ROCK-A-RAMA

ROCK-A-RAMA

This month's Rock-A-Ramas were written by Billy Altman, j. poet, Richard Riegel, and Michael Davis.

ALL SPORTS BAND (Radio Records/Atlantic):: Or, the Village People Break Training Camp. Credit (?) for this nonsense goes to one Tracy (no, not Austin) Coats (Yeah, as in Jim), the "conceptual force"—his term, not mine— behind the All Sports Band. Which means it was his brilliant idea to find, through nationwide auditions, five guys who could not only punt, bunt and jab but also execute half court chord changes and suicide harmonies to boot. So what we got here is a lead singer heavily into martial arts ("Hey, now that's original"—E. Presley), a boxing drummer whose kit is stationed inside a baby sized ring, and an outfielder/guitarist who slides into his amp on close plays at the reverb switch. As for the football player/bassist and the pianist/race car driver, well, I hope those helmets help prevent hearing damage from live gigs. Just how bad is the music on this record? I don't know. I mean, just how bad is Willie Hernandez? B.A.

NINA HAGEN—Nunsexmonkrock (Columbia):: The album cover oughtta win some kinda bad taste title—it has the proverbial majorstar-in-Europe (so I'm told), Nina dressing as a Madonna cum bag lady/whore. It's really disgusting. The music (?) inside is so bad it's almost good, or at least good for a few laughs. Listen as Nina dribbles, sings, moans, talks backwards, throws up, spews incomprehensible inanities, and laughs at her own jokes iri at least three (count 'em) languages. Impressive, eh? She also has a band that dabbles in reggae, pseudoopera, schlock rock, progressive art-noise, quasi-religious hippy dippy mysticism and, probably, massive quantities of drugs, since I don't see how anyone could be this stupid on the natch. My suggestion is that she team up with Wild Man Fischer; they could be the Sonny and Cher of the '80s. j.p.

TRANSLATOR—Heartbeats And Triggers (Columbia/415):: These L.A. refugees washed up on S.F.'s North Beach, and their music reflects the respective vitalities of California's opposite culture junctions. Punk energy straight from nether L.A., but expressed in glossy, sophisticated rock in keeping with S.F.'s vaunted poetry/jazz/whatzis traditions. As much anger as any hardcore burrhead on any L.A. street, but channeled into organized protest causes like pacificism and anti-nuclear proliferation, a la S.F.'s good-liberal track record. In other words, Translator, although as American as you and me, have fused a lot of seemingly secularized approaches into one righteous music, just like Gang Of Four and Au Pairs and all them Limeys already figured out. Skip the critical syntheses for now, though: Translator are attractive enought in their twisty, sinuous guitar lines, hurried along as they are by those nagging drum thwacks. Sober ass-shaking rock, as the feller said. R.R.

MILES DAVIS-We Want Miles (Columbia):: Miles Davis is back releasing double live albums again—no vocals, no pop tunes, and probably a lot less airplay as a result. But Miles's bold lyricism still oozes out of his trumpet, more than making up for the confused mishmash of rock licks and jazz runs that his guitarist lets loose with from time to time. The rhythm section moves from funk to bebop to ballads with ease, letting the music breathe freely and find its own grooves. Most of this stuff is mid-tempo funk but "Fast Track," which takes up most of side two, proves that they can let 'er tip when they feel like it. M.D.

BERTIE HIGGINS-Just Another Day In Paradise (Kat Family/CBS):: If you thought that "Key Largo" was feeble, just think of the possibilities of an entire album's worth of this bedroom earringed seafarer's mellow mucus. Bogey makes yet a second cameo on "Casablanca," as Bertie recalls the spendor of watching the film at a drive-in where "popcorn and cokes beneath the stars became champagne and caviar." (Yes, the chorus certainly is "A kiss is still a kiss.") Then there's the LP's big rocker, "Down At The Blue Moon," in which Bert not only actually says "I'm gonna get paid, I'm gonna get laid," but also tells his pals at the bar to "belly up, boys...tomorrow we may die." (No comment.) And how about the epic saga "Port O' Call (Savannah '55)" on which Berteroo almost beds down with a New Orleans hooker only to discover in the nick o' time that she's the sister he never knew he had (dad always told him that mom died giving him life; that fun lovin' old salt!). Oh, Gordon my Gordon, what hast thou and the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald wrought? B.A.

CHROME—3rd From The Sun (Siren/ Faulty):: Did somebody say "S.F." up there? Well knock me down with a flower if these guys don't hail from the place Tony Bennett left his hair in, too! Fact you may already know Chrome from Ralph's Subterranean Modern sampler of a couple years ago. Pearl Harbour's swapped them the Stench Bros, in the interim, but either way they still sound like the cuddly drone-droogies we knew and loved on S.M.. Some of the songs on here (esp. "Firebomb") seem to be Iggy Pop impressions, with the Ig slowed down to half-speed, and translated into the microchips he's always fatally feared. Chrome's vocals are well-hidden in the crystalline synthesizer muck, there's a mostly-legible lyric sheet to even the score. Fabienne Shine of the famed Shakin' Street guests on background vokes, and all in all this doomy-anapestic disc sounds like perfect mood music for submerged Batman-fetishists out there. (Found that last phrase in automatic-writing notes I took under the influence of Chrome's record, so it must say something about 'em). R.R.

LOUIS JORDAN-I Believe In Music (Classic Jazz):: One of the positive after effects of Joe Jackson's well-meaning-but-sorta-stiff jump blues tribute LP, Jumpin' Jive, has been the re-release of several albums by Cab Calloway and Louis Jordan. This one was recorded late in Jordan's career but his soulful singing, salty alto sax, and humorous delivery were not dimished much by the years rolling by. A close listen reveals that people as heavy as B.B. King, Ray Charles and Chuck Berry had a lot of exposure to him, but the best way to enjoy this record is to drop the academic approach in he nearest paper bag and just get juiced and loose. To paraphrase the man, pass the tequila and I'll feel ya. M.D.