CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

CHRISTGNU CONSUMER GUIDE

BANANARAMA: “Deep Dea Skiving” (London):: In some pop convolution the affectlessness with which these London lasses appropriate various attractive girlgroup epiphenomena may simply signify that they’re not an “authentic” girl group. And right, the Dixie Cups (even the Marvelletes) (maybe even the Crystals) had no discernible identity either. But they could sing. B-

THE BLASTERS: “Non Fiction” (Slash):: “Train whistle cries/lost on its own track” could be half a haiku for Hank Williams should these American traditionalists ever turn Japanese, and if “Leaving” is worthy of George Jones, “Bus Station” and “It Must Be Love” pick up where Tom T. Hall left off. None of which is code for countrybilly—this is r&b Jerry Lee could be proud of. It’s just that Dave Alvin writes with an objective colloquial intensity that fits the straight-ahead dedication of his crossracial and-generational band the way James Taylor’s ingrown whimsy suited the laidbacks he hung with. In other words, Dave might qualify as the last great singersongwriter if only he was a singer. And brother Phil is. A-

DAVID BOWIE: “Let’s Dance” (EMI America):: Anyone who wanted Dave’s $17 million fling to flop doesn’t understand how little motives have to do with good rock ’n’ roll—on paper, RodgerS & Bowie looked like a rock combo in the ways that count as well as the ways that don’t. But I can’t explain the perfunctory professional surface of the result except to wonder whether Bowiethe-thespian really cares much about pop music these days. This is hardly unlistenable, but “Modern Love” is the only interesting new song, the remakes are pleasant and pointless, and1 rarely has such a lithe rhythm player been harnessed to such a flat groove. Which doesn’t mean people won’t dance to it. B

BOW WOW WOW: “When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going” (RCA Victor):: Mike Chapman adds few if any hooks and Annabella Lwin shockingly little verve to their pattering Afrobeats. None of Malcolm McLaren’s pubescent-sex fantasies was half as dumb or exploitative as “Aphrodisiac.” And though I’m glad they’re expressing themselves, only the glorious “Rikki Dee” (“I work at the W.C.”) tells me any teenage news I hadn’t already guessed. C +

“CALLING RASTAFARI” (Nighthawk):: Produced in three days by a Jewish wheelerdealer from St. Louis, this fundamentalist compilation—roots reggae as a music of militant religious homily—has an irresistible integrity. Its simple determination matches its singsong melodies and solid rhythms, and the singing is crucial: Culture’s Joseph Hill

Robert Christgau

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hasn’t sounded so impassioned since Two Sevens Clash, the Gladiators’ Albert Griffiths outgroans Marley himself on “Small Axe,” and the Itals’ Keith Porter does “Herbs Pirate” so nice of you’ll settle for owning it twice. Address: Box 15856, St. Louis, Missouri, 63114 A-

“CRUCIAL REGGAE DRIVEN BY SLY & ROBBIE” (Mango):: The second Taxi compilation broadens its base by including other producers’ JA hits—with Dunbar & Shakespeare on groove, of course. But it’s not enough. Great pop is a tricky commodity, and this isn’t quite tricky enough to make up for received melodies and competent-plus vocals—not even in the groove. B +

EDDY GRANT: “Killer On The Rampage” (Portrait):: There’s an expediency to Grant’s songwriting—try “Latin Love Affair,” or the equally routine “Funky Rock ’N’ Roll,” or a rhyme like “My heart does a tango”/“I love you like a mango”—that makes it hard to believe he’s a hero. Instead of drawing some Caribbean analogy, I’d compare him to the Isley Brothers—artist-entrepreneurs with good intentions'and a good assembly line. Of course, there’s a ramshackle quality to the assembly line that saves even its most expedient product from slickness, and this is far from that—except on the hard-tofind Live At Notting Hill import, his good intentions have never been more out front. B +

NONA HENDRYX: “Nona” (RCA Victor):: Charged with curbing Nona’s insatiable desire to make rock records, Bill Laswell and Michael Beinhom were abstemious enough

not tp make a Material record instead—just a slightly cerebral who-/s-that-singing? funk records, with the cerebration mostly Nona’s. As you might deduce, it could be smarter, but you can dance to it without losing your mind. B +

“KIDDO” (A&M):: Michael Hampton’s band—Donnie Sterling’s, really—is caught midway between P-Funk, where it’s coming from, and Zapp, where it wants to go. P-Funk teaches that more is more only when you can carry that weight. Zapp teaches that when you strip down you’d better go all the way. B-

LITTLE STEVEN AND THE DISCIPLES OF SOUL: “Men Without Women” (EMI America):: The lyric sheet makes good reading—the confessions of a working-class teenager who got what he wanted and lost what he had (though he would have lost it anyway by now and had less money besides). Unfortunately, Little Miami Steve sounds like arena-period Dylan doing the Born To Run songbook, and the E-$treeters in his band blare like Silver Bullets. If the Boss is really driving around El Lay wondering what happened, as one rumor has it, he could do worse than rescue “Men Without Women” and “Prince Of Little Italy.” Only don’t pronounce it “Lily,” OK, Bruce? B-

MEN AT WORK: “Cargo” (Columbia):: They calFAustralia Oz because it’s about as exotic as Kansas upside down, and these five sturdy-sounding, fragile-down-under middle-class blokes make the most of it. Ten thousand miles from the heart of darkness they’re free to project honest, ordinary, lowlevel Anglo-Saxon anxiety, with enough transpositions of key and meter and social perception to establish that they’ve thought about it some. A touch dour, two touches bemused, and probably too passive, they’re so smashingly unambitious that they’re forgettable when they don’t strike just the right note, but having won over the rest of America, they’ve sold me. I’ve always considered democracy more radical than misanthropy anyway. B +

VAN MORRISON: “Inarticulate' Speech Of The Heart” (Warner Bros.):: In this troubled time, rock ’n’ rollers have every right to place their faith in the Jehovah’s Witnesses or even Scientology when they discover that Jackie Wilson didn’t say it all. But to follow one with the other appears weak-minded, like praising Omar Khayyam in tandem with Kahlil Gibran. A hypothesis which the static romanticism of these reels-for-Hollywood-orchestra and other slow songs bears out. B-

MUTABARUKA: “Check It” (Alligator):: Is it OK to be impressed by this reggae poet’s decidedly unmystical humanist Rastafarianism and still wish his presentation had more of that old-time religion? Though he camouflages his intellectual distance better than Linton Kwesi Johnson, his compassion is less self-effacing, and his dub modernism plays, a little too loose with the riddims to suit me. But anyone who values reggae strictly for its straightforward charm should definitely check him. B +

R.E.M.: “Murmur” (I.R.S.)s: They aren’t a pop band or even an art-pop band-i they’re an art band, nothing less or more, and a damn smart one. If they weren’t so smart they wouldn’t be so emotional; in fact, if they weren’t so smart no one would mistake them for a pop band. By obscuring their lyrics so artfully they insist that their (“pop”) music is good for meaning as well as pleasure, but I guarantee that when they start enunciating—an almost inevitable move if they stick around—the lyrics will still be obscure. That’s because their meaning and their emotion almost certainly describe

the waking dream that captivates so many art and pop bands. Which leaves me wondering just how much their pleasure means. Quite a lot, I think. A-

SLY AND THE FAMILY STONE: “Ain’t But The One Way” (Warner Bros.):: I called Back On The Right Track his best since Fresh in 1979, and for what that’s worth it was, and this may even be a little better—the aphoristic snap of the songwriting recalls better days, and the mix generates some heat. But where in 1979 it Seemed theoretically possible that Sly was bn some track or other, there’s no way this’ll pull him through—often sounds as if he’s not even there. Which he wasn’t when Stewart Levine finally converted the tracks he’d laid down in 1980 into 1983 product. What a waste. B

THE SYSTEM: “Sweat” (Mirage):: Funk’s answer to the Thompson Twins conflate the organic and the-electronic more

blatantly than Prince. If silent partner David Frank can’t quite induce his computerized rhythms to grunt and moan post-soulful Mic Murphy has the same problem with his guitars and vocals, they more than compensate by making the synthesis grab and hook. A-

JOHNNY THUNDERS: “Too Mach Junkie Business” (ROIR cassette):: Forced to choose between this and the French double-EP-sort-of In Cold Blood, I’d probably dig out So Alone or Live At Max’s. The tape costs less and has more new songs; the discs sound better and run a little longer. Both supply their share of sloppy surges, but neither sustains for more than, say, five minutes at a stretch. Even from JT I expect consistency some of the time. B

“VIOLENT FEMMES’’ (Slash) :t If Joriathan Richman thought he was as sexy as Richard Hell he’d come on like Gordon Gano. And if you believe Jonathan Richman damn well is as sexy as Richard Hell, which Gano is counting on, remember that what makes Jonathan’s kiddie act so (shall we say) appealing is that he counts on nothing except his fingers and toes. Gano knows his stuff—the barely electric music is striking enough for rock ’n’ roll. But for all its undeniable humor and panache the effect is precious, wimp bohemianism so selfcongratulatory it’ll be sucking its own Weewee next time we look. B +

BUNNY WAILER: “Hook Line ’N’ Sinker” (Solomonic import):: The skanking Memphisbeat Sly & Robbie rolled out for Joe Cocker goes uptempo and downriver here, and Bunny rides it for the entirety of a delightful groove album. Imagine what a reggae-goes-Stax-Volt-secondline tune called “Soul Rocking Party” might sound like. No no no—imagine it done well. Now you’ve got it. A-

BUNNY WAILER: “Tribute” (Solomonic import):: In part because he understands so unmistakably that there’ll be no new Marley, Bob’s resolutely itaf old bandmate is the one Jamaican artist who’s exercised comparable vision, breadth, and authority in the ’80s. These versions bf eight songs the leader sang first make clear that Marley was the more gifted vocalist, but they also make clear that Bunny’s baritone added rough yearning to his sweet sufferation. Better than Bunny Sings The Waiters, which was just fine. Maybe even as classic as Lefty Frizzell Sings The Songs Of Jimmie Rodgers. AWAYLON AND WILLIE: “WWB” (RCA Victor):: Last time these two ganged up, Willie kept things honest, but this is Waylon’s caper: Willie sings on only half the cuts, and sounds almost as full of himself as Waylon when he does. You’d never know “Mr. Shuck And Jive” was about Jimmy Webb himself, and Willie’s own “Write Your Ovim Songs” makes you wonder whether,that “purified country” “music executive” (same guy?) got an old tougher-than-leather’s nerves by asking him for a few new ones. Waylon’s solo turns on “The Last Cowboy Song” and “The Old Mother’s Locket Trick” are the giveaway—the idea is to acknowledge that all this outlaw myth is shuck-and-jive and then make the shuckand-jive itself seem mythic. But despite some distinguished tunes, only their duet on “Dock Of The Bay,” which has nothing to do with anything except its own lazy self, does the trick. B-