THE OZMAN, DUMBETH

THE OZMAN, DUMBETH

Records

THE OZMAN, DUMBETH

OZZY OSBOURNE Bark At The Moon (Jet/Epic)

by

Richard C. Walls

If, like many another overwhelmed consumer, you've let press releases and quickly scanned reviews decide the Ozzy issue for you, you've probably dismissed him as an obnoxious lout, a buffoon who plays and postures in that musical genre that was once the outrageous soundtrack for teen rebellion but has long since become as familiar and comfy as an old shoe, that highly ritualized and safe-as-milk format for containing discontent, overweight metal. And you're mostly right. Metal is tired, despite the influx of a polished third generation, and it is the brand of rock that Ozzy peddles—on Bark At The Moon there isn't a musical move you haven't heard somewhere in some form already, many times over. On the just barely plus side, the production is clean (unlike the murky Blizzard Of Oz), the crunch and drone is leavened by judicious use of strings and keyboards and lead guitarist Jack E. Lee is the epitome of HM competence. An exemplary set for rebels who don't want to step out of line.

However, if Ozzy's a lout, he's an entertaining and calculated one— and his songs, lyrically anyway, are a little more ambitious than your average reactionary headbanger's. Currently, Oz-tunes come, lyric content-wise, in four flavors— horrorshow, depressed love song, cautionary stomp, and muddled social protest (or muddled anti-social protest...or protest music for fatheads, not to put too fine a point on it).

There are three examples of the first category on Bark, and two of them, the title cut and "Waiting For Darkness," are as hackneyed as it gets, though the third, "Centre Of Eternity," almost manages to evoke a certain ontological chill despite its basic dumbness. But even when the going gets corny Ozzy goes at it like a pro—like Count Floyd, he knows it's his job to work up a decent howl even if the scenario is decidedly sans frisson. As unapologetically craven show-biz moves go, it's a less embarrassing shtick than Billy Idol's reincarnation-of-Elvis's-lip routine, and less offensive than Barry Manilow's sensitive guy one. That anybody could actually be outraged by this new-vaudevillian stuff is pathetic.

The depressed love song ("So Tired") is Oz's way of pacing his albums (cf. "Goodbye To Romance" on Blizzard), as he presumably assumes that a love song isn't sappy if it's suitably bleak (he may be right). The cautionary stomp ("Slow Down") is an old standby too, and if anxious parents only knew with what regularity Ozzy advises his youthful followers to lighten up on -the self-destruction they might relax a little. But probably not.

As for the protest songs, this is another Oz tradition going back to early Sabbath. Despite being rambling and only barely articulate, the fact that he focuses bn his general rage long enough to attack "bigotry" by name ("Rock 'N' Roll Rebel") and insert the lines "is that blood that's on your hand/from your democracy" into what seems to be an attack on the religious right ("You're No Different") —that he works these licks into his unashamedly populist music is subversion of an intensely satisfying sort. Ozzy may be a clown and his music may not be very hip, but you have to give the guy credit for having a bad attitude. In a time when high structure and low-to-no content are predominant, Ozzy's flayings are refreshing. Well, almost.

BILLY IDOL Rebel Yell (Chrysalis)

Billy Idol has designated the respective sides of the single-pocket Rebel Yell as "3" and "4," in the same big numerals he used for "1" and "2" on last year's Billy Idol. OK, so we're getting a double LF in installments, a boon for slow listeners, but what's the real punch line? Is Idol hoping to mollify those consumers who'll complain that his latest album doesn't contain his latest radio/TV hit,' "Dancing With Myself' (which is back on the Don't Stop EF from 1981), by persuading them that they're investing in a grand-design, multidisc set that's sure to appreciate in value?

Hard to say, but in any case Rebel Yell is pretty much a twin to Billy Idol. The theme is still Billy the wideeyed tourist on holiday in the U.S.A., except that now his vantage point is less the conquering Briton just landed in fearsome Gotham, and more the seasoned traveller who's seen every corner of this big country (thru staring out of the MTV screen at Yank living rooms). The new album's title symbolizes Idol's relentless hunt for more of those American fetishes, especially from the more curio-laden South and West, that he can thrust bodily into his characteristic pop anthems-without-a-country.

The songs on Rebel Yell confess over and over to Mr. Idol's idolatry for Americana; among other cult topics, he refers to soap operas, Electra-Glide motorcycles, 7-11 Stores, and even, in one daring moment, to "hanging out by the state line." (!) Speaking as a local who's lived for years with these everlovin' symbols (both their reality and their pop expression), 1 can't say that Idol really tells us anything new about them. He does weave them into medium-welldone rockers, vaguely anthemic, vaguely riffy tunes, eminently fit for one's less-alert moments of pop consumption. Like most of us, Billy Idol set out originally to emulate the worthiest of pop icons —Bowie, Iggy, and even Morrison, as the Jimbo inflections on "Rebel Yell" and "Blue Highway" suggest-— but his models have passed through so many layers of ego by now that not much identity remains (theirs or his).

Idol has replaced all of the musicians from his debut album on Rebel Yell, except for guitarist Steve Stevens, who gives indications of becoming as indispensable to his photogenic boss as batman Marco Pirroni is to Adam Ant. Stevens cowrote all but one of Rebel Yell's songs, including the three or four tunes that could sound as good as "White Wedding" in the still-arid context of U S. radio, but which would quickly fade if the waves really opened up.

Hey little brother, who's your superman? Not Billy Idol, I'm afraid; as a hard rocker, he goes soft as quickly as our domestic version, Eddie Money (note the similarity of their names), who inevitably evokes simultaneous vague interest and vague boredom in me. Can't work up an emotional sweat either way. Nevertheless, I'll go out on a limb with a fearless forecast of Billy Idol's next album: the sides will be numbered "5" and "6," and he'll be wearing a cowboy hat somewhere on the sleeve.

Richard Riegel

PAUL ROPGERS Cut Loose (Atlantic)

Y'gotta watch out for these guys who insist on releasing debut solo albums on which they've played all the instruments; they're everywhere. Some of 'em, like Todd Rundgren, are so adept at the art that it'd be a shame to stop them from playing with themselves. Others, like Pete Townshend, become proficient at another instrument to offset their shortcomings in other areas and blast through with a maximum of enthusiasm and ego. Guys like Paul McCartney, however, shouldn't be allowed near a tape recorder unless it's been modified to feature erase heads only.

Now you all know Paul Rodgers. Used to be in Free ("All Right Now"), used to be in Bad Company ("Can't Get Enough"), and is still generally considered to possess perhaps the best rock 'n' roll voice in all of Great Britain.

So who told him that he'd sound like Cozy Cole if he sat behind a drum kit? That's right, Paul Rodgers plays all the instruments on Cut Loose. Produced it himself, too. I'll wait until you've stopped laughing.

Alright, now that you've dried your eyes, lemme tell ya that it ain't that bad. Paul plays lotsa different stuff here: guitar (rhythm and lead), keyboards, bass, drums, you name it. Oh yeah, he sings, too. And while he,may not put Charlie Watts or Jimmy Page out of a job just yet, he does show enough ability on both sides of the studio glass to warrant my giving this album a fair shake. The first big surprise is that of the 10 tracks, only three ("Fragile," "Boogie Mama," and the title track) can be classified as out 'n' out rockers. The balance of the tunes are either ballads or moderate-tempo compositions (Paul wrote all the songs). Overall, the production is varied enough to be interesting, and the best thing I can say about Rodger's ability to do it all himself is that, if you half-listen to Cut Loose while reading a book, your subconscious won't pick up on anything wrong. You may not hear anything special, -but you sure won't hear nothing duff, neither.

OK, you ask: what about the voice? Good news time—it's as fine as it's ever been. Because of the abundance of slower material, Rodgers gets a chance to stretch out and provide more color than he would if he had limited himself to two sides of heavy metal. So he sounds a little like Bob Plant on "Boogie Mama," so what? And don't let song titles like "Boogie Mama" or "Superstar Woman" (a ballad) throw you if you see this album in a store: the titles are the dumbest thing about the songs;trust me.

The bottom line is that anybody with enough moxie to write a song called "Talking Guitar Blues" and pull it off by coming up with the lead line goods when he has to is alright by me.

Let's face it: both you and I know that this could've been one hell of a laff-riot at the expense of Paul Rodgers's credibility, but it's to the man's credit that he made good.

Wipe that smile off your face.

Jeffrey Morgan

T-BONE BURNETT

Proof Through The Night

(Warner Bros.)

Like a dust devil rolling across the arid nothing of Texas, T-Bone Burnett was recently barnstorming the nation. Though he's long been a moralizing rock 'n' roller, his preachifying reaches new heights on his latest release, Proof Through The NighC Forget about all the whatsisnames you pick up sermonizing on obscure TV channels: the Right Reverend Burnett is holding sway by the by, and best pay attention. He's got a lot on his mind. To wit:

On bigshot pols: Something of a populist, the man-of-the-people doesn't exactly like the band of cynics we usually wind up electing. He mistrusts their power. That he climbs up a ladder of his own to reach the masses, however, puts him in something of a compromising position.

On pornography: He'd smite it to the ground, if he could. He may daydream about Marilyn Monroe, but he badmouths Hugh Hefner, and just where he'd draw the line between smut and erotica is a good question.

On his flock: "You know, a lot of people talk about me being some kind of moralist," quoth the Teebman from the stage of New York's Bottom Line back in October. "They say I moralize about lowlifes, about pimps and hustlers.. .But I sing about them because I'm one of them. I want to understand myself!" The sentiment is admirable, and no doubt Burnett believes it. But sometimes on Proof he is a mite too pious, a little too ready to raise his hand against all heathens.

Well, I could go on, but better to save it for the 700 Club. The point is, at his best, the bom-again T-Bone Burnett is both a high and mighty moralizer AND just another worried guy. When the two get close enough to shake hands on Proof Through The Night, a good time is had by all. But I'd feel a lot better about Burnett if, on the album's two set pieces, he didn't come across so in love with the view that his soapbox provides.

On last year's crackerjack Trap Door EP, Burnett showed himself to be another hard-rocking Texan (cf. Joe Ely, Sam the Sham, Buddy Holly)—a guy with a mouthful of words, but one always willing to let his guitar have the last say. With Proof, he hasn't exactly usurped his home state, but he seems here as much a California-model songwriter as a longneck one. Bad faith and loneliness are operative concepts on the record and, trying to save others' souls and his own skin at the same time, Burnett more than has his hands full. "I find it hard sometimes to say the way I feel," he sings on "Shut It Tight, but obviously he s the articulate sort; "When The Night Falls" takes the cliche of some Mr. Lonely pounding the pavement all night and, through carefully chosen words, makes you feel every step he takes and why he takes them. The core of side one comes in a fine trio of songs about women whose beauty is their downfall—"faces" that the world turned into icons and theri corpses. Well-drawn and full of compassion, they are the album's high point.

But Burnett's got ambitions beyond this, and eventually they lead him into trouble. "The Sixties" is a dubious conceit from the start: yet another shallow expression of nostalgia for that lost hope decade, as Burnett puts the big chill on a contemporary smoothie living a lifestyle "untrue" to his '60s roots. And on "Hefner And Disney," Burnett takes aim at these two manipulative dream-merchants but succeeds only in trapping himself. Isn't he just as much a salesman in the marketplace of fantasies as they are? What does it mean that Burnett's audience isn't as big as either Playboy's or Disneyland's? Not asking harder questions leaves these two songs overly bombastic and well under-cooked.

Overall, though, it's hard to be too tough on a bonafide eccentric who's done good work in the past and probably will do more good work in the future. So if the ipessage this time around wasn't quite as convincing as one would have hoped, that's OK. I mean, how many sermons do you hear that you would give an 85 to because they've got a good beat and you can dance to them?

RJ Smith

ADAM ANT Strip

_(Epic)_

Hate to start naming names right off, but I think it's safe to say Adam Ant and his guitarist pal Marco Pirroni could be classified as opportunists. From the canny childsexology of the lyrics to the pubic hairs peeking out from the innersleeve (talk about genitalia non grata!), Strip reeks of a follow-thedotted-line M.O. In fact, Solid Golds resident philosopher, Madame, could have just as well been talking about Weasel Boy himself when she described some poor disco goon as the kinda guy who'd bring Shake 'N' Bake to a cremation.

Not that there's anything wrong with calculation, per se. Lotsa my own faves were plotted as fiendishly as counterfeit Cabbage Patch Kids. Still, "Sugar, Sugar" and "Last Train To Clarksville" have a grain of substance. Hack writing, sure, but with traces of competence.

Let's talk Ant material. This popular insect's comps have always been relentlessly lightweight. In fact, new categories need to be invented for this stuff. Forget flyweight. Forget featherweight. Accept moteweight.

Not that that's necessarily a problem. But back in the early days of the outstanding "Ant Music" arid truly great "Dog Eat Dog," the tunes had a tooth or three. Though obviously intended to be as disposable as paper kidneys, at least something remained in the listener's earbank. * The tunes on this one however... well, let's make some comparisons. Strip is the most predictable Rod Stewart record ever released. It's the deadest drone Bananarama ever recorded. It's the most limpid lameness Peter Criss could even conceive of. It's even as diddley as what's her name—the one who kept getting undressed by kings. Think Adam's ever been stripped by kings? OK, class: recite your favorite queen joke here.

You want specifics? We got specifics. Take the urpus maximus of "Baby, Let Me Scream At You." Over the migraine worms of the rhythm track, the artiste bleats small lamb-syllables, then revs it down to rap mode. Except he can't really "rap." So what he does is "talk."

Or how about "Vanity," probably named after the slurpee singer the segmented one's been photographed with. This one's got the same bum-tsch, bum-tsch, BUM-tsch beat as the rest of 'em—so rhythmically trivial you could crawl to it in your sleep. Closing argument is "Spanish Games," which is vaguely noticeable, what with its "Kashmir" string-hum and bullfight horns. Where's the bull, you ask? The dealer passes.

The title track is the one song that stands and delivers, one of two cuts produced, interestingly enough, by Phil Collins. Why does it stick out, other than because it's side one/cut one, the traditional attention-sucker? Because it's unmercifully catchy, with string and vocal hooks gamely played off of each other while the bumtsch continues in the background. Also approaching minimum detection threshold is the other Collinsknobbed selection, "Puss 'N' Boots", which is virtually the same song as "Strip" with its hooks worn on the reversible side.

After that, none of the songs could even pass the dummy-drawing portion of the physical agility test. I mean, sitting still through side one is almost enough of an ordeal to call in to work sick. Listening to both sides is enough to call in protoplasm.

1 dunno if this complaining will affect any of the kids who write us jillions of letters every week about how much they like Adam. It isn't just puppy-like, either, this is troo 1u-v. But before you start your hate letters, passionate fans of the manylegged, will ya please listen to this record, just once?! Like with your ears and everything?!

In summation, Adam Ant is a wonderful fella. Someday he will die. The end.

Rick Johnson

RAY PARKER, JR.

Woman Out Off Control

(Arista)

The day I got this assignment, I happened to hear Raydio do "That Old Song" while driving along in my automobile. A stroke of heartbreak brilliance, right? It put me in mind of a certain weekend during the summer of '81 when that song and "A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)" (one of the finest "What's good for the goose" discourses ever) monopolized my turntable, duking it out to see which one could captivate me more. It ended up a draw and I never did decide whether I preferred listening to Ray discuss fair-play philandering or the worst part of breaking up.

Listen, I'd love to go on recalling the greatness of both those 45s, but Ray Jr.'s latest LP keeps staring me in the face and after a dozen plays I've just gotta face facts. No two ways about it: Woman Out Of Control is a washout, a flickering deja vu rerun that's well within the boundaries of Slump City.

The biggest flops (discounting a tossed-off instrumental side closer) are a pair of Prince-ly excursions. Now Parker has been known to borrow liberally from outside sources on occasion (you'll recall the impact of Sly's "Stand" on "Jack And Jill" as well as the jaunty Spinners feel that informed "You Can't Change That"). But, until now, such appropriations have always been infused with the necessary amount of savoir faire. On "Electronic Lover" and "Invasion" all we get are witless, pallid take-offs on the lowliest moments of 1999, with "Invasion" being a painfully lengthy disaster that singlehandedly turns side two into an embarrassment.

The abundance of third-rate material here is depressing. The title cut blandly taps into "The Other Woman'"s groove without ever gaining any momentum as a seduced and abandoned Parker casually bemoans his girlfriends' runarr, >k libido. At least he sounds halfway convincing on "I Still Can't Get Over Loving You." The way he warns, "Every breath you take I'll be watching you, girl" you'd think he'd been getting stakeout tips from Sting.

"In The Heat Of The Night" and "She Still Feels The Need" are lowkey melancholy makeout nuzzlers that fade far too easily into the background to induce any potent puckering. On the former cut, a cautionary Ray advises a trusting soul that her man's pledges of devotion are questionable. Of course you just know that Ray's ready to move right in once that doubt takes hold. The latter selection puts forth the shocking assumption that women enjoy sex as much as men—a heavy ballad for Mr. Mathis to tackle someday.

I'm sure, though, that Johnny'd shy away from something like "I Don't Wanna Know," a substandard butt thumper that sanctions mutual cheating as long as both parties are kept in the dark: "There's no reason to check up on one another if we both been gettin' down." Or to put it another way: "She can fool around just like you do." Now those were the days.

Craig Zeller

MIDNIGHT OIL 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 (Columbia)

When a new band comes along with a sound of its own, its members sometimes get upset when us presspeeps describe 'em in terms of already-established groups. So, since Midnight Oij are unique, I'll try my best not to compare them directly to anybody else.

Of course, if you're a transplanted Australian, these guys are not exactly new, 10, 9, 8... being something like their fourth LP down under, but this is their first release on these shores. Actually it sounds like work by an established group confidently reaching out in new directions. There's nothing weird about Midnight Oil, but nothing formulaic either.

Take the way the album starts off not with a rock hard assault or an anthem but with an oddly-arranged ballad. The bass synth chugs along, keeping time while orchestral synths swell in the background and the drummer, Rob Hirst, contents himself with whacks at odd accents, kinda like Phil Co--oops, almost did it there. Hirst's space 'n' crash style also works effectively on "Only The Strong" and his percussion solo/ dance break on "Power And The Passion" is both energetic and inventive.

Melodically, Midnight Oil keep their hooks lean and few and far between so they'll be that much more effective when they do crop up. They also connect the most memorable ones up to the strongest sets of lyrics. The specific details of "People, wasting away in paradise" and "Power And The Passion" may be peculiar to Australia, but the overall generalities apply here as well. And the litany of invasions listed in "Short Memory" sticks in my mind because of the catchy chorus.

Lead vocalist Peter Garrett is no copy cat either. Six-and-a-half feet tall with a bald head full of facts and fury, he comes across like a thoroughly committed individual. His singing style captures a midpoint between punk and pop: he's not afraid to intensify his voice to get a point across but not afraid to sing in tune either. Yes, he's politically motivated, but Midnight Oil are certainly npt just an Australian version of the Clash (the comparison you'll most likely hear, I imagine).

But you know what the best thing about this album is? It was recorded ip September of 1982 which means that by the time you read this, they'll probably have another one ready. Ready?

Michael Davis

BLACK SABBATH Born Again (Warner Bros.)

The Boy Wonder and Batman, tricked by that prince of tricksters, that nefarious king of cons—the Riddler—remain strapped down and secured to giant body-racks in an abandoned recording studio. A grim day in Gotham it is for fans of fair play; surely only the most insidious of twisted fates awaits our heroes...

"Holy paralysis, Batman. I can't move an inch."

"Stay still, Robin. There's always a way. No doubt the ingenious but criminally depraved brain of the Riddler intends to make some sport of all this. Somewhere, however, there must be an unsolved piece of the puzzle..."

"Look, Batman! Over there, on the wall! In green spray paint!!"

"WHEN DOES THE SOUND OF MUSIC SOUND LIKE NO MUSIC AT ALL?"

"Gosh, Batman, I don't get it."

"I'll confess I'm stumped too... Wait a minute—that's noise. And speaking of noise, what's that awful racket blaring forth from the other room?"

"That's rock music, Batman. More specifically, the sub-genre known as 'heavy metal.' It causes unsuspecting adolescents to stomp around zonked out of their minds on reds while 'getting off on the animalistic drive of the beat."

"Actually, I'm quite aware of that art form and the secularized lineage from which it descends. To be precise, I believe..."

"Batman, that's the new Black Sabbath LP, Born Again!"

"I assumed as much, Robin. No doubt another ploy in the Riddler's perverse bag of tricks."

"But this doesn't sound anything like the mega-metal that made this band famous. It sounds sort of weak and unfocused and...rather dull, Batman—a pale skeleton of the loud manic-aggressive sounds of the past, like 'Children Of The Grave' or any of th^ other punched-up assaults that were virtually signature statements on any of their early releases, like Master Of Reality or their very first one."

"Robin, surely you know that no creative effort remains constant in its conceptual thrust over a period of time. We must always be tolerant of change."

"But holy anachronism, Batman. It's all just a hodgepodge of recycled guitar poses. And the vocals..."

"Yes, I know. Commissioner Gordon's dossier on the band alludes to the replacement of singer Ronnie Dio with one Ian Gillan."

"Formerly of Deep Purple!"

"Precisely! And a particularly curious footnote refers to longstanding drummer Bill Ward's 'recurring health problems' prompting substitution with Bev Bevan."

"From ELO?? Holy recurring health problems! Holy rock 'n 'roll musical chairs, Batman! You think the Riddler has something to do with all of this?"

"I'm not sure, Robin. It all adds up...but to what?"

"Batman! Tonight at 9:30, on the Strip! A company party for the new album! AH the corporate bigwigs are supposed to be there! Wait, Batman, look! On the ceiling, in red spray paint! Another riddle: WHEN DOES AN I.O.U. PAY ITSELF? Gosh, when?"

"When indeed. When...when... when it's an I-Owe-Me, Robin! Of course—that fiend! He's going to kill Tony Iommi!! If I could only punch out a Bat Code on my utility belt."

"Hold it, Batman! I don't think that murder is the name of this game! Listen to that guitar solo, and the muddled production. There's something fishy here..."

"THE PENGUIN! I knew it! He's up to his gills in this..."

"No, Batman, that's not it."

"You've got a theory, old chum?"

"These songs—'Digital Bitch,' 'Disturbing The Priest,' 'Zero The Hero,' the title track—the playing, the riffs. That's not Tony Iommi on this record at all. It must he...The Riddler himself!! I'd recognize his lame-brain licks anywhere. He's somehow replaced Iommi and taken over the band!!"

"Robin, if you're right—and I defer to your youth-culture perspective in this matter—consumers everywhere must be warned! God knows what devious chicanery that madman has in store...If I could only get to my belt..."

DIRE STRAITS INDEED, DYNAMIC DUO! TEENS TRICKED WITH TRUMPED-UP TONES? IOMMI THE RIDDLER OR JUST RIDDLED ROCK STAR?? STAY TUNED FOR MORE RECURRING HEALTH PROBLEMS!! SAME BAT TIME, SAME BAT CHANNEL!!!

Gregg Turner

THE PLIMSOULS Everywhere At Once (Geffen)

The Plimsouls came of age on the L.A. punk-club circuit, but what they are is a classic ordinary rock band. The type is familiar—down to basics, hard rocking, kick-ass musical values, a male singer full of male swagger, songs revolving around power-chord crunch. All the things that have been done to death in rock and which rock fans will eternally celebrate.

Now to be an Ordinary Rock Band is not necessarily a bad thing. The Ordinary Rock Band can approach its calling with an urge only to regurgitate formula and come out pretty dire, like say Loverboy. Or it can approach its calling with a desire to add something new to the formula and express some sort of personal vision, and come out pretty good, like say Red Rockers.

The Plimsouls come out somewhere in between. They are an Ordinary Rock Band trying to be Something More. There is enough verve, effort and craft in their work to let you know they want to be sharper, harder, more powerful than the rest. And, in among the standard examples of dried-out ideas and blown-up posturing that take up most of this album, there are a few attempts at standing out that succeed. But overall the effort gets better marks than the result.

First the good stuff. "How Long Will It Take" and "A Million Miles Away" have catchy, sing-along choruses that show a keen sense of pop songwriting style. Vocals and guitars blend into a unified delivery that lets the songs speak for themselves—this is melodic hard rock at its best. "Oldest Story In The World" is a very nice ballad, and though it's nothing unusual or shocking as rock ballads go, it has some nice touches (love that harmonica) and goes down smooth.

Otherwise it's pretty much Ordinary AOR fodder. On "Shaky City" we get a typical rock voice straining for pathos and trying to signify the drama of a noble savage struggle, full of longing to break out but stuck in a musical frame that gives it nowhere to go. It's a song that aspires to epic proportions but ends up sounding mostly just pretentious.

The rest don't aim as high, so they avoid the pretention, but neither do they accomplish much. Songs like "Everywhere At Once" and "Magic Touch" bring in guitar punctuations and enflamed vocal histrionics that are meant to indicate heavy drama and whirlwind passion but seem merely calculated and cold. There's another ordinary ballad and a few more standard-issue rock romps. You can almost see the hair on the singer's chest and the grimace on the lead guitarist's face.

The three good ones here do prove that the Plimsouls have a songwriting sensibility worth developing, and I'd like to encourage them. But I can't encourage you to plunk down your money for them yet.

Richard Grabel