under Seger's fingernails.

Robot A. Hull

ELVIS PRESLEY

He Walks Beside Me

(RCA)

You want to see Bad? I'll show you bad, boys, and I'm not talking colloquial. Get out your collections of weird and unnatural recordings and look under the year 1970, find Elvis' album He Touched Me (no, not one of them movie albums, that was earlier) and the song "There Is No God But God." Got a lyric that goes "There is no God/but God/I know/this is true/God made everything/He made me/He made you." Vo-do-dee-o-do. That's bad. Makes me recall the days when I was a lad and shot a .22 bullet hole through the EP Peace In The Valley.

Whole problems started there, actually. When Elvis is singin' good there's no stopping him. Problem is he'll sing anything. And right there in Peace In The Valley was this pop tune "I Believe"; two good spirituals and one good hymn and that clunker. Sold like crazy. And the Colonel knew a good thing when he saw one so the first full gospel album had another tune called "I Believe In The Man In The Sky," 'nother waste of time & vocal cords. But Elvis he just kept singin' em. and you know, when he sang those hymns with that big baritone of his up front and the musicians and vocal group all laying back behind, why, it was beautiful. And in the spirituals—hell, there warn't hardly no rockabilly in them, just the sad jubilation of the sweet By and By. Listen to the album How Great Thou Art for the proof of it. But by the time he'd made He Touched Me that "I Believe" garbage had gone and eaten half he album. Now there's a new sacred LP and I want ybu to consider it. The tears are hardly dry and now we got He Walks Beside Me, and you bet the Colonel still knows what he's doing.

What we got here? Well, we got another new live version of "The Impossible Dream" and another version of "If I Can Dream." Never much liked Elvis when he was dreamin'. Got Dallas Frazier's "There Goes My Everything" only now he's calling it "He Is My Everything." We got two love songs (love songs?), one that's just been out on 45 and one called "Padre" you can only get oh tape—about some lonely Spanish guy fingering his rosary beads, I think. Looks to me as though "I Believe" has swallowed every track but four. There's what they call a "limited edition" souvenir photo book. Shrimpy little thing and the color's kinda funny. Why thanks, Uncle Tom.

Now we know there's a lot of unreleased Elvis tunes and we want 'em. How about that "million dollar quartet" for starters? I was sitting in .a Nashville bar the other day, swapping lies about Elvis and the Colonel, when I heard a story about a reporter who'd had an interview with Tom just after Elvis' death. "What are you gonna do," asked the reporter, "now that Elvis is gone?" "Why, same thing I always do, son" said the Colonel. "Ain't nothing different. It's just like the boy was back in the Army." Well, that's not exactly right. First thing is, the man is dead. And then back in '59, when Private Presley was in Germany driving a jeep and wooing Priscilla, RCA released three LPs which between them contained only one new Elvis song. We're doing a little better than that now. He Walks Beside Me has two. If you can call 'em really new. But the first thing is the man is dead. Can't you have some respect? Warn't Elvis I shot with my .22, it was cheap wax.

Dallas Mayr

JOHN PRINE

Bruised Orange

(Asylum)

If I'm not mistaken, this is, except for a "Best Of' collection, John Prine s first album since Common Sense in 1975. And Common Sense seemed a falling off, which may be why the "Best Of" set came out, and why Prine isn't on Atlantic any more.

He's back, on Asylum, with an immediately ingratiating album called Bruised Orange that could be his best. He still has that rough, wounded voice that made him one of the "New Dylans," a voice that Dylan hasn't used, except for a few songs like "Buckets Of Rain," since he left the North Country. And Prine has the capability of inventing melodies that are absolutely original but seem like long-forgotten common property. What I thought were the surreal excesses of some of his later work have been removed, and what is left is simple, honest, unassuming, valuable music, something like , a finely crafted kitchen chair made out of the best wood around. It doesn't dazzle you, but it's built to last.

The production, by Prine's old friend Steve Goodman, is simple and perfectly apposite. There are superb touches on the record—the singalong at the end of "The Hobo Song," which Woody Guthrie would admire; the beautiful backup vocal orr'That's The Way That The World Goes 'Round" (my congratulations to whichever one of the three female singers is responsible —look out, Emmylou); and Jim RothermiPs reed playing throughout.

Prine still insists on ending repeated lines awkwardly; ending stanzas with the words women and sorrow, accent on the second syllables. But I like almost every song on this record more than anything I've heard in a long time, and I think two of them might be masterpieces.

"If You Don't Want My Love" is just about as simple, moving, and threatening as it's possible to get. And then there's a song called "Sabu Visits The Twin Cities Alone." It's about how the new Sabu picture isn't doing too well, so the studio sends him out on a publicity tour of the frozen Northern Midwest. It reminds me of when I was a little kid during World War II, and Sabu was stationed just outside my home town, with the Army. He looked no more deracinated than Prine makes him in this wonderful narrative. The chorus, with its sad, falling melody, sung by Prine and one of the girls harmonized by a clarinet, is the most touching thing I've heard all year. Here are the lyrics:

"Hey, look, Ma, here comes the elephant boy Bundled all up in his corduroy Headin' down South towards Illinois From the jungles of East. St. Paul."

Joe Goldberg

MINK DEVILLE

Return To Magenta

(Capitol)

I hear a couple of things on this second effort that bode well for Mink DeVille—very well indeed. I also hear emerging propensities that could be possible pitfalls. Let's get these out of the way before we move on to the good stuff.

One of the symptoms of the band's progression is an emerging sophistication. This doesn't always benefit the music though; in terms of technique, it frequently falls flat. There are four ballads on this album, and three of them have strings sailing through them. With all due respect for producer Jack Nitzsche's commercially unerring ear, I find this detracting and unsettling. Surely the beauty of a Willy DeVille ballad is well enough communicated by his band and his vocal delivery. And what is the producer saying about a song he treats with strings if not "it's too thin." If it's a band decision, then perhaps they need more self-confidence. In the one place Ruben Siguenza struts his stuff on Spanish vocals ("I Broke That Promise"), the accompanying strings turn his singing into little more than soft background. I miss his cheeky calls to "Rosita" on "Spanish Stroll"— but this is Return To Magenta, not Mink DeVille.

But the air around the harder cuts on this LP is a perfectly appropriate one which I wasn't hearing on Mink DeVille as much: pure desperation. It's a solid rock stance and almost a political one and to me it means a growing sensibility in Willy DeVille as a mature rocker, one that we can all be proud of. The opener, "Guardian Angel" may be a stringed ballad but its desperation is far from a light or romantic sentiment. The man feels trapped. "There must be someplace where we can go/I can't fight it, it's no good no more." When I heard this line, I instantly connected it with a larger context of "Let's get away from the greed creeps and controllers who run the world." If only we could. This same feeling is more directly expressed on "Desperate Days," a fast paced reggae rocker. "It's those desperate days/Somehow, somewhere you need a desperate escape." And Willy claims this social malaise is the reason why he "Don't feel at home in my home town/Nobody wants me hangin' around." Not only does he feel trapped, but alienated and estranged as well.

Such awareness however, does not discount or move away from the street—Willy's roots. If anything, the band displays a street wisdom they didn't show on their initial LP; the tone of this record, both musically and lyrically, shows that they're starting to judge the world they see around them rather than just reflecting it. The rhythm and blues base is still there, but the sound of the city is beginning to become a means ratherthan an end product. Either way, the best subway ride around. And you know how well subways rock.

Vicki Taylor

RY COODER

Jazz

(Warner Bros.)

Somebody give this guy a grant. Ry-'s academic ambitions have entered the realm of the tiresome— a white guilt-edged striving for meaning, significance, authenticity, D.I.M., context...there will be questions later, so pay attention.

Jazz is so filled with its own selfimportance that it doesn't give you more than a minute or two to enjoy it (just consider the album's title— rather expansive, don't you think, like a chapter heading in a thesis that might get published as Profiles In Music). It's all very admirable, but Ry has fallen into the trap he long ago inadvertently set for himself. This is the work of a musicologist, not a musician. Down to the educational, pedantic sleeve notes, the record is an intellectual exercise; Ry's lost that feeling— temporarily, I hope—for the earthy and earthly that had always separated him from all the other folk culture curator types.

He never seemed to have to contrive the Dustbowl anger and frustration of his best work; he used to bring the American legend to life. But right now, he's bringing it shrink-wrapped. What you hear is simply the by-product of impeccable research—or legwork, to steal a reporter's term, as his latest bio does—that went into it.

What you'll really miss is the guitar. Not that it's not there, but it's drowned in the obligatory big string and brass orchestrations. The change is most obvious on "Happy Meeting In Glory," an instrumental hymn by Bahamian guitarist Joseph Spence, whose stylings Ry has been propagating for years. The simple tune is arranged with cymbalum, mandolin, pump organ, ruba, trombone, comet, drums—and guitar. On Into The Purple Valley, the same tune showed up as "Great Dreams In Heaven," an under twominute guitar solo that charmed a lot more than Jazz's overblown rendition can impress.

Ry Cooder is never less than a master at any idiom he pursues. But Jazz makes me wish he would take less, rather than more of the music history student's approach to his music. Maybe he should take some lessons from John Fahey, who did the same kind of research early in life and then went way beyond his source material. It's graduation time Ry.

Kevin Doyle

TOM PETTY AND THE HEARTBREAKERS

You're Gonna Get It!

(Shelter)

Tom Petty's marble-like outward appearance somehow belies the fact.that his voice is a sonorous collection of textures which some-* time strain but often hit right to the heart of rock 'n' roll darkness. Rather far removed from the punk/ new wave category he's so often clumped into, Petty claims allegiance to nothing save the rhythm of the backbeat period; like the song goes, it's narrow, and hard to master. And so is this album, originally to be called Terminal Romarfce, which is certainly more descriptive of what goes on inside than the one finally tacked on the front cover.

Petty's pre-occupation with the pangs of love sometimes results in outright pop pablum, but there are moments when he creates the brooding mood of love's labor with such style that you'd think that underneath all that rock exterior works the soul of a potential killer. The first album had these moments, on songs like "Breakdown" and "Strangered In The Night." On You're Gonna Get It!, Petty leaves most of the heartbreaking to his band, and they pick up right where he leaves off, playing in a loose, sensual style that's arresting and easy to get caught up in.

The reaction to this album will probably be mixed, because for those Petty-philes whose bodies have been saturated with the first LP and all the ensuing live bootlegs, tapes, etc., nothing could ever hope to match the initial excitement of discovery so many of them went through. Many fear that he's going to be too L.A.-ized and therefore stripped of his rock 'n' roll edge, soon to hit the skids in a monumental display of complacency; they would have preferred that he remain in Florida, where his music came into being. Others, however, the ones a bit less prone to fanatacism, find the second album better than the first because this one has sparse, yet emotionally provoking production values coupled with flaws that turn into huge plusses.

The second side of this record, except for some unnecessary rambling on "Restless," is just plain good. The sparseness of the album shows a set of exposed nerves that run clear back to the early sixties eclecticism of the Byrds. Both "I Need To Know" and "Listen To Her Heart" harken back to the days when harmony and tight musicianship were the mainstays of the entire musical arena. "Listen To Her Heart" is a natural choice for a single, what with its neat and precise use of hooks; verbally with the lines "So you think you're gonna steal her away/With your money and your cocaine"—cocaine being a solid hook in any song these days, and musically with simple, arresting guitar passages.

The last song on the album is also a good candidate for the top forty races—"Baby's A Rock 'n' Roller" is just goofy enough to make MOR beaconheads take notice. The hot spots on side one are "Magnolia" and "Too Much Ain't Enough." As a whole, this is a refreshing album, coming at just the right time—the beginning of the summer—and who knows, with this LP stirring up the emotions of those who hear it, it could be the summer of love again. Or at least the summer of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. You're Gonna Get It! is not a masterpiece, because the era of masterpieces seems gone forever. But it is, nevertheless, a good album.

Joe (Hot Fun in the Summertime) Fernbacher

U.K.

(Polydor)

Are U.K. a real supergroup? You tell me. Do the names Bill Bruford, John Wetton, Eddie Jobson, and Allan Holdsworth trigger any anticipatory oscillations? Just a few? How about names like Yes, King Crimson, Roxy Music, Uriah Heep, 801, Gong, Soft Machine, Family, Curved Air, Frank Zappa, Jean-Luc Ponty, or the Tony Williams Lifetime? Sounding more familiar? Bill or Eddie or John of Allan played with one or more of the abovementioned groups so you know what kind of music U.K. is gonna play: English electric/ecletic mishmash rock.

And they're pretty good at it. Wetton and Bruford have lost none of the fractured physicality of their Crimson days of yore, when they stomped the larks and quarks with equal abandon. Wetton also copes with the unusual mqjodies well— that edge on his voice and the doom-in-June lyrics will keep this album off any mellow radio stations in your area.

Yet it's Jobson that impresses the most. Since Holdsworth only uses about three guitar tones, it's up to Eddie to provide the textural interest and he proves himself one of rock's most inventive synthesizer players in the process. Crashbash technoflash one moment, tasty piano underpinnings the next. It's nice to see/hear him out front where he has long belonged.

So that's what these guys are up to. You can complain that there's not enough anarchy in this U.K. but if they allowed themselves to be swept along by the new wave, it just wouldn't wash, y' know? Me, I'm kinda glad that they're around to inject a little guts into the progressive rock scene. With ELP's latest quirks doing them no good, Genesis becoming more predictable with each post-Gabriel album, and Yes's ethereality keeping them from really getting down (despite recent injections of rock 'n' roll energy), it's good to have one band in that corner that remembers the physical roots of rock rhythms. Even if you can't dance to 'em.

Michael Davis