RECORDS

RECORDS

ROVING RODENTS WITHOUT A HOME

RATT

Invasion of Your Privacy

(Atlantic)

On its second full-length effort, the band that last year announced “We intend to conquer the earth” gets ambushed by its own inexperience. It’s nothing more or less than the second-album blues, a case of too much too

soon with too little thought about what comes next.

Ratt scored with Out Of The Cellar, its majorlabel debut—it was preceded by an independent release—because it was in the right place at the right time. The market was primed for melodic metal—a seeming contradiction in terms that's worked wonders for the financial status of groups like Def Leppard, Twisted Sister and Motley Crue.

And with Out of the Cellar, Ratt came forth with a pretty healthy dollop of that melodymeets-mayhem stuff, showing that you can in-

deed merge the crunch and grind of heavy metal with basic pop song structures. In other words, you don’t need nine-minute guitar solos or tomes to the devil to get the metalheads off.

So Ratt released its first album and toured. And toured. And toured some more. Three tours total, enough time to get the name out and establish a following.

But not enough time to craft a second album as good as the first. Invasion Of Your Privacy seems to fail because of poor preparation. The songs aren’t there, and neither is the playing; it’s as if the group hurried off the road, hustled together some new songs and ran into the studio to get the record out as soon as possible.

So what we get is a bunch of ineffectual songs, with nothing nearly as catchy as “Round And Round,” the hit from the debut disc. The closest Ratt comes is "Lay It Down," which has a passable guitar hook, a hip-

hopping bass line and a big beat from drummer Bobby Blotzer, and a fast rocker titled “You Should Know By Now.”

The rest of Invasion suffers from a severe lack of imagination. Guitarists Robbin Crosby and Warren De Martini seem to know how to play only one type of solo, and singer Stephen Pearcy—despite a disarmingly dry delivery on “You’re In Love”—does little more than shout and scream his way through the album.

Lyrically, Ratt may not submerge itself into satanic imagery, but its one-dimensional boygirl songs can be just as tiresome. When the most surprising line of a song like “Never Use Love” is "When push comes to shove/ I’ll be pushing you down,” you know you’ve either got a great country song (hardly Ratt’s intention) or a weak rock song (bingo!).

A word to the wise being sufficient, keep your privacy to yourself. And put Ratt back in the cellar.

Gary Graff

SCORPIONS World Wide Live

(Mercury)

Before getting into this long-running, tworecord live set from Scorpions, consider the role of live performance in heavy metal.

There are those who will argue concerts are the essence of heavy metal, that the live rite of communion keeps it from being just another loud and same-sounding genre of rock ’n’ roll. Concerts are the time all the metalheads and headbangers can gather, raising their collective leathers in tribute to the favorite-of-the-night.

If you’ve never been to a metal concert, it’s well worth the experience. Tons of guys in Tshirts, jeans and the occasional leather wristband. Yeah, girls are there, too, in three distinct groups: the girlfriends who were dragged along, looking none too happy about it; those who think the band members are cute, also known as latent Def Leppardism; and some who truly, actually like heavy metal (both of them).

If you’re getting the feeling that the average heavy metal concert has little to do with the music, you're right. A teenage ritual of sorts, it could be Black Sabbath or Judas Priest or Twisted Sister or Iron Maiden. The crowd’s the same and, to the undiscriminating or un-metaltrained ear, so's the music.

In the case of World Wide Live, the music comes courtesy of Scorpions while the abundant crowd noises come from the T-shirt and leather set in California, France and West Germany, where five stops of the German quintet’s 14-month "Love at First Sting" tour were recorded.

To be fair, Scorpions are a cut above most modern metal fare, and World Wide Live shows why. If you can, take a listen to the group’s first live album, The Tokyo Tapes, and you’ll hear a remarkable, albeit trendy, change. What was once a prototypical late 70s metal groupprone to long, indulgent solos—has become a streamlined, no-nonsense hard rock band with a toehold on the pop side.

Most metal bands, for instance, find some way to play ultra-long versions of their biggest hits. Not Scorpions, however. On World Wide Live, a big hit like "Rock You Like A Hurricane” is cut a bit, as are "Bad Boys Running Wild” and "Coming Home,” the latter trimmed by almost a minute-and-a-half.

Unfortunately, when Scorpions decide to extend something, it’s "Still Loving You,” the turgid love song from Love at First Sting.

Still, World Wide Live ends up being a fastmoving collection of the best 17 songs from Scorpions’ last four albums, the records that have pushed them from relative obscurity to Top 40 potential. There are a few killers— particularly "Make It Real,” "Can’t Live Without You” and "The Zoo”—but for the most part it’s average at best, flawed by a poor mix (heavy on vocals and bass, with the guitars grinding away in the background) and arrangements that don’t really enhance the original recorded versions.

So World Wide Live might be redundant for most Scorpions fans, unless they want the seemingly endless collage of action-packed photos. And the novice could be served better as well: if it’s a Scorpions album you want, try Love At First Sting or Blackout; and if it’s a live album that captures the heavy metal/hard rock hysteria, go for something like Judas Priest’s Unleashed In The East or Whitesnake’s Live In The Heart Of The City.

Gary Graff

MOTHRA

(Original Soundtrack)

(Starchild Records)

"OWWCCHH!!!”

"JEEZUZ...UCKING...HRIST!!!”

I just smacked my forehead into the pointy edge of the freezer door while reachin’ for a cold Bud. Damn, there’s blood running—no, make that skipping—into my mouth; it tastes like old guitar strings when you run your tongue and/or teeth across ’em in a boozadelic fit of Hendrix-inspired, air guitar mimeomania. Yup, there it is, I can see it puddling up on the kitchen floor—looks kinda like the Great Lakes as seen from the ionosphere...damn (slight return), I guess I’m gonna faint now. Oh well, my future as a vampire isn’t all that promising, groan—swoon—and a resounding thud— no, make that a wet universe-creating THUD.

Sound of whining theremin far off in the distance accompanied by this decidedly strange collection of thoughts:

"Why am I falling down this greasy drainhole? Why do I feel like I’m late for a very important date? Why do I feel like there’s a tornado nippin’ at my heels? And, by the way, WHERE are my ruby slippers? Is this love? Is this confusion?”

I don’t really know for sure because I’ve never been unconscious before, at least not accidentally; an interesting drug, to be sure. It’s kinda like I was hanging out up there in outer space actually watching the planets align for the first time in a millenium. Weird.

And there’s this music caromming off everything, and I can’t quite figure out what it is; it’s kind of soothing, kind of rhythmic, annoyingly alien in texture, but slightly pleasing to my decibel-cauliflowered ears. And it ain’t theremin music. It’s almost soundtrack music in quality.

But wait—hallucinations like dreams without a cause are beginning to flash in front of me, all neatly synched to this illusive beat.

Strange metallic dreams are abounding.

Hey, there’s Curt Gowdy and some adrenochrome-soaked celeb stompin’ through _ the high grasses of Sri Lanka, stalking hum1 mingbirds the size of Datsuns, armed to the S> teeth with the latest in lethal weaponry: low^ yield buzz grenades, valium gas bombs, highz powered barbiturate nets... and, and, there’s Marlin Perkins, over there, counting condor bites and busily extolling the nervy plight of some hideously mutated beaver-things who’re constructing, presumably with Federal Block Grant monies, huge underwater condos near the Luv Canal, and, and, and over there, there I am seated in a souped-up wheelchair in an old age home for rock writers enjoying a communal suck on a 30-pound seconal suspended from, from, Lita Ford’s left nip...

Phew. A little more conscious than unconscious now, I force myself up off of the floor and into the den. I gotta find out what that music is; it’s driving me crazy. Eyeballing the LP that’s been playing over and over now for the last three days I focus and read: "MOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRAMOTHRA...” ad infinitum.

Hmmms fade into a fit of metalized xenophobic yuks, forcibly repressed but bubbling under the surface nonetheless.

Yup, gang, you can throw out your Loudness LPs, your Kyu Sakamoto 45s, your Pink Lady 12-inchers, because what we have here is the true spiritual essence of all heavy metal. The complete soundtrack LPs—two of ’em!—for the film Mothra. Words fail me.

Here’s what it says on the back liner notes (mysteriously, they’re in English—I think): "Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls! Thank you for your buying this album. Today, we are in an atomic age, but, has miracle become an old story? Has mystery been reduced to a mere word? No! Miracle keeps surely alive even today! Mystery can never be a vain illusion! Now, we will present you a miracle of this day and age, a mystery of our time that it, a must exciting SFX-drama given by Toho to the world with great confidence.” Wuzza, wuzza, I mean that’s some heavy shit, man.

But what about the music? Does it contain dialogue? Does it have the famous "Motheria” theme song by those geisha godettes that grew up and—some say—became Pink Lady?

The music is a blazingly textured mishmash of rhythms that’re full of mystical undertones. The dialogue is a blazingly textured mishmash of rhythms that’re full of Japanese. The geisha godettes do indeed sing the Mothra theme song, and that in itself is worth the price of admission.

But the cuts on the LPs do have titles in English (again, I sure think so), and so far my fave is ‘‘Here Comes An Angry Wave Of Destruction Surging,” which is kinda selfexplanatory and also how I’m beginning to feel, now that complete consciousness is overtaking me. My other fave is ‘‘A Word Inscribed In An Epitaph Is ‘MOTHRA’”—and you better damn well believe it, because this Moth could do some serious damage to the clothing sections of every K-mart in the United States combined.

I gotta go now. I've got this ravishing desire to eat raw fish and make rice wine—or is that whine— and an urge to crawl inside of my Walkman just won’t leave me. And there are all of these little people running after me with cameras. I don’t know, Toto—but I don’t think we’re in Buffalo anymore.

Joe (The Divine Wind) Fernbacher

THE LORDS OF THE NEW CHURCH The Method To Our Madness

_(IRS.)_

If you’re feeling a bit cynical this month, you may consider hanging a “TRENDY” sign on Stiv Bator’s scrawny neck after you listen to the Lords’ new album. But even though Bator’s pop style does tend to shift with the times, all is forgiven, as (and this is the beloved Dead Boy Factor at work) he inevitably gets his trends a bit off from what’s actually selling in a given year. For example, Bator was all set to save the world from nuke apocalypse on the Lords' first album, and here Sylvie Simmons and all the critics in the know celebrated it as a fine heavy metal genre piece!

In fact, the Lords have been tagged as metal so much over the past couple years, that The Method To Our Madness seems to be a rather methodical attempt to live up to that term once and for all. As usual, Stiv and the boys don’t get it quite right, at least not in terms of swiping whole herds of skull-shleppers away from Motley Crue and their ilk. The music on the new Lords album is not the kind of stompheavy stuff that makes your head feel like Ed McMahon just sat on it (and did five commercials in a row for toll-free-number life insurance while he was at it). Even if Brian James gets off a bunch of rev-yer-injun guitar riffs, and bassist Dave Tregunna and drummer Nick Turner keep the bottom groan-scrunch tight, the net result is a melodic metal shuffle, hardly the plod & thwack of classic HM.

The Method To Our Madness rings the gong on the metal meter a lot more with its gloomy doomy sleaze-apocalyptic tone, which recalls early Black Sabbath, but with raggedy-ass Catholicism substituted for chemical downers. The songs on Method brag up the less edifying aspects of the so-called rock ’n’ roll lifestyle (apparently the Lords burned up a hotel in Finland when Stiv dozed with his votive candle still lit), and they toss off a lot of references to raunchy sex, black hearts, etc., etc., all the standard trappings of the metal scene.

This is almost the Dead Boy-era Stiv Bator again, the Stiv who liked to take his crucifix dagger (he bought at a Times Sq. cutlery shop) out of his pants at the dinner table, and play with it openly to arouse horror in polite pop society. Stiv don’t wanna be no Catholic boy, but of course he is, both by birth and by education, and if he can’t let himself be washed in the blood, he’s gotta pick his scars and spatter some along the way. After all, Madonna has taken her perverted-by-Catholicism pop soul all the way to the bank this season, so why not Stiv Bator too?

The problem (if you can call it a problem) with The Method To Our Madness is that Bator don’t really wanna sell out to trendiness when the whip comes down, and the album is full of songs like “Murder Style” and "Pretty Baby Scream” heavy with hints of sleaze, but without the crude lyrical stomp that makes for metal anthems. The Method To Our Madness is the first Lords album without a lyric sheet, and I think that’s less because Stiv wanted to hide the naughty words from the nuns back in Youngstown (“S.F.&T." stands for "so fucking tattooed,” a Dead Boyish fable about the pleasures of catching the crabs), than because all the snotty mumbles about "lipstick killers” don’t add up to stories you ever wanta read again.

OK, so the Lords conned I.R.S. prexy Miles Copeland into personally providing that weird peckerhead rap interlude in “Method To My Madness,” go ahead and be impressed by that if you wanna, but I’m gonna save this album for those metal-hungry moments I require the right warmup music on my stereo while I search through the grime & crud in my record stacks for Motorhead’s Ace Of Spades, true punkmetal that don't know the meaning of “schizoid.” (Lemmy’s probably a fucking Protestant.)

See, Stiv, when it comes to Catholic Boys (I am “one,” too!), you’re right about us turning out as wimps or rebels, problem is that there’s no “either,” no choice to it, you gotta remain both simultaneously & eternally. Maybe Jesus died for your sins, but He wants you to at least contribute to the parish softball uniforms fund in repayment. Ain’t no method to that kinda madness.

Richard Riegel

Y&T

Open Fire

(A&M)

Here I sit on Brobdingnagian shanks sipping bourbon coladas while watching Mid/South Atlantic Wrestlin on Ted (yes, you WILL have to see Threads for the 30th time this week because it’s better than valiums) Turner’s SuperStation, WTBS, awaiting the metaphor of deadline to clarify itself long enough for me to write this review. Like some metaloid Godot I sit and wait, sit and search, inertia and velocity playing a kind of neutralizing tag with my decibel-riddled soul. Noise, I need noize. Arrrggghhh!

And for my sins they gave me noize, this time in the guise of the latest LIVE LP from Y&T, agitated pshaws of wonder and shouldershrugging glee abound whenever he thinks about metal and California and all the inherent contradictions THAT presents. Called Open Fire, this record hits the ether with anthemic resolve, now doesn’t it—after all, it IS the last bastion of true-teenaged music left, even though you could make a strong case for simply tagging it metalaged music for metalagers, ’cause we all know for a certain fact that the teenager as a viable cultural innocent passed on into other dimensions way back in 1969 and has since been busily transmogrifying into, into, well into the metalager, phew—and seldom, if ever, wavers from that course. Annoyingly, as well as surprisingly, as a “live” outing Open Fire fares well.

Like I said it hits the ether (the void)—or is that the ether (the gas), I don't quite know for sure, either one is applicable—with said anthemic resolve, this time in the musical mummery of the title cut, “Open Fire.” This toon is a primer for just “how” to sound when your opening up in front of an arena chock-full of velocity-starved, event-inebriated metalagers sieg-heiling their studded wrists to the concrete heavens with bics all aflick. The song does serve its purpose, even if the song usually remains the same.

From this point on, we go on a SOP-inspired tour of the current metal psyche. “Go For The Throat,” “25 Hours A Day" and “Rescue Me” are all rhythmic chunk-encrusted odes to love unrequited and requited with surprisingly little misogyny rearing its pimply little head— which also is a sign of the new attitude of the metalager as opposed to the old-fashioned teenager.

Page two of this treatise on metalease begins with a sappy, metalpopatoon called “Summertime Girls.” This is the only non-live cut on the LP, and it shows. It is also a bit incongruous, in light of the fact that there is also a 12-incher with a “live” version of this song floating around that’s a sonic butt-muncher.

Following this go-to-the-frig-and-get-anotherbeer-or-try-to-feel-your-girlfriend’s-tit snoozer are three less rowdy but amazingly entertaining Y&T-toons. “Forever” again slips into the love requited and unrequited theme; “Barroom Boogie” sucks as a title, unless you’re Canned Heat, but comes off neatly as a metalized version of Mickey Gilley’s boozadelic epic, “Don’t The Girls Look Prettier At Closing Time?”

The whole shebang ends with a pretty Y&Ter called “I Believe In You,” which showcases, impressively, the lead guitar work of lead singer/lead guitarist (now that’s an interesting metal wrinkle, isn’t it?) Dave Meniketti. Hey, the guy ain’t half-bad.

Open Fire isn't spectacular, but it ain’t suckcity either. Putting his thumb and forefinger together in the sign of an OK, he smiles Brobdingnagially and slips into unconsciousness 'til next time.

Joe (Fool fer Noize) Fernbacher

TRASH Burnin’ Rock

(Atlantic)

HAL: So, did you go to the dentist today, Martin?

MARTIN: Why did you ask me that?

HAL: Well, actually Martin, because I knew that you went to the dentist today, but, you know, / haven’t been to the dentist in a little while... JESSE: I think Martin’s dentist wanted to be a real doctor, but he decided to become a dentist, instead—because he’s always giving Martin penicillin. The only thing I’ve even known you take penicillin for is if you’ve got a sore throat or syphilis, so I don’t know what the hell it’s got to do with your teeth.

HAL: Well, Martin does hang out with a lot of metal stars, you know.

MARTIN: And my throat isn’t even sore, so I’m a little worried...No, actually the reason that I think this will really appeal to you guys—the warm-hearted guys that you are—the reason I had penicillin is that I once had a heart murmur. I still do, in fact, and...

HAL: Is that true?

MARTIN: I had a heart murmur, yeah. I got out of the draft for it in nineteen-seventy...well, I don’t want to reveal my age, but I got out of the draft for it, because the doctor said I had a heart murmur.

HAL: / had a heart murmur, too!

MARTIN: Did you get out of the draft?

HAL: It wasn’t for that that I did, but I think I could’ve. I did have to take medication when I was around 21.

JESSE: You guys both got out of the draft— and every day you sit around and talk about Ronald Reagan and how the eagle is back on the mountaintop. You are what Mike Royko would call “war wimps.” You’re fuckin’, “Yeah, right on! We gotta put the eagle on the mountaintop”—but neither of you guys went to fight in the war and protect our country. What do you have to say about that? MARTIN: Protect our country? Let me get this straight: what you’re saying is anybody that does is cool? As long as they’re willing to fight for our country?

JESSE: People have no right to be talking about Reagan’s being a hawk right now, if they were war wimps to begin with.

HAL: In other words, Jesse, you would be glad if, say, uh, a reader who had fought in Vietnam wanted to come up to the CREEM offices and talk to you? You would be more than glad to spend hours talking with that person? Is that what you’re saying?

MARTIN: Furthermore, let’s get one more thing straight: by Jesse’s definition of war wimps, one can suppose that since Jesse’s never served in the Army, he has no rightful say whatsoever about our American armed forces. Thus, let the Army go anywhere it wants to, ’cause whatever Jesse thinks is immaterial. He was never a member of the armed forces. JESSE: Well, that’s what I’m saying about you guys. You weren’t active members of the armed forces, either.

MARTIN: I don’t care where our Army goes, because I can’t get in it.

HAL: That’s right. Same with me.

MARTIN: How about you, Jesse? How do you feel about that?

HAL: Let the president, who knows better, let him send them where he wants.

JESSE: The president is never wrong, simply because he is the president.

HAL: OK, if that’s how you feel—OK, Jesse! You’ve gone on record.

JESSE: That’s not how I feel.

HAL & MARTIN: (In unison) Then why’d you say it?

JESSE: Because I’m quoting you guys. HAL: I never said that!

MARTIN: In fact, I’m sure that the reader will note by looking up on top of this sentence that’s being said right now—how about that for a concept?—there is no mention made of President Reagan in terms of what you just said.

JESSE: But you guys talk about Reagan every day. In fact, I would dare say you guys voted for Reagan!

HAL: Who brought up Reagan in this thing? MARTIN: You know, he’s always ragin’ about Reagan.

JESSE: I brought it up, ’cause you guys evaded the draft.

HAL: I came here to talk dentistry, and you’re talking about Reagan!

JESSE: You evaded the draft under false pretenses.

MARTIN: I have a heart murmur, it’s not false. HAL: / didn't evade the draft under any false pretenses.

JESSE: (Points at Martin, who is smoking) Anybody that has a heart murmur would know better than to have a cigarette as a permanent appendage of their mouth.

MARTIN: Speaking of permanent appendages on people's mouths...you seem to be mumbling a lot, Jesse. What’s in there that we can’t see?

JESSE: Heeee!

MARTIN: Well, this is getting way off track. Let’s get back to the dentist.

HAL: Yeah, I thought we were talking about dentists. No, I’ve had a lot of dental work done in the last year, so I’m glad that’s out of the way, you know what I mean? I am glad. MARTIN: Absolutely. It was weird today, because I got Novocain. Novocain's pretty neat.

HAL: You know, I’ve never gotten gas—I’ve always gotten Novocain, ’cause it’s safe and it’s proven.

JESSE: Not only are they draft evaders, they’re fucking junkies! Sittin’ here talking about drugs! MARTIN: Let me share an interesting story that I think might appeal to our readers. I have a cousin who’s a dentist. He lives in Pennsylvania. He likes football.

HAL: Does he like Pennsylvania? Does he like living there?

MARTIN: Yeah, but actually he moved from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, right across the river, because it’s more of an upper-class city. Urn, nonetheless, catch this: Doctor said this to me, Doctor Dio, as we'll have to call him, he said, “Martin, look, I’ll be straight with you. You got cavities. I can give you Novocain, but I wanna go to a game. The game’s gonna start in an hour. If I give you Novocain, you’re gonna have to wait a half-hour before I can even go into your cavities—and I'll be late for the game about a half-hour.” He said to me, “What do you prefer? Do you want the Novocain or not?” Simultaneously, Mr. Dio—that’s right, my dad, looked at me beseechingly, as if to say, “Don’t be a wimp, Martin. Don't fuck up and make your cousin late for the game." So, grimacing, I said “OK, I don’t care.” What followed was the most painful experience of my life. To this day, I think about it and begin to cry. The moral of the story: whenever you have the option for Novocain, always take it. JESSE: I agree.

HAL: You mean you had all this done without Novocain?

MARTIN: Yeah, that’s right. It was like the Marathon Man.

JESSE: My dentist asked me once if I wanted Novocain, for just a small cavity. And I said, “Well, if you don’t think I need it, go ahead.” He started to drill, and man—it hurt like hell. And then he said “I better get you some Novocain." I said, “Yep, you better.” So I agree with Martin. Always use Novocain.

HAL: I think it’s important that we agree on something like this. Especially since it’s going into the magazine.

JESSE: Speaking of the Marathon Man, do we all agree that it was Mengele’s body that they dug up over there in, uh, Paraguay, or Uruguay, or however they pronounce it? HAL: I think it was Brazil, wasn’t it?

JESSE: Oh, I don’t know.

HAL: But he was evidently living in one or the other banana republics down there. (To Martin) I don’t know, what do you think? I guess it was.

MARTIN: Well, I don’t know. I just read my Parade magazine, and it said they were still looking for him.

JESSE: Yes, but if you looked in the Free Press, they said that they printed that too late to change it.

MARTIN: All of America is a free press, and don’t you forget it, Mr. Anti-Reagan. Thanks to the eagle being on the mountain. Well, listen, I guess it’s time to wrap this up. Oh, by the way, what about this record we’re supposed to be reviewing?

HAL: It stinks!!

Hal Jordan, Martin Dio & Jesse Grace