PRINCE AND THE REVOLUTION Around The World In A Day (Warner Bros.)

by Richard C. Walls

Things aren’t necessarily what they seem to be. Ostensibly, this is Prince’s “psychedelic ’60s” record—the trippy cover and record label, the use of a few buzzwords, some flutes and exotic rhythms and melodies (mostly on the title cut) have prompted some critics to make references to Sgt. Pepper (?!)—but the few actual nods in that direction in the grooves tend to be more than psychedelic. Prince’s take on ’60s music is filtered thru the altering influence of late-’70s New Wave irony and eclecticism (only the best hooks will do) combined with hearty doses of fashion as freedom— this is music to expand your wardrobe, not your consciousness. Skipping past the psychedelic garnishments that are supposed to cue our reactions, we find here a rather conservative record, with both the explicit sex and the hard neo-funk mostly restrained in favor of pop melodicism and ambiguous utopianism—moral majoritarians will have to scan the lyrics extrahard to find the good parts. In short, it’s a record by someone who’s arrived at the top and intends to stay there.

THE HACK YOU’VE KNOWN FOR ALL THESE YEARS

The pseudo-’60s songs here— the title cut, “Paisley Park,” “Raspberry Beret,” and “Pop Life”—point out Prince’s continuing gift for the simple hook and his abilities as a tunesmith, particularly with the appropriate edge-ofcuteness melody of “Beret” and the harem bop segueing to funk on “Day.” But it’s best not to listen to the lyrics too closely (or take them too seriously) because then you have the problem of trying to reconcile the egalitarianism of “Day” and “Park” with the hardnosed elitism of “Pop Life” (“everybody can’t be on top” the young millionaire informs us). “Pop Life” also contains a rather unmoving reference to cocaine abuse, as well as this heartwarming observance: “show me a boy who stays in school and I’ll show you a boy aware.” Which oughta keep the PTA off his back until the next album but in case you’re wondering why “boy” and not “girl,” refer back to “Beret” where we’re told, in an almost sadistically gratuitous way, that the sexpot wearer of the title chapeau “wasn’t too bright” but “knew how to get her kicks.” Prince may have cleaned up his act a little for this platinum outing, but he’s still not afraid to come across, at times, like a genuinely creepy guy.

Elsewhere, with one antenna in the air, Prince picks up on the new Rorschach patriotism and gives us “America.” One tries to detect a point of view here, but ultimately it means whatever you want it to mean. Again, attention to the lyrics leads to all kinds of earthshaking questions. Like, does Prince really see the reaction to the commie threat as a valid excuse for a multitude of sins or does he see the commie threat number as a ruling class ruse to keep the peasants in line (and given Prince’s royalist bent, does he approve of this)? Is Prince gonna become the Clarence Pendleton of neo-funk? Has the little neurotic been watching too much C-Span or what?

Prince also breaks for ballads, twice here with “Condition of the Heart” and “The Ladder.” The former is pretentious schmaltz with its extended piano intro but it’s also affecting thanks to Prince’s giddy falsetto (dig how he sings the word “giggle”—now that’s psychedelic), while the latter (I make pun) is basically a straightahead gospel song with an intriguing central image—I mean, the poor fellow probably gets tired of all those short jokes and who can blame him? Or maybe the ladder is a way to better look down on all those poor schmuck-o’s who are filling their roles as prescribed in “Pop Life.”

The oddest part of this mess comes at the end of the album. The closer, “Temptation,” is a hot number—full-tilt fuzz guitar, heavy back beat, great uninhibited vocal about evil lust—and then there’s this absolutely weird coda where God Herself puts in an appearance. Sounding like a mechanical bullfrog, the He/She that transcends all crossover attempts churlishly zaps our hero for his lecherous ways. Chastised, he recites his hard-learned lesson: “I’ll be good now, I promise...love is more important than sex.” Aside from the fact that most people would settle for as important (that’s the trouble with converts, they tend to go overboard), this looney miniplay is about as convincing as everything else on the record. Next album, Prince will be whipping it out again and singing about it, just you wait and see.

/Cm GRAHAM PARKER Steady Nerves (Elektra)

Most of the time I don’t mind that rock critics are generally considered less useful than wool hats on the fourth of July. I mind this time. Graham Parker is one of the best rock writer/singers ever dropped into this universe or any other. And for the last six years his career has been going straight down the old porcelain throne. Every time one of his albums comes out you feel like Jerry Lewis in the 23rd hour of his annual telethon—“Can I just get you good folks out there to CARRRRRRREEEEEM!”

If Steady Nerves was as miraculous as ’79’s Squeezing Out Sparks, we wouldn’t need Jerry to help. Sparks was more braincrushing than heavy metal, more

lethal than Elvis Costello, more tornado-ed than Bruce the Boss on a second encore. Since ’79, however, Parker has put out three albums (The Up Escalator, Another Grey Area, and The Real Macaw) that were only sort of good. Fans had been figuring that whatever came after Sparks was going to make this pissed-off little English genius into the superstar he had every right to be (and you think metalheads are fanatics!), but these LPs almost did the reverse. Even the fanatics didn’t seem to give a strong thumbs-up or thumbs-down to Parker’s experiments with smoother, softer styles, new band members, slicker producers, and moods aside from his infamous bone-shaking wrath. The records were only OK-to-good instead of brilliant, but was that so terrible? The energy that had once surrounded Parker vanished like someone had turned off the lights. The kiss of death question started to float around—whatever happened to Graham Parker? Did his new marriage make him a victim of the dreaded happiness syndrome? Did losing his band (the Rumour) make him lose his musical teeth? Did falling short of superstar status over and over finally take his confidence away?

Lucky for both you and Parker, there’s no more space left here to rant about telethons or death. Sufit to say that the OK-to-good Steady Nerves is growing on me, and that when I heard the first single on the radio for the first time (“Wake Up”), I was pleasantly surprised—it sounded terrific. So if radio finally comes through for Parker, maybe you won’t need to be badgered by some drooling rock critic wearing a wool hat. The bottom line is that Parker’s “bad” ones are several light years better that most rockers’ best ones. Parker would be mortified (and pissed-off) at the sight of all this pleading, but hey, I’m not proud. It’s never too late for pissed off little English geniuses.

Laura Fissinger

KATRINA AND THE WAVES Of" (Capitol)

The video/song of Katrina And The Waves’ “Walking On Sunshine” fascinates the living daylights out of me, because I still can’t decide whether the tune’s gushy exuberance is supposed to be ironic or not. You know that vid: rosy-cheeked Katrina Leskanich strides across some foggy campus on her bouncy pumping thighs, a shit-eating grin on her sunny face, while the male Waves huddle off to the side in their Anglophilepervert overcoats. And since Katrina And The Waves are obviously a postmodern 1985 powerpop group, they’re naturally sending up the exuberant celebrationof-sunshine songs of Spanky And Our Gang or some other polyesterpsychedelic pop group from the late ’60s, well aren’t they?

I don’t know myself now that I’ve heard the whole album. There’s nothing else on it quite as growling-Katrina katchy as “Walking On Sunshine,” but most of the other songs share that open marriage of innocence and calculation, that disorienting fusion of irony and exuberance. “Cry For Me” and “The Sun Won’t Shine” are verrry glossy blooze songs, yeh b-l-o-o-z-e in that histrionic whitemama Genya Ravan style also native to the late ’60s—if Ms. Leskanich snorts “ba-beh!” once in the latter song, she snorts it a dozen times (and she does). Hopped-up “intensity” just this side of shrill.

“Machine Gun Smith” is tipsy topicality about international terrorists and Swatch bank accounts, the kinda stuff Glenn Frey is always doodling on his cocktail napkins these days. And “Game Of Love” is not the Wayne Fontana & Mindbenders song (it should be), but a booming toychest original made of girlgroup punkabilly materials that are more raw than they are irony (you’d suspect). “Mexico” and “Que Te Quiero” are bubbly reprises of that sanitized South-of-the-border theme park Herb Alpert’s always kept tucked snugly into his frontal lobes. These two songs shouldn’t exist here in the postmodern ’80s (but of course they do).

And that brings us back to the second-best song on the album, “Going Down To Liverpool,” actually written by Wave Kimberley Rew while he was still a Soft Boy, but better known now in the Bangles version and thus something of a “cover” here. Once again you can’t tell whether this folkrock pilgrimage into Beatlemanic nostalgia is earnest or ironic: maybe it’s just a pretty song. What do these people really want? To reinstitute fresh-withwonder happy pop right in the midst of a music decade so fatally cynical it’s crowned Elton John its porker king a second (& even more unnecessary) time?!? I don’t know, the publicity says Katrina’s from Kansas, so maybe she’s been somewhere over the rainbow all along. This album has plenty of oomph in its own slick way, go ahead and buy it (and the video too). Maybe you can explain ’em to me.

Richard Riegel

~JX RICK JAMES

Glow

(Gordy)

U MARY JANE GIRLS Only Four You (Gordy)

To crossover or not to crossover, that is the question. Just a few short years ago, it looked like Buffalo-born Rick James would parlay his street-savvy “Super Freak” persona into a larger-thanlife punk-funk fusion. The bestselling Street Songs had him playing sports arenas and currying favor with the same rockcrit types who’d later champion another black apostle of rock/soul hedonism from the North Country by the name of Prince. A scant three years later, Rick James’s musical empire is no less impressive than his rival’s: for every Apollonia or Sheila E. in the Court of the Purple King, there’s a Mary Jane Girl or a Teena Marie in the Stone City Camp.

Despite his white rock credentials—James once played alongside Neil Young in a Canadian outfit called the Mynah Birds—“Super Freak” has been overshadowed by the “Paisley ploid” in his attempt to break of the R&B ghetto. Maybe it was his ill-timed, if right-on, blast at MTV for its racist programming policies. Certainly his tacky, sexist videos did more to keep him segregated from that audience than any blacklisting, but, who knows? More likely, it’s the inability of Motown Records to completely reach the hordes of ’boppers who’ve been turned onto Prince’s rockist appeal.

Whatever the reason, James’s eighth and latest album, Glow, along with proteges Mary Jane Girls’ second, Only Four You, aren’t likely to turn the beat around. If anything, these two LP’s are steeped in soul traditions, even if the arrangements are tempered with such modern pop touches as sprightly synths and pealing guitars.

OUCHLESS BAND-AID

USA FOR AFRICA We Are The World (Columbia)

by J. Kordosh

Don’t count me among the disgruntled. I’m plenty gruntled by We Are The World despite the— shall we speak modestly?— exhaustive media coverage of this recording event.

Mostly I’m gruntled by the title song, a pretty fair piece of writing by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie. (Mostly Michael, by Life’s account.) But more on the hit tune later—We Are The World is a collection of 10 songs, the remaining nine being contributed by a surprising diversity of artists. The ultimate worth of the album must largely be determined by those hitherto-unreleased contributions.

Although none of the cuts are shockingly bad, there are definite grades of worth here. Going from bottom to top, the efforts of Steve Perry, Kenny Rogers, the Canadian-aggregate Northern Lights and Tina Turner constitute the lightweight division. Perry’s “If Only For The Moment, Girl” is little more than amiable, having all the dynamics of a delayed flight to Wichita. Rogers’s “A Little More Love” is typical fare, best distinguished by Billy Joe Walker’s rhythm lead and little else. “Tears Are Not Enough”—the work of Northern Lights—is a mistakeridden “We Are The World,” with cornball lyrics beating down the song’s better moments, i.e., a French verse, a curious percussion time-change and a call-andanswer choral manuever. And although Tina Turner’s “Total Control” is workmanlike, it never really builds.

Chicago and the Pointer Sisters do a little better. While the Pointers’ “Just A Little Closer” is shy on melody, it’s built on a synth/dance/funk groove that could grow on you. Chicago’s “Good For Nothing” isn’t. It’s actually quite strong—so strong that one forgets Chicago are basically a bunch of dunderheads. Some fine singing, a smoothed-out-bysynth sound and impeccable production make this a classy contribution.

On the high end sit Springsteen, Prince and Huey Lewis & The News. Springsteen’s cover of Jimmy Cliff’s “Trapped”—recorded live at the Meadowlands—features a tastefully moody intro and some nifty bass playing from Garry Tallent. Prince—taken to task for opting out of the mega-session— comes through with the LP’s strangest track, the sparse “4 The Tears In Your Eyes.” Basically, it sounds like the story of Christ backed by a ticky-tacky roll that keeps threatening to go out of tune without ever quite getting there. Huey Lewis & The News really send this record off on the final track, though—a live take of “Trouble In Paradise.” Johnny Colla’s sax absolutely screams from the middle on... and Huey’s keen phrasing, along with the News’s never-amiss back-ups make the vocals a standout on an album of standout singing.

Which leaves “We Are The World,” a song that delivers all it promises and—via some individual efforts—a bit more. Quincy Jones has done an excellent job juggling so many voices—just about everybody sounds fine. Offhand, some of the better moments come from Kenny Rogers, Willie Nelson and Cyndi Lauper, but the truly memorable moments come from Michael Jackson (on the first chorus), Stevie Wonder’s “battle” with Springsteen near the final chorus and Bob Dylan’s solo stint, which I’d call inimitable, except that Stevie Wonder evidently imitated it quite well in teaching Dylan his part.

Given what this album could have been—i.e., a monumental embarrassment—it’s really not a bad package. Faint praise, perhaps, but praise nonetheless.

In fact, Glow is at its strongest not when the band is vamping, but when Rick James is crooning. The brash insouciance of the past has been replaced with a maturity that partakes more of classic soul stylists like Marvin Gaye, Isaac Hayes and Barry White than shouters like Little Richard or James Brown. The lush balladry of “Somebody (The Girl’s Got),” “Moonchild” and “Sha La La La La (Come Back Home)” seem more heartfelt and sincere than the somewhat subdued bombast of “Can’t Stop,” the first single, and “Rock And Roll Control.” The Stone City Band smoothly spans the two styles, with hooklines provided by either Tom McDermott’s snaking guitar lines or percolating electronix courtesy synthesists Levi Ruffin, Jr., and Daniel Le Melle.

James’s cohorts are no less impressive on the Mary Jane Girls’ Only Four You, whose first single, “In My House,” is the catchiest number on either LP. Like Apollonia ne Vanity 6, the Mary Jane Girls are—depending on your p. o. v.—either a sexy or sexist cartoon image of super-female pulchritude created by a man. Ironically, Rick’s pan-sexual approach treats both men and women equally as sex objects, but his writing is even more effective when he drops his overweaning male ego to project the female side in a kind of Jungian integration.

Like Glow, Only For You is more soul than pop, more rooted in black experience than white. While his dreams of becoming the PunkFunk King have been supplanted by his Prince-ly competitor, Rick James has come a long way from his “Super Freak” caricature. Like his cohort, James is beginning to understand love is more important than sex and maybe even that being true to your roots beats assimilation any day. Now, if only he could get on MTV. ...

Roy Trakin

BON JOVI 7800° Fahrenheit (PolyGram)

This one’s straight from the heartland of IQ’s low-rent district. And lacking the sublime cretinhops of say, the Casablanca Godz or L.A.’s legendary Gorilla (band personnel donned ape fur and rhythm guitarist was a 6'5" baldie), or even the mindless mayhem of a Fear or whatever—this is the kind of stuff that sprouts from the

psyches of truly dull, untalented fame-mongers with absolutely zero to offer above and beyond the look and pose of the status quo. The songs stink, the lyrics are stale, trivial drivel 10-cent bargain-bin rejects—and the posture’s a recycled garbage pit of the really gross (as in sleep-inducing) moments-in-rock we’ve been MTV’d to death with ad infinitum.

So before this gets unduly vitriolic (the expenditure of wrath unneccesarily heightens the significance of something so immediately forgettable) let’s dispense with the positive: (long pause) if one of the drawbacks (I’m being temporarily polite) here is underscored by the derivativeness of the material—and derivative in this context refers to the mostly ’70s sound hybrid rehashed in submission-hold mode—we take note of perhaps peculiar similarity (albeit infrequent) to the once-fantabulous Artful Dodger. There’s an imbued pop sensibility diverting migration of the muzik from the loathsome Ratt or Riot’s guitar-as-heavy side of the slate.

Instead, sonics converge on the really wretched past-tense—like Foreigner’s “Dirt Eating Man” (the one that goes on about “hard nights, impossible days...” can’t remember the title; I allow myself the luxury of Foreigner amnesia ’cept for the always-incredible “Hot Blooded”) or the very very worst moments of Kiss. More “positive”? OK: let’s wrap up the positive-dep’t by citing “sympathetic production.” Right.

Now let’s get personal. Putzface #1, lead-singer, strains to af-

feet raw, gritty resonance to vocals. But the raw grit is the wrong grit and the true grit of a real loser. The guy sounds (and looks) like a worm—virtually all tracks rendered unlistenable by the shrill howls of a studied pose master. PF#2, mr. lead-guitar, groans in and out with predictably xeroxed maneuvers. Lyric sheet takes the trouble to indicate when the where these are to occur (you’re warned).

“Running wild When me and the boys hit the streets Right on time She’s here to make my night complete...”

This, from one called “In And Out Of Love.” What would an album from fine young aspiring rock maggots be without the standard my-cock-conquers-the-worldof-women ritual??

Yup—it’s all there. I resist reference to song names or any other semi-relevant info not-at-all pertinent (for you) to know how abysmal this swill is. I mean, even something as hollow and vacuously “not there” as, for instance, L.A.’s Paisley Underground with bands as transparent as (say) the Pandoras or the 3 O’clock (+ lots others that more or less Sha Na Na the ’60s)—even stuff as phony as this is locked into more of a commitment to risk and self-sacrifice (in pursuit of some sort of againstthe-grain vision-quest) than the BJ’s pack into one fraction of whatever you call this drek.

It’s a sad day in Gotham, sports fans, when something this reactionary—so antithetical to codes of passion and change (once integral elements of the youth kultural medium) and hellbent on preserving corporate profit margins—comes to the light of vinyl. Once again conformity becomes the message—and so stridently the point.

Gregg Turner

THE BONGOS Beat Hotel (RCA)

What the heck is apache dancing?

When does a guitar solo become a ticket to madness?

At the Beat Hotel, what’s the weekly rate for a room with a bed of nails? How much will a naked lunch set you back?

These and other provocative questions are raised (though not necessarily answered) by the Bongos’ perky new platter, Beat Hotel. A thoroughly likable but undeniably odd little record, it’s proof that the middle of the road can be a mighty strange place.

How’s that again, you ask? Simple. In big-picture terms, Beat Hotel is classy if unstartling popband fare. “Space Jungle,” for example, has a bracing Go-Go’s fizz, while “Come Back To Me” would be a natural for goony Bryan Adams. Once you tune into specifics, however, all sorts of tiny oddities emerge, much the way facial tics betray the presence of a crazy man. Yipes!

Anyone who already knows New Jersey’s Bongos wouldn’t expect ’em to crank out “No More Lonely Nights” anyway. A few years ago, their indie-label LP Drums Along The Hudson attracted descriptions like “quirky” and “offbeat” the way a picnic draws ants, for good reason. The combination of Richard Barone’s breathy vox and a flood of chiming guitars located the boys in the pop subversive camp with soulmates R.E.M., Let’s Active, and the dB’s. However, it doesn’t pay to be too outwardly bent—no getta sales means no maka records—so when the Bongos released their Numbers With Wings EP via corporate behemoth RCA, the deviant tendencies had been masked considerably.

Beat Hotel continues the process. Thanks to producer John Jansen, who also helped trim the rough edges of Lou Reed’s New Sensations, the LP goes down like a smooth, creamy vanilla milkshake. It’s not bland, mind you, although a band with lesser prowess might melt into the mix. But the searing licks that punctuate “She Starts Shaking” and the psychedelic guitar noodlings of “A Story (Written in the Sky)” are presented in a clean, well-lit setting that definitely minimizes the danger.

JONESTOWN!

HOWARD JONES Dream Into Action (Elektra)

by Jeffrey Morgan

Me ’n’ The Fizz were sitting in a corner booth at Cromwell’s, double-strawing a single chocolate malt when the jukebox kicked in.

“Who’S that?” I said, nodding in the direction of the machine.

“And you call yourself a rock critic,” Laura sneered. “That’s the title track from the new Howie Jones LP.”

“Howie who?”

“You know, Howard Jones: the guy who put out Human’s Lib last year.”

“Oh yeah, the synthesized Gilbert O’Sullivan.”

“Gilbert who?”

“You know, Gilbert O’Sullivan: the guy who put out ersatz Paul McCartney songs last decade. Anyway, that’s how the music press in Britain describes him.”

“Who, Gilbert?”

“No, Howie.”

“Yeah, well, they love Howie in the U.K. almost as much as they love Gary Numan,” The Fizz said, wrapping her lips around a straw. “What do you think of him?”

“Who, Gary?”

“No, Howie.”

“Well, the music sounds like an Eno out-take from Tiger Mountain; the lyrics sound like minor league Red Noise-era Bill Nelson; and if the vocals were a color of house paint, it’d be called Anonymous British Beige.”

The Fizz looked up in disgust. “What is this? A conversation or a record review?”

“Hey, I am what I write. Besides, you asked.”

“You’re incorrigible. If it comes out of England, doesn’t sound like Mare Bolan, David Bowie, Eno, Roxy Music, or Bill Nelson—and doesn’t rock ’n’ roll—then you don’t like it. But if Hunky Dory was released tomorrow, you’d be the first person to accuse him of going soft in the head.”

“Who, Howie?”

“No, Bowie.”

“Look, what are you trying to do?” I said exasperated. ’’Get me to buy the album?”

“/ did,” The Fizz smiled.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” I smiled back.

“Tough,” said The Fizz, living up to her effervescent nickname. “I’m going to tell you anyway.

“Take ‘Things Can Only Get Better,’ for instance: it’s bright and poppy and has a sing-along chorus that just won’t vacate your brain. Likewise, ‘Life In One Day’ is a reggae and Caribbean-tinged tingler that lacks only the inclusion of a steel drum solo to make it perfect.

“In fact, all of Howie’s songs are like that: sensitive and introspective, they’re the work of an ordinary person trying to show us that it’s alright to be vulnerable and afraid at times as long as we don’t knuckle under and give in. He even based one song on chapter 20 of the Tao Te Ching.”

“What is this? A monologue or a conversation?” I interrupted. “And don’t give me any of that ‘sensitive man’ stuff, either, ’cause I heard a couple of tracks on the radio myself and ‘Look Mama’ is the kind of soap opera sludge that you’d expect to find on a Barry Manilow album. But even Barry wouldn’t sink as low as to record ‘Automation,’ which sounds like Ultravox and the Beat blended into a dull, pulpy smear.

“And the less said about downers like ‘Elegy’ and ‘Hymn For The Flesh’ the better.” The Fizz stood up and slightjy adjusted her pleated skirt. “This is getting boring, and I’m getting tired,” she said decisively. “Time for bed.”

“Time for bed,” I repeated absently. “Which leaves me—”

“That’s right,” The Fizz said, smiling thinly over her shoulder as she walked out the door. “Alone again, naturally.”

Still, the Bongos manage to kick out numerous jams, oblivious to the taint of wholesomeness. “The Beat Hotel” thumps wickedly, courtesy of Frank Giannini’s bumptious drumming, and “Totem Pole” could be a superbad dance floor smash if mixed differently. Which leads to the really great thing about this record: Beat Hotel stirs the imagination in a way that’s rare nowadays. Kaleidoscope-like, it seems to come from a different angle every time, ’cause each listen uncovers new stuff stored beneath the shiny surface. Much of it wacky, as noted above. Dig, for instance, the muffled guitar storm of “Brave New World” or the subliminal static of “Space Jungle.” Or peruse the lyric sheet, an orgy of surprisingly good romantic-cosmic poetry. My fave: “Blow up the lives inside you/ Blow up ‘til you remain.”

Although Beat Hotel is presentable enough for stodgy moms and dads, it’s also a summons to pay close attention and not be a lazy listener—one that sensible boys and girls won’t ignore.

Jon Young

ik (yJULES SHEAR ^ The Eternal Return (EMI)

Jules Shear is not going to starve. That may not be a big deal to anyone who discovered him through his “All Through The Night” tune on Cyndi Lauper’s multi-mega-moolah LP or his cowriting credits on Elliot Easton’s solo album, but for those of us who’ve followed him since his days fronting the Polar Bears, it’s something of a relief.

See, Shear is a talented guy but he’s had trouble putting things together in an acceptably stylish

anner. Coming on like Jackson Browne with a major in Pet Sounds and a minor in Jonathan Richman was no way to make headway in the late 70s, even if the music did work on its own terms. Then last year’s attempt at a dance smash, “When Love Surges,” barely became a minor hit and barely deserved that.

This time around, he’s teamed up with Rick Springfield’s producer, Bill Drescher, so he’s evidently not aiming for a thick, meaty sound. Even the bottom floats; why hire a heavyweight bassist like Tony Levin and then EQ all his oomph away? One of life’s little mysteries, I guess.

So once again in this guy’s career, it’s up to the songs themselves to carry the load and once again they hold up under pressure—at least once the leadoff trio of losers is out of the way. Jules tries to cram too many words into the cliched chord progression of “If She Knew What She Wants,” offers up a backbone-less anthem in “Stand Tall” and proves in “Steady” that he’s neither Daryl Hall nor Curtis Mayfield.

Fortunately, things finally kick in with the one-two punch of “Change (change)” and the utterly infectious “The Fever’s On”; from there on in, it’s one top-notch pop song after another. Highlights of side two include the Sparksian squeaker, “Here She comes,” the wryly energetic “Empty Out The House,” and “Every Time I Get The Feeling,” an unabashed celebration of shared feelings that could become a classic.

So for the most part, Jules Shear remains a likeable lightweight. Whether he moves beyond his current collaborator with the stars/cult figure to the public status is up to you.

Michael Davis