IT AIN'T THE MEAT, IT'S THE MOTION

IT AIN'T THE MEAT, IT'S THE MOTION

RECORDS

Jeff Nesin

VAN HALEN Fair Warning (Warner Bros.)

AC/DC

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

(Atlantic)

The first time I saw Grand Funk Railroad—and make no mistake, this whole thing started with the sadly forgotten Terry Knight when he correctly figured that the younger brothers and sisters of the mid-60's pop-into-major-culturalstatement generation wanted some music of their very own, music not so fraught with redeeming social significance and the complex concern of older kids, something like 'Limousine Driver' where maximum arrogant swagger equals maximum sexual magnetism, something a little more to the point than 'Dear Prudence,' something, uh, adolescent. But I digress.

The first time I saw Grand Funk Railroad they were opening—I swear on Alice Cooper's golf cart— for Arlo Guthrie in a small hall. I thought they were kidding. The next time I saw them, in a hockey rink with Special Guests Black Oak Arkansas, I knew there were more things in heaven and earth than 1 had previously considered. That's when I learned that there would be a new rock 'n' roll generation every three years and that, regardless of what I thought, Grand Funk's music worked and vast numbers of young people proved it by reaching for their wallets. It did not work for long, but such are the vagaries of fate. Some bands have inter-generational legs (Beach Boys, for example) and some bands don't. How many Chicago songs would you like to hear right now? Does anybody remember Uriah Heep?

Meanwhile, back in '81, AC/DC and Van Halen are working quite well, thank you, sitting at 3 and 4 on the charts as I write. Van Halen has been the only Led Zep there is for at least three years now and producer Ted Templeman has even managed to make their records sound better than Zep's did. On Fair Warning the band once again invokes the heavy metal trinity—thunderthud bottom, preening peacock out front, and dramatic slowhand guitar all over the place—with zest and, truly, a sense of humor. The songs are not exclusively concerned with eviscerating every 16-year-old girl in Southern California and/or duking it out with Beelzebub. In fact, 'Swing You Sinners!' and 'Hear About It Later' back to back on Side 1 are absolutely first rate: energized, exciting, and they don't overstay their welcome. (No 'Moby Dick' 's in these waters.)

AC/DC is much closer to the S ground, flying low to avoid radar. § Valerie Bertinelli would never marry zone of these guys, but they have endured much worse and prospered. The press (both straight and bent) has utterly ignored them, their lead singer (and lyric writer) died tragically and their records keep going multiple platinum. As a sort of last laugh (and shining example of waste not, want not economy) they released Dirty) Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, an album more than five years old, and watched it run out of the stores as fast as kids could mow lawns, deliver papers or deal drugs to pay for it. To say the weary blooze riffs are rehashed is irrelevant because if you're 13, it's all new. 'Gonna Be Some Rockin' ' and 'Ain't No Fun' are passable examples of the refried boogie, but 'Big Balls' and 'Squealer' are songs that only someone who's just discovered jerking off could love. Everyone over 20, if they've heard of AC/DC, abhors them—with the possible exception of a few FM singles, notably 'Highway To Hell.' Every 13-year-old knows who they are and, at the very least, appreciates their efficiency. The men don't know what the little boys understand.

Obviously I think that Van Halen makes much better records and does more things well, but that's because I like more things—I'm not as single minded as I once was. And though Van Halen's 'Mean Streets' is deadly serious, I don't expect either band to make a major cultural statement in the foreseeable, future-fit's not their line of work. Time will tell who has the legs— right now they both have the moment. I wish them both good luck and look forward to .receiving instruction in taste, discernment, and historical perspective through the letters column.

THE PSYCHEDELIC FURS Talk Talk Talk (Columbia)

Despite what you may have read in last year's rockmags (including your own beloved-infidel CREEM), The Psychedelic Furs was one of 1980's best albums. In fact, it's a classic stunner-from-the-void debut set in the tradition of the Stooges' or the Ramones' debuts, another first album in which a rock band with severely limited technical abilities blasts you away with the urgent passion of all the rock 'n' roll they almost know.

Perhaps because they're Englishmen of some apparent education and polish, the Psychedelic Furs were compared to David Bowie and Bryan Ferry in the early reviews, but the Furs' initial recordings were hardly as urbane as those Britannic prophets?. They managed to avoid nearly all the melody and nuance Bowie or Ferry Would kill for, and came at us instead with nonstop, sleek, snotty drone-rants, mostly propelled by John Ashton's and Roger Morris's endless guitar churn, and by Duncan Kilburn's hauntedsnarl sax, all of them pushed ever onward by Vince Ely's hyped-up, fasterthan-the-speed-of-drone drums.

Richard Butler chanted his raspy 'words' (nothing so decadent as 'lyrics' for these modern Furs) from somewhere in the murky catacombs of the instrumental purgatory; Butler betrayed no emotion/total emotion, all at once. The Psychedelic Furs struck me as one unbroken rant of scarifying hatred, monstrously impressive in its ironydrenched blending of the Stranglers (but the Furs were less vulgar, so that much crankier) with Public Image Ltd. (but much more accessible; presumably the Furs would politely acquiesce to talk shows somewhere down the line).

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ADJUST YOUR STEREO

THE CRAMPS Psychedelic Jangle (IRS.)

by Jim Farber In Paul Morrissey's 3-D version of Frankenstein there's a §teminal scene in which the doctor, after screwing a corpse while fondling its entrails, turns to his assistant, Otto, and offers some sage wisdom that goes something like: 'In order to know life, one must first fuck death'.' The Cramps'' greatest artistic achievement is in applying a similar philosophical approach to rock 'n' roll's roots. By attacking rockabilly, surfrock, psychedelia and more with their warped, wholly unique voodoo antics, the band have literally raped the rotting corpse of rock 'n' roll past. But the important thing is, they've done it all With love in their hearts—defecating on history with an inquisitive glee and malice towards none.

This second slab of greenfuzz finds the band still barking up the right tree. It's somewhat heavier on 60's rather than 50's influences, and they lean towards Chinese water torture beats, which is all the better as far as I'm conberned. I particularly love when the drums sound like they were tracked at 23 rpm and the guitars seem encased in concrete shoes. The band may have lost their important physical member, Bryan Gregory (if you remember, he's the one who looks like weasels ripped his flesh). But new guitarist Congo Powers (who's almost cute!) clomps along with old stalwart Poison Ivy just fine. Like last time, the post-articulate guitars seem like they were recorded' on a Korvette's tape machine from 20 feet away and the drums sound like one of Romero's zombies tapping the top of your speakers. I find the material even 'catchier' this time out (in the same way I sometimes find Lydia Lunch's vocals 'pretty').

'The Crusher' is a great dance drone, even if it does sound a bit like dirtied-up Warren Zevon. (I swear to .! g-d, when I first heard it, I though it was from Zevon's dead and buried Kim Fowley-produced first album). Lyric-wise, the standout line of the whole album is: 'Don't eat stuff off. the sidewalk/No matter how good it looks.'

As) solid as the Cramps' yucks may be, they are not a band of simple jokesters. They may be more of a snickering flip through a horror film fanzine than an actual guided tour of The Last House On The Left, but they're no novelty act. Their attitude is too realistically charming and their music too credibly repulsive to end up Ss just a diversionary curio (like the B-52's). Perhaps the most direct proof of the band's ultimate relatability is 'Primitive,' which goes beyond the titters and becomes a perversely inspiring proclamation of purpose and self-confidence. 'I'm proud of my ljfe,' Lux Interior sings, and along with the other lyrics here, he presents the Cramps as an enviable, privileged form of existence. Chances are if you play this record enough, after your saliva turns blue and your nails fall out, you'll begin to agree with him.

And yet, now that I have the Psychedelic Furs' second album, Talk Talk Talk, in hand, I can see just how much the total-graphics package of The Psychedelic Furs brdught out all the qualities I found in its deep dark music. The midnight-stark B&W cover shots of the band, the unscanned, singleparagraph-monolithic, nearly illegible rant of the lyric sheet—each aspect of the package was brilliantly expressive, and made The Psychedelic Furs sound even deeper and darker than it (maybe) already was.

Talk Talk Talk bravely attempts a mutation of the Furs' image, from the package inward. The record jacket's bright white this time, it's splashed with poppy basic-color accents, plenty of daytime-candid snaps of the various Furs, and it houses a conventional lyric sheet, where all those raspy-mystery Richard Butler syllables are finally broken up into neatly-scanned lines of 'poetry.'

Which is where Talk Talk Talk's problems begin; e'ven though the Furs get off a number of precociously pithy lines here and there ('Where they put on/Wigs & stuff/ So they can be themselves' in 'It Goes On'), generally these new, nakedly accessible lyrics can't match the first album's blurry snarl for impact. There's a lot of secondalbum po», caution (again a tradition), and a rather disturbing emphasis on the cheap hippie selfrighteousness that finally mired the first psychedelic-rock era in its own clever secretions. The Furs pick on obvious dumpsters like television and the middle class here, and even have the (naive?) chutzpah to re-erect Bob Dylan's hapless, befuddled-liberal straw man, the legendary 'Mr. Jones,' in their song of the same name. There's something happening here, and I dunno what it is.

Well, yes I do; as Talk Talk Talk's music demonstrates, the Psychedelic Furs have learned to play their instruments more expertly in the year or two since they recorded their first album, and these later songs have much more pop texture and grace, even as they nick chord progressions from the first album right and left. And the Psychedelic Furs have been just successful enough by now to have attracted groupies from all levels (girls, record execs, journalists, etc,,-etc.), mixed rewards/irritants who pop up all over the new lyrics (check out 'Dumb Waiters' or '1 Wanna Sleep With You' for all the thorny comforts of popstar life.). Yep, transition is what the Psychedelic Furs are all about in 1981.

Which won't frighten you away from Talk Talk Talk, I hope; it interests me more than 90% of the other new releases I've heard this summer, and you can certainly take that distinction as a recommendation. It's just that, well, like I said at the beginning, The Psychedelic Furs was one of 1980's best albums..

Richard Riegel

GEORGE HARRISON Somewhere In England (Dark Horse)

'She's a drag. A well-known drag. We turn the sound down on her and say rude things.'—George Harrison, A Hard Day's Night, 1964.

, ☆ ☆ ☆

You can have a scintillating debate with this LP:

GH: 'Your mirrors of understanding need cleansing/Polish away the dust of desire/Befbre pure light will reflect in them.'

YOU: 'Don't hand me that ascetic holiness, you molasses-mouthed flake. If you don't like my mirror, use someone else's medicine cabinet."

GH: 'Now you can make your own H-bomb/Right in the kitchen with your mom.'

YOU: 'Found any plutonium in your navel lately?'

GH: 'You've lost a screw in your head/It shows the way you're led.' YOU: 'Play 'Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby'.'

☆ ☆

Los Angeles Tribune July 8, 1981 HARRISON BLANKS OUT by Billie Newman * SOMEWHERE IN ENGLANDFormer Beatle and convicted plagiarist George Harrison, concerned about avoiding future litigation, has devised a unique solution to his creative dilemma. He has made an album with no melodies at all, at least none for which he claims composer credit. ''There are only so many notes in this material world,' a spokesman for Harrison stated. 'Why ask for trouble by combining them in interesting ways? It's safer to pursue dullness as an aesthetic end. ' Such 'songs' as 'Writing's On The Wall' aad 'Unconsciousness Rules' achieve what some critics have already called 'absolute invisibility.'

, ☆ ☆ ☆

George Harrison used to be a nifty guy. (A) Did a good version of Leiber& Stoller's 'Three Cool Cats' on the Decca audition demo (B) Performed on antibiotics on The Ed Sullivan Show (C) Had one of the best scenes in A Hard Day's Night (see above) (D) Married a toothsome bird (E) Wrote 'If I Needed Someone' and 'Don't Bother Me" (F) Put up with Paul McCartney in Let It Be (G) Helped out Ringo on 'it Don't Gome Easy'

(H) Dated a Ronette (rumor has it)

(I) Doesn't have a sense of humior of his own, so rents Monty Python's and The Rutles' (J) B + guitapst.

☆ ☆ ☆

Cthinker. Somewhere In England begins on the defensive. 'Blood From A Clone' (gevaltl), a complaint against music-industry nitpickers, might have been written' when WB execs told him that only 18 humans would voluntarily listen to the album more than once (five AOR programmers, a dozen people so Beatle-nostalgic than even 'Stars On 45' doesn't make them retch, and Lou O'Neill). It gets worse. 'Life Itself' is God's resume, complete with noms d'omnipotence. ('You are the real love that I've got,' George sings, as Olivia chalks up evidence for future alienation of affection charges.) On 'Save The World' Harrison comes out against paper towels (!!) (expect a rebuttal on the next Nancy Walker album) and whalemeat used as dogfood (ditto Lome Greene). And...

☆ ☆ ☆

'All Those Years Ago,' the last minute addition that saved this album from commercial oblivion, is dreadful. Ringo has already denied being the drummer on the released version. So much for that, unless Paul and Linda going 'bop-shoowah' and the idea of George Martin's hand on the knobs at an ex-Beatle's session warms your heart's cockles. I've been called -a sentimentalist (call me Mr. Blue), but somehow I'm able to resist being moved by a lyric that could have been a group effort by the 4th grade at Aaron Burr Grammar School in Dayton, Ohio. 'You were the one who Imagined it all.' Get it?

■ ☆ ☆ ☆

The Tonight Show July 14, 1981 Ed; 'You know, it's amazing. I'm not a big follower of pop music, but it seems to me that everything you'd want to know about how much of a simp George Harrison has become is right on this record. I'm glad you brought that album in. I mean, it's all right here.'^

Johnny: 'Wrong, curdled curry breath.'

Ed: 'There's more?'

Johnny: 'Our staff has unearthed a heretofore unreleased George Harrison album, Bedtime For Buddah, that has such tracks as 'The Path To Righteousness Is Blocked By A Court Injunction,' the tale of the arrest of a Hare Krishna at Q'Hare Airport. 'Appraise The Lord,' a song about Harrison's tax deductions. 'While Your Guitar Gets An Ulcer,' a tribute to Eric Clapton and Pattie Boyd. And 'All Those Years Ago, Part Two,' which reunites Harrison with Delaney & Bonnie and Bobby Whitlock on a song about Carl Radle.'

☆ ☆ ☆

Like Willie Nelson, George Harrison has discovered ace American composer Hoagy Carmichael. Point for Harrison: he's picked more obscure tunes than the ones on Stardust. Point against: Harrison's nuance-less voice. Even -so, 'Baltimore Oriole,' a clue to Harrison's pick for the championship of the A.L. East, is probably Somewhere In England's most likeable track. 'Hong Kong Blues' was done definitively by Carmichael in To Have And Have Not; the key rock reading is Jerry Lee Lewis' at Sun. Harrison doesn't touch either.

☆ ☆ ☆

Actually, 'Teardrops' is OK.

☆ ☆ ☆

'He is fighting the forces of darkness limitation.'—George Harrison, 'That Which I Have Lost,' 1981

Ah, well.

Mitchell Cohen

HOLLY & THE ITALIANS The Right To Be Italian (Virgin/Epic)

Good things come to those who wait, is that it? Is that why we've had to suffer through such rot as the Runaways, Wendy Williams, Patti baby, Chrissie, Ellen Foley and the 113th incarnation of Ronnie Spector to get where we are today?

Where are we today? We're doing the '81, and Pat Benatar, in all her nostril-flaring, flexi-tard glory, is the flaming epitome of the Rock & Roll Woman. Pat Benatar?!! You mean that grande dame of fake, that same high priestess of high bogue?

Yeah, well. If you're content with that lot, you Wouldn't want to come within an E string's length of Holly & the Italians. It's hard to overstate how great The Right sounds to these starved ears, but why try? It's the great gal's rock 'n' roll record that hasn't been made since maybe when Peggy Jiggs and the Angel sisses threw down their chiffon party dresses after singing H-'My Boyfriend's Back' for the last time. It's the gal's r 'n' r LP that Debbie Hwill never make.

At least part of the reason for that is that Holly (not a real Italian) Vincent hails from L.A. where they seem to, um, know about edges and the true placement of sonic fury. Hoi's coming out resembles nothing so much as some Angeleno cousin of Brenda Lee or Parrot era Lulu (take your pick) fronting the Ramones of the Leave Home period.

'Tell That Girl To Shut Up' and 'Just For Tonight' (hang your head, Ms. Gore) are out-and-out all-time distaff classics. 'Do You Say Love' ought to be taught to every allAmerican girl who even thinks she might want to grow up to sing rock 'n' roll. 'I Wanna Go Home'Ms easily the best patriotic pop since the Dictators played 'America' at the Miss Nude USA Pageant and somebody ought to pick up 'Youth Coup' for a national anthem.

Sure, I could carp (like where's 'It's Only Me,' the stirring nuthouse saga that used to be the flip of 'Miles Away'?). But that's getting away from the point, which is: this girl's a mutha. Get the picture?

Gene Sculatti

KRAFTWERK Computer World (Warner Bros.)

Kraftwerk — those goofy-butloveable Aryan mannikins—are back in town with a new album that looks like it could be the Stupidest "Record Of The Decade. I know, 1 know—I've heard Teardrop Explodes. I've heard Stuart Margolin. I've heard Blizzard of 0zz, Killing Joke, Alan Vega, Flying Lizards, the Roches, Human Sexual Response, Public Image, Tiny Desk Unit and what seem like twenty-five Todd Rundgren albums.

Computer World, however, is the one with the taste that calls dogs to dinner, like they say on Reggievision. Great material. Musta took 'em at least twenty minutes and two AAA batteries to program all the blit-pongs and tiddle-peeps into tjneir hot boxes. Strictly Klydesville, daddy-o.

The Large Beat is supposed to be as important to this crud as the S&H Green Stamp Ideabook is to wahthink, right? Yeah, well, it is kinda Devo-ish, but Flo' and the guys' K-sound bears no bottom at all. Sounds like junebugs crashing into a bed full of hangers. At least Akron's third-finest act would stand a chance of audibility in a modern kitchen. Kraftwerk couldn't even compute with roach chewing soiinds.

Lyrics? Of course they're stupid! Pick-to-cluck is 'Numbers,' where the crackly Control Voice counts from one to four in various languages. Tally me banana, Florian! Secondbust is the equally compelling title track. Dig this unforgettable refrain: 'business/ numbers/money/People.' What's the next line, hike?

Granted, these are smart songs for such a stupid record. Too bad they're not smart enough to hit the reject button themselves. OK, OK!—a couple of these tunes are catchy in a sticky sort of way. So is spilled coffee, and I don't see anyone lining up to lfck my desk. Seriously, if you. have an attention span longer than that of a spermatozoa, you'll wanna forget the Mommy and go finish your nap.

Computer World: pray you're not invited.

Rick Johnson

KID CREOLE AND THE COCONUTS Fresh Fruit In Foreign Places (Ze/Sire)

I have to admit I got a brief kick out of Creole and Co. when I saw them strut their stuff opening for the B-52's last fall. But I can't get behind this fatally diversified platter at all. Let's see, - there are hackneyed Latino moves, worn-out reggae .riddims, swinging salsa, impure pop touches, the briefest of R&B flourishes, self-consciously clever rhyme schemes, and mucho tropical jibber jabber, Hey, it's got everything—everything except anything resembling passion or commitment to the musical forms involved.

And for an extra-added bonus it's a concept album for chrissakes, with a theme and everything. It's all about the Kid's topsy-turvy search for his lost love, fylimi (no relation to Chevalier's old flame). Never mind that the storyline's got swiss cheese perforation and the subplots go nowhere—let's all. hoist anchor and scan the horizon for Mimi's allegedly irresistible contours!

You know what this facile aggregation sounds like a lot of the time? Sergio Mendes aind Brasil '99 on sugar-coated acid. Song after song employs reeba-reeba arrangements and you feel like you're at some whacked-out rhumba convention. Feelings that this record was recorded under a big tent in the woods remain constant; the camp element is heavy. (Whoop-de-do, there's even a Carmen Miranda reference!)

Usually, the songs are rambling aimlessly while everyone puts on pat-yourself-on-the-back, ain't-wesoph'isticated airs. The dapper Dan at the head of this conga line conglomerate is August Darnell (he's the Kid), formerly of Dr. Buzzard i5 minute fame. He ,Sings throughout with over-the-shoulder, don't-give-a-good-goddamn playfulness. That is, when he's not utilizing fashionably popular strangled sob techniques and calling upon the patented pained cringe that imbedded in his voicebox. No doubt about it, he's got versatility on the brain.

And before I wipe the sounds of Darnell's denizens of the desultory from my mind, I should mention that there are moments here of genuine interest. 'I Stand Accused' would be unbeatable in the hands of the Stylistics. And I think the line >lHe's just a ski instructor' from 'Gina, Gina' is a surefire way to put down your rival the next time he tries to downhill on your girlfriend's slopes. But 'Table Manners' is the LP's. one bona fide success—no bogus bossa nova workouts here, just subtly funky guitars, bim-bamboom drumming, salacious howls of delight and unbeatable tips on paramour etiquette. Par exempla: 'When a pretty girl's had enough to eat/Then a handsome guy gets a chance to sleep/For a morning snack/If he's on his back/She will help herself/She will not attack.'

Cherchez le breakfast.

Craig Zeller

NICK NASON'S FICTITIOUS SPORTS (Columbia)

Nick Mason is gonna make it tough for the rest of the Big Group support players. It seems like the Roger Taylors of the world are always complaining that Big Group doesn't appreciate their creativity, since the classic tunes they've written in, their basement studios over the past three weeks have all been rejected by Big Group because they 'don't fit the concept.' Eventually, Big Group takes a break, the drummer puts out a solo album, the record company takes a tax writeoff, and everybody's happy again.

Apparently Pink Floyd drummer Nick' Mason disposed of his solo delusions on his chunk of Umma Gumma. Now that he's gotten a chance for his own tax writeoff, he's as much as admitted that he doesn't have tunes of his own languishing until they reach vinyl. When rock gets its own truth-in-packaging laws ('don't hold your breath), Nick Mason's Fictitious Sports will end up in the catalog of the Carla Bley band. Bley wrote all the songs, while Mason sticks to his specialties: percussion and co-production. Pink Floyd fans probably won't know what to make of Fictitious Sports— or much else, for that matter—but Mason's modesty ought to set some sort of precedent.

At this point, the Pink Floyd fans are starting to mumble, 'Who the hell is Carla Bley?' FYI, she's a (sort of) composer and arranger who's been active for over a decade writing tunes with tricky changes that progressive types love. Her big bands are vehicles for pieces that, at best, approach the sardonicburlesque ideal of Kurt Weill, and at worst are jaunty; if that intrigues you, try Europe '77 on JCOA Records or the new Social Studies on ECM. Lately, though, Bley has been trying to figure out ways to subvert rock and pop, and with Mason's help she's put together an Anglo-rock version of her big band. Robert Wyatt sings, Chris Spedding plays guitar (even doing a Dave Gilmour grandiosity number of 'Hot River'), and Mason provides a simple, solid beat.

He manages to give Bley more rock credibility than her songs deserve. Like a lot of jazzbos, Bley seems to think rock is kid stuff, that she's slumming to try it, that the only thing it's good for is comedy. Maybe she's right. But most of her lyrics come out as smarty-pants cutesy word games, clever but not exactly amusing, like 'I'm A Mineralist,' which puns on rocks and minimalism—get it?—or 'Siam' (chorus: 'Yes, Siam'). Pink Floyd is funnier by far.

As usual, though, Bley's ear saves her. The horn sectioi)—she couldn't give up the big band entirely—vamps through 'Can't Get My Motor To Start' and 'Wetvin' ' with all the panacheof Zappa or Tin Huey, and the riff that snakes through 'I'm A Mineralist' is a lot less corny than the lyrics. Mason's years of tinkering in the studio with Floyd pay off in the hefty sound of the rhythm section—you'd think this was a rock band or something.

So what's a little harmless indulgence? Bley gets rock out of her system, CBS and Floyd get a tax break, and Mason gets a chance to play—believe it or not—uptempo. That'll never fit the Floyd concept.

Jon Pareles

MARTY BALIN Balin

(EMI America)

Marty Balin's last album with the Jefferson Airplane, Volunteers, had a picture of an oversized peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the original package. The peanut butter used was of the chunky variety, with several big, crunchy bits of peanut prominently displayed. But if Balin had been doing the kind of music he's doing now back then, I betcha the band would've used creamy peanut butter, the kind that goes down easy whether you've got teeth or not.

'Volunteers,' the song which Marty contributed to that particular album, had a bridge that vyent, 'One generation got old/One generation got soul/This generation got no destination to hold/Pick up the cry.' He wrote that twelve years ago. Guess whose generation has gotten old in the meantime, spending most of its time picking up paychecks instead of a cry to revolution? Mellowing out. Buying records by revolutionary rock artists like Christopher Cross and Air Supply.

I better stop this or I'll get too depressed to continued; maybe I should listen to Marty's new LP again. Then again, maybe I shouldn't.

Side one starts out with 'Hearts' the (first?) hit off the album and one of three Jesse Barishr tunes. Like Barish's 'Count On Me,' and 'Crazy Feelin',' from the Starship's Earth. It features sentimental lyrics set to a lilting melody and put across by Marty's sweet crooning; it'll have housewives swooning from Salt Lake City to Singapore in no time. Unlike the Starship, however, Balin cut his pretty much live with his band so it avoids a studied feel. Unfortunately, the band is strictly ordinary, except for the drummer who has an extraordinary sense of plod, so the impact is minimal anyway. Some people call this sorta stuff granola music—I call it Cream of Bleat.

But if side one sounds like watered down wallpaper, side two is worse. 'Spotlight' shines like Neil Diamond melodramatic drool while Leon Russell's 'Elvis and Marilyn' is just hilarious hokum. Then there's Marty's Doobie Brothers move, 'Tell Me More,' complete with Bill Champlin—another ex-hippy type, ex-leader of a first-rate 60's Bay Area band (the Sons) gone slick— cloning Michael McDonald.

So okay, Balin's kept his voice in good shape and he appears capable of churning out this sort of drivel whenever he wants. And he's better than most of his competition in the same soggy bag. Wonderful. So buy this record for your mother's birthday. Meanwhile, I'm hungry; I think I'll go fix myself a sandwich. With chunky goddamn peanut butter, man.

Michael Davis

BRUCE COCKBURN Resume (Millennium)

For a dozen or so years and albums, Bruce Cockburn has been one of the most critically acclaimed artists in the annals of Canadian music. North of the border, he has hit after hit (and hurray for Canada, I say), but until last year, he did zilch in the,U.S. of AThe reviews were usually great, but unless your college roommate was Canadian, Cockburn was almost definitely not on your personal playlist. (Thanks, John.) For one thing, Cockburn's recording career) began just as his brand of folk music—the traditionally poetic, personally reflective kind of folk made popular by the likes of Judy Collins, Tom Rush, Eric Anderson and Joni Mitchell, in the 60's, music balanced romantic ballads with disciplined narratives through simple, direct melodies and forthright, sincere convictions—was being eclipsed by pop/folksters like James Taylor who were at least as concerned with the pop as with tljie folk. For another.. .well, you try and figure the music business. Last year, though, came the big surprise: 'Wondering Where The Lions Are' — spiritual, mystical, metaphorical—was just too damn catchy to resist, and it became one of the classiest hits around.

Cockburn's new album, Resumi, is a get-further-acquainted-with Cockburn collection of eight songs released between 1976 and 1978 (from in the falling dark. Circles In The Stream, and Further Adventures Of) and one new song. All are beautiful, intellectually alert observations of life in the tangible world—cities, highways and byways, people affecting each other, romance; life under the sun and sky—actual and symbolic; and life under the more universal scheme of things—including God. Cockburn isn't trying to sell a true-believer, born again philosophy; his point of view encompasses both spiritual and worldly pleasures and problems. He is at his best'juggling different styles to expose various facets of the same theme, using at some points densely descriptive phrases and complex imagery, at others spare and pop-direct language and symbols. 'Lord of the Starfields' and 'Can I Go With You' both deal with somebody up there: the former takes the high road —'Lord of the starfields/Ancient of Days/Universe Maker'—while the latter is almost unadorned, Carole King simple: 'When you ride out of the shining sky/To claim the ones who love you/Can 1 go with ydu/ Can I go with you.' He is also able to re-direct and make recognizable that which seems ponderous: 'Life's not always like they tell you in the fashion magazines.../Everything is thunder under the celestial waterfall/You get close enough to real things—you don't need your self at all,' he says irF1'Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand,' a title Tom Waits must covet.

Cokburn's lovely, graceful tunes and deft, jazz-spiced melodies are laced with fluid, light instrumental accents, his acoustic guitar riding smoothly and incisively on the breezy, or feverish, swirling rhythms. Producer Gene Martynec hangs his arrangements on this acoustic framework, which is matched in warmth and dusky timbre by Cockburn's youthful vocals. RSsumS is earnest, exhiliarating music by a thinking man's folk artist. Bruce Cockburn makes vivid all that he sees, feels, thinks and believes, in an endangered musical context. Buy R€sum$. Save a folkie today.

Jim Feldman

URBANVERBS Early Damage (Warner Bros.)

The Verbs are a quintet from Washington D.C. with a lot of superficial Talking Heads connections—lead singer and lyricist Roddy Frantz isTH drummer Chris' brother and he effects a phrasing and intonation somewhat like David Byrne's, the music's in the new mode (actually closer to Gary Numan than TH), the bassist is a woman...tho unlike the Heads, nearly all the critics hated their first album (even the kindly Richard Riegel gave them a merely i lukewarm rock-a-rama review). The music, all composed by lead guitarist Robert Goldstein, was nice if you like omnipresent synthesizer tonalities with your intelligent guitar riffing, but Frantz's pretentious and arrogant lyrics, combined with his P and A vocal mannerisms, really jerked many people the wrong way. Personally, 1 think pretention and arrogance can be a / winning combination — one listens with horrified fascination as each standard of taste and wit is breached—and bad poetry is as much a part of the rock tradition as tight pants. And the first album was not without its smarmy highlights, particularly 'Luca Brasi'—Doorsian concerns meet F. Coppola in synthesized stop time—and 'The Good Life,' which offended married critics while embarrassing ex-hippies with its snarling naivete. But, overstated as it might have been, such well-aimed venom is always pleasing to hear...

Detractors may be a little more receptive to Early Damage where Frantz doesn't dominate the mix as much and his Byrne-like mannerisms are less in evidence, tho much of this is the same stuff as before. The music hasn't changed noticeably— Robin Rose's synthesizer sweeps and fills still color the music pleasantly, the drum parts are cleverly varied and well-executed by Danny Frankel—and, unfortunately, Frantz still reels off reams of sophomoric poesy like 'austere environs, darkness & sirens/frame perfect pictures/of an ambiguous you. But in the faint praise dept., 'Jar My Blood' is a great title and the song has a more than adequate refrain—'We've got sweat, we've got current to spare' — )vhile 'Business & The Rational Mind' comes close to being a very good song. Addressing another side of 'The Good Life,' it demonstrates what's frustrating about trying to like this band—the milieu it depicts certainly deserves to be satirized and/or attacked, and the lines 'walks down the street, sees his shadow in front of him/looks to the sky, animal shapes are playing there' has the sense of unforced revelation found in genuine poetry, but the rest is the usual mocking observations... not bad, but unthrilling.

Two and a half stars, maybe. If sometimes it's like listening to a snotty kid make the natural progression from alienation to psychosis (the self-absorbed having so few options), still, the group has a lot to offer in the area of sufficiently hook-laden synthesized rock with oblique and moody lyrics. If that's what you want.

Richard C. Walls

ROGER TAYLOR Fun In Space (Elektra)

You all know Roger Taylor: he's the skinman who powers Queen to megamonster hit to megamonster hit. His credentials as a singer/ songwriter on past Queen albums are second to none: 'Modern Times Rock 'n' Roll,' 'Tenement Funster,' 'I'm In Love With'My Car,' 'Fun It,' 'More Of That Jazz,' 'Sheer Heart Attack,' 'Fight From The Inside,' 'Rock It,' 'Coming Soon'— the titles say it all: these are the kind of rock 'n' roll songs that keep people who construct pacemakers in business.

No one—not Pete Townshend, not Bruce Springsteen—is better at expressing general teenage angst than Roger Taylor. It doesn't matter whether the topic of discussion is Wearing Loud Clothes, Blasting Out Records At Full Volume, or Laying Patches In A GTO; regardless, Roger has always struck the right note.

That is, until now. Until he about-faced and decided to write an entire LP about a subject he's real familiar with: Outer Space 'n' Sci-Fi.

Which is alright if you've got a natural feel for the subject and aspire to become the Rod Serling of rock 'n' roll (and wouldn't that be a gas to hear?) but, hey, it takes more than Kelly Freas paintings and copies of Creepy and Eerie to make the grade.

So what we got here? We got a whole lot of nuthin' much, that's what. All of the songs are too slow to dance to and much too quiet to go breaking leases with.

And even though Roger has proven in the past that he can handle a recording studio, guitar and bass, as well as a set of drums, the musicianship on Fun In Space isn't up to scratch, and neither is the production.

So what's the problem? You tell me. If you're in the market for some skimpy ballads and half-assed rock 'n roll from a guy who could've just as easily gone into the studio and come up with a real blistering killer of an album instead of this hi-doze no-show, then, maybe there's no problem at all.

Forewarned is forearmed, however. He's a Space Turkey (bet you weren't ready for

Jeffrey Morgan

999 Concrete (Polydor)

If you blinked your eyes 999 would disappear, completely, as if they never existed. A barely acknowledged rock band. A barely remembered melody. The curse of mediocrity is to be forgotten in your own time. 899? 966? The number to dial when you want the other side of the rock dream? Four nobodies try to make a living?

Concrete is a bad album but not a terrible one. It doesn't reach your consciousness, it bypasses it, going straight to your stomach. The addition seems alright—a couple of covers, a couple of politricks, an instrumental, an experimental. But it doesn't add up for two reasons. The rhythm section is weak, awfully weak for a rock band. Jon Watson's bass is a non-expressive nothing, barely even audible, and Pablo Labritain's drums are soft shimmers struggling so hard to find the beat, that they don't have time to use one. It's as if they're waiting for producer Vic Maile to wake them up and tell them it's time to go home. They don't pounce or shudder or give the songs any backbone, they just chug and chug and flop and stop. Just as bad are the writers, the aptly named Nick Cash, who sings and plays guitar, and guitarist Guy Days. These two have spent three years trying to write another song as powerful as 'Your Number Is My Number.' In '81, Cash and Days can't write a melody or lyrics or licks or any kind of rock 'n' roll at all for that matter.

Concrete opens (dubiously at best) with 'So Greedy,' sporting classy lines like 'Talking sense to you/is not enough/you'll never be happy/till you drop the bomb.' 999 would probably excuse therYiselves by saying people like that exist, which they Indeed do, but this is tired and tested rock politics that doesn't skim the surface. Next up, a Cover of Sam the Sham's 'Little Red Riding Hood.' Those of you who remember it are in for a nasty shock. Gone are the smoothly skidding r&b rhythms and the menacing orgasmic howlings, replaced by 999's nursery rhyme handling, replete with Cash yelping like a French poodle who wants to go walkies. 'Mercy Mercy' is a halfway decent song, which means it has a melody of sorts, and some harmless lead runs by Days.

Flip Concrete over and you get the same song twice: 'Obsessed' and 'Silent Anger,' both with a middle eight stolen from Visage's 'MalpassoMan' (and they probably stole it from some obscure cowboy soundtrack). The western motif must be 999'? idea of innovation. The best thing about the instrumental''Bongos On The Nile' is that nobody opens their mouth. 'Don't You Think I Need You' is the sort of song REO Speedwagon can do in their sleep, the guitars getting down for some half-hearted riffarama, the chorus insidious and sneaky (but not catchy or clever). Concrete closes with an unbelievably inept proto999 anthem, capped by chanted vocals and a horrid martial beat, yet another band playing cops and robbers.

Imagine the Rich Kids without Glenn Matlock's obsessive pop sensibility or Steve News' motor driven 5000 watts lead and you'll get some idea of what 999 are up to.

Within five years, 999 will probably be on England's working class cabaret choke and broke circuit, playing to aging punks who, between the soup and the steak, will drunkenly mutter about how they don't make rock like this anymore. Cash will say 'Here's an oldie for you...' and lead the band into 'Me And My Desire' one more time, and the audience will clap politely. They call it rock.

Iman Lababedi

BOXCAR WILLIE King Of The Road (Warwick)

PLASMATICS New Hope For The Wretched (Stiff/America)

PLASMATICS Beyond The Valley Of 1984 (Stiff/America)

With a dervish-like roll of rheumy eyes and a hearty 'Whuuuwoooo!!!' the latest late night mahatma of K-Tel Kulture, Boxcar Willie, has crossed the storm-tossed Atlantic and ensconced himself in the hearts, minds and pocketbooks of America. Thirty, forty, sometimes even 55 times a day, Boxcar's cherubic face, looking much like Woody Guthrie after a particularly violent bee attack, is seen hawking with tilt-headed lovingness, the songs that have made him America's favorite hobo in England. Hey man, half a million albums sold ain't bad. Unfortunately, along with all 'of. this newly found fame, the legend of Boxcar Willie has acquired the ugly gristle of celebrity rumor.

Psst! Cum 'ere. Did you know that Boxcar Willie is really Sid Vicious? No? Sid didn't die. You didn't know that? Weir, as the tale is told, Sid was crawling through Kennedy airport one day when he was accosted by a band of short Oriental types sporting peticil-thin moustaches and foothigh pompadours." They were canting, in an undulating volume, 'Ohhh, Rose-A-le-EEEH!' All in some kind of strange new Mandarin brain control language they'd seemingly just learned from the United School for Disassociated Languages (student loans available for those who qualify...)

Vicious w^ts last seen being led out into the sweltering brown maze of a hot summer night, presumably under the control of these strangely wailing dwarves. Well, after a few weeks inside a snot-flecked purgatory—actually just a little garage just outside of Paramus, behind an abandoned Meineke muffler ship, right across the street from a satellite store for. REPO auto auction warehouse (y'know—all through, all done)—Sid, now sporting a two week beard, an extra 200 lbs., and a nifty red 'n' blue railroad bandana, walked out into the blazing sunlight and immediately began 'Whuuuwoooing' his way to the gray environs of England, where he instantly became a wild-eyed wanderer of that country's vast prairie lands.

Of 'course, by now ypu've guessed that those diminutive moustachioed Orientals were in fact the latest hybrids of K-Tel Kulture. Long rumored, the merger between the forces of Rev. Moon's Moonies and Slim Whitman's Slimmies has, in fact, happened. A significant event to be sure. Especially significant to those heretofore insignificant bands of K-Tel worshippers whose only inebriations have been grainy reruns of Veg-O-Matic, Ginsu, and Wok commercials. Worshippers of late night schock whose minds are filled with

shimmering visions of Jackie Gleason's famous 'Chef Of The Future' sketch—the moment of origin for the entire K-Tel Kulture.

What with Slim's merger with the Moonies and the burgeoning incidence of Boxcar Willie lookalikes ambling through the malls and airports of America, the K-Tel junkie no longer has to be ashamed of the imitation lamb's wool coat on his band; or that Select Tool hidden in a leather case on his hip; or that...

King Of The Road is the title of Boxcar Willie's contribution to this new and expanding cultural milieu. Composed of 20 songs taken from his humorous Column One Records—the best of those being Daddy Was A Railroad Man and Boxcar Willie Sings Hank Williams And Jimmy Rogers—this album has all the repeatable songs that'll bring smiles to any hobo as he rides the lodi through the great wastelands of America. Amazingly effective are Willie's renditions of 'Boxcar Blues,' 'Hank And The Hobo,' and, of course,' those rousing numbers from the TV commercial— 'Move It On Over,' and 'Rollin' In My Sweet Baby's Arms.' If you believe that, you'll believe Nixon was innocent,

(DISSOLVE)

(FADE IN)

The room is dark.

Wind whistles past the window is a hush ' 'tuoootuooo... '

Suddenly there's a massive flash of lightning.

The room is momentarily ablaze with light and shadow.

Seated in the center of the room is a heavy-set, motherly woman, wearing a skin-tight t-shirt with 'Poseidon' emblazoned on the front and a pair of frilly red 'n' black filigree panties with a huge signature etched on their sides. That signature—Shelley Winters.

The room darkens once again. Thunder rolls down the street like a Don Carter bowling ball deep in its strike groove.

Another lightning flash.

The portly figurine picks up a bubbling beaker from the floor. Hesitates a moment.*Gulps down the contents.

Darkness.

A voice cackles.

Silence.

A voice whispers over and over again: 'Oh no, oh yeah, oh no, oh yeah!!!'

Another flash.

The portly figurine has vanished.

In her place stands a buxom young woman iri [tight] leather pants, black strips across her hard nipples, and a two tone Mohican style haircut. In her hand, a sledgehammer and a framed picture of TV personality [ha-ha] Tom Snyder. She begins to chant 'oh no, oh yeah^oh no, oh yeah' then smashes the picture. (SLOW FADE)

While Boxcar Willie and Slim Whitman are busy creating the guts and glory of the K-Tel Kulture with their past hit compilations, Wendy O. Williams and the Plasmatics are giving said Kulture a noble, and often savage, sense of aesthetics.

Both of the Plasmatics albums are K-Tel hits (that is, possessing K-Tel consciousness), wallowing in the kleig light misogyny of mainstream hitdom.

Further cementing their right to K-Telijom is their amazing track record with the Tomorrow show. It's nice to see ole Tom getting his nut off at some ex-porn queen and a pair of absolute stun-guitar sahibs as they destroy cars, TVs,, etc. in a small studio somewhere high up in the skyscraper heavens of whatever '0" it is Snyder works for.

To hear 'Butcher Baby' and 'Won't You,' in between Wendy O's attempts at intellectual coherency-nice bit of contradiction there Wendy, but—is a late night watcher's delight. I'm just waitin' to hear 'Plasma Jam' and 'Sex Junkie' on Carson...

Whether these three albums are good or bad is absolutely irrelevant. The fact that they 'are' is testament enough to the power of K-Tel Kulture. The fact that these three albums make sense when played track to track is testament to either this reviewer's complete madness or his surreal cramps—hey, with us K-Tel guys it's ALWAYS that time of the month. Oh yeah, just for reference sake the big 'underground' rage for ys K-Tellers is Dennis Weaver's portrayal of the Night Attendant in Touch Of Evil...

Joe (Noir) Fernbacher