QUEEN The Works (Capitol)

by J. Kordosh

To tell you the truth—a thing I’m not addicted to, by the way—I’ve been a professional liar when it comes to Queen. Even while making light of their very existence (in print), I’ve been a regular listener of their records (in real life). Do I feel small about this? Mighty small, B’wana. Why did I ever write many terrible things about this band? Because I’m a big disgrace, that’s why. So don’t look me up under “Mr. Critical Integrity,” OK?

Look up Queen on The Works, though. It’s not their best album— Greatest Hits is one of the world’s top 10 in staying power—but it’s a darned fair 13th album for any band. I’ll try to be careful here. The Works is an uptempo recycling of Queen’s greatest formula, to be sure—Brian May “relying heavily” on “We Will Rock You” for “Tear It Up” and Freddie Mercury “borrowing freely” from “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” for “Man On The Prowl” as two examples. But, since we’re facing facts, Queen does have a powerhouse repertoire with which to plagiarize itself. These songs wouldn’t become intolerable until the fifth goround or so. You love “Killer Queen”—admit it.

In any case, the industry rumor is that Works represents a commercial comeback for Queen (in the wake of commercial comedowns like Hot Space and various eccentric solo projects) . And the rumor is (in the words of Jerry Lee Lewis) true, so true. Roger Taylor’s “Radio Ga Ga” is being offered as the 45 and, yes, it’s a pleasant little thing with an expected/unexpected Qujeen juxtachorus to redeem it—but don’t be deceived. There’s better stuff on Works, particularly the stuff written by Mercury. He’s the band’s best writer—possibly because he’s the voice, but possibly not—and his .tunes are inevitably so damned Queenish as to be logical (and deserving) focal points.

The rockabilly-ish “Man On The Prowl” has been mentioned, but— as an addendum—entertain no serious notion that Brian Setzer can belt this type of warble any better than Ready Freddie. He can’t. “It’s A Hard Life” is a good (not great) 29th version of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” a catchy anthem that reaffirms Mercury’s status as a master of phrasing. No up-and-comer can even pretend to match Mr. M. at this particular art—his only serious competition is Bob Dylan. But, of course, he’s everybody’s serious competition.

Mercury delivers the real goods on Works with “Keep Passing The Open Window,” by far the most “ambitious” (that’s the accepted critical word) effort on this particular album. “Window” is Queen at their de facto best—sweet piano, ambiguousyet-vaguely-ominous lyrics, a bass riff lifted from “Nobody But Me”...a song that’s actually elusive. (Queen are superb when they’rd elusive and Quiet Riot when .they’re obvious.) “Window” is a bona fide somethingor-another, which makes it the culmination of a very good album.

Did I forget to mention that lying about records doesn’t bother me in the least?

THE ALARM Declaration (IRS)

U2, Big Country—both are bands who grabbed the gun when the Clash Ipropped it, and now they’re running j-ffor the front lines of the fight. The [...Alarm doesn’t have the chops and reative smarts of those two groups, fyt they have just as much fire, Igopugh to burn away most of those 'i-5-year-old delusions about changing the world and the people in it. In “Where Were You Hiding When The Storm Broke,” they phrase the question that makes all old attitudes seem completely moot: “Who would be a patriot at the price of humanity?” Bullseye.

For the first three cuts of this, their first full album, the Alarm makes music almost as incendiary as the message. Even for a guitar-based band, their style is often musical plaintalk, with the reference points—acoustics like the Byrds, electrics like the Clash, harmonica like Springsteen—charting a sort of flannel-and-denim ordinariness that feels like the folk and whitened American blues of the late ’50s and early ’60s. Lots of borrowing, but so much of it, in fact, that the roots almost get too numerous and tangled to trace. What they forgot to borrow, though, are some good melodies. Not that there aren’t any here—Declaration’s first three songs (a tough re-work of their EP’s “Marching On,” “Where Were You Hiding,” and “Third Light”) do have melody, alright, as well as lyrics that are shock treatments to a sleeping conscience. Maybe a whole album of this would be almost unbearably intense.

As it goes, the intensity eventually falters, but the passion remains consistent. Somehow it gets past the fuzzy symbolism in “68 Guns,” the vague vignettes of the disenfranchised in “We Are The Light.” “Shout To The Devil” and “Howling Wind” need some editing and structure, both verbal and compositional. “Tell Me” has a hushed, pained acoustic opening, then vaults up into the militant tone and tempo that gets to be a bit too familiar and, thereby, ineffective by the end of the record. Declaration has some great lines (such as “Where Were You Hiding”’s “selling out is a cardinal sin/sinning with a safety net”) and some truly great moments (the last half of “Howling Wind”), but even the brave folks at the front lines need to put their fists down once a day and get to the quiet internal locale where “the courage to keep on marching” gets born.

Problems and all, Declaration is worth your cash and your time. Like Big Country and U2, the Alarm poses the theory that the ’60s fight for a loving human world has actually been strengthened, not stopped, by the ’70s pragmatism and selfabsorption. It’s been too corny for 15 years and now, suddenly, here it is again—music about hope and change and with the loaded-gun courageousness to do it.

Laura Fissinger

JIM CARROLL I Write Your Name (Atlantic)

It is the Universal Language he seeks; the alphabet of the soul, pristine and indestructible. By means of it the poet, who is the lord of imagination and the unacknowledged ruler of the world, communicates, holds communion, with his fellow man.”

—Henry Miller on Arthur Rimbaud, Time Of The Assassins

I Write Your Name is the album Jim Carroll always wanted to make and should have made but couldn’t until now. This is the one; not his other two. He showed great promise on the first, fell on his fair-skinned face on the second; now here comes the third pitch and the red-headed former athlete-cum-junkie/writer belts a home run. No longer just a poetic punk with famous friends relying on history and reputation to achieve mystery and impact, Jim Carroll has grown into the role of recording artist—he’s now a true electric poet moving with startling confidence and grace.

In retrospect, it’s understandable it took this long for Jim Carroll the singer/songwriter to mature. He had been a published writer for years and years but a comparative newcomer to the world of words and music. Mere time alone, though, is not a sufficent explanation for this growth. (Nor is a decrease in methadone dose, as one smart aleck suggested.) It is more: Carroll has forgotten who he wants to be, who he is supposed to be, and who he’s expected to represent.

The difference here is that Carroll is finally painting, not just pointing. The lyrics sheet is witheld here by intent, not budgetary restrictions. He wants us to listen, not read.

And listen we do, with pleasure. “Love Crimes” is the perfect opening track: crisp and quick, melodic and commercial. Radio should have no problem playing this (or Side Two’s first song, “Freddy’s Store”). Despite the macho and swagger of the character (“Billy”) we can still identify with his vulnerability: “Jealousy rose up right from its hole/just when I thought 1 had it all under control.” “Freddy’s Store” sounds like a New York munitions version of “L.A. Woman” replete with powerful images—and speaking of Jim Morrison (who wrote “Nothing left open and no time to decide”), Carroll goes him one for one updating that choice: “It’s too much head and not much heart/if you think about the end it might never start.” The Doors influence is also evident on “Black Romance,” where Carroll muses, “I put a sign on my brain/it said ‘Do Not Disturb,’ but the maids keep walking in.../And they’re making beds inside my head/I wish they’d throw everything out instead.”

And speaking of poets, were Arthur Rimbaud today alive and living in New York, it is not inconceivable the very first line he would write would be this one from “(No More) Luxuries”: “C’est la vie...the color T.V.” And he would no doubt proceed to take on the same Warhol consciousness this song attacks. Perhaps the best single line of the LP is on the album’s closer, “Dance The Night Away,” as Carroll sings, “I reach in the drawer and I take out respect...it doctors this sickness it took years to perfect.” What’s significant here is that the “respect” mentioned could be anything; we all have our drawers that we reach in for help, and the bottom line is that it really doesn’t matter whether it’s a drug or a shirt or a book or a bible. We’re all sick and we’re all sinners and though Carroll can’t diagnose the problem, he can fill out the prescription to “Dance The Night Away.”

The only filler on the record is the cover of “Sweet Jane”—done better by both Lou Reed and Mott The Hoople. It’s a throwaway which maygo over well live but here simply takes up space. The only other complaint is that Carroll still retains the annoying habit of shrilling the ends of words. But these are really minor quibbles over flaws on the surface of what sturdily remains a vibrant, glowing landscape of rock ’n’ roll at its most beatific. We’d be smart first and fortunate later to not let this boy slip out of our sight unappreciated.

Danny Sugerman

NENA 99 Luftballons (Epic)

If you don’t already have a crush on Nena Kerner for the sweetly tumbling gutturals of her vocals, and the sexiness of her hands-in-pockets stride, then you haven’t had your MTV or FM tuned in for the past few months. I had never heard of Nena (Nena is a group, as they used to say about Blondie) until I accidentally caught their “99 Luftballons” video on MTV at 9:30 one barren redeye winter morning, but since then I haven’t been able to get enough of Nena and that propulsive song on my radio and TV.

Which were the best places to find Nena for a long time, as unlike most recent “overnight” phenoms, Nena didn’t yet have a U.S. album out when the heavy rotation started. I bided my time with the single, employing my wretched collegeGerman vocabulary to effect a laborious word-by-word translation of “99 Luftballons.” I gathered enough of the sense of the song to tell that it was an anti-war anthem of sorts, no big deal after the U.S. success of pop moralizers like U2, etc., but still the concept of real Krauts singing in real Kraut and being loved for that in the States seemed to possess the makings of a man-bitesAlsatian story.

Nena’s album is finally available in U.S. release now, and while it obviously contains our bright-spot title tune, I have to report that there’s no second “99 Luftballons” aboard. Or rather there almost is, as the album includes an English version of the hit, “99 Red Balloons.” Auf Englisch, the story line’s clarified for us nonmultilinguals, and helps me see why the Nenas already shrug off the “protest music” tag some journalists have hung on them. “99 Luftballons” is an anti-war song, but not politically so; it’s much more of a love-ravaged-bywar pessimistic romance like Nena’s countryman Erich Maria Remarque wrote again and again, after he turned from the more direct protest of All Quiet On The Western Front. But the title tune’s as close to marching against missile deployment or whatever as you’ll get on 99 Luftballons.

The balance of the album’s respective English and German sides is filled with songs so pop-romantic that some of them almost approach the hippie-dippie mysticism of Germany’s long lost great psychedelic hope, Amon Duul II. Fortunately, Nena was born of the powerpop generation, and all the band’s songs have a rhythm punch that keeps them attractive no matter how far afield the lyrics stray*. For instance, the safari beat of “Unerkannt Durch’s Marchenland” sounds nice enough that I decided to halt my translation after I uncovered the “Fairyland” in the title; some things are better not examined too closely.

On the other hand, the German side of the album does contain a trio of tunes—“Kino” ( = “Lighthouse”) —which are highly suggestive of that wonderful powerpop/disco synthesis Blondie achieved around the time of “Heart Of Glass.” They’re lush and romantic yet churning and funky all at once, thanks especially to Nena Kerner’s nubile tongue and Uwe Fahrenkrog-Petersen’s hippy cheesy keyboards.

Back on the English side of the record, both “Hangin’ On You” (note similarities to “Hanging On The Telephone”) and “Just A Dream” (a big hit in the Old Country before “99 Luftballons”) carry on that hot 1979-Blondie sound we really didn’t get enough of at the time. Obviously Nena are less idiomatically comfy with their English lyrics, and CBS could have dressed up the Anglo tunes with somebody a bit more dynamic than David Sanborn and his freeze-dried sax.

But that’s my peculiar quibble. When Nena Kemer warbles an Elmer Fudd-like “wery wery superscarwy” in “99 Red Balloons,” my soul turns to misty sauerbraten all over again. Jawohl, Nena, that is an aroused racial unconcious in my pocket, and I am glad to see you add a new angle to the U.S. charts. Since the U.S. 99 Luftballons is a compilation of two older German albums, I know you’ve got new songs as bright and propulsive as your hit just ready to release into our skies.

Richard Riegel

SLADE Keep Your Hands Off My Power Supply _(Epic)_

Here is Noddy Holder, raspy lead singer of Slade, putting a move on a member of the opposite sex: “You want equality/You won’t get none of that from me.” Boorish, boisterous, and ready for action, Slade are back.

Back? Oh, that’s right; for a moment it slipped this reporter’s mind that while approximately 17 U.S. residents were gleefully reveling in the screeching inanities of such Slade specimens as “Gudbye T’Jane” and “Skweeze Me Pleeze Me” (not to mention “Mama Weer All Crazee Now” and that little number that Kwyet Ryet recently appropriated), the rest of early ’70s America remained untitillated. So Keep Your Hands Off My Power Supply is an opportunity for belated atonement. And those who found in Slade a hardrock band carrying on in the spirit of aggressive gibberish and unrestrained hollering that sprang from Little Richard should find this album sufficiently goofy to rekindle fond memories.

There are a few changes (though not in personnel; remarkably, all four Slades are Slade s still). Their spelling has improved: “Cheap ’N’ Nasty Luv,” a lament about the plight of a streetwalker, is the only lapse into the habits of the past in that area. And they’ve adopted some musical mannerisms from bands both old and recent. The LP leads off with a song, “Run Runaway,” that combines the best parts of “All Right Now” (that chunky chording) and “Fields Of Fire” (that reeling melody) (maybe they should have called it “In A Free Country”). “My Oh My,” a drinking song about camaraderie that’s awash in the table-thumping sentimentality that good ol’ boyz indulge in when their bladders are filled with ale and there are no wenches around to pinch, and “C’est La Vie,” a waltz that sounds as though a lass is being serenaded by the upper deck at a football match, are slightly less rambunctious than the Slade of yore, signs that the fellows have mellowed a tad.

Perhaps Slade has been taking pointers from those whippersnappers whom they inspired, since they’re playing a little too much by the book this time out. Who wants Slade coming back as Queen, or (shudder) Meat Loaf? And who needs this much car-racing-as-sexual-metaphor? When Holder and company brag about their prowess in the sack and their lack of scruples thereto applied, they’re just another bunch of HM boneheads, and dirty old men to boot.

The best of Slade was always fast, and funny. Bambambam. It wasn’t only Holder’s Larry Fine coiffure that made the band the slapstick relief of rock ’n’ roll during an essentially sober period; it was the crassness of the whole enterprise. Keep Your Hands Off My Power Supply’s “Run Runaway” and “In The Doghouse” prove that they still have it; the latter is a leap-around the room track (sort of like the Stones’ “Hang Fire”), a reminiscence about hellraising youth that recreates through details (smutty graffiti, coffee bars) and through sheer velocity the feeling of being broke and rowdy, of rebelling without a cause (or a brain) in the England of more than a decade ago.

Except for “Ready To Explode,” a song-suite that takes place on a racetrack (complete with an announcer introducing the band members as drivers,in the competition), the songs on the new Slade album are compact. No interminable guitar solos—Dave Hill’s playing, as in the old days, squeezes large rackets into tight spaces -no protracted instrumental extravaganzas of any sort, as a matter of fact, and compared to such modern-day bellowers as the guys in Judas Priest or AC/DC, Holder’s give-that-genta-lozenge vocalizing is darn near mellifluous (he really tries to sing on “My Oh My” and “C’est La Vie,” and the results are surprisingly unducklike).

So it took the U.S. 10 years to realize that “Cum On Feel The Noize” was chart-topping material (watch the stampede now, as bands all over the country go to rummage sales to ferret out deleted LPs by Mud, Gary Glitter, the Sweet and the Rubettes), and give these gallumphing geezers a second shot. Good for ’em. Now that Keep Your Hands Off... has been sprung on us, we have some catching up to do. An anthology would be nice, and according to the bio supplied with the LP, during the years that the U.S. has been deprived of Slade recordings, we’ve missed such efforts as “Knuckle .(Sandwich Nancy” (nyuck, nyuck), “‘Rock’n’Roll Bolero,” “Lock Up Your Daughters” and “Give Us A Goal.'” And we have the nerve to consider ourselves a cultured nation.

GOOD DAY SUNSHINE

THE SMITHS (Sire)

by Dave DiMartino The Smiths believe that it is possible to replenish appetites of both the soul and the pelvis simultaneously.

That is: they might, but then again, they might not. That’s just what their press release says. It doesn’t specify male or female pelvises, though, and that makes a difference. A big difference.

In point of fact, there is no other band I can recall that has played upon, ambiguity as much—and as successfully—as the Smiths. You don’t know the Smiths? From England? You will. They are an important pand. They sing about things that no other band has ever sung about, and they do it well. So well, in fact, that one could not be blamed for wondering why no one has ever sung about such things before.

The Smiths have released a handful of singles. The sleeve of the first one featured a rear view of a naked man leaning against a wall. “Hand In Glove” was its name, and it’s on this album, remixed. If the picture was too subtle, perhaps the lyrics— about a “different” love and the sun “shining out of our behinds”f|will clear things up. Perhaps they won’t. Do the words “yoo hoo” mean anything to you?

The Smiths are led by Morrissey, to whom those two words apparently mean a great deal. Such words are considerably more specific than the bulk of lyrics that fill The Smiths, a debut album unlike any other record you have ever heard. And while the record stands entirely on its own as a stunning piece of music, there are aspects of this band that make each carefully-chosen lyric vastly more meaningful to discerning ears.

That’s because the Smiths’ songs are products of very sharp minds, the kind that know the value of being purposefully obtuse. Minds that can construct a lyric like “A boy in the bush is worth two in the hand/I think I can help you get through your exams” and then take offense when concerned parties object. Child molesting? Condoning it? When the Smiths tell you to bugger off, they mean it very literally. “I know the wind-swept mystical air/It means: I’d .'like to see your underwear,” sings Morrissey innocently, lacking the slightest hint of aggression, leaving befuddled listeners scratching their heads and checking their behinds for sunshine.

I haven’t been as fascinated by an album in years. There are certain similarities to the Velvet Underground here that one would be foolish to disregard. And I’m not just talking about the subject matter; listen to the record, hear “Suffer Little Children” and “The Hand That Rocks The Cradle”—a beautiful, wonderful song as far-reaching as “Candy Says” and with that same obliqueness and mystery. “I once had a child, it saved my life,” croons ’Morrissey, “but whom I never even gave a name/I just looked into his wondrous eyes and said ‘never never never again.’ ” Beauty and ugliness, health and disease, all meaningless terms that the Smiths, make no attempt to define, choosing instead to just jab at the differences.

Of course there is also “This Charming Man,” last year’s finest single and the first hint of the greatness behind what might appear, in ’84 pop surface terms, to be a very ordinary band. A guitar, a bass, drums and a voice. There are no gimmicks here—and there are those who’ll call that a gimmick in itself—but there is a depth both musical and lyrical that suggests the Smiths will be with us for a very long time.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, wait until you hear this record.

Mitchell Cohen

THOMPSON TWINS Into The Gap (Arista)

In a way, the current overseas invasion of the synth flops reminds me of the way I felt about the onslaught of the disco denizens several years back. Sure, the music may have the inspirational depth of a flattened dixie cup and: the performers may possess the blankest of personalities, but the bottojn line is that some of this stuff is genuinely fun—fueled quality trash and the best of it (which, be it disco or synth pop, invariably translates into Big Hjts) never fails to liven up the airwave!; and fling you into a singalong mood. My allegiance here lies with the song not the singer.

I know I personally would shed not a single, tear if Heaven 17, Eurythmics, the Human League, Spandau Ballet, Modern English, or A Flock Of Seagulls never lived to make another record. Ever. They’ve each had three or four minutes in the sun to shoot their shot; why they feel the need to aspire beyond one-hit wonder status is miles beyond me. I mean, what the hell is so special about someone like the Thompson Twins?

In the words of Edwin Starr: absolutely nothin’. Their basic sound is diluted Roxy Music with quirky production touches and more facile hooks. The songs have roughly the same impact on you as the rantings of the blabbermouth sitting next to you on the subway—in one ear and out the other. “Doctor Doctor” is a typical example—blandly catchy, goes around in pointless circles, lays on some schlocked-up moody atmosphere and takes twice as long as it should to bow out.

Lead singer Tom Bailey likes to roam around in a haze of pseudoangst, and his tepid, woundedmartyr moves are a major liability. On “The Gap” he apparently thinks chanting “east-is east, west is west” is some sort of revelation; I just sat there wondering how anyone could possibly care if this twerp’s twain ever met. His feeble queries on “Who Can Stop The Rain” are ridiculously damp while “Sister Of Mercy” wallows in mannequin emoting (apparently a daily specialty).

What this record is is relentlessly mediocre. I see no reason in going on except to note that “Hold.Me Now” deserves to climb the charts. It’s the one saving grace here, an unencumbered plea for tenderness that’s quite embraceable. Tom Bailey has described it as “a chocolate box lover song.” So buy the single and ignore the album—this LF is just one soft center after another.

Craig Zeller

JON BUTCHER AXIS Stare At The Sun (Polydor)

One of the minor pleasures of 1983 was watching and listening as the Jon Butcher Axis established a toehold in ’80s pop. Here was a guy possessed of not only a really strong voice and an impressive guitar technique, but also the good sense to realize that those talents didn’t necessarily guarantee him anything without the proper context. So he created a new synthesis of rock, soul and dance music, stripping away the excesses of each genre in order to get to a core expression that a lot of people could enjoy. And he did so within that most potentially anachronistic format—the power trio of guitar, bass and drums.

This is the band’s second album and it’s a little more focused than the debut LP. Electronically-generated rhythms are either integrated more subtly into the arrangements or dispensed with altogether with Butcher’s guitar synthesizer once again providing some ingenous textures. The songs themselves blend old and new elements, with mixed results. “Can’t Tell The Dancer” features a swaggering beat a la Bowie’s “Let’s Dance,” but “Stay Low” and “Breakout” could have issued from some obscure marriage between the recently-defunct Bad Co. and Thin Lizzy. Several tunes, such as “Victims” and “Call To Arms,” sound like attempted anthems, but without the musical pomposity that usually accompanies such moves.

To get this stuff across, Butcher has to rely that much more on his voice, and he gets away with it because he’s got one: rich, gritty and intense, even (gasp!) naturally soulful. He lists Paul Rodgers, Michael McDonald and Sam Cooke as being among his favorite singers; he also reminds me at times of Arthur Lee or James Dewar. All of these guys are/were particularly effective at slow tempos and so is Butcher—if the housewives get to hear his ballad “Dreams Fade Away,” he may have a hit single on his hands.

He may need one, too. Relying on direct expression in an age of flabby, stretched-out arrangements and gratuitous image mongering goes against the grain, but Butcher and his band deserve credit for putting some emotional integrity back into mainstream rock. Of course, if you’re one of those people who maintains that mainstream rock oughtta be put out to die so we can get on with finding something “new and better” then you’re probably ignoring both the Jon Butcher Axis and this review.

Michael Davis

LAURIE ANDERSON Mister Heartbreak (Warner Bros.)

It seems like a strange idea, listening to an album by a performance artist, who is an artist who not only uses a variety of artistic forms but also makes a statement of sorts by the way the live performance of any given piece is structured and presented. Little, if any, of this comes across on record, of course, and so if Laurie Anderson’s Big Science sounded a little...thin, it came with a bouquet of valid excuses: it was only the aural part of the presentation, it was only an excerpt from a much longer work, it was only a studio album and not a live performance, etc. Besides, with its musical jokes and straight-faced one-liners, its sketchy sketches of alienation and failed relationships, it didn’t sound that thin. With Mister Heartbreak (though many of the same excuses still apply) the feeling that one isn’t getting the whole show is much stronger—and though (because?) the music is more polished here and the lyrics more serious (or at least less funny) the album often achieves just the sort of preciousness that Big Science, with its dry wit, avoided. While some of this stands on its own, Anderson’s discursive lyrics are no doubt best served by the sort of multi-media presentation capable of imbuing them with that certain resonance that imitates profundity. Presented on record, much of this is just dull.

OF r/tff EP

JASON AND THE SCORCHERS Fervor (EMI America)

by Jeff Nesin Jason Ringenberg and the (formerly Nashville) Scorchers, with one (formerly independent) major label EP to their credit, certainly think big. Know what they want, too. Jason hisself was recently quoted in the New York Times about their ambition, which is nothing less than becoming “a great American rock ’n’ roll band.” Even revealed a bit of strategy: “When I came to Nashville I was looking for a sound with a rural feeling to it and a lot of energy, a sound that was American. I wanted musicians who sounded like they had dirt under their fingernails. And I got all that.”

Well, I wouldn’t begrudge the boys in the band a manicure from time to time, but otherwise young Jason is right on target. All that’s really left is for great Americans—the CREEM readership, for example — to acknowledge the Scorchers’ arrival. Picking up Fervor (seven tracks for a modest price) will do nicely, for now.

What, you may be wondering, does a Great American Band sound like, with or without proper cuticle care? The components are both mythic and specific: jackhammer drumming from Perry Baggs, iron horse bass from Jeff Johnson, train whistle guitar from Warner Hodges and vocals from Mr. Ringenberg that alternate between funny and fierce, always larger than the song, just like great American Elvis Presley used to do. Of course, Jason doesn’t really sound anything like Elvis, but myth is a powerful tool. On “Help There’s A Fire he actually sounds (a little too much) like Jonathan Richman, while on “I Can’t Help Myself’ his exciting rockabilly singing reminds me of Johnny Burnette and the Rock ’n’ Roll Trio. And “Pray for Me, Mama (I’m a Gypsy Now)” makes me think of Gram Parsons all the way through, which is the highest sort of compliment around my house. Great Americans, all.

But in truth, Jason and the Scorchers don’t sound like a construction site or a tractor or a scooter pie. They sound like a fresh, young rock ’n’ roll band who honor many Great Americans but are beholden to none. Their flame-thrower version of Bob Dylan’s venerable Blonde On Blonde cut, “Absolutely Sweet Marie,” is a perfect case in point. Cut fast on the ear, with a hot chorus and breakneck guitar that owes nothing to Robbie Robertson, the track sounds 18 years younger than yesterday, which is precisely what it is. Their driving, hook-filled original, “Hot Nights In Georgia,” with incendiary guitar from Hodges and guest harmonies from R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe, will make you twist and shout to obscure lyrics about Sherman’s march to the sea. Great American Band-ness can’t be too far off.

The album begins promisingly enough with the song “Sharkey’s Day,” which could be the theme from a Burt Reynolds flick with its girl chorus going, “Ooooeee Sharkey. He’s Mister Heartbreak,” though no BR movie theme would be so savvy as to feature Adrian Belew’s patented sounds, authentic percussion from Daniel Ponce and the currently hip bassthumps of Bill Laswell (make no mistake, it’s a good arrangement). The song also introduces the album’s leitmotifs of desert island and lust (and/or love) and, more ominously, these keynote lines: “If only I could remember these dreams...I know they’re trying to tell me... something...” Elusiveness dead ahead...

And that’s the problem, because, despite some texturally intriguing arrangements and a guest vocal by the always droll William Burroughs (who, curiously enough, either can’t or refuses to pronounce the word “kemosabe” correctly), this elusiveness gets tedious fast. All these anecdotes without punchlines, or punchlines deferred, or punchlines mumbled into metaphorical collars...Since Anderson eschews messages, obvious statements and conventional narrative resolutions, prefering to deal in (hopefully) interesting juxtapositions of anecdotal fragments and free-floating tropes, the success or failure of the venture rises and falls, on record at any rate, with the ability of the spoken words to hold the listener’s attention by delivering, at regular intervals, the expected, seemingly arrived at randomly insights (see Big Science). On Mister Heartbreak, Anderson’s words are the least interesting part of the record. Ah well, that’s the way it goes when you work intuitively (as Anderson intimates she does in interviews)—some days the insights come, some days, nothing.

Richard C. Walls