BLACKFLAG Damaged (Unicorn)

Lets face it. With the release of Damaged by primo hardcores Black Flag, we have now reached new levels in the annals of mindlessness. In olden days, mindlessness as a form surfaced in rock n roll as either purely exploitative maneuverings geared to the under 10 crowd (Witch Doctor," Yummy Yummy Yummy") or else as sheer, unbridled reckless crazy escape (Mellow Saxophone," Little Richards Ooh! My Soul!," Surfin Bird"). The boys of Black Flag, however, have managed to crawl a few steps further, since a) never before have we been sledgehammered into submission with mindlessness of such a vengeful nature and b) never before has this been done for no apparent reason other than to kill time. With these facts as given, and noting that while Rise Above," the albums lead-off track and anthemic statement of purpose that says everything thats on Black Flags mind (which aint saying much) and that the rest of the record simply regurgitates this theme over and over, that this record DOESNT EVEN BEGIN TO GET BORING UNTIL WELL INTO SIDE TWO (which is saying a lot)... well, what more can I say except that anyone interested in death, enslavement and the pursuit of fucked-upness is hereby directed to Damaged for a suitable unhealthy dose of noodnik nirvana that proves once and for all that, to some people at least, Sid Vicious and Darby Crash really did die for our sins.

I suppose its no real surprise that Black Flag comes out of L.A., that bastion of cultural activity, or that this album has appeared at perhaps the lowest point in rock n roll history since maybe Bobby Vees subbing for Buddy Holly the day after the plane crash in 59. I mean, having finally dispensed with the me" decade, is it not logical to assume that we enter the it" decade, which has gotten off to a rousing start, what with the never ending succession of electronic keyboard bands, tape loops, video games and, Im sure, more forms of microchip mentality? Black Flags version of this is the electric-guitarinsteadofsurfboardshavedhead-strong-body-sick-mind variation, in which, we are told, the six pack is to the punk what Calvins are to the body. Under the banner of anarchy—that most nebulous of movements—Black Flag champions the right of the individual (i.e., male) to negate himself as swiftly and economically as possibleguitarist/ leader Greg Ginn refers to this as re-evaluation," although the notion of infantile self-gratification seems more like it. Which is, I guess, exactly the point, since the only possibility for real change— both sociologically and politically— is to begin anew; in L. A.s case, this means the body smashing pit as substitute for womb, with the frantic physical activity and resultant carnage signifying the struggle of the pre-natal. (In this utopian universe, we can begin life as equals, and may the sharpest elbows and knees survive.) Thus, having circumvented these two elements of mindlessness mentioned at the top, Black Flag could well indeed, as the first postRamones punk band with any measurable degree of oomph, help forge a new party—the No Hope For The Wretched camp. (We may attribute all of this, according to one theory, to the perpetual California sun, since no one there wears hats, which means soft-in-the-headism runs rampant. Shaved heads only make matters worse.) The dBs are refugees from North Carolina whove been living in Manhattan for about four years. They sing love songs, singing about love as though its the most important thing in the world, and on their second album, Repercussion, almost all the songs are about love affairs on the verge of, in the middle of, or just finished breaking up. When people discuss the dBs they generally call them a pop group who write love songs but thats the wrong emphasis. The dBs write love songs using pop music as their idiom simply because its the best idiom in which to write about love, and its also one that the dBs understand well.

You will note on copies of this LP a sticker which says As a parent... I found it an anti-parent record," a quote from the MCA exec who refused to distribute Damaged, leading to its total indie status. Well, I urge all you parents out there to be brave and go ahead and play it for your kids, just so youll know what youll be up against sometime soon. Namely a generation of kids who know deep in their hearts that theyll never overthrow authority figures (as singer Henry Rollins states on Police Story"—They hate us, we hate them...we cant win."), that everything in their decrepit existence to come will be awful (as noted by titles like Thirsty And Miserable," Depression," Padded Cell," Life Of Pain," and the twins, Damaged I" and Damaged II"), and that the smart thing to do is just get drunk (Six Pack"), turn on the tube (TV Party") and yell Gimme Gimme Gimme" (Standing here like a loaded gun ready to go off/I got nothin to do but shoot my mouth off"). Whats that? Sounds like everything you felt as a kid yourself? Well, you know what they say—the more things change, the more they stay the same. Only louder.

THEdBs Repercussion (Albion import)

A couple of years ago some magazine (probably Cosmopolitan) ran a survey claiming that the average Manhattan love affair lasts three weeks. Three bloody weeks. You cant even cancel a TV show in three weeks, but this town messes up so badly the average couple meets-falls-in-love-breaks-up in just about that time span.

For the dBs love isnt a cliche or just a dream; its something to strive for, and the lack of it can be a matter of life and death (sometimes literally, as in Amplifier": A man went home and killed himself last night/she took his everything"). Being loved and returning the love, even transiently, are the moments of your life worth treasuring, the times when you feel truly good. And the rest of the time your emotions are in flux, but that is the blood of love, in the real world; you cant have one without the other.

The music guitar/keyboard player Peter Holsapple and guitarist Chris Stamey write reflects the turbulence of the feelings they describe; the songs structures are elliptic, bopping and weaving, stopping and starting, the fractured rhythms and shifting focus describe aurally the switching of moods; without ever forgetting memorable melodies. If you like, the dBs make de-harmonized harmony.

And, when the dBs finally write a song where the protagonist has his love returned, the end result is a song like Nothing Is Wrong." The tempo is slow and dreamy, the track itself gorgeous, Holsapple on keyboards and Gene Holder building a luscious melody into an overwhelmingly complete moment.

Ive spent much time trying to figure out why I adore the .dBs so much and I think its because of the humanity (soul) in their music. In a dBs song theres a sense of fragility, of realism, and of unity in the universality of experience. The only band I can think of with similar ideas, goals, and chops is, I guess, Squeeze (and, Costello; its no coincidence one song here is called From A Window To A Screen"). Like Squeeze, the dBs have an eye for the details of life, and like Costello the care isnt only in the composition.

For me, its simply amazing that the dBs are not more popular. Their songs are catchy and clever, their lyrics have a sharp edge to them, they are never slovenly and they put so much care into everything they do it shines right through. But their image is intangible, and both the hip parade and the mainstreamers want bands that are easy to slot into a hole and keep there.

Anybody who ignores the dBs is doing him or herself a disservice. In this crazy old world those fleeting moments of happiness make it all worthwhile. Repercussion will help you savor the good times, aid you in getting through the bad. Thats what makes pop music special and thats what the dBs do best. Who could ask for anything more?

Iman Lababedi

MEL, KISS MY GRITS

THE WAITRESSES Wasnt Tomorrow Wonderful?

(Polydor)

by Laura Fissinger Somewhere in this album is an ALBUM, but we couldnt find it. We sorta liked it and we sorta didnt. Not being ones to pass judgement in times of confusion, we asked around. These are the answers we got.

Waitresses? With only two women in the: band? They should have called themselves the Waitrons."

—Gloria Steinem (I) write songs for and about women from a womans standpoint ...(the Waitresses) have created a universal project. A man writing for a woman equals a universal."

—Chris Butler, Waitress from the Polydor biography. Hey. Not only do they sometimes sound like us, they get more tips." —the Bus Boys

Just okay, I guess. ËœWise Up sounds a little bit too much like Remain In Light." —David Byrne Not a bad record, I suppose. ËœWise Up sounds a little too much like Discipline." —Robert Fripp Some of the tunes really meander, you know? They need an editor." —the Ramones

Im so sick of other girl singers that sound like me, I could just die. I dont want to hear any more singers that sound like me. NO MORE. NONE." -Debbie Harry In a few spots they sound like me, which is fine. 1 dont give a shit." —Frank Zappa

ËœHeat Night sorta sounds like me. A little sax, you know, the bit about the night, some of the chords, yah. Well, thats okay. Then again, it sounds a little like Frank Zappa, too."

—Bruce Springsteen ËœQuit sounds a little like us. The lyrics sound more like the Talking Heads, not Dead Heads. Hey, you know, the whole tune moves a little too fast for my taste."

—Jerry Garcia

Theres about three or four little spots where their harmonies are like ours. The rest of it is infernal noise, but those harmonies, now thats music. What ever happened to music, anyway?"

—the Andrews Sisters I heard ËœI Know What Boys Like. The hell she does. The chicks a wise-ass ball buster. What ever happened to girls, anyway?"

—a boy

I heard ËœGo On. The chick knows how it is. I typed it up and sent it to my old boyfriends. All of em." —a girl

Hey, the chick knows how it is. Get this chorus: ËœLook at the butt... pussy strut." —Prince

This is just another left-wing band. ËœRedlands makes fun of democracy. I think those children should be glad that they live in America. Of course, its harder to get on the dole in Ohio than in Brixton. But thats what these rockers always try to do."

—Margaret Thatcher ËœNo Guilt is the thinking girls re-write of ËœI Will Survive."

—Bella Abzug So Ill stop being clever and just say it straight I guess I set impossible goals and Idont know when to quit Is that it?" —from Jimmy

Tomorow" by Chris Butler

THE BLASTERS (Slash)

Dave Alvins cast of characters includes an abandoned woman who dials a radio request line at midnight, a G.l. in Germany who craves the sound of U.S. rock n roll, a girl who plays on her porch and lets the lure of the city drive her away. They sit in diners, escape into beds and onto highways. But this isnt modern dead-end rock where the frustrations of common folk are elevated into sweaty mythology; the Blasters play a breathlessly energetic kind of rockabilly, and if the people who live in their songs lack a certain amount of luck, they havent given up. Theyre stuck, for the moment, but theres another moment around the corner. As the protagonist of So Long, Baby, Goodbye" says as he packs up and heads out, We both asked for something we never could get." That doesnt mean it isnt out there, somewhere.

Actually, rockabilly" doesnt quite say it. Not unless your definition can encompass, as the Blasters music does, Jimmie Rodgers yodel and Bo Diddleys frantic strumming and Huey Piano" Smiths barrelhouse boogie and Chuck Berrys narrative fluency. Theyre proficient at slap-happy rock—the verses of No Other Girl" are first cousin to Presleys (through Leiber and Stoller) (Youre So Square) Baby I I Dont Care"—and at straightish I blues like Highway 61." And : theyve already gone so far past | their roots that the cover versions on this album slow down the action; if anything, theyre too faithful, too careful. When they. do an Alvin original that takes off from a Berry (Back In The U.S.A.") construction, American Music," theyre packing a unique viewpoint into a frame on the verge of cracking. When they approach Rodgers Never No More Blues," or the funny, jittery Im Shakin" by R&B - composer Rudy Toombs (of One Mint Julep" frame), the admiration, the inclination to do right by the source, gets in the way.

Alvin, the composer and lead guitarist, has already been compared to John Fogerty (to add to the parallel, the band includes his brother Phil on lead vocals, guitar and harmonica), and he shares with Fogerty an approach to American idioms that is observant and affectionate. Hes written a few little (literally little: only one song cracks the three minute barrier, and some of the best are only a few squeaks over 120 seconds) classics that appear on The Blasters. 'Marie Marie" and This Is It" are both urgent expressions of the old, and ever revivable pitch: get up off your duff, lady, and join me in a run to the good life (Marie finds the offer resistible, which makes the song irresistible). No Other Girl" is a tale of a philanderer afraid to go home, not because his girl wont forgive him, but because she will, and he doesnt deserve such moral charity.

The Blasters hit their stride, and sum up D.Alvins attitude towards rock as a connective force, on Border Radio" and American Music," side-by-side slam dunks. They manage to tell a story, set a pace, and put across a credo. On Border Radio" the woman sends out a desperate signal over the airwaves: This song comes from 1962/Dedicated to a man whos gone/50,000 watts out of Mexico/ This is the border radio." The boy on leave in West Berlin hears American Music" and is stopped in his lonely tracks. Its cultural chauvinism, and its a description of the musical melting pot that the Blasters are trying to create: Its a howl from the desert/The screams from the slums/The Mississippi rolling/ To the beat of the drums."

Compression is the hallmark of the Blasters style, a succinctness found not only in the D. Alvin songs and guitar runs, but in the P. Alvin harmonica bursts, Gene Taylors piano comping, and the judicious use of guest saxophones. Like Joe Ely, they go beyond homage, mimickry and gimmickry posturing to the core of rock experience. The Blasters isnt as good as the Blasters will be—side two, with only a pair of Alvin originals, gets a touch sluggish—but any band that has songs with lines like these doesnt have to worry about its future:

She calls toll free and requests an old song/

Something that they used to know...

She thinks of her life and hopes for a change/

While listenin to the border radio."

Mitchell Cohen

DEL SHANNON Drop Down And Get Me (Network/Elektra)

Quick. What do Del Shannon and the Ramones have in common? Give up? Both indulge in an occasional fondness for accelerating interpretations of the work of past blast masters like Bobby Freeman.

Quicker. What do Jeff Lynne and Tom Petty have in common? Give up again? Theyre both 70s phenoms with occasionally successful strangleholds on 60s revisionism. Plus they worship the ground) that Del Shannon once trod on so emphatically when he was quite driven to keep searchin for his little runaway.

Well, a proposed Jeff-Del collaboration fizzled out some years back but a Petty-produced Shannon comeback is at last upon us with Tom playing Springsteen to Dels U.S. Bonds albeit to a much lesser, unobtrusive degree. He even brought the Heartbreakers with him who sound a lot tighter here than on Hard Promises.

The bad news first. Theres nothing here to match the desperate propulsion of Shannons early 60s stuff. The kiss-off vengeance of something like Hats Off To Larry" is nowhere to be found.

SILENT RUNNING

JOY DIVISION Still

(Factory Records import)

Before I listened to Still for the first time I was wondering how much attention I should pay to the fact that Ian Curtis, Joy Divisions singer and lyricist, had killed himself. Ive read many reviews of the band that concentrated more on his personal tragedy than on the bands music. My decision was made for me. The first lyric that breaks out of the murky mix of Exercise One," the albums first track, has Curtis moaning One last ride before the end of it all... " while the band drags the tune down a long battered hallway to a foregone fate. Every track on the first side of the album makes explicit references to selfdestruction. Underlined by the bands industrial guitar overtones and the disjointed rhythm section, fragments of Curtis tortured psyche bob to the surface, gasp for air, and vanish. This is not, you can see, merely light entertainment.

The first two sides of Still collect rare singles, B-sides, and out takes from Joy Divisions two LPs that span the life of the band. Although they dealt with anger, desperation, loneliness and an almost neurotic self-examination from the first, the early tracks (Glass," They Walked In Line") sound more or less normal," with guitar, bass and drums chugging spiritedly along behing the singer. The band soon met dark production genius Martin Hannett at Factory Records and the Joy Division sound" arrives fullblown on Dead Souls" on a subliminal level, you have .taped I sounds of screaming and breaking glass that are slowed down to a disturbing whine, a backdrop of almost painful gray noise. On top of this the band plays and the singer pleads for mercy. Multi-tracked guitars and washes of synthesizer occupy the middle ground in back of which the bass and drums fight over the beat. Then theres Curtiss voice, something else again—you can almost hear his personality disintegrating before your very ears. The hopeless passion of his vocals and the doomed poetry of the lyrics examine emotions too much that most people would rather ignore, its as if hes prying off the top of his skull to let the world in on his personal angst. One has to admire his courage, but at the same time you cant help but feeling like some kind of psychiatric voyeur. The combination of Curtiss persecuted wail and the relentless pulse of the music creates a tension that is never released. Track after track, the music pushes toward a conclusion that is hinted at but never directly articulated. The only glimmer of light on the first two sides is a live version of the Velvet Undergrounds Sister Ray." After the tag line I had a good night" is chanted into an incoherent coda (I had a good life, good knife, wife, lice, light, etc.), Curtis laughs aloud and mumbles to the crowd. Hey, ya •oughta hear our version of ËœLouie, Louie."

The second record is a set of Joy Divisions hits, recorded before a live crowd at Birmingham University in 1980, shortly before the second album Closer and Curtiss ultimate statement. In my mind Joy Division had always existed in something of a vacuum. The individual tracks on Closer and Unknown Pleasures sometimes seem too real, too perfect to have been created by mere humans. They sound so much like the sounds Ive heard inside my head at certain times Id rather forget that I couldnt see them being played at a concert. Visions of a room full of suicide monks in shapeless, colorless robes weeping silent tears in time to the band was what Id imagined. People writing songs like Shes Lost Control" and Isolation" surely must stay at home, even on the gloomiest evenings. What a surprise to hear the crowd screaming, whistling, clapping and calling out for their favorite tunes.

Stripped of everything but the moment, the band pushes hard and out on the edge is Curtis; sobbing, screamirig, lamenting his lack of feeling, protesting some real or selfimposed degradation, making art out of humiliation. The songs that later appeared on Closer were probably being worked out at this gig and its interesting to note how close to the final studio tracks they are. Joy Division knew what they wanted and they went after int without any frills or excess baggage. This is as close to raw emotion as youre able to get, maybe closer than anyone who wants to survive is comfortable getting.

Like their other albums, Still isnt a record that one puts on for background noise while rolling a joint or getting ready for a big Saturday night. This is bleak music that finds its own particular heroism by going on against all odds. When I first heard Joy Divisions Unknown Pleasures l wondered how Curtis could last if he really was feeling all of thise things he sang about. I guess he couldn't, but before he died he helped to create a body of work that will haunt me for a long, long time to come. If youre not afraid to look into the heart of darkness, Joy Division will show it to you. Good luck.

NEW ORDER Movement (Factory)

by Robert A. Hull

What the despondency of Joy Division hath wrought! Ian Curtiss sujcide seems to have motivated the band he left behind to reach higher. Whereas Curtiss voice was often as heartfelt as Frank Sinatras (listen to the Shes Lost Control"/ Atmosphere" 12-inch for some truly chilling moments), you usually never got a sense of Joy Divisions intentions outside of Curtiss personal angst.

Giving the once-over to New Order,' the phoenix rising from the ashes, is not easy. Bernie Albrecht, Curtiss vocal replacement, cannot really sing so much as he can chant and mutter; further, the band does not create songs so much as it transfixes with sound. Yet the rebirth tag is apt: rarely has a rock bands name promised so much— and then delivered.

In New Orders music, you will certainly hear the Velvet Underground, Public Image Ltd., and Roxy Music, but none of these are clear-cut references. Lyrics are tossed out in unintelligible asides, usually whispered, as if directed not at the listener but at the inner soul of the singer himself; behind this, noise constantly erupts and shifts— synthesized effects, whirring gobbledegook, wild atonal racket. The lyrical and musical fragments are like scattered clues, the final mystery being New Order.

Sense," meaning," reason"— these are the words that surface •most frequently in the bands music, but they do not express what ultimately emerges, what comes across but is never disclosed: passion, love, and disorder. This is music to be felt, and the more you hear it, the more it gains in momentum.

The art here is transparent; the ideas of the lyrics say very little beyond their literariness: I watched my life in a trance," white circles, black lines surround me," a day begins, collapsing without reason." In short, New Order thrives on paradox, striving for the structured or the arty (the very physical design of Movement denotes a desire to be considered classical") yet shaping music too raw and furious for such pigeonholing. The band desperately wants to be appreciated in intellectual terms, but there is no evidence that they can cope with this wish. Their power, therefore, derives from this self-conscious disguise: that is, the pretense of their art cannot hide the art of their pretense.

As the LPs title reveals, New Orders music is nothing less than movement, the sound of determination. On Dreams Never End," hypnotic rhythms coil beneath a deathly chanting voice which, though the mesmerism of the persistent drone, suggests that love will not tear us apart but pull us back together. On all the songs, the seemingly monotonous backdrop of bassist Peter Hooke and drummer Stephen Morris provides a controlled tension thats only broken by the shattered-glass guitar work. Never has solemnity sounded do loud; never has introspection seemed so brash.

Moreover, as on Chosen Time" or Denial," the hooks invariably grab you into the song, and its no exaggeration to say that the guitar leads often allude to the traditional formula of American 60s punk. In fact, buried on the b-side of their most recent single (Procession") is a song called Everythings Gone Green," a masterpiece worthy of the Electric Prunes or Balloon Farm. So hot is this recording that the vocalist emits an exuberant whew!" during the fade.

As good as Movement is (and perhaps to completely understand the albums power, it should be heard in conjunction with Joy Divisions Still, from which it evolved), there is nothing on this extremely rewarding album as breathtaking as New Orders Ceremony," a 12-inch single released in 1981. Here, Albrechts amateurish voice deeply contrasts with taut, razor-edge rock always on the verge of escaping its moment of impact. Music this tough and uncompromising has not been heard since the very early days of English punk (as a record like the Buzzcocks Twelve Reasons bootleg attests). Heaven knows, its got to be this time," sings Albrecht, not with the irreversible torture and anguish of his predessor, Ian Curtis, but with an entirely different attitude: to keep going, to keep trying, to maintain the momentum. Which is what Movement is about.

The good news is that taken by itself, beyond the realm of remember-when comparisons, Drop Down And Get Me is pretty damn good. Most of the cuts are placed in mid-tempo grooves so that the brooding ruminations are able to build at a steadily absorbing pace. The one song that puts it to the floor (Midnight Train") is the last successful.

Among the best are Life Without You" and Sucker For Your Love." On the former, Shannon sounds so bleakly abandoned when he sings I cant make it on my own" that hes got you aching to see loving arms entwined around him. On the latter I coulda sworn he was forcefully intoning suckin in your life" until I consulted the lyric sheet, where its a second in your life." I like my way better but I wouldnt change one iota of Mike Campbells splendid Byrdsian guitar break.

In addition to seven Shannon originals there are a trio of remakes, two of which show that he hasnt lost any of his ability in the morethan-interesting-remake dept. Don Everlys Maybe Tomorrow" gets a somewhat nondescript treatment, but the Stones should have no complaints about Out Of Time." And whereas Jagger opted for all-out derision, Shannons cut-tothe-quick vocalizing suggests reservoirs of sympathy ready to flow through the floodgates. Nice twist. Even better is Sea Of Love" which, for my moolah, actually cuts the original by Phil Phillips. A great choice for a single, Del goes from smouldering longing on the verses to pure unleashed yearning on the choruses.

Its been eight years since Del Shannon had something besides a Greatest Hits set released in this country (seek out 1973s overpowering Live In England). Thats a crime and Shannons still vital and we need to hear from him again real soon. Hes been out walking through the fog and the rain for much too long.

Craig Zeller

BUSH TETRAS Rituals (Stiff EP)

ROMEO VOID Never Say Never (415 EP)

Lotsa surface similarities here which is why theyre crammed together. Both are four-song EPs on independent labels; both are produced by legit rock stars (Topper Headon and Ric Ocasek). Both bands are fronted by women— three out of the four BTs are femmes, actually—and both are making a lotta noise in their respective hometowns (New York and San Francisco). Since I live near L.A., 1 aint about to be spreading any local-band-about-tobreak'-big hoo hah about either of em, but I have seen more than a few successful club bands fail to make a viable transition to vinyl, much less national acceptance.

Its easy to hear why the Bush Tetras work as a live proposition. Their funk grooves are strong and Cynthia Sleys moaning, droning vocals effectively establish a worldweary, pissed-off persona. But these people cant write songs. Melodies range from monotonous to nonexistent, and the lyrics seem carelessly contrived—lines like, You cant be a lover if youve got no control/You cant be funky if you havent got a soul," wouldnt even make it to George Clintons garbage can. Futhermore, former Contortion Pat Places guitar, which helped make the Tetras early 45s sound promising, has retreated into the mix. In short, this may be the first record to make you dance and fall asleep at the same time. Zombie funk, anyone?

Romeo Void are a whole nother ball of flesh. Theyve always had good songs; what their debut LP lacked was an attention-getting sound. Ocasek has solved that problem by tightening things up, and if that means the rhythms are a little constricted for my taste, it also means that theyre radioable and that this stuff deserves to be heard.

The band sounds sorta like a cross between the Cars and the Psychedelic Furs here, as saxman Benjamin Bossi supplies direct emotional counterpoint to vocalist Deborah Iyalls more subdued approach. Billie Holiday has been mentioned more than once in connection with Iyall but I hear an equal amount of Patti Smith—in the unforced urban imagery, the tones of voice, the slurred wordspew that alternates with more melodic moments, and the strength and resilience behind her acceptance of her own weakness.

The tunes themselves all work. The ones on side one are mainly concerned with the usual lust/ emotion/ego mismatches but they come across convincingly. The hypnotic refrain, I might like you better it we slept together" of Never Say Never" finds Debbie in fine whine, but I prefer the following In The Dark," where lover and confidante roles get really messes up. This is not my idea of a good time," indeed. The kicker, though, is Not Safe," real matter-of-fact, back-of-the-bus, down-On-yourluck stuff. It all bubbles to the surface—hunger, pride, will to survive, and maybe a little warning hidden in there somewhere. This is the tune that should be all over the airwaves; maybe if enough bornagain White House budget-watchers heard it...

Never, you say? Well, never aint good enough. Maybe,..

FRANK SINATRA She Shot Me Down (Reprise)

If, as the theory goes, theres a little bit of Van Halen in everyone come Saturday night, then you can safely bet your last dollar bill that theres more than a little Frank Sinatra in everyone come the next morning.

Ever get up on a Sunday morning surrounded by the unholy architecture of empty bottles, crumpled cigarette packages and assorted scraps of cold food?

Alone?

After being given the gate by your gal the night before?

Then step right up, pal, and have a seat—Frankies got a couple of little stories he thinks you should hear. Ten of them, in fact.

In 1959, Capitol released a Sinatra album called No One Cares. On the cover, a fedora topped, trenchcoated Frankie sat at a bar all by himself (save for a glass of whiskey and a cigarette) while a room full of revelers made merry behind his back.

Twenty-two years later, the cover of She Shot Me Down is a clever update: theres Frankie with the glass and the butt—however, this time around, there isnt even the comfort of having ^myone else in the room.

Of course, were talking Saloon here. And if The Voice isnt what it used to be, youve got to give The Man his due for having what it takes to stick to his musical code.

At165, Sinatra sings better than you or I could ever hope to—even if he does have audible trouble navigating around the lower register these days.

Unfortunately, the lower register is where most of the songs on She Shot Me Down lie. Although Don Costa is a superb producer, his one arrangement here on the album, along with the remainder of those done by Gordon Jenkins, leave a lot to be desired.Compared tc> Nelson Riddles, Costas comes across too busy and overblown.

Maybe Im biased, but the medley that Riddle does arrange here (the finale of The Gal That Got Away"/It Never Entered My Mind") stands out as the albums cleanest and most concise musical moment—not to mention its sexiest. Unlike Costa (who is fine oh a brassy number like New York, New York"), Riddle seems to instinctively know how to get the best out of Sinatra when it comes to singing the kind of low-key songs featured on She Shot Me Down— which is to say, when Sinatra sings Riddle, the seams dont show.

Unfortunately, for the most of the i album, the seams do show. More 'than ever, you can actually hear Sinatra struggle to hit those elusive lower notes.

Still, the final result is more than listenable—and if something like Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)" sounds a little ill-fitting on the man, just remember how sillier Frankie sounded in the past singing Somethin Stupid," Something" and even Strangers In The Night" —and suddenly the end result is nowhere nearly as embarrassing as it couldve been.

It all comes together on side two, anyway. Hokey as something like Monday Morning Quarterback" may sound initially (lyric-wise), its to Sinatras credit as a singer that he manages to pull an aura of dignity out of the song. By the time Gordon Jenkins I Loved Her" rolls around, youre ready for your third double. And Ive already mentioned the killer finale, a triumph so total it more than makes up for the slightly shaky reading Frankie gives Thanks For The Memory" on the previous side.

So forget the orchestrations ■(which are a little loud) and the voice (which is a little ragged), and just let the whole sound merge into pure emotion, the level on which She Shot Me Down worked the best.

The title track aside, theres none of the sickly pop here that marred so many of Frankies 60s discs, so rejoice because, for all us old romantics with nowhere to go after last call, this is probably the closest were going to get to a new Sinatra Saloon album for at least another 22 years (or closing time, whichever comes first).

Besides, come . next Saturday morning, chances are youre not going to be in any shape to listen to every note that Frank sings anyway —and, under those conditions, I get the feeling that this album} is going to sound just fine.

I cant wait to hear it.

8-EYED SPY (Fetish Records import)

Ill make this short and sweet, which is certainly appropriate. 8Eyed Spy existed for roughly a year and in that time was heard by the usual suspects on N.Y.C. and a modest number of hip and/or curious folks elsewhere. Those of us who stayed home have real reason to regret our laziness or suspicions (There are no excuses. Doctors notes will not be accepted.) because on the scant evidence of this single, patched-together import album it is clear that the short-lived 8-Eyed Spy was the first great band of the 80s. I suspect that the record will sound even better, more important —even seminal—as the decade rolls on a bit. Im talking Fools Hall Of Fame, right up there with the Velvets and the Dolls.

The band was fronted by Lydia Lunch, one of the ten most anomic individuals in the known world who, as the NO-torious T.J. of Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, achieved a sort of renown for the shortest sets in show business. The late George Scott, who played bass with the Contortions, and guitar & sax man Pat Irwin, now of the Raybeats, are the only other Spies you might have heard of—guitarist Michael Paumgardhen and drummer Jim Sclavunos had never been guests on Hollywood Squares—but then who had ever heard of Sterling Morrison?

8-Eyed Spy, the LP, is split between an eight-song live side recorded (after a fashion) at several different gigs and gamely reprocessed" by Chris Stamey, and a five-song studio side recorded after the death by heroin overdose of master bassist Scott. Poor club sound notwithstanding, the live takes are wonderfully vital, full of an utterly unique combination of highly evolved and passionate musicianship, full frontal assault and, incredibly, deft wit. Lydia admonishes the audience to listen real carefully...this is a ballad..." and then begins Get You Me B-Side," an ominous, quasi-poetic declamation complete with ...Sing along, sing along..." teasing. The covers are both funny and in character: Lightnings Girl," a Nancy Sinatra Death-is-the-wagesof boorishness gem; the Strangeloves amateurish, 1 Want Candy" sounding perfectly amateurish; and an impromptu deadpan (La Lunch is always deadpan) White Rabbit" that serves as a perfect throw-away ending. The bands playing was so much better than it needed to be to get them on the cover of NME that it takes my breath away. Motor Oil Shanty" builds from a thick funky carpet to an improbably Accurate Venturesish guitar solo, Maintaining My Cool" rocks hard and true, and You Twist, I Shout," (What a title!) with its braying chorus and harrowing lyrics, takes the notion of incompatibility to new heights.

The sound is so much better than that on the live side that comparisons dont make sense, and without power forward Scott the team is substantially weakened. Still, Lydias brutal way with an echo chamber, the bands dissonant crunch on Diddy Wah Diddy," and the superior, right-at-the-limits-of-adhesion ensemble playing all combine to make you believe in short-handed scoring. The six minute version of Run Thru The Jungle" is that rarest of rock steals: a Creedence cover as good as— though drastically different from— the original.

This is not hyperbole. You will be listening to long-winded bands track down pieces of 8-Eyed Spys collective vision for years to come, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, etc. My advice is: start here. Right now.

Jeff Nesin

SOFT CELL

Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret (Sire)

Wow—a trendy electronic dance band that isnt awful! In fact, theyre pretty good. Most of these not-sonew fangled computerized groups sound just fab in the clubs where the DJs only play their catchiest singles, greatly enhanced by the sound system. But once you get em home and slap on the whole LP its as dreary as a group grope between Atari Space Invaders games and Intellivfsion. Whats lacking in designer robot bands like Depeche Mode, Orchestral Maneuvres In The Dark, the latest Kraftwerk or even the less synthetic DOR kooties like Duran Duran or Spandau Ballet (besides consistently hot material) is something the ancients used to call personality."

Enter Soft Cell. They may not light up the sky with personal depth but at least they reveal something "worthwhile about themselves and pull a few musical moves you werent expecting. Like tossing a flashy sax into the programmed mix of Frustration" or letting a clarinet goose you in Seedy Films" or having a bunch of hyped-up female backup singers egg on the protagonist in Entertain Me." Also the synths themselves are all dark and slinky. A few songs seem samey but most hooks are sharper than the current competition. And then theres the voice of Marc Almond— not to be mistaken for Mark-Almond, which the truly perverse will remember was actually two people, in fact it was an entire band starring" (Jon) Mark and (Johnny) Almond. This Almond has a pretty good 60s pop voice, with sustain and clarity and sometimes a touch of schmaltz. Best is his croon on the big Brit hit Tainted Love," which sounds kinda like a lost Zombies smash with the moody keyboard undertone of Time Of The Season" plus a bit of Yardbirds For Your Love" in the background vocals.

The weird part (meaning sort of good and sort of bad) comes when Soft Cell plunge the purity of their pop frontman into the grime. Almond sings about perversity, impotence, porn flicks and sex with midgets. Hey—its a concept album! In fact, its a thematic cycle, beginning with Joe Average dreamfing of burning down his place of employment, taking LSD, porking Bo Derek, and doing all he can to set a bad example." From there all the songs are about characters living out their fantasies and obsessions with consistently disastrous results, ending in the lovely Say Hello, Wave Goodbye," where the character kisses off a life of orgasms-with out-resolution and seeks out a nice little wife wholl give me a steady life." And to complete the picture, this last plot shift is underscored by a neat-religious keyboard. But just so you dont think Almonds too puritanical—turn the record over and the frustrating desire to break out of conventional life starts all over again.

Some of the imagery throughout all this is forced to be sure (Sex Dwarf" for one) and the simultaneously desired and loathed lurid details often dont seem completely felt. Bets are Almonds been cruising Bryan Ferrys street life for years, hoping to capture the thrill (and pain) of it all. But as likeable moody as the music is, Almonds slick, pretty voice doesnt bring off all the ambiguity hes after. And he can also come off too condescending (Seedy Films"). But that doesnt make him a complete poseur. His voice is credibly forlorn and songs like the catchy Bedsitter" do capture a momentary depression from a bad string of tricks and cruising. And in another track theres a refreshing moment of self-awareness where he admits that misery, complaints, self-pity, injustice" are chips on his shoulder. The album may not fulfill all its ambitions but at least, in a scaled down sphere, it can effectively remind you that love as the drug is the toughest one to score.

Jim Farber

JOAN ARMATRADING Walk Under Ladders (A&M)

Joan Armatrading is a realist and as such, she is, sad to say, somewhat threatening to contemporary society. Upsetting many popular misconceptions and prejudices regarding gender stereotyping, sexual roles, and the nature of need itself, she juxtaposes too many seemingly contradictory attitudes for a country in which choices always have to be made, choices that are usually either irrelevant, narrow, or matters of individual rights, which should be, after all, free from debate. On Walk Under Ladders, she unflinchingly and honestly strips bare her ego, cutting right through the myths, symbols, and rites of romance, separating, while giving equal nods to, sex and love. In No Love," she opts for the explicit, with no use for anything but the present: You started out/ Wanting my body/And I didnt mind/Cos we like each other/ And it also helped/To pass the time... And now I want you/And not just/ For fun/But if youve got no love/ To give/Baby dont give it here." And her approach to romance, which she likes fine, may seem perversely unadorned; No Love" continues, Well if youre looking for/A permanent mate/Just accept me/As your fate/Cos if youre no love to give/I wouldnt give it/ To you."

For Armatrading, romance without illusions has its own, unfamiliar definitions: The Weakness In Me" blurs the distinction between guilt, blame and responsibility and the singers struggle to deal with two lovers denies both self-pity and self-scorn; the forceful, repeated title line, I Wanna Hold You," brings to the fore the essential need that is so blatantly masked by social conventions and strictures; and I Cant Lie To Myself questions whether allowing oneself to be used is not a selfish act in itself.

Armatradings cheerful egoism— Im lucky/I can walk under ladders /Yes Im so lucky/That Im as lucky /As me"—also has supposedly incompatible facets. At The Hop" is ingenous self-satisfaction: All dressed up and we got somewhere/ To go." But Eating The Bear" is a harsh celebration of survival and defiance in an unavoidable, hostile world. The song balances the specific and the ambiguous: one can object to the anti-male stereotyping, but facts are facts, women are still second-class citizens, and should be angry enough to holler, to do battle, if necessary.

Joan Armatrading is not really a rock composer. Folk and reggae figures best suit her odd-length, minimally rhyming lyric lines. The flat-out strength of her sentiments often requires only a simple, ambient melody; too much rhythmic thrust, too much rock insistence can distance you from the immediacy, the very personal quality that informs her attitudes. Walk Under Ladders, produced by Steve Lilywhite (U2, Psychedelic Furs), is Armatradings second effort to find some common ground with rock. Her last album, Me, Myself, I, produced by Richard Gottehrer (early Blondie, Go-Gos), was a grafting job that just didnt take. Lily whites synthesizer-glued, aural frameworks cushion Armatradings quirky, unpolished vocals, and yet, Armatradings sensibility is too wellgrounded for Lilywhites self-referential, other-directed, spacey effects. All of Joan Armatradings albums have been impressive examples of unapologetic self-concern and self-expression. She, her acoustic guitar, and her bold assertions —her needs and demands—still lack the proper musical flavoring that will complement her songs and attract an American following that needs both help and education.

Jim Feldman

BLACK SABBATH Mob Rules (Warner Brothers)

Mellowness will creep up on you like a killer with a hard-on. This is its nightmare; this is its dream. Mellowness, in all of its yawning glory, has become a new language—understood, accepted, and spoken by far too many people, especially those whose responsibility it is to keep ablaze the beacon fires of rockadelic madness. At its corrupt-. ing best, mellowness educates people in the dark ways of the lame and listless: fear of energy, fear of excitement and fear of paying rock n roll back for its demon spirit. Mellow is evil; it must be wiped out.

Mellow is capable of invoking grisly images not easily shaken off with the soft light of dawn. Itll create damning canvases thatd put Dorian Gray to shame: Stark raving looney toons depicting all of us rockaholics neatly sequestered away in some dimly, lit elephantine, limbless noggins wobbling about aimlessly, waxing nostalgic as we nibble on five pound barbituate cubes tantalizingly suspended from the ceiling by mulit-colored tethers of hemp.

Well smile idiotically, the insidious muzak of mellow doom quietly careening about inside our hearts and souls, as our teen attendants giggle and snuff lit cigars out on our useless hulks. Well dribble buckets of spittle all over ourselves when they force us to watch hideous reruns of Marlin Perkins picking at his scabby condor bites as hes busily extolling the nervy plight of some horrible mutated beavers as they built intricate underwater condos near the Luv Canal; images of a mummified Don Meredith hoisting a jug of iced tea high into the air as he proudly displays his new transparent stomach; ghastly images of... Arrgghhh, I hate mellow and it aint gonna get this here rockaholic...NO WAY!!!

Know why? Heavy metal, thats why. Now that the process of revitalizing heavy metal has been completed by the likes of Van Halen, Def Leppard and Judas Priest, just to name a few, a new, mighty weapon is poised and ready to strike at the lulled heart of the mellow beast. Not that metal has ever really been gone, its just been hovering, like some thousand pound fly, in the radiation belt, mutating and lusting. It just been hanging around up there waiting to, alight in the bubbling minestrone of pop music.

Couple this with the unalterable fact that punk music has been forever martyrized to the gods of the slimy pinky-ring cabals and almost instantly youve got legions of punctuated rock n roll animals getting restless and mean, hordes of coliseum gladiators nervously being primed for a swift jacquerie against the creeping incuriosity of new wave. These edgy, excitable pools of pent of rock bedlamites are ready to use (metal)—granted not that same trad-metal of old, metal devoted solely to doom dealing blues derivative imagery and drugs like downs and cough syrup spilled casually into gentle, shimmering fjords of nod grogg, yknow, metal as simple apocalyptic entertainment, as an inescapable soundtrack for a life gone totally, gigglingly weird. A metal sound able to neatly codify the sentiments seething just below the surface of each and every rockaholic thats capable of lurking in the odd-angled corners of the mercurochromed-colored dawns early light of the 80s. Phew!!!

Which is also why this new, tarpping, sonic adventure from Black Sabbath is such an unequivocal joy. While certainly not the epic metal vision quest of Sabotage— perhaps the single greatest leap into the soul of metal—Mob Rules is nonetheless a gasping sigh of relief from those of us who thought the release of the yawnette Heaven And Hell, sans the.voice of Ozzy Osbourne, signalled the uncere-' monious dethroning of the Sabs as the prince of noise. With Mob Rules, these nabobs of the nod, these khans of crunch, have once again risen up and sent a searing photon torpedo directly into the quivering, jellied heart of the mellow beast. Its a sheer balance wail of unerring, unquenchable sound aka NOISE is inescapable.

From the first narcosonic graffito of Turn Up The Night," which neatly, snarlingly, delves into the dulled quicksand soul of the coliseum gladiator as he shakily makes his section by section quest for the ever elusive grail of ultimate rock madness, bn through the overly long, though neatly handled, Sign Of The Southern Cross"; to the almost Penderreckian experiment in pure, rumbling sound, E5150," the Sabs display a greasy heart thats not only comforting, but enjoyable.

Other metaltoons to lounge about with are Falling Off The Edge Of The World," Over And Over" and of course, The Mob Rules," which it usually does when Black Sabbath straps on the .fiery roods of metalmania and reaches out for that Gideon-like moment of feedback thats so damn loud and earth-moving itll bring down, in one stumbling genuflection of awe, all the metal gods. I think l like this album—a lot.

Joe (Fusilier of Future Shock) Fernbacher