ROCK•A•RAMA

ROCK•A•RAMA

This month’s Rock-a-Ramas were written by Michael Davis, Richard C. Walls and Richard Riegel

PERE UBU—Final Solution/My Dark Ages (Rough Trade 45):: Those of you who’ve bumped into the Ubumen’s latest stuff and wonder where they’re coming from should definitely check this single out. These are the major tunes from 1976 that didn’t make the Datapanik In The Year Zero 12” and they’re both amazing. “Solution,” with its immortal line, “Mom threw me out till I get some pants that fit,” is teen torment to a T while the chant, “I don’t get around/I don’t fall in love much,” sets “Ages” up as the perfect antidote of Beachboysitis Classic stuff, proof positive that these guys mastered rock ’n’ roll’s limits before breaking on through ’em to get to where they are today. And where’s that, you ask? Cleveland, I believe it's called. M.D.

RITCHIE COLE-Hollywood Madness (Muse):: From the Alfred E. Newman-like picture of Cole on the cover thru an amphetamine bop version of “Hooray For Hollywood” and a guest appearance by Ricky Ricardo introducing the theme from I Love Lucy, this is one determinedly silly album. Bop has always had a goofy side and altoist Cole, whose neo-Bird solos are invariably upbeat and meaty, has here renewed the tradition and added a show biz motif. With brief (very brief) spots by Tom Waits, Manhattan Transfer, and the late Eddie Jefferson. R.C.W.

NINA HAGEN BAND (Columbia):: This would certainly be the best album of the year, were it a mere album; as it is, it’s a big 10-incher of a 4-song EF with several metric tons more rock ’n’ roll thrills than the average longplayer. Nina Hagen is an East German who jumped to the West, so she’s got socialist intensity and capitalist flaming excess all wrapped up in the same shapely, clown-hair topped Kraut chassis. And she sings exclusively in the gutter-guttural Mother Tongue, so watch out! Fast & loud metal/blues/ punk/wave stuff, twice as many sounds and riffs in each song as you’d expect to find. Remember all those nights you laid awake wishing that your ethnic-sister Nico were just as manic as Iggy Fop? Well, THIS IS HER! R.R.

JOANNE BRACKEEN - Ancient Dynasty (Tappan Zee/Columbia):: Bob James’ Tappan Zee is probably the most honestly named label on the market; almost every album in their catalogue is music to tap your foot and snooozzzzze away to. Except the ones by this lady, who plays acoustic jazz piano in heavy company (Joe Henderson, Eddie Gomez, Jack DeJohnette) without giving an inch. I-could draw a few comparisons—“Beagle’s Boogie” sounds sorta like several Jarrett quartet compositions and Joanne’s playing on “Ancient Dynasty” reminds me of Chick Corea heavily seasoned with Monk—but the thing I like most about her is that her nerve seems to run slightly ahead of her technique, making for an atmosphere of chance and excitement unkown in James’ other productions. M.D.

HANK MOBLEY-Thlnking Of Home (Blue Note):: Although the inspiration flags somewhat with the thematically weak material on the second side, for 3/5 of the way this ’70 set of pum (previously unissued material) ranks with the best of tenor saxist Mobley’s work featuring fine tunes, throughout improvisations, Cedar Walton on piano, and Woody Shaw on trumpet. It’s reminiscent of the. kind of dates that made Blue Note famous and another worthy effort from one of the unsung heroes of the tenor. R.C.W.

HERMAN BROOD AND HIS WILD ROMANCE—Go Nutz (Ariola):: How come the woman in two-performer unions is usually the mbre energetic manjack rock ’n’ roller of the duo? Take Carly Simon, for instance. (No, you take her.) Or Bonnie Bramlett. Both clear cases of oneup-personship. stereotype reversal. So this Brood fellow, from Holland, happens to be Nina Hagen’s “old man” these days, and I’ve already told you what kinda V-52’s she can stick in your ears. But the egocentric Mr. Brood, who seems to consider himself a virtual Frank Sinatra/Eddie Money combination-platter gift to womankind, ain’t got half Nina’s balls on his own record. Dutch gospel-rock, long-winded, methodical, and sometimes plodding, guess a wild woman needs a stabilizing force like Herman around the house at least once in a while. R.R.

MARK MURPHY—Satisfaction Guaranteed (Muse):: Murphy is a great romantic jazz singer with a sound both sentimental and cool, a personal sense of rhythm (a real jazz singer, not just someone who sings with jazz musicians) and generally impeccable taste in repertoire (tho I could live without yet another reworking of “Eleanor Rigby,” no matter how heartfelt the delivery). This latest in a series of excellent albums is higlighted by a revitalized “All The Things You Are” and the transformation of Michael Frank’s typically soft spoken title tune into an uptempo boast, sexy and hip. R.C.W.

THE PHOTOS (Epic) :: CBS has a perfect answer to the Pretenders’ all-consuming success in this band, though neither party is admitting to the resemblance yet. Forget the admissions for now, as the Photos’ lead vocalist, Wendy Wu, is English, despite her name, and thus tends to press even closer to the Sandie Shaw archetypes than Akron-bred Chrissie Hynde. Problem for me so far is that the Photos are softer rockers than the Pretenders, but I’m also getting intimations from the Photos’ softer sounds of some' brand new style of girlpop at work here. Most of the (14 full) songs concern just such young girls, and their nightly forays into the U.K. ’s recent clubrock scene, all put down in the Photos’ highly literate lyrics: “She’ll always dress to blind.” British-Invasion insouciance and charm predominate here; I like this a lot. R.R.

VARIOUS ARTISTS—The Modern Jazz Piano Album (Savoy):: Well, it’s not really the modem jazz piano album, but as a survey of seminal bebop stylists it sure covers a lot of cogent ground including some prime Bud Powell, some typical Horace Silver and Lennie Tristano, and some exceptionally fine George Wallington. Also some weirdly Garneresque Dodo Mamarosa and a hint of Herbie Nichols. Less than definitive, better than average. R.C.W.

CODE BLUE (Warner Bros.):: Warner bankrolled this one with enough special blue-vinyl promotional devices to make my jade-blue eyes brown. And I notice that Lenny Waronker and Russ Tittelman are the executive producers; wouldn’t it be great if WB happened upon a downsized, powerpop Doobie Bros.-equivalent to carry ’em through the chart wars of the 80’s? But I don’t smell a rat, Code Blue give off more of an essence of supergroup (cf. 1967), as their lineup includes one former Motel, one former Vibrator, and one former Mudcrutch, all of ’em as obscure as the incipient Cream were before they mainlined it down to the Crossroads. This strange brew adds up to very sold, mannered-power stuff, tasteful punk, if you will. Could shift allions.

R.R.

THE JAZZ CRUSADERS-Live Sides (Blue Note):: These guys used to cook without mercy as these live sides of pum from the late 60s ably demonstrates—their mixture of post-bop and Texas raunch was always unique (even as he rambles thru the modal tunnel of Coltrane’s “Impressions” tenor saxist Wilton Felder disseminates his r ’n’ b influences), and in person the rapport between players and audience, as annotator Pete Welding annotates, “crackled like an electric charge”. Pretty exciting stuff by a group that has since opted for a more refined, vastly uninteresting “souP’ sound. R.C.W.

CLOUT—Six of the Best (Epic):: Start saving your Kruggerrands, kids, this band is at least the biggest rock invasion from South America since Rabbitt. But don’t count your Manfred Mann eggheads before they’re hatched; Clout is mostly all women, with a couple token guys thrown on to bring up the odd guitar etc. Sorta like Heart, except that you’ll never have to spend a second worrying about whether these ladies are hip; they’re joyfully unashamed MOR mamas, and would gladly answer Bob Barker’s call to play at the next Miss Universe Pageant. But what’s with Clout’s involvement in those coed pre-flagellation hijinx shown on the jacket? Guess that stuff’s still O.K. in the old country. R.R.

THE ONLY ONES-Baby's Got A Gun (Epic):: Another irritating album from the Only Ones. Peter Perrett’s songs still stumble around an unlikely middle ground between Kevin Ayers’ just-got-up-in-the-afternoon post-romanticism and Lou Reed’s jugular visions, staying on their feet about half the time. When they click, as on the spooky “The Big Sleep,” the “Magic Bus” at full moon midnight of “Me And My Shadow,” and the thoroughly disgusted “Why Don’t You Kill Yourself?”, they’re great, but too often, indifferent arrangements and/or poor production hang tunes up by their own skeletons to dry. M.D.