CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

by

Robert Christgau

ADAM AND THE ANTS: “Kings Off The Wild Frontier” (Epic):: This isn’t rock ’n’ roll, sez here—it’s “sexmusic,” a/k/a “antmusic,” heralding Arapaho (Apache) (Kiowa) (pirate) warrior ideals as a futuristic reaction against Britpunk nihilism. The scam has whole subcultures working for it in England, but here it’s the sex and the music that’ll determine whether Adam is David Bowie or Marc Bolan (or Gary Glitter). The sex is your basic line-drawings-of-spike-heels stuff, redolent of Sex, the haberdashery once owned by Adam’s ex-manager. The music, needless to say, is rock ’n’ roll, a clever pop punk amalgam boasting two drummers, lots of chanting, and numerous Hollywood hooks. Especially given Adam’s art-school vocals, I find that the hooks grate, but that may just mean that when it comes to futuristic warriors I prefer Sandinistas. B

THE B-52’s: “Wild Planet” (Warner Bros.):: I keep waiting for number two to come through on the dance floor the way the debut did, but “Party Out Of Bounds” and “Quiche Lorraine” are expert entertainments at best and the wacko parochialism of “Private Idaho” is a positive annoyance. Only bn “Deyil In My Car” and “Give Me Back My Man” do they exploit the potential for meaning—cosmic and emotional, respectively—that accrues to the world’s greatest new-wave kiddie-novelty disco-punk band. B +

RAY CHARLES: “Brother Ray Is At It Again!” (Atlantic):: Accurate title, Ray! And an up-and-at-it first side! “Ophelia” is a great Robbie Robertson cover, too! Somebody buy this man a copy of The Band! B+

THE CLASH: “Sandinista!” (Epic):: At $9.99 discounted, figure sides five and six as a near-freebie sweetened by great cuts from Tymon Dogg and a grade-school duo. Compare “Apple Jam” (you know, on George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass triple, now there was a prophetic title) (very) invidiously to the run of their dub ramble. Listen to Sandinista Now!, the promo-only one-disc digest Epic has thoughtfully provided busy radio personnel, and note that you miss (in my case) “Rebel Waltz” and “Lef s Go Crazy” and “Something About England” (and who knows what in yours). Note that you also miss the filler and assorted weirdnesses which provide that heady pace and/or texture. Then note as well that the many good songs aren’t as consistently compelling as on previous Clash albums, though God knows “The Sound Of Sinners” is a long-overdue Christer spoof and words about reading are always apt and the romanticization of revolution is an inevitable theme. And conclude that if this is their worst— which it is, I think—they must be, er, the world’s greatest rock ’ n’ roll band. A-

ELVIS COSTELLO AND THE ATTRACTIONS: “Trust” (Columbia):: Who ever said he wasn’t much of a singer? Was that me? No, 1 said he wasn’t much of a poet—all wordplay as swordplay and puns for punters (one of which means something, one of which doesn’t, and both of which took me 10 seconds). But here he makes the music make the words as he hasn’t since This Year’s Model. This is rock ’n’ roll as eloquent, hard-hitting pop, and Elvis has turned into such a soul man that I no longer wish he’d change his name to George and go country. A

WILLIAM DeVAUGHAN: “Figures Can’t Calculate” (TEC):: This singing (and writing) sewer designer scored three anachronistically soulish hits in 1974, then dropped from sight. Here he resurfaces with an anachronistically soulish (and anachronistically disco-ish) “new version” of his biggie, “Be Thankful For What You’ve Got.” And covers “You Send Me” as Curtis Mayfield might were Curtis still so deep. And writes some more. Address: 13th and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia, PA 19107. B

INSECT SURFERS: “Wavelength” (Wasp) :: Ah, suburbia, synthesizing information overload into unheard-of pop combos native to everywhere and nowhere. Take these presumptive civil service brats, for instance. Why, they cram Commie propaganda, a Wire cover, Europop, electro-DOR, and of course surf music onto one eight-song, 25-minute, $6.98-list “EP.” But the only cut that’ll be heard of again in my house is the revealingly entitled “Fascination With The Neon.” Address: 821 North Taylor, Arlington, VA, 22203. B-

JERMAINE JACKSON: “Let’s Get Serious” (Motown):: For a while, the dumpy drive and axiomatic simplicity of the Stevie Wondercomposed and produced title track got me into the skittish banality of the others (including the two Stevie ballads). Now I recommend the single, seriously. B-

MILLIE JACKSON: “I Hud To Say It” (Spring):: Who better to do a rap-parody—a damn funny one first few times through, closes with MJ invited into the KKK. I like the infidelityon-the-road piece, too, and note that much of side two—“I Ain’t No Glory Story,” the Phillip Mitchell duet, “Ladies First” (and you’d better last) tops For Men Only. But either Millie’s growing weary of her shtick or we are—she sounds bone tired. B

JUNIE: “Bread Alone” (Columbia):: J. Morrison’s funk is pleasingly plump, replete with pear-shtfped tenor, well-rounded rhythms, and thick do-it-yourself mix. He has a sensuous way with a melody, and his romanticism is winningly sincere. But not even the lead cut’s tricky be-mybaby hook has that get-up-and-dance kick. B+

WILLIE NELSON & RAY PRICE: “San Antonio Rose” (Columbia):: Since he hit paydirt with Stardust, Nelson’s groove has resembled a rut. Well, this selection of country standards cut in a vaguely Western swing style (in Nashville, without horns) is definitely a groove, Nelson’s best work in years. Nothing startling, mind you, but without the false steps and lackadaisical jams of the live doubles and the Leon Russell job. Price, who tends to posture in countrypolitan settings, thrives on the relaxed atmosphere. People who don’t know the originals could really fall in love with these. B +

PARLET: “Play Me Or Trade Me” (Casablanca):: Even though P-Funk’s second-string auxiliary has no Dawn Silva or Jeanette McGruder, this comes on as strong as Never Buy Texas From A Cowboy, because it doesn’t take much for funk to come on strong. Just a few dance-phrases is all—“help from my friends,” “play me or trade me,” “now button it up, I’ll pull it away.” Endurance is something else. Watch them do their thang indeed. B

TEDDY PENDERGRASS: “TP” (Philadelphia International):: With the Futures doing backup and Stephanie Mills doing duet and Ashford & Simpson doing their number and Cecil Womack doing himself proud, this may well be the definitive Teddy. Only once does he break into a fast tempo, which is fine with me, because schmaltz is the man’s meat. He needs, he demands, he comes on hard, he comes on subtle, he goodtimes, he longtimes— in short, he inspires heavy petting, and we all know what that can lead to. A-

“POPEYE” (Boardwalk):: Although nothing will appease my hunger for the glorious “Everything Is Food,” (you’d better include it on the disco pressing, Mr. Bogart) this beats Xanadu, Flash Gordon, and Urban Cowboy combined., The orchestrations are Kurt Weill meeting Lionel Newman at the Firesign Theatre, and the actor-vocals sound overheard, almost like a Robert Altman soundtrack. Composer Harry Nilsson hasn’t worked this hard since. Schmilsson, arranger Van Dyke Parks hasn’t worked this wisely since Song Cycle. A-

RYLONs “Gyrate” (DB):: Vanessa Ellison’s bellowed admonitions, Randy Bewley’s guitar gradients, Michael Lachowski’s peripatetic bass, and Curtis Crowe’s prodigious roundhouse drumming add up to an unmistakable sound. I’m impressed. But I wish they’d come up with a few more riffs/melodies as deliberate and haunting as those of “Volume” and “Stop It” and the foolishly omitted “Cool.” And while I admire their bare-boned lyrical concept, often the unpretentiousness seems mannered, like some comp lit cross between Robbe-Grillet and Ted Berrigan. Address: 432 Moreland Avenue NE, Atlanta, G A 30307. B +

THE REDDINGS: “The Awakening” (Be lieve In A Dream):: Of the core group—Otis III on guitar, brother Dexter on bass, and cousin Mark Lockett on keyboards—only Lockett does much writing and he had nothing to do with the hit, “Remote Control,” as apt a radio song as Elvis C. or Van M. has ever come up with (well, almost). But it’s 1981, and this ain’t no soul group, and for better or worse, writing (not to mention singing) isn’t what funk groups are about, as three slow ones that would have stymied even Otis Ill’s dad demonstrate. Playing is what funk groups are about, and if you don’t believe me listen to Otis III on “Doin’ It” and “Funkin’ On The One” or Dexter anywhere. B

TOM ROBINSON: “Sector 27” (I.R.S.):: This attempt to fuse TRB’s music-hall cheer with postpunk postfunk isn’t as innovative as its sources, but it comes across better on record. Robinson has always flattened his flair for melody under one-dimensional rhythms and vocal attack, but here the arty touches—that is, Stevie B.’s perverse little guitar part—serve what I’d call a “commercial” function if only the record were selling better. That is, they add hooks. And who . ever said politics and propaganda were the same thing? A

“RUBBER CITY REBELS” (Capitol):: When it comes to El Lay punk, you take the sun-addled natives and leave me these stagestruck outlanders, Doug Fieger production and all. At least they understand what being phony means, y’know? “Young And Dumb” doesn’t replace the definitive “Brain Job” (still available on Clone’s From Akron) because it isn’t about the Rebs. But anybody who can link the hallowed anomie of (the Pistols’) “No Feelings” with the cartoon cannibalism of (the Rubs’) “Child Eaters” deserves to tour with the Psychedelic Furs. B +

POLY STYRENE: “Translucence” (United Artists import):: If the retarded tempos and professional musicians mean this isn’t rock ’n’ roll, then what the fuck do you call the Shirelles? Speed and crudity aside, the pleasures here recall Germ Free Adolescents—nursery-rhyme melodicism and tongue-in-cheek versifying superimposed on an image of provacative, charming plasticity. And if you believe that means she’s “plastic,” just what exactly is your beef? Are you a hippie or something? A*

T.S. MONK: “House Of Music” (Mirage):: That’s Thelonious Jr. on drums and his sister Boo Boo singing, but basically this is producer-writer Sandy Linzer’sChic move, the way Odyssey was his Dr. Buzzard move. Which makes the c’est-si “Bon Bon Vie” a counterpart of the urbane “Native New Yorker.” Maybe this time Linzer’ll produce a follow-up. B^

Reprint courtesy of the Village Voice.