TOM PETTY AND THE HEARTBREAKERS Southern Accents (MCA)

by Mitchell Cohen

Pretty soon, it will be an established practice for earnest rockers to start off albums by announcing the circumstances of their birth. Springsteen didn’t do at ail badly by declaring his native citizenship, and now Tom Petty, proudly but not without ambivalence, kicks off Southern Accents shouting “Hey, hey, hey, I was born a rebel.” Not as in James Dean, as in Johnny Yuma. This is Petty’s roots album, the one where he visits the locale of his past, restates grievances that have accumulated over generations. The confederate flags are surely gonna unfurl below the MasonDixon line when Petty does “Rebel” onstage, but the LP isn’t as simple as all that. Petty, in his earliest bands, may have emulated the Allman Brothers, and he may evoke the name of Lynyrd Skynyrd on the flip side of the new single, but the accents here aren’t exactly orthodox Southern rock.

Having reached a point of stable returns with the patented Heartbreakers sound on Long After Dark, Petty has allowed himself to go wacko on this one, and the effect is liberating. Where he used to hide his eccentricities on Bsides (“Casa Dega,” “Heartbreakers Beach Party”), he now flaunts them in the light of day. He’s still serious, but hardly sober. The first line of the album, “Honey don’t walk out, I’m too drunk to follow,” is worthy of Randy Newman. On “Spike,” Petty portrays, flawlessly, one of a bunch of local guys hangin’ around when an intimidating hulk comes by. “I’m scared, ain’t you boys scared?,” he drawls with mock-fear and sarcasm. Another nifty little scene is “Mary’s New Car,” about, well, Mary’s new car, the appearance of which is a major event in these parts. The auto increases Mary’s desirability by leaps and bounds. It’s got a radio, for gosh sake.

These throwaway vignettes have a vividness because they feel like remembered moments from Petty’s boyhood Florida. They’re central to the album’s theme, yet peripheral to its musical style. Most of Southern Accents is elaborately stated, especially the three cuts written and produced in cahoots with the Eurythmics’ Dave Stewart. The single, “Don’t Come Around Here No More,” you probably know. To me, it sounds like what might have happened if Dylan decided, in late ’67-early ’68, to make an LP influenced by Sgt. Pepper, Satanic Majesties and Smiley Smile instead of doing a John Wesley Harding. Essentially, “Don’t Come Around Here” is “It Ain’t Me Babe” gone haywire, with a sitar, a cello, wah-wah guitar, a female chorus. It’s an extravaganza of lunacy and genuine intensity. “You tangle my emotions,” Petty whines as all this swirls around him. His soul has been psychedelicized.

There’s a lot of stretching on Southern Accents; the Heartbreakers are almost always augmented by a battery of horns, even on the tracks that adhere closest to the familiar 12-stringbased approach, “Rebels” (Petty’s best writing in his “Refugee” mode since Torpedoes) and “Dogs On The Run” (a revamping of a song that’s been in the repertoire for almost—can it be?—a decade). The Jack Nitzsche-arranged string section on the title track, and the funky horns on the Petty-Stewart concoction “Make It Better (Forget About Me),” are two incidents where the expansion of the band’s sound pays off.

The only cut, in fact, that could have used less is “The Best Of Everything,” another Petty song that’s been around for a while (long enough that original bassist Ron Blair is on the basic track). The Richard Manuel harmony vocal is a nice touch (Robbie Robertson co-produced the song for inclusion on a movie soundtrack), but the grandiose horns are simply too much. The fanfare is more appropriate for “We Are The World”—and where was TP on The Night of 40-Something Stars? Q could’ve made room for a PettyLindsay Buckingham meeting-ofthe-oddballs duet—than for this wistful and generous ballad.

Before Southern Accents, Petty’s flinty defiance and his flashes of humor didn’t seem as much connected to anything in his personal history as they did to a rock attitude, to the songs and bands he grew up with. Southern Accents fills in some of the gaps, makes him less remote. “Even before my father’s father/They called us all rebels/As they burned our cornfields/And left our cities leveled.” Petty has flashed back, gotten Dixie fried, broken a few bones, and settled a few scores. This is a good ’un.

THE POWER STATION (Capitol)

Before we begin, I’d like to take a few seconds to point out how you can tell if a band really lords it over their record company. The first indication can be found in the copyright and patent notice located in small print on the back of an album cover. If the C&P are in the name of the record company, then you know that the band isn’t Boss. However, if the C&P info is credited to a name other than that of the record company, chances are that the group holds the C&P themselves and, pulling a lot of weight, lease it to the record company for distribution.

The second indication is the record label itself: if it’s standard record company issue, quietly stifle a yawn. But if it’s a custom job that matches the album cover art, look out, we’re talking Boss.

All of which makes Power Station the Bossiest of the Boss because, not only do they have the above two qualifications, they’ve got the legendary third as well; namely, their songs don’t have time lengths listed after them— which means that Power Station are so Boss they can tell radio station programmers and DJs, who need to know how long a song will last on the air, to go fish.

Which reminds me (while we’re on the topic of dictators): just in case some language major informs you that the German translation of “Power Station” is “Kraftwerk,” don’t go getting the idea that this is some kinda Teutonic Ambient Drone, cause it ain’t.

As a matter of fact (just in case you missed Lovely “Leather Libber” Fissinger’s article a few months ago), I wanna tell ya that these here Power Stationers are that rare breed of band known as a supergroup (ask your Mom) whose members are Robert “Sneakin’ Through The Alley With Sally” Palmer; Duranies John and Andy Taylor; and Tony Thompson (hey, don’t worry, I don’t know who he is, either). The whole thing was produced by Bernie Edwards— and if that isn’t enough blast for

your buck, consider that you get, as an extra bonus for your money, some added percussion tracks from Roger Taylor (you know, the guy who does double duty as a member of both Duran Duran and Queen).

But enough name dropping; let’s talk about the record itself.

Well...it’s in stereo, and it’s got two sides, but I really think these guys skipped a little in the brains department.

Power Station is basically a Robert Palmer album whose hottest riff, sad to say, comes courtesy of a 15-year-old T. Rex song (“Get It On [Bang-A-Gong]”).

Sadder still is the fact that Palmer really shows his age singing Marc Bolan lyrics like, “You’re built like a car, you’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo.” Maybe he figured that after tackling Gary Numan’s “I Dream Of Wires” on Clues he could get away with anything—but if he figured that, he figured wrong.

Palmer fares no better singing his own lines but, considering that they read as if they were written for a final essay in Embarrassing Lyrics 101 (“We’re getting warm, ’cos we give each other shivers,” from “Lonely Tonight”), it’s no wonder.

Reeking of polyester suits, unbuttoned shirts, and gold chains all the way, it’s songs like this which sound like the kind of sleazy crap I have to put up listening to every time I hit a singles bar for a couple of games of pinball (and how much you want to bet it ends up getting airplay during an upcoming episode of Miami Vice?).

But that’s symptomatic of this whole album: from the lightning bolt coming from the woman’s crotch on the inner sleeve (s’matter boys: too yellow to put them on the front cover?) to lyrics like, “She wants to multiply, I know you won’t be satisfied until you do it,” Power Outtage is just a two-bit jerk-off fantasy that’s got no hooks, no soul, and no social conscience—despite the inclusion of a trendy knee-jerk cover of the Isley Brothers’ 1976 “Harvest For The World” (an offthe-rack Ethiopian-style-paean if there ever was one).

All of which goes to prove that

(a) you can be the Bossest of the Boss and still put out dross; and

(b) “Power Station” means “Kraftwerk.”

Jeffrey Morgan

ERIC CLAPTON Behind The Sun (Duck/Warner Bros.)

The following exchange could have (and should have) taken place in 1968—but in point of fact, I actually heard it occur in this year right here.

First friend: “Hey, you won believe it, I was able to get tickets for Clapton.”

Second friend (smiling blissfully): “Goin’ to see God, eh?” As they walked out of earshot I howled at the utter absurdity of it all. I mean, where you been, Jack? “God” has been resting on the seventh day since about 1970. Yep, it’s been 15 long years since Layla came out. Fifteen years since “God” took a dive into the passion pit. Fifteen years of drowsy, groggy, fatigued bluesrock from our boy Eric. Fifteen years of riding on the coattails of a threadbare rep. Fifteen years of suppressed yawns. For some strange reason he’s chosen to call his latest tiresome escapade Behind The Sun instead of Packing It In.

Presumably producer Phil Collins was brought in to freshen things up a bit; unfortunately he pulls a bland-out and his work is just as lukewarm as the three cuts Templeman-Waronker produced. It’s a genuine toss-up as to who pulled the dullest performances out of the man.

The most atrocious number is the ironically (?)-titled “Same Old Blues,” an endless grind that’s got “has-been” stamped all over it. It winds down, then it fades, then it crawls back, then it winds down...all the while Clapton diddles his axe and doles out his notes in the most cliched way imaginable. Slowhand isn’t the word. He subsequently goes on to distinguish himself with a leadfoot

version of “Knock On Wood” that’s sure to have Eddie Floyd holding his sides when he hears it. (A much more appropriate cover for Eric would’ve been something more succinct like, say, “Whipping Post.”)

Amazingly he jolts himself awake in the middle of side two for “Tangled In Love.” It’s nothing to shout about but at least it’s got some momentum, the guitar strikes a few sparks and E.C. clearly relishes heading into that churning chorus. Then it’s right back into lullabye and good riddance with “Never Make You Cry” and “Just Like A Prisoner,” two gutless dragged-out weepers that left my arms sore from windmilling in hurry-up aggravation.

I could go on and tell you how Lindsey Buckingham is completely wasted on “Something’s Happening” (believe me, nothing’s happening) or the way Marcy Levy’s dim-witted back-up vocals are cause for teeth-gnashing or the way Clapton’s vocals make him sound like a parody-clone or—but you get the idea. Behind The Sun is just loaded with problems, the main one being that the star of the show’s lustre grows dimmer every day. Lay down, Eric.

Craig Zeller

TEARS FOR FEARS Songs From The Big Chair (Mercury)

With a name like Tears for Fears, they had to be good to get this far, right? Otherwise, every yahoo in Yoohooville would’ve greeted ’em with variations on “Hey, Sobs For Snobs,” and they’d have been laughed all the way back to Bath, right down the drain.

But no. When The Hurting came out, it was readily apparent that a strong new band had grown up in the cracks between OMD and Simple Minds and they weren’t going to fade away in 15 minutes. What’s that? You never knew there were cracks between OMD and Simple Minds? Well, until Tears For Fears came along, neither did I. Who says you can’t learn anything from pop music?

As for the name, well, at least it gives an indication of the band’s preference for the Janovian approach to emotional release. I mean, if they’d called themselves Beers For Steers, the first song would’ve probably gone, “Shoot! Shoot! Put in the boot!” instead of “Shout! Shout! Let it all out!” It doesn’t, though; rather than go the aggravated aggression route, these guys prefer a more measured manner of expression. Coupled with lines like, “Find out, find out what this fear is about,” the whole package could be mistaken for a pack of stylish therapists.

But no. TFF are definitely musicians. The ones on the cover— vocalist/bassist Curt Smith and vocalist/multi-instrumentalist/chief songwriter Roland Orzabal—are the mainmen here, but the sonic contributions of keyboardist Ian Stanley, drummer Manny Elias and producer Chris Hughes are not to be ignored. Elias, for example, does not sound like one ofj those drummers who plays pattycake with computers; his forcefulness, Orzabal’s gorgeous melodies and the sumptuous synthetic orchestrations are what put Tears For Fears at or near the front of the electro-pop parade.

Their arranging ability has also improved noticeably since The Hurting. Rather than construct monuments to their influences as so many bands do, TFF use their influences as building blocks for material that is distinctly their own. You may be able to pick out a Peter Gabriel-like rhythm track or a Frippish guitar tone or a Robert Wyatt-inspired vocal, but the band’s overall sound is still fresh. So by the time you get to “Listen,” sort of ambient Eno with hooks, you just might be thinking along the lines of, “Boy, are these guys artsy. But boy, are they good at it.”

Michael Davis

MEAT PUPPETS Up On The Sun HUSKER DU New Day Rising _(SST)_

Latest from the stable of SST rec’ds comes new-found vinyl by way of Meat Puppets and the fantabulous Husker Du. No common denominator (as it were) between the two—sonics and words veritable pre-packaged polar opposites (testimony to the effect of fact that SST entertains not quite the homogeneous world view some suspected at the turn of the decade).

Case in point points to the case of Meat Puppetdom where rec’d co. partyline thrash-angst succumbs to a withered drone of, well, I’m not quite sure what. The entire effort’s imbued with heavy marijuana allegiance (nothing new in the MP scheme of things for sure). Trouble is, these tunes demand an admissable lack of sobriety on the part of the listener to become tangent to the mentality of what’s going on (the wavelength of the sending set!). ’S like watching a cheesy three-D movie, you need the glasses; here, you need the pot. Turn on and tune in...or turn off, because honestly, unlike past vinyl outings, most of the songs aren’t all the psychedelic in the cold light of reality. Singer Curt! Kirkwood’s nasal monotone’s genuinely hard to handle—like a sick dog begging for food. And the material’s not all that riveting. Opening side 1 ’s title track groans and drones soporific save for some spirited gtr noodling underneath the disaffected pace. And the ensuing instrumental fades away before it begins. Most of the rest’s more or less the same. It’s all like digging the Flying Burrito Bros, on Romilar. Pretty slow, turgid, dissonant stuff and with no hooks to grab. Forays of noise and related ugly sounds in the past affected some sort of disposition, this hyper-extended vision of prairieacid and god-knows-what-else. And the band live parlays all of this into something really credible. I mean, the guy’s guitar sound is nothing short of remarkable—the fever pitch throttle of harmonic distortion the MPs chock up onstage is alone worth the price of admission. Somehow none of this translates well to vinyl.

But to be temporarily positive: good song titles (“Buckethead,” “Enchanted Porkfist,” “Seal Whales”) abound and in the nottoo-bad “Animal Kingdom” some nice lyric:

“up in my head there’s an animal kingdom I am the king Of the animals there”

Wow!!

On the other hand, Husker Du from the great land of Minnesota (bastion of the mild-mannered World Wrestling Federation) thrash and crank out alongside the (past-tense) groove of Flag or other SST compadres; difference being that these guys steer clear of the usual cliches and are fairly adept in the not to be underestimated songwriting department.

Particularly impressive’s one called “The Girl Who Lives On Heaven Hill,” an amphetamine rave-up of the “Final Solution’VPere Ubu school of noise and wail. Execution is right on the mark, really superb stuff. And the singer doesn’t goon out like most fast-band frontmen. He’s a gentleman.

Some genuinely weird moments: like second side’s “Books About UFO’s,” which believe it or not sounds a bit like the Byrds’ “Mr. Spaceman” if you dubbed in 10 or 16 buzzsaw guitars at blitzkrieg warp somewhere (way) in the background. And like their cousins, the Meat Puppets, Huskersongs have AOK titles (never to be overlooked)—’’Terms of Psychic Warfare” not at all bad and “59 Times The Pain” is real excellent (59’s a prime). One or two dull moments (“If I Told You”) but overall this is quite listenable muzik.

THE BLUE NOTE REVIVAL

Richard C. Walls

Blue Note records, founded in 1939, arguably the premier jazz label of the ’50s and ’60s, fatal victim of corporate takeover and cultural stagnation in the ’70s, was revived this year by Bruce Lundvall, the erstwhile head of Elektra Musician. But you’ve probably heard all this by now since every music mag worth its salt has given the revival a nod. In fact, the newlyarisen label’s well-orchestrated publicity, centering around an NYC concert earlier this year featuring Blue Note stars old and new, has even penetrated the “jazz? never!” citadel of network TV—though the Sunday morning Charles Kuralt show ain’t exactly prime time.

Anyway, the hype has died down and what we have is a threepart resuscitation of a legendary label with predictably mixed results. The first part consists of the five initial new releases, possibly indicative of the direction the new Blue Note will take. Two of them, the Kenny Burrell/Grover Washington Jr. date Togethering and Stanley Turrentine’s Straight Ahead are familiar genre pieces, meat and potato blowing dates which offer the guilty pleasure of hearing the familiar done well— unremarkable sides except to note that reedman Washington Jr. is entirely credible in this format, and tenor man Stanley Turrentine delivers himself of a nine-minute almost tour-de-force on Les McCann’s “The Longer You Wait.” Peoples’ memories of the way Blue Note used to be are subjective and idealized, and while a label revival is certainly a time for fond recollections, it helps to remember that like many prodigious record companies they released a lot of less than spectacular stuff...and so these first two albums are firmly in the Blue Note tradition of such mood and party music makers as the Three Sounds, Lou Donaldson (in his Alligator Boogaloo phase), the many organ/ sax combos, etc. Guitarist Stanley Jordan’s Magic Touch, however, seems more in the tradition of Elektra Musician.

und to be the commercial centerpiece of this first stage of the label’s revival, the guitarist, who has developed a style which allows him to play two guitar lines simultaneously, and whose repertoire includes Monk, McCartney/Lennon, and Hendrix, is an energetic, surfacey player whose enthusiasm is appealing despite his klutzy sense of swing. And if this near-jazz is as craven as the label is gonna get in its search for solvency, then OK.

The other two initial releases are Charles Lloyd’s A Night In Copenhagen and George Russell’s The African Game and to answer the burning question, yes, Lloyd’s still a hippie...dig the far-out Chinese oboe solo on “Lotus Land,” or the generally spacey ambience of his flute and tenor solos. Lloyd’s pianist, Michel Petrucciani, sounding at various times like Keith Jarrett and McCoy Tyner, keeps the impressionistic embers glowing—and while Lloyd may not be saying a whole lot musically these days, just hearing that distinctive and expressive tenor sound will no doubt provoke waves of groovy nostalgia in many. Russell’s record is a tad more demanding, an ambitious nine-part suite that attempts to comment on the evolution of man from happy amoeba to discontented city dweller. Some of this sounds like surprisingly conventional big band shtick, though there’s also much afro-percussions and some gratifyingly provocative horn voicings. Of the musicians, mostly recruited the Boston area, saxophonist Gary Joynes stands out, giving the project an aggressively soulful dimension.

Part two of the Blue Note revival consists of four issues of previously unreleased material, the first four, one hopes, of many more. Two of these are archetypical Blue Note ’60s sessions, tenor saxist Hank Mobley’s Far Away Lands and Lee Morgan’s The Rajah. Both dates feature sax/trumpet quartets playing attractive melodies tightly arranged, with each of the major players getting the opportunity on each tune to make some signatory comments—it’s not the avantgarde, and it’s not commercial, it’s the day-to-day refinement of the improvisor’s art, and it’s a gas. Another of the new/old releases is trumpeter Clifford Brown’s Alternate Takes—and while the title suggests that this is for completists everyone should witness the aweinspiring spectacle of the late genius writing, with the confidence of Superman, his message in granite. Rounding out the previously unreleased stuff is alto saxist Jackie McLean’s Tippin’ The Scales, a modest quartet date featuring the late great pianist Sonny Clark. Recorded shortly after McLean’s groundbreaking 1962 album, Let Freedom Ring, it wasn’t released then precisely because it is so modest—the effect would have been as if the Beatles has released Rubber Soul after Sergeant Pepper. At that time change was an imperative that was seen as q continual progression...backtracing didn’t come into vogue until a few years later.

Finally, part three, which consists of 21 reissues, and this is where the true jazz fan’s mouth begins to water. Each and every one of these 21 albums are worth having and a few—John Coltrane’s Blue Train, sides by Fats Navarro, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Bud Powell, and Sonny Rollins (all titled “Vol. 1”)—are nearly essential if one wishes to understand the development of jazz in the ’50s. Less landmarks than personal triumphs, Wayne Shorter’s Juju, Herbie Hancock’s Maiden Voyage, and Joe Henderson’s Mode For Joe are the types of superior sessions that the label used to release with nonchalant regularity, while Horace Silver’s Song For My Father and Donald Byrd’s A New Perspective are forever proof that commercial jazz doesn’t have to be watered-down junk. My only complaint about these reissues is that the avantgarde, which was represented on Blue Note by Cecil Taylor, Andrew Hill, Sam Rivers, Grachan Moncur III, Eric Dolphy, and others is represented here by only one release, Chick Corea’s Song of Singing, a record fairly extraneous to both the avant-garde and Corea’s overall career. Of course, this is only the beginning.

SST recalls to mind the label-oflegend (?) from the psyched-out Texas ’60s, International Artist. The Meat Pupps not far redolent of the Lost And Found (or Golden Dawn) and Husker Du perhaps a

hybrid of the Red Crayola and/or 13th Floor Elevators. If Puppet Songwriter Curt Kirkwood’s brain’s the chemistry set one perceives— then maybe four or five years down the road we’re looking at a secondgeneration Roky Erickson!!

Gregg Turner

ALISON MOYET Alf

(Columbia)

This album’s not bad, but it could have been a lot better. Alison Moyet, as you may recall, graced our airwaves back in 1982-83 with her potent blues vocals for Yazoo (or “Yaz,” as they were known in the U.S.). Moyet’s husky British-mama singing furnished the perfect “human” counterpoint to Vince Clarke’s tinkle-burble electronics, and Yazoo were well on their way to the top of our charts when they suddenly split up, allowing the similarsounding Eurythmics first place by default.

WESTERN UNION

THE BEAT FARMERS Tales Of The New West (Rhino)

Roy Trakin

Roots? Did I hear somebody say roots? These grizzled auggetminers have wandered in from the San Diego desert town of El Centro with an impressive set of influences, among them Frank Capra, Woody Allen, Jack Nicholson, Hitchcock, Lovin’ Spoonful, Velvet Underground, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Robert Johnson, Iggy, Dean Martin and the Cramps, a party hearty amalgam of Eastern (Think With The) Head and Western (Shoot From The) Hip. Along the way, this gang of four has been saddled with any number of flip dismissals. They’ve been dubbed cowpunks, revivalists, bastardizers, a novelty act, a bar band...But there’s a lot more here than just another batch of hillbilly chauvinists, a fact made abundantly clear on the group’s debut harvest, Tales of the New West, on Rhino Records—a label which traditionally specializes in, as one local pundit put it, “the disbanded, retired or dead.”

The Beat Farmers are anything but moribund, even if three-fourths of them are well past drinking age. Guitarists/singers/songwriters Jerry Raney and Buddy Blue are veterans of a number of SoCal punkabilly aggregates like the Shames and the Rockin’ Roulettes while secret weapon/founder/ drummer and designated basso profundo Country Dick Montana will reveal neither his true moniker nor age. Only bassist Rollie Dexter, at 21, is a member of the postvideo age.

Which means the Beat Farmers’ brand of American music is informed with reverence tempered by the sadness of disillusionment, reaching back to rock ’n’ roll’s beginnings as hobo blues and primitive plaints. But as Marty DeBergi would say, enough of my yackin’...the Beat Farmers would frown at such dour analysis. Country Dick’d be too busy stumbling across tables and drooling Bud on outraged patrons as he croaked his way through the drunken sexploits of the “California Kid” or “Happy Boy.”

Like Handsome Dick Manitoba, Country Dick Montana represents the Spirit of his band, but the Meat of the Beat is most definitely the harmonic front duo of Raney and Blue; the former’s the one with the hoarse, Bruce-ish questioning of the politics of pop, while the latter comes on with an Elvis P. croon and laments about lost loves and weekends, cockteasers and allnight benders.

Songs. Did I hear somebody say songs? There are six standout originals (including Raney’s ode to the M[e]TV generation, “Where Do They Go?” and Blue’s raucous, self-mocking ‘‘Lost Weekend,” with the classic refrain, “I wish somebody’d tell me just who and what I did/ Why is this ring on my finger and who’s that screamin’ kid?”) and three more inspired covers (a chooglin’ version of the Velvets’ “There She Goes Again,” a Highway 67-styled, manic Elmore James slidepunctuated rave-up on the Boss’s melancholic “Reason To Believe” and a rousin’, kick-ass take on “Never Goin’ Back,” a tune penned by one-time Kingston Trio singer John Stewart and later covered by the Lovin’ Spoonful).

If this be the New West, play me more of it. With bands such as the Blasters, Rank & File, Los Lobos, True Believers, Long Ryders and Dwight Yoakum, the California sun appears to be rising again. The Beat Farmers are just the latest addition to what sounds like a bumper crop.

Roy Trakin

I don’t know the particulars of the Yazoo split, but I hope Alf Moyet didn’t consider herself a thwarted artiste, as her first solo effort rarely lives up to the exciting promise she exhibited in the late duo. Moyet’s vocals on Alf remain strong and potentially soulbending, but they’re inevitably brought down by the bland, rather pedestrian musical arrangements.

Yes, there are males involved in showcasing Ms. Moyet once again, in this case Steve Jolley and Tony Swain. They produced, they play the leads, and they co-wrote all the songs with Moyet (except for Lamont Dozier’s “Invisible,” which looks like the first U.S. hit on the album, interestingly). Jolley’s and Swain’s credentials as producers of Spandau Ballet' are the tipoff to how glossy and syrupy this record sounds. Moyet belts out her blues all the way through, but the producers repeatedly rush in with their softrock orchestra to stylize and trivialize her emotional outpourings into something safe enough for VH-1 consumption. The whole tone of the album reminds me of this same label’s disastrous attempts to reduce Aretha Franklin to a cocktail-jazz torch singer in the early ’60s.

The beauty of Yazoo’s sound was that the Depeche Mode-bred Clarke’s keyboards were so tinkly and so burbly that you automatically expected a twee vocal from some emaciated tinkerbell bemoaning the dankness of his bedsitter, and instead there was this big booming ballsy female voice, warning everyone in earshot to get their asses in gear. That contrast, that implicit contradiction, was what made Yazoo’s music so catchy. And that makes Alf even more disappointing, because it’s filled with good songs and good Moyet vocals that need only the right music to become classic tunes. I’d absolutely love to team Moyet and her song “Love Resurrection” with Elvis Costello and the Attractions—forget the legal hassles, this would be art, I d just about sell my soul to get Moyet’s husky blues next to Steve Nieve’s organ.

Even as I write this review, the Birmingham yoo-hoo paranoiacs who compose CREEM’s snotty photo captions are preparing allnew snide remarks about Alison Moyet’s weight—as you must know from the videos, she’s a bit on the voluptuous side—to run beside my words. And maybe that’s Moyet’s problem here, she’s probably been warned again and again to wear vertical stripes and conservative colors, and this album is the musical equivalent of blindly conforming to the majority’s fashion decrees. Huh-uh, Alf, don’t do it, those ectomorphs out there are secretly afraid of the power you can unleash, they gotta keep you in your place. So let’s let loose again and knock the stereotypes onto their asses, OK Alf?!?

Richard Riegel