CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

DEPARTMENTS

JOHN ANDERSON: “Wild And Blue" (Warner Bros.):: Anderson is Ricky Skaggs without Jesus—his voice lowdown rather than angelic, his roots in the honky tonks rather than the mountains, his album wild and blue, a sexier way to say (and sing) highways and heartaches. But his gift for ballads is more like his hero Merle’s than his hero Lefty’s—that is, a little soft, which means he comes up a touch short on the ones you know and can’t quite turn filler into the staff of life. B +

BAD RELIGION: "How Conld Hell Be Any Worse?” (Epitaph):: Greg Griffin’s vocals fall into a naturally musical off-key drone that make him sound at times like a mullah in mourning, which is appropriate—he’s not as arrogant about his nihilism as most hardcore kids. On the other hand, he’s not as funny about it as the best ones, either. Address: 22713 Ventura Boulevard, Suite F, Woodland Hills, CA 91364. B

THE BUS BOYS: “American Worker” (Arista):: At first I was no more impressed by this professional black arenarock than I am by, say, prpfessional lesbian folk-rock. Less, actually—bombast is annoyingv But in the end I was disarmed by their audacity, espirit, and sheer versatility — not many arena rockers are comfortable simulating funk, reggae, and surf music. And won over by the songs themselves, every one informed by the kind of middleAmerican compassion you might expect from a black band with enough soul to hope to touch the arena-rock masses. B + MARSHALL CHAPMAN: “Take It On Home” (Rounder):: Having failed to connect as a rip-roaring rock ’n’ roller, she nowNfails to connect as a Nashville gal. Except on two cuts, that is—“Bizzy Bizzy Bizzy” and “Booze In Your Blood,” both of which sound pissed off. Hear me, Marshall? I said pissedoff. C +

CLIFTON CHENIER: “I'm Here!” (Alligator):: Especially in a rhythmically conservative style like zydeco, it’s rare that a band can carry an album, but that’s damn near the story here. First record I’ve ever heard hot enough to convince me that all those wild tales about the accordian man weren’t so much pepper sauce. Just too bad it happened after he begamto lose his strength. B

DEVO: “Oh, No! It’s Devo” (Warner Bros.):: Because their secret contempt for their cult receded once the cult gathered mass, moral impassivity that once seemed like a misanthropic copout (or worse) now has the feel of Brechtian strategy. They’ve never sounded wimpier, but they’ve never sounded catchier either, and with this band wimpiness has a comic purpose. “Time Out For Fun” is recommended as both text and music to leisure theorists.who reject electropop as a matter Qf humanistic principle. A-

D1RE STRAITS: “Love Over Gold” (Warner Bros.):: I admit that Mark Knopfler is a classy enough guitarist and producer to entice me into his nostalgic obsessions: at its best “Telegraph Road” sounds like supernal Mark-Almond, and the cheesy organ on “Industrial Disease” betrays a sense of humor. But the portentous arrangements on the other three cuts (right, that makes five, mean length 8:24) suggest nothing so much as ELP with blues roots. And Knopfler’s sarcastic impression of a Harley Street M.D. on the^ very same “Industrial -Disease” leaves no doubt that even his sense of humor is pompous. C +

by Robert Christgau

EDI FITZIfOY: “Youth man Pentitentiary”(Alligator):: “With the Roots Radies Band,” announces a subtitle, and that’s the usual good sign. “Featuring his three 1982 top 10 Jamaican hits!” cries ar , sticker, and I wish I were sure that the third one (after the title track and “First Class Citizen,” which gives itself away with a dub) were “Dread Locks Party” and its borrowed sax, not “African Queen” alnd its stolen Sedaka. “The only new vocal star to emerge this year,” inform the notes, and I hope 1983’s has more than one trick in his or her gullet. , B

JONI MITCHELL: “Wild Things Run Fast” (Geffen);: This is good Joni, for the first time since the mid-’70s, and I suspect it comes too late, because good Joni simply means old Joni, and old Joni is better. I mean, if she’d put “Solid Love” at the very end I still wouldn’t believe her, but at least I’d think she’d learned something. Instead she proves her maturity with a climatic hymn to St. Paul’s kind of love which is much the worse of the three covers—because to be honest the A1 Hibbler and Elvis Presley songs are all that kept me listening. B

THE MORELLS: “Shake And Push” (Borrowed):: These four permanent residents of Springfield, Missouri, and environs unearth minor classics Dave Edmunds would give his doctorate for. New rockabilly doesn’t come any more authentic or less purist than “Eager Boy” (he wants to be a senator) or “Ugly And Slouchy” (she won’t cheat) or their own “Red’s” (eats). But Rockpile, the Blasters, even the Stray Cats fire thefr roots into the future with an edgy intensity that’s missing from the performances and recording here, which makes the difference on a record that might have been a minor classic itself; Address: 2820 West State, Springfield 6502. B +

MUSICAL YOUTH: “The Youth Of Today” (MCA):: The miraculous “Pass The Dutchie” was originally a fine Mighty Diamonds song called “Pass The Koochie,” so even though the arrangement is pure genius and the switch from ganja (a koochie is a pipe) to food (a dutchie is a cookpot) pure social responsibility, they’ve yet to write their first hit. And with reggae bands, not to mention the kid bands (even English b&nds), one-shots are an did story. So I regret to report that the album evinces neither pop song craft nor the signature groove with which seasoned reggae artists compensate. And am surprised to add that between young Kelvin’s biddle-biddle toasts and the reggae songcraft they do command—check out “Youth Of Today” and “Young Generation”—they get by and then some. B +

“THE NAIROBI SOUND” (Original Sound)::. It’s not “primitivism” or “simplicity” that makes African pop so exciting— it’s the doubly complex interaction of two sophisticated demotic languages, polyrhythm and technomedia, each with its own style of ^elf-consciousness. Unlike his Africa Dances, however, this John Storm Roberts anthology has a folkloric feel. Very local in origin and outreach and not really intended for dancing, these Kenyan tunes, especially those in the acoustic (and rural) “dry guitar” style, have enormous charm and not ,much impact,, except for those always special moments of inspiration that propel folk music out into the great world—like the soprano duo “Chemirocha,” which technomedia fans will be leased to learn is a tribute to Jhnmie odgers. Address: 123 Congress Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201. B +

RANDY NEWMAN: “Trouble In Paradise” (Warner Bros.):: The reason 1979’s Born Again t6ok three years to sink in for me was that Newman never pinned down the distance between himself and the creeps he wrote his first-person songs about. Because he s gained control as a singer, his oafish drawl here turns into a unifying voice, and the accompaniments are as eloquently integral as the Americancolloquial pastiche of his Ragtime soundtrack. So this time the baffled racist of “Christmas In Capetown” and the happygo-lucky Disney hero of “I’m Different” and the sentimental pimp of “Same Girl” and the mournfully manipulative patriot of “Song For The Dead” and the unflappably egotistic rock star of the outrageous “My Life Is Good” all seem to be the same guy. And while that guy isn’t Newman, Newman does go out of his way to understand his point of view. A-

ORCHESTRA MAKASSY: “Agaway” (Virgin import):: Four sweet male vocalists dominate this clear, buoyant 15-man group from Tanzania. Salsa-shaped (a mere three drums) and calypso-inflected, their song forms are much simpler than Sunny Ade^, the only Afropop I prefer in my current inexpertise. Those who find Ade too damned pleasant will be relieved to learn that Makassy occasionally cut that lovely flow with a soulful grit in a lead vocal or sax solo. But to be honest, that’s not why I love them. I love them because they’re lovely. A-

THE PSYCHEDELIC FURS: “Forever Now” (Columbia):: It’s not band breakdown (Duncan Kilburn’s sax replaced, John Ashton’s guitar gone) nor pop sellout (Todd Rundgren in for Steve Lillywhite at the board) nor tired songcraft (hookier than the junk-punk debut if more ornate than the powerhouse follow-up) that makes this quite entertaining album less than credible. It’s the half-life of cynicism as a public stance. Last time Richard Butler’s surprising new emotionality made for a winning world-weariness, but this time it sounds just slightly pat, more or less what you’d expect from a quite likable phony. A-

RANK AND FILE: “Sundown” (Slash) n As rock concepts go these days, the idea of making like the fourth-best bar band in Wichita Falls is plenty warm-blooded, so that even though I disapprove in theory of the loud, klutzy dynamics of this ex-punk country-rock, its zeal wins me over every time. Helps that they leave “Wabash Cannonball” etc. off the album and explain their excellent motives in their own words, fleshed out with a few of the guitar licks they found lying around that bar. A-

“SOUND DAFRIQUE II: SOUKOUS“ (Mango):: Despite a misleadingly tribal (though hardly unpop) lead cut from Mali,, Mango’s second French African compilation avoids the eclectic distractions of the first by concentrating on the Congolese dance style that dominates the continent’s music if anything does. Hard, Salsafied stuff with vocals that twist and shout, recommended to unreconstructable urban-

“SOWETO” (Rough Trade import):: It’s fair to assume that these 14 crude, tuneful little singles, released six or seven years ago out of a Johannesburg record shop and featuring a writer-prbducer named Wilbur Dlamini and a backing band of Jo’burg Zulus called the Bamalangabis, are typical of nothing. They’re apolitical except by their sheer existence and mostly smallgroup instrumental (with guitar, sax, and organ leads) in a part of Africa where vocal music is the great tradition. Not too clearly recorded, either. And they’re delightful. It’s possible Dlamini is a lost genius. It’s also possible that when I’ve heard more music from South Africa’s hellish black urban work zones I’ll find him minor or derivative. But what’s certain is that a lot of very talented people are getting lost in black South Africa. Ain’t capitalism grand? A-

TELEVISION: “The Blow Up” (ROIR cassette):: John Piccarella and I did liner notes for this 85-minute tape because guitar heroes like Verlaine and Lloyd deserve an heroic live album. You get three new cover versions, too. But as with so many ROIR cassettes (and non-chromium tapes in general), audio makes the difference between a laudable document and living history. That the sound could have been brighter is more than clear on Arrow, the bootleg disc where I firsf encountered the finest of these performances. B +

THE WHO: “It's Hard” (Warner Bros.) ':: Tommy’s operatic pretensions were s6 transparent that for years it seemed ^afe to guess that Townshend’s musical ideas would never catch up with his lyrics. And in fact they didn’t—both became more prolix at about the same rate. This isn’t as grotesque as All The Blind Chinamen Have Western Eyes, but between the synths and the chorales and the writing in parts and the book-club poetry it’s the nearest thing to classic awful English art-rock since Genesis discovered funk. Just in time. Bye. C