Christgau Consumer Guide

Christgau Consumer Guide

DEPARTMENTS

BY

ROBERT CHRISTGAU

BAD BRAINS: "Rock For Light" (PVC):: Mediocre hardcore you can ignore, especially if you lie in an area where they dig up the street a lot; hardcore of a certain quality you love or hate. More than exfusioneer Dr. Know on "gits," it's the distinctive if not exactly authoritative blackboardscreechy "throat" of H.R. that provides the quality here, and I like it, kind of. Though this repeats five tunes from their RQIR cassette, it's definitive by virtue of its Ric Ocasek production and vinyl audio. You know what to do. B +

BAD RELIGION: "Into The Unknown" (Epitaph):: Like a less musicianly version of the departed TSOL, this promising L. A. hardcore outfit has moved on to slower-tempo, organ-drenched hard rock that resembles nothing so much as late Hawkwind. Some may call it caterwaul, but I find myself moved by its anthemic ambition—and achievement. Conceptual clincher: the way they surround the dystopian-gothic tales and images—the kind of stuff that comes naturally to committed teenagers who know they're growing up but don't know that they like it—with "It's Only Over...''and "...When You Give Up." Address: 22458 Venture Boulevard, Woodland Hills, California 91367. A-

"BLACK STAR LINER: REGGAE FROM AFRICA" (Heartbeat):: Because the great African groove is airborne where the Jamaican is of the earth, bass-anddrutns on this seven-artist, eight-cut compilation do little more than follow standard patterns, and the chantlike tunes remind you now much Jamaican melodies owe to English hymns and nursery rhymes. But that's in no way to suggest that this music isn't captivating on its own terms. The vocals bear the same yearning relationship to their more stylized Jamaican inspirations that Jamaican vocals do to the showier models of U.S. soul: the need to reach out to the black diaspora has rarely been more palpable. And the lyrics, all in English, explain some whys and wherefores. A-

CULTURE CLUB: "Colour By Numbers" (Epic):: If Boy George sang as good as everybody says he does he could probably put this tuneful collection all the way over. The spiritual gravity of Smokey Robinson, clearly the operative vocal anthology, has redeemed some pretty lightweight lyrics, so his sensual specificity might just salvage some vague ones. As it is, George's warm, well-meaning, slightly clumsy croon signifies most effectively when it has the least to say—when it's most purely a medium for his warm, well-meaning, slightly clumsy self. B +

GREEN ON RED: "Gravity Talks" (Slash):: Static on stage, its records diverting but ephemeral, L.A. neopsychedelica is yet another nostalgic, romantic, "commercial" extension/reaction of/to an uncompromising rock n' roll vanguard; it bears the same relation to slampit hardcore as N.Y. neopop did to CBGB punk. Since psychedelica was fairly silly even to the '60s, I'm agin it, at least in theory. I must admit, though, that the dumb tunes on this album not only stick with me but grow on me, in their gauche way. Just wish I knew whether I was laughing with them or at them. And when the verse about the dead dad follows the verse about the dead dog, I suspect the worst. . B +

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Z.Z. HILL: "I'm A Blues Man" (Malace):: The title boast is inauspicious. If Hill's 1981 Down Home turned into a phenomenal 450,000-sold-and-counting sleeper on mere stylistic integrity, then why didn't his 1982 The Rhythm And The Blues do almost as well? You guessed it—song quality went way down. But after that bad start it rebounds considerably here. Personal to Tommy Couch: is Jimmy Lewis ready for another album of his own, or is he a stayat-home? B +

MASSACRE: "Killing Time" (Cellu loid/OAO):: Particularly in improvisation, this Fred Frith thang is given to the same deconstructive cliches that undermine so many of the others. But the no-bullshit •powerdrive of Bill Laswell and Fred Maher provokes some of his sharpest compositions since Henry Cow—and some fairly sharp improvisations, too. It pains me to report, however, that the blistering, acerbic pace I've heard them build live never materializes. B-

BETTE MIDLER: "No Frills" (Atlantic):: Although it helps that she gets stronger material than usual from yet another phalanx of International Pop Music Community pros, what makes this Bette's best studio album in a decade is a post-Castro Habana production number set in Miami, a newly written Sophie Tucker song about a driving wheel, and not-quite-comic readings of Marshall Crenshaw and Jagger-Richard. What makes it not good enough is the curse of Broadway rock 'n' roll—the beat is conceived as decoration or signal rather than the meaning of life, or even music. B-

PABLO MOSES: "In The Future" (Alligator):: With his precise, delicate, discretely dubwise production# sly horn part there, elegantly understated percussion effect here, bass drums measured into the groove — and quiet, even timid vocal manner, this poet turned-rootsman sounds like the most live-and-let-live of ital mystics. In fact he's not only urban but interested in subways and Bellevue, not only militant but smart about it—which is to say among other things that he doesn't seem to think his natural is the only natural. A

WILLIE NELSON: "Without A Song" (Columbia):: With the music as subtle as Nelson's, you wonder whether you're imagining things. Maybe we've just had it with this shtick— maybe a Martian couldn't tell the difference between this and Stardust. Then again, what do martians know? Not only is Nelson choosing cornier material — selfserving schlock like the title song, awkward fripperies like "A Dreamer's Holiday"—but the relaxed, let's-wing-it delicacy has simply disappeared. When he tries at all, he usually oversings, and he's finally hitting the wrong clinkers. If you don't believe me, compare this "Autumn Leaves" to Stardust's timeless "September Song." Or ask yourself whether Julio Iglesias doesn't sound right at home on "As Time Goes By." C +

WILLIE NELSON WITH WAYLON JENNINGS: "Take It To The Limit" (Columbia):: I enjoy this entry all right, with "Why Do I Have To Choose," a cheating song without a moral, the high point. But two things bother me. First, I prefer the songs I've never heard before to those I'm acquainted with to those I know well. Second. Waylon adds something. B-

RAY PARKER JR.: "Woman Out Of Control" (Arista):: "I Still Can't Get Over Loving You," his sweetest, sexiest hit ballad ever, rips Brit synth-pop as good as "The Other Woman" ripped the Stones, but his grip becomes less definitive on the very next tune, which barely loosens the hem of Prince's garment. And side two is more shtick from the beginning to end. B

LIONEL RICHIE: "Can't Slow Down" (Motown):: Given Richie's well-established appeal to white people, this surprisingly solid album bids fair to turn into a m'ml-Thriller, and good for him—it's a real advance. In the years since he became a ballad writer he's learned how to sing them—"Hello" is nowhere near as magical a song as "Easy," but the grain of Richie's delivery gives you something to sink your ears into. And where the Commodores' funk often sounded a little forced, his jumpy international dancepop comes to him naturally even when he's putting on that stupid West Indian accent. B +

SHALAMAR: 'The Look" (Solar):: As a belated convert to the soft-spoken but hardly wimpy groove of Go For It, the finest pop album of 1981, I could do without the brilliant vocals and processed high-end of this crossover move. A nice record, sure, warmer than its Brit influences and never soupy about it. But a certain sweetness has disappeared. And so have all the Jeffrey Daniel songs. B +

DAVID THOMAS AND THE PEDESTRIANS: "Variations On A Theme" (Sixth International):: David Thomas leadermember was willing to have his ideas fucked with; David Thomas solo isn't. Maybe that's because the ideas have gotten narrower; they've certainly gotten slighter. His whimsies can be charming, his jokes are often worth a chuckle, and he couldn't ask for more sensitive accompanists than Richard Thompson and Anton Fier. Maybe someday he'll write a Peter And The Wolf for our time. B

THE THREE O'CLOCK: "Sixteen Tambourines" (Frontier):: I keep trying to find an analogy for the precious falsettoes affected by this baroquely tuneful little band. But except maybe for that prepsychedelic Dreamer Freddie Garrity, none of the obvious influences—early Bee Gees, early Floyd, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Lemon Pipers—is insufferable enough. Really, fellows, the first time around this stuff might (I said might) have been fun. In 1983 it's like to make a grown man puke. Address: Box 1018, Sun-Valley, California 91357. C +

JAMES BLOOD ULMER: "Odyssey" (Columbia):: I always figured great Blood would sound like the climatic "Swing And Things"—pure virtuosic raveup, Mahavishnu with soul and ideas. But of course, great Blood ended up sounding like nothing I could have predicted. With a new band comprising drummer Warren Benbow and violinist Charles Nurnham—that's right, funk fans, no bass, though with Ulmer's strong fingers you can't always tell—he's created an un-American synthesis that takes in jazz, rock, Delta blues (suddenly his mushmouthed vocals kick home, especially on the hearttorn "Please Tell Her"), and even country music (though Burnham's fiddle also has a Middle Eastern effect). I don't mean he goes from one to the other, either—most of the time, you'd be hard-pressed to pin just one style of any of this painfully beautiful stuff. Great Blood, that's all. A

BUNNY WAILER: "Roots Radies Rockers Reggae" (Shanachie):: This expanded version of Solomonic's 1979 In I Father's Flouse isn't primo Bunny—even the nicely dubwise "Rockers" is flatter than side one of Rock And Groove, and Wailer's two most recent JA LPs, the sacramental Tribute and the upful Hook Line And Sinker, have me waiting on his soon-come live album. Nevertheless, this is a worthy sample of the unjudgemental preachments and reliable rhythms of Jamaica's solidest solo artist, and if you buy it maybe there'll be more. B +

YELLOWMAN: Live At Reggae Sunsplash (Sunsplash):: If Big Youth is the dread George Jessel, then the albino orphan who's supplanted him as JA's premier toaster is something altogether more waggish and blue, an unwitting amalgam of Eddie Cantor, Mae West, and Pigmeat Markham. Though groovemasters follow wherever he goes, his albums tend to run together because music isn't really the point, and neither is political or spiritual uplift. The point is entertainment, and live he concentrates on his best material, blued up a bit to give the crowd something extra for its money. Encore; "Sit Under Me." Address: Box 7778, Silver Springs, Maryland 20907. B +

YOLOCAMBA IT A: "Revolutionary Songs Of El Salvador" (Flying Fish):: This exiled quintet can bring off their programmatic, translation-provided celebrations, tributes, parables, and calls to action for this English-only Yank because political folk music makes an urgent sense in a country where a politicized peasantry can be banished or much worse for enjoying it. In my limited experience, the closest parallels to their Andean/Indian plectrums and percussion and around-the-fire interaction would be the Chilean groups Quilapayun and Inti-Illimani. This is both more quirkishly indigenous and more predictably Iberianromantic, complete with a string synthesizer that lends its cheesy grandeur to the elegiac melodies that climax side two. A-