PRINCE

Controversy (Warner Brothers)

On his new album Prince is once again waving his cock in our faces, only this time he winds up with definitely premature ejaculation. Though there are a few hot flashes, most of the music is underdeveloped (there's a funky or rocking beat throughout but not much in the way of hooks), and his lyrics feature too much preachiness or plain clumsiness in with the pornography (which is what we paid our money for). On the Dirty Mind LP (his third) Princes nifty little mega-sexual persona made the rockcrit establishment cream, but the selfconscious contrivance of the worst parts of Controversy makes me think it all may have gone to his head.

Of course, a lot of that critical drooling was justified. After all, its not every day you get to see a squirt of mixed ethnic background show all America his under-alls while performing songs about fucking his sister and giving head. And—oh yeah—the music was real good too, very funkily performed live by a multi-racial, unisexual band, with princes silky, self-assured falsetto on top. The femme voice plus his forthright androgynous took made Prince a perfect glitter-style star. (Much more so than Adam Ant or any of those other new romantics who jerk off nightly to old pix of Ziggy Stardust.) In this Bruce Springsteen age, when all too many American rock stars seem like escapees from Shaeffer City, it was downright inspiring to see impish Prince flit around in his little flasher trench coat. Vocally, Prince may have a limited technical range, but with the material on Dirty Mind he managed to communicate both glitters sexually ambiguous carefree promiscuity andcommitted love— as in the catchy pop When You Were Mine, in which Prince sleeps in the same bed with his girlfriend and her other boyfriend just to prove how much he wants to be near her.

The album also had a strong sexas-politics angle. With his equal opportunity backup band, his incredible confidence and several well-placed lyrics, Prince made implicit in Dirty Mind that to him sexual openess equalled not only political freedom but also racial and religious unification —a likeably naive notion. On the new album he grossly overstates the case, as in Sexuality, we got a harangue when what we need is a hump. The music is OK funk-DOR, but Prince sets himself up as an oracle of the obvious with lyrics like: no child is bad from the beginning/they only imitate their atmosphere. He also tries to be more direct and worldly in Ronnie Talk To Russia, but the lyrics here are even more embarrassing, supported as they are by the dull kiddie sing-song music. Likewise in Annie Christian—the music is essentially just a tuneless rhythm track while Prince makes a pretentious attempt to be topical, alluding to the murders of John Lennon and the Atlanta kids along with—for some reason—Abscam.

Sometimes, when the lyrics are nifty, the music stinks, as in Jack , U Off. This demure ditty is filled with gems like if youre tired of masturbating little girl/ we can go on a date: or I only dp it for a cause/ virginity or menopause. But the music is pussy-whipped rock V roll with lots of creepy little electronic do-dads stuck on. The LPs lowest moment, though, is the seven minute Do Me Baby, a flaccid ballad in which Prince moans and wails, proudly displaying the limitations of his voice. The truth is, Princes yapping Terrier vocals have problems when not led around by proper, cant miss em hooks. And unfortunately only two songs (maybe three, if you count Sexuality) give him that direction. Private Joy is a neat piece of electro-studded funk and the title track has a beat as funky, a hook as hot and lyrics as good as anything on Dirty Mind. It may piss you off that the words chide us for being voyeurs of Princes life, (right after hes kidnapped us to the inner chambers of hjs libido) but his point is that his sex life would seem like less of a big deal if. wed all screw and tell like he does. Thats a nice notion and the great hook helps too. Its just too bad so much of the rest of the album misses its mark. Im still rooting for him though. With the Moral Majority looming in the background, Im a real sucker for the fucking equals freedom theme—at least when its done well. On Controversy, however, Prince is giving us too much fatty meat and not enough motion.

THEJ. GEILS BAND Freeze-Frame (EMl America)

On Freeze-Frame, The J. Geils Band indulges in some long-winded social protest, some pre-fab bluecollar rage (Beantown City Jukebruisers?), some soft-focus sentimentalism. These are not, it should go without saying, good reasons to have the Geils Band play at your college mixer. In their formative stage, they came across as a blustery alternative to the pervasive instrumental progressivism and upward mobility in rock lyric-writing. Now theyre making Stephen Bladds drums sound like electroartillery, and Seth Justman is writing lyrics like Sometimes I wonder bout these physical disorders/My only contact is with TV news distorters. This is not an advance.

There was something cheerily reactionary about doing Contours covers in 1971, believe me. Now I, •or even you, might wish for a little more houseparty harmony a la The Marvellos I Do (Monkey Island) from the Geils gang, but facts are facts, and purist white American R&B bands with featured harmonica have an average life-span of an NBC situation comedy (send your donations to the Charlie Musslewhite Foundation, Chicago 60609).

So if the Geils Band sold a piece of their soul for a co-op apartment in the House Of Hooks, who can say nay? You fell for the CHR (new record industry acronym: Contemporary Hit Radio) moves on One Last Kiss and Love Stinks. Admit it. At least after 11 years of on-artd-off-and-on success and no personnel changes (longer than the Dodger infield or the cast of Little House On The Prairie), they havent become a bunch of wheezing bores. Freeze-Frame may be fuzzy, but it isnt lifeless.

True, they have rarely been as plain awful as they are on River Blindness (one quatrain: Indications, demographics/Control of the basics is all you see/Correlations, disintegrations/Cessation of life expectancy) or Insane, Insane Again. True, the gotta-bust-outtathisnowherejobnowhereburgandrockandrollwithmyhotpatootie number, Rage In The Cage, is best left to bands who don't come from Boston (how about a protest song against the tenure system, or baseball owners who trade Fred Lynn to Anaheim). True, Peter Wolf is not a singer of limitless range, though he does manage a high note at the end of the LPs stringladen ballad, Do You Remember When.

In spite of all this, the Geils Band, and writer-producer-arranger-keyboardist Justman in particular, has learned some Secret Of The Relief Riff, the'ability to throw a vigorous piece of business into the most doomed cut. So the photography metaphor on the title cut doesnt work; the horns, the handclaps and diddle iddle it back-up vocals do. So the subject matter of Rage In The Cage is hackneyed; the fills on organ and percussion are fresh. In " the old days, maybe, the approach to a piece of hard rock like Flamethrower—shes a . working girl by day, heart-melter by night— would have been more loose and rowdy, less martial, but the combination of Magic Dicks harmonica and Bladds rigid drumming is still better than the material.

Best of all is Centerfold, a song that Lieber and Stoller would have been proud to give the Coasters. Its the latest Geils radio hit, and deservedly so. The premise is inspired: finding a picture of a high school crush in the middle of a skin mag (Those soft and fuzzy sweaters/Too magical to touch/To see her in that negligee/Is really just too much), and the treatment is pure novelty-rock. If Centerfold were typical of the J. Geils Bands humorock, things would be okeydokey. Unfortunately, their idea of funny more often leads to songs like the one that closes out FreezeFrame. The title: Piss On The Wall.

Mitchell Cohen

THE NEEDLEPOINT AND THE DAMAGE DONE

NEIL YOUNG & CRAZY HORSE Re-ac-tor (Reprise)

by Jon Pareles

Oh, boy—more of the same old stuff! Back-to-basics-mongers cant fault Neil Young; he never dispenses anything but. When he releases an electric LP like Re-actor, you can bet your Marshalls that every lick appears in the first 20 pages of any E-Z Method for Popular Guitar, Ages 12 and Up. Young hasnt learned a new riff since the 60s, and the ones he knew back then were already public domain. Re-ac-tor cranks up Chicago blues (Rapid Transit), boogie-woogie (Get Back On It),, country polka (Motor City), and heavier rewrites of The Loner (Opera Star) and Heart Of Gold (T-Bone). Since Young is Canadian, it all qualifies as traditional—and Crazy Horse are either too smart or too dumb to do anything but pound it out—but its also corn. And, as usual, Young gets away with it by acting like a perfect flake.

On Re-ac-tor, he goes for trick endings. Opera Star (You were born to rock/Youll never be an opera star) tapers off with a , soprano-register synthesizer note, as if Neil might just wanna be an opera star anyway.Rapid Transit-ra jumble of bureaucratic euphemisms, surf titles, and the observation that Every wave is new until it breaks—finds the band chugging along until someone plays a McGuinnish raga phrase and Neil yells Oh! Young knows his real fans will ponder each snippet, just as theyll try to decide whether the album title is about nukes, neoconservatism (reactionaries?), the Prez (re:actor?), or the creation of—ahem!—an artistic persona (see previous parentheses). The real loyalty test is T-bone: nine minutes, three chords, two lines of lyrics (Got mashed potatoes/Aint got no T-Bone), clunka clunka with handclaps, and the band nearly falling apart about 3Vz minutes in. How much does it mean? Well, maybe its topical. Maybe its a sop to the DOR trade. Maybe, since each verse repeats the two lines in different ways, all six verses duly transcribed on the lyric sheet, it means, that Neils gonna repeat himself as much as he damn pleases, fiddling with the details. Maybe he just cant get enough of those three chords. Or all of the above. Or none. But if Neils flaky enough to use T-bone as an object lesson, he may be flaky enough to intend Re-ac-tor as a concept album, a justification of his artistic strategy—i.e., the same old stuff with a vengeance.

That would explain the homily translated into Latin on the album cover—a saying that probably appears on eight out of ten American needlepoint samplers. It would also explain why most of the songs are about stayin put (Some things never change), a couple are about tryin to maybe move on (Think Ill get back on the highway) and Shots dead-ends both alternatives with paranoia. Since Neils a Californian, he heads for the surf when he wants a big metaphor; in both Surfer Joe And Moe The Sleaze and Rapid Transit, he seems to prefer going nowhere. The real California touch is that when Young wants to get all personal and introspective, he writes about a car. In Motor City, hed rather drive a jeep—no radio, no clock—than a Datsun (topical!!). Wow, and the jeep is a lot like Neils music, standard-issue and crude and dependable and noisy and tough. And old and slow, too, like the character in Southern Pacific whos watching the trains go by, but thats all right. The same old stuff is good enough for Neil, and if its not good enough for you, go turn on the radio in your Datsun.

JAMES BLOOD ULMER Free Lancing (Columbia)

Ulmer is a 39-year-old guitarist whos come up thru blues bands and organ/guitar trios, thru the Del Vikings and Dick Clarks Caravan of Stars, thru Ornette Coleman and harmolodics (a musical system which re-defines. both the basic approach to playing an instrument by putting the emphasis on the sound desired by the player rather than the sound predetermined by the physical structure of the instrument and the role of the player in a group by advocating the constant shifting of the roles of lead and rhythm), thru new wave venues and critics theses on punk jazz, to arrive at the hallowed Columbia House with, whatever you may think of the hype and theorizing, one of the most strikingly original sounds, in modern music. Its not every day that a major label does well by a major artist of an avantgarde persuasion and the reader is advised to take advantage of this quirk of capitalist realism...

Free Lancing features Ulmer in a trio (Amin Ali, electric bass; G. Calvin Weston, drums), a sextet (add David Murray, tenor sax; Oliver Lake, alto sax; Olu Dara, trumpet) and a quartet with background vocalists (you don't really want to hear any more names do you? O.K.) for a total of 10 cuts all hovering around 4 or 5 minutes, lengthwise. The mood is hot. The music is dissonant, fragmented, aggressive, rhythmically dense, lease breaking. One realizes, quickly, why Miles nixed Ulmer as an opening act at his Kool Jazz Festival return to the boards—after a set of Ulmers intensities, the anti-climactic aspect of Miles current band would have been especially apparent.

That said,, this - is not an easy album to get into. The dissonance, the fragmentation of Ulmers lines, the melding of lead and rhythm into one speedy chunka chunka can give the initial impression of a monolithic ugliness. Since, on first hearing, the music rarely does what you expect it to, this lack of conventional logic and beauty may seem like some sort of a deadend. But Ulmer is intentionally shaking things up, putting the starch back in the shirt as he says (I hate starchy shirts but its an apt metaphor for the kind of rigorous integrity he brings to free playing) to get to a voice beyond the conventional. Once past initial impressions, listen to the interplay—Ali and Weston are amazing, ringing myriad variations on repetitive funk riffing. Dig that Ulmer is dealing as much with textures as with the usual solo with rhythm backing and notice the energy and virtuosity—from the opening trio cut Timeless to a strange, strange song that sounds like its being played backwards, to the closer Happy Time, also a trio cut, a funny (as in ha ha) hoedown number for drunken one-legged gypsy miscreants, the invention never flags. Ulmer has more ideas than a typical issue of CREEM has typos (and Im talkin lots). [Fuck you, Richard!—Prooflitters] Three of the cuts feature his Hendrix-like vocals in a slightly less bizarre setting (the background vocalists are used sparingly with only a little of the customary ooh ooh punctuation) and the horns are a welcome addition (tho the short format doesnt allow them much stretching room), but its the trio thats dazzling here, offering a world of possibilities and some powerful music, top.

Its an intriguing album and Ulmer is definitely an artist for the times, whether he continues with Columbia or get sent back to the minors—cause even tho I hate all that music for the 80$ crap which has the hollow ring of a hook for writers with .more deadlines than ideas, still, this music is a needed antidote to present day strict time radio blandness—and the effort exerted while dwelling on new combinations and possible alternatives to prevalent forms is great exercise as we settle into the long haul of the Reagan era...a little music to subvert your doldrums. Try it.

Richard C. Walls

U2S LIFE DURING WARTIME

U2 October (Island)

by Laura Fissinger

I, for one, didnt give a hoot how anyone explained its significance to me. Most of it sohnded like someone had rediscovered (oh goody!) what recordings made in oil drums sounded like, and how nifty Lawrence Ferlinghetti could be if set to music. Maybe thats exaggerating, but I was ticked off. The best album of the batch was getting lost in long tomes about new psychedelia. Dublins U2 did sound like the Furs and the Bunnymen and all them, but U2 was good. Hard to explain. Born to the task, you might say.

Now Im panicked. October is a great record and I want to explain its significance. Tom Verlaine did it recently, too, with Dreamtime: and what do you say about albums that are written from the scratched-up underbelly of somebodys subconscious? And why isnt this the lead review in the section?

Actually Im glad I only have some 400-plus words to confuse myself with. The albums statement is incredibly clear, but its not a linear clarity that lies down and holds still for significant rock criticism. For that matter, sans lyric sheet (they must have known wed try), most of their words are anybodys guess. Better than an art critic would try to talk about it like a cycle of impressionist Irish angst-scapes. Archetypes and mental pictures follow each other like M.C. Eschers lizards. Weird little feelings take on the tasks of big, normal ones. There seem to be a lot of bulls-eye allusions to the war in Northern Ireland, and other running motifs: doors, windows and Other instruments of entrapment, standing up and falling down as per the psyches own vertiginous gravity; people too far away to listen, in three dimensions or otherwise. If Boy was about almost not being one of those anymore, October is the worlds next whap on the backside of the little tow head.

And then there's the Edge. Even last year it was obvious that he was going to match Verlaine for guitar heroism if he kept working at it. The fact that this record has better production, better songs, and more refined arrangements (piano, horns and some other stuff s been added) doesnt take the show away from him. Hes still spooky and a genius with rhythm, and now hes learning about silence. His delayed charge out of the break in Rejoice is so rightfully angry it stops my heart. Tomorrow is impossibly sad because the Edge already knows that most grownups are struck dumb in the face of such ferocious twists of the gut, and sos his guitar work. Its enough to say that the rest of the band is good enough to play with this guy.

Im beginning to explain this record, arent I? God forbid I should give someone the impression that its so significant it doesnt even rock. Forget you read all this. Okay? It rocks. Lucky for all of us, my space is up.

THE KNACK Round Trip (Capitol)

Trying to picture a Knackless universe is like trying to imagine a world in which there was no longer a need for rattles. If they didnt exist, a Stepford Knack would...no, that's not it.

Dodging all the surprises on the Knacks third album makes you feel like a blindfolded Mouseketeer on Anything Can Happen Day...too easy, try again:

A new Knack LP is as big an event as was televisions first dolphin... thats just silly, how about:

If you had a barrel full of dead cows and a bazooka and you were Bob Welch and it was Turkey Day...

Ah, forget it. Theres just no getting around the fact that these g;uys are the most hated band in America, Its not right either. They should only be the second most hated, right af(er Pablo Cruise.

Its mostly a case of backlash for coming along with too right of a sound at too right a time and place. While many people (me too) liked My Sharona the first forty billion times they heard it, the poor song was played to death in a manner about as appealing as being dwarfed. L. A.s answer to infinity.

Im here to tell all you actual headache sufferers that its now officially OK to like the Knack again. After their frankly appalling initial success, all the poor puds could hear was the crowd screaming Freeze! Freeze! like a workedup Price Is Right audience. Their second album caused mass amnesia, but now theyve come back with fuller sound and some halfway decent material.

Halfway because its all on side one. The little nippers score on five out of six tracks, which is a better pet. than you can expect from anyone these days. Some good pop, some successful Beatleswipe and Africa, a shockingly fine visitor from the Byrds slightly-jazzy 5D days (I See You, Rock & Roll Star) that sounds like an entirely different group.

Side two stinks.

Alright, up until now Ive tried real hard not to get on leader Doug Fiegers case but its no use. If its OK to like the Knack, its more OK than ever to despise Detroits own Dougy daddy./ Cant help it, I just plain hate the guys puss, from the urban coyote grin to the psycho chauffeur eyeballs. One of the most horrible thoughts I ever had was imagining that a comic book story Id just read entitled Theres Another YOU In Every Dimension was about Dougo.

As a final sight gag in this crass impersonation of objectivity, I was going to pass up my favorite part—assassinating the lyrics. Really I was, but Art War is just too...too...hell, see for yourself: No I don't give a shit about Warhol/And Oldenbergs really gone soft in the brain/Now Dali just wants to be cornholed/With those crutches he sold to Man Ray.

Now Dali just wants to be cornholed...if you ask me, Dougs been at the Snickerhol too long.

Rick Johnson

MADNESS 7 (Stiff America)

I suppose that the proof that Madness have handled the precarious business of being a teenybopper band with a measurable degree of humor, aplomb and commitment is that they were Britains top selling singles act of 1980. But Ive always found them underwhelming; Theres been a shallowness to their resolutely mindless persona, a lack of sensuality and tension in their songs, a gnawing presumptuousness to their here we are love us concert stance. Compared to other ska revivalists (the Beat, the Specials), their refusal to get tangled in the (inherent) roots of the genre theyd chosen stank of opportunism.

Except bands do change, and 7 finds the nutty boys changing from a childs delight to serious contenders, shelving their schoolkids-indisgrace wackiness while developing a very real ability to write witty, insightful vignettes with catchy, melodies. What great timing. People listen to Madness; they arent worried itll be another buncha armchair philosophers sprouting socialist polemics.

Musically, 7 is textured by the bands love of ska, given flesh by rhythms that slip through other genres—rock, reggae, jazz—whilst remaing a grandchild to Prince Buster. Its full of twisting tempos, soul blusters, derailed guitar, with a passion for care and surprises. Lee Thompson and Chas Smash ignite the trumpets and horns, giving a Goodmanish Swing feel to'Missing You, skipping round the rest of the band. Mike Barson shifts from solemn melody to boogie-woogie rave-up with a minimum of fuss, or plays a quasi-classica] downscale on Shut Up followed by C.J. Foremans guitar. Suggsy is Suggsy, he of the crisp, penetrating accent, always professional, an able singer, better on the up-tempo numbers.

Lyrically, this is way and above their best work to date. Calling these songs political might give them a Clash-like don't start the revolution without me connotation, so 1 wont. Madness write about what they know about— working class life in the UK—■ and they often write about it (Grey Day, Cardiac Arrest) with an eye to detail comparable only to Chris Difford. Theres also a wittiness here, something usually missing from songs about serious subjects these days. Suggs takes on different parts; observer, welfare doctor, small time hood, making the lyrics point of view through example rather than dogma. Promises Promises finds Suggs proposing marriage: Ill promise you a world of making amends/and on our anniversary Ill drive you round the bend. Shut Up has Suggs as a thief: Im as honest as the day is long/the longer the day the less I do wrong. A Day On The Town about London: Seeing the tourists step in your traps/taking their money, the shirts off their backs.

Ive always preferred my pop with an underlining point of view, a moral backbone (call it my 60s hangover). 7 is a triumph, it isnt all great by any. means, blit when Madness are at the peak of their power, the songs have immediacy, bright intelligence, complete faith in themselves. From out of the blue theyve become social commentators, and still fulfilled their obligations as teenyboppers and fun-filled clowns. This has come as a surprise to me, but Im willing to change my opinion and so should you.

Madness? Politics? Important? Its a sign of the times.

Iman Lababedi

QUARTERFLASH (Geffen)

Bet if youre like me, you made your definitive acquaintance with Quarterflash via the magic of radio. Sure, I received my album right off, but the whole concept struck rqe as so depressing that I was ready to can it in a snotty Rama at once.

Big publicity buzz accompanying the disc was that since David Geffen had signed only proven LenOnoEltDonna megastars to his label, ergo Quarterflash were potentially more of the same, even if they were unknown outside their native Northwest thus far. I sampled the record a bit, heard what seemed to be a hyper-commercial Benatar/ Nicks blend in Rindy Rosss lead vocals, and was certain that Geffen had bought himself a perfect neoFleetwood .Mac clone band to assuage his probably Gatsbian longings for those wonderful 70s (glorious decade when Geffens Asylum stable of sensitivo professionals ruled the pop charts).

Fortunately I never got my hatchet Rama on Quarterflash finished, as in the meantime I began to catch the group more and more often over my car radio. Id punch into the center of Harden My Heart or Find Another Fool, leave it on because I thought for a sec it was Pat Benatar, and then go on listening anyway when I realized it was that sneaky group Quarterflash again. Before long, Rindy Rosss quietly piercing vocals and sweetly licking & sucking sax had managed to tease every corner of my hard-boiled critics psyche, and I went back to the Quarterflash album for a really thorough look and listen.

With the result that Im certain that Rindy Ross is worth (my & your) whiles, yet still suspicious of Quarterflash as a concept (and maybe even as a group). The Benatar comparison is apt in more than an aural sense; Rindy Ross is a tough, intelligent woman whos probably experienced all gradations of the female-male confrontation, from under-my-thumbism upward, and is still struggling to assert her own confident self, as soon as she figures out just who that self is. Shes going to harden her heart, just as soon as She melts away all our (male) cares, with the sweet caress of her vocals.

At least Pat Benatar has a sympathetic band of males to frame her identity struggles; Rindy Ross sounds rather alone among her gang of guys, Rindys longtime Musical partner Marv Ross (her brother? husband? no relation?) wrote all her songs on this album, so even the ambiguities of her female assertiveness arent totally hers. Worse, Quarterflash was formed by .merging the Rosses original Seafood Mama with another Portland band, Pilot, and there seem to be some unregenerate male egos left lying around the newer group.

I take it youre attracted to Find Another Fool and Harden My Heart from the radio, same as me, so youll also like the albums other Rindy Ross showcases, such as Valerie (bumbling adolescent les-, bianism, in art school no less, sung in that big-eyed Rindian style no less), or Williams Avenue, a Rickie Lee Jones-romantic The moonwasbiggerinthe50scause-they-had-convertibles-then light jazzer. But steer completely clear of Critical Times, composition and vocal by one Jack Charles. Its just atrociously whiny FogeL bergian stuff—Im feeling self pity/ And yet/Still writing sadj stupid songs—which seems to have no thematic place on the album, except to prop up some males oh-so-tender ego, bruised by the realization that some women have got more rock balls than he does.

Pardon me while I slip into my Martin Luther habit, and tack up a list of demands on David Geffens redwood sauna door. How come that useless Jack Charles song had to be included? How come they had to scrap their catchy Seafood Mama name for the nondescript, sexless Quarterflash? How come there's no group photo on the jacket, or any other packaging clue that there's a full-blooded woman aboard? How come producer John Boylan had to bring in percussionist Paulinho da Costa (cleanup man on every halfassed album put out this year)? Cant you see that Rindy Ross has star potential far beyond all this compulsive Pacifica-culture goodoldboyism?

I cannot dp otherwise. Rindy Ross sounds so meltingly good on the radio that she should never be compromised.

Richard Riegel

OZZY OSBOURNE * Diary Off A Madman _(Jet)

What was that famous quote about when history repeats itself, the second run-through is a farce? I dunno, Im too lazy to go to the library and look it up. Besides, it wouldnt tell me what I really want to know. Which is: how ridiculous is the follow-up supposed to be when the first time around is a farce?

Case in point: Ozzy Osbourne. I never could figure out which member of Black Sabbath was funnier— Ozzy whining about his messed-up mind or Tony Iommi trying to chaise Eric Claptons tail into the land of Cream and Money. That Iommi was comparatively inept was obvious; that he was successful at it was equally so. My fave was bassist Geezer Butler—his throbbing drones virtually defined HEAVY and usually plodded along so slowly you could bang your head in time to them against blunt objects without damaging yourself too badly.

But now we have the new improved Ozzy. He has his proverbial shit together now—thats why he bites birds heads off at record company meetings. Hes never been into the occult—thats why he puts every cabalistic cliche in the book on his album covers. Ozzy Osbourne may be the biggest put-on in the history of rock n roll or he may be the only biggest jerk, but he does have charm—the smiley face painted on his knee on the front cover is my favorite thing on this album—and his fans love the fact that not only does he get away with being a nearly-out-ofcontrol jerk, hes become a star because of it. Is Ozzy really the heavy metal Steve Martin? Does it matter?

Oh, the music, right. Well, you know-^-its hard and crunchy and melodramatic and flashy and physical—with the ultimate result falling somewhere between Sabbath Mach I and middle period Queen.There really isnt a whole lot of difference soundwisebetween this album and Blizzard Of Ozz, ev?n though the rhythm section is now in the hands of Tommy Aldridge from the Fat Travers Band and Rudy Sarzo from Quiet Riot (and when are their Japanese LPs gonna get released State-side?) who rejoins his old bandmate Randy Rhoads. Since the keyboards are fading into the background, Rhoades lead guitar is maybe a bit more dominant and he proves that he can screech and squiggle with the best of em. *

To what end? To provide the proper sonic signposts for Ozzys latest muddled odyssey into the cobwebbed corners of his mind. I gotta give him Credit for having more staying power than many of his contemporaries—poor Alice— but I also gotta admit that I take what I read on the insides of matchbooks more seriously than anything I hear from this guy. Even when theyre blank.

Michael Davis

GRAND FUNK RAILROAD Grand Funk Lives! (Full Moon)

Damn right Grand Funk lives— and about time, too!

Its been five long years since the Funk split the scene with Good Singin, Good Playin—five years that saw the rise and fall of Punk, the rebirth of Heavy Metal, and the complete return of the 60s as witnessed by the resurgence of the Stones, Who, Dylan, King Crimson —even Mountain and Steppenwolf have gotten into the act again.

I mean, if youdve even suggested to me back in 1969 that these would be som6*of the names in the news in 1982, Idve asked you for the name and address of your dealer.

So, why not Grand Funk now? Makes perfect sense to me, as Im sure it did to Funkmeister Supreme Mark Farner, who felt the urge to split his 110 acre farm in Flint, Michigan and spearhead this reunion set with co-Funkster Don Brewer.

Of course, things arent exactly as they were back in 1976: gone are latecomer keyboardsman Craig Frost and original member Mel Schacher, both of whom are replaced by Lance Ong (occasional keys) and new bassist Dennis Bellinger who, judging from the back cover, looks as if he was born to be in Grand Funk from the word go (or play for the Yankees, take your pick).

Of course , things are exactly as they were back in 1976: the patented Grand Funk Capitol-era logo is back (and looks better than ever); Andy Cavaliere remains the Funks manager (he also co-produced the new set with Bob Destocki); Farners publishing company is still called Cram Renraff Co. (and youre still trying to figure out whatT.N.U.C. means...); and, if any further proof be needed that this is the Grand Funk that we all know and love, just check out the shoulder patch on Bellingers army togs the next time youre in a record store.

Musically, there aint a clinker to be heard on either side. Sure, it aint anywhere near up to scratch with former primo-prime G-funk albums like Grand Funk or Were An American Band but, make no mistake Jake, G.F.L. is no step backwards, either.

Every tune has something about it that demands another listen: the guitar hooks in Good Times; Dons drumming and Marks scorching solo in Queen Bee (produced by Thom Party Panunzio in Ann Arbor, Michigan—I tell ya, the Funk never forgets); the all-out funkiness of Testify; the contagious vocals on the chorus of Y.O.U.; the classic sound of Farners Wurlitzer on Stuck In The Middle...I could go on and on about how great this album is.

Not Great-great, not Art-great, but nice-to-have-around-to-listento great, if you know what I mean.

Earlier this year, I gave a copy of Grand Funk (the infamous red album) to a friend of mine as a wedding gift, and we spend the better part of an evening laughing ourselves silly at the sheer simplicity of songs like Paranoid. But, of course, we had the right to laugh because we grew up on that music, and we loved it that night as much as we did when we were going to high school.

So, basically, all Im asking you to do is give Mark, Don and Dennis a fair chance. The boys deserve no less, and neither do you. Now, more than ever, they make good on theft credo: Were an American band, were coming to your town, well help you party down.

Grand Funk lives!

Critics of the world, beware.

Jeffrey Morgan

LINDSEY BUCKINGHAM Law And Order (Elektra)

One way to assess the relative merits of any time frame is the measurable presence of oddballs. And, hey, its no secret that oddball content in rock has dropped to its lowest postwar levels of late. Plus, the problem is aggravated by the actual ravings of bogus oddballslike that Fripp chump, drips like Peter Gabriel and the all-night jive of Britains joyless division of gloom mongers. So, its in short supply. This oddball deposit. This eccentrics stockpile.

But. it really doesnt matter. Because one of the best oddball LPs of the last nine or ten years is out now. And Law And Order, at least from this quarter, more than makes up for the paucity of similarly bent discs. This is pure mutant pop like you wouldnt imagine—warped, subtle, provocative (is the character in Ill Tell You Now contemplating staying home from school/job or planriing on taking that big dive out the second story of Material World living itself?). Im still reeling from the awesome beauty and cosmo-headed wigsnap of It Was I, which, in addition to being positively addictive, proves the absolute immortality and endless applicability of stupid, r&r lyrics (these courtesy of late 1950s two-hit wonders Skip & Flip). And there's an endlessly mysterious reading, tongue not entirely cheek-buried, loaded with Santo & Johnny dreamwalk, of September Song, the all-time death ballad (Kurt Weill writ it, Jimmy Durante hit with it). (Plus, its on the same LP as Satisfied Mind...)

, I don't suppose there's time or space to get specific about every inch of this weird platter—like how or where or why it features the most offbeat perc work in woodstick history, or' how those billowy harmonies make Mary Lee Jones the logical update of The Lion Sleeps Tonight, how Thats How We Do It In L. A. is the strung-out second cousin of Long Tall Texan,or the way Bwana unites Brian Wilson with Africa as if it were perfectly natural. (The single, Trouble, is a precious distillate of the cool artesian water that ran through Sunflower itself, saved'and salved to yet another impenetrable songsubject.) Have I made myself clear?

Later for oball fakery. This is the real thing.

Gene Hipsomatic Version Sculatti