RECORDS

RECORDS

HONKING OFF DUDES

BANGLES Different Light (Columbia)

Roy Trakin

With the Go-Go’s gone-gone, none other than the Purple Prince has tapped these L.A. ladies as their gurl-group successors, pop division. To seal the coronation, Minneapolis’s King of Rock has helped crown the Bangles queens by providing them with the jaunty, “Raspberry Beret”-like nursery rhyme hop of “Manic Monday,” the first single from their second, and latest, LP, Different Light. Credited to the pseudonymous Christopher, it is a catchy little ditty, recalling the innocence of the pre-psychedelic ’60s through Susanna Hoffs’s wide-eyed vocal and the lilting keyboard signature (one more gift from their anonymous benefactor, perhaps?).

So far, so good. Just don’t get the idea the success of Different Light hinges on one man’s infatuation with the admittedly sultry Ms. Hoffs. There are other Bangles to be reckoned with here; the ego concerns which shattered the Go-Go’s are sublimated in a truly participatory democracy. In other words, the Bangles are a group in the old Beatles sense, complete with those heart-wrenching three-part harmonies that sound like echoes of some irretrievably lost past.

Meet the Bangles. Susanna, you know. Lead guitarist Vicki Peterson and her sis, drummer Debbi, alternate lead vocals on half of the album’s six tracks, with bassist Michael Steele taking center stage on a pair, including her own, self-penned ballad, “following.” Harking back to those glorious days of fully contained bands, the Bangles’ group image absorbs four different songwriters as well as wonderfully chosen covers by cult tunesmiths such as Jules Shear, Alex Chilton and Liam Sternberg. It’s no wonder the

boys at Black Rock are cranking up the machinery which made stars out of Cyndi Lauper, Aimee Mann, Patty Smyth and Sade.

Before you measure these girls for platinum records, though, a few potential pitfalls will have to be avoided. While'the Bangles’ collective compositional abilities are admirably eclectric (from the folk-rock of “In A Different Light” to the Rubber Soul pop of “Return Post” and the light funk of “Walking Down Your Street”), why is it Different Light’s best songs are the ones not written by the band? The Prince-ly single, Shear’s “If She Knew What She Wants” and Chilton’s “September Gurls” (featuring a marvelously whiney vocal by bassist Steele) all show more personality and character than any by the group, which, with the exception of the singularly moody “Following,” are all joint efforts. It’s ironic, but the same collaborative spirit which fuels the group chemistry also blurs the band’s identity. It would probably be a lot easier for them to make it as “Susanna Hoffs & The Bangles.” Just ask the ex-Go-Go’s...

Still, the Bangles have come a long way from their garagepunk beginnings and Mod fixations. This is infectious pop that has as much to do with Madonna, Blondie and the B-52’s as it

does with the Outsiders, the Grass Roots or the Mamas & Papas. Of course, their dream is probably still to be the female Beatles, but, this time around, they’re the new, improved Bangles, and that’s certainly good enough for now. No excuses nor apologies are necessary. The Bangles have taken the concept of the girlsnext-door to its pop apogee. They’re welcome in my rec room anytime.

STEVIE NICKS

Rock A Little (Modern)

Just look at that album cover for a second. Is she begging for a pie in the kisser or what? And get a load of that inner sleeve with those freshman lit lyrics and endless credits plastered all over the place (I’ll be sure and thank my wardrobe stylist, too, when I cut my first LP). Looks like she’s still on that Glinda-the-GoodWitch trip.

Hey, Stephanie, who the hell are you kidding? You’re an exwaitress with a fairy princess fixation, your first two solos were mixed-up, muddled affairs with occasional reminders of how memorable you were in Fleetwood Mac, your hairdresser took the money and ran...do I dare bother to continue?

Well, as a matter of fact I do, because Rock A Little is one fine effort, despite the occasional tactical blunder and some unfortunate delusions of grandeur. Still and all, this is easily the best Nicks LP to date and maybe even the best of the solo Mac outings.

The big surprise here is that Stevie’s got some fire in her eyes this time around. Forget about, “Talk To Me,” that miserable excuse for a hit with its dull, nagging reassurances. Grab ahold of “I Can’t Wait” and have yourself a ride. Stevie is raring to go like never before and her restless eagerness is all-too-contagious. She almost blows it on that cluttered bridge—her bridges have a tendency to be on the shaky side—but she comes soaring out of it with renewed oomph. Workout, Stevie, workout!

She plays around with a husky growl on the title cut, but the song is too subdued to make you take much notice. Then along comes “Sister Honey” and she’s running wild again, shouting out “Alright, baby! Alright!" with sensuous abandon, and knocking another one out of the park. Again, her lyrics are for the birds in the trees; when she’s on, when she’s really involved, Nicks hooks you hard with the mood of the song. She conjures up a rich emotional atmosphere steeped in longing and desire. All her best stuff on Fleetwood Mac and Rumours has it. So do “Sister Honey” and “I Can’t Wait.”

That goes double for “Some Become Strangers” and “If I Were You.” “Strangers,” one of the few cuts here that Nicks didn’t have a hand in composing, is tailor-made for her. It’s all yearning and regret and Stevie makes it clearly palpable, borne up by the excellent bittersweet background vocals of Sharon Celani, Lori Perry and Marilyn Martin (who do themselves proud on several occasions). “If I Were You” is out of this world, pure enchantment with Stevie turning in a beautiful performance that resonates with giddy warmth. (It’s enough to make me forgive a weepy clinker like “Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You.”)

As I said earlier, Rock A Little certainly isn’t free of the malarkey that Nicks has grown so fond of—but there are some real triumphs here. It’s nice to know her career hasn’t been all downhill since the last Mac Attack.

Craig Zeller

CHARLIE SEXTON

Pictures For Pleasure (MCA)

As few of you remember, young Charlie Sexton made a mildly auspicious vinyl debut on the soundtrack of The Wild Life, the flop 1984 teen comedy featuring Sean Penn’s little brother. Said disc found our lad croaking the Stones’ “It’s Not Easy” with suitably drunken aplomb, backed by none other than Keith Richards on guitar and produced by Ron Wood. Not bad credentials for an up-and-coming young tough.

Now here’s a full platter of Sexton, and—dadgummitl—the body snatchers have struck again, replacing the rebel with a housebroken double. This eagerto-please LP suggests David Bowie fronting the Cars, only junkier. On “Attractions,” “Tell Me,” and other mood pieces, Sexton reaches deep down in his throat and pulls out the kind of stirring tones previously heard in those Bowie classics "Heroes” and “Let’s Dance”; meanwhile, hack producer Keith Forsey oversees a steady procession of exploding guitars, sweeping keyboards, and leaden synth percussion. Pictures For Pleasure makes no pretense to Art.

Too bad the majority of the songs are legally dead. Sexton and Forsey don’t need much, just tunes with decent hooks and a little forward momentum, but these duds refuse to budge, despite plenty of prodding. “Restless” even goes beyond static to create the illusion of moving in reverse, seeming to collapse in on itself like a musical black hole.

Give ’em a usable song, on the other hand, and the dynamic duo turn out pretty entertaining trash. “Beat’s So Lonely” boasts exquisitely hammy vocalizing— check the way Sexton says “kuhmon bay-uh-bey —and a thoroughly zany guitar solo, while the swaggering “Space” expertly depicts the cool condescension of an utter jerk. When Charlie sneers “You need your love/I need my mental stimulation” he’s begging for a pie in the face. More likably, the overheated “Impressed” dismisses legendary couples, from Romeo and Juliet to Ken and Barbie, to make a bratty declaration of affection (“I am not impressed/I love you the best”) laced with offbeat common sense (“...love is patient love is kind/Doesn’t poison baby’s wine”).

All else pales beside the awesomely melodramatic “Hold Me,” however. Copyrighted 1930 (!), this straightforward love ditty inspires Sexton to dizzying heights of emotive ecstasy, panting and sighing all the way. If he ever comes up with a whole album of such heart-tuggers, Julio Iglesias will be yesterday’s news.

Still, the question lingers: Who is the real Charlie Sexton? Is he the occasionally interesting romantic of Pictures For Pleasure? Or is he the earlier bad boy, reeking of cheap booze? Or is he, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, a human chameleon who adopts the qualities of those around him? If so, here’s hoping Sexton chooses his friends more carefully next time out.

Jon Young

RUSH

Power Windows (Mercury)

Here I sit trying—no, make that desperately trying—to get a “wave” going with two flies that’ve hitched a ride on an ice cube that’s bobbing ever so gently up and down in a glass of Old Crow I’ve been attempting— no, make that desperately attempting—to guzzle since the onset of my daily boredom.

Oh my gawd! One of the flies has just committed suicide, (or would you call it insecticide?). No matter. The simple fact is the fly just shrugged its hairy shoulders, twirled a thousand or two of its eyes and in a barely audible voice moaned, “Tahell-with-it,

I don’t need this crap anymore.” It flew straight up in the air, did a magnificently choreographed loop-de-loop, and dove, with amazing velocity and great determination, smack into the lake of softly swelling hooch. “Now that is bored,” I thought to myself.

Perked up by this unselfish act of insectual existentialism, I immediately doubled my efforts at getting a wave going with the remaining fly. In between agitated coaxings, video clips of David Hedison, delicately manuevered sips of bourbon and an occasional answer to nature’s call, I faced the problem of criticizing the new Rush album, Power Windows.

I once thought of Rush as an “amazingly crispless” band, and my opinion really hasn’t changed that much since then. Their homophomc psuedo-metalocity, mottled on occasion with an interesting lyrical ahem for Neil Peart, did nothing to inspire the dogs of my greasy heart or perk my metal-punchy ears. However, mellowness like the carcinogenic slime that it is, does, on rare occasion, overcome us all. So I find myself in moments of extreme concentration actually, begrudingly, liking this latest effort by these hodad metaloids.

Maybe if I show the fly a piece of old meat it’ll play with me...no, that didn’t work.

Musically speaking, Power Windows is infectious, driving, slick beyond a reasonable doubt, adverb inducing, and once in awhile unnervingly possessed of blinding likeability. Did I say that already?

Maybe if I go to the cemetery and dig up a corpse finger or two and wave it under its nose, the fly’ll respond...no, that didn’t work either.

Lyrically, Neil Peart’s (certainly one of the great names in rock ’n’ roll) psycho-polemical musings run the gamut from lofty mouthiness (“The Big Money,” “Grand Designs,” and peripherally, “Middletown Dreams ) to glaring gobbledygook (“Marathon,” and “Manhattan Project”) slamming by album’s end into the concrete wall of just plain annoying (“Mystic Rhythms” and “Emotion Detector”). One positive thing lyrically is that here at last is a borderline metal LP without the obligatory love song a.k.a fantasy epic into the Stygian depths of teen brooding and the inevitable link up with the rhythms of Tophet...

Sigh.

Guess what? I just got a magnifying glass and looked closely at the fly on the ice cube. It’s dead. It must’ve cut its throat ’cause next to it is a little knife and a tiny pool of insect blood. Damn the little bugger! Now what am I do fer fun? Hey, maybe I can get a wave going with the neighborhood dogs...

Well, to sum up a little, Power Windows as an LP doesn’t eat the big one and Rush, though still “crispless,” are no longer amazingly so. I suppose some progress has been made after all...on a scale of one to two, I’ll give it a one.

Joe (Powerless Doors) Fernbacher

AWAY IN A MANGER

JESUS & MARY CHAIN

Psychocandy

(Reprise)

Richard C. Walls

Here’s an objet d’art to impress your friends with, even though you might not want to listen to it very often on your own. The J&M Chain is a quartet of young Englishmen heavily indebted to the Velvet Underground (drones, feedback, leather), but most notable for a quite strange and conceptually impressive shtick which is this: though their songs are, musically, rather conventional and derivative, their nilhilistic master stroke is to take an extended, aggressive swath of ugly feedback and rather than use it for dramatic effect and/or contrast, place it in the forefront of the mix, as often as not for the entire length of a song. So, e.g., on “You Trip Me Up” the singer sings “But you break me in two/and throw me away” in a deadpan but not unappealing poppish manner, while this godawful, repulsive-as-sin white noise sonic' screech slashes across everything like doom’s pointy forefinger. This is the modus operandi for most of these 14 songs (most under three minutes), and if you don’t like it, blame it on Maggie Thatcher.

But seriously, why do the J&M Chain so fatally subvert their gloomy little ditties (and in this manner)? If you can imagine the songs without the feedback, you’ll hear that the group has admirably mastered a certain (familiar) post-Velvets stance. Aside from the “The Living End,” whose motorcycle/narcissism lyrics are apparently tongue-in-cheek, the songs deal with relationships via violent metaphors; brothers Jim and William Reid, who write the songs, sing, and handle the guitars, root around in that area where the confluence of adolescent intensity and feelings of powerlessness make every romantic rebuff feel like an outtake from a mad slasher movie. But it really doesn’t matter what the songs are about because (with two exceptions—the tenderly ominous, whispery ballads “Cut Dead’’ and “Sowing Seeds”) that blur of white noise lays over everything as if to say “this one doesn’t matter either.” Bluntly provocative and unexplained (like the group’s name), this approach is effectively confrontational because, while literal spitting and sneering have become corny show-biz moves, a conceptual spanner in the works can still be upsetting. It also indicates that the group has the courage of their alienation: they fearlessly make music whose main point of interest is its unlistenableness.

Does this kind of thing have any sort of appeal to anyone besides critics, people who work in record stores and other jadedobsessive types? Beats me. At any rate, Psychocandy is such a dead end that it’ll be interesting to see where the J&M Chain will go next—whether they’ll relax and give up and become ghosts of their former selves like the Psychedelic Furs, or make another album just like this one (which would be pointless, but that would be the point). Or none of the above.

SADE

Promise (Epic)

Judging from the phenomenal sales of her debut album, countless hundreds of thousands of Americans (and Canadians, Britons, and Lapps) go for Sade Adu in a great big way. I, on the other hand, find her absolute dullsville. To me, her music all sounds exactly the same—like something you’d listen to—no, strike that: hear (she’s too boring to listen to actively)—in a hot tub or a restaurant popular with young attorneys in love.

So who does America’s only rock ’n’ roll magazine that bills itself as such send to review her second album?

Sade’s an estimable musician (as too, of course, are many of the heavy metal hotshots you most wish had been drowned in infancy). While her intonation’s nearly flawless, though, her expressive range spans melancholy to slightly more melancholy. And if you said the word “variety” to her phrasing, her phrasing would surely reply, “Huh? Wazzaf?”

You get the feeling she’d come across more expressive (if not so infinitely cool, in the imperturbable sense) if she threw in a hint of vibrato every 16 bars or so. Indeed, noting that no review of her first album failed to mention, first, how remarkably like Astrud Gilberto she sounds, and then, in the same breath, that she never uses any vibrato, she’d have included “Girl From Ipanema” on Promise—with enough vibrato to turn Joan Baez green with envy—if she had an irresistibly zany sense of humor.

Not only does she not have an irresistibly zany sense of humor, but she’s also not an estimable lyricist. And neither she nor any of the three tasteful boys with whom she co-composes is an estimable melodist. Indeed, I can’t recall hearing an album more lacking in melodic interest, and I’ve heard Jefferson Starship albums that Paul Kantner wrote lots of.

All right, all right—the nine tracks of Promise aren’t as indistinguishable after four careful listenings as they seem through the first couple. “Fear” has bullfight crowd noise, strings, and Spanish lyrics. There’s actually a very brief stretch of “Tar Baby” during which every melodic phrase doesn’t end on a minor third. And if one were particularly intent on dancing, he or she could do so to “Never As Good As The First Time,” as it has something strongly resembling a dance beat.

Still, I defy anyone, including Sade’s closest surviving relatives, her manager, and the president of her record company, to sit through all of “War Of The Worlds,” say, without yearning for something to read, nibble, guzzle or even fondle. There’s no song there—it’s only an atmosphere, and a dreary one at that!

I could go on and on, but why prolong the agony when I’m not being paid by the word? (The reader is reminded that, far from disdain, the, uh, critic has only envy for the pleasure this music may give him or her, all of us, in this mixed up, muddled up, shook up world, needing all the sources of pleasure we can get. Beginning next issue, this disclaimer will be appended to all disparaging reviews. And the sun will shine every day.)

John Mendelssohn

LLOYD COLE AND THE COMMOTIONS

Easy Pieces (Geffen)

Because it’s given us neither slews of charttopping superstars nor scandals and lurid headlines, the British pop singer-songwriter explosion of the past two or three years has gone largely unnoticed in this country. But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t taken place; seemingly dozens of Brits are artfully crafting first-rate pop tunes and forming bands to play them. For every Aztec Camera or Smiths that do make an impression here, there are several Lloyd Coles or Everything But The Girls making music on a similar creative level.

Lloyd Cole And The Commotions are unique enough to take notice of. On last year’s Rattlesnakes LP, they debuted an immensely-listenable folk-poprock sound. If Cole sometimes came on like your basic adolescent aesthete, trying on the styles of his heroes for size, dropping names and artsy references like so many clues in a detective novel, there were plenty of perceptive points to balance out the moments of gauche gush.

For this second effort, the band has “graduated” to the production team of Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley. According to their bio, they’re also featuring keyboard player Blair Cowan’s vocals more, although the singing still strikes me as Al Stewart laced with significant amounts of Lou Reed. Not a bad blend, actually—and a tune like ‘‘Minor Character” comes off very much like “Year Of The Brat”—but not the sort of thing you’d try to cut through horn arrangements with. Not unless you’re Langer and Winstanley.

Which is to say that, like life, some of this works and some of it doesn’t. The lead-off track, “Rich,” is a prime irritant. Although it sneaks in some great digs at California’s nouveau confused, it also tries to employ a “TKO”-like horn punch, only to leave the vocals sounding wobblier than usual.

But the following, “Cut Me Down,” is a gem. An effective mixture of melancholy and wonder, it strikes me in the same way as some of Tom Verlaine’s concise pop stuff like “Days,” and the producers remember to stir in the restraint.

The rest of the songs fall somewhere in-between, evoking nods of encouragement at the many clever turns of phrase and sings of frustration at the occasionally-overbearing strings and horns. So Easy Pieces is neither a major breakthrough nor a sophomore failure; it’s a pretty good little record, but I think these guys will do better.

Michael Davis

HAVE YOU SEEN MY THERMOS?

DOKKEN

Under Lock And Key (Elektra)

Jeffrey Morgan

FADE IN.

PEABODY: Hello out there. Peabody and Sherman here. The Way-Back Machine, my incomparable invention for travelling through time, has been set for the year 1986.

SHERMAN: Which direction are we heading, Mr. Peabody?

PEABODY: South, Sherman. Specifically, Florida—where our hosts will be two Dade County vice detectives, Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs.

PEABODY: The Way-Back took us way back instantly to a small warehouse in the heart of the Florida Everglades. We were standing next to a stack of boxes labeled “Acme Machine Parts” when detective Tubbs introduced himself.

TUBBS: Freeze! Miami Vice!

SHERMAN: Gosh, Mr.

Peabody, he’s got a gun!

PEABODY: Don’t worry Sherman, we’re expected.

CROCKETT: Easy Rico, these are the guys Castillo cleared.

TUBBS: These are the guys?

CROCKETT: S’matter, Tubbs? Y’never seen a dog_and his boy before?

SHERMAN: What’s going on, Mr. Peabody?

PEABODY: Well, Sherman, Crockett and Tubbs have just arrested two smugglers who were attempting to bring a shipment of stolen heavy metal albums into the United States.

SHERMAN: Golly, who’s that unhappy man, Mr. Peabody?

PEABODY: That, Sherman, is their boss. Lieutenant Martin Castillo.

CROCKETT: The deal went down and we got Raul and Sanchez. Lieutenant.

CASTILLO: Let them go.

CROCKETT: What?

TUBBS: Uh, are you feeling all right, Lieutenant?

CASTILLO: Your informant was wrong. These aren t heavy metal albums.

CROCKETT: Lieutenant, this is the shipment of Dokken LPs!

CASTILLO: Here’s a tape of their new album. Listen to it in your car.

TUBBS: Sonny, the Lieutenant’s right. What happened?

CROCKETT: Beats the hell outta me, pal. The next time I see Izzy, I’m going to shine the little rivet-head’s brain pan—from the inside. Hell, that didn’t even sound like heavy metal...it sounded like a male version of Heart with a couple of Queen vocals thrown in on the side.

TUBBS: I hate heavy metal bands that try and sound melodic, but only end-up forging light alloy.

CROCKETT: Look, Lieutenant, at least the last songs on both sides, “Lightnin’ Strikes Again” and “Til The Livin’ End,” are loud and fast enough to pass for heavy metal. How about it? CASTILLO: It wouldn’t hold up in court.

TUBBS: Lieutenant, their last album didn’t sound like this. Izzy played us Tooth And Nail and it rocked out solid. They changed their style on us.

CASTILLO: We can’t charge them for smuggling heavy metal albums if they’re not heavy metal. “Unchain The Night,” “In

My Dreams, Slippin Away, and “Jaded Heart” are the kind of soft-centered songs which pale next to “Screaming In The Night” by Krokus.

I want both your reports on my desk tomorrow morning. Not only have you wasted my time, you’ve wasted Mr. Peabody’s. Let’s go.

SHERMAN: Gosh, Mr.

Peabody, that Dokken album sounded like heavy metal to me...

PEABODY: You have an untrained ear, Sherman. To a trained ear, the Dokken album is too melodic to pass as heavy metal. Besides, the band members look too clean-cut to fit the bill.

SHERMAN: Not like those guys in Motorhead, right, Mr. Peabody?

PEABODY: Precisely, Sherman. By the way, what is that you have in your hand?

SHERMAN: Oh, this, Mr. Peabody? Just a plastic bag filled with white powder that I found in one of those “Acme Machine Part” boxes.

PEABODY: Congratulations, my boy, you are now a landowner.

SHERMAN: A landowner, Mr. Peabody?

PEABODY: Of course, Sherman. You now own one of the Florida Keys.

FADE OUT.