VAN HALEN 1984

(Warner Bros.)

by Michael Davis

PASADENAf-The hometown view of any band is bound to be different from the image it projects to the rest of the world: familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt, but it usually does discourage most forms of outright worship. I mean, I used to sell cigarette papers to David Lee Roth before he knew Ted Templeman from Bugs Bunny, so I’m rather unlikely to ever consider the guy anything unto a god. Likewise, there were locals who undoubtedly shared a laugh at the way the rest of the planet ate up Roth’s “all I’ve got, I had to steal” shtick from “Runnin’ With The Devil”; after all, it was Dave’s doctor daddy who helped bankroll the band in their early years. Still, however many stories there are on these guys, there are two general areas of agreement: 1) from the time he first set foot on a stage, Eddie Van Halen has been one mother of a guitar player and 2) from the time he first put his foot in his mouth (substantially earlier), David Lee Roth has been a, um, er, “colorful character.”

So they came together, formed a band, worked their asses off, got the breaks, and broke big with their first album and tour. Balancing wheredid-he-go-with-my-head guitar licks and solos with where-did-he-go-withmy-drink lead vocals on top of a constantly erupting rhythm section has been their basic approach from the word go; they just pushed each aspect of their sound further than anyone else at the time.

But that was five years ago—and five years is a long time at the top in the hard rock sweepstakes. Just ask Kiss, Aerosmith, Ted Nugent or any of the other mid-’70s monster acts who haven’t seen the top rungs of the charts in years. Of course, Van Halen learned from those groups’ career miscues, so there have been no live albums or best-ofs, no personnel changes, and no playing ring around the producer. The basics—

So—is yours bigger?

Eddie’s virtuousity, Michael and Alex’s solidity, Dave’s party animal personality—remain the same. Though there are, admittedly, some new twists for this album

One of them is Eddie’s use of keyboards and synthesizers. Three tracks, including the first single, “Jump,” are synth-dominated, and yes, Eddie is a capable synth player. But he evidently hasn’t been playing them long enough to let the evil, fun parts of his psyche come through,

and I try to sidestep passionless professionalism whenever possible. To these ears, “Jump” starts out sounding like Styx trying to play “Get Off My Cloud” and doesn’t really improve—so unless you wanna encourage the Styxification of Van Halen, pass on the 45. (Then again, if you did buy it and didn’t like it, you could get the point across by defacing it and sending it back to their fan club, I guess...)

Fortunately, two of the three

synth-esized cuts start off the album, making them easy to skip over. Slip your needle, then, to the start of “Panama” and you’re back in familiar territory, as Dave tools on down the road and the band roars right along with him, squealing into overdrive from time to time. Their spontaneous combustion remains convincing; no doubled guitar parts need apply.

The following number, however, “Top Jimmy,” does show Eddie’s current interest in overdubs. A certain as-it-happens spark is missing when overdubbing is done, true, but having an extra track or two of guitar to cut through the cymbal wash or make you forget about David Lee Mouth can be nice, too. And his after-the-fact solos on the tunes that end each side are about the only things those songs have going for them, particularly the ones on “Drop Dead Legs,” where EVH tosses in some nods to Allan Holdsworth without losing his own identity in the process.

The “Top Jimmy” cut points up another aspect of the band, the funniest one to me, and that’s the way they demolish the disparity between the sublime and the slime. Here we have Eddie using delicate harmonics and fancy rhythmic turnarounds set to a tribute to the locally-notorious juicehound/Rhythm Pig leader/Hollywood club scene crowdpleaser. Still, that’s nothing compared to “Girl Gone Bad,” where the guitarist pulls out all the stops, both as a player and a composer, wailing away on what sounds like one of the most amazing one-take solos of his career, and Roth is still sniggering at some hot

trotter shaking down guys on the avenue. Some things about this band, I guess, will never change.

LETS ACTIVE Afoot

_(I.R.S.)_

Mitch Easter is like a kid who only has a box of eight Crayolas—the basic set, no burnt sienna, no Vermillion, no cornflower blue, no flesh, even—and still gets his stuff put up on the bulletin board all the time. He does it with shading, with shadow, with neat little details in tucked-away corners, with unexpected contrasts. He’s part realist, part impressionist, and as the producer/engineer for such folks as R.E.M., Richard Barone and James Mastro, Chris Stamey, and Beat Rodeo, he’s become the guy to call on to give an

assertive texture to distinctive, allusive and/or evasive pop (Crenshaw should’ve beaten a path to his North Carolina door). With Let’s Active, he isn’t coloring in other people’s drawings. (The metaphor stops here.) The melodies he writes bounce on their heels, the lyrics carom off the walls (typical passage: “and you need me...right...right?...if 1 didn’t.. .think.. .that might.. .what?,” and it’s’ positively eloquent in context), and, natch, Easter makes the guitar-bass-drums sound burst at the seams.

Because Let’s Active—Easter plus drummer Sara Romweber and bassist Faye Hunter (new member Lynn Blakely wasn’t on board yet when their demi-album was recorded)—sounds as though they’re having a heap of fun, throwing in bits of Shondells records and “ooh-la-la”s (like “You Won’t See Me,” not like the jeans comercial), just thumping away, the elliptical lyrics can catch you off guard. They also help to keep the whole thing from getting too cute. I don’t mean to say that Easter intentionally complicates' matters; on “Make Up With Me” his strongest argument is “It’s one-two-three/I like you/You like me.” But he does toss in stray remarks, false endings, afterthoughts and non sequiturs, so that it isn’t only the musical inventiveness that keeps the listener alert.

“Don’t expect me to act reflective,” Easter chirps, but don’t take him at his word; he reflects on everything-^ verbal signals, his confused state of mind, and, especially, affairs gone blooey. On Afoot, the majority of the half-dozen tracks are, either directly or by implication, about busted relationships. They’re all just fine, but best of the bunch by a few hairs is “Every Word Means No”: springy on the surface (the clang and jangles of guitars and tambourines), distressed just beneath. Once, “any time was right for secret meetings,” but now, he hears rejection in each word that passes her familiar lips (you know how it is when the pilot light of love is snuffed out; you keep searching for some trace of lingering fondness, but...). Once, any song as shrewd and jaunty as “Every Word Means No” would have become a hit by divine right.

Nothing seems too studied on Let’s Active’s debut; the record has spontaneity, and you get the feeling that when Romweber wants to pound away, she has carte blanche, or that Hunter can chime in vocally whenever she has a mind to, or that the melodies are elastic enough to stretch for a thought that suddenly occurs to Easter. This is deceptive, of course: Easter is very much in control. But at the same time, his records convey a sense of play, a “Let’s try this” attitude, and Afoot, like Murmur and Nuts And Bolts, is filled with touches that seem to come from left field (but in actuality are mulled over in the dugout).

Get the cassette configuration. Each side has all six songs, which makes it easier to hear them over and over, which is the way songs such as the aforementioned (and “Room With A View” and “In Between”) should be heard. It also makes it seem more like an album, which it should have been all along. Either that, or three 45s. Hit 45s.

Mitchell Cohen

MUSICAL YOUTH Different Style! (MCA)

Musical Youth are totally useless, and therein lies their genius. The massiveness with which I do not care about them is immeasurable. If they did not exist, no one would have to invent them.

Thus: appreciation! I mean, face it—they’re just a bunch of little kids! By my own calculations, at least 40 percent of this group has not yet been sullied by the diseased grapes of pubescence. The other three sport pitiful tendrils of facial hair, but don’t

look like cool enough guys to have clued the younger members in on the secrets of jerkin’ the gherkin and other big guy stuff. Take ’em all away and put ’em in a barbed wire playpen right now!

But whoa, you say—even kiddies have emotional sensations. Sure they do. Brings to mind the scientist on In Search Of... who hooked up

some polygraph equipment to a beaker of yogurt. Did he think it was lying? No, it was to demonstrate that “even the simplest things have feelings,” he said. Vast peat resources in the brain, I said.

So, it being plainly established Musical Youth’re less than morons, we can procede to luv them. What else can you do with these in-

escapably catchy tunes delivered over that wicker reggae beat that insidiously causes toes to tap and rumps to pump in a manner not unlike the mad-but-distant bongoes in the Dragnet theme? Like “Incommunicado” for example, which glides in on a little horn riff sharp as the pizza cutter of Satan and chick-chickas out the other ear faster than you can think natty dread. What can I say? I love it! I’m humming it right now, and I don’t even remember it!

Admittedly, Different Style! does have its “Pass The Dutchie” remakes but hey—things are putty all over! At the risk of pushing souvenirs of' souvenirs, the kids skip fearlessly into stuff like Desmond Dekker’s “Shanty Town (007),” Stevie Wonder’s “Whatcha Talking ’Bout,” and their own “Mash It The Youth Man, Mash It” (song title of the year!) with the audacity of protein-aided detergent attacking bloodstained clothing in TV commercials. There’s a couple others like that too, but who cares? There’s something seriously wrong with you if these tunes don’t wag your meat whistle. Aw heck, let’s just get EVERYTHING out in the open right here and now! “Everything? All right, Richard, why do you always have to dress like a slob?” Huh? What?! MOM! What’re you doing in this review? Get outta here! “Now, Richard, you were a kid once yourself, you know!” Cut it out! I was

not! Stop saying stuff like that in front of all these people! “But, Rich, you know how you always—” BANG! BANG! BANG! Gee whiz, er, um...sorry, Mom!

Now, what was I about to say.. .oh yeah, this is such a goldurn likeable record, you’ll just plumb forget about the ongoing debate as to whether Adolph or Leo Fender gets credit for the first solid body guitar, and everything else that’s important.

No two ways about it, Musical Youth are as necessary to the continued existence of the human race as the apparent need for a puke scene in every contemporary film. Let’s give them the award for Perfect Attendance! Rick Johnson

Rick Johnson

CRISTINA Sleep It Off (Ze/Mercury)

The rich are different than you and me, but TV shows like Dallas and Dynasty, prove that wealth doesn’t necessarily equal happiness. Even debutantes get the blues. Take Ze Records prexy Michael Zilkha’s wife, socialite Cristina Monet. He heads a label that has sported such artists as Was (Not Was), Alan Vega, Kid Creole, John Cale and James Chance. She recorded (for him) the ultimate deadpan version of Peggy Lee’s classic “Is That All There Is?,” although authors Leiber and Stoller had it supressed because they thought Cristina was mocking their song. Didn’t they know Cristina’s the poorest little rich girl this side of Babs Hutton? Couldn’t they tell this is not just your average party girl, but a femme doomed to be hoisted on her own fatale? Move over Cornelia Guest, ’cuz here comes Cristina!

More than a few observers have accused Citizen Zilkha of pulling a Hearst in promoting his own wife’s career, but Cristina is no Marion Davies or Susan Alexander. She’s more like a tongue-in-chic cross between Lotte Lenya and Lydia Lunch, with a dash of wasted chanteuse a la Marianne Faithful or Nico. Cristina’s world of mutilated minks and great gin fizzes is highlighted in a series of eclectic musical vignettes brought to life by producer Don Was of Detroit’s own Was (Not Was) Bros. by Laura Fissinger She’s all pouty whisper a sob in the throat The collar turned way up on her Dash Hammett coat She’s a mystery woman She’ll sulk and emote You think she’ll say something But darn it, she don’t

THIEVES LIKE US

THE MOTELS Little Robbers (Capitol)

This Martha never ends This Martha never begins This Martha got her sound from the lost and found And then, suddenly...it’s Martha

Too suave for a rocker Too white for the soul

“Don’t Mutilate My Mink” is an aristocrat’s lament set to winding, buzzsaw power chords, as Madame Cristina warns a would-be suitor to lay off her fur in a revved-up rant reminiscent of the Sex Pistols’ “God Save The Queen.” “Ticket To The Tropics” is the gigolo’s version of the Go-Go’s “Vacation,” with dripping sarcasm, a “Sugar Coated” Andy Hernandez marimba beat and a gurgling Marcus Belgrave trumpet solo at fade-out changing the flavor from bubble-gum to Singapore sling.

Yes, friends, Cristina’s the kind of girl who’ll cruise on yer chest with her stilettoes and have ya beggin’ for more. She admits as much in “Quicksand Lovers,” a piece of urban bitchery and snide cattiness, a walk on the wild side as told by Nico, rather than Lou Reed. And, lest you think the lovely Madame Z. is all pose and no passion, along come the raw nerve endings of the sultry “Rage And Fascination” and the painful truth of “The Lie Of Love”— blistering, undoubtedly accurate unravellings of her own strange marriage of (in)convenience; these searing social studies of sexual politique rival “Broken English” in their cleareyed anger and savage insight (worthy comparisons indeed, made all the more apt by the conspiratorial

She throw in de reggae I bet she can bowl!

She purrs self-penned lyrics She non sequiturs She might be a poet but no ‘po’ occurs

Oh, Martha, what can we do to get some fun out of you? Open your eyes till they pop Who says average can’t hit the top?

Yes, suddenly...it’s Martha

This is her fourth album

compositional aid here of such Faithfull faithfuls as Barry Reynolds and Ben Bnerley).

What can a rich girl do, then, ’cept to sing for a deb-rock band? Sleep It Off is yet another reminder of how living in the U.S.A. today must be like living in Berlin circa the Weimar Republic. Life’s a cabaret, alright. In fact, Cristina sounds right at home on Brecht-Weill’s “The Ballad Of Immoral Earnings” and she comes across like Nina Hagen mourning Marlene Dietrich on the funereal finale, “He Dines Out On Death.” Even Van Morrison’s rave-up “Blue Money” is turned into a teasing treatise on the pornography of lucre apd the cruel capriciousness of capitalism, the satiric stabs spiced with a James Chance/David Was sax duet.

So, why should anyone feel sympathy for this pouting, spoiled, perverted, treacherous gold digger? Shouldn’t this upper class white trash just go back to Sarah Lawrence where she belongs? In Sleep It Off, Cristina shows us that dreams which come true can just as well turn out to be nightmares. The rich may be different, but their problems are often just as mundane as yours or mine, which makes Cristina’s bemused misery all the more chilling.

and her second hit Each one, the same ratio,

of good stuff to __ Her band, it’s not too hot That still hasn’t changed They still play Joe Normal to Martha’s deranged

This Martha never ends This Martha never begins It keeps her standing still But hey, it pays her bills Oy, suddenly...it’s Martha

The song that’s the big smash

Because, my friends, that is all there is.

Roy Trakin

.38 SPECIAL Tour De Force (A&M)

2a.m. through a really dark night at 65 mph, hwy 15 south past Lake Elsinore—way, way past—and further south into that placid null-set of human-void otherwise known as San Diego County. Click—KLOS grinds Boy George down to his/its androgynous endpoint, and some good ole southern re-fried rock ’n’ roll hammers unceremonious chords and voice knifes out from a threeinch in-dash:

The one we’re skewering here It’s about losing yoqr cherry— So who brought the beer?

She puckers over wordplay like “L Out Of Lover”

Now “Isle Of You” (Get it?) — Costello, take cover!

Martha, you vamp and slink Martha, sometimeg you stink We’ve been waiting, we’re waiting still

for you to get better, perhaps you will

Till then, suddenly...it’s Martha

“What if I’d been the one to say good-b^e Could you smile?

Can you read my mind?”

Groan“Didn’t that play before?” I, a droopy-eyed front-seat passenger, query of our vehicle’s driver. “Yeah, it’s a rotation thing, they, uh, ran it about an hour ago— somewhere below Pomona.” “Lynyrd Skynyrd?” “No—go back to sleep.”

“I’ve been lost inside Empty space in my heart And some things never change.”

A cold sweat streams beads of oily goop down my brqw and from the veritable abyss of deep-sleep I am jarred abruptly to life and the nth replay of 2 am.’s radio reality... “.38 Special!” yaps the driver now attenuating volume to mega-dose the distortion. “Donny Van Zant— Ronnie’s bro—his band. Lotsa hair—lotsa guitars—lotsa drums. Heavy stuff...” I nod complacent, but not withdrawn. Have heard worse, and in fact, something appealing locks onto the non-analytical side of my brainThe raw edge of six-string brute-force tempered with the poppiness of suspended chord hooks ringing in synch with actual OK vocals allows momentary (gasp) interest. Maybe as good as (say) “Hot Blooded” and some points are scored for more or less steering clear of the usual cliches.

“What time is it?” “Fallbrook, we’re east of Oceanside. Hey—they’re playing the whole LP! You missed side two,” driver bellows now semiecstatic while accelerating the blue Honda Prelude with over 67,000 miles on it to oyer 80 mph. “How was it?” “Bitchin’H” “Oh yeah?” “Man, it was freaking!” “Was what?” “Freaking—you know—real charged shit. These guys grind!!” “Hmmm.” They played one called ‘20th Century Fox’!” “The Doors’ song?” “No!!!,” he replies, suddenly peaking with some new-found fanfrantic vibe. “Much, much better.” “Are you stoned?” “No.”

“Well, what did 1 miss on side two?” “More of the same. Oh, man, just the best guitar production, primo tunes...god, it’s sooo good.” Incessantly he cackles at fever pitch while the radio blares something called “Back Where You Belong” which, if I had to tell the truth (and nothing but), isn’t all that bad. “Whatever we’re hearing now seems to be like the better moments of ZZ/Molly Hatchet, definitely listenable, ya know?” “Come on,” he whines (flagrantly annoyed) “I’m hearing ’71 Alice Cooper—and lots more!” “Get off it.”

Outside, the cold impassive bleak San Diego County night radiates the off-white glow of a 3A moon: I’ve always been a sucker for clean, metalic production and good guitarheavy vocal-rock arrangement. This, admittedly, is about the best of the atrophied sonic-metal genre I’ve lent ears to in a long, long time. It all begins to permeate a desperately weary travel-worn psyche—an 80 mph alphastate rapidly succumbing to the auto-suggestion of rock-radio junkfood, exacerbated by the hyenaiod driver’s unwieldy fit of frantic seizure.

“OH SHIT!! GOD DAMN FUCKING SHIT!!!” The driver lurches our auto to the slow lane and slams his fist into the FM tuner at full volume, “No good lousy pig behind us,” and, sure enough a black-and-white CHP has locked onto our Honda megaspeed with a psychedelic shower of light and sound: sirens bury the last gasps of side one—“See Me In Your Eyes,” a more than adequate rocker —though not as good as the hit (current one that is)...

Gregg Turner

THE MINUTEMEN Buzz Or Howl Under The Influence Of Heat (SST)

CIVIL DEFENSE QUIZ:

ARE YOU PREPARED?

What should you do in case of a sudden dropping of a nuclear weapon on your neighborhood?

A) Grab a supply of comic books, a six-pack of Yoo-hoo, and head for the cellar;

B) Stare at the N-blast for as long as possible;

C) Shout for help.

Now, obviously, any answer will do, since you’d be fried before you knew it anyway. But if your choice was C, at least you have something in common with the Minutemen, who have already started shouting. Loudly.

Quite possibly the best band in the land today, the Minutemen’s music is what should be put out across the Emergency Broadcast Network instead of those 60 seconds of aggravating noise. Their new EP, Buzz Or Howl Under The Influence Of Heat, is noise, but it isn’t aggravating—it’s noise full of woundup anxiety, and it hits hard because

the Minutemen don’t back off. The world does make them nervous, but it doesn’t make them defensive. They know what depressed dingleberries they could be if they just sat around the house all day, and the Minutemen thrash out all their exasperation on vinyl. Buzz Or Howl sweeps from waves of white-noise guitar stuff to free jazz, always avoiding gloom by confronting the beast of angst head-on. And so, though the Minutemen often play it fast, loud and short, you can’t really bunch them up with the rest of the L.A. hardcore bands, even though they first emerged from that thicket

of turbulence.

It’s pretty pointless to label anything, let alone a bunch of song lyrics, as “poetry” these days, but the words on Buzz Or Howl warrant nothing else. Bassist Mike Watt, assisted by the other two members, does most of the lyrics, and his runon writing turns the beats around, making fragments of personal experience seem political and urgent.

Buzz Or Howl marks a major departure for the band who actually clock in this time with a few fulllength songs. It might have been better if they had as much space to work out this longer material as they used on last year’s terse What Makes A Man Start Fires. Still, even though the mix of the brief noise-wads and tunes is uneasy, the songs are terrific. “Dream Told By Moto” and “I Felt Like A Gringo” put one in (James) Brownian motion from the beginning, and the shattering “Little Man With A Gun In His Hand” moves on smooth rails.

Oh yeah, the record even has a terrific cover. On the back of Buzz And Howl the band thanks “everyone who’s kept up the fight against haters, fascists, and all that shit,” which maybe should come off embarrassing, but doesn’t in the least. Bands like the Minutemen, Husker Du and a few others really don’t trust “all that shit,” but they haven’t given up—by a long shot—on trusting something. Which is precisely what makes them so invaluable.

RJ Smith

MINK DeVILLE Where Angels Fear To Tread (Atlantic)

I’m in a spot. I’m supposed to use this space to access the value of Mink DeVille’s fifth album but all I feel like doing is raving on endlessly about the majestic beauty of the opening track. There’s no doubt in my mind that “Each Word’s A Beat Of My Heart” is the apex of Willy DeVille’s recording career . It’s the kind of impossibly perfect lovestruck saga that repeated-

ly enthralls you with the scope of its longing; it makes you both sad and exhilarated to hear Willy carefully press on, getting more torn up and impassioned with every aching chorus. But never does he seek to join the ranks of the overwrought; instead, his angst has a quiet grandeur that’s both subtle and devastating. And, like so many great records, “Each Word’s A Beat Of My Heart” is packed with special touches that make it all the more memorable: understated back-up vocals, and a the handful of gripping piano notes that resonate with unspoken regrets.

I knew that whatever songs followed this one would fall short but, overall, Where Angels Fear To Tread is the strongest Mink DeVille record since the first one reared its head seven years ago.

The material is often derivative of vintage R&B/soul, but that’s not meant as a putdown. “River Of Tears” is ample evidence that Willy’s adoration of Ben E. King remains undiminished. This time he “updates” the King’s sound by having a sax solo thrown in that’s essence-ofBig-Man. And, speaking of Asbury,

“Pick Up The Pieces” is where staunch fans of pre-tarnished Southside Johnny should turn. Meanwhile, “Keep Your Monkey Away From My Door” is an uncanny gumbo concoction that’s one of the ultimate Dr. John tributes, and “Love’s Got A Hold On Me” smolders meaningfully as Willy gets lowdown and the organ conjures up ghostly traces of Jimmy Gilmer’s “Sugar Shack.”

That, along with the gutsy “Are You Lonely Tonight,” accounts for the good stuff. The rest is fair. There’s a successful salsa attempt and another song about another Cadillac and a couple slow-grind ballads. (That reminds me—thumbs down on “The Moonlight Let Me Down,” which drags its scuffed heels all over the place.)

OK, I did my duty—you now know that this LP is alright with me. With that matter settled, you’ll excuse me if I succumb to the urge to play “Each Word’s A Beat Of My Heart” for the 35th time today. I always was a sucker for tongue-tied eloquence. Conventional wisdom has it that the Jam, the hottest group in England during the opening years of the ’80s, never caught on in the States because they were too British. And this time conventional wisdom is probably right. Arriving on the (recording) scene in ’77, the group had neither the cover story appeal of the Sex Pistols or the international perspective of the Clash and, for the remaining five years until their splitup, from their mod-o-fied punk beginnings thru their pop/rock/experimental middle period to their farewell funk attempts, the group remained steadfastly loyal to their anglo-concerns. Tube stations? Wardour Street? Hearing a roughened version of the Kinks klassic “David Watts,” with a lusty “oi!” accenting each verse, may have had relevance in the U.K., but in the U.S. it didn’t even cut the mustard as nostalgia. To top things off, the group never inspired a critical concensus here either—typically, their third album, 78’s All Mod Cons, was hailed as a brilliant work and dismissed as a derivative mess with equal conviction from both sides. And when the sages disagree so wildly, the cult usually don’t take off (old rock-crit axiom). Too bad, ’cause these guys were good.

Craig Zeller

MEATY BEATY SMALL & CULTSY

THE JAM Snap! (Polydor)

Richard C. Walls

by

Snap! is a two-record greatest moments type of career overview, and as a general intro to the group it’s smart in song selection and lame in all other particulars. Not mentioning who’s in the group or what they play (Paul Weller, guitar and lead vocals; Bruce Foxton, bass and vocals, Rick Buckler, drums) may be an oversight, and not telling which song comes from which LP or EP may be an attempt at cool (don’t wanna appear too eager to sell records), but not including a lyric sheet with an album aimed at newcomers is just plain stupid. (I say aimed at newcomers ’cause no Jam fan is gonna buy this record to get 28 songs they already have just to get the previously unreleased demo version of “That’s Entertainment,” which is somewhat dimished by not having the final version’s prominent bassline anyway). For Yank consumption this group doesn’t just need a lyric sheet, they need footnotes. If you’re gon-

na try to reach new people, why try so half-heartedly?

Anyway, at its best the group had an energy and message that was relevant even to us foreigners, and the best is pretty much represented here. “In The City” and “The Modern World” from the first two albums (both ’77—for added resonance, recall that this was the year of Frampton’s “I’m In You”) stake out the territory with punk chunka and early Townshend guitar slashes, willfully simplistic and painfully selfconscious (what could be more modern?). Period pieces, sure, but still bracing. The mid-period stuff, from Cons, Setting Sons (’79) and Sound Affects (’80), retains the grittiness while rather cautiously expanding the musical (more complex arrangements, pop and psychedelic touches cleverly integrated) and lyrical (more ambivalent, a wider range of possible emotional responses) scope. Songs like “That’s

Entertainment,” with its litany of quotidian bleakness, “The Eton Rifles,” which makes connection between sports and militarism, and “Going Underground,” about dropping out (talk about nostalgia!) are both catchy and sophisticated in their message mongering.

It’s not until you reach the album’s fourth side that main-songwriter Weller’s vision falters—“Town Called Malice” is garage Motown and true to form, but “Absolute Beginners,” “Precious,” “The Bitterest Pill,” and “Beat Surrender” are Weller’s varying experiments in funk production withi the jgroup disappearing in the

sweetened mix; This dissatisfaction of Weller’s with the trio’s possibilities, combined with his determination not to have the group become touring dinosaurs (re: you know who), led to the Jam’s demise. Here in the U.S. the passing went little-noted, though the curious may be able to find a couple of the group’s six LP’s still around (somewhere), as well as this intriguing artifact containing 28 previously released selections (and one demo), some spiffy photos, a longish excerpt from the authorized bio, and no lyric sheet.

IAN ANDERSON Walk Into Light (Chrysalis)

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but you really do gotta watch out for these guys who insist on releasing debut solo albums on which they’ve played all the instruments— they are everywhere. Not to mention

those old-timers who suddenly get the urge to throw out 15 years of style to grope their way through the synthesizer trade.

Neil Young tried it at the beginning of last year with Trans and now, lord help us, it’s Ian Anderson’s turn. That’s right, Mr. Songs From The Wood has gotten himself a haircut, traded his codpiece for a three piece and, in general, made himself over like some kinda weird mutant offspring of Peter Gabriel and Robert Fripp.

The first clue is the album cover, a real trendy attempt to look current with color bars running across a black ’n’ white photo—you know, the kind of thing that makes you wonder if the cover was printed off register or improperly trimmed at the printers.

The second clue is the bit that says Ian played all of the instruments except for the synthesizers and piano. These were played by some guy named Peter-John Vettese who also co-wrote half of the songs and sings background vocals. However, this

ain’t no Asylum Choir democracy here, so Ian gets full credit—or full blame, as the case may be—and not Peter-John (you also gotta watch out for guys with hyphenated first names).

Once you get past the inner sleeve’s gray scales and pseudo-artsy effects to the record itself, that feeling of rising bile in your gorge is confirmed: this album is simply terrible.

But if it’s evidence you want, just listen to the first track (“Fly By Night,” unfortunately not the Rush tune) and hear how Ian pretends he’s Peter Gabriel by whispering hoarsely “I fly by night” over and over again. It’s worse than bad: it’s embarrassing.

Things pick up a bit with “Made In England,” a song that concerns itself with the usual Anderson working class polemics and contains Walk Into Light’s only genuinely witty pun: “He watches the democratic process grind it’s way through the Commons cold.” What deep-sixes the track, however, is the synthesized music. Where there should be Jethro

Tull there’s only Jethro Dull: recycled, plodding syntheplop which deprives the song of any bite it otherwise might have had.

The remaining eight songs only serve to drag this mess deeper into the slag heap. Do you really want to hear a tune called “User-Friendly” that has sample and hold effects and a vocoder at the end? Especially when Alice Cooper did the same thing at theend of “Woman Machine” 10 years ago? Or one about sitting on trains (called “Trains”) with appropriate choo-choo sound effects? Especially when both Kraftwerk and Bowie also did that number to death 10 years ago?

No, I think you get the message by now. But just in case you haven’t, aside from 10 seconds of noodling with the main melody at the beginning of “Made In England,” Ian Anderson plays no flute on this album whatsoever.

Really don’t mind if I sit this one out.

Jeffrey Morgan