CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

ROBERT CHRISTGAU

A FLOCK OF SEAGULLS: “Listen” (Jive):: If you think I enjoy enjoying this epitome of new wave commercialism, this pap beloved of no one but MTV-addled suburbanites (not even NME, ever!)—well, you’re right. I’m not just being campy, either, except insofar as camp means the luxury of surrender to stupidity—in this case to sheer, sensationalistic aural pleasure, whooshes and zooms and sustains and computerized ostinatos and English boys whining about their spaced out, financially secure lot, all held aloft on tunes Mr. Spock could hum and a beat a veejay could dance to. There are too many slow ones on number two, so I don’t play both sides indiscriminately like I do with the debut. But hell, “What Am I Supposed To Do” even has a decent lyric. B +

MARSHALL CRENSHAW: “Field Day” (Warner Bros.):: Production brouhaha usually signifies the betrayal of an impossibly ecstatic expectation—think of Talking Heads ’77, New York Dolls, Exile On Main St., or (for you oldsters) Moby Grape, all bad-rapped when they first appeared, all in fact a little botched aurally, and all enduring records. Since the problem here isn’t mess but overdefinition, a more precise analogy might be Give ’Em Enough Rope, but with a crucial difference: The Clash had better songs than the follow-up, while this follow-up has better songs than the debut. I don’t mean better lyrics, either. That impression only holds up until you read them ♦ and rediscover that with a few exceptions (the David Weiss collaboration “Monday Morning Rock” more than the anthemic “Try”) Crenshaw is a true songwriter—his words and music cannot be separated. Not even by the wrong drum sound. A

DEF LEPPARD: “Pyromania” (Mercury):: Fuckin’ right there’s a difference between new heavy metal and old heavy metal. The new stuff is about five silly beatsper-minute faster. And the new lead singers sound not only “ ‘free’ ” and white, but also more or less 21. C

DAVE EDMUNDS: “Information” (Columbia):: Not sihce the onset of a career always marked by consistent taste and uncertain utility has Edmunds strayed so far from the trad, and though his perfidy/courage is characteristically marginal, it’s still a mistake. The two Jeff Lynneproduced tracks have given him the hit he needs, but where 1971’s echoey “I Hear You Knockin’ ” was a departure, 1983’s teched-up “Slipping Away” is an accommodation to market trends the Edmunds of Rockpile bucked. And as a symptom of his faltering commitment, the songs he’s selected for side two are quite humdrum, which isn’t characteristic at all. B-

“FLASHDANCE” (Casablanca):: Ten different singers collaborate with half a dozen producers to collapse a myriad of pop polarities onto one all-inclusive rock-disco concept soundtrack. Tenors and contraltos, guitars and synthesizers, lust and love, ballads and DOR—all are equal as these mostly undistinguished, mostly quite functional artistes proceed through their mostly undistinguished, mostly quite functional material. Concept: the overinsistent beat, which signifies how compulsively they seek a good time that retains shreds of both meaning and ecstatic release. B-

GARLAND JEFFREYS: “Guts For Love” (Epic):: Jeffreys’s odd weakness for rock without roll is the ruination of this overproduced, undercomposed anachronism— even the reggae grooves are tinged with synthesized AOR melodrama, and the dance numbers do not jump jump. C +

JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS: “Album” (MCA):: It’s one of Jett’s virtues that unlike so many rock traditionalists she doesn’t let her sense of humor undercut her commitment—“Fake Friends” (cf. “Back Stabbers”) and “The French Song” (cf. “Triad”) are the real stuff. It’s also one of her virtues that unlike so many other rock traditionalists she does have a sense of humor—even one-ups the Stones (they called “Starfucker” “Star Star,” she dubs “Scumbag” “Coney Island Whitefish”). And if you don’t think her tuneless “Everyday People” is especially funny, I guarantee Sylvester Stewart is laughing all the way to his next label. No joke: her nagging love-is-pain cliches. B +

SYL JOHNSON: “Ms. Fine Brown Frame” (Boardwalk):: Johnson has the rep and pedigree of a downhome treasure, but like so many of his fellow workers both renowned (Johnnie Taylor) and obscure (O.V. Wright), he’s rarely better than his material if almost never worse. Having released bluesy soul records out of sweet home Chicago since the dissolution of his ’70s label, where his final album was a dismal piece of out-of-it disco, Johnson here constructs his best collection since 1975’s Total Explosion and his best side ever on the firm foundation of the title track, a superb piece of out-of-it disco. And may well have something equally interesting to show us before 1990. B +

JOURNEY: “Frontiers” (Columbia):: Just a reminder, for all who believe the jig is really up this time, of how much worse things might be: this top 10 album could be outselling Pyromania or Flashdance, or even Thriller. Worse still, Steve Perry could run for the Senate as a moderate Republican from, say, Nebraska, where his oratory would garner excellent press—and then, having shed his videogame interests, ram the tape tax through. D +

KAJAGOOGOO: “White Feathers” (EMI America):: Anglophile album buyers are nothing if not fickle, and this well-named bit of fluff is just forgettable enough to get caught in the backlash. No, it’s not entirely fair—the single’s cute, as are the little fuguey bits. Boo hoo. C +

KRAUT: “An Adjustment To Society”

(Cabbage):: New York’s most likely hardcore boys keep the hooks coming for a whole side of enlightened rant—not 20 yet and they’ve figured out that past and future are real categories, always a tough lesson for rock and rollers. Overdisc, despite a terrific antiwar closer, they settle for blurred distinctions. Address: Box 1424, Flushing, NY 11352 B

MEN WITHOUT HATS: "Rhythm Of Youth” (Backstreet):: “Who are you listening to, Jethro Tull?” someone asked over the phone, and that’s new music for you. What makes it new is how ruthlessly it goes for the one-shot, which sometimes means the good song—“The Safety Dance,” available as a 12-inch. As for the rest, well, Ivan Doroschuk seems smarter than anybody in A Flock Of Seagulls. And Ian Anderson seemed smarter than anybody in the Ohio Express. C +

THE MIGHTY DIAMONDS: ‘The Roots Is There” (Shanachie):: The amazing thing about reggae of a certain qualityin which an affecting singer like Donald Shaw joins ace session players—is that no matter how sedulously it restates platitudes about roots and girls and Jah, its small graces eventually get. its equally sedulous melodies across. But why should anyone who doesn’t credit the platitudes give them that long? B

MTUME: "Juicy Fruit” (Epic):: How deeply these clever funk lifts and comehither ululations penetrate your mind-body continuum depends on how deeply you’re into big-league fucking, which for these folks seems to involve a confusion between candy and fruit. I like both, prefer the latter, and wouldn’t advise going to bed with anyone who doesn’t know which is which. B

THE POLICE: “Synchronicity” (A&M):: I prefer my musical watershed juicier than this latest installment in their snazzy pop saga, and my rock middlebrows zanier, or at least nicer. If only the single of the summer was a little more ambiguous, so we could hear it as a poem of mistrust to the Pope or the Secretary of State; instead, Sting wears his sexual ressentiment on his chord changes like a closet “American Woman” fan, reserving the ambiguity for his Jungian conundrums, which I’m sure deserve no better. Best lyrics: Stew’s “Miss Gradenko” and Andy’s “Mother.” Juiciest chord changes: the single of the summer.

B +

PYLON: “Chomp” (DB):: Though I honor their collective front, and believe in my heart that drummer Curtis Crowe is the great musician here, I know for damn sure that the Pyloneer who makes me murmur “Oh yeah, that one” five seconds into each of these 12 tracks is guitarist Randall Bewley. And suspect the reason I can say no more is frontwoman Vanessa Briscoe, who looks a lot earthier than she turns out to be. ASIMPLE MINDS: "New Gold Dreams (81-82-83-84)” (A&M):: With more effort than hedonism should ever require, I make out three or maybe four full-fledged melodies on this self-important, mysteriously prestigious essay in romantic escape. Though the textures are richer than in ordinary Anglodisco, they arouse nary a spiritual frisson in your faithful synaesthetician. Auteur Jim Kerr is Bowie sans stance, Ferry sans pop, Morrison sans rock ’n’ roll. He says simple, I say empty, and we both go home. C +

SOFT CELL: "The Art Of Falling Apart” (Sire):: Marc Almond’s compassionately bitchy exposes of bedsitter hedonism and suburban futility risk bathos when they eschew burlesque. I’m sure his faithless U.S. audience would find the nonLP B-side “It’s A Mugs Game,” in which Marc pukes on his shoes, more edifying than the mock?-tragic “Baby Doll” or a bedhopper’s lament like “Numbers.” And David Ball’s synthesized Hendrix on the bonus 12-inch isn’t funny enough to compensate.

B-

DONNA SUMMER: "She Works Hard For The Money” (Mercury):: In which schlocky Michael Omartian replaces magic man Quincy Jones and Summer is born again. You know why? Because Omartian believes in Jesus, that’s why. The result is the best Christian rock this side of T-Bone Burnett (with the Clark Sisters pending), and^ not just because it’s suitable for Danceteria, although that helps. After all, can T-Bone claim to have introduced the concept of agape to the secular audience? A-

UB40: “1980-83” (A&M):: Only Bunny Wailer’s what-you-mean-mainstream inventions have anything on the deep consistency of this integrated English eight-piece’s world-class reggae. And if Ali Campbell’s sufferating vocal leads are tamer than the outcries of such rootsmen as Winston Rodney and Keith Porter, they certainly don’t lack for soul or expressive reach, except perhaps on the upful side, where Astro’s toasts come to the rescue before any serious tedium is done. All four of their import albums are recommended, but this long overdue U.S.-debut compilation is where to I get hooked. A