WE GRIMACE, THEREFORE WE ARE

WE GRIMACE, THEREFORE WE ARE

RECORDS

THE ROLLING STONES

Tattoo You

(Rolling Stones Records)

by

Nick Tosches

Like the countless cruel-belching flotskies who sit in the countless unferned and uncedared bars of this one-horse universe grimacing into mirrors, not so much at themselves, reflected in those mirrors, but rather at the idea of those mirrors, and even then only because no more palpable object for their grimacing can be found, and even if it could, well, fuck it; like-them, the Rolling Stones make it extremely difficult to perceive their—I borrow here from Dear Meg—nice sides. But unlike those barroom flotskies, the Stones have parlayed their collective mean streak into a fame and fortune beyond the most fantastic dreams of Croesus and Kramden combined.

Such wealth affords one unimagined leisure for grimacing. One ventures, so to speak, beyond the mirror, allowing the nasty side to bloom, to grow. As the Stones wealth has grown, as their fame has come to flirt with immortality (a state achieved when ones name is recognizable to nine out of ten contestants on The Krypton Factor), their mean streak has widened to prodigious dimension.

Once merely grimacing, with chord and trope, at women, they now grimace at the simple notion of human relationship. In Slave," which again reels and nods along like a fleeting two-dime half-thought —and here again I draw from Dear Meg, whose influence has been greater upon me even than that of Big Jack Milton himself—malefemale relationships are equated with slavery. I dont wanna be your slave," Jagger complains. The next verse explains what brought about that complaint: the broad asked him to go to the store. Attaboy, Mick.

Even rich broads arent worth the trouble, as we hear in Hang.Fire": Ya know, marryin money is a fulltime job; 1 dont need the aggravation, Im a lazy slob." Even mean men like these, however, possess their poignant needs. In Little T&A," Keith pays touching tribute to the little lady behind-him—shes my tits n ass n soul baby"—in a manner that recalls the pressing of flowers between diary leafs, in a gentler time. Even more affecting, perhaps, is the sincere and simple honesty with which Jagger expresses his emotional needs in Waiting On A Friend," towards the end of which he somberly confesses:

Dont need no whore;

I dont need no booze;

Dont need a virgin braced.

Well, just what is it then that this closing-in-on-40 hard-on needs? I need someone to possess." If she has a sister, call.

But let it never be said that the Stones have a one-track mean streak. They are capable of singing for minutes on end without spewing venom at the target vsex. Neighbors," for example, is quite catholic in its grimacing, directed as it is towards the whole family of man, with nary a mention of race, color or creed. No Use In Crying" contains the imperative phrase Stay away from me," addressed to no one in particular, more,times than I could count without taking off my shoes. Truly grimacing flotskies for all seasons.

I like these guys. Always did, always will. They, make me feel clean.

THE PRETENDERS Pretenders II (Sire)

Welcome to the Pretenders nightmare—an entire second LP to fill, hopefully living up to a big box office debut, ' and just about all Chrissie and company can come up with are a bunch of industrial waste Def Zeppelin riffs. This wouldnt be so personally annoying if (along with everyone else in the world) I hadnt gone so ga-ga over the first platter. Chrissie Hynde is someone 1 definitely want to like. I think* shes got a real sexy voice, with all those confident, huffy little inflections in it. And the music on the first record sunk its fangs into your memory banks with a vengeance. But there was a lot of personality on that album to boot. On certain cuts Chrissie struck me as sort of a closet dominatrix—she was a really, great bitch, gleefully using language unsuitable for radio play in Precious," zinging people hard in Private Life" and Space Invaders." But she was equally good on the sensitivo numbers like Brass In

Pocket, where she air-pumped herself up with ego-talk as a defense against the painful possibility of getting cold-shouldered by some ultra-dreamy guy. And then there was Lovers Of Today," where she tossed off the line Ill never feel like a man in a mans world," in the fade-out as if to remind you that even though she can be hurt, self-confidence is her raison detre. After all, shes the one who tells the guy to stop all his sobbing.

On the new album Chrissie starts right off playing tough, but the sludgy music holds her back. On the opening cut, The Adultress," her pouty-sexy voice is made to look ridiculous by over-obvious lyrics and a riff which is about as catchy as Grand Funks Got This Thing On The Move." On Bad Boys Get Spanked," Chrissie lives up to her previously bubbling-under SM' possibilities, playing the thinking mans Grace Jones, but the music is as dull as the missionary position.

One of the chief culprits in this one way trip to dullsville is James Honeyman-Scotts guitar, which begins to sound the same in every track. Writing-wise, the band hardly ever even attempt melodic pop in the Kid" tradition and the ,HM rhythm-based tracks which dominate have none of the fast-fuck punch of similarly tuneless tracks from the last record like The Wait." The group does include two slow ballads but theyre both real drips, especially Ray Davies aptly named I Go To Sleep."

Of course, the entire album doesnt belong in the sick bag. The English Roses" has a solid melody and a great wet-dream croon from Hynde. But the only other nifty tracks—Message Of Love" and Talk Of The Town" (the bands catchiest number, in full blast)—are both available on the Pretenders Extended P/ay. As a twelve inch, that five song EP has good enough sound quality to shoot you through the ceiling, and youd be doing your wallet and your ears a service to pick that up instead of Pretenders II. If the band can expand their sound some, they may yet again put out an entirely hot album. In the meantime, the EP will have to do until the real thing comes along.

Jim Farber

BOB DYLAN Shot Of Love (Columbia)

Bob Dylan and Lefmy Bruce once shared a taxi for about a mile and a half. According to Dylan, the ride felt as though it took a couple of months." Thats probably the most, tantalizing piece of information on the new Dylan album, Shot Of Love. What city? What year? What did they talk about? No answers. Dylan waited more than 15 years to write a song called Lenny Bruce," and what does it tell us? That the comic sure was funny, and he sure told the truth." That he was an outlaw." In other words, it doesnt tell us much. Oh, Dylan does point out that Bruce never got a Golden Globe award. Since the Hollywood Foreign Press hasnt honored Dylan with a statuette either, I suppose that makes the two renegade Jewish boys spiritual brethren. Has Dylan ever heard Religions Inc. ? Sam Shepard could write a hell of a play about Bob and Lenny in a cab on a New York City night in 1963. Dylan was there (or somewhere) and couldnt eke out a decent song. How depressing.

One of two things has happened since Saved: either Dylans first feverish flush of Christianity has subsided atouch, or the sales figures on that album showed the light. Lets be charitable (after all, He would want it that way). Lets say that Dylan discovered singing the praises of Jesus to be somewhat limiting in a world where we secular humanists buy records, too. So Shot Of Love strikes a balance between 'Property Of Jesus" and the yery Motownish (Jackson 5 c. 72) Watered-Down Love," between the graceful pantheism of Every Grain Of Sand" and poppier tunes like Heart Of Mine." Hes singing as if he cares, and maybe he does.

Certainly hestrying. Hes got the .backing musicians imitating the loose rigor of Robertson-DankoHelm; hes got the Heartbreakers Benmont Tench capably filling the A1 Kooper spooky-organ spot; he rhymes malicious" and suspicious," transgression" and confession"; he blows some nice harmonica. It all amount to nothing of consequence. For all their troubling aspects, Dylans failures of the 70s—Street Legal, HardfRain, even Saved—were at least nervy. Shot Of Love doesnt even have the power to irritate, and that lack may be the only thing new about it.

Does it matter that Bob Dylan doesnt have anything to say. to his old audience? Should it matter to women who feel close to, and turn to, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde On Blonde or Blood On The Tracks that Dylan has expressed antiabortion views (in a radio interview serviced to rock stations to promote Shot Of Love)? Or to people who relish the lusty music of The Basement Tapes that Dylan supports the boycotting of certain advertisers of immoral" television shows? Was his muddled thinking and self-righteousness only acceptable when he was on our" side, or should we allow him his fundamental conservatism the way we accept the militaristic opinions of John Ford and economic elitism of F. Scott Fitzgerald? Shot Of Love isnt provocative enough to make such questions immediate, but Dylan can never be counted out (whod have anticipated Blood On The Tracks?), and theres more to be said about an artist who can embrace George Jackson, Joey Gallo and, one suspects, Jerry Falwell (however irreconcilable with Lenny Bruce) than one slender LP can reflect.

MILES FINALLY RELEASES THE PAUSE BUTTON

MILES DAVIS The Man With The Horn (Columbia)

by Richard C. Walls

Miles Davis recent six-year silence reminds me of one of those significant pauses he uses so often and so well in his solos—little absences of sound (and sometimes not so little) that affect the structure of a solo and the value of the last and (finally) next note. Aesthetically, its the epitome of cool, this manipulating of the inevitable, withholding of the obvious, circumvention of the bald statement—and what could be cooler than laying out for six years? Especially since it was at a point where his turn-of-the-decade direction had led so many of his imitators and followers into the bland and the obvious, i.e., fusion music, the bane of the 70s, and himself into a creative cul-de-sac. Obviously, ,a pause was needed...

Of course, after six years you expect too much simply because youve been expecting too long, so the initial reaction is bound to be disappointment. This albums not the return to any of the many past modes that many Miles fans desire with as much misplaced loyalty as any unreconstructed Beatles fan, nor is it a continuation of the sprawling mysto-funk of Get Up With It and On The Comer that baffled and irritated so many of the faithful. Funk, yes, but more succinct than before.

Actually, two different dates are represented. Two of the cuts, the title tune and Shout," are from some session Miles had last summer with a young funk band made up of some friends of his nephew Vincent Wilburn, whos the drummer here. A dozen or so songs were recorded then and these two have surfaced to let us know what a grave disappointment that album would have been. Shout" is an up tune, vaguely disco, with a banal melody played in an anonymous style by Miles (it could be Herb Alpert). He solos, gamely but since he has no foils in the rhythm section hes playingalone (one is reminded of Charlie Parker with strings, tho Miles playing here isnt quite that transcendant). Its catchy, tho, like a good TV theme. The title cut is a ballad with vocals, a bit of sappy soul (Hes the man/Hes the man/with the horn/the horn/the horn"). Again Miles gets his licks in, squeezed and mournful, but again theres not much here beyond the novelty aspect—one of the worlds great improvisers playing little fills with a competent but unremarkable rnb band. So what?

If that misguided folderol fails to thrill you theres still almost 40 minutes of music from another session here. A lot of this is folderol too, but a looser more interesting brand. The mode is funk jazz but, unlike the dreaded fusion, here theres a somewhat responsive rhythm section (thanks to drummer A1 Foster and whoevers responsible for the shifting guitar backing parts). At least half of the ample solo space is given over to two guitarists with no discernible personality—tho the soprano saxist does get in some good licks artd the guitarists play like genuine rock musicians rather than slumming jazz musicians, i.e., they dont let technical proficiency get in the way of a good sleazy phrase. And (this is the part where you either decide to buy the album or not) Miles plays on these cuts with the playful, moody, sly beauty of yore. Yore being Bitches Brew and before.

So, as mentioned, the albums a disappointment—and was, occasionally, that first note that came in after one of those well-placed pauses. But it was always a relief when it arrived, and now that the pause is over we know we wont have to wait long before we find out whats next. Because having two pauses too close together is extremely uncool. And tho Miles motives remain as mysterious as ever, we can rest assured that he remains, also, not uncool.

Theres a lot on Shot Of Love that veteran Dylan-watchers will find familiar; the grocery-list lyric of the title track, the hamfisted rancor (to a reggae beat) of Deadman," Deadman," the apocalyptic vision of Trouble" (set in Smokestack Lightning" framework). In each case you can point to an earlier copyright in the Dylan canon that makes the case with more passion, more eloquent imagery. The basic band of Fred Tackett, Tim Drummond and Jim Keltner is handicapped by lumbering melodies and typically unfocused production. Only In The Summertime" and Every Grain Of Sand," songs that combine structural simplicity with generosity of spirit, rise above the turgid atmosphere.

Some will put the blame on the hand of God. For refutation, one recommends the inspirational work of Elvis Presley or, more pertinently, Truth Decay by T-Bone Burnett. Proof that rock can be righteous.

Mitchell Cohen

WAS (NOT WAS) (Island)

A couple of Earth years ago, the gang here at CREEM dared the staff of Rolling Stone to take the Pepsi Challenge and submit to a battle of the bands. You see, the Stone crew had just appeared at some stupid press party or something, playing Walkin The Dog" out of tune and. all that good stuff. Natifrally, us CREEMies were jealous of the press our rivals" had generated (hey—its their magazine) and charged headlong into dreamland without so much as a clear understanding of Challenge," much less a G chord.

It never came off (there is a God!) but Was (Not Was) is what (not what) the Boy Howdy! Experience would have sounded like (not like) if (not if) and when. Two hundred and seven people on percussion and Musicianship" as wildly unpredictable as Jose Ferrer having turned out to be a deep thinker. As we in the Biz say, el sucko.

Detroits own Was brothers (Don and David) invited the 46 names on the innersleeve to a freak-out for reasons that remain obscure. The all-star cast includes Brother Wayne Kramer, Bruce Nazarian, Marcus Belgrave, Ronald Reagan (on tape), Doug... er, Douglas Fieger and Mark Ed" Norton (a staff boxer here until he told one too many Swedish jokes).

You want specs? We got specs. Lets take a look at Where Did Your Heart Go?," a likeable enough representative of blunder. It features a two tub rhythm sectiort--far and away the best feature of the group (not group)—that tanks along like Gang Of Four tackling Play That Funky Music, White Boy." Ho hum, another film-within-a-film.

Then comes trouble-. If youre one of those overwrought algae who dig 'rap moozik, you can commence to Freddie because every song is spit out in the ever-charming, manner. To make matters worse, man-dolins appear in left field, followed by a sax SQIO SO sweet n yummy that you half expect Shirley Jones to walk in the door and spread butter on it. Eventually, it ends.

. So much for the listenabfe cut. You hepcats thatre busy hosing down your life cool it a minute, because here comes another beatnik episode of Petticoat Junction, this one entitled, Oh, Mr. Friction!"

Johnny Yuma was a copper

Johnny Yuma ..

See what you done now?

Now Im a gangster

Cant speak no Ingeles:

Hopsa hopsa lorry.

Hopsa hopsa lorry... has the Nobel cruelty-to-poetry committee been notified?

Other genetic mistakes include dreaming," where the Was brothers pull an Eno by chopping up tapes of our president (Bizarro Soulman #1) and using them like castanets; plus ferret-snoot Fiegefs contribution to Carry Me Back To Old Morocco: rama rama rama/ watch me now." What was all that fuss about little girls?

Had enough, squirt? Lets just wrap this up with my own rap, jive-babbled to the beat of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus": Bill Russell said/˜the secret to fiiine art/ is ball control/how many/I said how many/shopping days until/ Christmas/and hey man/get on down/down down down/to the junkyard/Was. bros./and turn yourself in!"

Rick Blowfly" Johnson

DEBBIE HARRY KooKoo (Chrysalis)

I am not now nor have I ever been a Blondie fan. Ive always thought of them as pretenders to a throne I could never quite identify—the throne of Edie fjedgwick, perhaps. (Not a very comfortable chair, that one.) A few good singles—Dreaming" is my fave—neither won me over hor confirmed my initial misgivings. I find myself content to occupy the same air space as Blondie without^being consumed by the need to take them seriously.

Same thing with Chicsters Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards. Dave Parker and Willie Stargell pouring champagne -to We Are Famuhlee" is major league in anybodys book, but Ed I sent Felix Millan to Japan" Ott and Tim I slide for Jesus" Foli danced to the same tune. Ah, the internal contradictions of pop music! Overall, Rodgers and Edwards didnt make much of a blip on my radar screen. When 1 first heard of the Harry/Rodgers & Edwards project I figured they were riding the largest available vehicle out of their neighborhood and would get nowhere fast.

I figured wrong. KooKoo, Debbie Harrys first solo album is very good, the kind of pop record that will sell by the truckload and deserve to. It is spare and to the point throughout— no elaborate studio sleight of hand on the vocals or on the tracks. But though Harrys voice is less treated on KooKoo than on recent Blondie albums its not less manipulated and manipulative. All the arch cartoon expressiveness is here in force—her usual melange of the good, the bad, and the Debbie—sometimes clear and direct, as on Inner City Spillover," a reggae tune drawn from the etched absurdity and hardship of city life, sometimes strident as on Jump Jump," a hip nonsense song over a world class bass riff (Thank you, Mr. Edwards), arid sometimes come hither coy as on Now I Know You Know," a ballad almost as awful as its title on which Debbie comes perilously close fo sounding like a Diana Ross impersonator in the Jewel Box Revue.

I gave up trying to pick singles nine years ago when Little Feats Easy To Slip" went nowhere, but Id make a conservative estimate of four serious hits on KooKoo. I particularly like The Jam Was Moving," a very lean, low to the ground dance tune spiced with echoed hand claps, clean soul-style rhythm guitar, and a guitar solo thats a penetrating 80s gloss on a surprising text: Eight Miles High" (Thank you, Mr. Rodgers.). Im alsopartial to Chrome," which features a tuneful, languorous Harry vocal over a deep, deep pulse and levitating guitar, and fades on a Latino percussion jam. Other candidates include Backfired," with its hard funk counterpoint of riff against rhythm horns; Surrender," a song of the strident persuasion built on a mighty bottom that closes with a long and fine guitar solo (Thank you Mr. Edwards and Mr. Rodgers), and the previously mentioned Jump Jump" and Inner City Spillover." Military Rule," a witty ready-made over a fabulous track, is a definite dark horse.

That's a lot of possible singles on a ten cut album. An indication of the success of this collaboration is that I had some trouble distinguishing the Harry/Stein songs from the Rodgers/Edwards songs the first time through and I missed a couple outright. Though this marriage was probably made in a brokers office, the fact that it has borne substantial fruit is reason for cautious optimism. They may not be quite as smart as they mean to be but theyre plenty smart for radioland. In the press kit Debbie says, I hope you like KooKoo whether you are dancing, listening' driving, at home or at work.

Sounds good to me, Deb.

Jeff Nesin

THE ALLMAN BROTHERS BAND Brothers Of The Road (Arista)

I hate to be the one to bring you the bad news, after all this groups powerful music meant to me amid the vapidity of most other early-70s rock, but this albums not very interesting. Obviously its a wellworn (ten years now!) cliche to say that Duane Allmans death knocked the guts out of the bands sound, but as Gregg was my favorite Allman BrO. from the beginning, I had planned for a longer period of keeping on keeping on, even as I mourned Duanes loss.

But its exactly the Gregg Allman attributes I loved so much on the groups first few albums—the bitter blues vocals, the hellhound-in-myfingers furious organ-pumping, those bizarrely tricky, changes and hooks to the songs (one writer of the time compared their sound to Santana, but I was thinking more of the Blue Oyster Cult that hadnt even been invented yet)—which seemed to roar off to heaven sideby-side with Duanes biking soul. Ever since Dickey Betts scored so big for the Bros, with his Ramblin Man" in 1973, his mellower, more conventionally country-rock sound has dominated the groups various dissolution, reunion, and reincarnation album release, and Brothers Of The Road (guess which Bro. wrote the title song) is more of the same.

I suppose it really depends on what you think of Dickey Betts—I grant that hes a helluva slide guitar player, every bit as good as Duane Allmaft lotsa times—but compositionally he has a depressing tendency to get good-old-boyish-for-its-ownsake at the drop of one of those pokey cowboy hats. Betts is hardly as New South-chauvinist as Charlie Daniels (who, much as the late Harry Chapin did, uses the utter nobility of his charitable efforts as a cover for the increasingly right-wing aesthetic of his music), but on the other hand, when are we ever gonna get another Southern rocker as brilliantly self-examining as that late, great good ol boy Ronnie Van Zant?

Dickey Betts isnt sure. His title cut here celebrates you-know-what regions rock, with lines that coulda been ghosted by Charlie Daniels himself—Some of us fell along the way/We came together, not too proud to pray"—while his Maybe We Can Go Back To Yesterday" answers its own question with a musical negative. Worse yet, Gregg Allman has duped himself into writing Betts-parodic songs like Leavin" (Got my Greyhound ticket in the other hand") for Brothers Of The Road, and the whole album flows out in one wellcrafted mellow ooze, as though it were the third Dickey Betts & Great Southern (Arista) set or something. Mostly Gregg sounds tired here, and I would be too if I had to contemplate the ghoulish spectacle of Les Dudek making himself up as a Halloween-party Duane Allman (cf. cover of his Gypsy Ride) to squire Cher around Hollywood.

Its funny, though, now that Brothers Of The Road has virtually killed off my ragged hopes for the Allman Brothers Band, their last years Reach For The Sky is beginning to sound more and more like a first-rate reunion set, with at least a couple truly biting songs (Betts I Gotta Right To Be Wrong," and his and Mike Lawlers Angeline,") and plenty of those trademark, fluid pie-in-the-Georgiaskyjams.

Shoot, I shoulda reviewed Reach For The Sky instead. Maybe we can all go back to yesterday. Yeah, maybe so. Go eat a peach.

Richard Riegel

THE POINTER SISTERS Black & White (Planet)

The Pointer Sisters are amazing. Their first success with swing, scat and jazz—the black Andrews Sisters, if you like—was lots of fun, a neat change of pace in the early 70s. It was also terrific music. Four first-rate lead vocalists (Bonnie P. later split for Motown) and a brainy, serious approach. Respect for the form. Just for the hell of it, they threw in some aggressive pop/ rock/soul (you can legitimately take your pick) and—pay attention, now—Anita and Bonnie copped a 1975 Grammy for best country song.

The Pointers were never in danger of being mistaken for your basic black (get it?) girl group. Even so, their first album with producer Richard Perry, Energy, was a very sharp, almost perversely timed turn. They ignored ^the easy lu(c)re of disco (and backed into a major disco hit, with Happiness"); instead, they opted for straight-on—no holdingback-because-were-female—rock. BUT they didnt practice the misogynistic, weve-got-balls posturing of such as Pat Benatar or EllenFoleyShipley. Romantic and lustful, self-confident and yearning, their readings of songs by Bob Welch, Steely Dan, Logging & Messina, the Doobies...were classy, powerful, and great radio music. Their big hit, Springsteens.Fire," was a blitheful, erotic classic. Still, one couldnt be blamed for wondering whether the stance Would remain the same, especially considering that Priority, the Pointers clone-ish follow-up to Energy, didnt set the charts ablaze.

Special Things, their third Perryproduced album, Was actually a smart refinement, a sophisticated, pop fine-tuning of the rocking Pointers. Another excellent, original record, with more great hits and hit material. (Quick quiz: Name ten jerks who dont like the sweet (still) reverse image, Hes So Shy.") The Pointers new album, Black & White, bears a strorig resemblance to its immediate predecessor—but this one is even better. Why? Because Perry has loosened the sophisto-pop screw a couple of notches (re-refinement). Because Anita, June and Ruth concentrate on the materials overall elasticity and sing with almost indecent energy. Because at least six of the albums nine cuts are deliriously tuneful jukebox best bets. Someday Well Be Together" (no, not that one) is gorgeous, arrogant optimism: When each love burns out/And it will without a doubt/ Youll come running back/Back to me." Should I Do It" is another, momentary, sharp turn; the Pointers remember the Crystals, but the tracks are laid down at Motown. Already a biggie is their latest potential classic, Slow Hand." Anitas lead reveals the sensual control of a Tina Turner, and her way with the lyric—I want a man with a slow hand/I want a lover with an easy touch," slight accent on touch"—recalls Mae West at her coolest. Because—well, like I said, the Pointer Sisters are amazing.

Jim Feldman

IAN HUNTER Short Back N Sides (Chrysalis)

Oh boy, another interim Ian Hunter album. Ians doing fine, going through another round of well-deserved success which is great for him and not so great for this album.

Hunter has always produced his best work when hes been backed into a corner and forced to assert himself, forced to focus both the passion and intelligence of his music. And when hes really needed to, hes done it. Check out All The Young Dudes, Mott, and his tunes on Brain Capers during his Mott The Hoople days, or his solo triumphs. Ian Hunter and Youre Never Alone With A Schizophrenic and youll find em chock full of gutsy rock n roll, spiced up with a surprising amount of smarts. That Hunters able to come up with the goods when hes been down is one of the things that make him great (when he is great), but the flipside is that too much comfort seems to halt the juices, so theres plenty of so-so stuff in his catalogue as well.

Anyway, when Ian doesnt wanna dominate his discs, he brings in outside help with the usual mixed results. Why he needed a different band to cut Gun Control," a satire about as subtle as a slug between the eyes, I dont know, but Todd Rundgren and Co.s help on I Need Your Love" could pay off—the precise playing, romantic theme and well-mixed chorus vocals make this Hunters best chance for a hit 45 since going solo in 75.

The big news here, though, is Mick Jones involvement and Mick Ronsonsfade. The two are credited as co-producers but Ronsons leads are muted compared to his past work and it doesnt appear that hell be on Hunters current tour. That the Micks pull in opposite directions isnt surprising—compare Schizophrenic with Sandinista!— and only sometimes do their collaborations work.

Things start off well enough with Central Park N West," another salute to NYC, complete with a few off-the-click-track rhythmic touches. This leads into Lisa Likes Rock N Roll, or Bo Diddley goes to the Caribbean; if thats Topper Headon doing all the miscellaneous percussion, hes got more of an imagination than hes usually given credit for. But the Clashs love of loose ends is probably partly responsible for the clumsy gospel bash tacked onto the end of Keep On Burnin" and for the brave, eclectic mess of Noises."

So about half of a good album and half middling to embarrassing. The irony is that if I Need Your Love" hits as big as it deserves to, well probably never get a great album out of Ian Hunter again. But that (gulp) is rock n roll for you.

Michael Davis

THE SINCEROS Pet Rock (Columbia)

Pet Rock is what you call your basic left field special. I mean, who in holy hell are the Sinceros? Do you know? Do you care? Will your heart beat any faster if its revealed to you that theyre yet another one of those bands across the water with an ultra-forgettable first album, big label backing and Top Ten aspirations? Will your jaw drop and your wallet open if I tell you that the follow-up record is a major improvement over the first in every way, shape and chorus?

Well, quit catching flies and dig out those dollars, because Pet Rock is as good an example of unjaded modern pop probings as Ive heard all year; its right up there with Squeezes East Side Story, New Musiks Sanctuary and the Searchers Love's Melodies as a constant source of younger-than-yesterday pleasure.

This is one of those uncommon recordings where your favorite cut changes from day to day. At the moment, my day is irrevocably made if I get to play Girl I Realise" morning, noon, and night. It sounds like the Foundations heartbroken younger brothers on a soul food shopping spree. I wont hold it against you if you do handsprings when you hear it.

The songwriting efforts are split between bassist Ron Francois (who whipped up Girl I Realise") and guitarist Mark Kjeldsen (only the guys in Abba can pronounce his last name) who scripted eight out of eleven here. Kjeldsen favors delineations of love trouble, with every tragic moment buoyed up by a highly melodic guitar line or some spiffy keyboard run (courtesy of Don Snow). Disappearing," As The World Turns" and Midsopg" will bear me out on this in a most memorable fashion. Vocals from all quarters unite to plaintively express heartfelt regrets, lost innocence and long lonely nights as poignantly as the law allows.

There are no blazing unique personal visions burning up the landscape here—just the usual emotion workouts with a plethora of ensnaring hooks to pull you right in. Its the Sinceros rejuvenated; anxious, unselfconsciously—dare l say it?—sincere delivery that makes the big difference here. They dont ever sound uninvolved, even when theyre bleating out lines from Barcelona" like prostitutes with very . large hearts/Entertain some very small parts." and before you can jeer theyre off and soaring with dreamy, upbeat New Colony Six harmonies and youre a goner before you know it, you lucky devil you.

Craig Zeller

SPARKS

Whomp That Sucker ' (RCA)

Besides being one of the funniest rock n roll songwriters around, Ron Mael has shown over the years that hes also one of the most versatile. I mean, you name it and Rons written a song about it: Incest (Fa La Fa Fee"), Narcissism (Falling In Love With Myself Again"), One. Night Stands (Hasta Manana, Monsieur") , Family Conflicts and Extramarital Affairs (BC," Tits"), Birth Control (Complaints"), Virility (Who Dont Like Kids," Tryout For The Human Race"), Bestiality (Under The Table With Her"), Suicide Pacts (Here In Heaven"), Loose Women (Beaver OLindy," Wonder Girl"), Caste Systems (Thank God Its Not Christmas, Looks, Looks, Looks"), Child Molesters (Thanks, But No Thanks"), Getting Stood Up (Equator") , S&M (Whipping And Apologies"), Jealousy (This Town Aint Big Enough For The Both Of Us," Tearing The Room Apart"), Heterosexuality (I Like Girls"), White Supremacy (White Women"), Peak Performance and Nymphomania (Nothing To Do"), Female Obsolescence (Throw Her Away And Get A New One"), Macho Neurosis (Screwed Up"), Disgust (Everybodys Stupid"). Faking It (Academy Award Performance"), Death (The Number One Song In Heaven"), Genetic Mutation x(My Other Voice"), Premature (Beat The Clock") and Adolescent Sex (Amateur Hour" with its classic line of instruction; Its a lot like playing the violin: you cannot start pff and be Yehudi Menuhin").

Like any writer,-Rons had his fair share of out n out brilliant moments. The trilogy of Kimono My House/Propaganda/Indiscreet (all of which were released in the mid-70s) still kick ass with the best of them and—surprise!—arent nearly as tough to listen to these days as, say, the cpn job that John Lydons currently spewing out.

Big Beat, their heavy metal raunch-out, still clips VU meters at 30 feet and No. 1 In Heaven, perhaps their greatest moment, remains the greatest electrobeat rock-disco album ever released.

Unfortunately, like any writer, Rons also had his fair share of faceflops—most potably Introdubing Sparks and last years abysmal follow-up/let-down to No. 1, aptly titled Terminal Jive.

Which brings us to Whomp That Sucker, an album that, although not as draggy as Term-Jive, still doesnt cut the rock n roll mustard except for two outstanding tracks: I Married a Martian" and Wacky Women."

Martian" is the LPs centerpiece, a stunning tale of alien love n lust in Las Vegas that has a moral ending (I married a Martian and boy, am I sorry. I dont recommend it to anyone in their right mind.") we can all learn from. Wacky Women" is the usual Sparks rave-up, replete with, self-deprecating humor and what has to be the most outrageous rhyming couplet of the decade (All they like is sex and sitcoms. Try to be suave and theyll kick you in the bonbons.").

All in all, this aint no gem—but its far from being a lump of coal, either. You decide for yourself, OK?

Oh yeah, Russell sounds fine, jes fine.

Jeffrey Morgan

PETER TOSH Wanted Dread And Alive (Rolling Stones Records/EMI America)

THE KING" KONG COMPILATION (Mango) MELODIANS Sweet Sensation (Mango)

BLACK UHURU Red (Mango)

Since splitting from the Wailers in 1973, Winston Hubert McIntosh, better known as Peter Tosh, has garnered nearly unanimous praise for his solo work, and much of it is well-deserved (particularly Equal Rights and the cover of Dont Look Back" with thick-lipped Mick). But for all the charges leveled at Bob Marley during his all too brief years, never did he sink as low as Tosh has on his current LP, Wanted Dread And Alive. The transformation of dead" into dread" is the signpost to whats ahead; this wordplay sign: ifies what Tosh can no longer hide—that for him reggae now only represents a convenient bundle of cliches, a cute formula to twist.

The evidence is overwhelming. A song about catching a reggae fever (presumably, not unlike the boogie disease), Reggae-Mylitis," is as hackneyed as it sounds, while Nothing But Love" goes for a soul/ disco fusion too shameless for even Joe Tex. For hypocrisy at its finest, listen to The Poor Man Feel It" (repeat gotta find a solution to this pollution" ad infinitum), and for genuine MORonic manure try to step through Fools Die" (it could be the Moody Blues, honest).

The only cut which throbs with any life at all is Thats What They Will Do," perhaps because its theme of back-stabbing was drawn from real experience. Overall, it isnt that the otherwise flexible rhythms of Robbie Shakespeare and Sly Dunbar are less urgent than usual; its just that* theyre suppressed by Toshs feeble production. Thus, the albums temperature is a mere 32 degrees. «

But for reggae production at its hottest, one needs only turn to The King" Kong Compilation, a collection that surpasses the The Harder They Come soundtrack with its ambition, scope, and playability. This comes as no surprise for those who know that Leslie Kong, the focal point of the New Mango anthology, also produced most of that familiar soundtrack. Besides Marley, Kong was the artist most influential in bringing Jamaican music to a worldwide audience. Kong not only produced the Maytals Do The Reggay" (the first song to actually use the term), but his early productions were the initial reggae hits to cross over into the pop market (Desmond Dekkers Israelites," the Pioneers Long Shot Kick De Bucket"). Many feel that Lee Perry is the indomitable (if not downright, consummate) reggae producer, but Kong, (although the comparison is a little strained) like Sam Phillips, was there first, making the most of such a break and never making the mistake of losing it.

The 16-cut Kong Compilation reaffirms Kongs reign between 1968 and 1970 (he died in 1971, at the peak of his career), but more importantly, it offers a chance to discover a major stylist via the proper symposium. By listening to nine very different artists under one roof (Dekker, the Maytals, and the Pioneers among them), you hear Kongs delicate touch—his flair for properly mixing soothing background vocals, never letting them overpower the main voice (Tyrone Evans Let Them Talk"); or, his knack for loosening up the performer so that recording the song becomes a liberating act (Ken Boothes Freedom Street").

There are moments rescued from obscurity like the Pioneers Samfie Man," reggae at its most manical. With vocals disguised as war whoops, challenged by a berserk pumping organ, the song remains a strange mismatch of Harry Belafonte withBuddy Holly. Then there aretroubled moments such as Ken Boothes Why Baby Why" (as close as reggae ever got to the blues) and Bruce Ruffins-Bitterness Of Life" (rooted in the transcendentalism of pure soul music).

And then, theres the serenity of the Melodians, a vocal group so fascinating Mango saw fit to add five tracks to the three already available on the Kong LP and release a mini-LP, Sweet Sensation. The main problem with the collection is that it leaves you wanting more. And there is more-*-Sweet Sensation (Harry J import)-, not to be confused with the Mango release, and Pre-Meditation (Sky Note import), definitive (Id pay anything to own it).

The Melodians are one of the most undervalued vocal groups of any era or any genre; their style falls somewhere between doo-wop and Staxs version of soul. Thoughtful and at ease, the Melodians through their captivating music can assuage the guilt we often bring to Jamaican music, pacifying all political strife, not with sweetness and light, but with an implied religious conviction. Their most popular song, Rivers Of Babylon," contained that message, which explains why many felt that Boney Ms version was the most torpid piece of junk ever conceived (although, as with all bubblegum, its very obnoxiousness became endearing) .

To hear the Melodians Walking In The Rain" or Lets Give Praise And Thanks" is to experience meditation. The sexuality of Its My Desire" dissolves into a euphonic romanticism; the $uggesti(/eness of Rock It With Me" becomes a gentlemanly embrace. It is simple music from the clouds, three human voices flowing through Leslie Kong, unadorned and still alive.

Unlike the graceful blend of the Melodians, a contemporary vocal group, Black Uhuru, harmonizes on a harsher, more political level. (The word ˜uhuru is Swahili and means freedom.) Michael Rose, Duckie Simpson, and Puma Jones (ably produced and musically supported by Sly Dunbar and Robbie Shakespeare) are three young vocalists who would make Bob Marley and Leslie Kong proud. Red, the groups second LP with Puma (an American woman from South Carolina who went to Jamaica as a social worker), doesnt grab you as instantly as 1980s Sinsemilia—but it does require a greater commitment.

By their very setup (two male Jamaicans and a female from Columbia University shouting and chanting over spasmodic rhythms), Uhuru is a radical ensemble—the group sounds, looks, even functions on the ragged edge.

On their songs, a piano is always banging and crashing intermittently, controlled by the formidable interplay between bass and drums. The vocals do not so much attempt harmony as they grope toward each other, often isolated, sometimes relentlessly defying any structure, thereby , implying daily hardships through such a struggle. Pumas vocals especially not only augment the others but seem to authenticate them, overseeing the meandering with the presence of a stable force.

Youth Of Eglington," the LPs passionate opener, creates a horrible picture of riot-torn Britain; the conditions are made to seem : even more hapless by the revolution fought between syndrums, piano, and vocals. On Journey," a ritualized chant invokes an ethical doom—here is preaching no less profound than the music of A1 Green or Bob Dylan.

Innumerable examples could be cited of Roses use of vernacular to shape tough, vital poetry, but a few unsettling lines from Puff She Puff will have to suffice:

Making love on hungry belly I couldnt cope too long With my bare long hands I am embarrassed most of the time

But its not no crime Children crying day and night, cant find mummy,

Like these lyrics Reds politics are not to be taken lightly, and like the best Jamaican artists, Black Uhuru are eloquent witnesses to a struggle they choose not ignore. Many reggae performers bastardize revolution into a capitalistic cliche (Inner Circle, Third World, and now, maybe Peter Tosh), but not Marley, not Kong and company, and, at this . remarkable rate, definitely not Uhuru.

Robert A. Hull