FLU EPIDEMIC CONTINUES

ASIA Alpha

(Geffen)

Michael Davis

Why Asia? Why have these four refugees from the ruins of ELP, Yes and UK actually achieved the megaplatinum sales figures predicted for every supergroup since Blind Faith? British rock bands have formed, broken up and reformed for years; what’s so special about Asia?

Change the question to “what is Asia?” and you’ll begin to get some useful answers. One or more hearings of Alpha makes one thing clear: despite the pedigrees of its members, Asia is not a progressive rock band. Anyone harboring remaining fantasies that the combination of Wetton, Palmer, Howe and Downes would result in a unit dedicated to musical exploration should lay them to rest in the nearest landfill as soon as possible.

Of course the word progressive means many things to many people, but if you take it to mean artists willing and able to infuse their music with a constant dynamic of creative change, there aren’t too many people associated with the British school of early ’70s-rooted prog-rock who still qualify. The music of Peter Gabriel, the reformed King Crimson and sometimes Genesis still retain a respectable amount of movement so those artists are generally worth a listen. Splinter types like Steve Hackett and Eddie Jobson, on the other hand, add little more than tonal

variations to what has come before so their importance to the general scheme of things is kinda marginal at this point. And what’ll happen when Jon Anderson rejoins Squire, White and Co. for a projected album/tour later this year is anybody-who-still-cares’s guess.

But Asia’s working a different turf altogether. This isn’t progressive rock in any form; most of it isn’t even rock. The first four tunes here are ballads, as are most of the ones that follow; Alpha is primarily an album of pop ballads dressed up in progrock costuming. Just what we needed, another Moody Blues.

All it takes is a look at the writing credits to figure put how this happened. Nine of the ten songs are written by John Wetton and Geoff 1’veGotMore -Synthesizers-Than - YouDo Downes; John wrote the other one by himself. Wetton’s songwriting (with Eddie Jobson) in UK got simpler as the band continued and Downes was a Buggle long before he was a Yesman. As an orchestrator, Downes has a surer touch than most, but his melodies are standard pop progressions with an odd chord tossed in every couple of lines or a briefly unusual turnaround used as an intro or a bridge. Not exciting stuff.

Now you might wonder where Steve Howe is in all of this. Excellent question. Out to lunch is the answer, probably munching sprouts sandwiches underneath one of Downes’s synthesizers. Not only does he do no writing, but his occasional ornamental guitar flourishes are buried in the mix as well, a dumb place for them since his somewhat delicate style doesn’t cut through a wall-of-synths very well. However many millions of copies Alpha will sell, I betcha there’ll be a few hundred Howe fanatics who’ll break it into a million pieces.

But if the guitarist doesn’t rock up this sludge, who does? Actually the drummer. Carl Palmer, Mr. Bombastic Excess himself, has neatly honed his considerable chops and power to meet the needs of this new material, bashing along like he’s having a great time. Together with producer Mike Stone, he’s come up with one of the most powerfully recorded drum sounds ever. Why? Don’t ask me; I’m still busy with the whats.j

What else is there? Well, Wetton’s serviceable voice and humdrum lyrics, which may actually be preferable to the bizarre wordplay he sang with King Crimson. And... did I mention Downes’s pointlessly Emersonic solo on “The Heat Goes On?” No? Good.

So what shall we call Asia? We can call them successful, rich, powerful, boring, anything at all. We can call their music many of the same things. Hyphen fans could call it postprogressive-rock-pop and I’d agree with ’em. I could call it a lot of other things, too, but after all this, I don’t have the space.

ELVIS COSTELLO Punch The Clock (Columbia)

Elvis Costello doesn’t want much. Just everything. Like the rest of us, only worse, because how many of us write songs and wish we were Cole Porter and Chuck Berry at the same time? This boy really expects to orchestrate songs and relationships so that both provide cheap thrills and eternal bliss in more or less equal measure. Be my wife, be my weekend. Be Little Richard, be Rachmaninoff.

It’s a tall order for such a bilious young man, and Punch The Clock is a (fairly) simple case of reach exceeding grasp. Or maybe ambitions at a zenith while everyone in the office is home in bed with a bad case of ennui. Punch The Clock may not advance Costello’s grand artistic plans as well as Imperial Bedroom, but it’s not a bad album. Elvis seems a little bored with certain emotional cul de sacs, a little fed up with his own word games. Watching the clock, maybe? Am I a great songwriter yet? Great enough. Who cares? Now get back to work and relax. Dig?

The verdict seems split on the record’s most obvious changes from the past—and now, everybody, welcome Elvis Costello doing Southside Johnny! Two friends of mine who know more about Costello than anyone rightly should called me the same week in the middle of the night to deliver equally awe-filled verdicts. “It’s awwfulll,” wailed one. Then, in a whisper, “there’s horns. And background vocalists.” The other one cooed and billed over the same. So next time, bagpipes? It is a tribute to Costello’s gifts that he (more or less) gets away with it.

At first the clutter is startling, especially since the production is crystalline and you can hear nearly everything, particularly at the high end. The goodies bounce along with insolence and a blessed ignorance of their own bulk; as in cuts like “Let Them All Talk,” “The Greatest Thing,” “Invisible Man” and “The World And His Wife.” “TKO (Boxing Day)” clunks and brays horribly, but the thrill of Costello trying to be a fabulous Rhinestone carries it through. The background vocalists are pretty benign anyway. Musical thrill of the hour comes from the miracle fingers of Steve Nieve, who defines the word “versatile” for any keyboard player currently functioning.

Ostensibly, Punch The Clock follows up Imperial Bedroom as per theme; what happens when the eternal bliss becomes just eternal while the cheap thrills aren’t so cheap anymore? Or thrilling? “Punch the clock and in time you’ll get pulled apart/ If you’re married on paper and not in your heart,” goes a signpost line in “The Greatest Thing.” Okay, fine, but is the jittery blah overtone of the LP cinema verite, or is Elvis pooped out from asking too much (of himself) too soon?

Three songs on side two teeter among the gimpiest Elvis has ever done; they’re the ones with the laziest lyrics and the splittest musical personalities. Sure, the phrase “Mouth Almighty” is choice, but it doesn’t carry or coalesce a whole song. “Charm School” sports a riff from “Summer Of ’42” (no foolin’), baggyeyed rhythmic inertia and some cringers such as “You and I as lovers/Were nothing but a farce/Trying to make a silk purse/Out of a sow’s arse.” “King Of Thieves” puts its frowning face down in a puddle of strings and solemn nonsequiters and predictably drowns.

What we may have here is another simple classic (yes, Elvis, classic) case of self-consciousness, that is no harm in going for the brass ring, but if you watch yourself in transit, you’re likely to end up with the damn thing around your neck. When it comes to women, wine and song—a little greed is a dangerous thing.

Laura Fissinger

THE FLESHTONES Hexbreaker!

(I.R.S.)

THE STANDELLS The Beat Off The Standells (Rhino)

THE CHOCOLATE WATCH BAND The Best Off The Chocolate Watch Band (A.V.I./Rhino)

We’ve heard this before, and the Fleshtones know it: “Your scene isn’t really so strange/Some things never really change.” Hornet-nest guitar. Gnarly vocals. Lyrics that yoke adolescent nastiness and prurience a social context: Take Us Seriously, But Leave Us Alone. If Dylan plus the Beatles equalled Folk-Rock, Dylan plus Rolling Stones equalled Punk-Rock I, aggression multiplied by itself and the same old complaints given renewed fervor by their implied political basis. The Standells put it so well when they asserted their preference not to be bugged because of their long hair, and boiled campus unrest down to a plea for a more lax curfew at B.U. so strolling couples wouldn’t have to be subjected to the muggers by the Charles River.

Hexbreaker!, the new Fleshtones LP, has a high psych-punk authenticity quotient. I mean, “New Scene” is just about perfect: “It’s a mixed-up crazy time that we are living in/.../Society we reject your false values!,” and the album finishes up with a John Lee Hooker number

(obligatory blues cover) that contemplates death and quarrels with religious tenets. There’s even a song about amphetamines (“Screamin’ Skull”). It’s all like the combination frat-party/free-speech rally that “garage rock” (the accepted terminology) aspired to, with Peter Zaremba sounding particularly studied on the vocal interjections, and it’s a real yabba-dabba-do time. “We’re young, we’re cool, and we care!,” he yelps. Add some giddy organ and harmonica and you’ve got a sense of the thing.

The Rhino reissues put Hexbreaker! into perspective, of a sort, in that the Fleshtones’ social studies (on Roman Gods they suggested that the world’s problems could be solv-l ed by “observing the precepts of the* Constitution of The United States of America”) are fundamentally linked to the we-have-our-rights message of Riot On Sunset Strip, the film that brought the Standells and the Chocolate Watch Band together with Aldo Ray. That movie’s title song isn’t accounted for on the Standells’s collection — legal reason, not aesthetic, believe me—and that isn’t the only disappointment. The first few tracks, all written by Ed Cobb, sound great: “Dirty Water,” the bluecollar protest “Sometimes Good Guys Don’t Wear White” (grab it, Bruce), and, inevitably, “Why Pick On Me” (garage title of garage titles). But except on “Try It,” their notorious BANNED single, the Standells are like a Hollywood idea of an angry young band. As was the case too often, defiance came off as narcissism, brazeness as simpleminded sexism.

What a revelation the Chocolate Watch Band album is. No kidding. Drop the needle anywhere and you’ll get an electric sitar, a supercilious snarl or a trippy lyric. Here was a crew that didn’t know the words to Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” but didn’t let that stop them; they just started the songs in the middle (“The highway is for gamblers...”) and winged it. This band took the whole shebang seriously, building whole songs on the improvisational gabble of The Stones’ “Going Home,” condensing all of Aftermath into a fuzzy 6:06 (“Sweet Young Thing” and “No Way Out,” more Cobb), getting Ray Davies’s “I’m Not Like Everybody Else” on an LP before the Kinks did, doing two versions of “Milkcow Blues” and taking writing credit for one of them. Thesis material: “Are You Gonna Be There (At The Love-In).” Attitudinal prescience: “I Ain’t No Miracle Worker” (“I ain’t no miracle man,” long before E.C.). Liner quote of the year: “Mark Loomis was so wiped out that he couldn’t play at all. We had to get the lead guitarist from the Grateful Dead to come down and finish off the solos!”

Wait a minute here. Jerry Garcia and The Chocolate Watch Band? The mind reels. Which is, of course, the whole point.

Mitchell Cohen

MALCOLM MCLAREN Duck Rock (island)

Duck Rock, Malcolm McLaren’s 40-minute survey of exotic “folk music,” has the making of a TV family documentary, a kind of pop version of The Wild Kingdom, with quick reports on the sounds that get people dancing in Cuba, the South Bronx, Kwazululand, and EastTen-

nessee. But McLaren, naturally, isn’t content to be a mere host; it’s as if Ed Sullivan had decided to join his guests and bounded over from stage right to harmonize with the Fifth Dimension or shake his hips alongside Elvis. McLaren sits in with two New York record-scratching deejaysj shouts calls for a Smoky Mountains square dance combo, teaches a Zulu tribe to perform a hilarious send-up of the Sex Pistols scam—Marlin Perkins as interpreted by Benny Hill.

Which makes Duck Rock funnier than, say, Byrne & Eno’s My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts, but it’s just comic relief, not the major pop event it was apparently intended to be. For once, McLaren has been forced to follow trends, not invent them; the African, Hispanic, and Cuban cultures he skims over have already piqued the interest of serious musicians, and the wild style he’s copped from the New York street scene— Dondi White’s graffiti and Keith Haring’s drawings for the sleeve art, the World’s Famous Supreme Team’s scratching techniques, the Ebonettes’ doubie-dutch jump-rope chants— was covered by Time and Life months ago. McLaren’s talent, though, is to act like he really did stumble upon all of this by himself, and even though he’s not fooling anyone—well, almost anyone—a few of the more ridiculous moments, like the half-English, half-Zulu “Punk It Up” and the out-of-left-field square dance “Duck For The Oyster,” actually seem inspired. McLaren also likes to get his money’s worth from an idea: Duck Rock is reportedly going to be turned into a London stage musical this fall.

God save the global village.

Michael Hill

ROBERT PLANT The Principle Of Moments (Atlantic)

Back in those firebrand days when I foolishly believed that the Ramones and Sex Pistols could overturn the whole rock establishment, I often felt that after “we’ secured our victory, Robert Plant should be put on trial before the people’s revolutionary tribunal, for crimes against r’n’r humanity. I wanted to indict Plant less for Led Zeppelin’s own unrelieved bombast, than for the group’s hugely harmful influence in stimulating countless tight-crotch & long-curls second rate bands around the globe. Every time I gagged at Rex Smith’s arrogant-sap face or shuddered at Heart’s flawed stylistic gropings, I wanted to send a rich Limey the bill, and Plant seemed to be the culprit holding the (money) bag.

By now, I can find it in myself to be a bit more charitable to the battlescarred Mr. Plant. After all, he probably never expected and/or willed Zep’s hugeness, let alone the band’s role-model overkill for learningdisability types worldwide. Plant can hardly help it if it’s his very limitations that make him so glamorously appealing to the multitudes.

Said limitations (sez me)—lyrically, Plant still can’t seem to write his way out of a wet crossword puzzle; and rhythmically, he continues to be entranced with a slow-motion meter based on waiting for the other platform shoe to drop—are much in evidence on this second Plant solo

album, but somehow it doesn’t mat-, ter so intensely anymore. He’s just about reached the stage in his career that he’ll be seen as a less crucial pop act—no more inflated-dirigible Led Zep superstar trappings to lean on, and wisely he doesn’t try here—no matter how many records he sells. And Plant’s downsized status should be more relaxing for everybody, partisans or not.

Plant chimes right in with The Principle Of Moments, which is not a bad album at all, as long as you don’t expect too much excitement. Or coherence. Or adventure. Or any of that stuff. Plant has contracted his songs into more compact pop formats, which is welcome, but even in these less hippie-diffuse numbers, content remains a serious problem. I mean, I read Rock Scene all thru the ’70s too, and I know that Zep were supposedly sitting on top (so to speak) of the groupie-fueled rock universe, but none of that (presumably) major experience seems to have made any impression on Citizen Plant. I don’t want names named, Robert, just want some evidence that you’ve had concrete feelings about somebody (something) some time in your life. Acid-flash trips over the hills and far away get old after awhile.

But Plant’s lyrics still tend toward the blandly narcissistic and whiny: “It’s leavin’ me sad/That’s not the way it should be” (“Other Arms”); “Said you’d never leave me baby” (“Horizontal Departure”). That ain’t the blues, Bobby, that’s more no color, like the water. By the time I hit the album closer, “Big Log,” and its “There is no turning back...on the road,” it occurs to me that Plant’s; dandruff-flecked solipsism isn’t that far from Roger Whittaker’s these days. There is no turning back...on the road to giving unfulfilled Anglophiliacs the hot flashes of their life.

Oh yeah, instrumental work on The Principle Of Moments is uniformly serious-but-not-desperate competent stuff, grandly unobtrusive, just the kind many folks are laying down their $7.97 for this year. Give guitarist Robbie Blunt credit where credit’s due, etc., plus Plant’s fellow member of the Atlantic-Signed John Bull Club, Phil Collins, contributes drums to a couple cuts, hohum. But I still wanna know what that undefinable, bassthump-like tearing noise on “Wreckless Love” is—could it be the ghost of John Bonham, kicking his ham-soled foot thru speaker cones, livening things up from beyond the blue horizon?

Richard Riegel

GRAHAM PARKER The Real Macaw (Arista)

I met Graham Parker once, right after Stick To Me came out. It was an interview situation. He was tired from playing late the night before and the photographer had just spilled coffee in his lap—an overall atmosphere not exactly conducive to good conversation. Though Parker remained agreeable and articulate through our talk, it was only when I sought his opinion of my favorite band that he actually broke down and smiled. Declaring the Ramones to be superb, he stated that sharing a bill with them had proven to be “quoit a hoight.”

That’s pretty much how I feel about The Real Macaw and not just because there’s a nod to Johnny/Dee Dee propulsion in the middle of the opening cut. It has much more to do with the fact that Graham Parker is once again operating at full strength, putting out like he hasn’t since Squeezing Out Sparks. On The Up Escalator and Another Grey Area something was missing; too often Parker seemed to be cruising at half-speed. That certainly isn’t the case on The Real Macaw. Parker’s vocals have rarely been so emotional and expressive, and the tone of the new love songs would imply that marriage has been having a revitalizing effect on him. On “Life Gets Better” he’s jubilantly unrestrained when he sings, “They said there’s nothing like the first love you get, boy/They were wrong, oh so wrong”. As the strings sweep him off his feet, he evokes as sweet a head-over-heels feeling as you’re likely to hear this year. (This is where he gets that first hit single.)

“A Miracle A Minute” is just as exultant; Parker’s so smitten he turns cartwheels • because her phone’s never busy when he rings her up. On this track (as everywhere else), the band—his most alert unit since the Rumour, with Brinsley Schwarz still in tow—neatly backdrops Parker’s singing with playing. Sensitive, thoughtful. And multiple kudos to producer David Kershenbaum for keeping everything so upfront and vibrant.

Of course Parker can still grind an axe like nobody’s business. “Just Like A Man” is a devastating swipe at tough guy mooks idiotically wrapped up in callousness. The music is furiously aggressive and Parker’s falsettoed “Forgive him” is the perfect touch. “Passive Resistance” is a second cousin to “Radio Radio”; when he says “you’re just a nail underneath their hammer” it’s cut-up-or-shut-up time. Feel free to apply the sentiments to MTV.

But in the end, it’s the love songs that make the deepest impact on me. Maybe is has something to do with the fact that I’ll have tied the knot by the time this hits print. I do know this: Parker reaches new plateaus of tenderness on “Anniversary” and, after a brilliantly timed sax entrance, he eloquently reveals poignant feelings of devotion that remind me once again how deeply moving rock ’n’ roll can be.

Welcome back to the top, G.P. I’ll save'you a piece of the wedding cake.

Craig Zeller

DFX2

Emotion

(MCA)

“I’ll rock ’n’ roll ’til I fall down,” shouts Douglas Farage in his best Jaggeresque drawl, and darn if you don’t believe every word. That’s right, kids, DFX2 ain’t just anudder one of dem twitty, bloodless Anglosynth, outfits...this trad fourpiece r ’n’ r band from, of all places, San Diego, is the real thing. Emerging from the SoCal garage, DFX2 derives from the fact they are led by a pair of twin brothers: Douglas and David Farage, hence the moniker D. F. X (times) 2. Doug is lead vocalist/rhythm guitarist while Frere David is the lead guitarist/vocalist and author of some chunka-chunka licks which hark back to Chuck Berry by way of not only Keith Richards, but Keith Levine, the Edge and New Order’s Bernie Albrecht. Great walls of sound in the service of sharp, angular melodies.

DRUMS ALONG THE NIGER

KING SUNNY ADE AND IflS AFRICAN BEATS Synchro System (Mango)

by Richard C. Walls

It’s hard to keep up, and why bother? Sunny Ade’s transformation from obscure import item to keynote artifact in every new music aficionado’s record collection was so sudden (once it finally got underway) that when a TV new music video show (one that usually gets its facts straight) introduced an Ade selection as being by “the newest reggae King from Jamaica” the gaffe wasn’t much of a surprise—even professionals occasionally get gummed by the jaws of trendiness. The point here, tho, is that, in this instance (for a change) there’s a music of substance feeding the trend.. .Ade’s U.S. debut record last year was a truly impressive disc (tho this year’s model is a little less so) and it’s worth steeling yourself against the more repulsive aspects of his trendy triumph to give the music a fair listen.

So, you may ask, who is this,guy anyway? Ade is a Nigerian prince (literally) with over 40 albums under his belt (tho only two have been released in America), a player of African pop music, his particular

stream being called Juju, a music combining traditional African rhythms (and rhythms and rhythms) and harmonies with some unexpected Western influences and implements. His first U.S release, helpfully titled Juju Music (also on Mango), employed electric, steel, and Hawaiian guitars, judiciously used synthesizers and dub effects, floated on a ton of percussion (that sounded remarkably graceful, as light as a feather) and was garnished with mellifluous (and mostly untranslated) vocals from Sunny and his Beats, all presented in a crystal clear equal opportunity mix that encouraged the listener’s attention to wander continuously from guitar line to percussion detail to unidentifiable texture (was that an accordian?) while the compelling rhythms reminded you that this is dance music for sure, but subtle, if you want it to be. Hypnotic, but busy.

Unfortunately, where long stretches of Juju Music were entrancing, long stretches of Synchro System are just dully pleasant. Part of the problem is the mix, which directs the attention and simple guitar riffs. The result is to make the music sound hookier, obviously somewhat easier for us clods here in the States to relate to, but it’s also less seductive—Juju Music came to you in layers while this one, pleasant tho it is, sounds a little flat. Another problem is that whereas the previous album provided a number of delightful surprises of discovery, Ade’s licks, both guitar and compositional, as they show up here, are already starting to sound kinda familiar (and why no translated lyric sheets? Are the words really that irrelevant?).

So buy the first album, if you haven’t already, and this one if you find yourself hooked—it’s not bad, just a little disappointing. And don’t worry about trends, ’cause these two albums are just the tip of the iceberg, intimations of a world of music that must be wondrously strange...I mean, if this is the way the king gets down, I can’t wait to hear what the peasants are into.

Unlike most of these so-called mini-LPs or EPs, this five-song set leaves you thirsting for more. The title track is the MTV single, a slab of Black & Blue guitar blasts that shake the lethargy out of its Stones-ish inspiration to become something else entirely. Don’t be misled by the ohso-chic video bondage, either; the Farage brothers are anything but stylish. In fact, DFX2 are decidedly old wave in clothes and sound. There’s not a synthesizer or keyboard in earshot; the only variation from the classic guitar-bass-drums mix is a searing Jerry Peterson sax solo which suddenly appears in the middle of a love song called “Maureen” and turns it into a lustful bleat of white-hot passion.

“No Dough” is exactly that, a stuttering celebration of abject poverty in an era of diminishing returns, a song that doesn’t mince words when it comes to Reagan’s Amerikan Dreem. “Something’s Always Happening” is an on-the-streets saga reminiscent of—you guessed it— vintage Stones, with Douglas’s wavering falsetto adding the emotional punch.

Not much has come out of San Diego in the way of rock ’n’ roll. Aside from Gary Puckett and the Union Gap or the aptly-named Unknowns—whose main claim to fame was their crippled lead singer—the town has been a pop desert, so it’s not surprising that DFX2 don’t have great expectations. ¶ Then again, DFX2 doesn’t need an' awful lot, either. “I’ve got my world down to the bone,” they boast in the lean-but-mean song of the same name, “I don’t mind being left alone.” Many great rock ’n’ roll bands manage to communicate that desperation, the sense that there’s nothing else they can do. DFX2 are not the kind of guys who become hairdressers, graphic artists, sculptors or insurance salesman. They either play this music, or pump gas.

Whether there’s a chance for this group of garage-rockers to ever come out of the shadows, I don’t know and I don’t care and neither do they. This is music for the moment—fervent, catchy and committed. DFX2 have no choice, but you do. Make it count and hitch up to these youngsters. They deserve a break today. Roy Trakin

SPARKS

Sparks In Outer Space (Atco)

Picture this: It’s 1976 and you’re on your way back to L.A. after a couple of years in limeyland, have upped the ante as far as fame and

fortune in the rock-star sweepstakes goes—but nothing’s yet crystallized. Half a dozen albums, some success internationally, but no 16-gun salute stateside. Which stacks up annoying but not the end of the world. Au contraire; things are invariably looking up, and somewhere in all of this, is an “eventually” or “ultimately” suggesting that time, indeed, is on your side.

Eventually, it’s (say) 1982 and, ultimately, a chart-hit (“I Predict”) substantiates aformentioned perspicacity. Just as suddenly new labels are tagged to familiar formula—i.e., what once was quirky or eccentric now becomes viable and in synch with the world-at-large. Strange twist of fate considering 1973’s Woofer In Tweeter’s Clothing and the diminutive clique of cult that followed the band around.

GREASE IS THE WORD

BILLY JOEL An Innocent Man (Columbia)

NEIL YOUNG Everybody’s Rockin’ (Geffen)

Rick Johnson

There’s been a big office debate about these two records the last couple days here at America’s Only. Not the usual arguments over a given disc’s aerodynamic qualities or potential danger to pedestrians, either.

Uh-uh, this is the real thing. The Concept Crew contend this pair of ’50s-tributes-by-major-artists is pretty much a joke, albeit an affectionate one.

The Hulk - No - Want - To - Hear -Music gang go along with the joke part, alright. They feel, however, the joke has a punch line only if some unwitting consumer pays real money for one of the albums. As for artist motivation, well—take if from wellknow Marx interpreter Richard Riegel: “Capitalism will inevitably skin its own pazoozle.” So there. Before we sequester the jury, let’s get a little background info on the now-beloved ’50s. Hey—I was there, although I missed most of 1950 itself due to my being a fetus at the time. Hell, I even went to California that year, but saw little due to the inexcusable lack of peepholes in mommies.

The ’50s, ah yes. Men wore crewcuts that made their heads look like shoeboxes in order to conform! Women kept their goddamn mouths shut because they had to! New York City had three baseball teams, and they were all good! There was a president named Ike! Wouldn’t you know it? And meanwhile, both teenagers and rock ’n’ roll were busy being invented!

So why would anyone want to bring back the ’50s? Don’t ask me, ask Joel Billy! Actually, somebody did ask him. “I wanted to have as much fun as I could,” he replied, “and I wanted it to sound like I was having fun.” So go torture your crickets next to a microphone, fer chrissake, figgered I.

I guess nobody wanted to ask Neil Young. He seems to be a pretty likeable galoot, but you can’t help but wonder why the guy doesn’t just hose down his life and get it over with.

Neil and Billy’s approach to ’50s music is as different as birthday cakes and dead penguins. Neil makes like a monkey with his first Xerox machine, while the ironically initialed BJ uses it as a taking/jumping/falling-off point. Both approaches basically stink, although the results vary considerably, successwise.

Sez BJ in his bio: “On every album, 1 adopt a different sort of character.” What’re you supposed to be this time, pal? A sponge mechanic? Pole-hole depth consultant? Parking meter tuner? Inept-butsincere rock critic?

The thing with me, I’ve hated Billy ever since a good friend of mine played “Just Like A Woman” to try and propagandicize me with his warped goodbye-balls-hello-Andrea Marcovicci idea of “femininity.” 1 suggested he forget the BJ records and concentrate on real-life females (or baseball) instead.

Billy-Bob musta overhead me (they can spy on you through the record label, you know), ’cause now that he’s got himself fixed up with a looker who’s not very real-life but is definitely a biological female, he’s made a real effort towards cutting the fudge, scientifically speaking. His music is pleasantly looser than usual, and his salutes to Frankie Valli, Little Anthony, et. al., come off kinda fun, if not exceptionally inspired. He’s still got his trademark Piano Man sound, though, which means puke to me but will be appreciated by his many fans.

Young’s LP just isn’t worth going into any kind of depth about. It sucks, plain and simple.

Just because you drag the upright bass out of the basement and lock the drumset down there doesn’t necessarily make for fun music. All these zombies need now is an acoustic chainsaw and they’re all set.

His choice of material also offends this olfactory snooter. I’m not trying to say his remakes of old Jimmy Reed and Bobby Freeman songs don’t compare favorably to the originals, because I’m not all that familiar with ’em. I’m saying Neil and the band play ’em so dead, anything would be better. So would nothing. Neil’s own comps fare slightly better, if only because somebody must’ve remembered to plug his life support system back in.

To cut a long rant medium-short, Joel Billy fans should like this "nod” to his musical roots. There’s nothing wrong with it that a raw egg down the hatch couldn’t cure.

But you Neil Young folks should avoid Everybody’s Rockin’ like a barrelfull of shotguns. Plainly speaking, it’s a waste of money.

Trend-mongers Sparks are not, and in fact the only discernible trend they’ve latched onto is their own — (this being) the continuity of over a decade’s worth of vinyl and the common thread of synth-pop musical fibers indigenous to a majority of tunes for a long, long time. So let’s credit Mael-men Russ and Ron with enduring patience and undeniable prolific persistence-factors inherent in the RNA of their Pacific Palisadesnative genes. In so doing we can dispense with the obligatory nod to

“dues” and move into the present tense and Outer Space.

The listenable track is the second one on the first side, “Popularity,” which waxes Kinks-like in its simplistic “message” and melody. At their best, Sparks come on strong as genuinely goofy inversions of Ray Davies plus or minus the punch with the sparseness of Russell’s chirping vocal-line against Ron’s repeated keyboard patterns making the plaintive-type seriousness almost plausible (“A gem,” says the fan-club insert Atlantic mails out with the record).

At their very worst—and, unhappily most of the stuff here falls into the “worst” category—Sparks songs struggle with unfunny bouts of selfamusement and inflated ideas of cleverness (“Rockin’ Girls,” “Dance Godammit”). “All You Ever Think About Is Sex” points to the emptiness of mere physical union: “In a world of lovers, we don’t love each other much/Fact is, we’re too busy to love each other much,” and even worse: “Do you remember the Dodgers and the Mets/50,000 people saw us and turned red...” (Hey, the only thing people at Dodger stadium turn “red” at are Bill Russell’s errors re-played on Diamond Vision).

The music on this album maintains careful distance from the sporadic passion and once-in-a-while wildness hinted at lyrically. Sparks can rock at fever pitch (“Whippings And Apologies,” “This Town Ain’t Big Enough For Both Of Us,”—even “I Predict” of recent vintage) if so inclined; that never materializes here. Ron Mael’s synthesizer hooks lose their edge quick and the production, although technically adept, wanes sterile and aloof. The dynamics of sound on this record are unfocused and the net result adds up to the absolute null-set of creative pursuit.

(All this, of course, coincident with the latest wave of techno-synthesized muzak to emerge from the pale, hollow faces of top-selling British pop merchants.)

Patience pays off...

Gregg Turner