GO-GO'S Talk Show(IRS)

by Rick Johnson

The 1959 American League pennant-winning Chicago White Sox were called the Go-Go Sox because they ran a lot. They had to because they couldn�t hit. Oh sure, they had a few ace batsmen like Nellie Fox and Little Louie Aparicio, as well as slugger Ted �put this on the back of your uniform� Kluszewski, but the rest of the lineup featured locally-loved but nationally-laughable sorts like Earl Torgeson, Sherm Lollar, Bubba Phillips, and Jungle Jim Rivera. Not to mention Turk Lown, the ugliest relief pitcher in the history of bullpen slither.

The 1984 Los Angeles Go-Go�s also feature a lightweight attack, which, like that of the Pale Hose of old, in no way hampers their ability to win the big ones. The closest thing this team has to a power hitter, drummer Gina Schock, is currently recuperating from heart surgery, but the runners just keep scoring.

After an errorless debut, the GoGo�s second album (Vacation) was as big a nightmare as there being so many factors that contribute to a single cymbal�s overall sound and character that a whole book could be devoted to the subject. The performance was as uninspired as a sacrifice bunt in a lopsided game, and the material was so eraseable that 1 had to erect a wire screen around my stereo so that the misplayed popups following the great title track didn�t lead to the old �Mr. Brick? Meet Mr. Turntable!� method of criticism.

Talk Show, however, could win the Comeback of the Year Award in any league. The first single, �Head Over Heels,� is the best thing they�ve done since �Vacation.� OK, so maybe Belinda sounds a little too much like she�s practicing fish calls toward the end, big deal. She�s really a good hear compared to most of the other noo-ish voices on the dial today. No yodeler�s advisory necessary.

The whole first side, in fact, makes me get the fever for the flavor of a Pringles. �Turn To You� arrives via some hotte Berry-form riffs that rebound like chromium bolos. �Beneath The Blue Sky� approaches balladry from the folk-rock side without reverting to showers of toy hail. And more!

Very low failure count on this one. The only tune that belongs high on your list of forgotten Opening Day ceremonies is �Yes Or No,� cowritten with the Mael brothers from Sparks—which, I think, is the main reason I don�t like it, since their ears have always been way bigger than my gag-chute. Maybe things fluff out a bit towards the end of the second side but hey—so do their abdomens!

Other highlights include �You Thought,� a scrote-crackin� nyahnyah from the peanut gallery of modern sexuality; the bleats of possession that fire up �I�m The Only One�; and �Mercenary,� which starts with an M.

So, the way this official scorer sees it, the Talk Show Go-Go�s are batting a cool .850 (8V2 for 10). And like the ultimate singles hitters they are, they don�t even need to steal.

DAVID GILMOUR About Face

(Columbia)

ROGER WATERS The Pros And Cons Of Hitch Hiking

(Columbia)

Oh boy, now we have two Pink Floyds to kick around. With Richard Wright�s new album due shortly, we may even have three. Is it significant that the only Floyd solo project to venture outside the group�s established sound so far has been Nick Mason�s Fictitious Sports LP of Carla Bley songs?

Maybe so, maybe not. In any event, neither Qilmour nor Waters is really breaking new ground here. Instead, they�re continuing on Floydishly with the help of a combination of old collaborators and others of their musical generation. To those that this news doesn�t totally turn off, read on:

Of the two, Gilmour seems least interested in repeating past glories, although he does share the production with Bob Ezrin, who coproduced The Wall. People like Steve Winwood and Jon Lord are among the keyboard contributors, while Jeff Porcaro effectively holds down the drum chair; even an admitted Totophobe like myself can hear the difference between Porcaro�s precise flexibility and Mason�s relentless plod of yore.

The album is basically split between Floydian trips and various other tangents. The jam at the end of �Murder,� for instance, is straight out of Animals, while the ballads �Out Of The Blue� and �Near The End� show that Gilmour has quite a natural affinity for Water�s depresso dramas. On the other hand, �Blue Light� and �Until We Sleep� are modestly effective dance numbers, although James Guthrie should have his hands slapped for burying alive Gilmour�s savage guitar outro to �Until We Sleep� in the mix. �Cruise� goes the other direction, a gently sarcastic folksy ditty about the Cruise missies we�re �protecting� Europe with; it�s actually one of the most potent, if understated, political tunes I�ve heard recently.

Two of the strongest numbers here have lyrics by Pete Townshend. Both �All Lovers Are Deranged� and �Love On The Air� deal with aspects of romantic obsession, with one full of stormy doubt and the other featuring a self-directed pep talk of a chorus. These successes help give About Face mainstream respectability. It�s not a bad effort at all, even though it, like the Waters LP, does go down easier after a couple lungfuls of restricted substances.

Make that a lotta lungfuls in regards to The Pros And Cons Of Hitch Hiking; this is slow going, all' the way through. Musically, it�s very much a follow-up to The Final Cut— The Final Cut: The Day After, perhaps?—featuring the same supporting cast, (minus Gilmour and Mason), a vague disjointed storyline running through it and a remarkable attention to detail and ambient atmosphere. Hear Cherry Vanilla faking sensual arousal in the background! Hear Waters getting kicked out of a speeding truck for announcing his intention to throw up! Hear yourself screaming at the top of your lungs, �When is this record ever going to end?�!

True, Eric Clapton is the lead guitarist here and to cut through the sludge, he does play with more of an edge than he�s used on his own recent albums. Sharp, bluesy licks and fills abound; too bad they weren�t donated to a more worthwhile cause.

But what�s it about, you ask? Oh, about 12 inches. No, well, where The Final Cut buried �the post-war dream,� this one trashes the thumbout-get-away-from-all �70s. Not that they don�t deserve it, but most of this is just so tedious. It takes the form of a series of dreams/nightmares with recurring melodies and characters as Waters alternates between his trademark whimper/ whisper and hysterical yelps. There�s lotsa stuff that doesn�t actually �make sense� here, but these are dreams, so Rog does have himself covered. Waters starts out asleep and ends up awake, which is the opposite of how many listeners are liable to react. Which is kind of too bad, since the gentle finale is actually quite poignant. It genuinely moved me for a moment. But then I dozed off. Again.

Michael Davis

STORIES THEY COULD TELL

THE EVERLY BROTHERS 24 Original Classics DION

24 Original Classics

(Arista)

Billy Altman

BY

To me, one of the most fascinating things about pop music is the way in which artists whose work first appears in what looks like a very strict context—depending on, at the time of inception, quite specific commercial and cultural climates—can often see that work rise out of its context to remain vital both in terms of simply longevity and complex influence on other artists further down the line. I mention this at the outset because, though there would appear to be little to connect these two superb anthologies (outside of the fact that they were both painstakingly pieced together and annotated by one of the trustiest hands at the CREEM ranch, contributing editor Mitchell Cohen, and were released simultaneously), it�s instructive to note that both of these acts—who, after all, enjoyed their greatest successes in the late �50s and early �60s—have seen over the years their music reach out in influence across streets, cities, states, and even countries on the way to helping reshape the face of rock �n� roll. And, like we said at the top, what�s amazing is that it�s almost impossible to imagine that anything could�ve been further from the minds of either of the Everly Brothers or Dion and his Belmonts when they began their careers in, respectively, the bluegrass hills of Brownie, Kentucky and the concrete and clay street corners of the Bronx, New York.

Plain and simple: without the Everly Brothers, there would�ve been no John Lennon and Paul McCartney singing together the way they did, so there most likely would never have been �any Beatles, ergo no British invasion, etc. And, beyond that, without the Everlys there probably would�ve been no Byrds, ho Burrito Brothers and no Eagles, ergo no country rock. Of course, in 1957 what the Everly Brothers did wasn�t called country rock—it was just called �dreamy� rock �n� roll. No matter: between Don Everly—the darker hair, always the solo voice—and Phil Everly—the lighter hair, always the higher voice—was vocal harmonic mix made somewhere in heaven. With hits like �Bye Bye Love� (their very first, introducing not only those soaring, indescribable harmonies, but the semi-trademark twin rhythm guitar riffing as well), �All 1 Have To Do Is Dream� and �Wake Up Little Susie� among others—lots of others—the Everlys forged a niche in rock �n� roll uniquely their own. Furthermore, as songs like �Take A Message To Mary� and �I Wonder If I Care As Much� testified, their melding together of traditional country music with the newer, more upbeat sounds of �50s pop helped redefine what had previously been looked (down) upon as plain �hillbilly� music.

This collection takes the best of the Everly Brothers� immortal �57-�60 Cadence recording and goes on to chronicle their somewhat slicker but certainly no less memorable early �60s Warner Brothers hits (��Cathy�s Clown,� �Crying In The Rain,� �So Sad [To Watch Good Love Go Bad]�), finishing up with a fourth side that�s a veritable godsend of cult favorites for all Everly fanatics—gems like �The Price Of Love,� (resurrected nicely a while ago by Bryan Ferry), the humbucking country rave-up �Gone, Gone, Gone� and the fragile, shimmering �Empty Boxes,� an unreleased single done with the Beau Brummels� Ron Elliott. By now, everyone should be aware of the Everlys� after10-years-apart 1983 reunion at London�s Albert Hall and the news of an upcoming new album to be produced by long time fan Dave Edmunds. If that album has one-tenth the strength of this collection, we�ll all be happy.

As for Dion, the quintessential roof-top romeo, the erstwhile tough guy with a heart of gold, although the prince of Belmont Avenue�s influences are more difficult to flesh out they are nonetheless there. Let�s put it this way: maybe you�ve never heard a 1962 song called �Born To Cry� which frenetically projects the confused image of an urban loner, trying his best to make a go of it in the asphalt jungle (�I don�t know what I�m doing/if I do it�s all a lie/But I do know that I was born to cry�) and makes its urgent statement to the accompaniment of a blistering tenor saxophone, but you know for damn sure that Bruce Springsteen certainly heard it, and that the seamy Jersey streets of Springsteen�s childhood most likely echoed loudly with the proud sounds of Dion hits like �The Wanderer,� �Lovers Who Wander� and �Runaround Sue.�

The Dion anthology, like the Everlys�, traces the artist�s career all the way, from the doo-wop scat singing of the Belmonts� classic hits like �I Wonder Why� and �A Teenager In Love� and the ultra-cool hipster early �60s smashers like �Ruby Baby� right through to what is, ironically, probably Dion�s most famous single song—�Abraham, Martin and John.� As Cohen points out in his liner notes, Dion�s �50s songs helped define that particular decade, his early �60s work helped define that particular time period and his later works did much the same: not just on �Abraham, Martin and John� either but also on later tunes like �Sanctuary� and �Your Own Backyard,� where he addresses the disillusionment of his own faded hopes and begins his search for inner peace— peace that he eventually found as a gospel artist. The full circle comes on the great 1978 non-hit, �Heart Of Saturday Night,� which brings Dion back under the lamppost of his youth with the joyous nonsense syllables and wailing saxophone perfectly intact, albeit much wiser.

It�s hard to say enough good things about these collections. From Cohen�s astute notes and thoughtful programming to the sound and clarity of the recordings themselves (strictly master quality throughout, including stereo transfers of songs which have never surfaced in true stereo before), both anthologies are indispensable for any serious listener with even a passing interest in rock �n� roll�s rich past. And if, some day, if some kid with a guitar and a pencil takes these records and makes something new out of what he hears on them well, then, that�ll be one more story we can tell.

''WEIRD AL" YANKOVIC In 3-D

(Rock �n� Roll)

Just in case anyone should ever ask you, here are seven good reasons why this album should be a part of every collection:

1. Tradition. By combining the comedic sensibilities of such greats as Stan Freberg, Ernie Kovacs, Shelly Berman, .and Bob Newhart with Harvey Kurtzman and Will Elder�s work in the early Mad comics, Al (he ain�t that weird to me) Yankovic has single-handedly revived the lost art of satirizing pop music on records— an artform not heard from since the Masked Marauders/Lemmings pastiches of well over a decade ago.

2. Staying Power. Any doubts that Al might be a novelty act (or �one parody wonder,� as it were) have been dashed by the man�s string of satiric hits: �My Bologna,� �Another One Rides The Bus,� �I Love Rocky Road,� �Ricky,� and, of course, �Eat It� (the latter video of which has elevated Al into the satiric video hall of fame, right next to Eric Idle�s Rutles history, All You Need Is Cash).

3. Roots. Like his famous namesake, legendary Polka ace Frankie Yankovic (ask your Mom), Al knows his roots and proves it on a special accordian-driven �Polkas On 45� medley, wherein he serves up Polka versions of such faves as �Hey Joe,� �L.A. Woman,� �Jumping Jack Flash,� �My Generation,� and (wait for it) �In-A-Gadda-DaVida� (OK, so maybe he is weird).

4. Big Guns. Like his first album, In 3-D is produced by everyone�s favorite Little Ricky, Rick Derringer, better known as the man who forged Edgar and Johnny Winter into major contenders (we should all be so lucky that he�ll do the same for Weird Al).

And speaking of Big Guns, in a day and age when everyone and their uncle from Alice Cooper on down to Michael Jackson have corralled Vincent Price into recording monologues for their albums, leave it to Weird Al to top them all by tapping Jeopardy and Saturday Night Live announcer Don Pardo to do his own rap—which includes calling Al a jerk (talk about cool; only by hiring the original �Come On Down!� man himself, Johnny Olson, to do a spiel for Spidel watchbands and Spiegel catalogue gift certificates could Al have made a cooler move).

5. Originality. As boss as his parodies of �Beat It,� �Eye Of The Tiger.� �Safety Dance,� and all the others on In 3-D are, it�s his savage reworking of the B-52�s� �Lava� (in an original composition called �Mr. Popeil�) that�s the real show-stopper.

A backhanded paean to all of those TV mail offers we love to hate. Weird Al, in his most vicious parody yet (of B-52 Fred Schneider), yells, �I need a handy appliance that�ll scramble an egg while it�s still in it�s shell!� and �1 wanna Crazy Glue my head to the bottom...of a big steel girder!" while the Kate and Cindy sound-alikes (Patti Brooks and Co.) chirp, �Operators standing by...Please no CODs...Now how much would you pay?�

And then Weird Al exclaims, �It slices! It dices! Look at that tomato! You could even cut a tin can with it...but you wouldn�t...want to!� his phrasing and intonation are so scary it�s almost lawsuit time.

6. The Future. Wither Weird Al? Take off. eh? At the rate he�s going, he�s going to have people lining up outside his door, just begging him to parody his songs. Michael Jackson, Queen, and the Police are just a couple of the big boys who�ve given themselves a good public relations shot in the arm by allowing Weird Al to satirize their songs.

As for the future...well, it�s no secret that Beatles songs are still offlimits to parodies—but when Paul McCartney hears how Weird Al polkafies �Hey Jude,� how long will even that last unattainable bastion hold?

7. Curiosity. C�mon, admit it: aren�t you even the least bit curious as tq what a polka version of �In-AGacfda-Da-Vida� sounds like?

Jeffrey Morgan

ROBERT ELLIS ORRALL Contain Yourself

(RCA)

I�m sure you�ve had this experience—an artist you love puts out an album you don�t love, but you�re pleased anyway because you have a feeling this is the record that will light a firecracker under his or her career. I love Robert Ellis Orrall and I don�t love Contain Yourself. And I think it�s going to be a hit.

You may have heard of Orrall (more on the name later) during his brief visit to Top Fortyland last year in a duet with Carlene Carter called �1 Couldn�t Say No.� Or maybe you saw him warm up for U2 or the Kinks or Greg Kihn last year if you got to the shows on time. Certainly you�ve heard of him if you roost in the northeast, where he released two homemade discs and played in a slew of local bands and worked in stereo stores and generally hung out' and hungon. It�s a classic American rock story, currently at the turning point. And what�s extraordinary about it is that Orrall is a real songwriter, and a real good one, too, like Costello or Graham Parker or Ray Davies. We probably need him as much as he needs us.

So seeing that this is a hard sell job on my part, here�s the hard sell. First, he sings like Phil (�Against All Odds�) Collins. Second, Contain Yourself sounds like (but better than) most of the other techno-popped mainstream stuff that is replacing guitar rock as the mainstream sound. Third, all the songwriting is good (of course), and some.of it is excellent. Fourth, it divides itself equally between message songs (not unlike the contents of Big Country, U2 and the Alarm) and love songs (not unlike the contents of everyone else, only not stupid or sexist or sappy). Fifth, (notice where I place this in order of importance) the critics will appreciate the tasty touches like the saxophone on �Alibi,� the fretless bass on �She Takes A Chance,� the vibes on �Little Bits Of Love,� the acoustic guitar on �That Dream,� the keyboard arrangement on �There�s Nothing Wrong With You,� and so on. Sixth, Orrall likes photos—on every record he asks fans to send pix, which he wants to put together as a poster someday. Seventh, he�s got a great last name. Even called his first album Fixation. Funny boy. Obviously, there�s something here for (almost) everyone.

Even for poor disappointed me. I don�t much like techno-pop. I think the production is kind of bland and I don t think this is his best batch of songs. I miss the power pop melodies and manic pace of Fixation, but �That Dream� and �Alibi� are pretty good compensation. I really miss the love songs that were sad and funny and true all at once, but I can console myself with the incredible �Spitting In Fatso�s Eyes,� a classic of emotional S&M. I miss the frantic feeling of his older �message� songs, but I also like the heavy weight of �Kids With Guns,� �Walking Through Landmines� and �There�s Nothing Wrong With You,� the last of which is about child abuse. Mostly, though, I�m content with how commercial Contain Yourself sounds. After all, a so-so record is a small price to pay to get a great songwriter up where he belongs.

THE HOSER CONSPIRACY

RUSH Grace Under Pressure

(PolyGram)

Gregg Turner

by

May the 10th of 1900 and 84 but it could just�ve easily�ve been (say) the 3rd (PolyGram was real swell in taking eight or nine days to mail out this equally swell piece of vinyl). 999 times out of 1,000 you and me— we wouldn�t care. Do we?

We might. But only in the historical sequence of events. What? Two days ago the Soviets announced their non-participation in L.A.�s summer �84 Olympics, citing lack of security and possible harrassment of athlete-comrades (too bad only because the world will be denied the opportunity of watching Russkiehoopsters stomp crybaby Bobby Knight). Point is that maybe it�s sometime in July you�re reading this and maybe the USSR did or didn�t show up, but you will never suspect—never in ten trillion lightyears—that RUSH (as in Rushans) foresaw the entire episode and that this new alb, Grace Under Pressure, unravels a prophecy lurid in detail and perspicacious vision.

�An ill wind comes arising Across the cities of the plain There�s no swimming in the heavy water—

No singing in the acid rain Red alert Red Alert... �

Get it?!? No swimming in heavy water (not one swimmer!) and the title is �Distant Early Warning�! Whew!! And that�s just the start of things, 1 mean, R.U. Ready 4 More? Here�s more (hold on, it gets intense), from �Afterimage:�

�I remember The shouts of joy Skiing fast through the woods —I hear the echoes�

OK. Winter Olympiad nostalgoid yearnings set the stage for the startling �Red Sector A:�

�For my father and my brother— it�s too late�

Too late for them to defect, that is, and dig side one�s closing opus, �The Enemy Within�:

�I�m not giving in To security under pressure I�m not missing out On the promise of adventure I�m not giving up On implausible dreams�

Lots of heavy symbolism going on here, for instance, �security under pressure� no doubt a nod to the BanThe-Soviets Reagan-Youth groups currently very happy the Commies won�t be coming. Meanwhile there�s the �promise of adventure� and �implausible dreams� and I suppose we can all guess how these connect to the present-day reality. Uncanny the ability of drummer/lyric-savant(e) Neal Peart to psych out the heartstrings of a forlorn Soviet sportsman.

Oh—the muzak. You wanna know what the sounds say too. Wal, the creep who tweedles high-pitched like a dolphin in heat drops the Flipper-act so the whole thing�s actually a bit more palatable, �cept for these unending synthesizer loops which meander in and out w/gtrs. and rhythm section and if it�s all s�posed to sound semi-metallic, or residually captivating or anything else—4get it.

BUT THE GOOD NEWS is that it�s not too important that the tones in the trax suck pumice (we�re talkin� RUSH!). The fact that everything on the sonic plane is quite ignorable only helps to bring us back to the prophetic theme of the album�s message.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson declared on May 9th his availability for negotiation/arbitration w/the Soviets to resolve the entire Olympic matter. This was of course, already chronicled on side two�s �Kid Gloves.� Again, I quote

�Call it blind frustration Call it blind man�s bluff Call each other names— Your voices rude— your voices rough Then you learn the lesson That it�s cool to be so tough...�

And tough to be so cool. Which, in this band�s case, is a legacy hard to live down.

Laura Fissinger

BANANARAMA

(London)

Bananarama can�t be bothered to raise their voices; it�s just not worth it. The attitude is cool deadpan, the image is ye '-ye' girls with a modern stylishly disheveled and exquisitely blase. The music, produced by Tony Swain and Steve Jolley, makes a minor electro-fuss, with the requisite dance snap, but the �Ramas are (or are pretending to be) oblivious. They�re not keyed to the sound around them, not extending themselves. They have a blank slate, blond-on-blond sexiness, and a delight in each other�s company. Did you ever hear girls on the back of a daycamp bus, singing along to top 40 radio, finding a comfortable common pitch and sticking to it regardless of the records they�re supposedly emulating? That�ll give you some idea of the tone of Bananarama.

The trio�s second album has a misty feeling that�s almost nostalgic. Women don�t sing like this anymore, with this kind of sighing regret. The album has curves, not edges, and it�s got a texture you can float on, a shine like �Don�t Worry Baby� without the harmonic intricacy. With their waif-like, wafer-thin pipes, Keren, Siobhan and Sarah (they go by their given names, like the models on the Calvin Klein TV spots) sound dazed, as though someone roused them from sleep and stuck them behind a mike. But the LP�s vagueness is deceptive. Bananarama isn�t dumb, or archaic, and it doesn�t pander to male notions of female compliance (except maybe on the softcore �Dream Baby,� which is like Debra Winger in An Officer An A Gentleman saying, �How can you resist? I�m like candy�) Bananarama is a girl group that�s grown up, while wishing that it didn�t have to.

Like such stylistic predecessors as Sandie Shaw (don�t miss her new Rough Trade 12", where she makes the Smiths sound as wonderful as their fans think they are) and the Shangri-Las, the �Ramas� best pose is a shrug of sad realization, a little self-knowledge, a little self-pity. They don�t have the tremulous, petulant throb or cunning pout of Shaw and the Shangs, but they do have this ho w-could-this-happen-to-me melancholia that�s really endearing, especially on the two cuts—the two U.K. singles, actually—that are most like Shangri-Las prototypes.

�Cruel Summer� is their �(Remember) Walkin� In The Sand,� and there hasn�t been a record with this kind of sunbaked, cut-adrift loneliness in about two decades (if it isn�t released as a U.S. 45 by 4th of July weekend there�ll be some explaining to do over at Polywhatever). And��Robert De Niro�s Waiting� is �Past, Present And Future�— basically a �hands off; I�ve had it with men� song—with a twist. The Shangri-Las classic is virtually a monologue; when Bananarama do their number, it�s as though they�ve decided as a trio to make this pact, swear off guys and take a vow of chastity (�I don�t need a boy...don�t come any closer�) and devote themselves to Bobby De N. What�s cool is that all they can fantasize about is their hero �talking Italian.� and that they only chose him because his name scanned nicely, which proves that practicality doesn�t go by the boards in times of distress. These are the rational �80s, so when a romance is over; as on the matterof-fact �Shape I�m In� (�I�m better off without you,� they decide), it�s a clean break. Bananarama are today�s gals; the tension in the relationship seems to derive from that typical modern-couple dilemma, conflicting office hours (�You walk out when I walk in�).

Ambient girl-group music is nothing new—think of �Sally Go Rou.i The Roses,� You Don�t Have To Be A Baby To Cry� and parts of the Spring LP—-but Bananarama�s evasive/alert approach takes some adjusting to. (I just couldn�t get Deep Sea Skiving at first; it seemed to evaporate as it came out of the speakers.) Bottom line is, Bananarama are at least as photogenic as Duran Duran, and unlike double-D, their pop flutters around in the world as we know it.

Mitchell Cohen

PSYCHEDELIC FURS Mirror Moves

(Columbia)

Unlike Forever Now where the Psychedelic Furs� doomy crunge battled producer Todd Rundgren�s pop professionalism to a satisfying draw, Mirror Moves topples over into the lightweight side of things. The Furs have made a fairly straightforward pop album and there�s no Rundgren around here to blame. Not that this is the kind of appalling �mature� album that certain recording artists make when their original creative outburst has run its course and the long run hovers tantalizingly in reach and the near side of easy listening beckons...but, in spots, it�s close. All that really remains, of the Furs� former selves is Richard Butler�s raspy voice (though more melodic, less atonal now) and his soundsautomatic-by-now fragmented and ever less alienated lyrics. Which is just enough to hold one�s interest. (Meanwhile, there�s a knock on the door and my girlfriend calls in, incredulously: �You�re not playing the Moody Blues in there, are you?� Talk about embarrassing...)

There are some ^encouraging moments here. �Here Come Cowboys� is as fine a song as this little band has come up with and the one that comes closest here to recapturing the captivating stylistic tensions of their last album—a hummable but firm anti-macho bullshit song with a reference to being above the law that Reagan-watchers will find especially timely. �Heaven,� too, is up to form, despite the fact that the lick propelling chorus last showed up on Blondie�s �Sunday Girl� (yes, we�re a million miles from the drones of yore) and that there�s no lyric sheet this time so I�m not sure if heaven is �the hole in our heart� or �the hole above us� or �the whole halavah� but am pretty sure that it doesn�t matter... Else where, the Furs appear to be intent on rendering the �psychedelic� bit more in terms of post-Pepper pop than the Velvet Underground. �Alice�s House� is such a right-on piece of oh say late �68 or early �69—�in the house where Alice lives/Alice is/it�s a mess of souvenirs/thete to remind you/telling the time� (close your eyes and you can just see the paisley) — that you figure it must be ironic but notice also the �Penny Lane� fanfares on �Like A Stranger,� the assertion that �all we really need is love� on �Cowboys� and the general coyness of the arrangements throughout. There�s no getting around it, these guys are getting cute.

It�s not a bad album, though very uneven (e.g. �Heartbeat� has some of the layered intensity of old while �My Time� sounds like the Thompson Twins) and the anonymity of much of the music must be blamed not only on the group�s conscious decision to become popateers but also the fact that this is less a band now than a few stragglers carrying on the name, their sound rounded out by studio thoughtfulness—along with Richard, brother Tim on bass has survived as well as guitarist John Ashton, though there�s a noticeable lack of notable guitar here. I�ll give it a 70 and suggest you don�t drop acid to it—save it for something a little more, you know, heavy.

Richard C. Walls

BERLIN Love Life

(Geffen)

MISSING PERSONS Rhyme & Reason

(Capitol)

I�ve had this idea that women are—by and large—pretty lousy singers when it comes to rock music. Especially nowadays, when about the best you can expect is Toni Basil�s chipmunk cheers. I don�t think this is especially sexist—women can�t do a lot of things (throw a baseball, donate sperm, and so on) particularly well. It�s not their fault.

And, of course, it�s certainly not a fact of life. Chrissie Hynde�s proven to be a tremendous talent on Learning To Crawl. Hell, she can even write better than 95 percent of the male competition. However, the albums in question here bend over backwards to reveal the feminine rock vocalist norm, which is that they�re starry-eyed jerks, sappy moaners and cloying self-caricatures behind a microphone. Remember, though: they can�t help it.

Consider Love Life, where everything worth absorbing stops at the cover. Now it�s entirely possible that the Berliners—despite their twinky/spooky syntho-pop—are not inherently unlistenable. We really have no way of knowing, since Terri Nunn apparently derives her vocal talents from her surname. Her unerring ability to convey every common feminine neurosis in song is amazing, we grant—but it hardly recommends itself to a second listen. The woman (and the material) is a Babel of Insecurity, an adequate format for Terri to switch from her hateful little-girl voice to her (believed to be) normal tones with annoying regularity. And, ah, the material. Shall we call it �bizarre observations of the man/woman relationship rife with trivia and doggerel�? OK, let�s call it that. �Tell me that you love me while you�re looking away,� Terri moans, but we�d rather tell her we couldn�t care less about her while we�re turning her record into an ashtray. Yes, Berlin perpetuates many a puzzling attitude here. �Skin tight pants fit oh, so right,� Ms. Nunn tells us on �When We Make Love.� Pants? Love?? Oh, well, we must bear in mind that she�s only a woman.

It would be nice to report that Missing Persons are a better buy, but that would be a downright lie. They�re a more guitar-aggressive band, which makes them inherently more listenable, but they also are saddled with a singer who limits an already-limited band. The Persons seem to have recorded Rhyme & Reason with the notion that pitiful chord structures somehow strengthen pitiful melodies. Dale Bozzio, who has the interesting ability to spit melodically, is cute, we concede. She�s also contrived. This ridiculous obsession with �real love� is hardly the stuff of great records, unless someone in the band has some idea on how to write a song. And, guess what?

Well, we must excuse them, as you know. At least they�re trying. Boy, are they trying. It will be vaguely interesting to see these bands cease to exist.

J. Kordosh