ROCK • A • RAMA

ROCK • A • RAMA

This month's Rock-A-Ramas were written by Billy Altman, Richard Riegel, Michael Davis, Gregg Turner and Mitchell Cohen

THE WATERBOYS

(Island).

Ah, progress. Back in the ’70s, we had slews of LPs with an EP’s worth of good stuff on ’em; now we have “Mini-LPs” worth a hot 45. Like this Waterboys thing. Mike Scott and chums create an atmospheric kind of folk-rock with horns— sort of between the Bluebells and Teardrop Explodes, if that helps—and when the material matches Scott’s sense of drama, it blows most of the competition away. Which happens twice here: “I Will Not Follow” is the perfect antidote to flagwavers of any stripe (see if your local Alarm fans can handle it); while “It Should Have Been You” is a passionate scenario of misplaced faith. Two gems out of five; hope the percentage improves when the album gets here. M.D.

GUN CLUB

The Las Vegas Story (JEM)

“Bark bark bark.” Anguished howls from my eight-month old Rottweiler on and off through side one; must remove dog to continue audio audition of el P but damage is done (won’t touch his Science Diet Kibble). Lead-singer Jeffrey Lee Pierce howls back from the grooves of this vinyl and only because said howls are a bad mixture of Jim Morrison and Tiny Tim shall we record the dog’s editorial outburst as semi-credible. Meanwhile, there’s an assortment of dull to droll rockers that dirge more than they rock, wasting excellent production all over the place (capturing the better moments of the Beserkley Chartbusters school of uncluttered sound); sometimes good lyrics (he speaks of “girl breath” in second side’s “Bad America”—very hip) but nothing else, y’know, too remarkable...Hey TOLOS, c’m’here boy! Gun Club’s all over...Eat your food...(he doesn’t believe me)... G.T.

MEAT PUPPETS Meat Puppets II (SST)

Exactly why so many of these early ’80s postnew wave art bands sound so similar to so many of those late ’60s psychedelickos whose headbands were wound a bit too tight is a question definitely worthy of some heavy all-nighters somewhere down the line. Till then, we can just dig on the MP’s radical emphasis on the “I hurt, therefore I am” school of surrealistic-tears-on-my-' pillow confused lyrical construct, leading to such profoundities as “My whole expanse I cannot see/I formulate intensity” and “In the caverns of your feelings where the sun will never shine.” Like, Bob Lind, come home, all is forgiven! Add to this two ragged instrumentals that resemble Country Joe And The Fish operating under the influence of heat prostration (don’t laugh, this group hails from Phoenix), as well as some J. Garcia wobbly warbling and guitar noodling by lead puppet Curt Kirkwood, and you’ll understand why we nominate these guys to be the house band at the Mars Hotel. B.A.

THE SOUND

Shock Of Daylight (Statik import)

Now that Echo & The Bunnymen are maneuvering their music closer and closer to that of Ian McCulloch’s erstwhile fave, Leonard Cohen, maybe the Sound can finally get a fair hearing over here. Fortunately, they’ve come up with their most consistent LP (or whatever this 25-minute long disc is considered) yet, six songs that negotiate the space between grace and gloom with assurance and power. Adrian Borland’s OCT casional bouts of stolid Morrisonia are confined to “Winter” and there’s at least one gotta-be-ahit here, an inspired blend of the Byrds and Joy Division called “Counting The Days.” (Available at the moment from places like Dutch East India Trading, 45 Alabama Ave., Island Park, New York 11558—and soon on U.S. A&M.) M.D.

BULLET No Mercy (Arista)

Bet you can size up this group by their name & album title alone. Hints: they’re a buncha dogmatic tootin’ Teutons, and they’ve opened for Saxon and Iron Maiden. Right on! You woulda known these squeal & grunge studs anywhere, for your perceptive labors you win an all-expensepaid trip to that metallic getaway resort where men are men and women are E-vil (show ’em “no mercy!”) R.R.

FREELANCE VANDALS Yer Money Or Yer Ears (Gunga Din) Document of Long Island bar band (genus Rockus Suffolkus) spotted in natural habitat (the Right Track Inn) prior to recent extinction. What’s been left as a remembrance is this disc, which should find its place in some Freeport time capsule along with a wet T-shirt, a six-pack of Bud, and an Islander ticket stub. Led by head growlqr/composer J.P. Gelinas, the Freelance Vandals indulge in some regrettable sexism endemic to their species (“Box Lunch” being the most grievous example), but they also have the bounce to do well by Louis Jordan’s “Barnyard Boogie” (with a drum solo! and let’s hear it for saxophonist Tommy Yamasaki), and more than a few swell songs of their own penning (“Hot Barbeque & Ice Cold Beer,” “Carry My Love,” “Shirley”). Key couplet (from “Songs From The Suburbs”): “We get in the car and we drive to Jones Beach/We get our egg salad at the local deli.” Ragged and rowdy. (Available from Gunga Din Records, 80 Paine St., Lindenhurst, NY 11757.) M.C.

GROUP 87

A Career In Dada Processing (Capitol)

An up-to-the-microsecond fusion sensibility is at work here, in which post-new wave dance rhythms and new age trance aspects are stirred into the mix. These guys have roots everywhere—trumpeter/synthesist Mark Isham records Windham Hill albums and has worked with ECM jazzman Art Lande as well as Van Morrison—and a good atmospheric sense as well, but why does so much of this end up sounding like a clunky version of Tangerine Dream? I dunrio, it’s like grade A spacey earcandy—nice, but not compelling. It doesn’t make me wanna dance or meditate. Mainly, it makes me wanna put on a Miles Davis record. M.D.