MARSHALL CRENSHAW

Field Day

(Warner Bros.)

Marshall Crenshaws first album was like a tuneful adaptation of an ad from the Voices personal/classified columns: Lookin for a brand new lover, a cynical girl who doesnt bother with the usual thing and likes to go rockin around in N.Y.C. (dancing abilities optional). It was as though Dobie wants a girl whos dreamy, wants a girl whos creamy, wants a girl to call his own" Gillis was fitted for spectacles, handed a guitar and transported to 82. And Thalia had never left his mind. This second LP, Field Day, finds our hero deeper into the heterosexual fray, and, though he hasnt abandoned his search for creaminess en extremis, hes conceding that the finding thereof doesnt necessarily lead to a cessation of anxiety. This time out, Crenshaw spends as much time brooding over the imponderable sadness of life as he does nuzzling up to cashmere-clad lovelies in biology lab and making grand declarations of undying affection.

Hes great at those declarations, though. For one day with you/I would break off every previous engagement," he starts off one song and obviously not getting the desired response (Thalia yawns dramatically), he immediately raises the ante: Id risk ruin, pain and degradation." Hed run through jungles, climb snow-capped tundras, all for the honor of having her hand rest on his knee. One Day With You," the song in which all this takes place, is the epitome of both Crenshaws prosaic earnestness and his inherited pop instincts (Lets get real gone for a change," he shouts at the end, quoting The King At Sun). And For Her Love" (hed even take the subway; what a man), Monday Morning Rock" (sort of A Sunday Kind Of Love" for the crowd that packs Danceteria on weekends?) and Whenever Youre On My Mind" all have that unabashedly chipper spirit that led to so many flattering comparisons to Buddy Holly and L-Mc (the ambivalent optimism of Maybe Baby" meets the hyperbole of Eight Days A Week" and the understatement of I Feel Fine") last time out. You can almost hear Crenshaws heart beat with erotic anticipation on his version of the Jive Fives What Time Is It?," as the hours tick on until the big date and then, with tie straightened, he jump-cuts to the girls door for an evening of pleasures untold.

There isnt anything new about the Crenshaw character, the normal guy with normal needs, obsessed with the idea of perfect romance, and the character isnt intrinsically appealing, either—teen idols by the score turned the whole idea into exploitation. But he plays it with such verve and believability, and crafts his songs with looping hooks that make infatuation a noble state. Even so, theres only so far this can go, and he knows it. So on Field Day he expands in the best possible way, sticking to the firstperson situational, but getting involved in emotional areas that didnt seem to occur to him on Marshall Crenshaw. That LP started and ended with Crenshaw resolving to get over a girl who dumped him by just dusting himself off and finding a substitute, and both songs, There She Goes Again" and Brand New Lover," had a jaunty nonchalance about the whole process.

Field Days All I Know Right Now" is not quite so devil-may-care: too blue to even cry," Crenshaw plays records and kills time in an empty room and, while he talks about getting up to find a warm girl to brighten his cold world, the drowsy melody makes it sound more likely that hell just sit there and dig out more Roy Orbison 45s. Then theres One More Reason," a depiction of out-and-out misery, Try," in which he tears himself up trying to salvage a doomed relationship (Thalia speeds off in Milton Armitages little red Corvette), and Our Town." The latter number pulls an urban reversal on the usual You Cant Go Home Again" theme, as Crenshaw wants to get back to the big city (and, needless to add, the girl) of his dreams before, for whatever unexplained reason, the whole thing tumbles to the ground." Thematic analysis aside, these are simply fine songs, one and all. Songs for wallowing rockers.

But while Marshall is writing his pop Annie Hall, Steve Lillywhite is producing Tarzan And The Leopard Woman. The drums, the drums! Granted, Richard Gottehrers production on Crenshaws debut album was a trifle too undernourished, but Lillywhite, who has this disinclination to treat percussion as anything but I cannonfire, comes close to drowning out Crenshaws voice. His approach (density is all) is too omphatic for the material, with some musical accessorizing sounding as though it leaked in from an adjacent studio. The songs on Field Day would be worth listening to through mosquito netting and burlap, but Crenshaws scenarios deserve a more restrained touch. While Dobie was agonizing in the park, did Maynard sit right next to him on the bench, thumping away at his bongos?

JOAN JETT

Album

(Blackheart/MCA)

Okay, all you other old broads out there besides me—just how stupid did the Runaways appear to you?

Only extremely? Only consummately? And how full of avante-new wave-womens lib-real art crap were any of us when we heard Joan Jetts Bad Reputation for the first time? Jett was still shotputting rhythm guitar chords the size of city buses. She was still singing" in that bad-boy bleat of a monotone. And when I Love Rock And Roll" did the crack job on the speaker of your car radio a summer ago, did you get the drift then? No, I bet not.

If youre a teenager or a guy or a woman whos not too old or too libbed, I dont have to defend Joans third solo album. Lets see, you need to know the title—Album. First single? Another installment in Joans serial autobiography, this one called Fake Friends." Still meat and potatoes rock n roll? You bet. No Flock Of Seagulls spaceman looney tunes here. What wasnt broke, she and Kenny Laguna have not fixed.

What was broke? Well, youll hear some rather silky new singing sounds on a few cuts. Handyman" and Secret Love" start nice and easy, get nice and rough, and Joan has the right crooning for both ends. In fact, she only misplaces her new vocal savvy on one cut, a really vivid sortaballad called Why Cant We Be Happy," on which shes either singing too hard or the track is tracking too hard. Other than that one, Jett is still making lots of noise, but shes learning to make it lighter on its feet.

To the unpersuaded, I offer one of the LPs finest hours, an altogether true-to-form remake of Everyday People," true to the songs form as well as Joans. Other rock stahhhhrs try to sell themselves as salt of the earth; Jett seems to be one. Not in the sense of late house payments or lack of exceptional talent. Jett doesnt care to appear to be what she is not, and thats all. Fame and creativity suck that out of some people, but not the flinty-eyed Ms. Jett. Shes vehemently stayed at that hot spot where punk and heavy metal are the same leather clad brute, dutifully putting in her stint on the no-nonsense raunch patrol. If, after Album, youre still waiting for her to get arty or libbed or avante or erudite, youre missing the point about more things than just Joan Jett.

Laura Fissinger

TALKING HEADS

Speaking In Tongues

(Sire)

r Without the anchors of either longtime producer Brian Eno or the general pancultural ideology expressed on their last few records, the Talking Heads latest album, Speaking In Tongues, might seem somewhat out of kilter, its tightly coiled arrangements and stream-of-consciousness lyrics reflecting, on first listen, either a holding action for the group or even a few regressive steps back. On the records leadoff track, after all, leader David Byrne appears to have reverted to his Norman Psycho Killer" Bates view of life. Im an ordinary guy," he sings, burning down the house." But, by the end of this circular nine song cycle, youve come to realize that all actions have either reactions inside the halls of Byrnes looney logic, and that Speaking In Tongues is an artful, if sometimes odd-ful, rumination on birth, death and rebirth, all happily bounced musically off the vibrant kneecushion of the bands multi-textured backdrop. The easier to get the points across with, my sweeties.

If Byrne seemed somewhat bewildered by his good luck in a song like Once In A Lifetime," hes downright wary of it on Burnin Down The House": Watch out...you might get what youre after," he warns in the albums initial line. Pretty soon, though, hes trying his best to shed his own house (body) in Making Flippy Floppy," a nursery rhyme bump-and-grind about back-to-the-roots onanism, sex and birth, as a haunting violin accompanies David enroute from womb to outside world and a Princelike keyboard riff mocks away with a dig at the Wizard of Id himself. Girlfriend Is Better" finds our narrator still hard at work at this normal" game, but the going is getting rougher by the verse. I.. .who took the money?.. .1 its always showtime," he blurts, lapsing into meaninglessness once again as his psyche gets distracted and a synthesizer punctuates the hits-and-misses with the approximated sound of a terminally stalling engine. Slippery People," with its gospelly call and response, reinforces the schized-out state of affairs, leading up to I Get Wild/Wild Gravity," wherein Byrne pits the urge to fly against the forces of nature that keep us anchored (and human) — I get wild...its automatic," he shouts, as the music leaps and crashes all around him.

The circle becomes unbroken and then some on the second side. Swamp" moves the frame of reference from the sky above to the mud below, and Byrnes obsession with birthing re-emerges when he swallows some Moon Rocks" that grow in his stomach until they talk, reversing the conception scene of Making Flippy Floppy." But its the final two tracks which deliver Reverend Byrne from his ring of fire and take him to the river of salvation. Without the urgency of Pull Up The Roots" or the after-the-Bomb forgiveness of This Must Be The Place," Byrne might seem just an idiot savant, trapped inside the towering babble of his private meanderings. But on these last two songs, he bursts through the maze of question marks to find the answers, forging a new 360 degree beginning and a fresh point of view, landing on a higher plane, far away from the [sweaty trappings below, while the sweet strains of a flute-like keyboard signify Jungian integration. Having successfully wrestled with his own demons, Byrne now urges us to embrace the given, and accept our identity as part of/separate from the human race. Home is where I want to be," he ultimately concludes, but I guess Im already there...If someone asks, this is where Ill be."

The birth/death/rebirth cycle continues, and the dance goes on, as modern music moves from dissonance to harmony and back again, a Bach fugue giving way to James Brown funk. David Byrne may wish to float away upon a cloud, but his band keeps him anchored four on the floor just as surely as his relentless reason ground him in the here and now. Move or be damned. Action is all. Its the reflections afterwards that cause all the trouble—those very complexes that Talking Heads ultimately break down by turning their fearful leaders nerdy selfconsciousness into their own peculiar brand of Soul.

Roy Trakin

MEAT LOAF

Midnight At The Lost

And Found

(Cleveland International/Epic)

Gifted with a fascination for preordained lyrics, motionless ballads and a zeal to artistically redefine convictionless," Meat Loaf continues to frivel away PVC in grand style. Obviously, this is all part of the act, since the man was clearly born to overconsume. If he poses any real threat, its in using up oxygen a human being might need someday.

It comes as no jolt—matter of fact, it doesnt even come as a jostle— that Midnight At The Lost And Found misses on every level possible, including a few levels hitherto believed a priori. The mix is so timid it practically needs an introduction. And when producer Tom Dowd gets a chance to twist a dial here and there, does he take it? Of course not! Listen to the end of the title track, where the scam is the gutsy a cappella vocals/handclap maneuver that John Cougar deified on American Fool. This will convince you that Cougar is—if not a great producer— at least ambulatory. Im having my doubt about Mr. Loaf; in any case, with the excitement he exudes, the part shouldnt have been a cappella —it shouldve been everything cappella.

You might be nice enough to overlook the production (you certainly will have a hard time overhearing it, though) if the album ever managed to segue into a song or two. Incredibly, the consistently mediocre studio work is matched by a string of whiny cant-live-with-em-etc. tunes that elevate so-so to Himalayan proportions. A Professor of Inconsequence would be hard-pressed to describe forgetability with more elan.

With all this going for it, you can bet your Hamburger Helper that Meat Loafs voice is still the most annoying use for tin ever discovered. Really, I cant think of even one Bee Gees song thats as creepy as this guys stuff. Grating? Listen, you could use it to make a nice cole slaw.

Not only that, Midnight features more! (Or less, depending on how tight you are with close-captioned rock.) Guitarist Mark Doyle (rhymes with foil) is the perfect accompanist for Loafs oozes. Hes especially outstanding on slow and dumb songs, which I suspect was the working title for this album. He hits a few notes on You Never Can Be Too Sure About The Girl" that are so cloying you forget whos singing the song. No wonder the cats on every tune; its like making Spiro Agnew your vice president.

There is one good cut on Midnight — The Promised Land," penned by Chuck Berry several decades ago. You can use it as a handy barometer to gauge how bad the music of Meat Loaf is, circa 1983.

J. Kordosh

THE BLASTERS

Non Fiction

(Slash/Warner Bros.)

On the cover of the Blasters latest, Non Fiction, rugged, determined drummer Bill Bateman poses for the wage slaves Mt. Rushmore wearing mechanics coveralls and a glamorous layer of grease, holding one red rose that he undoubtedly means while contemplating the future of the popular front and his gurl (not necessarily in that order) after a hard days valve job. Whew...a paean to the politically correct (or at least rock n roll progressive) working man—and this is just the cover. But before you laugh too hard up your sleeve let me warn you that the Blasters defy cynicism. They simply smile ingenuously and rock it to death. And as federally sponsored ideologues in D.C. force working folks daily to look to their history (and to their left) from the unemployment line, who knows... the Blasters could be the band of Americas future as well as the conservators of our hot and sweet past.

Non fiction? I kind of doubt it, but the fantasy gives me considerable pleasure and so does this album. In fact, youd have to be a spitefully ignorant churl to dislike Non Fiction, the third LP from Downey, Californias (and New Orleans) finest. (Or actually 3V2, if you figure in last years live in England EP. Im not sure how to count anymore now that little records look like big ones.) Anyway, all right-thinking Americans and lots of fnrriners, too—should stand four-square behind this band. Of course, such sentiments make me uncommonly nervous and must be scrupulously examined, but I guess Im just a sucker for the Blasters. Any band that slips yodeling brakeman Jimmie Rodgers in with Sunnyland Slim and Bo Diddley, as they did on their last LP (all three are Mississippians), with time out for Little Richard and Hank Williams deserves, at the very least, massive praise and the thanks which they have indeed received. And their joyous live show—irresistible steaming non-stop rock n roll served up with unpretentious, unposed sincerity—has accumulated its share of raves, too. Until now, however, the Blasters recordings have fallen short, by differing degrees, of their unique vision and potential.

With Non Fiction, the most well meaning band in the land has finally made a record worthy of its exemplary intentions. Lead guitarist and gifted songwriter Dave Alvin has made the leap to excellence with passionate playing and dispassionate, precise depictions of life under the grease rack—more accurate and less romanticized than those of lube job laureate, Bruce S., Non Fiction is not a rock n roll chop shop where faceless welders try to make something saleable out of stolen parts: a chrome Sun bumper, a Specialty tailfin, a continental spare from Chess. Rather, every song here has a coherent life of its own—vivid, particular and electric in all senses. This is helped immeasurably by a rhythm section that truly deserves the plaudits that are routinely heaped on ordinary players. Bassist Bazz is so good you hardly notice his labors. Cover boy Bateman is everywhere, perhaps the most fiercely propulsive drummer working today. Crucial texture and seasoning are provided by king sized New Orleans-ish piano player Gene Taylor and by the rich, dark reeds, baritone Steve Berlin and heroic tenor Walkin with Mr. Lee" Allen, who could never play enough to satisfy me.

So, the neo-realist scenarios are brilliant, the bottom is peerless and the saxes and keyboard are fully integrated in the Blasters sound. What else is new, you ask? Actually, gracious front man and lead singer Phil Alvin whos previously sounded thin and strained—as if he was trying too hard—has found a simple, straightforward delivery, powerful yet restrained, that is essential to the suecess of Non Fiction s best tracks. On Bus Station," a sharply etched American short story, on Long White Cadillac," a haunting, mournful song about Hank Williams last ride, on Leaving," a tune that updates classic R&B conventions the way Time Is On My Side" did 20 years ago, and on Jubilee Train," a thrilling rock n roll song about the coming of the New Deal 50 years ago(!)—all songs 1 probably would have liked if Nancy Reagan sang them—Im happiest about brother Phils composure and intelligent performance. Non Fiction is an odds-on favorite for my top 10. In fact, if there are nine other records this good, 1983 will have been fine, fine, fine.

LETS GET STUPID!

Richard C. Walls

by

B-52S Whammy (Warner Bros.)

Hey, I hate to be a party poop, but I think these guys might be running out of steam—not that this isnt a very likeable light entertainment kinda record, but its sorta far removed from the B-52s original concerns. I mean, if you were one of those who were disappointed by Mesopotamia cause you felt that David Byrnes techno-proficiency and au courant garnishing obscured the Bs thrift shop eclecticism, youre in for another letdown here—only theres no Byrne to blame this time, all instrumental sounds being credited to band members Rick Wilson and Keith Strickland (with one exception, to be mentioned in a mo). Because, sad to report, the tacky surf rhythms and B-movie licks have been replaced by slick dance band moves—terse synthesizers, echoed claps, the works. The Bs may think this is progress, and one cant blame them for not wanting to do the first album a third time, but never before has the band sounded this (clever but) anonymous.

Ah well, lets look on the bright side. The Bs have always had an unerring grasp of the Truly Dumb (as opposed to the Only Crummy—truly dumb concepts are mind-boggling in the totality of their uselessness while only crummy ones are usually the boring results of someones mental incompetency and lack the innocence and purity of the truly dumb—TD concepts include Gilligans Island, strobe lights, astrology as a belief system, Grand Funk Railroad, anything involving Casey Kasem, while OC concepts include Threes Company, incense, astrology as a hobby, Queen, anything involving Malcolm McClaren) and its a gift that hasnt really disappeared just because the musics gotten a little bland (and, incidentally, part of the reason that Mesopotamia was somewhat disorienting is that funk, one of its upfront ingredients, is often silly but rarely dumb). Which is to say theres still some yucks here, and fairly big ones at that (and let it be noted, for completist purposes, that this band has a serious side too, cf. Hero Worship," Dirty Back Road," and Deep Sleep" from the first three albums—put these on an EP and play em for someone whos never heard the Bs and they wouldnt get even a hint of the bands campy/party rep. This time out the serious song is Queen Of Las Vegas" and, chintzy title aside, a fine attempt at seriousness it is, tho its difficult to take the bands little stabs at seriousness too seriously since the band doesnt seem to take them too seriously themselves—still, one doesnt like to discourage that sort of thing) (seriousness, that is). Fred Schneider, unfortunately sounding a little less obnoxious than usual, possibly due to the new improved sonic surroundings, shines on Butterbean" (a TD member of the vegetable family, unlike lima beans, which are definitely OC) and Big Bird," a TD/Edward Gorey type concept with music out of Carla Bley via scampering percussion and frantically pointless horn riffing (the exception I mentioned in the first paragraph). Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson sound a little more restrained on this album than usual, but thats the way it goes. Also funny, if you must know, is the bands version of Yoko Queen of the One-liners" Onos Dont Worry," a respectful handling of an enduring classic.

Thats it. I hope 1 wasnt too hard on the band, theyre so cute you hate to be mean to em. I didnt even mention that the last cut is rank filler, an unremarkable instrumental (which is about as close to OC as you can get). But it helps to keep in mind that tho they may have (temporarily?) lost some of their punch, this band will never be really only crummy, theyre too honestly talented for that. Meanwhile, my advice to R. Wilson and K. Strickland, who seem to be responsible for the bands current uninspired sound—dummy up, guys!

Richard C. Walls

Jeff Nesin

NEW ORDER

Power, Corruption And Lies

(Factus)

New Orders transition from the thrash-trance band they were as Joy Division to the dance band they are today makes a lotta sense, even as it makes some of their old fans grumble a bit. They always were very rigid rhythmically so stressing their rhythms while guitarist Bernie Albrecht gets his shaky-butimproving singing together seems a legit way to go. And its working: Blue Monday" (included on the PC&L cassette but not the LP) is the biggest dance hit theyve had in the U.S. and may be the one to finally establish them as a major band over here. Too bad its such a zomboid example of bleached disco; pick up the. cassette at your own risk.

Fortunately, most of the cuts here function better than Blue Monday," even if their structures arent drastically different. Usually, the bass, drums, and sequencer will lock into place as tightly as a prison door and, through endless repetition, will lull listeners into moving some parts of their anatomies while the guitar and synth sketch in various dark shadings. Maybe we should call this sorta stuff something else—lock n lull music, perhaps?—and leave the dance music crown to more outgoing types like Prince.

New Order may not be the only inwardly-looking dance band to come out of England recently but they seem the most determined to keep everybody else out. Albrechts entreating vocals lead to a sympathetic response—until you catch what hes saying. He begins the album with, Wont you please let me go;" ends it with, For these last few days, leave me alone;" and in between, comes up with such thoughtful gems as, When it happens/You will be no friend of mine" and, Youve caught me at a bad time/So why dont you piss off?" Its as if the only thing he has to reach out with is rejection. Strange.

This curious tension that exists between the various aspects of New Orders music—the words, tone of voice, rhythms, instrumental colorings—makes the band hard to pin down, but several tunes do work more directly than others. The Village" is positively perky in this context while Ultraviolence" remains (the albums most compelling com'bination of mystery and drive. We All Stand," structured around an odd, loping bass line and unusually busy drums, even shows that theyve learned how to keep their slow songs from becoming dirges.

So theres definitely growth going on here, but the days when these guys easily led the pack of moody dance outfits is long since past. The latest efforts by the Cure, Echo & The Bunnymen, and Siouxsies side project, the Creatures, all show their primary competition to be breaking new ground creatively as well. So its good to see New Order making moves of their own; lets hope their insular attitude doesnt keep them from the rewards their best stuff shows they deserve.

Michael Davis

A FLOCK OF SEAGULLS

Listen

(Arista)

There are two ways to look at seagulls. You could take the testimony of ancient mariners, who know more about the subject than youd probably want to hear. They know seagulls as scavengers, harbor pigeons, who eat a lot of garbage, shit on your head deliberately and make a godawful noisy racket. Then theres the Hollywood view of gulls, epitomized by that celluloid varnish Jonathan Livingston Seagull. This point of view presents the feathery little rats as sweet pets with humanlike thoughts and feelings and makes a big deal out of the fact that they can fly.

The question is, how does Flock Of Seagulls see itself? Do these boys recognize their kinship with the sea birds that snack on soggy french fries and beer can pop tops, or do they see themselves as gay fantasy characters, swooping and screeching through the sky?

Well, there are a few moments on Listen when cutesy sort of filigree seems to be an end in itself. There are other times when fantasy scenerios have to be taken into consideration because A Flock Of Seagulls sound, once in awhile, like nothing so much as the Moody Blues on a day when the rhythm ace got a little out of control. But I have a hunch that, overall, these birds are smart enough to glean the good bits off a garbage scow when they see one. After all, some of rock n rolls greatest lights reached the top [precisely because they understood the value of real trash as opposed to the deodorized kitty litter that passes for Art" these days.

The evidence that these gulls can scrounge with the best of them is here, and in heaps. Wishing (If I Had A Photograph Of You)" overlays more toe-tapping melodies than anything since the great Mike Oldfield/Vivian Stanshall collaboration Tubular Bells (the album that spawned a dialect?). Do I hear a bit of Surfaris guitar on Nightmares"?

If it werent for the New Romantic outfits you might even mistake the blue-eyed soul of Transfer Affection" for pub rock. And The Traveller" would not have been out of place on a Blues Magoos album.

Break out the stale bread! A Flock Of Seagulls are here to stay.

John Swenson

THE HUMAN LEAGUE

Fascination!

(A&M)

Back in their serious-artiste days, before they shed the future Heaven 17 to go POP! with capital Ps, the Human League used to attempt to befuddle interviewers with heated discussions as to whether or not they were really musicians. Now the Human Leagues latest record release, Fascination!, could provoke similarly abstract arguments among the cognoscenti, as to whether or not its really an album.

On the one hand, Fascination! displaces the requisite 12" on the listeners turntable, but on the other hand it has only" six cuts. The more anti-social soothsayers among the reviewers will point out not only that two of these cuts are respective vocal and instrumental versions of the same song, but also that only three cuts are 1983-vintage material per their copyright dates; one 82 and two 81 leftovers" fill out the disc. Which still totals out at 26:43 of pop, not far behind many classic 12-(short) cut albums of the 60s. So is it an LP or EP? Coffee, tea, or me?

Dont matter what you call it, after all, as millions have bought Human Leagues Dare, not because its clearly a full-fledged 10-cut album, but because it happens to contain that one crucial song, last summers chartdominant Dont You Want Me." People wouldve scooped up any (affordable) record configuration that included that one wonderful song, and Fascination! strips the anti-conceptual Dare even further down to its modern essentials: no heavy themes, no filler, just six potential radio/dancefloor hit songs, all for $5.98 list, as the shrinkwrap sticker somewhat defensively announces.

Fascination! makes deeper pacts with chi-chi modernity in its profound shallowness. Everybody agrees that British technopop represents a rather resounding victory of style over content, but Dont You Want Me" was, after all, a story" song of sorts, with touches of feminism, etc., to provide its narrative with the coveted think & dance" ethical stance. Fascination!, however, is all dance dance dance, with maybe a bit of thinking (about dancing) thrown in here & there. I cant find a single phrase worth quoting among all the lyrics, even when Phil Oakeys vokes are at their most drone-authoritative. If I could translate all of Human Leagues synthesizer squeeps and yowls and pocks into characters and syllables, youd have the whole verbal freight of Fascination! right there. (Stick with Heaven 17 if you need more coherent word-politics in your muzik.)

(Keep Feeling) Fascination— Extended" and its instrumental Improvisation" reprise sound like the biggest song hits on Fascination! (your feet will move, propulsively), but the Chic-meet-the-B-52s gumbo jollies of Hard Times" shouldnt be far behind. You Remind Me Of Gold" dates back to 81, so it may not be prophetic of the groups next" tried-on style, but the Cass & Michelle-like femme chorus in the song is handled so slick & quick it again reminds you just what total smoothies these people have become since they met up with producer Martin Rushent.

Dont fight the slick funk, as electrolux bands like the Human League will become more & more prominent as the long-cherished myth of the singular-performance rock concert" breaks down, and fans are increasingly satisfied to get over with prerecorded, undeviatingly swift & sure riffs like these (Human Leagues the glossiest as they come).

Richard Riegel

FAMILY FEUD

Billy Altman

by

KINKS

State Of Confusion

(Arista)

Although State Of Confusion is, most assuredly, as befitting a Kinksian title as one would expect from Ray Davies and crew as they merrily celebrate, with its release, their 20th spirited year of recorded rambunctiousness, perhaps a more apropos heading for this (now how many umpteen times have I described a Kinks record thusly?) unassuming little gem of an LP might have been The Ties That Grind. Because, although there are a few camouflage maneuvers executed here and there, the state" that State Of Confusion addresses, and in almost thematic fashion (though, thank goodness, never once does this affair ever start to attract those dreaded concept album flies that annoyingly buzzed around so much of the bands work in the mid-70s), is that of the matrimonial and, in turn, familial kind, with at least half of the 10 contained tracks (12 if you count the cassette; more on that later) dealing with connubial blisses and misses of some sort or another.

Of course, this is a Kinks album. So that, even while theres a flood in the basement, woodworms in the attic, ceilings falling down, and appliances on the fritz—and thats the good news from home — Ray Daviess befuddled everyman still knows, deep inside, that you cant give in to the madness all around. Which means that State Of Confusion weaves its deceptively simple tales of torment, worry and woes," with all the wit, grace and style that has become both second nature and thusly almost taken for granted with this group, and also, with enough of the camouflage-mentioned-above patented rollicking metallic Kinks oomph on hand to rough over any smooth spots that might crop up along the way.

State Of Confusions preoccupation with the implications of marriage and family isnt very surprising, since the last two years of Ray Davies life have been generally preoccupied by his close relationship with the Pretenders Chrissie Hynde, and the recent birth of the couples first child. What is surprising is how apparently autobiographical so much of this record seems—the fantasy world that Davies often escapes to for his persona-laden songs isnt often found here. Instead, there are mainly selfconscious observations on the differences between generations, on how different people cope or just grope with their wedlocks and deadlocks. The wonderful Tex-Mex/ Calypso single, Come Dancing," begins with Davies watching his older sister going out for an innocent night of dancing, and ends with him and the band performing for an audience made up of kids the age of his sisters own children, kids who easily get away" with what previous generations couldnt. Similarly, the most likely not accidentally Pretenders-ish sounding Heart Of Gold" deals sympathetically with sibling rivalry and maturing past self-doubts, with a finale of, once again, new children on the premises.

Marriage as well gets the onceover from Ray—once-over with humor, once without; Labour Of Love" chronicles the knockdown, dragout existence of Mr. and Mrs. Horrible, who go through endless battles and fights, bruises and bites," but know deep down that if they still care enough to keep screamin and cryin," somehow theyll work it out. Whereas, the soulfully sad Property" details, an archetypal Davies tradition, the minutiae of a failed couplers life. We never needed them," he notes of the dust-collecting souvenirs on the shelf, But they outlasted us...now theres no more love/Now theres just the property."

Sprinkled between these musings are the rock em sock em kinds of tunes that helped keep the band afloat in arenaland the last few years, and the best of them hit the usual Kinks chords of familiarity and hilarity. Definite Maybe" finds its protagonist wiped off the face of the earth by by an errant computer, while Young Conservatives" adroitly charts the changing values that the 80s have wrought (The young just want to be young," yells Davies as he and brother Dave reprise their melodic taunts at old nemesis David Watts). And aint it nice to hear Dave finally sing a song on a Kinks album again, in the form of the no-holdsbarred groupie rave-up, Bernadette."

If theres one complaint here, its that the majestic ballad, Long Distance" can only be had by purchasing a cassette copy of this album, and thats a downright shame. The song, arguably the best Dylan composition Ive heard since Bob saw the light (its even got a typical Zimmy cast of characters—Romeo, Larry, the Doctor, and the mysterious Electric Dwarf"), finds Ray away in far-off Australia, missing his beloved while the rest of the gang goes about their zesty pillaging. I only get to hold the most," he sighs as he dials the overseas operator yet again to hear the sound of that one special voice. One hopes that Long Distance" turns up at last as a B-side and soon—its simply a gorgeous, gorgeous song.