STEVIE WONDER

Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants (Motown)

Lets assume that you didnt think that Songs in the Key of Life was a total bust. It was over-hyped for sure, overblown in part, a little simple in spots, a little dull, but it didnt contain much more than the usual amount of forgivable dead air that many a good double album has and most of it was engagingly clever, happy, an upbeat holding pattern at a well-earned career plateau. At best, you thought, the next Stevie Wonder album would be a rejuvenation, something exciting, hopefully something tighter and at worse itd be a celebration at the same plateau. It wouldnt be bad, you know, just more of the same, right? Wrong, cause this album is worse than youd expect. Its the toted bust that Songs in the Key of Life only hinted at.

Its a concept album and, partially, a soundtrack album, two strikes against it immediately from which it never recovers. The concept, hymns to a benevolent cosmology where plants and stars are different, and glorious, manifestations of the same thing is, pardon me, sappy. It isnt automatically a boring concept but when the message that the universe is harmonious and love conquers all is couched in soporific voicings and changes, as it is here, it doesnt matter how good the news is—its dull. And spiritual optimism doesnt necessarily have to result in a bland presentation but combined with lyric directness and simplicity its beyond dull (George Harrison comes to mind...then fades). Throughout the album Wonders lean sentiments are buried under mountains of cotton candy synthesizers so that the mind is starved while the spirit is made nauseous by a gooey rich sumptuousness. Which may be an overstatement, but its not too far from the basic fact that the album is a series of simple ideas and melodies, lavishly overarranged.

LIFE IN THE HO-HUM LANE!

THE EAGLES

THE LONG RUN (ASYLUM)

BY THE MAD PECK $ ROBOT A. HULL

I IN A DESPERATE ATTEMPT TÔ1 I CONSERVE ENERGY MS MARVEL I HAS ESCAPED 10 THE SUNSHINE [~TATE FOR SOME MELLOW VIBES.

I WAS SUPPOSED TO REVIEW ThE NEW EAGLES LP, BUT THE RECORD COMPANY NEVER SENT IT TO ME, SO I GUESS iTc VACATION TIME.______________

$0 WUAT ELSE IS NEW? LISSENMJ4., JUST TURN ON THE RAbIO.~ YOU CAN'T MISS JT/

MEANWINLE, IN THE VERY ACT OF STRAN&LING THE DISCO HEGEMON'i THE EAGLES ARE PERFORMING UYE AT MIDSTATE WIMPOID TECH.

LOOSE AND LOADED EVERY NITE F I DANCING UNDERNEATH THE FLASHING LIGHT J3

THAT DOESN'T SOUND LIKE THE EAGLES.~

JEEZ! THE EAGLES' BiG HIT IS "HEARTACHE TONIG41T7 THE ONE THAT SOUNDS LIKE THE JAMES GANG. YOURE LISTENING 10 RAPPER'S DELIGHT'1 BY THE JY/6ARI1/L~ GANG!

F HOTEL, MOTEL 3 HOL~DAV INN J' IF VOUR GIRL STARTS ACTING UP,THEN YOU TAKE HER FRIEND I

TEE! I LIKE THIS BAND EVEN BETTER THAN STYX! irs SURE SWELL TO HEAR SOME REAL MUSIC FOR A CHANGE.

1 KNOW WHAT YOU MEANT~~ ALL THOSE ANIMALS BACK AT TOAD HALl. NEVER WANT TO PLAY ANYFHING EXCEPT DOUC~ CLARK AND THE. HOT NUTS

More specifically, the problem with this expansive mood music isnt pretentiousness or pomposity or bombasticness, its tired blood. Its synthesizers synthesizing Percy Faiths anemic prettiness and keyboards approximating Martin Dennys ersatz jazz. Its lovely in the background, way in the background, but at the slightest effort to tune it in, it becomes an elongated yawn, mightily stretching the limits of mediocrity.

Stevie Wonders new album isnt all bad—it isnt malicious or degenerate. Half listened to, its pleasant. Its almost inoffensive. But with the dubious flower vnotif and the decidedly unsatisfying nature of its lush serendipity, Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants has the emotional impact of a Donovan album that has arrived 12 years too late. And thats no impact at all.

Richard C. Walls

SHOES

Present Tense (Elektra)

The fact that the Shoes dont fall flat on their faces on their first release for a major label is quite a feat. After the initial chest-thumping critical acclairh they received from Black Vinyl Shoes (an LP recorded on their own in the confines of some lost suburban Illinois living room and released by JEMs PVC label), the Shoes sort of sat back and waited for someone to get interested. As time progressed, the legend of the Shoes and their rowdy living room record became as strong as the legend of Buster Brown. Someone got interested. Word hit the streets. Things were expected of this band. And theyve more than risen to the challenge.

Present Tense is a collection of twelve pop gems, an album that lets it be known that the Shoes are not merely another of the dime-a-dance pop bands currently battling for boot room on the bandstand floor. They pump away with forceful precision and style, and their songs are laced with all • the inherent power and emotion of early Sixties radio music. Here is an American band with little or no politics, an American band firmly locked into the fibrillations of teenage starehood—love lost, love regained, love expected, love not returned. They are as teenage as seven guys loose in some kinda drunken alien haze cruising, through the soft hot nights of Indian summer looking for the last moments of women as they stumble around bars reeking of pink ice, tequila sunrises, and the soma-inducing scent of Chanel No. 5, textured with burrito barf. Know what I mean?

Ive always been one to subscribe to the adage that life is only worth living if its on the B-side, and side. two of this album bolsters that philosophy nicely. The stunning conceptual understatement of the three part "Three Times,", coupled with the sheer searing truth of Gary Klebes "Now and Then" and Jeff Murphys "Every Girl" makes for a solid sensation of bein wronged, and bein right about feelin good about bein wronged. Hotcha.

"Tomorrow Night" is a classic— it was a classic the minute it showed up as a Bomp single last year and even the knowledge of a previous version does nothing to deaden the force here of this bittersweet cavatina to sneeraholic sensuality. Except for "Hanging Around With You," which just never realizes itself, Present Tense succeeds on' every count. Its rockin sexy, and its a pop album that only too well clarifies just what a pop album, band,' song is, was, and should always be.

Joe (No, he aint gettin mellow) Fernbacher

TOTO

Hydra

(Columbia)

j Im ashamed I went to high school with these hairy-headed specimens of mediocrity. U.S. Grant High in Van Nuys, CA, matriculated not only the fabulbus Stan Lee of The Dickies, but also 1/3 of the not-so-fabulous Toto. Memories of Totos Porcaro Bros, linger on: some say drummer Jeff was the pale blue-eyed—Ann Webers very first! And there are stories of an incapacitated Steve P. sniffing some "bad heroin" pn Coach Marguccis football field still extant—go nosebleed!

T for Toto:

T=True as in correct if indeed you correctly guessed that this album is totally unlistenable. ExSteely Dan session-clones clone Steely Dan sessions of subandroid boredom. Adds up to eight songs of pothead-redundance and 1974s outtake FM-bar/; nothing comes close to "Hold the Line"—a dubious parameter of aesthetics to J begin with. And T=Torpid (="in-/ active, sluggish as in a bodily1 organ"—Amer. Collegiate Dictionary, 1948) meaning limp as far as cant-get-it-up descriptives go. "Hydra," the title track of sorts, worms its way thru D-U-L-L instrumental contusions just to reach a barely palatable keyboard/guitar riff AND THE FUCKIN VOCALSRE NONEXISTENT hangin out for the propppfeirtphasis and related artstatement bull. So how long is the incredible "Hydra" in its entirety? Six minutes? 7? 8 maybe (no timings listed)? Only seriously drugaddled minds could fathom the depths of the six-minute-plus reality here (what about legislation for odd-even rationing of album grooves?). "99," "Lorraine" and "Mama" are more-or-less (mostly less) keybored-vocal ballads insip-' idly tame and unappealing. Lead singer Bobby Kimballs high-register chirping noises throughout really reek of this Uriah Heep-familiar lets-have-a-party-and-get-stoned type posture. Same w/the rest of the remaining trax; the goodtimeboogie attitude of this whole affairs] what really sucks jasper. The production, for what these songsre worth, is actually one outstanding feature to single out—very sympathetic and cognizant of this bands' vision. Enuff said. Oh yeah, theres one worth quoting:

"All us boys like to drink and smoke Pull off a joke Blow your minds and leave Hot tires behind

All us boys like to fight and kick Carry a stick Were getting older and acting bolder"

Etc. Thats from one on, uh lessee, side 2 called "All Us Boys." "Blow your minds and leave/Hot tires behind" might seriously be the only redeeming lines-of-lyric tbe found.

I especially like the "Hot tires" angle. Thats real hep stuff. In the spring of 1978 on KSAN-FM San Francisco, RokyErickson, when asked his favorite Sex Pistols song, replied that its gotta be the "first one hes ever listened to—“Hot Cars!!" But the hot tires scene could be close behind [T=Tires (hot)].

Meanwhile, T=Toilet, which is where this record can be disposed of in the privacy of whoever you know who owns its home.

Gregg Turner

JOE JACKSON

Im the Man (A&M)

Like Elvis Costello and Graham Parker, Joe Jackson works out of a distinct mode of nostalgia for the American R&B forms of the early to mid 60s. Unlike Costello, he does not mistakenly overstate this kind of nostalgia into a pseudopolitical issue, or at least not on his records; unlike Parker, he does not confuse this nostalgia with the attempt to make apocalyptic music. So while he resembles both Costelloand Parker, his results are markedly different. Jackson has chosen to limit himself to an extremely narrow interpretation of the style, a wise decision based on the success of things like "Sunday Papers," and the lively re-cast of Wilson Picketts "Everybody Needs Somebody To Love," which seems more to the point than similar attempts by his peers.

Lester Bongs UUolks It Like He Talks It

LESTER BANGS

"Let It BlurtTLive" (Spy 45)

by Richard Riegel

Lester Bangs, once the editor of these reviews, has remained a charismatic figure to several generations of CREEM readers. He continues to take the Rock Critic of the Year honors in each CREEM Readers Poll, even though he hasnt written anything for the magazine since shortly after he moved to New York in 1976. Bangs wit, flair, sarcasm and unceasing intelligence, as displayed in the CREEM of the early 70s, were instrumental in defining a style that persists today, in CREEM if not in the whole new wave revolution. I sometimes wonder if the Ramones, for instance, would exist in precisely the form they do today, if Bangs hadnt written pieces like "Psychotic Reactions & Carburetor Dung" when he did, thereby helping set a whole new gang of writers and musicians off on a search for a post-hippie style...

But thats all critical bushwah, as Lester would be the first to insist. Hes always fought like a madman to avoid coasting on whatever reputation hes already earned, and after hitting New York, he suddenly decided to put his mouth and ass on the line, to try to make it as a rock performer in his own right, fully cognizant that the "real" musicians hed been*berating for years, tar their various aesthetic failings, would now have their shots back at him.

This single was one of the first products of Bangs new obsession; recorded in 1977, but not released until two years later, its turned out to be both an essential slice of the Bangsian saga, and an obsolete statement of Lesters career opportunities. The musicians who cut these sides with Bangs—Robert Quine (Voidoids), Jody Harris and David Hofstra (different editions of the Contortions), and Jay Dee Daugherty (Patti Smith jGroup)— have become increasingly involved with their own bands in the interim, while the Birdland lineup so enthusiastically promised on this sleeve has already come and gone. Still, in the kind of irony that might have informed a Bangs critique, his record has survived.

Bangs vocals on these 1977 dates probably are as "amateurish" as detractors have claimed, but •theres no lack of intensity or commitment in his singing, which is punk-indignant in the style of that season. And the lyrics, not so verbose as you might imagine, are...well, vintage Bangs: "Drinkin port wine and singin “Sister Ray/ Wonderin why I wasnt born gay!" "Let It Blurt" blurts out certain psychic bruises of Bangs thenrecent De-troit days, while "Live" is further up the Jehovahs Witness existential mainline of his newer writings, and theyre both super, especially as underscored by the all-star hard-stuff rock fleshing out his righteous anger.

This record is absolutely recommended to anyone eager to get on with his or her own live & let blurt resolutions, righf about now. (Available from Spy Records, 250 W. 57th St., NY, NY 10019.)

Im not trying to suggest that Jackson is better than Costello or Parker, just that hes more efficient. And rock n roll tends to reward efficiency. If Costello, for example, realized how much closer he is to Gary Lewis and the Playboys than Buddy Holly and the Crickets, he might begin to understand how to scale down his angry young dog approach to the real world. Jackson is every bit as mad as Costello, he just realizes what a waste of time it is to try to machine gun everything in your path. No, instead, Jackson picks his spots Carefully. "Ex-friends, ex-lovers and enemies . ..ex-bosses...ex-teachers," specific people who used him when they wanted and left him when it was convenient—those are the people Jacksons after in "On Your Radio." The shot is well taken, for these are the people worth going after. They know what they did, and now Jackson has the last laugh alongside a manic soundtrack that sounds like "Mystic Eyes" era Them.

Jackson has been keeping tabs for some time and what comes out here is either gonna make you shudder or cheer. "The Band Wore Blue Shirts" may seem like a casual enough recollection of a hired dance band, but theres a hidden rage when he says "At the end of the evening they throw the suckers out," even despite the disclaimer. And its not hard to figure out that Jackson has very little sympathy for the crossed lovers, "Geraldine and John." He pulls out all the stops, though, on "Dont Wanna Be Like That," tongue-lashing Los Angeles, the cocaine generation, the Rolling Stones, journalists, playboys and American girls. The interesting thing is that the song, like the rest of Jacksons gripes, features a specific and well focused attack. .

John Swenson

GEORGE JONES

My Very Special Guests __(Epic)_

For over 30 years, George Jones has been countrys greatest singer, universally admired by both country fans and performers alike in much the same way that soul addicts love Otis. In fact, Jones style—clean vocals clipped through clenched teeth—has always epitomized white soul, once defined by musicologist Dr. Slim Sasfy as "The sad, high, and lonesome sound of a spirit trapped in flesh." And although he probably has well over a hundred albums to his oredit, Jones didnt really get any significant recognition from the rock-crit establishment until 76 with the release of Alone Again, on which, for the first time in almost two decades, he freed himself from the restraint of strings and back-up choruses and permitted his vocal drama to break loose in a sparse setting. Since then, every buffoon in the biz has claimed George Jones as his/ her guiding light, the master whose voice only the truly enlightened can the case with other American singers, i.e., Frank Sinatra or Smokey Robinson, who immortalize what others can only trivialize).

So, regarding Jones latest project, My Very Special Guests,, the question remains: why stoop to conquer?

Charmingly dubbed the "duet" album, My Very Special Guests features George Jones in intimate song-play on ten Cuts with various and sundry rock and/or country singers. As clumsy as the record is, it may prove to be Jones greatest moment in terms of selflessness, modesty, and sharing the spotlight with ones neighbor. No current rock star could ever shine with so much grace.

However, the guest vocalists themselves are ghosts, haunting the music with unearthly groans and whispers, yet never intruding by crossing over the white line of common sense, as if awestruck not by Jones mystique but by his professional humility. On "Bartenders Blues," James Taylor is practically absent; on "Here We Are," Emmylou is never even there.

When Linda Ronstadt bawls like a heifer on "Ive Turned You To Stone," one can almost see Jones hair, fighting through all its gunky hairspray, trying to stand on end. In sharp contrast, Jones (cheating somewhat with the albums concept) romantically embraces his ex, Tammy Wynette, on the usual harmonious sugar, proving conclusively that Tammy can sound more genuine working with fluff than Linda can plowing through mountains of classic rock and country tunes.

Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson provide the wildest music here, carousing about as if the whole idea were just another booze party. Johnny Paycheck, on the other hand, stumbles through "Proud Mary" in such a loose manner that the net effect constitutes the albums most embarrassing display of forced camaraderie. One would never guess that, back when' George Jones was still called "Thumper," Johnny Paycheck (then named Donny Young) was in his band.

Perhaps its Elvis Costello on his own "Stranger In the House," though, that signifies exactly what this album only suggests: that the humble inherit the earth while the pompous only fall flat on their kissers. Costellos performance is extremely funny—he sings like a hoarse grapefruit, spraying juice everywhere, so intent upon getting it right. The song is a comedy of contrasts in which a nervous rocker emulates his hero, not unlike Dylan and Johnny Cash crooning "Girl From the North Country" on Nashville Skyline, but lacking that particular duets humorous eloquence, that awesome chasm between Cashs gruff growl and Dylans nasal whine. But the distance which separates Jones from Costello is what distinguishes a man of dignity from a klutz; and so, after Costello has sung his very best (however inept the results), George Jones, his country idol, makes the statement that all men must ultimately, and humbly, make. He says, simply, "Thank you, Elvis."

Poor George. With good buddies like these, he • sure dont need enemies.

Robot A. Hull

TOM PETTY

Damn the Torpedoes (Backstreet/MCA)

Damn the Torpedoes takes the American Stand: "Dont tread on me." When youve been "raised on promises" like the heroine of Tom Pettys bicentennial debut, you have a birthright to try and make those promises hold up. Petty and the Heartbreakers have turned out an ace third LP that simply crackles with that spirit of defiance and energy, though being who he is—a rock n roll bantam to the core— Petty' cant help but throw down his gauntlet with an air of teen rockabilly cockiness, with a swagger and a wink and some mixed-up confusion. Thomas Earl Petty, as hes been known of late in the courts and record company conference rooms, and his band break away with this one. The album has moments, more than a few moments, that sound classic, moments that rock with deep, impassioned emotionalism. Its not so much about the difference between winning and losing as it is about knowing when youre doing one or the other and then acting. If youre obliged to reside in "Century City," where death is a real possibility and you cant get out, you might as well shrug your shoulders, kick your heels and pretend its Chuck Berrys "Promised Land" transposed to the cold modern world.

Pettys best songs, like Damn the Tdrpedoes "Even the Losers," "Shadow of a Doubt" and "Here Comes My Girl," have a directness of approach and impact that is made all the more appealing by the way hes soaked up his sources. That tinge of deja vu in Pettys maple-syrup vocalizing and gatorcountry drawl, in the Heartbreakers steely springiness and stony backbone, in the way the melodies ghost-walk or rev-up: it all connects with a third-generation rock intensity that comes together on this'LP (credit Jimmy Iovines 3-D production tactics) in a way that the bands fans have been claiming it has since the first. Grand gestures, sneaky textures. Over the past year, Pettys grace moves have included producing Del Shannon and supplying material to the Searchers, and its the highest compliment to Damn the Torpedoes to say that it melds the dramatics of "Hats Off To Larry" with the crispness of "Some Day Were Gonna Love Again."

Almost every track on Damn the Torpedoes clears a different stylistic and temperamental hurdle, with inches to spare. The opening cut, "Refugee," comes as a twin jolt. A musical one because the Heartbreakers—especially guitarist Mike Campbell and keyboarder Benmont Tench—have rarely riffed with comparable force; their rumbling has rarely extended itself with such purpose. The second jolt comes courtest of T.F.: the simile "You dont have to live like a refugee" is for him a profound leap of imagination, and hes singing here well beyond the limits of his sinuses; his freedom in the balance, Petty is in full throttle, and, he maintains his authority through the majority of the albums remaining eight songs. On "Here Comes My Girl" he uncorks a heretofore hidden talksing Southern baritone ("It dont add up to nuthin") to counterbalance his languid drone, and the song has the stand-by-me sentimentality of "Dont Worry Baby." The ballads on side two, "You Tell Me" and "Louisiana Rain," have thick gumbo mystery and a resignation to the untouchable (a woman, the past), and "Century City," like "Refugee," succeeds as a rockers red badge of courage. The only times T.P. and the HBs collectively go off kilter are on the throwaway romp "Dont Do Me Like That" and the sour "What Are You Doing In My Life," a stiff-jointed knock at a persistent groupie, on which Petty comes off as a petulant cad (even here, though, there are two neat touches: Campbells slippin and slidin guitar, and the perfect phraseology of "You aint my baby").

When we responded to Petty before the breakthrough of Damn the Torpedoes, it was mostly to his unfettered optimism, his naive belief in romance (life-sustaining and terminal) and in music. His messages were forthright and simple: "Im not afraid of you running away, baby/Ive got a feeling youwont" ("Breakdown"), "Some day soon, youll come around" ("When the Time Comes"), "She may need a lot of lovin but she dont need you" ("Listen To Her Heart"). Anything thats rock n roll is fine. His confidence brooked no argument, his hurts hurt, and that was that. He could have been a blond Eddie Cochran. For the first time on Damn the Torpedoes, the standout songs have some ambiguity. Love is complex, music is an industry. (Also for the first time, no song deals with "rock n roll" as such.) "Even The Losers," which contains the choice couplet "I showed you stars you never could see/It couldnt have been that easy to forget about em," is about a summer fling— cigarettes and kisses like fire up on the roof—that was too good to last, and Petty sings it without rancor: he knows he was lucky to have the moment. Its a wonderful song, Petty barking up just the right tree. The Heartbreakers, ping-ponging with honky-tonk precision-abandon, star on "Shadow of a Doubt"; the girl in question is hard to figure out, just as hard to live without. Just so. Add to these dual-visioned love songs the rock realism of "Refugee" and "Century City" and the misty narrative of "Louisiana Rain," and Damn the Torpedoes starts to look like a record to fulfill Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers manifest destiny.

Mitch Cohen

THE BOOMTOWN RATS

The Fine Art of Surfacing (Columbia)

Okay, the decades up, so we can look back and see whats changed. Lots and nothing, as usual. The latest batch of bands n artistes have switched the styles around but as ever, the ones with one foot in the pop mainstream are tjie ones that get swept away to Stardumb Central. Over here, its people like Joe Jackson and Police, even the Fabulous Poodles. In Britain, though, the Boomtown Rats are the top dogs.

And its not too difficult to hear why. They surfaced at the same time as a lotta new wave bands and they shared the energy in the air. But other than that, the Rats are throwbacks to the pre-punk era of British pop. And not very original ones at that.

Oh, but theyre "fun." Bob Geldof is a master of disguises; one minute hes Springsteen, the next Costello, followed by Bowie, and on and on. It gets annoying after a , while, and then he comes up with some obnoxious "original" concoctions that sound like Steve Harley backed by the Bay City Rollers. If thats what the real Boomtown Rats are, gimme the masks anytime.

But Geldofs Cutesy ca-ca doesnt stop with styles; its even more upfront in his lyrics. He writes about the same things as everybody else—lust, violence, and boredom —and trivializes them all. These various subjects are each treated with the same amount of emotion— none—and there are times when his tongue is so far back in his cheek that hes in danger of choking on it. Too many hours of TV in his past, Ill wager.

He does let us in on his "big secret" though, and its nice of him, dontcha think? "The final truth is—there is no truth/Na na na na/Bop shoo wop shoo wop." Aint that cute? Aint that clever? Aint that as deep as the L.A. River (in August)?

So as not to belabor the point: the Boomtown Rats are a peppy, derivative, gutless band fronted by a glib showman whose pop music instincts and self-serving promotional talents Have made him a perfect popstar for the decade of the 70s.

Whichjust ended. .

Michael Davis

THE CONTORTIONS

Buy the Contortions (ZE)

JAMES WHITE AND THE BLACKS

Off White _(ZE)

Some days its fun being a real Midwesterner trying to make it in the art rackets; the powers on the good-taste-is-timely Coasts already have you pegged as Nothing, nada beneath nada, so its all that much easier to run amok when you do hit New York. Nobody th6re can figure out whether you really know what youre doing or not.

Minnesotan Bobby Dylan has built a long and prosperous career on just such a conceit, while Michigans favorite son, Iggy Pop, spent much of the 1970s taking the sins of the international pop community on his slight but sinewy shoulders. "Our" latest spy in the house of the lord is James White nee Chance nee Siegfried, once of Brookfield, Wisconsin.

White has been on the N.Y. scene for nearly four years, initially as a humble-enough hanger-on with the Screws, and then as a member of Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. He quickly moved on, founding the Contortions in 1977, mutating them back and forth into the discooriented James White and the Blacks, and at last surviving the big purge of 1979, after manager/conceptualist Anya Phillips had driven off the other original Contortions with her relentless elevation of Jamess stature within the group. Through all the changes, James has kept squawking away on his alto sax, blatting out everything from punk to funk to jazz to disco, sometimes all at once.

Along the way, Mr. White hasnt missed a chance to insult everyone within range, from probing journalists,to his most ardent admirers.' In the recent past, James was prone to reversing Iggys crowdmasochism, with his forays into concert audiences to assault his own fans. And it just may be working: James White is Andrew Loog Oldhams statement of principals carried to the nth power, a cerebral version of Sid Vicious picking open his knife scar on the press bus, but knowing in advance just how many column inches of media attention his gesture will guarantee.

The Contortions were already the headliners on Enos No New York anthology of last year, and now, through the good offices of the French ZE label, distributed in the U.S. by Buddah and thus by Arista, rock fans everywhere will get to pick up on two ***starring James White*** albums at one time. Despite the confusing titles and credits, both sets were recorded essentially by the traditional Contortions lineup—Pat Place and Jody Harris on guitars, George Scott on bass, Don Christensen on drums, in support of Whites sax and vocals—but as White was meanwhile fronting a brand new assemblage of Contortions, these albums had become historical relics before they were even released here. Still, as in the case of the Sex Pistols orphan Never Mind the Bollocks, theyre fantastic relics indeed.

Buy the Contortions is the more "punk" of the two sets, as it features James Whites post-blankgeneration-gap vocal stunguns on each cold-assed cut (his voice falls somewhere between Jaggers and Richard Hells, but excludes the redeeming humanity displayed by each of those supposed bete noirs), bopping out his resolve to be eterrlally "Twice Removed." Off White conveys many of the same messages, but translates them into daringly honking-honky funk, complete with an all-instrumental second side of unremitting jazzing. Both albums include versions of the groups "Contort Yourself theme, reworked to the appropriate style of each.

Whether you go with the "rock" of Buy the Contortions, or the "disco" of Off White, you may just find a musical summation of everything the punk revolution of 197677 seemed to be aiming toward: pop muzik stripped of all melody and harmony and heedless emotion (at least for the time being) to get back to the basics of rhythm. Music snarling and grasping and clawing after that secret philosophers stone of rhythm weve suspected blacks of keeping to themselves, since Elvis or maybe before. Jangling, suspended guitar notes and slides, bobbing bass pulses, drums assaulting the songs structures, chord changes a bourgeois indulgence, Whites sax bleating, bleating, bleating...

Maybe because Im not a musician myself, I find these Contor-. tions/& the Blacks albums remarkably accessible, more so than the rock public (not to mention Anya Phillips herself) will probably ever believe, once the hype hits the fans.

I mean, I dont believe for one millimojgent that James White is the Second Coming of the Godfather of Soul, no matter how close his name gets to J.B.s, but this stuff is beginning to sound like what my pre-literate mind always hoped to find there: background music for some kind of life or another.

Richard Riegel

THE BEAT (Columbia)

The Beats debut is as easy to like as babysitter breasts. Strong tunes, tight playing, bright production and an overall snappiness comparable to Islamic justice. Best of all, these guys like girls, dont consider them so much Snak-O-Ham and dont feel the least bit puss about it either. Sentiments an alarmingly decreasing percentage of us can all agree with, Im sure.

Comparisons to the recentlymaligned Knack are inevitable and not wholly undeserved. The two groups share similar 60s roots and a clean, Space Age Plastic production, but the Beat, thankfully, lack Doug Fiegers industrial-strength charm. And while smilin Dougy doesnt appear to be in any immediate danger of wildcat cloning, more than one guest host here at Elastique Land has commented on head Beat Paul Collins high kissability quotient.

All of the top cuts—"Rock N Roll Girl," "Dont Wait Up For Me" and "Let Me Into Your Life" being todays faves—ar$ built on lint-free bass rumbles augmented by wellexposed guitars recorded so sharply that they almost click. Collins sings a clean spiral through them in a no-frillfc voice that conveys more emotion than, say, personalized banking, but never stops to cloy.

Did I say cloy? In all honesty (all 8.c.c. of it), I must mention the token ballad, "You And*I," a mandolinified stinker of Loni Andersonlike proportions that nearly washes out the entire second side. Even though Collins dry-humps it in a disdainful voice that sounds like hes got a snootful of tuna juice, its presence on this LP is as inexcusable as mooses in the bedroom.

This being such an otherwise excellent record, however, why dont we magnanimous types allow this one fleck of vomita gargantua to slide, hopefully, right off the table, where it will splat to the floorf right next to "Dim All The Lights" and the pumice-resistant stains caused by Chers comeback. To paraphrase Jim Bob Morrison, whos in no position to argue about it anyway, you need Beat.

Rick Johnson

BUZZCOCKS

Singles Going Steady (I.R.S./A&M)

Im gonna have to defer to the historians among you to determine whether or not the conceit of Singles Going Steady is unprecedented, but what we have here is a sorta Farewell to the First Golden Era of the Buzzcocks: their eight British singles, in chronological order—A sides on side A, B sides (stupid limeys) on side B. Has a debut LP ever assumed as much intellectual curiosity on the part of its intended audience, or been so, er, cocky to think such notions as programming to be irrelevant?

Sociologically speaking, Im not, which means skipping to the second part of the above query. The triumph of Singles Going Steady is that the individual songs are so good that the packaging couldnt possibly detract. At various points the rijjdity of the track order may well be bothersome to all but rock critics but, as has also been said of the Sunday Times, it sure is nice to know its all there.

Through five of his seven A sideic contributions, Pete Shelley builds a powerful argument for hitnself as the modern master of pop; only Elvis Costello can keep pace with Shelley when it comes to couching instant classic melodies in decidedly unpretty rock n roll arrangements. A song like "What Do I Get" ("I just want a lover like any other/What do I get?...No love/No sleep at nights/Nothing thats nice") doesnt pay homage to "Substitute-" and "Till the End of the Day," it joins them. "I Dont Mind" boasts not just an eight-syllable mi-yi-yind, but a this-is-punk combination bridge/ guitar solo/modulation to boot.

The B side is properly labeled; is it still necessary to reiterate that thats a description, notaputdown? Either the thrills are cheaper ("Noise Annoys," "Oh Shit") or the boys experiment (the six-and-g-half minute "Why Cant I Touch It?") or Pete Shelley is" proving an Indian Giver by using the riff lent to Howard Devoto and "Shot by Both Sides" when he left the Buzzcocks to start Magazine ("Lipstick"). Any way you look at it, its ideal.

In addition to the 16 songs on S.G.S., the Buzzcocks have three British albums, the most recent of which, Another Kind of Tension, is newer than any of the singles. Seeing as how the eighth A side here, Steve Diggles "Harmony in My Head;" represents the groups first attempt to get away from Shelleys lovelorn concerns, unless I.R.S. starts releasing those LPs toot sweet, the Buzzcocks as we know them may become unrecognizable to import buyers. Be forewarned: prolonged exposure to Singles Going Steady has been shown to lead users to the hard (cash) stuff. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

Ira Kaplan

RICHARD LLOYD

Alchemy (Elektra)

Kid Sinister opened his oversized trench coat and skillfully extracted just over an inch and a quarters worth of albums. "Not a bad score for half a days work, eh?" he asked, tossing the goods onto the unmade bed. "How many did you get?"

Heavenor dropped her share on top of the pile. "Ten or 11,1 guess," she said breathlessly-, "but most of them are doubles. I figure weve got well over $150s worth of stuff here, what do you think?"

"At least," grinned the Kid as he surveyed the take. "Goddamn, not bad at all. Here—" He picked up an album at random and threw it to Heavenor "—youve got longer nails than me."

Heavenor cracked open the shrinkwrap and slid out a smooth, shirty disk. "Whos Richard Lloyd? Youve heard of him? He any good?!

The Kid took the record from her. "Yeah, he used to be in Television. Fantastic guitarist. Sort of a spastic cross between Neil Young and David Byrne. He plays like frail birds with their necks snapped, jerking..." y

"Thats the group that Tom Verlaine was in, right?" Heavenor made a face. "Hes a jerk." /

The Kid looked up. "You kidding? Verlaine is great. Didnt I play his solo album for you?" Heavenor made another face. "Unfortunately, you did. Maybe we should play the Led Zeppelin album instead..."

The Kid played deaf and set the turntable on automatic. "If they gave student discounts on..." The din from the speakers washed over his words.

"That doesnt sound like Television," shouted Heavenor. "You sure you havent got a W*n9s album on by mistake?"

The Kid sat up. She was right. It didnt sound like Television. Or Richard Lloyd, for that matter. In fact, it sounded like—like pop.

"Wimp music! What is this, anyway?" He craned his neck to follow the rotating label. No, there was no mistaking the name.

Forty minutes later, the Kid replaced the album back in its jacket. "Did we have to hear the entire thing?" said Heavenor.

"I dont understand it. That cant be the same guy who wove all those great solos into Marquee Moon and Adventure. Except for the last two songs, its all English pop. Youd think that after hanging around Verlaine for five years he woulda learned something..."

"What did you expect? A singer/ songwriter?" Heavenor looked at the clock. "Im gonna make some Kraft Dinner for myself. You want any?" Getting up, she took a last look at the album cover. "He made a mistake calling it Alchemy. I get the feeling this is one piece of plastic thatll never turn gold."

"Damn. Maybe hell get itv together on his next album..."

"What next album?" Heavenor bent down and flung a copy of In Through the Out Door at the Kid. "Here,! she said from the doorway, "put this on. I need some music to cook by."

Jeffrey Morgan