HE’S ALL CRAZEE NOW!

HE’S ALL CRAZEE NOW!

RECORDS

DAVID LEE ROTH Crazy From The Heat (Warner Bros. EP)

Edouard Dauphin

One night about a year ago, The Dauph spent five-and-a-half hours closeted in a hotel room in Dayton, Ohio, with David Lee Roth, who remarked at the time—we were discussing musical inspiration— that “I can’t do it without a frame of reference. I have to steal it from someone.” On this four-cut EP, David’s first effort sans the Van Halen gang, we get to see what he means—and the results are only surprising if you haven’t been paying attention.

“I’m interested in culture in general,” he went on that night, holed up on the fifth floor of the Dayton Plaza, a Stouffer Hotel. “I like shoes and haircuts.” Artistically speaking, you’ll find both of those items in this “specially-priced” disc, though the wisdom—or even the point—of stealing from American icons like the Beach Boys or Vegas-style jazz zanies like Louis Prima may continue to elude you.

Still, the Prima selection is intriguing. During that same Ohio interview, David played selections from various cassettes he had taken with him on the road. One of his favorites was Prima singing a medley of “Just A Gigolo” and “I Ain’t Got Nobody”—now David turns up doing that very medley on his first solo record. Is life imitating art or vice-versa? Or is Roth just trying on shoes?

“My vision has always been in Technicolor,” DLR has said. “It’s big to me. Giant.” But this EP only measures up to those specifications if you look at it through David’s tinted magnifier—the View-Master Stereoscope of his outlandishly self-promoted image. But isn’t that the point? If David Lee Roth gave a party and nobody came, as long as he showed up, he’d have a good time. Crazy From The Heat could be the soundtrack from that party.

So? Everybody sings in the shower, right? Why shouldn’t David Lee Roth take a crack at

Dan Hartman’s “Easy Street” or Brian Wilson’s “California Girls”? By now, the video of the latter song has entered into the public consciousness like a filmed version of the Sports Illustrated "Swimsuit” issue—and if David poses a bit too cleverly for the camera, try listening to that track just on your record player and see if you can’t picture him preening and mugging. Anyone who wants to be liked this much can’t be all bad. I mean, didn’t we all take a secret delight in Alice Cooper being on Hollywood Squares?

Only kidding, Dave. But then so are you. Otherwise, why not invite Eddie Van Halen to lay down some peppery guitar riffs on a couple of tunes? Or how about asking Alex and Michael to play? Artists do that sort of thing all the time when they make their first solo album apart from the group. No complaint about your choice of Edgar Winter though. He infuses three of the cuts with his special integrity. And having Carl Wilson along to sing back-up vocals on “California Girls” is a nice touch—but then one expects that kind of generous flourish from David Lee Roth.

Production-wise the EP is a mystery. Credited to Ted Templeman, who’s been accused of producing 1984 in absentia, it manages to be textured and thin, often at the same time. There seems to be a lot going on, but when you compare the cuts to the original versions by the Beach Boys, the Lovin’ Spoonful et al., the new renditions frequently don’t seem as full. Listen to both versions of “California Girls” and judge for yourself which one is crisper and more playful. Or fish out an old Spoonful collection to appreciate how the sparseness of the production on “Coconut Grove” accentuates the sensuality of John Sebastian’s delivery. But

then David wouldn’t be David if he didn’t subscribe to the theory that less isn’t always more.

But DLR knows his pop culture—let’s face it, the man revels in it—and no one can say he doesn’t appreciate his frames of reference. The 15 or so minutes of song on Crazy From The Heat are a tip of the Roth hat to the exuberance, the sensitivity, the vagaries and even the joyful idiocy of pop music. What David has achieved here is infectious sleightof-hand, a party trick that isn’t less diverting just because occasionally you can see the wires—maybe you’re supposed to see them all along.

At the conclusion of that conversation in Dayton a year ago, David mentioned the movie The Magnificent Seven and commented that: “Yul Brynner did not defend that Mexican village with six of his pals for glory’s sake. He did it because it made him feel good.” That’s probably why David made this record—but just because it makes him feel terrific doesn’t mean you won’t feel pretty good yourself, listening to him break in some comfortable old shoes and haircuts.

By the way, David, speaking of haircuts...

LLOYD COLE &

THE COMMOTIONS Rattlesnakes (Geffen)

Aztec Camera when they’re not being precious, the tone of the Left Banke, just a little Love, a bit of early Doors, a touch of Reed & the Velvets, a pinch of ’66 Dylan, a sprinkling of a dozen Lou/Bob aficionados, a smattering of the Only Ones, a dash of Pavlov’s Dog, a hint of Tommy James, the Smiths’ “This Charming Man,” Grin’s “White Lies”—all this and more has been deftly absorbed into the make-up of Lloyd Cole & The Commotions. In the wake of countless overhyped, sensation-of-

the-week Brit bands, here’s one of the few that rates more than a passing glance.

Like the Bluebells, the Commotions are cornin’ at you from beautiful downtown Glasgow (in fact their bass player, Lawrence Donegan, is an ex-Bluebell). What they spend a good part of their time pursuing on Rattlesnakes is a kind of emotional evocative rock ’n’ roll that’s both tenderly reflective and undeniably urgent. They can walk softly and carry big sticks at the same time.

There are three immediate standouts that must be mentioned without further delay. “Perfect Skin,” the opener, almost sounds like something intended for Loaded. This jaunty ode to a clearcomplexioned lass has seamless propulsion, and benefits greatly from quintessential jingle-jangle, folk-rock guitar moves in the chorus. Here and elsewhere, Cole’s offhand, deceptively casual vocals pull you in deeper every time. “Four Flights Up,” the most overt rocker, somehow recalls the Lovin’ Spoonful. It gets superb rhythm from acoustic guitars, and you can feel the band taking every

turn with a gleeful spin of the wheel. The only thing missing is a pulsating tambourine. Last and maybe best is “Patience,” a gorgeously haunting descent into despair that sports strings worthy of Gamble & Huff and has a feminine vocal hook that’s a sweet dream. (All three of these were coincidentally remixed by the Cars’ Ric Ocasek.)

The title cut, delicate but firm, is where the Left Banke notion comes from. The use of strings is impeccable, never sappy or obtrusive. Ballads like “Down On Mission Street” and “Forest Fire” have that sad, pretty sound that’s almost ethereal. (On “Forest Fire” there’s a restrained burst of guitar at the end and dramatically brings things out of the clouds without ruining the mood.) Something like “Charlotte Street” approaches drift-away heaven without ever letting you lose the backbeat.

Good as it is, Rattlesnakes isn’t free of flaws. It contains three lesser, overly-frail efforts and production could’ve been more forceful at times. But I’m not gonna let minor setbacks get in the way of the payoff—the Commotions, like Herman’s Hermits, are into something good, and Rattlesnakes belongs on your turntable.

Craig Zeller

JOHN HIATT

Warming Up To The Ice Age (Geffen)

Here we go again: another critic’s gonna tell you how great the new John Hiatt album is. Must get kinda boring reading that year after year as Hiatt maintains his “well-respected cult figure” status. Well, tough. Warming Up To The Ice Age is probably the guys’s strongest LP to date, and he’s finally found a sound to match his material.

So what happened? Well, as I understand it, John was on his way to his old stomping grounds in Nashville when he decided to take some of the nasty edge off his voice (which always had plenty) and give it to his guitar (which always needed some). When he got to town, he connected up with studio stalwart drummer Larry Londin, an adept funk bass player,

and a keyboard player who knows when to be Booker T. and when not to be. Then, after genuflecting in the direction of Memphis—several tracks drip with Stax-Volt syrup—they got down to business.

No, not the business of making product, but the business of making rock ’n’ roll that reaches off your turntable and grabs you by the throat. Each side begins with) a guitar-driven rocker that kicks out as it kicks in. “The Usual” gives you every excuse in the world to reach for that drink, while “Zero House” just sizzles with disgust at the end of a ruinous relationship: “Nobody live here, no woman, no man/Just a couple of flies, circling a garbage can.” “I’m a Real Man” demonstrates a sense of cool not often heard since Roy Head’s immortal “Treat Her Right,” and “I Got A Gun” rages so convincingly for revenge that by song’s end, you’ll be begging to ride shotgun.

But there’s more to this album than angry rock ’n’ roll. Hiatt’s soul side is explored as well, and I ain’t talking about the marshmallow soul coming outta so many British pop stars these days. This is the real thing: “The Crush” sounds tailor-made for Sam and Dave, while Thom Bell’s “Living A Little, Laughing A Little” even has a guest vocal by one Elvis Costello. No, it’s not that difficult to tell their voices apart—most of the soundalike charges stem from the fact that each of ’em started out with a lot of Van Morrison in his mouth anyway. True, there are a couple of songs on side two that invite comparisons with Costello tunes, but they sound like good Costello tunes, so what the hey.

What more can I say? Hiatt: Triatt.

Michael Davis

Sixteen years ago, whenever people asked me what kind of

MALCOLM MCLAREN Fans (Island) music I liked, I always had the same reply: “Anything but country and opera.”

Thanks, however, to ABC’s The Johnny Cash Show, NBC’s late, lamented ...Then Came Bronson (wherein Michael Parks crooned a C&W tune during each episode), and Clint Eastwood’s use of country music in such films as Every Which Way But Loose, Bronco Billy and Honkytonk Man, my interest in C&W broadened to the point where nowadays when people ask me what kind of music I like, my amended answer is: “Anything but opera.”

And while I’m still not particularly crazy about large women in breastplates wailing at the top of their lungs in a foreign language, I am considering a further amendment to my answer; something along the lines of: “Anything but opera—unless it’s done by Malcolm McLaren.”

Mr. McLaren, you may recall, is the man who gave us the New York Dolls (U.S.S.R. red leather incarnation), Adam & The Ants, Bow Wow Wow and the Sex Pistols.

So what’s he done for us recently, you ask? Well, in 1983 Male gave us that masterpiece of scratch ’n’ rap hoe-down, “Buffalo Gals.” Then, last year, he mutated Puccini s Madam Butterfly into the world’s first rock opera (in the true sense of the phrase), and created an opulant six minute video for it inspired by the steam bath fashion photography of Deborah Turbeville.

Now we have Fans, which contains not only Madam Butterfly in its full length glory, but Bizet’s Carmen, as well as extrapolations from two other Puccini meisterwacks, Turandot and Gianni Schicchi (and before you get the wrong idea, lemme tell ya that the only reason I know all this is because Male was kind enough to include it in the lyric sheet; I mean, this ain’t DEEVA, America’s Only Rock ’n’ Opera Magazine, y’know).

So what’s the verdict? Well, say hey, it’s OK: Male has transmogrified these hoary old chestnuts into modern tales of love ’n’ woe that any electro-bopper can relate to—and with lines like “Got to have something to believe in, my white honky I do miss him” and “It’s the love I can’t buy that I think about having: go ahead, undress me,” it goes without saying that Malcolm hasn’t exactly opted for a literal translation of the original Italian lyrics.

McLaren himself can be heard vocalizing on all the tracks and— surprise—his delivery successfully varies from the deadpan (Madam Butterfly) to the sardonic (Carmen).

The female vocalists sing with enough gusto to punch through a wall, and the whole production is draped against a backdrop of synthetic percussion that just doesn’t stop.

In short, Fans is an original idea that sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before and rocks out like all get out.

And ain’t that what it’s all about?

Jeffrey Morgan

ERIC CARMEN Eric Carmen (Geffen)

Hey you—you think you’ve got the corner on busted romance? You think you’re the only one that’s cried enough to turn your bedroom into the Love Boat? You think no one else has ever been nervous in Burger King because their heart looks like raw hamburger ready for flame broiling? Boy, buddy, have I got news for you. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to the king of pain, the curator of exquisite agony, the musician who has spend a 15-year career writing the ultimate odes to lust and longing in their fullest glories. If you need tunes to die by, folks, Eric Carmen is the album and Eric Carmen is your man.

The name should ring a loud bell. Carmen was the main singer/songwriter/love object of a '70s Cleveland rock band called the Raspberries. They only had a few bona fide chart hits (notable the fabulous “horny singles” that included “Go All The Way” and “Tonight”), but legions loved them fanatically for their reprocessing of the Beatles and the Beach Boys (with a dose of both hard rock and Chopin thrown in for perversity’s sake). After the Raspberries, Carmen went solo and went very far away from the Raspberries’ rawness and rock—more recent semi-hits have included major league bodice-rippers like “All By Myself” and the song he co-wrote for the movie Footloose, “Almost Paradise." People began to think of him as a vastly cuter version of Barry Manilow. They had a point.

But, then again, they were missing the point.

The point—illustrated almost perfectly by most of the nine cuts on Eric Carmen—is that everyone has moments where they need to drown in romantic misery, and nobody does the soundtrack for those drownings better than Eric Carmen. In the three-plus years since his last LP, there have been very few songs around that go all the way, so to speak—what, your lover dumps you and you listen to Human League? Try a dose of “I’m Through With Love,” or “Living Without Your Love," or “She Remembered” or “The Way We Used To Be”—if those don’t keep up with your misery wrench by wrench, then you may as well join the army, jack.

Carmen is less cosmically destined to rock out—“Spotlight” sounds like something that would win on Starsearch. “Took Me All The Way” is an iffy Raspberries reprise and “I Wanna Hear It From Your Lips” is a little too similar to Springsteen’s “Fire.” Never mind those, though—you’ll learn to live with them, maybe even learn to like them. Carmen sings everything superbly. Besides, it’s part of him, to go for broke and maybe even make a jerk of himself in the process. It’s a kind of openness that we don’t get that often in pop music anymore—Eric Carmen lets his heart hang out. Sure, it’s schlock. It’s great schlock. And when you’re clinging to a sinking love boat, schlock is what you need.

Laura Fissinger