RECORDS

RECORDS

IMPERIAL MARGARINE

ELVIS COSTELLO King Of America (Columbia)

by Jeff Nesin

Elvis Costello is one of the best contemporary songwriters, and certainly the most, uh, rigorous, who also hopes to be popular. This has made for difficulties. His initial widespread acclaim, accompanied by widespread record sales, leveled off with 1980�s Get Happy!!—by me, his best ever—and has never really risen above respect and admiration and modest sales since. Beginning with Almost Blue, his country excursion, Costello�s progress was diverted by a fascination with guises, by musical sophistication not really for its own sake but not for the sake of the songs either. Last year�s solo tour (with T-Bone Burnett opening) got Costello to focus his hard-edge attention once again. As a result, King Of America, produced with Burnett, is sung and played beautifully, affectingly, with the songs themselves paramount.

Recorded live in the studio, Costello�s vocals have never been captured this close to the bone before. All the cracks—the very last �angel� in �Our Little Angel�—and screams (�Lovable,� �Eisenhower Blues�)give the tracks an amazing presence and�immediacy. EC�s husky, constricted baritone reaches way beyond its obvious limitations toward the imperial pipes of Merle Haggard and Bobby Bland, true kings of America. And his sinuous jazz-inflected phrasing carries dark melody lines (and his usually dark thoughts) on surprising, sometimes startling journeys to his usually hooky choruses.

The �Confederates� (Costello respects the Attractions enough to call attention to their absence) assembled here, including the

core of Elvis �King of America� Presley�s band—James Burton, Ronnie Tutt and Jerry Scheff— as well as veteran drummers Jim Keltner and Earl �Da Doo Ron Ron� Palmer, are perfect role players, doing just what is required. And Costello, who calls himself �Little Hands Of Con-' Crete� on the sleeve, controls the sound absolutely with his austere rhythm guitar.

But with all this brilliant singing and playing, King Of America is still, hands down, the most difficult record I�ve listened to in months. Even with careful study of the enclosed lyric sheet, several songs remain opaque at best. I can live with ambiguity better than most, but when a track is written and sung with such precision, such palpable

passion, I suspect it�s about something specific and I�d like to know what. In the case of the complex �Suit Of Light,� or the elegiac �Sleep Of The Just,� or the gleefully bitter �Glitter Gulch,� to cite three, I simply have no idea. There�s plenty of misanthropic overstatement, too. �Outside they�re painting tar on somebody/lt�s the closest to a work of art that they will ever be,� might be witty if I knew who �they� were. Probably not, though.

Most of all, the songs are overwhelmingly concerned with betrayal and venality. So what else is new, you ask? �American Without Tears,�� an almost tender ballad mostly about war brides, and �Little Palaces,� a brutal neo-folk song about work-

ing class lives in public housing make sense in this context. Other cuts—�Brilliant Mistake,� �Lovable,� �Glitter Gulch�—are just plain mean-spirited. After eight years of making records, Costello loves his ressentiment too much, methinks, and has never regained his momentum that made the tension in his early work interesting. I don�t expect piety, but his terminal suspicion of any and all culturally sanctioned happiness gets tired, too. Even my favorite, �I�ll Wear It Proudly�—an actual love song! —opens with a list of things EC hates. He�s certainly not the first king of America to end up sullen and miserable, but he�s probably the first to do so before he ascends to the throne. Curtsy at your own risk.

...AND THE DISH RAN AWAY WITH THE SPOON

BRIAN SETZER

The Knife Feels Like Justice

(EMI America)

by Richard Riegel

By God, I think Brian Setzer�s got it right this time! Hey, daddyo�s, I agree that Setzer�s old Stray Cats-sounded finer than tuned .headers, but, at the same time, their �it�s-1956-forever!� imagery got to be rather terminally cute. The Cats� rockabilly twang made my eardrums thump with pleasure, but their wall-towall tattoos made my eyeballs itch. If you wanna send a tattoo, stay in the parlor.

Actually, Brian Setzer remains true to his beloved 1950s on The Knife Feels Like Justice: he�s just shifted his thematic approach away from Brylcreemed hotrod fetishism to a fairly modern recreation of those cowboy mellerdrama songs done by �pokes like Marty Robbins in the late �50s. Sound corny? Yeah, and so is the string tie Setzer�s wearing in this photo here, but nonetheless he�s managed to string-tie these creaky old visions of Rosalita et. al. into the America�s-loss-ofgrandeur rock �n� roll mythology so prevalent this season. This combination results in what�s probably the timeliest record Setzer�s ever made.

They say Brian Setzer is the son of a Long Island construction worker, so his proletarian genes�ve never been the designer variety, but he really served notice of this new Western-worker approach when he appeared with drummer Kenny Aronoff of John Mellencamp�s band at Farm Aid. The Knife Feels Like Justice harks back to that occasion, as it features both Aronoff and Mellencamp�s producer Don Gehman, who seem to have contributed a lot to

Setzer rising to his own best intentions.

That piledriver Aronoff drumbeat is unmistakable, and is so upfront that it allows Setzer to lay back a bit, and to pour his mildtaco-sauce voice down the rhythm peaks, in a wavery, emotive style reminiscent of Marshall Crenshaw. The tang that results from the collision between the hard guitars and drums,, and Setzer�s tuff-butwavery vocals is Texmex delicious, and The Knife Feels Like Justice is as much of a sound champeen as anything the Stray Cats ever recorded.

Setzer�s new songs are chock full of references to the shrinkage of the American Dream, a

subject as trendy as Bruce Springsteen�s faded-denim soul here in 1986, but a theme none of us Yanks (especially carworshippers like Setzer) should try to escape. Setzer�s got all the nostalgic-for-the-arsenal-ofdemocracy buzz phrases in place: �Everybody�s job is getting pushed out of town,� in �Chains Around Your Heart�; �Somebody came and took the heart of my people away,� in �Maria�; �We used to live so brave, so free like an eagle,� in �Aztec�; etc., etc. Interestingly, many of these laments for lost glory seem to refer to Mexicans or Native Americans as victims virtually interchangeable with the guys laid off the Chevy assembly

line in Detroit. Watch for North American solidarity as a workerrock trend later this year.

But then Brian Setzer�s got Southwestern antiheroes tattooed all over his remaining blank space this season. Get a load of �Three Guys,� where certain historical figures get the full Waylon & Willie treatment: �Father, son, and holy ghost/ They�re three guys that I like the most!� Setzer�s so raucous a Jesuit cowpuncher, I�ll let that one get by.

In fact, I�ll give you custody of that other trinity that fell to earth from the Stray Cats—Phantom, Rocker & Slick—and I�ll go lissen to Setzer some more. Pick to click: Setz�s �Radiation Ranch.�

VIOLENT FEMMES

The Blind Leading The Naked (Slash)

Two lines on Violent Femmes� wrenchingly raw, largely acoustic debut album stand unequalled in the rock �n� roll hall of fame for forthright candor in summarizing the pimply essence of being young and horny: �Why can�t I get just one fuck/I guess it�s got something to do with luck.� Thud! Throw out your Motley Crue records—these guys really understand. But there�s a catch: it turns out this trio of onetime Milwaukee street singers pay for their earthly pleasures with a spiritual gold card, and the band�s second LP added a heavy dose of godfearin� and praisin� to an already chaotic hodgepodge of blues,

country, folk, rock and R&B. To further confuse the faithful, singer/songwriter/guitarist Gordon Gano launched a gospel group; the band spent time in New Zealand hanging out with Maori musicians; and it was announced that Talking Head Jerry Harrison was producing them. I began to worry that these feckless musical explorers might be sailing out of range.

Not to worry. The Blind Leading The Naked, despite some failings, still shakes, surprises and satisfies. The raw power of Gano�s songs and emotional delivery combine with the band�s relentless originality and diversity to fill this strange collection with unexpected turns and slow-burning excitement. They manage to perfectly simulate the Velvet Underground�s sensitive side (�Good Friend�) and emboss a frighteningly commercial semi-R&B song (�I Held Her In My Arms�) with nervy Springsteenized �50s sax. The record opens with a raging 29-second protest song (�Old Mother Reagan�), but ends all quiet and tender (�Two People�). The vocal harmonies on the countryish �Breakin� Hearts� recall Buddy Holly and the Everly Brothers, while bassist Brian Ritchie sings the raunchy but righteous �Love And Me Make Three� with classic Dylan/ Stones venom.

Although they seem super-

fluous, guest musicians abound. �Candlelight Song,� a coffeehouse beatnik dirge has Fred Frith adding �homemade instruments�; �Cold Canyon,� a breakneck train ballad, features Leo Kottke�s slide guitar work. Gano peppers his songs with both folklore and rock history, paraphrasing Country Joe�s Fword cheer in a rousing 12-bar blues (�Faith�) and quoting �16 Tons� in �Special.�

On the down side, Harrison�s production—given the basic Grandma Moses character of the Femmes—occasionally glosses over their material. A lame version of T. Rex�s classic �Children Of The Revolution� augmented by Frith, Harrison and Steve Scales only adds fuel to the growing need for a moratorium on people screwing around with Marc Bolan�s songs. Worst of all is the seriously ugly cover painting, which could only have been �inspired� by the equally horrific Little Creatures cover.

Each Violent Femmes album has bet the farm, putting it all on the line by avoiding the obvious, familiar and expected. The Blind Leading The Naked is proof that , you can live without all those 12-string twangers, pink heartlanders and red-blooded bar banders who claim some stylistic lock on current American rock �n� roll. These guys really understand.

Ira Robbins

OZZY OSBOURNE

The Ultimate Sin (CBS Associated)

BLACK SABBATH

Seventh Star (Warner Bros.)

Ozzy�s Ultimate Sin is a boL tomless vortex of sheer metalicious delight, rife with all of the necessary contradictions, nervelicking confusions and nosepicking rudeness that are the essence of true metal. Here we have Ozzy at his beastly best, not only as an example of the ultimate sin and sinner, but also as an example of the ultimate metal metaphor: bloated, tattooed, slightly insane, fearless— just what every parent dreams his kid�ll become if he listens to this music from hell. Which in a funky sort of way makes him as great a rock �n� roller as Elvis.

As the voice of metal, Ozzy is without question the champ. Just cast a decibel-lashed ear towards a few of these new Ozzythons: �Secret Loser� is, simply put, Sisyphus vs. Camus in a WWF Texas Bird Cage Death Match with Andre the Giant acting as the referee; �Never Know Why� is Ozzy�s sonic answer to the recent Senate Hearing record ratings controversy; and �Thank God For The Bomb� (or �TGFTB� as I call it) is magnificent as an antiwar anthem. Who can�t react as Ozzy shakes his jowls and growls, �Nuke Ya, Nuke Ya.� At least he wants to get it over with. Can�t say that I blame him. Mass psychosis is pretty dull stuff. All this on side one alone.

Side two wafts up into the acid rain with �Lightning Strikes,� an authentic ode to the soon to-befamous art of metalingus. It scuddles across the silent seas of your addled brain into �Killer Of Giants,� which is another antinuke protest hipathon so cash it�s beyond cold and well into the really neat. This would�ve made a great Monkees on heavy drugs

song back in the �60s. Ozzy then does a manic flip-flop and leaves us with �Fool Like You� and �Shot In The Dark,� both sinister odes that�d no doubt pleeze Clint Eastwood�s Dirty Harry or David Berkowitz. I wonder if Charlie Manson lissens to OZzy? Maybe they could do a duet LP, sort of like Waylon and Willie and Julio etc.

The Ultimate Sin closes out with a little bit of shrapnel called �Never,� which is just a bit of carrot stick from the Rat Salad days, relentlessly letting you know that Ozzy is not only the Voice of Metal, he is metal personified.

Which brings us to what used to be the musical better half of Ozzy, Black Sabbath. While Ozzy�s band is competent, it doesn�t excel, or outshine the man. On the other hand, Black Sabbath, now under the tutelege of Tony lommi (did you know that he married Lita Ford? Isn�t that so hot it�ll melt your sunglasses?) excel musically way beyond the norm of metalocity.

Seventh Star is refreshingly slick—if a bit predictable—and finely honed, if a bit forgettable in spots. The title song is the typical, fantasy epic journey kind of thing a lot of metalmongers favor in between their bouts of mental gore. While entertaining, it also seems to be totally irrelevent. �Danger Zone� is a solid metalthumper, the type of song Loverboy has always wanted to do but never had: a) the nerve, b) attitude, c) ability, d) metalocity or, e) all of the above to do. �Heart Like A Wheel� is an outstanding blues screed, with lommi playing kinda like B.B. King doin� the funky Broadway in between the rings of Jupiter, mindflailed on some exotic designer speed drugs. Glenn Hughes gets to do his best vocals on this tpon—which is all I can say about Glen Hughes because, like so many lead singers in metal today, he�s ignorable and decidedly uninteresting as a vocalist. My other fave on this LP is �Angry Heart� which elicits an image of Camus lolling around in purgatory and gettin� really excited about it all.

No matter. This record is solid and has enough sonic pizzaz to keep a step or two above the slag heap. I give it an 85 �cause I can eat bugs to it.

Ozzy on the other hand.... arrggghhh, waiter, there�s a young baby in my rat salad.

Joe (He Eats Mr. Coffees Whole) Fernbacher.

FINE YOUNG CANNIBALS

(IRS.)

The group�s name comes from a 1960 movie called All The Fine Young Cannibals, a standardissue �turgid soaper,� youth division, starring Natalie Wood, Robert Wagner, and Pearl Bailey (!?). The group is basically a trio, though on each cut they�re augmented by various horns, keyboards and/or strings (or keyboards that sound like strings, I can never tell the difference) as well as auxiliary vocals. Of these additions it should be noted that the horns fare best—trumpet and sax fills are used sparingly, with ersatz soul bleats admirably avoided. These guys could pass for genuine jazz musicians, which they may well be (Graeme Hamilton does the trumpet honors, Saxa is on sax).

Of the core trio, two are former members of the consistently excellent but now defunct English Beat—guitarist Andy Cox and bassist/keyboardist David Steele. Of course, being from an excellent group doesn�t guarantee anything as anyone who�s heard the General Public album can tell you. Rounding out the trio are Cox and Steele�s �discovery,� a black fellow named Roland Gift (insert Pearl Bailey joke here). Gift is both the most interesting thing and one of the main problems with this group. If you�ve heard the single off the album, �Johnny Come Home,� a catchy but derivative song (cf. Bronski Beat�s �Smalltown Boy�), you�ve probably noted the easeful expressiveness of Gift�s voice— and on a song with an uncluttered and supportive arrangement like �Johnny,� Gift hits just the right hiply plaintive note. But his is a style and sound tendency toward hackneyed, overblown arrangements. Though not always. Typically, a cut like �Funny How Love Is,� a jazzy ballad with acoustic guitar which allows Gift to show off his sad voice to advantage, is followed by an inanely overarranged version of the Presley chestnut �Suspicious Minds�—strings, horns, a wailing female countervocal, the works. Pushing to keep on top of all this, Gift�s voice sounds like one more

pumped-up effect. Sometimes, as on �Like A Stranger� and �Couldn�t Care More,� the arrangement will start out decently enough and then degenerate into a mess of cliches.

That Cox and Steele are talented has already been proven. That Gift has potential is evident at times on this album. But the so-so songwriting (there is a subtle �social consciousness� tinge to some of the lyrics, but basically they�re solemn love songs)-and wildly uneven arrangements make this album no more than a hit and miss affair.

Richard C. Walls

THE FABULOUS THUNDERBIRDS

Tuff Enuff (CBS)

Back when Stevie Ray Vaughan was first making his move into ears, hearts and record collections everywhere,

he was introduced as the brother of Fab T-Birds guitarist Jimmie Vaughan. Now with Stevie a bona fide star, the boot is on the other foot. The two obviously .share some roots, but Stevie scarfed a lotta Hendrix, whereas Jimmie�s primarily inspired by pre-psychedelic era blues masters like Albert and B.B. King and T-Bone Walker. So the band�s bluesiness, plus some less-than-explosive production on their early LPs, have kept �em well-respected but financially neglected while Stevie has shot to the top.

Well, the production problems

have been solved this time around by Dave Edmunds, whose work with the Everly Brothers and others has made him the man to have behind the board to translate traditional rock �n� roll into the sonic language of the �80s. The sound on Tuff Enuff is big—Texas big—big enough to remind you that these guys share several acres of musical turf with ZZ Top as well. Dave definitely bests the production job his ole buddy Nick Lowe gave the Thunderbirds on T-Bird Rhythm, which was probably their best-sounding LP up to that point.

Out front, Kim Wilson remains Kim Wilson. To me, he evokes memories of early Paul Butterfield (though he�s less of a harmonica virtuoso) with verve mixed with classy reserve, so he can come up with party-all-night rockers and fidelity-forever ballads and shpffles and put �em all across convincingly.

These guys also have an ear

for good outside material. They do a juicy cover of Sam & Dave�s �Wrap It Up,� but my fave cover is of a recent tune I�ve never heard before. �Why Get Up� is an instant anthem for those of us who would rather regard the morning sun as an ugly rumor, a true blues for the �80s.

That about wraps this one up. This is the band�s best set yet, but it still falls a tad short of being legendary. Me, I�m waiting for Dave to produce a live album for the T-Birds with Stevie Ray sitting in. Until then, though, this sucker is definitely Tuff Enuff.

Michael Davis

FEARGAL SHARKEY

Feargal Sharkey (Virgin/A&M)

Some of you may remember Feargal Sharkey as the vibrating voice of Ireland�s Undertones, a sharp Ramones-inspired punkpop outfit that released a ramrodding debut album in 1979 packed with pogo sensations like �Jimmy Jimmy.� (I recently slapped it on, and The Undertones still sounds like good fun seven years later.) The band, unfortunately, lost momentum, quite steadily with subsequent efforts, and called it quits in May �83. Sharkey decided to go it alone.

When I heard him guesting with the Assembly on �Never Never� the following fall, I was kind of surprised; instead of roughhousing the song around a la Undertones, Sharkey was downright tender and considerably subdued (albeit to �Never Never� �s benefit). At any rate, I wrote it off as a lucky oneshot, and quickly forgot about Sharkey�s �solo� career.

Now along comes Feargal Sharkey after all this time to remind me once and for all that this boy means it and has no intention of fading away. I�ll grant you that Sharkey�s quavering masculine/feminine pipes are not up everyone�s alley. I�ll grant you that almost half this LP contains material of a lesser stature and that Sharkey had a hand in cowriting most of it. I�ll even grant you the fact that his remake of �It�s All Over Now� is an unqualified disaster. What we�re forgetting is the fact that Feargal�s emotional vocals can fascinate and amaze, that the rest of these songs have some real power behind them, and that maybe next time he�ll cover Mountain�s �Theme From An Imaginary Western� (trust me).

The smartest move Sharkey made was getting Dave Stewart to produce him. Stewart, who�s worked well with rockers (Ramones), whiners (Tom Petty) and ice maidens (he breathed fire into Annie Lennox!—would I lie to you?), gives Sharkey loads of support. You can almost feel him cheering Feargal on whenever he hits his stride.

Maria McKee�s �A Good Heart� (which topped the U.K. charts) is an excellent openerwarm melody, loving vocals, embraceable chorus. You wonder why Maria didn�t liven up her own Lone Justice record with a few more winners like this. �You Little Thief,� courtesy of Benmont Tench, has a bright hornpropelled drive that�s hard to resist. So why bother? Sharkey�s terse denunciations (�You little savage...you little whore�) are so delicately phrased, you�d think he was muttering sweet nothings. Stewart provides some wicked thrust-and-parry guitar at the end.

�Ghost Train� has a strange offbeat feel to it that puts me in mind of the Specials somehow. �Ashes And Diamonds� could very well have listed GambleHuff as consulting producers. Sharkey, who warbles here like Pavlov�s Dog (whatever happened to David Surkamp?), does some impressive interacting with the back-up vocalists.

Sad to say, �Made To Measure� is an inexplicable stiff from the wonderful Chrissie Hynde. It surely pales next to the heartache extravaganza of 5 �Someone To Somebody.� It does go a bit over the top at times (Sharkey may have a future in opera), but in the end, with all those expertly blended strings �n� things, it�s quite moving. Feargal�s closing cry (�Ooh yeah!...I�m so alone...something�s missingl...and it�s someone like you�) is one of this year�s magic moments. Listen for it.

Craig Zeller

HEADLINE PiL Album (Elektra) by Roy Trakin

I read the other day where Lee Abrams, the esteemed market research expert who brought us AOR radio, said he knew �snivelling Johnny Rotten would never make it in the American record business.�� Well, Johnny�s still snivelling, but he�s no longer Rotten, having long since shed his ex-Pistol persona for a more careerist Public Image, one that allows the flexibility to fire the rest of the band or plunder his old group�s catalogue. Having won his longstanding lawsuit against former manager Malcolm McLaren, he is now simply John Lydon, businessman...and rock �n� roll singer.

Even Lee Abrams has to admire the no-frills packaging of PiL�s latest, a generic piece of product whose label is marked �label� and whose cassette version is dubbed Cassette. You silently recall the brilliant conceptual conceit of Metal Box and hope for the best. What the LP cover doesn�t tell you is that Mr. Lydon is backed by his finest line-up since Glen Matlock took a hike from the then-World�s Greatest Punk Band to play synthpop with Midge Ure and Rusty Egan. Then again, if Matlock hadn�t formed the Rich Kids, the world might have been spared the pleasure of learning about Sid Vicious. For better or worse, producer Bill Laswell is a few million light years away from Sid Vicious musically, and the band he�s assembled for Album is enough to slacken even the most hardened cynic�s jawaside from Laswell himself on bass, the outfit features Yellow Magic Orchestra�s Ryuichi Sakamoto on keyboards, Tony Williams and Ginger Baker (!!) on drums and find-of-the-month Steve Vai, ex-of Alcatrazz, cur-

rently in David Lee Roth s new band, on crunchola guitar. Keith Levene, eat your heart out. Jah Wobble, Wherever you are, call your answering service.

Because this is the strongest selection of poptunes Mister John Lyndon Esq., has turned out (aside from the nuclear fusion of Time Zone) since...well, let�s put it this way, it�s more than a worthy successor to the thing in the tin, and I happen to believe Metal Box is one of the great LPs of the �80s.

�FFF,� the first track, is a typicak snarling Rotten putdown, �Farewell my fairweather friend.� Thunderous tribal percussion propel this love/hate diatribe, which only makes you realize, when Johnny smugly sneers that his opposite number is �shallow, empty inside/too full of price,� he�s fingering himself as much as any other. �Rise� is filled with similar passive/aggressive invective that�s, often as not, turned inward, revealing the vulnerability behind the Rotten mask. �I could be wrong/I could be r-r-r-right,� he admits, then, �I could be black/l could be white...� The ending is a scene right out of A Clockwork Orange, as John goes under the weight of civilization�s discontents, �They put a hot wire to my head/�Cause of the things I did and said/They made these feelings go away/A model citizen in every way.� And the way he spits

it out leaves you feeling violated by the same self-indictment. Then, the chant to fade, �Anger is my energy...anger is my energy...anger is my energy...� His epitaph, too.

�Fishing� �s another love/hate song that suggests you �crawl back into your own dustbin.� Or houses of �ticky-tocky,� I s�pose they might have put it in another, more innocent era. Lydon wails like a demented muezzin, �These dizzying heights/This bottomless pit.� Hypo-manicdepressive to the max, like the best metal, �cept played by people with chops, smarts and feelings, too. U2/Simple Minds/ Tears for Fears-styled concessions to commerciality, sure— ringing walls of guitars, glockenspiel punk-tuation and manic raga riffs—but the sentiments are Thoroughly Rotten, Johnny: �People who need people are...s-o-o-o stooopid.� Move over Barbra, we�ve got a new interpretation.

John Lydon�s come a long way from �Anarchy In the U. K.,� but his basic character hasn�t changed much: he�s as brutally honest and frank as ever with hypocrites, liars and fools, all the while confessing he could be any of the three himself. If people don�t get the sardonic, selfmocking humor fueling Johnny�s acid anger; Lee Abrams�s prediction might well turn out true. Here�s hoping it doesn�t...