THE REPLACEMENTS

Tim

(Sire)

by Richard C. Walls

Here�s the deal: a cult band, a critic�s band called the Replacements, operating out of Minneapolis, makes three records for the tiny but brave Twin Tone label. The first, Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash, sounds like hardcore with some likeable pretentions, fast, loud, sloppy with cleverer than average lyrics and a penchant for succinct melodies (face it, they sounded like a buncha drunken slobs, which, by all reports...). The second (after an EP, The Replacements Stink), called Hootenanny, was more of a mixed bag, by a group still finding value in the crash �n� burn aesthetic but apparently bored enough by the genre�s limitations to do a little eclectic dipping into the blues �n� folk bag. The third, Let It Be, was the triumph, post-punk eclecticism harnessed to a personal vision (Paul Westerberg is the group�s lead singer and rhythm guitarist and, as chief songwriter, head of the personal vision dept.). And while all this is going on the critics slobber appreciatively, the cult shows up for gigs, and the peak album sells about diddly, which means these guys are going nowhere for sure.

Enter a major label, a new producer (Tommy Erdelyi, nee Ramone) and the desire to get their music heard by the hungry masses becomes a possibility, i.e., here comes either the big sell-out or a pragmatic compromise, which is just the point at which most rock groups get their albums assigned to me, just a coincidence, I�m sure. Only this time, instead of writing my usual sarcastic piece about how the crushing dynamics of the marketplace has caused another band to hurt my idealistic feelings, I have to admit that, relatively polished production and all, this is a very good record.

Not that it�s that polished, or so polished that all traces of human endeavor have been erased. And anyway, it�s been evident from the get-go that lead guitarist Bob Stinson had the makings (and the proclivities) of a commercially viable heavy metal guitarist or, if that sounds too insulting, rock guitarist. In fact, all the guys sound like seasoned pros here, including disgracefully young bassist Tommy Stinson (dig his plump, melodic sound on �Swingin� Party�). But the real reason Tim is a fine record, despite it all, is because of Westerberg�s singing and songwriting—the guy has a wonderful blurry sing/shout style that allows him to bulldoze through the fast ones and get all raspy/poignant during the slow ones. He�s also a surprisingly subtle lyricist with a keen sense of relevant anger; targets this time out include A-bombs on �Dose of Thunder,� and stewardesses—excuse me, flight attendants—on �Waitress In The Sky,� a song with a viciousness tempered by its zippy sing-along melody: altogether now, �struttin� up the aisle/big deal, you get to fly/you ain�t nothin� but a waitress in the sky.� Even a seemingly overworked bit like the marriage-dissolving song benefits from Wesferberg�s knack for indirect detail (�all you ever wanted was someone to take care a� ya/all you�re ever losing is a little mascara�—you see, it�s a reference to crying—oh, never mind).

Each side of the album ends with one of those terrific heartfelt slow ones which have become a Westerberg specialty. �Here Gomes A Regular� is about a rapidly aging wastrel who �used to live at home/now I stay at the house,� who�s beginning to wonder if there�s any future in the saloon society/alienation bit (the cynical might respond that it depends how well the record sells). �Swingin� Party� depicts life as a prison sentence with a swingin� party (i.e., hanging) waiting down the road. Both these songs skirt the edge of self-pity, stumble along only a pint short of maudlin, and still they manage to move you �cause the guy�s got talent, something that no amount of clean, contempo production values can disguise.

ROBYN HITCHCOCK & THE EGYPTIANS

Gotta Let This Hen Out! (Relativity)

In a little over a year—and face it, that�s not long— Robyn Hitchcock�s released three albums that, if not incredible, are at least excessively superior to anything everyone else has done. First off was I Often Dream Of Trains (solo, acoustic, this decade�s finest LP), followed by Fegmania! (with the Egyptians, an obliquely hilarious state-of-thesongwriting record) and now the latest, Gotta Let This Hen Out!... an 11-song set culled from a live performance at London�s Marquee last spring, and every bit as exceptional as its immediate predecessors. That is to say, anyone with even the vaguest interest in how good music can be would be the veriest idiot to not own it immediately.

Gotta Let This Hen Out! has it all: Robyn The Warped (�My Wife And My Dead Wife,� �Sometimes I Wish I Was A Pretty Girl�— well, what the hell, practically everything applies), Robyn The Whimsical (�Listening To The Higsons,� �Brenda�s Iron Sledge�) and Robyn The Warm (�Heaven,� possibly �America,� although both are touched with whimsy). Robyns abound, all wielding a cunning insight and offhanded cracko bluntness.

What�s most fascinating to the Hitchcock fan—surely • you�ve joined the ranks by this I paragraph—is the endless I minutiae this album generates, I as behooves any great live I recording. Hitchcock singing I �Sometimes I wish I was a 1 pretty girl, so I could wreck 1 myself in the shower,� subbing 1 �wreck� for the original—and, I yes, better—�ooof.� (Of 1 course, the original original I working verb, before the track I was recorded, was �stab,� I so...uh...l don�t know, make of I it what you will. For the record, I he�s never used the word I �rape� in the song.) The ab® surd adlibs, making already

non sequitur lines (�Brenda�s iron sledge, please don�t call « me Reg, it�s not my name�) all I the more delightful (�...it�s not I my name...not yet!�). HitchI cock, by the way, actually ex1 plained that aside in a recent I interview with this magazine: I �Well, it might eventually be I Reg. I don�t know.� (Is this I guy—as Tom Verlaine once 1 said about something else— I too too-too, or what?). Roger I Jackson getting his Yamaha 1 DX-7 to sound like a Farfisa, I adding the necessary creepI show effect to �My Wife And I My Dead Wife.� The strange I choice of material: including a I B-side (albeit a killer B-side) I like �Listening To The Hig1 sons� in lieu of Fegmanial�s * �Egyptian Cream,� �Strawberry Mind� or �The Man With The Lightbulb Head,� which you know—if you�ve been fortunate enough to catch the Egyptians� American tour— sound even greater live. (Not to mention the omission of classics from Trains—�Sounds Great When You�re Dead� and �Uncorrected Personality Traits�—that�ve lost nothing in the translation to live and onstage.)

If this all sounds like nitpicking, well, it is. It�s the kind of nitpicking you can�t do with 99 percent of the records in the world because, frankly, who cares? With Hitchcock (who answers why he�d write a song

about listening to an unremarkable British band called the Higsons thusly: �Uh, why do I write about anything, really?�), it�s a joy. The guy�s clearly a genius, the heir apparent to the songwriting geniuses of the �60s. He�s active, he�s forwardlooking and—if you ask him if he can discuss U2—he�ll answer �Not seriously.� What rampant sanity have we here?

That his stuff plays as well (and sometimes better)onstage is an interesting sidelight,and extra incentive to pick up on Hen. There were, Hitchcock admits, some repairs: �Towards the end of the LP, the vocals were overdubbed...�Heaven� is actually studio vocals with a live track, which I think is a great way to record.�

Obviously. To be blunt, the mere existence of this record (and the records from which it was derived) should scare the living hell out of anyone with a contract to record music. �Bloody red bats,� they might well murmur upon listening.

Fortunately for the consumer, however, Hen is the happiest of events. Don�t let it throw you when Hitchcock describes a song as being written �before most of you were born and a long time after the rest of you were dead.� When Hitchcock sings of death, I, for one, hear life. And these songs will not only sound great when you�re dead, they�ll sound greater when you�re deader.

J. Kordosh

SIMPLE MINDS

Once Upon A Time (A&M)

What�s the greatest threat to rock �n� roll today? Some say it�s the paranoid parents who are frightened by every pelvic thrust and exposed navel. No way. Although these guardians of morality are an irritant, they at least perform the valuable service of making contemporary music seem a lot more exciting than it really is. After all, is there really anything dangerous or revolutionary about Prince? W.A.S.P.? Madonna? These packaged commodities aren�t half as scary as, say, Slim Whitman.

No, the number one menace to the music we love is posed

I by the goody-goody contingent. Not twits like Stryper, but those sneaks who pretend to be rockers and lead unwary listeners into the musical equivalent of a Sunday School class. I refer, of course, to such deadbeats from across the sea as U2, Big Country, and the latest offenders, Simple Minds. Exhibit A: Once Upon a Time, a slick, well-mannered LP stuffed with wholesome uplifting sentiments. What�s wrong with that? In theory, not much. Here, however, the result is somewhat less stimulating than a coma.

On a more logical planet, Simple Minds� stuffy pop wouldn�t be judged by rock �n� roll standards. It�S got no crunch, no kick, and doesn�t sweat. Instead, the bombast of �Oh Jungleland� (Bruce!) and �Wish You Were Here� recalls such dreadful �rock� musicals as Hair and Jesus Christ, Superstar. It�s pseudo-rock for people who barf at the thought of genuine boogie.

The players don�t help much. Where U2 and Big Country camouflage their terminal straightness with blasts of lively electric guitar, poor Charlie Burchill (guitar) and Michael MacNeil (keyboards) don�t have a distinctive lick between them. And thanks to the megaproduction of Jimmy lovine and Bob Clearmountain, that facelessness stands out in bold, bright relief. Simple Minds� only distinguishing feature is, of course, vocalist Jim Kerr. Mr. K has three dazzling styles of singingearnest, sincere, and heartfelt— which is why the breakneck �Ghost Dancing� doesn�t seem all that different from the moodier �Alive And Kicking,� which doesn�t stand out from the gospel shades of �Come A Long Way.�

As for the life-affirming pronouncements he spews forth so relentlessly, they�re fine and dandy, sort of. It does take nerve to express �square� attitudes, even in this era of Band Aid and Live Aid, because being bad is still more fun. But jeez, Jim, the world�s got enough greeting-card drivel already.

�Sanctify Yourself� observes, �Love is all you need,� while the title track remembers when �Love Was A White Dove,� and �Oh Jungleland� babbles on and on about �a Kid called Hope.� Etc. Snore.

Taking a positive stand doesn�t have to mean becoming a soggy bore. Kerr need only look to his wife, Chrissie Hynde, who snarls magnificently in the name of human decency. Or he might note �Sun City,� an electrifying display of anti-racist anger. He might even recall how the Sex Pistols balanced rebel poses with a bizarre puritanical streak wider than an interstate highway.

In fairness, it�s been a long, hard road for Simple Minds. Starting as an entertaining Roxy Music ripoff, they grew tedious and uptight as they developed their own starchy style. Then, the band�s commercial breakthrough, �Don�t You (Forget About Me),� was a crummy movie theme created by hack Keith Forsey. How embarrassing! On second thought, skip the sympathy. Simple Minds are selling mush to impressionable listeners hungry for good old-fashioned entertainment. They could do more harm than a Commie invasion! Sound the alarm before it�s too late!

Jon Young

AEROSMITH

Done With Mirrors (Geffen)

W.A.S.P.

The Last Command (Capitol)

Aerosmith represents �old� metal: metal with pre-metal roots, music made in the image of the Stones and Yardbirds as much as Zeppelin. Done With Mirrors is their �comeback� album, the first with their original lineup in six years. It�s produced by Ted Templeman, who records the rhythm section a little cleaner than before but otherwise captures the �classic� Aerosmith sound as is.

Which is to say that Steve Tyler remains adept at his grunt, grin and grimace game, continuing to be inspired by pelvic region body heat. So far, so good. But so far, so better is the reuniting of the PerryWhitford guitar team. Joe Perry can still grind and whine with his Keith Richards/Jeff Beckderived vocabulary of licks, and his approach fits in well with Brad Whitford�s supple approach to riffmaking. Their playing on �Shela� and the fadeouts to �Gypsy Boots� and �The Hop� set them apart from any other twin guitar band on the market; don�t mention Ratt unless you wanna make me laugh.

Watch As Sinners Play (W.A.S.P.) also have two lead guitarists, also play heavy rock and also see themselves as �bad boys.� But there the similarities end. Where Perry and Whitford display a certain amount of slippery, slidey finesse in their playing, Chris Holmes and Randy Piper are beefcake all the way.

But then, Blackie Lawless never claimed to be much of a bass player; he�s turned out to be a surprisingly effective songwriter, though, in his chosen genre of pseudo-glammetal. He�s been able to flesh out his chosen persona— roughly two parts Alice Cooper to one part Bugs Bunny to one part Black & Decker— with some well-written, if laboriously over-the-top material.

BOXED LUNCH

BOB DYLAN

Biograph

(Columbia)

John Mendelssohn

Hearing about how Stevie Wonder had to coach him on how to sing like himself on �We Are the World� or watching him and those two stupid English substance-abusers murder �Blowin� In The Wind� at Live Aid, the younger reader might find it inconceivable that Bob Dylan was ever anything other than an embarrassment.

In fact, though, it�s no accident that he, along with Elvis and Bruce Springsteen, is generally regarded as one of the three greatest figures in the history of American rock �n� roll. He almost singlehandedly made it OK—groovy, even— to write smart lyrics for rock �n� roll songs. He demonstrated that even if one could hardly sing at all, he could still sing rock �n� roll effectively. By strapping on a Fender Stratocaster, he infuriated a lot of people who desperately needed to be infuriated, people who (inexplicably) regarded the likes of the Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul & Mary as viable musical propositions. He cured the common cold and made the world safe for democracy.

Me, I used to love the Bob Dylan who wore Carnaby Street clothing, sang as though he might burst out laughing at any second (as he did once, come to think of it, on �Rainy Day Women #12 and 35�), wrote songs that suggested his injudicious consumption of benzedrine, and never recorded anything without a Hammond organ whispering chillingly in the near background. The Bob Dylan I loved—the �Subterranean Homesick Blues�-to-the-motorcycleaccident one—is underrepresented on Biograph. Unfortunately, What A Sad Predicament�s attempted anthems like �The Last Command� and �Running Wild ln The Streets� aren�t nearly as strong musically as their straight-out stompers like �Ball Crusher,� �Blind In Texas� and �Sex Drive,� and these tunes are a little too wild and risque for most radio stations to wanna mess with just now. Then again, a song like �Fistful of Diamonds� might win What A Shrewd Ploy a guest spot on Dallas. Why not? Prime time TV is the only place left where heavy metal might have a chance to be as threatening and forceful as it would like to be in �real life.�

But I�m not so sure that anyone�s going to feel that his or her favorite Dylan is adequately represented on Biograph, which may have been programmed by monkeys on sabbatical from trying to type the complete works of Shakespeare. How could they have left off �Love Minus Zero,� say, or the magnificent �Queen Jane Approximately,� that apotheosis of mid-�60s Dylan, that sublime distillation of �Like a Rolling Stone� and �Positively 4th Street� in favor of the likes of the appallingly corny �If Not for You� or the lugubrious and longwinded �Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll�?

You get the impression that several tracks might have been included solely on the basis of there being heretoforeunreleased live versions or outtakes of them in the vaults. How else to explain a live version of �It�s All Over Now, Baby Blue� that sounds as though it were recorded in the bottom of a well?

To compound the problem, several of the live tracks remind us that the presence of a band behind him on stage has almost invariably wreaked havoc with Our Boy�s singing, has almost invariably rendered it howly and one-dimensional —however much it used to thrill the stuffing out of my pal Greil Marcus, for instance, I, for one, have never cared for Dylan�s literally yelling the last note of every phrase onstage. You�d have to subject yourself to a lot of hard-core punk to find a more relentlessly abrasive track than the live �Isis� included here.

Speaking of abrasive, Biograph reminds us that for years Dylan devoted instrumental solo time—that any of a number of distinguished accompanists might have burned in—to his own fingernails-across-a-blackboard harmonica playing. We see this now as one of the greatest running musical jokes in the history of rock �n� roll. But we still cringe no less.

The best thing about Biograph is the accompanying booklet, which features Dylan letting fly some perfectly wonderful quotations. ��You could get run out of town or pushed over a cliff,� he recalls of the early days of rock. �Of course, there was always someone there with a net.� Of modern AOR (specifically, Power Station�s �Some Like It Hot�) he says, most aptly, �Nothing means anything. [It�s] just people showing off, dancing to a pack of lies. These things are just hooks— fishhooks in the back of your neck.� That�s better rock criticism than I, for one, have ever written.

Columbia thinks that the fact of Biograph comprising so many digitally remastered recordings is going to make you more inclined to buy it. You�re reminded, though, that it was only last year that Dylan ceased to disdain the sort of production that digital remastering was conceived to enhance most dramatically. So don�t be bamboozled. Spend the money instead on the mid�60s Dylan album you lack, on Bringing It All Back Home or Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde On Blonde, and a delightful evening out.

Michael Davis

DON�T BOTHA ME

ARTISTS AGAINST APARTHEID Sun City (Manhattan)

VARIOUS SOUTH AFRICAN ARTISTS Assorted South African Records & Cassettes

Barbara Pepe

Everybody�s talkin� �bout South Africa these days, it seems. And now we have 51 members of every splinter rock �n� roll genre who, as Artists Against Apartheid, have decided to raise consciences over political injustices in the southern half of that continent, now that they�ve raised enough money to feed the starving northerners. Well, nobody ever said suitable rock �n� roll topics were limited to love and lust and politician�s wives who get a little squeamish over same. However, in �Sun City,� Little Steven (a.k.a. Miami Steve or Stevie Van Zandt or any kind of Steve you want to call him) tries to do something no 7:41 song could ever be expected to do, which is to explain the political situation in South Africa.

The problem I have with a record like �Sun City� is that it�s so one-sided. No one is arguing that apartheid is anything but a morally corrupt, societally divisive and destructive policy. Then again, on this record, I don�t hear anybody arguing for 99% of everyday white South African Derecks and Lornas who also believe apartheid is morally corrupt, societally divisive and destructive and would like to see their government get off its friggin� butt and make some real changes before the place blows up into another Zimbabwe. Anybody who�s set foot in Johannesburg (or Capetown, or Durban of any other city there) and has a tongue in their heads can tell you that, but does Van Zandt? Of course not. You don�t hear about the ordinary springbok just tryin� to keep hjs job when sanctions are forcing his company to lay off 70% of the work force, and that means whites as well as blacks. No, Steve just goes for the throat that represents only one percent of the population, the fat Afrikaaner cats who can afford to patronize Sun City. There�s a real danger here of just conveying catch phrases and not telling the whole story, and in doing so, an entire population of people is wrongly tainted.

Politics aside (and that�s hard to do in a country where skin color determines what you make of your life) the music has its moments here, but just a few. Arthur Baker did prove what a genius he is to actually put Gil Scott-Heron, Ruben Blades, Bob Dylan, Nona Hendryx, Bruce Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt and Kurtis Blow onto one record that�s even fun to listen to—but only on a limited

basis. After a while, the pounding message frays nerves and withers that initial impulse to dance. As for the other songs that make up the miniLP, well, this is a record that is a riff bloated into a single that gorged on a lot of famous friends and blimped into a mess. �No More Apartheid� is a nice bit of psychedelic jam from Peter Gabriel and Shankar,* but the rest just kind of gets lost in excerpts from Reagan speeches, P.W. Botha quotes and indulgent mishmash. It�s not art, it�s not fun, you can�t dance to it and OK, we got the message already, but let�s be realistic here. Singing about apartheid in the U.S. isn�t going to do a whole lot to abolish it 7,000 miles away.

� South African musicians got that message a long time ago;

It�s long been proven that political systems, no matter how repressive, can�t stop people from putting tunes to words and the Botha regime is no exception. Yet a perusal of seven popular indigenous artists, both black and white, found none of them taking on their government.

Take Hotline, for example, a mixed group powered by South Africa�s answer to Bonnie Tyler and Maggie Bell combined. (Bio material on these bands is impossible to come by, so descriptions will have to suffice.) They�d rather thank Mother Africa on their LP, Wozani, for giving them its heritage, then quibble about some stupid government that�ll probably be voted out come next election anyway. And they do it with flat out guitar raunch, a Fonder Rhodes—no fancy synths needed here—in both English and one of the 12 tribal

languages, probably Zulu. When they talk about Soweto and the townships, it�s to celebrate the dancing there. Not nearly as inventive but probably as popular among the cognoscenti, is Stimela. Ray Phiri is the genius behind this threat to Teddy Pendergrass who finds a way to produce music with emotion,

I!on an off count beat too. On two songs fromShadows, Fear And Pain, he manages to juggle enough elements in the mix to keep it interesting, but three of the EP�s five cuts fall flat into extended jam Oblivion.

Phiri�s production, however, is far superior to that of Sipho �Hotstix� Mbuse on Harari�s Heartbeat disc. It�s interesting that with the sophistication ?. available this band chooses to sound like it�s recording home cut demos. �Stay With Me� is the most interesting, but its over-reliance oh electric piano keeps this in the section marked �amateurish.�

Both Brenda and the Big I Dudes and �Om� Alec Khaoli I would find homes on U.S. I black music charts, probably leveling out around #20 or so. I Brenda�s smooth, silky love songs on Touch Somebody I don�t sound much different

than any American-grown variety, except for the marimbas. Khaoli likes his marimbas too, only thrown in with a little synth to roughen up the mix.

Amampondo has a two sided single, all instrumental, that�s percussion heavy with harmonic choral vocals. Not top bad for a taste of something exotic, but you�re never quite Sure if you�ve got something African or Central American on the stereo.

And finally, there�s EllaMental, Capetown�s favorite export and probably the most technologically advanced band of the bunch. Only trouble on Uncomplicated Dreams, they fancy themselves a South African cross between ABBA and the Captain and Tennille. It�s your basic Euro-rock with a little English synth/pop and a nod to Pat Benatar with—hello! How did this sneak in here? Lordy, it�s some good o!� rockabilly.