TWISTED SISTER Come Out And Play (Atlantic)

Twisted Sister is a basic rock band with an effectively schizophrenic image, so effective that my responses are both basic and schizzed. So, on one hand, there are,

Things I Like About Twisted Sister:

I like the way Dee Snider and the boys have made concepts like ugly, hideous, and “what’s that?!?” acceptable again in rock ’n’ roll; enough pretty boy metal, y’ know? I like the way Dee worships Alice Cooper, but comes on more like a cross between Ted Nugent and Bozo The Clown—That's Entertainment '86.1 especially like the way they exploit the made-up/non-made-up images simultaneously, something Kiss never had the guts to do.

I like the way Twisted Sister stuck together for years before they made it. I’ll probably always have a soft spot in my head/heart for any band that offers regular rock ’n’ roll employment to an ex-Dictator.

There are several things I like about Come Out And Play. I like the garish fold-out Twisted Sisterhole cover; it’s great that some superstar bands try to give their fans something extra for the extra buck they charge ’em for LPs. I like the H-for-humor rating and the way Dee stood up to the PMRC with crass class; a good way to deal with attempts to define our rights away is to laugh the repressive “public servants” right off the planet. And I like the sex role change on the version of “Leader of the Pack”; it’s a crack-up.

Then there are,

Things I Don’t Like About Twisted Sister:

Mainly, the music. After playing together for so long, Twisted Sister still aren’t anything more musically than a competent heavy metal band, no better nor worse than thousands of others. Despite production by Dieter Dierks, who’s been behind the board for bands like the Scorpions and Accept, there are no memorable guitar solos here, no moments of aural outrage to back up the visual image. And as for the songwriting, those few times the band steps outside its patented anthems are spent reworking the vocabularies of Deep Purple and Dio.

Of course, all these complaints are the types of weaknesses likely to be pointed out by people who haven’t been in Twisted Sister’s target audiencefrustrated teens and post-teens still living with their parents—for years. Many of their fans are more into visual image than sound, and for them, Dee’s decision to file his teeth may be heavier than any sound on this album.

THE CLASH

Cut The Crap (Epic)

BIG AUDIO DYNAMITE

This Is Big Audio Dynamite (Columbia)

I thought that the whole idea of the Clash splitting up was so that they could dump their tired habits and come up with something brand new enough to redeem the terrific critical drubbing they took for both Sandinista! and Combat Rock. Instead, we got a range war here, podner, as each principal is out to prove that he was the true keeper of the Clash flame and that the other guy was the dead weight when the whole thing went belly up.

The signs of Strummer’s and Jones’s Clash-of-wills rivalry are all over their post-union debut albums. Strummer had already recruited younger, punkierlooking guitarists (Vince White and Nick Sheppard) to his new Clash (though word has it that they were both dismissed recently, probably to needle the pophungry Jones, so Mick in turn comes back with actual black reggae mons (Don Letts and Leo “E-Zee Kill” Williams) for his band, maybe in hopes of calling Joe’s bluff on his Third World yap once and for all.

And—this is where Mr. Strummer and Mr. Jones start to remind me of those great guys who co-wrote “I’m So Bored With the U.S.A.” (one of the 10 greatest rock songs ever) all over again—when they really go and fuck up on their new albums, they do so in EXACTLY THE SAME WAY! Dig: all parties to the Clash have had their (sometimes successful) flirtations with the dub technique over the years, but the whole process should be getting a bit old for these whi’boys by now. Yet the opening cut on each new album is marred with the same type of gratuitous dubbing: Cut The Crap’s “Dictator” has a bigbrother radio address semi-faint in, the background, while T.I.B.A.D’s “Medicine Show” has a Brit vision of a Western sheriff chanting off in the distance. Hey guys, this split screen audio device was already sophomoric in 1966, when (because?) Simon & Garfunkel used it in their “7 O’Clock News/Silent Night.” But these mutual monkeyshines prove that Jones and Strummer are compatriots for life, there never was any need for separate bands, separate records, etc., etc..

For now, two rival albums is what we got, though, so stick close here for trends and details. Each of the eight cuts on the Big Audio Dynamite LP is more or less a variation on the same theme, that of Mick Jones randomly running down the shopping mart Armageddon with his singsong rhymes, while the band get it on with ail sorts of bright reggae, pop, scratch, etc. tuneweavery. Jones doesn’t possess Bob Dylan’s kinkyhaired brain, so he’s not making with an Old Testament laundry list here. It’s more like he’s putting today’s problems through the second-rinse cycle.

Cut The Crap is more of a musical grab-bag, sometimes as diffuse as the days when Joe Strummer insisted on filling up three discs at one sitting. For even murkier reasons (I suspect some sort of complex in-joke designed to irritate Jones), Strummer has taken on one-time Clash manager Bernard Rhodes as his new songwriting partner. They’ve come up with some potentially ringing Clashic anthems—especially “Movers And Shakers” and “Dirty Punk”—but in each case the neopunk power tends to fizzle before the message is fully imprinted on yer brain. Also intriguing are “This Is England” and “Three Card Trick,” where (wonder of wonder!) Joe Strummer waxes as nostalgic over the decline of British industry as any Seger or Mellencamp lamenting our rusty car factories.

But somewhere amid all of Joe Strummer s sputtering-sourpuss complaints and Mick Jones’s glib surrealism on these new records, is a WHOLE Clash album struggling to get out. Maybe you tape wizards should buy both albums and DUB an approximation of same b$ck together... So funny you forgot to laugh, eh?

Richard Riegel

FRANK ZAPPA

Meets The Mothers Of Prevention (Barking Pumpkin)

I know what you’re thinking, Zappa’s cashing in on this controversy over rock lyrics to boost his career. After all, after 20 years on the fringes of pop culture success, why not try to do a little mainstream selfpromoting; not that this is going to get him into the Hot 100, but Zappa’s gotten his logo-like mug on more feature pages and talk shows across the country during the last few months than James “Dare To Be Stupid” Watt. So it’s all a cynical ploy, right? Wrong. ’Cause whatever his failings as a human being (like having an ego the size of Des Moines), ol’ Frank ain’t being opportunistic in this instance; the mustachio-ed one has been bitching about the censorship of lyrics in interviews since, like, 1967. So it’s only natural that he should emerge as a leading spokesman in this new movement or whatever it is (or will become).

Besides being a veteran free speech advocate, Zappa is also a professional satirist, so it’s natural as well that this controversy would be grist for his mill, as the 12-minute centerpiece on his new album attests. Called “Porn Wars,” it’s something of a disappointment (or maybe it’s just that the whole issue is getting a little tiresome—the anti-labeling people seem to be overreacting a bit, like folks who have been too long without a good cause, while the pro-labeling gang are a bunch of tedious nincompoops whose thought processes are so locked into the usual anal-retentive tropes that they no longer say anything worthwhile). Zappa takes each senator’s (and many of the witnesses’) most quotable quotes (spoken by the perpetrators) and mixes the whole thing into a cacophonous s^ew—it’s not something you’d wanna listen to every day, but it does manage to capture the absurdity of public discourse at the Senate-hearing level. This is all good fun but like any satirist Zappa has a message, part of which is printed on the album’s sleeve: “Just in case...let’s REGISTER TO VOTE.” Now there’s a fresh idea, though I wonder why Zappa assumes that most of his fans aren’t already registered. At any rate, you may be interested to know that I registered and voted for the first time in ’84 and it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. So don’t get youf hopes up.

TURN TO PAGE 26

WHO CARES?

PETE TOWNSHEND White City (Atco)

ROGER DALTREY Under A Raging Moon (Atlantic)

THE WHO Who’s Missing (MCA)

by Craig Zeller

Unlike Led Zeppelin, the Who cjidn’t have the good sense to call it a day when their drummer died. Four years ago, after long having made a complete mockery of-themselves, they wised up and packed it in. No more concerts, no more records. Oh, there might be the occasional special event to warrant a reunion (like Led Zep, they kicked a little ass at Live Aid) but for all intents and purposes the Who were finis. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for their solo “careers.”

On his own, Pete Townshend has come up with a bare handful of stuff that’s worth having around: Pure And Easy, ‘ My Baby Gives It Away,” “Slit Skirts,” most of the first side of Empty Glass. The Best Of The Who is a boxed set; The Best Of Pete Townshend would be a meaty EP. At best. So here’s White City, a multi-media extravaganza that the bio reminds us is his “first major musical statement since the dissolution of the Who.”

White City isn’t just a mere album. Oh no, it’s much more. It’s an LP, it’s a full-length video starring the singer (don’t give up your day job, Pete), it’s subtitled “A Novel,” it’s...ridiculous is what it is. It’s a lot of camouflage to cover up the sad fact that it’s another mediocre record from a major talent.

And I’m sick of it. Sure, there are moments. ’’Give Blood” and “Face The Face” have some semblance of vitality in them; the latter is particularly interesting because it sounds like those horns are boxing Pete’s ears off. Of course it needs editing (like everything here), but it definitely rocks (which is a rare state of affairs on this record). The songs are mostly bloated and colorless; the lyrics say nothing to nobody about anything worth hearing.

But it s a prince of an LP next to Daltrey’s abomination. A good part of the time he sounds like he’s trying to vent his spleen even harder than Meat Loaf; the results are equally worthless so it’s a moot point. The rest of the time he chases fading memories of his glory days—the title cut shamelessly bastardizes Who classics like “Won’t Get Fooled Again and throws in a bunch of phony-dramatic drum solos to maintain all that “tension.”

Most of Daltrey’s bad material can be blamed on outside contributors. Ironically, Townshend’s “After The Fire,” which allows Daltrey to ease up on his hyperventilating, beats anything on Pete’s own album. And “Let Me Down Easy,” a quintessential Bryan Adams throwaway, allows Daltrey to actually unwind and emote without his vocal cords dying a thousand deaths. It’s sad to see just how brazenly cliched Daltrey’s singing has become. Now he’s just another loudmouth.

Who’s Missing is a half-assed collection of B-sides, U.K. tracks, and unreleased cuts spanning the years 1965-1972. “Shout And Shimmy,” recorded 20 years ago, shows that Roger was no stranger to triteness: his bluesy posturings are downright laughable. The rest of this mess may be of vague interest to fanatics. The rest of you will have a tough time holding back the yawns. It’s nice to hear Keith surf it up on “Barbara Ann,” I suppose. When will Who’s Fooling Who be released? Personal to Roger and Pete: Call it a day, boys.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 23

Filling out the album are three instrumentals, two of them being familiar Zappa-esque sketches with a lot of whimsical percussion noodling, though there’s a nice grand-manner guitar solo on “What’s New In Baltimore?”, while the third, “Alien Orifice,” has an attractive, rhythmically eccentric line that lingers a bit longer. The two, remaining cuts have lyrics with Zappa practicing what he preaches, freespeechwise. “Yo Cats” is a jazzy little number about music-biz whoring, specifically in the case of session musicians who make immense bundles playing crappy “jingle sessions” while genuine artistes like Zappa have to settle for considerably smaller bundles. I tell ya, life ain’t fair. “We’re Turning Again” is some of Frank’s patented hippiecounterculture bashing, a shtick he’s been doing for two decades and he does it well, even if there hasn’t been any hippie counterculture left to bash for about half that time.

Not bad, but the problem with Zappa remains that he always manages to give the impression that underneath that sarcastic, misanthropic exterior is a mean, pricky kinda guy. But hey, even though he’s not very loveable, I’d still defend to the death (or at least, maybe, to the point of some superficial flesh wound) his right to say the word “pud” in public. If it comes to that.

Richard C. Walls

DIVINYLS

What A Life!

(Chrysalis)

PAT BENATAR

Seven the Hard Way (Chrysalis)

Chrysalis’s tried-and-true formula for reforming bad girls has always been to call for producer Mike Chapman, with his updated Spectorisms, and songwriter Holly Knight, with her aggressive, femacho viewpoint. It has successfully created a consistent, platinum artist in Pat Benatar, so why shouldn’t it do the same for that androgynous Aussie madwoman Christina Amphlett? If only Debbie Harry had listened, she wouldn’t have had to resort to slumming in the dance charts with the likes of Jellybean. Why, she’d be up there where she belongs, competing with Pat, the Wilson sisters and Chrissie Kerr for the title of AOR Queen.

Which is clearly where Amphlett and her band of outback hellraisers seem to be heading with their long overdue second LP. The amphetamine thrashand-bash of their punky debut has been replaced with a more mature, pleasingly varied musical palette. “Pleasure and Pain” is the Chapman-Knight offering, and it’s well-suited to Amphlett’s own, newly glamorized image, but the singer’s sexually threatening wild-child mythos seemed more intriguing when it wasn’t so explicitly stated.

Elsewhere, the commercialization of Christina’s world doesn’t bother me quite so much as it may admirers of the first album’s savage/innocent, S&M subtexts. It’s all pretty tame stuff, but the songs and melodies show a real pop craftsmanship, recalling the bubblegum punk hooks of another band of reformed, anarcho-delinquents, the Damned. “Don’t You Go Walking” wasn’t produced by Mike Chapman, but it does have the kind of neo-girl group charm which launched Blondie, while Heart Telegraph” artfully combines Beatles ’65 with Synchronicity.

As impressive as this progress is, the urgency of Christina Amphlett’s abused/abusive waif has been tamed in the process. Songs like “Motion’’ and “Casual Encounter” explain away her angst by making it sound like Chrissie Hynde’s. Or Debbie Harry’s. Or Pat Benatar’s.

If I prefer Benatar’s latest over the Divinyls’, it’s only because Seven the Hard Way gleams with the professional polish that What A Life! still just aspires to. Unlike most of her feverish following, I’m not really a fan of Pat’s pixiein-heat persona. I’d rather listen than watch, thank you. She equates sex and violence a little too glibly for my own plebeian tastes, and her band’s approach is straight down the middle of the AORoad. But there’s no denying it sells, which isn’t to say it sells out necessarily. The Sound Which Defines Today’s Rock Radio can kick ass—without getting too out of hand, of course.

Pat wails ’bout not using “Sex As A Weapon,” but who hears anything other than the constant linking of sex and weapon after awhile? Still, the group’s-collective heart is in the right place, as they show on the good-natured mangling of the Four Tops’ notthat-immortal “Seven Rooms Of Gloom,” seguing from a great Hall & Oates-styled ripoffhomage intro into a plodding rock 4/4. But producer Neil Geraldo has proven an able student of the Chapman Method, whether double-tracking his better half’s vocal to build a wall-ofmelody for her hotel tribute, “Le Bel Age,” or creating the thudding hard-rock undertow on “Red Vision.” In the meantime, Benatar’s boys—keyboardist Charlie Giordano, drummer Myron Grombacher, bassist Donnie Nossov and Geraldo himself—have quietly become one of the more efficient rock ensembles around, equally adept at the pop-funk breaks in “Invincible” or the fusionoid rave-up defining “The Art Of Letting Go.”

Like the hard-working, yuppie careerists they are, Pat Benatar and hubbie Neil Geraldo have learned through experiences how to harness their energy to get maximum results. It’s a lesson that has not been lost on their labelmates from Down Under.

Roy Trakin

ARCADIA

So Red The Rose (Capitol)

Once upon a time, there were three little pop stars named Simon, Roger, and Nick. All in all, they were a happy bunch. As members of Duran Duran, they made scads of money, enough to buy anything they wanted. But as much as Simon, Roger, and Nick liked the financial rewards, they enjoyed the attention even more. Just for acting out silly fantasies, the Durans received the adulation of millions and had their pictures splashed in magazines around the world. Imagine that!

The only time they became unhappy was when other people (like the nasty boys in Wham!) tried to steal the spotlight. So you can imagine the uproar when their very own bandmates, Andy and John, went away on vacation and started another successful group that got a lot of press coverage. Simon, Roger, and Nick were consumed with envy as the Power Station LP rose into the upper regions of the charts—and without the benefit of a single useful idea!

“We’ll show Andy and John,” grumbled Simon. “We’ll make a record too. And it’ll be a million, zillion times better.” They named themselves Arcadia, ’cause it sounded fancy, like expensive toilet tissue, and made an album, which they called So Red The Rose, ’cause it sounded poetic, but not too much. And you know what? It wasn’t half bad!

On some songs, Arcadia stuck to the glitzy, vapid pop they played in Duran Duran. “Election Day/’ for example, was a mildly funky tune boasting a catchy, Duran-like chorus. It became a big hit, probably ’cause Simon sang the phrase “pull my shirt off” over and over. After all, some folks found the bozo attractive!

So Red The Rose wasn’t all fun and games. Simon, Roger, and Nick would sometimes pretend they were serious artists. The mournful “Missing” was too slow and pitiful to be any fun, while “Rose Arcana” was the sort of instrumental doodling no sensible person likes!

The record started to get interesting on side two when Simon revealed his Bryan Ferry obsession. Suspicions had arisen before, but this time Simon left no doubt, altering his usually carefree voice to render an unexpectedly good imitation I of Ferry’s world-weary romantic. I As a result, both “The Promise” 1 and “El Diablo” were effective mood pieces that almost made you forget who was performing. A guest appearance by noted stuffed shirt Sting on “The Promise” proved Arcadia had truly entered the realm of the profound. Best of all, the spooky “Lady Ice” featured a spinetingling oboe solo by Andy -McKay, like Ferry an alumnus of Roxy Music.

Simon, Roger, and Nick were pleased with So Red The Rose. In addition to selling lots, it showed they had good taste in influences and got their pictures in cool magazines. Then, the Arcadians reunited with Andy and John to resume churning out bubblegum moderne in the guise of Duran Duran.

Moral: Even the dopiest pop stars are capable of suprises— if you don’t expect too much.

Jon Young

THE JUDDS

Rockin’ With The Rhythm (RCA)

A long year on the road has honed Wynonna Judd’s voice into probably the finest female instrument of country music today. If you can’t believe that, just sit back and wallow in the Patsy Cline throb and neo-yodel she brings to this LP’s “If I Were You” (“...I’d never let me get away”). Or the slow burn of “Tears For You,” where the melody recalls Bonnie Tyler’s “It’s A Heartache” but the new purity in Wynonna’s chords leads straightforward sentiments right into that crossover stratosphere Music City so often fails to take by strategy.

Not that the Judds don’t have a strategy—the shock of theirs is that it’s composed of all the stuff Nashville tends to revere in public and dismiss in the studio. This Mom-and-daughter duo are devoted kin and their uncanny timing could define traditional family harmony, from the Carter Family to the Andrews Sisters. (On a cut like “I Wish She Wouldn’t Treat You That Way,” mother Naomi’s vocal shadows her daughter’s throaty lead like a subtle whisper filtering into the listener’s ear.)

Respecters of “the greats” — country, folk and pop greats, that is—these are also goodhumored gals who love their work and relish an experiment. On last year’s blockbusting crossover debut, it was a cover of Jody Reynold’s teen-tragedy track “Endless Sleep.” Here, it’s a light-hearted girls’ version of Lee Dorsey’s “Workin’ In a Coalmine”—which the pair in eluded with the women miners of Kentucky (their home state) in mind.

For such a relatively young act, Rockin’ With The Rhythm covers an astonishing range of sources, yet establishes a clear identity of its own with seeming effortlessness. And this time around, the difference is one of sophistication. As performers, as harmony arrangers, and in the studio, the Judds have audibly matured. 1985’s glut of recognition (which included two Country Music Association awards) has served to bring out their separate identities and strengths as much as their double-take image.

Result: an album almost any sort of music fan can relish. And one on which their peculiar, inimitable brand of harmony is audibly the main instrument and any special effects (c.f. “Coalmine’”s chisel and the echo of a high acoustic guitar played dobro-style, then run backwards for “Dream Chaser”) are carefully rendered apposite. This so-called New Country Purism— championed by the likes of Ricky Skaggs, the Whites and George Strait—has never sounded better.

Cynthia Rose

STONEY END

THE CULT

Love

(Sire)

BARBRA STREISAND The Broadway Album (Columbia)

by J. Kordosh

The Cult have a following. Barbra Streisand has a cult following. The Cult have a record out—Love—-and Barbra Streisand has a record out that people love. There used to be a group called Love, and, for that matter, there even used to be a group called the Records, although the latter had neither a record people loved nor much of a following. They were pretty good, though.

And speaking of good records that hardly anybody liked, I guess I should admit I’ve always been partial to the Sopwith Camel—enjoy their fine “Postcard From Jamaica” on Kama Sutra Records—and the Incredible String Band, who could do no wrong until they got into Scientology or one of those cults. Look for their well-crafted work on Elektra.

But where were we? Ah, yes, Southern Death Streisand and the Cult. A question of roots, methinks—Babs (as I’ll permit myself to call her) exhuming her decades-long know-how on The Broadway Album, singing songs from Showboat, Porgy & Bess, West Side Story and other musicals we’ve all enjoyed from our front-row seats, while the Cult flaunt their own influences, which span at least part of a Doors’ album. A struggle of the titans, this, not unlike Roger Miller versus X.

Babs, of course, is well-known for her uncompromising stance (i.e., massive ego) as well as her nose. Who else would’ve put out an album called My Name Is Barbra, which she did some 20 years ago. Not the Beatles, that’s for sure. Who else would start an LP with an “impromptu” discussion of its commercial value, which is what she does on The Broadway Album. (Little did Babs suspect that her former producer, Phil Ramone, once told me she was such a perfectionist that she intertwines at least 16 vocal tracks to make one grand vocal track, and that I would furthermore use that information to make fun of her “impromptu” anything in a national magazine.) Other than that, though, the album’s great. You should buy it one of these days.

The Cult are another matter, but not merely because their record stinks. No, it’s also because the Cult think you’re a dope, which you most certainly are if you purchase their album after I just told you it stinks. They rhyme “away” with “away” three times in the same verse on “Brother Wolf, Sister Moon.” They actually steal the intro of “I Wanna Be Your Dog” for their dumb, apocalyptic “The Phoenix.” Babs wouldn’t do that. They trick you, because they hold you in low esteem, by ineluding the songs “Rain” and “Revolution”—neither being the hits from the several excellent musicals based on the Beatles’ career, and still available in their original form on the album My Name Is The Beatles. While I’m at it, I’d like to add that the Cult’s “heartfelt” “Black Angel” was done better by Dave Davies when he recorded “Lincoln County” on an eighMrack with out-of-tune strings. I’ll concede that Ian Astbury does sound quite a bit like Jim Morrison (especially on “Big Neon Glitter”), but only as an afterthought. It’s actually more important to note that the Cult’s harmonies are annoying. Listen to “Hollow Man,” because then you’ll agree with me, and will value my opinion forevermore.

OK?