PETER GABRIEL So

(Geffen)

by Jim Farber

Let’s begin judging this album by its cover. It’s the first Peter Gabriel sleeve in history where he doesn’t insist on looking like something David Cronenberg’s cat dragged in. Instead of acting the rock monster, Peter now comes to us au natural. Likewise, the wax inside the sleeve presents the warmest and— dare-l-say-it?—most human Gabriel to date. Songwise, it’s his catchiest and most accessible platter since the first. And instrumentally, it’s got more rhythmic heat than ever before.

The faithful will remember Gabriel started noodling around with steamy African rhythms on his third LP in 1980. Then on his last studio platter, four years ago, he unhinged the bass and got further into the groove. That album worked really well in an ultra-moody, semi-arty way. But this time Peter managed to put more pop in his bass and percussion. The funk rhythm in cuts like “Red Rain” and “Big Time” fit into tighter song-structures, and even in the long-shot Top 40 ballads, the bass and banging are themselves key hooks. In general, this whole funkification process for Gabriel seems remarkably similar to the loosening up of fellow brainiac David Byrne. They’re like brothers from other planets who’ve used the African and funk equipment to get down to earth.

But it’s not just Gabriel’s music that’s loosened up. His lyrics also offer less freakout scenerios. Instead of shocking monkeys, awaiting floods and other paranoid endeavors, here he offers more prayers for something better. Of course, there are still plenty of scary monsters lurking around. For instance, Red Rain is one of the best nukemares yet scratched on vinyl, aided by Gabriel’s trademark fallout vocals and the industrial funk-tinged pop. But there are also cuts like “In Your Eyes,” and “Don’t Give Up” in which, facing the void, Gabriel gets all dewey-eyed and lets hope conquer all. That theme even gets a bit of wit and romance in the funk “lose-thisskin” single “Sledgehammer,” which, believe it or not, comes across even funnier in the video. Best of all, though, are the two duets, one of which, it saddens me to report, does not appear on vinyl but only on cassette and CD. (Don t you hate when they do that?) It’s a match-up with Laurie Anderson, but don’t let that scare you. Unlike her scams, this is a successful Talking Heads’ rip-off. Better still is “Don’t Give Up,” Peter’s tryst with Kate Bush. It’s a beautiful, ghostly ballad, probably his best since “Solsbury Hill,” and in a better world than this, would be a huge hit. Still, anti-pop fans shouldn’t worry. However accessible such cuts may be, they won’t give Lionel Richie pause. Just goes to show you, I guess, even the most “human” Peter Gabriel is still pretty much a mutant.

VARIOUS ARTISTS

Hear ’n’ Aid (Mercury)

OK, so it’s a good idea. A great idea, right up there with rotating your antacids or using medicine safely for a “better” life. Buying this record is definitely an agreeable—if not completely painless—way to donate bucks to folks who are just plain starving to death. If our crummy dollars keep just one person alive for one more day, it’s worth it. Have we got that established?

The problem is: I ain’t hungry enough to swallow this album. Nobody is. I mean, just as I was sitting down to admire the epic column of Courtesy Of credits in real time, this news flash came on CNN:

“The Ethiopian government is using food to lure starving peasants into refugee camps, where later they’re forcibly relocated, many of them dying of hunger, exposure and disease.

“We are feeding a system which creates starvation,” says Dr. Rony Brauman of the French medical group Doctors Without Borders. “We’re establishing a plan for future mass starvation which will be worse than what we have now.” Oh well, at least they’ve got a plan.

Bull hockey, sez Bob Geldof. A guy like Geldof is exactly what this project needs. Just for starters, howcum it took a whole year to get this thing out when all the other Aids got theirs out in about 15 minutes? And why’d they omit so many metal artistes with heavy acts to grind? Where’s Slayer? How about Stormtroopers Of Death? Why couldn’t they talk Ozzy Osbourne into joining? (I can almost hear him now, mumbling let them eat bats...) And howcum there are zero females in this aggregation? C’mon, Lee Aaron! Fiona! Wendy-0\\ Oh, I see. Rob Halford was in charge of that department...

Enough complaining. Let’s hoist this moo up for choppin’ and get it over with. Surprisingly enough, the enlongated “Stars” is the most likable cut on the LP, all seven-plus minutes of it. Ever since I accidentally caught the video while switching from Cancer Today to Small Wonder, the chorus has stuck with me, not unlike those parasitic dickeybirds who live on rhinos. Isn’t that some vid? I especially like the part where all the famous guitar players in the world just happen to play the hottest 12 bars they know—in sequence, no less—kinda like chicken “overtaking” beef.

This brings up the main asset of the record: brute time. Every track is over four minutes long except the Hendrix tune. What can you say, Jimi just didn’t have enough time!

These 2,742 wonderful seconds were achieved mainly by filling out the disc with live recordings. All the groups play live except for “Stars” itself, Y & T and, of course, Jimi Hendrix. In fact, Jimi appears “by arrangement with the Jimi Hendrix estate.” Now there’s a concept!

What about the actual music, you ask? Well, there’s some pretty good stuff here by Accept (darn that Udo!), Scorpions, Rush (love that weird reggae bassline) and Kiss, who get extra credit for not performing “Lick It Up.” Plus, at the end of the song, Paul is still babbling about something and the engineer just turns him off in mid-rap!

Is it too mercenary of me to point out the rest is awful, but you should buy it anyway? Check this out: Motorhead’s unbelievably lame “On The Road” sets a new standard for laughable attempts at vocals. The Hendrix song—a ’67 reject—is a virtual rewrite of “Rollin’ & Tumblin’.” How about that, the dead ripping off the dead! Boss Dio’s big whinny, “Hungry For Heaven”, sort of...uh, borrows the chords to that one Who song you always hear, you know, the one about the teenage wasteland. How about that, the dumb ripping off...

Oh well, maybe the problem is they just picked the wrong cause to sing for! Yeah, that’s it! Hey guys! This is a true fact: in America—right at this very moment—there are over 10,000 “hopelessiy” comatose patients, and I am only 17 of them! What’re ya waiting for, fellas?

Rick Johnson (appears courtesy of Sani-Flush)

BELINDA CARLISLE

Belinda

(I.R.S.)

Belinda is a fun record, and isn’t that what we’re all looking for? Sure, there’s a lot of quality (i.e., well-crafted) pop on the market these days, but most of it’s not any fun. Prince? Tries too hard. Madonna? Ditto. Bangles? That early EP was neat; unfortunately, the LPs have a joyless, efficient edge. Those kids obviously feel too much pressure to be their natural selves. Sad how non-musical considerations can spoil a good band.

Although tensions of the record biz may have destroyed the Go-Go’s, their final album offered a fine time anyway. Now singer Belinda Carlisle carries on her late band s tradition, keeping the gusto (i.e., magic) in the music, no matter how predictable the song. On the surface, this platter has the makings of a fiasco—CAREER MOVE is stamped all over it. Carlisle’s dropped a few pounds and paid a visit to the hairdresser, so she looks good, but manufactured. Producer Michael Lloyd’s credits include such lustrous names as Pink Lady, Leif Garrett, and Scott Baio. Anonymous L.A. session players do their thing. There’s strings and horns, etc. No problem!

If you liked the Go-Go’s, you’ll get a kick out of Belinda. While keyboards tend to replace that band’s guitars, softening the edges, Carlisle remains an optimistic bundle of energy, never less than charming. Many of the tunes aspire to be classic wallof-sound pop in the tradition of Phil Spector, Abba and Motown, a pretty swell thing to be. “Mad About You,” in fact, provides the missing link between Abba and the Go-Go’s, unleashing a delightful storm of bells, bigboom percussion, and swirling harmony voices. And, of course, the chorus is one of those fiendishly catchy refrains that’ll ruin your concentration. Elsewhere, the thumping ‘‘I Need A Disguise” offers a nifty variation on Smokey Robinson’s “The Tracks Of My Tears” and “I Fell The Magic” carves out a frisky groove, courtesy of a honking sax and Carlisle’s effervescent girl-group stylings. By the way, is that riff in “Shot In The Dark” from “Sugar, Sugar”?

For a change of pace, “I Never Wanted A Rich Man” strikes a down-home note. Written by exbandmate Charlotte Caffey, who also plays on the LP, it’s dominated by cornball organ licks that recall the Band (Robbie Robertson’s boys, you know). Carlisle’s easy confidence with this folksy material makes the strident efforts of someone like Lone Justice’s Marie McKee seem real forced.

You can tell Belinda is a genuinely fun album because even the awful tracks are amusing. “Since You’ve Gone” is weep ’n’ wail melodrama worthy of Pat Benatar or Queen, but dig how Carlisle wrings every last drop of stupid sentiment from lines like “All I do is hang out with my pillow.” Almost as dumb, “Stuff And Nonsense” features a ludicrous “Penny Lane” trumpet segment that pushes the song to the verge of comedy. The only non-fun cut is a cover of Freda Payne’s chilling “Band of Gold.” Carlisle just doesn’t have the adult sense of anguish to bring this perverse tale of wedding night weirdness to life. Hope she never does, either.

In closing, let’s also hope Carlisle never mutates into another Stevie Nicks—there’s a hint of that obnoxious character in her singing now, which is enough. Gosh, let’s hope she doesn’t change one single bit. Fun, thy name is Belinda.

Jon Young

RAMONES

Animal Boy (Sire)

The first time los Ramones played London, innumerable soon-come punkers saw them. These ticketholders begat bands from the Sex Pistols through the Desperate Bicycles (both now defunct) just as in the '80s, another Ramones audience would beget hardcore. It’s impossible for rock’s pundits and pedants to imagine post-’60s musical history without the Ramones.

But for me, it’s impossible to imagine LIFE without them. Before I heard the Ramones and Pistols I had never gone out of my way for anyone’s music. Yet through 10 LPs and 10 years of the performances I’ve since been able to catch, the Ramones have remained my number one argument for the central importance of rock to life

— as spiritual uplift

— as sheer visceral thrill

— as tearjerking romantic catharsis

and as PROOF ABSOLUTE that good does defeat evil.

These facts are simple to me because I know that with the Ramones, what you see and hear is what you get. This band (who tie with the E Street ensemble as the finest I have seen) lives or dies by its skills and heart. The skills are justly legendary and this album offers ample evidence of a PURE MUSICAL EXPRESSION that only the particular sonic brotherhood of the Ramones can deliver. We’re talking a spectrum from mechanized steak-knife sound sculpture through heartbreaking misfit soul. In plainer terms, there are both ballads (not always written by Joey), and definitive hyperspeed rockers (not always authored by Dee Dee or John). It’s all been well-produced by exPlasmatic/Disciple of Soul Jean Beauvoir. But about the heart of this band: just listen to the LP’s closer, “Something To Believe In”. “/ wish/I were/Someone else: I’m confused, I’m afraid/I hate/The loneliness/And there’s/ Nowhere to run to/Nothin’ makes/ Any sense/But I still/Try my hardest. ’Cause I’m lookin’ for/Something to believe in:/l can’t be/ Someone else/But I don’t feel/ That it’s hopeless/I don’t feel/Bad or useless. I know/ With all my heart/That I can win/’Cause I’m looking for/SOMETHIN’ TO BELIEVE IN!”

At this moment in music, NO OTHER BAND could deliver this anthem (I’ll save further description since you should own the album) with such a perfect balance: consummate performance pacing impelled by unconditional sincerity.

The Ramones have written the greatest number of classic tracks authored by a white band this decade. And at least a couple turn up on EVERY RECORD THEY MAKE. Why? Because, you lucky fools, these men are alive and aware and always OPEN to what they observe— even when it means staring down the void or (as here) even if it means looking surd evil straight in its ugly mug. Despite the exigencies of time, fashion, capitalism, fate, internecine rivalries, and mostly-boneheaded reviews, THESE MEN ARE STILL LAUGHING. And why not? They may see little for it, but their cumulative progress puts the most celebrated international “conceptual artists” TO SHAME. And you know what else (let’s get down to specifics)? All this is done FOR YOU.

Cynthia Rose

38 SPECIAL

Strength In Numbers (A&M)

DWIGHT

TWILLEY

Wild Dogs (A&M)

At work, we play the radio constantly. A good part of the time it’s tuned to the local oldies station. The other day I was just coming down from the Supremes’ “Stoned Love” when the deejay followed it with a recent Barry Manilow atrocity. As I lunged for the dial a co-workcr remarked, “You’re not much for pop, are you?” Not much for pop?

For those of you scratching your heads and wondering what the hell Dwight Twilley and 38 Special have to do with each other: don’t worry. You’re not alone. Actually the connection is supposed to be something about the State of Modern Pop, but I think that’s stretching it. Problem is, pop’s become a bastardized catch-all phrase that can cover anything from Husker Du to Barbra Streisand. These days most of what passes for pop on the radio is just schlock.

Now we have bands like 38 Special who probably think every cut on their new album could be a hit single—and given the mundane state of the airwaves, who’s to say they’re wrong? No more two-bit boogie for these boys; bring on the slick hooks and mass-harmony choruses.

Keith Olsen (Fleetwood Mac, Pat Benatar, Heart) produced. Jim Vallance (Bryan Adams) cowrote a bunch. They then proceeded to lean heavily on Foreigner (“Last Time”), Boston (on that pseudo-anthem “Never Given An Inch”) and themselves (“Somebody Like You” is a skewed retread of “If I’d Been The One,” admittedly a good song the first time around). It all adds up to a lousy time for all concerned. This is the crummiest kind of “mainstream” pop: bloated, unimaginative and corporate all the way. Credit where credit is due: the first single, “Somebody Like You,” is a decent rip of Cheap Trick with a little Cars thrown in.

As for Dwight Twilley: now here, ladies and germs, is a man who knows the true joy and value of pure pop. Youthful verve, rapturous vocal ability, gorgeous melodies, blazing guitars (Bill Pitcock IV, backing Twilley since he began over a decade ago, is an incredible unsung guitar hero) and possessed with an amazing capacity for incandescent aching—I tell you, this guy has got what it takes and then some. If things were as they should be I’d be writing about All Dwight’s Might—Greatest Hits Volume I instead of Wild Dogs.

Which brings me to the unfortunate task at hand. I must inform you that Wild Dogs is something of a disappointment. Twilley has calmed down and chilled out a little too much for his own good. The one all-out rocker, “Baby Girl,” sounds a bit by-the-book for my money. Even his much-vaunted syllablestretching seems a trifle patented.

And do my ears deceive me or is Pitcock used too sparingly here? And who asked Waddy Wachtel to sit in? Most likely the same clown who thought Kim Carnes would add a little something extra to “Hold On” (she doesn’t). Blame producer Val Garay whose other contributions are somewhat innocuous.

The record is not without its beguiling charms. “Sexual” has a shimmering lust, “You Don’t Care” makes a terrific double play with Moon Martin’s “No Chance” and it’s nice to know Susan Cowsill is still an adept harmony vocalist. But Wild Dogs is best enjoyed by onetime fans who remember what D.T. is capable of. If you want to hear Dwight at the peak of his bedazzling power, I refer you to side one, cut two of Twilley Don’t Mind. “Looking For The Magic” is one of rock ’n’ roll’s most ecstatic thrills. That moment when he cries “Hurt! Hurt!” is the greatest. May he approach it again someday soon.

Craig Zeller

METAL MACHINE MUZAK

SWANS

Greed

(PVC)

SONIC YOUTH

Evol

(SST)

by Michael Davis

Through the years, rock has tended to be noisy—exciting some people and bothering others. As the world has gotten noisier, the music has more than kept up, so that, here in the mid’80s, we have bands dedicated more to noise than rhythm, melody and harmony.

Even among so-called noise bands, though, Swans and Sonic Youth are a breed apart. Both based in NYC, both tense and intense, they pound and shake and screeching but there is little release in their music and not much sense of fun behind their aural excursions.

There are qualitative differences, however. To put it as bluntly as they do, Swans suck. The drums are physical without any sense of rhythmic propulsion; the guitars squeal without direction. And when the singer/ lyricist/producer, sounding like Nick Cave OD’ing on the essence of Ian Curtis, begins moaning lines like “I’ll cut off my right hand and stand in your shadow,” he reveals himself to be little more than a bullshit artist on the altar of pain.

It’s like the whole idea of this band is a waste of time, as far as I’m concerned. There is so much self-hatred in the lyrics that I don’t care if the singer—one M. Gira—is sincere or play-acting. His chosen persona—the stupid child who attended the wrong Birthday Party, the jerk who never got the Killing Joke—is so overdrawn as to be unbelievable. This is l’m-miserable-fook-at-me rock at its most one-dimensional. Unless you enjoy spending long hours wallowing in self-pity, you’re likely to find Swans pretty useless.

But not entirely so: at least they make Sonic Youth sound pretty good in comparison, especially on this new LP. Thurston Moore has always had a knack for feedback, but here he’s integrating his soundstorms into increasingly pop-like structures, as the band seemingly swims out of private cesspool toward a mainstream that emanates from Uncle Lou and Aunt Patti.

To strain the metaphor further, the water is still quite polluted with images of death, hatred and lack of will, but the four heads keep bobbing to the surface; no one’s going down for the count. No one can really sing, either, but they’re finding ways around this weakness as one Youth whispers in the shadows and another effectively declaims a poem over a seething feedbackdrop. Instrumental^, their rough edges recall a handful of overused razor blades but they play as a team and the music makes more sense each time I approach it. And with each hearing, I hear a little more hope. I dunno, in a year or two, I might actually grow to like Sonic Youth.

DEPECHE MODE

Black Celebration (Mute-Sire)

ERASURE

Wonderland

(Mute-Sire)

When Vince Clarke bailed out of Depeche Mode after just one album, it appeared that would be all she wrote about the young synth pop quartet. For a band whose main assets were slight facility with synthesizers and a brilliantly catchy songwriter with a clear understanding of the value of hooks in an essentially repetitive format, losing said tunesmith created the kind of problem that leads record executives to start talking about contractual obligations. But hold the phone!

Clarke proceeded to prove himself a perfectly transportable talent in Yazoo, whose Alison Moyet gave soulful voice to her retiring partner’s memorable ditties. His ex-bandmates landed on their six feet as well, with Martin Gore taking over the writing chores. Adding a new member, Depeche Mode earned enduring major-league international commercial (and occasionally artistic) success.

Five years later, Depeche Mode are surviving on their stardom, wallowing in a bizarre (for chart action) land of lyrical negativism and soundalike melodies. After cruising through irreverent skepticism, humanist philosophy and a stiff-backed resolve not to be screwed over in their recent hits, Black Celebration, is a lengthy dirge, a depressed collection of songs filled with shame, frustration, doubt and disgust, tempered with a spot of politics and several doses of romantic idealism. In “Fly On The Windscreen,” Gore writes: “Death is everywhere...we could be torn apart...lambs for the slaughter...waiting to die.” Yeah, yeah, yeah! In “Sometimes” he admits, “I question everything... in a mood like this I can be tiring.” No fooling. Now does that really sound like the stuff on teen idolhood?

None of Black Celebration's songs are as clever or vindictive as the brilliant “Blasphemous Rumours” or ‘‘Everything Counts”; slow, unvarying tempos, weak (and repeated) melodies, and unimaginative arrangements make the numbers hard to differentiate. On the end of the first side, however, “Sometimes” and “It Doesn’t Matter Two” rely on David Gahan’s layered vocals over sparse backing to undo the band’s otherwise ominous drone. A few other tracks subtract various amounts of the generally dense instrumentation, but don’t really sound that different: you’ll find yourself mentally filling in the gaps.

Clark’s latest outing—following a number of one-off projects he explored after Yazoo’s bifurcation—is Erasure, a duo with Andy Bell. Their first LP, Wonderland, is a little deja vu creepy at first, since Bell sings a lot like Alf Moyet. A lot. “Who Needs Love Like That” picks up right where “Situation” left off; the less active “Cry So Easy” (which Bell wrote) favors Moyet’s solo record. The resemblance is uncanny.

Vince’s studio creations continue to rely almost exclusively on synthesizers, and he’s not presently inclined to do much stylistic or sonic exploration. Unlike the fragile atmostpherics of “Never Never” (his Assembly record with Feargal Sharkey), Wonderland—despite some novelty maneuvers (the Farfisafied opening to “Love Is A Loser,” f’rinstance)—holds to the kinetic, soul-inflected dancepop style Yazoo established. Interestiy, all but two of the songs were jointly written by Clarke and Bell; still, it’s undoubtedly Clark’s master craftsmanship that makes “Heavenly Action” and “Oh L’Amour” case studies in instantly, effortlessly memorable pop.

Depeche Mode and prodigal son Clarke have diverged far enough that it’s now difficult to imagine their common origins. But both have found success in the postguitar world, and each faction has influenced others to follow the lead down that synthesized path. So if they’re not always stretching the boundaries, surpassing what they’ve already mastered, that’s OK. Participation in one pop revolution per career is plenty.

Ira Robbins