X

Under The Big Black Sun

(Elektra)

by Laura Fissinger

First: this LP will be compared to its predecessors to death because this is an Important Band and this is their first release on a Major Label. The only comparative thing you need to know is that it's in the same ballpark as the other two and progresses from same. You need any more comparison than that, you really don't want this album.

Second: People who love X at their most punky and abrasive will be disappointed. The supposed heroes of American punk are really not punks. They never were anyway.

Third: John Doe and Exene Cervenka have finally and fully revealed themselves to be the AllAmerican couple they always have been, replete with that most traditional, sentimental priority—lockstepping with loved ones. Shirtwaist dresses/picket fences, bell-bottoms and granny glasses—any guise that's been tacked onto that value over the years they have simply sidestepped. (Which makes things harder to deed with: "Real child of hell/Nobody knows what shape she takes.") Sure their guise is punk, sort of, but that in no way negates or skewers the band's message. As Harriet Nelson once said herself: "Cynicism is a condition of specific and transient moments. Cynicism as a state of being is a ruse."

In place of the aforementioned abrasiveness, Black Sun has what the band once called "smooth chords." For the most part, this prettiness is well-placed in the LP's song sequencing and within the songs themselves (the middle eight of "Motel Room In My Bed," Exene's singing in "Come Back To Me," the melody of "Under The Big Black Sun," the cover of "Dancing With Tears In My Eyes" and so on). Most important, all this lovely sound is essential to the melancholy that's the guts of the record.

If Los Angeles and Wild Gift were about missed and misplaced connections, Black Sun is the autopsy of someone's entrails after real connections are severed. The lovers in this batch of songs have had more invested in their liaisons ("The Hungry Wolf," "Because I Do," "How I [Learned My Lesson]"), and even the connubial quickies ("Blue Spark,''5 "Motel Room") now generate more aftershocks. As a great philosopher once said, love hurts.

The relatively recent death of Exene's sister Mary is the other major plot line and metaphor. And if your want to get academic about it, you can see how she gets tangled up in X's ongoing tango with Roman Catholic archetype. There is no sacrament or ritual to protect one from death ("Riding With Mary"), no relief from the loneliness of its aftermath ("Come Back To Me"), no cosmic assurances about death's meaningfulness ("Black Sun"). Not even those romantic relationships that are supposed to be spiritual salvation of classic existential despair.

What Big Black Sun does, in every regard, however, is promise resurrection from all that. Through the blackness of its blues is all that melodic beauty, insisting that nothing could be so horrible to lose if it wasn't so important to have in the first place. Hence the Leadbelly quote they include in the lyric sheet:

'7 didn't make this myself but I'm gonna do it. 'Twas a man he had a pretty wife. ..and she, went and losed her mind about her husband. We'd go out and play for the insane asylum people... and they would dance. She was there and her husband would go and sing to her. And two weeks after he sang this song, she came back to her senses and they got back together. That's to show music can bring you back... if you ain't too far gone."

ROLLING STONES

Still Life

(Rolling Stones)

Live albums are—if not exactly controversial—always a source of nose trouble among fans. A lot of people just plain don't like 'em. They figure, if I want to listen to a bunch of crazy people screaming and speakers spitting feedback cocktails, I can just turn up my own stereo and wait for the neighbors and local lawn-enforcement grunts. It's a lot cheaper and has a better cast.

These days, as us tirelessly wimpy Americans begin to perceive the size of the stinking dungheap the rest of the world has to push up a hill every day, anything that saves a couple of those hard-earned greenbacks you're wasting your life working for looks real good.

In fact, temporarily conscious vinyl consumers have lately been avoiding live records like they were Neil Young's jockstrap. No more automatic brand name buys. That's all over. And you artistes don't want to Supertramp your career— stalling with a live dud while your fans start grabbing Human League albums faster than you can say audio royalty.

So who should come walking down the street but the Glimmer Junta, whose latest live set so democratically depicts the pros and cons' of live records that it's almost conceptual. The concept? You got it—the usually marketable battle between good and evil, life/death, Pepsi/Coke and one side everything stinks/one side everything's great.

If you hate live LPs, side one of Still Life will derange all the mopeds on your nerve garage. First and foremost is the band's incredibly crummy overall sound. And I don't mean the crowd noise or the mix. It's the performance: Stumbing and tentative, totally out of whack and about as big a thrill as happy hour in Minot, ND, spawning ground of Major League umpires.

I mean rea/ly—here you've got a great drummer stomping wildly on his bass drum as if it were Ricardo Montalban's accent and a great bass player tackling his instrument like it was a pulsating car washer. Here's one of the hottest guitar teams ever colliding in the outfield and teetering in and out of tune. The way Richards and Wood play together—which is illegal in 17 states—the sound has been known to sexually violate fingernails if there's so much as one bum string between them. But not here.

As for Jagger's vocals on the frontside, well, fans of napalmed duckponds will love "Shattered," and wait'll you hear Mick snorkel through "Under My Thumb." Backing harmonies? Never happen.

Not to forget arrangements reduced to the imbecilic simplicity of bodyheat mammal transfers. "Let's Spend The Night Together" barely survives its new ages-O-to-adult riffette. Classic mover "Twenty Flight Rock" is whipped off in a 1:48 quicky pork and Smokey's great "Going To A Go-Go" is so dimwitted it's almost heavy.

Luckily for somebody, the flipside delivers the rarely-heard kind of excitement that can make live records great. Doesn't say so in the credits, but this has to be a different show, a different town and possibly a different planet.

Here, the players are sleazy and confident, especially the rhythm section. The guitars that deserved sequestering earlier practically bust with hot slivers of prized scumbucket teamwork. And the bulge madonna out front proves he's still got it, even though his voice is in its twilight stage.

Side two's sacrificial Motown cover, "Imagination," shows just how a streamlined arrangement can take the direct route to jazzbo heaven. And speaking of strippeddown sounds, the latest version of "Satisfaction" actually reenergizes a song I thought I was permanently sick of. Plus an excellent re-take of "Start Me Up."

If you're looking for some good old-fashioned butt-punt, "Let Me Go" whizzes by like they used to do back before they—as Andy Griffith once put it—started pickin' their peaches before they's fuzzed up good. Not to mention a shot at "Time Is On My Side" that's so ontarget, the only way to tell it from the original is to have the ballistics lab check it out.

This all leads to the biggie. Do I want to lay down a side of green for an album that's half-great/half-elsucko?

I'm afraid I have to say do it! Stack it up with the A-side of a Van Halen LP and you've got the kind of ass-whomp where buttocks fear to tread.

Rick Johnson

FROM OUT OF THE STEREOS OF BABES

REO SPEEDWAGON Good Trouble

(Epic)

by Richard Riegel

At nine, my daughter Sarah (aka the FM Kid) is still impressionable enough to bend to her parents' aesthetic values; she tends to go all out for the pop artists she knows meet her rockcrit Dad's approval (Go-Go's, Joan Jett,. Rick Springfield), at the same time dropping her initial enthusiasms for certain other chartloggers (Journey, Christopher Cross), after a few negative comments from the old man. But Sarah's never given an inch on REO Speedwagon. We're all in the car, "Keep On Loving You," or "Tough Guys" or "Take It On The Run" sidling out of the speaker, Teresa and I ram our hands together rushing for the pushbutton, and a sweetly dissenting voice from the back seat pipes up, "But I like REO Speedwagon."

And she's probably right, too. At 35,1 have fewer illusions than ever that I'm competent to judge pop music with any high-toned authority. I'll listen open-eared to anything once, these days, and Sarah's partisanship for REO has been insistent enough to make me listen to Hi Infidelity and to the new Good Trouble many more times than once, this past week. And guess what? I think I like REO Speedwagon (or maybe I just don't dislike 'em so fervently).

On certain fatally-highbrow, ultimate-taste levels of my psyche, REO's generic prairie-metal raveups are still much too bland to register, but on the other hand, I've gone over these albums with a stern, Would-you-want-yourdaughter-to-marry-one? paternal gaze & audit, and I can't find a blessed thing wrong with 'em. REO Speedwagon may have the charts sewed up tight again this year, but they sure haven't done so through Asia-like cynical calculation (REO's only "calculation" was in blindly keeping the group together, after so many years of stylistic floundering and idiot screwups), or through Toto-like shameless borrowing (the only group REO copy on Good Trouble is their own Hi Infidelity selves). *

And if REO's songs tend to lack the salty ironies that turn us adult listeners on, they also lack even the least shred of pretentiousness. These guys are sitting on top of the pop world this summer, they could substitute live groupies for televisions when they get the urge to toss things out their Hyatt windows, and nobody but Ron Hendren would bat an eye, but instead their bassist Bruce Hall writes this heartfelt "Let's Be-Bop" for the new album, a song that thanks all the REO fans for all the support they've contributed to the group's success (Jagger'd never stoop to that, even if you tortured him with redhot lip irons.). And even when Kevin Cronin finally succumbs to the lure of the road and writes up the inevitable groupie exploitations, in Good Trouble's title cut, he makes it all sound like an edifying field trip with Father Cronin, the young, earnestly hip Religion & Values teacher, a benign chaperone for his youthful charges ("Don't let them tell you it's a mortal sin...")

Which is just about where I came in on the question of REO Speedwagon's intertwined strengths and blandness. Good Trouble is a consistent well-made album, every bit as good as Hi Infidelity, on whatever level of meaning you want to assign to that "good." No radical changes from the last record (oh yeah, Neal Doughty grew a mustache with his newfound dough, so he doesn't look as much like Michael J. Pollard anymore.) In the meantime, Sarah has requested that I turn over my REO albums to her, for her stereo and growing record collection, as soon as I finish my review, and I'm gonna do that right now. Don't mention it, kid, you earned these, besides you'll turn 10 next year, and then it'll be time for Iggy & the Stooges, and the Velvets, and...

QUEEN

Hot Space

(Elektra)

OK, so maybe I'm a little late with this one—but that's the point! Let's face it: there ain't nothing I could've Said about Hot Space a couple of months ago that would've precluded it from tearing up the marketplace like it did.

But, make no mistake, I planned it this way.

Sure, I could've had this review all wrapped up 'n' ready for last month's issue (or even the issue befor that; I mean, how many months has this album been out?), but I decided—just this once—to lay back 'n' first see how all the other "express desk" experts would handle the situation before putting my two cents' worth into the ring.

Naturally, I read all the other major rock 'n' roll magazines from Variety ("Dynamic Dance Disc Does Boffo Biz") to Soldier Of Fortune ("Syncopates Like An Overheated M-16 Jammed Wide Open"), AND GUESS WHAT? They loved it! Couldn't get enough of it! Said wasn't it fantastic that Fred and the boys were finally funking out instead of mining that longcollapsed, pompous flatrock vein of theirs!

And guess what else? Damned if the sucker didn't rip up the charts in both the LP and singles categories!

And three guesses who's busy tearing a swatch across the country (right now, even as you read these very words) with a record-breaking top price tag (and selling them out, too)?

And wouldn't I have looked a right fool if I had gone on record in these pages a few months ago before I knew all this was going to happen and said that Hot Space was flunky, not funky?

Damn straight...but, really, who the hell cares anyway?

Who amongst you wants to know about how side one is a fairly cool dance side (if you leave your brain at home, that is) and that side two is a moral exercise in "keep yourself alive" polemics, capped by the nth appearance on vinyl of "Under Pressure," the survivalists' anthem of the "ME" decade—a decade too late.

Who amongst you would sell your stereo, car, main squeeze, parents (well, maybe...) to hear that this is Queen at their HighTechiest: a chrome 'n' glass altarpaean to contemporary, vacuous, lifestyles that preaches a side one gospel of dance 'n' sexuality which can be sung to any gender, age or species you choose to name (or: of life and death over anybody else in a recording studio?).

Who amongst you would stop dead in your tracks to hear that this is (no snickering, please) a concept album, whose central core suddenly becomes clear when one realizes how the last song on side one musically reiterates the previous melodic passages (ha) while its lyrics foreshadow those about to be heard on side two?

Who amongst you would rather we just forget the whole sordid affair and go on to the next review?

The ayes have it.

Jeffrey Morgan

KID CREOLE AND THE COCONUTS Wise Guy (Ze/Sire)

Every so often a record comes along sporting such wit, style, finess, integrity, imagination, good taste, humor, and originality that you suspect the poor sucker ain't gonna go anywhere, sales-wise. That, I fear, may be the fate of August Darnell, a.k.a. Kid Creole. There are so many musical and lyrical ideas bursting out of the Kid's head that it's dam near aweinspiring. Listening to the new Coconuts LP is like taking a crash course in black pop music, although the Kid's influences are far more pan-American and pan-racial than that may suggest. Echoes of Cole Porter, '40s Afro-Jazz flavored with B-movie soundtrack sensibilities, polysyllabic and polyphonic rap techniques, funk—both hard core and laid back—calypso, synthepop, disco (or D.O.R. as we call it in the '80s in an effort not to offend the program directors who make up the playlist for white radio stations), sexual bragging backed by Stax/ Volt horn charts, cheesy '60s TV spy program theme songs, hell, the guy even paraphrases Shakespeare fa Chrissakes. Laid on top of this eclectic musical mayhem, the Kid's big band crooning swoops and darts like a rum soaked hummingbird, sprouting genuine gems of philosophic wit in between the amusing non-sequiturs.

Darnell has an uncanny ability to take a handfulla licks from here, there and anywhere, mix 'em up, turn 'em on their heads and come out with something brand new that nevertheless reverberates deep in the cells of your pop music soul. He creates songs that are slickly self conscious and seemingly effortless at the same time, and like Nick Lowe, another Pop-Meister who plays the same game but in a different ball park, he never manages to keep his tongue out of his cheek for more than a few bars.

Which is not to say that Darnell has no substance. His songs deal with such weighty matters as imperialistic exploitation of the Third World ("No Fish Today"), double agents setting up friends for various government agencies ("Stool Pigeon"), the hazards of being an original in a homogenized world ("Imitation") and the usual tales of the poor person's panacea, sexual love and heartache.

Rhythmically the arrangements feature lush outpourings of Brazilian and African percussion set against hummable melodies that implant, themselves nonchalantly on the mind's turntable. The Kid's restless bass and the crisp synthdrum attacks tease the feet to life and when the rest of the Pond Life Orchestra kicks in, the bodies sweat and the bootys shake. You may not need to think when your feet just go, but if you're an intellectual stuck-in-the-mud like myself who likes to do both at the same time, Darnell and Company have just what the witch doctor ordered. The life affirming musical rave-ups and the world weary irony of the lyrics produces the perfect marriage of resignation and celebration. Let's face the music and dance.

j. poet

KING CRIMSON Beat

(Warner Bros./E.G.)

Chapter two of the new rejuvenated King Crimson finds them further exploring premises set down on their first album...which is to say, if the post-Talking Heads rhythmic experiments with a generous overlay of Robert Fripp and Adrian Belew guitar stylings of Discipline intrigued you so will this. Otherwise you might find it just a little cold, just a little too calculated, and unless the mood you're in is reflective almost to the point of selfhypnosis, you may groan as you hear yet another metallic ostinato come undulating out of your speakers.

Actually there's somewhat more to KC than just post-Byrne/Eno fealty. Belew's lyrics, alternately cheerfully nonsensical and plaintive, appropriately complement the music and his singing has improved (though not drastically) from the first album, with less Byrne-isms, more willingness to use his own imperfect voice. On "Two Hands" (lyric by Margaret Belew) his sincere crooning balances the song's exotic flavor, while "Heartfbeat" would be at home on AOR radio (a dubious assessment, but testimony to the band's versatility). The old rap style shows up on "Neal And Jack And Me," and "Neurotica," giving the songs' highenergy thrusts a frivolous edge. Best of all, though, are the two guitarists (not to overlook Bill Bruford, whose drumming is strong throughout, and Tony Levin, whose bass work is characteristically piquant) who, once the ostinatos are put in the background, color the songs with their felicitous solos. As for the two instrumentals on the album, "Sartori (sic) In Tangiers" (the album has a partial beat as in nik motif that unfortunately is left undeveloped) opens like the theme from The Shining and then segues' into another bit of exotica with Fripp's synth-guitar snaking over the Arabian Nights rhythm, while "Requiem" is reminiscent of many an avant-garde screed of the past 20 years, both electric and acoustic, wilfully and with deliberate pacing taking you up the edge of ungodly sound and over...an experience either exhilarating or nervewracking, depending on your own willingness to follow music into noise. I kinda dug it, myself.

Though it all still sounds a little detached, the band seems to be moving toward a music that's both formally experimental and humanly expressive—and a band like this isn't one to stand still so hopefully they'll solve the ongoing problems of 1) if you're going to bother with lyrics with this kind of music is it possible to come up with something besides cheerfully meaningless and plaintive and 2) how do you get the lead out of those ostinatos? Once and for all. Richard C. Walls

THE MASTER BLASTER'S BLASTS FROM THE PAST (+4)

STEVIE WONDER

The Original Musiquarium I

(Tamla)

by Jim Feldman

The Original Musiquarium I provides a schematic overview of the stylistic versatility and expressive certitude that have helped make Stevie Wonder the most consistently impressive performer/songwriter / multi-musician / producer / arranger of the past 10 years. Twelve of Musiquarium's tracks are basically his greatest hits from his last seven albums. The four new songs are all hit material and, in their diversity, represent the four conceptually distinct types of songs that give a retrospective structure to the bulk of Wonder's music since the release, in 1972, of Music Of My Mind, the first album on which he did just about everything.

Wonder has grown even more adept at expanding his musical vocabulary: to his early R&B and pop/soul formulas, he's added classic pop melodicism, funk precision and determination, Latin American rhythmic ebullience, big band swing-and-sway, and an unstudied reggae sense of order. And this year, he not only collaborated with popmeister Paul McCartney on two tracks for Tug Of War, but also delved further into reggae—writing, producing, and playing on two cuts of Third World's You've Got The Power, the disco-inflected "Try Jah Love" and the more traditional "You're Playing Us Too Close." Yet, as these songs and Musiquarium make abundantly clear, no matter how extensive Wonder's musical expertise becomes, what primarily gives his work its singular coherence is the simple conviction of his sentiments, the emotional inspiration that lies, in equal measure, at the heart of his paeans to erotic love or spiritual fulfillment, his socio-political entreaties, and his reflective romantic ballads. Thus, his broad-based thematic concerns are matched instrumentally by the intuitive exactitude with which he juggles spiraling synthesizer washes, buoyant horn fills, and achingly direct harmonica lines—the three most overt hallmarks of his musical evolution. >

Side one of Musiquarium is devoted to Wonder's impatient socio-political conscience. With apposite funk insistence, he decries "Superstition," racial and economic oppression ("Living For The City"), and politicians ("You Haven't Done Nothin' "). The side's new song, "Front Line," enumerates the many ways in which Vietnam veterans have been screwed over. Side two consists of three of Wonder's most engaging love songs, including "You Are The Sunshine Of My Life," and the deceptively simple "Superwoman," and the impassioned, standard-bound new ballad, "Ribbon In The Sky." Side three celebrates the universal, lifeaffirming power of belief—in God, music and love (sexual and otherwise): "Higher Ground," "Sir Duke," "Master Blaster (Jammin')," and "Boogie On Reggae Woman" expresses Wonder's essential good feelings and irrepressible party-time sensibility; "ThatGirl," a new song, elegantly integrates Wonder's early R&B sound and an up-to-date, tougher propulsiveness. And side four is pure joy: "I Wish," "Isn't She Lovely," and the new "Do I Do" find Wonder at his most playful; "Do I Do" is a bopping dance, tune that'll keep you smiling for days.

Because of Musiquarium's framework, some of Stevie Wonder's finest songs were, unfortunately, left off the album: in particular, his master ballad "All In Love Is Fair," and the gorgeous "I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever)." So what? I assume that in due time, Stevie Wonder will release Musiquarium II. But if you've got the bucks, don't wait, Splurge on his last seven albums while you buy Musiquarium for the new songs.

PETE TOWNSHEND

All The Best Cowboys

Have Chinese Eyes

(Atcoj

To put it a lot more simply than he ever would, or could, the plain fact is that Pete Townshend has taken himself too seriously for far too long. Until now, I have held my tongue, in deference to those essential Who singles (Like the Clash, their greatness is in their early singles.) that are the very definition of rock 'n' roll kineticism, and in honor of the memory of Pete Townshend in a plain t-shirt leaping furiously on a plain stage, as if the leaping and the CHORDS embodied all that need be expressed or, conversely, represented the futility of ever expressing or, conversely, represented the futility ot ever expressing fully what he felt (either one, take yr pick). But since this long-standing desire to express, at length, EVERYTHING HE EVER FELT, however muddled, ob-

scure, undigested, commonplace, or pretentious, has, at this point, nearly obliterated his earlier (much earlier) achievements, I am obliged to express a few of my feelings, too.

To avoid lengthy histprical digressions (which I love), I will only say that I'm close to agreement with grand master R. Meltzer (who is once again gracing these pages) who thought that Happy Jack was not just the beginning of the end, but the end itself. Actually, I think it was The Who Sell Out. (Don't even mention Tommy. That's what gave Pete the final imprimatur to take himself as seriously as he had a wallet to.) Which is not to say that nothing of value has been produced since 1968—I liked some of Pete's modest collaborations with fellow Baba-ite Ronnie Lane, for instance —but just to clarify my POV. If you thought Who Are You (last LP with Moon—I don't even want to think about their chicken-shit refusal, unlike Led Zep, to give up the golden goose) was a great album, skip on to the next review.

The somewhat-better-than-bad news about All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes (Why not big cocks? Racial stereotype crossed with spiritual obeisance? Doesn't he ever get tired of feeling inadequate?) is that the backing tracks are powerful and unfussy, as befits one of the champion rhythm guitarists of all time. The track for "The Sea Refuses No River" features a legit wall of sound and a (nearly) one note guitar solo that Steve Cropper might have played if he'd had Pete's neuroses. "Stardom In Action" presents his legendary chording and not-so-legendary singing to best advantage. "Communication" is sung over one of the fiercest tracks in recent memory, contrasted by some fine Beach Boys echoed "ooophs" toward the close. And speaking of los BBs, "Prelude," a tiny synth doodle, and "Face Dances Part Two" sound a litle Sunflowery to me, which ain't bad. In fact, if this album is ever released as a stack-o-tracks, I'll play it to death.

The altogether bad news is that Pete is more in touch with his feelings than ever and has written about them in minute detail. The most spectacular rhythm track in the world can't possibly survive an oafishly Gibranish lyric like, "People...stop hurting people..." (cf. Grace Slick at Altamont) sung behind a thunderous recitation of fatuous babble such as, "Tell me friend—why do you stand aloof from your own heart?" And this is just the first song on the first side. Hip men of the cloth' are no doubt scrutinizing the lyric sheet for fresh pearls for postmodern marriage ceremonies. Whenever a normal song or two do surface—say "Uniforms," which is okay though I prefer "Odorono" or "Tatoo" as more human, less imperious, and "North Country Girl" which will bounce no matter what height it's dropped from—they're immediately overwhelmed by the mewling messianism of "Somebody Saved Me." Perhaps a couple of dozen Townshend acquaintances considered court action or suicide when they first heard this cut. The rest of us may profit from their example.

Because of the forceful tracks, any one of these songs at a time will sound good on the radio if you don't listen too closely, but don't be fooled again. The sole exception is "Slit Skirts," which isn't really lower on bombast but is higher on real songwriting skill (nifty chorus) than anything else on the record. Might be a radio classic. Might even survive the line, "Let me tell you some more about myself."

The kids may be all right, but I Don't know about Pete. There's extensive liner prose and poetry, too.

What's for tea, darling?

Darling, I said what's for tea?

Jeff Nesin

ROSANNE CASH

Somewhere In The Stars

(Columbia)

Most of the songs on Somewhere In The Stars, the third album by Rosanne Cash, are about the pitfalls of contemporary liaisons, the moments when emotions get messy and spill all over good sense and lofty expectations. "New love stuff," as she sings it on "Down On Love." Not unfamiliar territory, especially when occupied by a (file under) Female Vocalist/Interpretive. But Rosanne Cash is no dewyeyed Bambi in the threatening thicket of romantic entanglements. She's wise to the game, knows all the pitches and handles them, even tossing a few of her own when she needs a shot of reassurance.

Her resilience, her musky warmth as a singer and the unfussy clarity of the settings producer (and husband) Rodney Crowell places her in, are a large part of what makes Cash so appealing. Her singing is so reflective, so measured, that it feels as though possibilities are dawning on her as she's going along. "1 Wonder," a Leroy Preston (Asleep At The Wheel) song, is the kind of material that Crystal Gayle might pick up for its slithery melody and leave it at that: pretty, Wella Balsam country-jazzypop. Cash takes its element of doubt, mulls it over, decides to yield despite her warning instincts; she knows the chances for True Love are slim, but that doesn't mean she has to hide under the covers. She sets out with an implied murmur of "Oh, what the hell?"

That's the point of Somewhere In The Stars: risks of the heart. The songs are filled with complications and hard decisions, not in the traditional country-music sense of should-I-cheat, but in a less moral, more practical sense. An affair goes down for the count (John Hiatt's "It Hasn't Happened Yet"), and Cash refuses to give the guy the satisfaction of being crushed: "I find it hard to remember the good times we had/Call me insensitive, now that it's over, I'm glad." The songs selected for the LP go right into the center of the men-and-women muddle, into the smooth-talking singles bar hustlers, the girls who know they're desirable and are confused about the transitory rewards of desirability.

Right Or Wrong, her '79 debut, had a bunch of excellent Crowell songs. Seven Year Ache, album number two, had fine originals and quirkier covers (Forbert, Petty, Haggard). The new LP is more assured than either, despite a couple of clinkers: Tom T. Hall's "That's How I Got To Memphis" is a pedestrian country clopper with a grurflbly assist from daddy Johnny (J.C. doesn't exactly strain vocally these days; he's like a Congressman who hasn't proposed a bill since Ike was President and just shows up for rollcall), and "I Look For Love," another Hiatt song, finds Cash emulating the least attractive aspects of Ronstadt-asrocker. The rest of Somewhere In The Stars is eloquent pop-cumcountry, with the usual crisp, uncluttered playing of Crowell's crew.

The one night stand in "Third Rate Romance" (done nicely, with a lilt in the rhythm and a touch of "Knock Three Times" in the arrangement) is described without coyness or brazeness. So is the choice, on "Oh Yes I Can," to go out and fill her empty paper cup: Cash sings with the confidence of a woman who knows she can walk up to a six-deep bar, ask for a light and have a dozen business cards flashed under her nose. It's an option she has, one she accepts with no illusion that it's anything more than half of a solution. "Looking For A Corner" acknowledges as much; the Crowell-Cash song is the album's centerpiece, ' a thoughtful ballad about stumbling around and building defenses, as the chances for love anymore, who start to run for shelter and then reverse, tired of waiting for the ultimate, tired of settling for less. Some of these songs hit those notes with particular resonance. "You're forever climbing icy walls," Cash laments. "Forever falling back."

After all that came before, all the bump 'n' run, all the undressing under harsh light bulbs, all the resigned sighs, Somewhere In The Stars finishes with a song as guileless and romantic as a Smokey Robinson reverie. It's a specific man that Cash is pining for on her glowing title song, but it could be her version of "Someday My Prince Will Come," a search for the ideal who's eluded her for the entire LP. It's a mystical connection, as she gazes skyward and hopes her absent lover is focused on the same spot, making a space union possible: "We'll rendezvous on Venus/ And dance on Saturn's rings/We'H drink a little moonlight/And ride the old man's wings." All skepticism has melted away.

Rosanne Cash makes all the twists and turns believable; she's an investigative singer, and there's a natural audience who should respond to what she uncovers on her beat. Not too many complaints can be lodged against Somewhere In The Stars, but perhaps she made one tactical error by not cropping the cover photo differently. If she expects to lure the type of person her songs are about, it isn't too shrewd to flash that chunk of diamond and band of gold.

Mitchell Cohen

COLIN NEWMAN Not To (4 AD import)

If I asked you which of the artists who were involved in Britain's pop/ punk explosion of '77 retain their creative sparks today, who would you name? The Clash and the Jam? Elvis? The Police? XTC? Whoever, I'll wager that Colin Newman's name would not show up on many lists, even if his musical output has equalled, if not surpassed, those of his better known contemporaries.

Back in '77, Newman was the lead singer of Wire. Like so many others at the time, they picked up instruments and started a band from scratch; unljke most of those others, though, they jelled into a prolific, exploratory unit, pushing beyond punk's limitations even before completing their first album.

All in all, they put out three studio albums (plus a posthumous live document) and several 45s of disturbing, thought-provoking music; they acknowledged the dread that has overwhelmed so many post-Joy Division bands but did so with a whimsical sense of observation. They Were occasionally accused of being too detached, but better a bit of detachment in the brain than a noose around the neck,I say.

Anyway, the band splintered in half; Bruce Gilbert and Graham Lewis have since released a series of vaguely. interesting—no, make that vague and occasionally interesting—uh, post-ambient recordings, often using the name Dome, while Newman and drummer Robert Gotobed have picked up new playmates and continue making Wire music with little fanfare and surprising consistency.

Not To is Newman's third solo album, following the superlativebut-strange A-Z and the instrumental The Singing Fish, and is his first self-produced vocal LP, now that Mike Thorne has gone on to pastures both greener (Soft Cell) and weirder (Nina Hagen). Evidently, Newman's learned all he needed from Thorne, particularly in the arenas of contrast and detail.

The arrangements stress repetition of simple lines, with maybe a cupful of curiosities tossed in as irritants, like the high-pitched whatsit on "Indians!" or the way graceful guitars lock horns with blunt bass lines on "Remove For Improvement."

Contrast is also used effectively in the way the songs are put in order. "Don't Bring Reminders," with its cryptic music biz digs and singalong chorus of "We've come to see what's left of you," functions as a catchy ear-opener early on side one. And the upbeat "1, 2, 3,

Beep, Beep," which jokingly points out the similarities between military meaninglessness and the civilian brand, breaks up the mood on the relatively sombre second side, something the oh-so-sincere moanand-droan boys would never think up.

So Newman certainly hasn't lost his spark on this album; now the only problem for most of you is trying to find it.

Michael Davis

RY COODER

The Slide Area

(Warner Bros.)

The Slide Area continues Ry Cooder's adventures in the inner city, with pit stops this time out in Detroit, New Orleans, Chicago and Memphis, among other places. Working in basically the same vein as on Bop Till You Drop and Borderline, Cooder here sounds a bit more bent on shaking off the folkie-archivist mantle as he attempts a set of hot, high voltage R&B. That things are a bit different here is also evidenced by the song selection—-Ry, the master of the left field obscurity (a friend recently said he wasn't much interested in Cooder's music, but would love to check out his record collection), has picked only four songs to cover, all of them by pretty well known songwriters, and the remaining four tunes are Cooder originals, thus equalling his entire compositional output on his first nine albums. And aye, there's the R-U-B, since Cooder's R-'N'-B of the self-penned variety sounds just a bit, and maybe understandably so, disoriented and directionless.

The best of the lot, "Mama Don't Treat Your Daughter Mean," probably could be the best Temptations single since "Ball Of Confusion," one of those great early '70s-styled narratives of sex and retribution, done at breakneck speed. But "I'm Drinking Again" is a real throwaway, a watch-thetongue-go-into-the-cheek rehash of too many drunken cliches, and "That's The Way Love Turned Out For Me," sporting one of the most bizarre romance-gone-wrong metaphors ever, has such a syrupy string arrangement and weak vocal from Cooder that it just kind of oozily lays there. Which leaves the eminently strange funk romp "UFO Has Landed In The Ghetto," which tells the heartwarming story of a "lonesome space invader" who, while cruising the galaxies, gets hooked on soul music, sets down to Earth, and proceeds to boogaloo down Broadway. (Of course, sitting as we are in the summer of E.T. and Planetrock, Warner Bros, could be seriously missing the starship by not releasing a 12-inch remix of this for the dancefloor crowd; just add some syn-drums and...).

On to the covers then. Cooder transforms Carl Perkins' classic ''Blue Suede Shoes" and an unreleased Dylan song, "I Need A Woman" (I assume Bobby's still stuck on Jesus, what with lines like Got a fire inside my nose/ searching for the Truth the way God designed it"; with poetry like , it'll be no time before folks'll be to analyzing Dylan lyrics in droves) into jumping New Orleans rockers, with slippery drumming, rollicking pianos, gospel choruses and burning guitars. The old Impressions chestnut, "Gypsy Woman," has here a dreamy Caribbean feel, as opposed to its original Castilian mood (ooh, those castinets), and while Cooder couldn't even dream of matching Curtis Mayfield's swooping tenor, his understated vocal is surrounded by the impeccable ensemble harmonizing of Bobby King, Willie Green, Herman Johnson and John Hiatt which, as almost always, can save just about anything.

So, even with the changes in mode of attack and material, The Slide Area winds up not one of Ry Cooder's strongest efforts. Although the arrangements and musicianship are uniformly first rate, the songs have left Cooder little to really work with. Like his little outer space buddy from the UFO song, Ry Cooder is certainly in love with the music; unfortunately, he likewise sounds quite a ways from home, uncertain of the strange, new surroundings, and still a bit stiff from the long trip over.

Matty Goldberg

THELONIOUS MONK

Thelonous Monk Memorial Album

(Milestone)

Okay, there's at least five things wrong here so lemme get 'em out o' the way: 1. Just about everything's been issued, reissued and now rereissued—which is cool 'cause Monk oughta be re-re'ed left, right & sideways. But three of the four cuts that've never been previously reissued UNDER MONK'S NAME are nothing t' write home about. "Let's Cool One" from a Clark Terry session sort of dies as soon as Clark comes in; by the time Monk takes his otherwise swell solo the context is already fucked. "I Mean You" with Gerry Mulligan isn't even a decent curiosity; must be here to show Monk was capable of tolerance to cheeses. And the inclusion of "I Want To Be Happy" from a Sonny Rollins LP serves no function except maybe t' throw in a plug for the vintage Sonny (known these days for the clockwork pap he cranks out for the parent comp'ny); you get four minutes of Sonny being Mr. Tenor before Monk gets t' do any more than comp. (If they'd chosen "Friday The 13th"—at least a great MONK TUNE—they'd've had Sonny anyway and coulda made up for the extra three minutes by dropping the trio version of "Little Rootie Tootie"—see 2.)

2. Smalland big-band versions of "Little Rootie Tootie"? A cute idea, but if you're doing an alb for rubes who don't have all this stuff to begin with, cute oughta take a back seat to as many Monk songs as you can cram on a pair o' discs.

3. Best version ever of the incredibly goddam great "Nutty" was Monk. w/Percy Heath & Art Blakey, not the live one here w/Johnny Griffin. Shoulda used the trio "Nutty" and something else with Johnny (the most consistently apt hom cohort he ever employed), say "Light Blue," "Blue Monk" or "Rhythm-a-ning."

4. If you gotta have Monk play Ellington, "Black And Tan Fantasy" isn't ever close to his readings of "Mood Indigo," "Solitude" or "I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)" far as PRIMAL MONKISH EMOTIONAL CONTENT is concerned.

5. Absence of "Straight, No Chaser" suggests (I would bet my hfome & family) there'll be a volume two, which prob'ly makes 1-4 rootie mootie.

Anyway, cogent disparagements aside, this alb is a my-t-passable intro for Monk neophytes to the whisperingly/screamingly amazyazy-azing piano noodlings of the greatest muh-fuh ever to dust the keyboard (Cecil Taylor is like 80% as great, Bud Powell and Jerry Lee are maybe 65, McCoy Tyner around 3.4 if he's lucky). Except for one stinko moment (Mulligan) that kills the lead-in to the towering/regal/sublime "Jackie-ing," virtually every NOTE of this compilement reeks of the sort of AWESOME PARALLEL SUBSTANCE rockrollers at large should've had as at least a refrence point lo these past umpteen boogied-out years.

The what of it goes like this: 1. Monk wrote at least as many tunes-of-eternal-glory as the Beatles, Stones, Doors or any of 'em, tunes that even without a single vocal utterance to cue your heart, mind or pelvis still manage to run through wider gamuts of feeling/ novelty/logic/neurosis than all said groups put together. 2. As "primitive" as it is "avant," EVERY MONK SOLO is an a-historical object lesson in the revealed his-try of 88 thrills 'n' chills, meat & bone & mischief w/reference to everything and nothing. As "in the tradition" as he was in outer space, he could get weirder than Beefheart or Roky on the most demon-wasted day in their life and then next tune on breathe blood-pounding life into a wimpy standard you wouldn't've given 2d for if you has.a million. 3. Nobody short of Mr. C. Parker could do as many things to (& with) time, and Bird himself was never as patiently playful with temporal being. Side one begins with Monk taking his merry time just entering the picture: notes, notes, notes and suddenly it's "Round Midnight," no pitcher ever went through so nerve-challenging a windup, and then.. .delivery!...and then, well is it over yet, no wait a bit, now, not yet.. .NOW! 4. He could also impart the wisdom. On two cuts, "Ruby, My Dear" and "Epistrophy" you can actually witness him goading the one and only JOHN COL-. TRANE—at the time little more than an honest purveyor of lacklustre blah—into making that first downpayment on Trane-for-theages.

So anyway, if you're still-reading this and you've never heard Monk —even if you're a fan of AC/DC or Journey or Throbbing Gristle—I'd say buy it (and also volume two).

Richard Meltzer

FLIPPER Generic Flipper (Subterranean)

Generically speaking, this record maps out turf heretofore uncharted in the annals of Frisco rock. Nothing terribly unique, but fairly disjunct from the mainstream of San Fran sounds-to-see-vinyl. Of recent vintage, you might liken this stuff to the Ralph Records reservoir of disconnected ambient noise (the Residents come to mind), but Flipper's a lot punchier and in fact steers clear of gratuitous Dada-inclinations.

1 like this record a whole heckofa lot, Flipper's eclectic homage to the V.U. and early Pere Ubu (I hear some Pagans and Bizarros, too!) sizzles with very original layers of intensity and heavy rock 'n' roll affection. Most of the songs recycle a chugging sort of rock rhythmic frenzy and drone catchily with funny chord changes and buried, obfuscated melody. So more often than not these tracks take off. The best of the lot, "Ever," waxes psycho-psychedelic pulsating handclaps with grinding gtr and drums; not so terribly fast, but that's OK, cos real frenetic vocals emphasize the epilepsy of the lyric: "Ever live a life that's real-full of zest but no appeal?/Ever feel stupid and then know that you really are/Ever think you're smart—and then find out that you aren't/Ever wish the human race didn't exist—and then realize you're one too?" Wow!!

No indication on either side here of the marathon sonic ugliness Flipper lets loose with live (in excess of three hours, they say). Stories circulate down here in Southern Cal of interminable Bay Area noisefests and peak performances of offensively atonal big beat boogie. But as noted—nothing to that effect on this platter. If anything, there's a marked congruity of actual hookladen Stooges type infectiousness (i.e. structure!).

In yer criticism area—well, the vocals are mixed a little way-up and the drums a bit far-down, and side 2's 7 + minute opus, "Sex Bomb," parrots "Sister Ray" (a sideways inversion!) which is sorta goofy cos everybody and their grandmother yelp "Velvet Underground" as an aesthetic calling card these days. But more subtle Velvets and Stooges borrowings accentuate (rather than undermine) the cagy delivery of the balance of pieces on this disc (like "Nothing" and the cerebral "Life Is Cheap"). Y'can't cite lead-singer "Bruce" for derivative vocal performance—his wailing intonations are uniquely cretinous of the first order!!

Summary: Generic Flipper beats the headlights outta lame-oid punkie-wunkie wimps like, say, the Dead Kennedys; the heartbeat of this record strikes some resounding tones of genuineness and ingenuity-of-feeling and that's what it's all about, right? Gregg Turner