R.E.M.

Fables Of The Reconstruction (IRS.)

by Richard C. Walls

R.E.M., the only band that mutters, those moody Southerners who have made obscurantism their hook and logo (dig the packaging—another garbled cover, coolly chaotic and archly surreal), strike again. And yes, their lyrics, impassionately delivered by lead singer Michael Stipe, are as impenetrable as ever—anyone who suspected they would, through a wish to survive, evolve into a more explicit aggregation, is gonna be disappointed. Altho, in a way, the group has made a rather predictable third album move toward commerciality. English producer Joe Boyd (of Richard Thompson, John Martyn semi-fame, and a replacement for the Mitch Easter/Don Dixon team of the group�s first two albums) has helped smooth over the more eccentric, eclectic aspects of R.E.M.�s music. And while this larger, more confident sound announces both the group�s intention of buying a bit into the high-tech �80s and staying around a while, it has, ironically, the result of making them seem more obscure than ever; simply because this blanding out of their sound diminishes their only articulate and most compelling element, which is their unique musical succinctness. On the first two albums, the crispness of the music carried the day—Stipe�s sludgy vocals, though ultimately unsatisfying, were a minor annoyance that it was uncool to harp about too much (like, you know, to get hung up on the lyrics is to always miss the point, right? Anyway, it gave a lotta rock crits the excuse, as if they needed one, to make up lyrics and meanings, thus satisfying their twisted need to participate in the creative process). On this album the music is often every bit as sludgy as the vocals. The results: murk, boredom.

On the other hand, a band this good, songcraft-wise, can�t help but come up with some decent cuts. �Can�t Get There From Here� is an up-tempo boogie number with a nice trashy chorus; �Old Man Kensey� is solid midtempo doominess and what lyrics I�ve caught are intriguing. The mysterioso guitar and Stipe�s Richard Butlerish vocal help �Feeling Gravity�s Pull� effectively evoke a slowly turning psychedelic maelstrom, while �Driver 8� and �Wendell Gee� are wistful, folksy (banjo on latter) and, as far as I know, paeans to incest committed by people who have had their driver�s licenses revoked during a thunderstorm...

Eventually, frankly, all the close listening required here gets tiring and, I think, the rewards are slight. But I understand that for some this sort of thing has its appeal...and appreciate that writing a song called �Life And How To Live It� and then presenting it in such a manner that barely a word can be understood is, in its way, an eloquent statement.

ROBERT PLANT Shaken �n� Stirred (Es Paranza)

As luck would have it, just a couple nights ago I tuned in Radio 1990 and caught the everphotogenic Mr. Plant, who was being grilled about his new album by a reverent Lisa Robinson. Plant claimed that Shaken �n� Stirred is less of a �reflective� album than his previous solo set, The Principle Of Moments, and that the new release is a more �adamant� statement of his �positivism.� In a mock-sarcastic tone evidently intended to warn any hack critics who might be watching, Plant summed up the album: �If they like it, fine, if they don�t, tough!� Then, really feeling his oats, he added an apparent non sequitur, �I experiment in the bedroom.�

Hmmm. So here I am, a genuine $8.59 (receipt on file) consumer of Shaken �n� Stirred toughing out what seems to be a verrry sketchy album. I admit I�ve never been an overwhelming fan of Robbo the Bobbo—if Principle Of Moments was �reflective,� then my copy was seven years� bad luck—but if he really considers his new album �adamant,� a few million more brain cells must�ve jumped ship & demanded asylum while he was in N.Y.C. (Or did he say that it�s an �Adam Ant� statement of a record? That could fit.)

I feel .sorrier for the trueblue Plant fans who purchase this disc and then discover that �Little By Little� is not just the most coherent song on this ellpee, it may be the only one. Or maybe they�ll be consoled enough by the more redeeming aspects of Shaken �n� Stirred, namely Plant�s success in convincing (by osmosis) guitarist Robbie Blunt and drummer Richie Hayward to play more like their Led Zeppelin counterparts than ever before. The new set has many (subdued) echoes of L.Z. circa In Through The Out Door. The cuts are relatively brief, the riffs economical, but I�m not sure they really add up to distinctive, independent songs—one quality Zep always possessed, even at their hippie-dippiest.

What we get instead on Shaken �n� Stirred is one big album-length suite of several �movements,� each one featuring yet another descending rhythm guitar & drum figure, and yet another chorus of Plant grunts & squeaks. All the cuts blend together if you don�t listen closely for the breaks, and Plant himself is no help verbally. His vocals seem to be tucked away to the side of the mix throughout,

as though he�s singing from behind a locked bathroom door, and the majority of his audible lyrics seem to be random-rerun quotes from his old Zep catalog. Musically it�s mildly interesting stuff, but pretty soon the chunkachunka-boom tingle becomes a THUD chill.

What is this? A sketchbook for the Led Zep pastiche medley Robert Plant may find himself doing in Vegas when he�s 57? Or was he really being coy about his artistic intentions on Radio 1990 when he waved that freak flag about experimenting in the bedroom? Maybe he was hinting then that Shaken �n� Stirred is actually the unannounced soundtrack to his latest laboratory-cumboudoir sessions. Lemme give it another lissen here. Yep, almost exactly, fits like a rubber glove, get this (A DRAMATIZATION, all necessary female parts played by your reporter):

Sweet Young Thing: �C�mon, Bobby, this�ll be more exciting than that time in Montreal when that Frog covered herself with chocolate pudding and Trix!�

R.P .(muffled): �Only only girl of my dreams now...�

S.Y.T.: �C�mon Big Rob, you�re gonna come any minute now, just remember all those humid nights of thunder & pussywillows on the �77 tour!�

R.P. (obstructed): �Shake for me baby, ooh yeh ooh yeh...�

S.Y.T.: �Come now, Bob, remember that blonde in Baltimore who brought along the watermelon carved into the shape of a Hummel figure!�

R.P. (distantly): �Give it to me baby, ooh ooh ooh...�

NEW ORDER Low-life

(Qwest/ Warner Bros.)

Integrity oozing from every tortured pore, England�s New Order are not your usual mopesters. Although the breathy vocalizing and smooth synthesizing of Lowlife keep the band on the cutting edge of contemporary anguish, NO (appropriate, considering the dour tone) have more on their collective mind than the latest trends in self-indulgence. Above all, Lowlife is a passionate piece of work that would be no less effective per-

S.Y.T.: �I know you�re gonna come this very second, Robbie, I�m gonna remind you of that time in Seattle when Peter let you take his Rolls Royce to bed and you left tire tracks down all those nubile backs, well I�m even more exotic than that, you�re gonna come now\�

R.P. (obscurely): ��Standing in the rain and I don�t know why, ooh ooh!�

S.Y.T.: ��Bobby! Will you please come outta that shower and come to bed with me where you belong!

I already told you last night that your vocals are still OK, come hell or high water (tee-hee!), jeez, do you really want me to come along on any more of these narcissus-! unbound jaunts...?!?�

Richard Riegel formed on woodblocks and harmonicas. Highand low-tech don�t matter much when your soul�s on fire.

New Order are, you probably know, the retooled Joy Division, the ultra-depresso group that attained a twisted notoriety in 1980 when singer Ian Curtis committed suicide. They would have been famous anyway, thanks to chillingly beautiful tunes like ��She�s Lost Control� and ��Love Will Tear Us Apart,� but the tragedy overshadowed their achievements. Little wonder that when the three survivors regrouped as New Order, the music had a ring of conviction, even if it wasn�t always articulate.

Low-life is the first time NO have received major-label distribution, being released on Quincy Jones�s Qwest Records, a tentacle of li�l ole Warner Bros. However, bigbusiness compromises needn�t be feared, as the packaging demonstrates. While the ornery Orderites have permitted their photographs on the cover for the first time ever, the large, suitablefor-framing portraits are distorted to make the gang appear other! than human. Keyboardist/guitarist Gillian Gilbert (inducted postCurtis), in particular, looks like a hell-spawned demon from another galaxy. And no names of band members, naturally. Curiously, Low-life can be used as background music, should you be thus inclined, because the songs are so darn pretty. The exquisite ��Love Vigilantes� interweaves Bernard Albrecht�s sweet singing and lovely acoustic guitar with Peter Hook�s thudding bass and Stephen Morris�s whomping drums, to dazzling effect. �Perfect Kiss,� a pleasantly pulsing dance track, exudes a soft glow worthy of Genesis or Yes. Love the cricket noises in the break, too. (Never mind that both songs concern death.) Further art-rock tendencies

surface in �Elegia,� a meandering instrumental reminiscent of, believe it or not, Tubular Bells. Nice, just the same.

New Order offer more than easy listening, of course. Besides the aforervoted morbid streak, there�s seething anger, pent-up rage, suppressed anxiety, and other hardto-digest stuff, all underscored by deceptively edgy playing. The choppy �Sooner Than You Think� serves up a pungent stew of sleek sounds and tartly sarcastic lyrics like �Your country is a wonderful place/ It puts my England to disgrace.� Matters really turn ugly on �Face Up,� a hard stomper that flatly states, �Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you.�

If Low-life has a flaw, it�s New Order�s reluctance to go to extremes more often. The intriguing lyrics are often maddeningly vague. And whenever Albrecht cranks up his slashing, Velvet Underground guitar chords, the dense mix quickly reins him in. Then again, a more flamboyant New Order would be a different band, not the one that made this fascinating record. It ain�t fun, but Low-life deserves high marks.

Jon Young

DIRE STRAITS Brothers In Arms (Warner Bros.)

It�s hard to get worked up about a record as endlessly mediocre as this one but I�ll try, believe me, I�ll try.

The Mark Knopfler Experience—excuse me, Dire Straits— are back after a lengthy break between studio albums. Their fans will not be disappointed, although they have every right to be. Brothers In Arms is what�s known as painfully dull. Remember �Sultans Of Swing�? Charming taste of bebop Zimmerman, wasn�t it? There�s nothing like that here. Remember Knopfler�s stirring instrumental theme for Local Hero? Nothing like that here, either. What is here is pretentious pablum, tired blood and long stretches of dead air. Ahhh, but why go on?

Because I�ve got space to fill, that�s why. Look, Knopfler�s a stick in the mud. He couldn�t cut loose if you handed him the knife. All this drowsy low-key ruminating gets on my nerves. Pick up the slack, Jack, and look alive. Christ, if this guy gets any more laid-back he�ll be comatose.

The inertia here is palpable. Even halfway decent songs like �So Far Away� and �Walk Of Life� drag their heels while Knopfler trips, stumbles and falls about trying to approximate liveliness. Everything else is just plain pitiful.

�Money For Nothing� begins with a typically namby-pamby intro, turns into �luded-out Stones and throws in some �cutting� commentary with references to MTV and �Money for nothin� and chicks for free.� It�s so heavyhanded that clowns like Mark Goodman will adopt it as some kind of anthem. Knopfler cocks a world-weary eyebrow on �Your Latest Trick� as he trots out his wheezy Dylan-clone vocals for the umpteenth time. To be fair, part of it sounds like smoothed-over Tom Waits. �Why Worry� is more Dylan drooling that rambles aimlessly, is subdued to the point of catatonia and sports a ridiculous fade-out. If this guy�s life depended on it he wouldn�t know when to slam it to a close.

The entire second side serves as a wretched warning that Dire Mark needs to spend less time floating through the clouds and a lot more time twistin� by the pool. Things like �Ride Across The River� and �The Man�s Too Strong� are beyond cliches; they�re dunderhead narratives, like Dylan on a blather bender or Harry Chapin gone �deep.� All that�s missing is some crapola harmonica. And of course there�s the title cut, the big finish for the unhappy wanderer as he roams around �n� around �n� around—and who the hell cares?

It�s hard to get worked up about a record as endlessly mediocre as this one—but I tried, believe me, I tried.

Craig Zeller

LONE JUSTICE (Geffen)

Lone Justice�s Maria McKee is one tough cookie. Barely out of her teens, she comes on with a spitfire defiance and a repertoire of yelps, growls and shouts that are the essence of country spunk. Sometimes the band sounds like what might have happened if Dolly Parton, around the time of �Jolene,� had hooked up with a Stonesish rock band. There�s also some of Wanda Jackson�s rockabilly brazenness in McKee�s delivery, and even a touch of Loretta Lynn�s �I won�t brook no nonsense� sass. On the whole, what we have here is a gal who with no great difficulty could carve out a piece of the country rock all for herself. She does for the female side of the coin—not the tear �n� throb suffrin� side, the side that stands with feet planted and gives as good as it gets—what outfits like Rank & File and the Scorchers do for Hank and Lefty and the boys.

EURYTHM

METHOD

EURYTHMICS Be Yourself Tonight (RCA)

by

Jeffrey Morgan

�You might as well like yourself: just think about all the time you�re going to have to spend with you.�

—Prof. Julius F. Kelp

What�s that you say? You felt the earth move recently and you don�t know why? Well, don�t worry, you�re not in love: it was just the apex of a Eurythmics backlash, whose tremor registered 7.5 on the Boy Howdy! scale here at America�s Only.

Some of the ensuing critical fallout was valid (faulting Touch for having too many songs that dragged on aimlessly for far too long) and some of it wasn�t (assessing 1984 [For The Love Of Big Brother] as a conventional pop album rather than as the soundtrack it was), but none of it caused any lasting damage.

That�s the charm of Eurythmics, however: try as you might to nail them on something, you just can�t make the charges stick. Like Talking Heads, Eurythmics have so strong an aura of self-confidence about them that every move they make not only seems to be the right one, but one that�s two steps ahead of everyone else.

Also, in an age when high school corridors are crowded with hordes of teenage girls dressed to the nines in emulation of female Ronald McDonalds like Lauper and Madonna, it�s more than reassuring to know that there are still women like Annie Lennox around to provide a healthy role model for tomorrow�s women in their formative years today.

Of course, this isn�t to forget for a moment that Annie Lennox is the woman who performed �Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)� at the Grammy Awards in Jesse Presley drag—which is precisely why the title of this new Eurythmics album is such an ironic hoot.

Besides, if ever there was a Eurythmics album on which Annie and Dave come across as being just plain folks (that is, as �just plain folks� as you can get when you�ve got big guns like Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin and Elvis Costello backing you up during the course of two sides), then this is the one.

The excess flab that did, indeed, mar parts of Touch has been excised this time around, resulting in nine lean, tight and concise songs which range from the political (�Sisters Are Doin� It For Themselves,� a no-nonsense �cornin� out of the kitchen� duet with Aretha) to the domestic (�Would I Lie To You,� a unique hybrid that crosses the lyrical melodicism of Todd Rundgren�s �Who�s That Man?� with the staccato riffs of Elvis Costello�s �Moods For Moderns� via some choppy Keith Richards-style chording), to the out �n� out hysterical (�Here Comes That Sinking Feeling,� with its public address system vocals).

Unfortunately, even a song that�s lean, tight, and concise can put you to sleep, which is exactly what the Stevie Wonder-inspired �There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart)� does. Now don�t get me wrong; I like Stevie Wonder as much as the next guy—unless, of course, the next guy happens to be David A. Stewart, the genius responsible for taking Stevie�s megapathetic �I Just Called To Say I Love You� (his biggest seller to date, if you can believe that) and cloned it into a version that�s marginally superior by default only because nothing else could possibly be as smarmy as the original.

And although Annie and Dave do get extra points for having Stevie contribute a hot harmonica solo in the middle of their remake, consumer advocate David Horowitz really ought to insist that this song be banned from being played on car radios and tape decks across the nation to help cut down on the number of highway fatalities this summer.

But no sense dwelling on the deadwood because, even though there aren�t any Eurythmics classics on this album in the same league as �Sexcrime� or even �Who�s That Girl?� (with the possible exception of �Would I Lie To You?�); and even though, to be completely honest about it, I can�t for the life of me imagine from what hat RCA�s going to pull their next Eurythmics single—unless, that is, they take the easy way out by releasing the Wonder pastiche (although a more perverse choice would be the aforementioned �Here Comes That Sinking Feeling�), chances are this album will stave off the critics long enough to make you secure with the knowledge that the next time you feel the earth move, it�ll be because you�re in love.

(Either that or the Prince backlash; better nail down the furniture and play it safe.)

Much of Lone Justice�s debut fully justifies the band�s glowing rep that�s been spreading east,

although it does sound kinda fussed over. Why should someone with a voice like McKee�s have to fight against a typically thrashing Jimmy lovine production? When, on ��Pass It On,� she�s urging us to ��keep the faith �til the battle�s won,� and the guitars are flailing away. Lone Justice can resemble one of those British Isles vague rabblerousing bands, albeit with country smarts and a real singer. And Tom Petty�s ��Ways To Be Wicked� (the second Petty song McKee�s recorded, following the sweet ��Never Be You� on the Streets Of Fire soundtrack) is a tooblatant attempt to get the band on what remains of album-rock radio. Not bad by any means— Heartbreakers Benmont Tench (he handles keyboards on the LP and Mike Campbell are in fine fettle)— just not where LJ�s strengths lie.

Those relative miscues aside, Lone Justice is simply dandy, whether McKee is auditioning for the Sister Sarah Brown role in a rock version of Guys And Dolls on the soul-saving �Soap, Soup and Salvation,� joining the list of preserve-my-land heroines on �After The Flood,� or trying to salvage a fading relationship on the lovely ballad �Don�t Toss Us Away� (penned by Bryan MacLean, McKee�s brother, formerly the Brian Jones of the group Love). �After The Flood,� written by McKee, may be the aural counterpart of last year�s farm-films, but it�s drawn and performed with detail and passion. It�s a rousing declamation of resilience—she�s determined to rebuild after her home has been totalled—with some terrific lines (�A place to call your very own means so much �though it�s a little soggy�).

The word �country� is barely being uttered by Lone Justice�s record company, and you really can understand the skittishness from a marketing standpoint, but as impressive as the band�s straight-ahead rock can be (as on �East Of Eden�), they shine on the material that�s most countrybased. On bassist Marvin Etzioni�s snappy �Working Late,� McKee (in her mid-period Parton manner) plays a woman waiting up for her man. The pie�s in the oven, That�s Incredible�s on the tube, and she�s dozing off, trying not to imagine fhim with another woman. �Working Late,� McKee�s �Wait �Til We Get Home� (somebody�s gonna be sleepin� on the couch, you can bet), and Etzioni�s �You Are The Light,� a bit of country-gospel, are small songs done to a crisp turn.

Even when she�s trying other singers� inflections on for size, McKee�s instincts are so fine that she rarely missteps. How does a singer so young avoid showing signs of awkwardness? She can break the momentum of a line and slip out for a half-spoken aside, and then fall right back into the melody: nothing seems to disrupt her. And her attitude is always spot on: the tart twang of �East Of Eden� and �Working Late,� the soft insistence of �Don�t Toss Us Away,� the downhome steadfastness of �After The Flood.� (One thing, Maria: leave �You like me!!� out of your Grammy acceptance speech, OK?) Forgive the occasional busyness of this highrolling debut; when Lone Justice calms down a bit, it could just turn out that Maria McKee will be the Gram Parsons we�ve been waiting for.

Mitchell Cohen

SUZANNE VEGA (A&M)

It was bad enough when folk/pop/jazz/rock artist Suzanne Vega got her major-label contract, and people started saying how if she sold a lot of records, it would mean a comeback for folk music and all the folks in the strum-andhum set. Then somebody (in the press, of course) started calling her a �new Dylan.� It was the first time that a major-label female artist had had that dubious distinction. Why is it dubious? Well, think of it this way—Bruce Springsteen is one of the only people who was dubbed a new Bob Dylan at the start of his career and still gets steady paychecks.

One pretty-good debut LP is too early to tell how steady or big Vega�s paychecks are going to be five years from now. On the one hand, she�s got a real gift for lyrics more visually vivid than an MTV video. Her sense of instrumental work is good, too—both her acoustic guitar playing and the fullband arrangements here capture incredibly subtle details of mood. On the other hand, Vega�s melody lines and quiet, limited singing voice get to be, well, boring. By the record�s second side you want more than subtle moods—you want changes in mood. There needs to be some feeling of cutting loose, letting stuff all the way out there, instead of squinting at romance�s chaos from a cooler place. Cool isn�t interesting unless heat takes it over every once and a while.

My hunch is that Vega worries too much about writing Good Songs, know what I mean? She was born in California but came to New Yawk City to go to a high school for smart, artistic kids, then went to an Ivy League university (full of the same kids) to study English and work on film, dance and other fine arts. Many of the strongest cuts on Suzanne Vega paint a picture of love at very emotional, intense moments (�Marlene On The Wall,� �Cracking,� �Small Blue Thing�), but the songs feel like there�s a glass wall between you and all that intensity. It�s a wall made of too goddam much intellectualism and fine art; by side two, where Vega gets into her longer, more verbally dense storysongs, it�s hard to care where the characters live anymore—concept has wrongly won over human contact. Bob Dylan has an intellect to match anyone�s in popular music, yet he regularly sidesteps his brain so his guts can spill. Suzanne Vega can�t be the new Dylan until she stops worrying about Good Songs.

Laura Fissinger

CLIQUE ALLEY

GREEN ON RED Gas Food Lodging (Enigma)

DANNY & DUSTY The Lost Weekend (A & M)

THE KNITTERS Poor Little Critter On The Road (Slash/Warner Bros.) EXENE CERVENKA/ WANDA COLEMAN Twin Sisters Live At McCabe�s (Freeway/Rhino)

by

Micheal Davis

Professional musicians are often involved in projects that never get released to the public; so many solo albums by members of major groups have bitten the dust before hitting paydirt that there�s no guarantee of big business support for small side projects by anybody. But musicians keep doing �em and trying to market them however they can. Usually, only superstars can afford to get their stuff released, but these four records go against that particular gain-grain; the parties involved are all well-established on their home L.A. turf but none have, as yet, caused any greedgasms in corporate boardrooms.

Certainly not Green On Red, who are back on indie hotshot Enigma after a round with the Slash/Warners setup. They�re back with a new lead guitarist and a thicker mix as well, less the Country-Joe-&-The-Fish-takeDylan-surfing sound of Gravity Talks than another trip up Highway 61 on the back of Crazy Horse. Mood master Chris Cacavas on keyboards remains the band�s most identifiable force while vocalist Dan Stuart continues to roll his colloquial crapshoot, winning enough times to stay in the game, if not clear the table. �Black River,� �Hair Of The Dog� and �Easy Way Out� are the tunes that stick with me at this point but the band�s feisty energy makes most of the rest go down pretty agreeably too.

�Earth�s ultimate destiny lies within this guitar�s depths!�

It�s not so amazing that you�d figure a major label would jump at a Stuart side project, however, but when he cut an LP of tunes with Dream Syndicate�s Steve �Dusty� Wynn, presto! an A & M release. The band includes Cacavas, newlywed D.S. drummer Dennis Duck and most of the Long Ryders—and the record�s countryish tinges point the way to an emerging truth: many rockers are investigating their roots and the social conventions/lubrications that were followed when these types of music were first popular.

That�s right, folks, we�re talking about alcohol. The Return of the Bottle. The Lost Weekend is unashamedly centered around not so much the idea of excessive drinking but the reality of it. So we�re treated to bouts of barroom braggadocio, hymns to recklessness and anthems of the inevitable consequences. The point of view is certainly down-toearth—�We�re two brothers, home on the range/We�re long on talk but short on change�—and the music delivers a lot of rowdy energy. But the blurred focus of the half-filled-out character sketches may limit its appeal a bit; it�ll be much more appreciated on Saturday nights than Sunday afternoons.

A well-lubricated lifestyle also seems to be the basis of much of the material on the Knitters� debut. Initially formed as sort of John & Exene�s Acoustic Summer Camp For Wayward Punks, the Knitters are now essentially X minus Billy Zoom, plus Blaster Dave Alvin on guitar and D.l. Johnny Ray Bartel on upright bass. Since D.J. Bonebrake limits himself to snare drum and Alvin offers up only the most immaculate licks from his bag of tricks, the music retains a light touch even on raucous rockabilly workouts like �The Call Of The Wrecking Ball.� There are effectively lazy shuffles and there are tears-in-their-beers-in-yourears ballads. There is also some filler. Hearing this punchless version of �The New World� is kinda irritating when they didn�t make room for their cover of the Blasters� �Long White Cadillac�; Exene�s haunting high harmony just adds something indefinably right to the song. Maybe a future B-side, guys �n� girl?

Of course Exene was sorta known as a poet, not a country singer, before the formation of X, and she�s provided several of the high points on the hit-and-missmiss-miss Freeway Records Spoken Word Trilogy—so reasonable hopes for a full side of her poetry are not only in order but are actually fulfilled. Beginning with, �You start out with a shot glass and you end up with a measuring cup,� she comes up with oneliners, short vignettes, found poems, notebook jottings and impatient harangues, almost all displaying impressive powers of perception and description, as well as an ironic wit that won�t quit: �It�s a nice day so why don�t you get drunk and be somebody else?� she quips.

Her only real problem here is her competition on the other side of the record. Wanda Coleman is another well-respected local poet, obviously one who has been too smart for her own good for a long time. Her work mocks casual, everyday cruelty, as if humor and anger were her Siamese twin sisters, playing jump rope, setting ghetto crimes to ghetto rhymes. When she nudges her audience, they applaud. When she touches her audience, they laugh. But when she really makes contact, her audience lapses into stunned silence. Hot stuff; wonder if she�s got a band on the side.