RECORDS

RECORDS

SACRE BLEU

THE SCREAMING

BLUE MESSIAHS

Gun-Shy

(Elektra)

by Jon Young

Cool name for a band, isn t it? Well, the record’s even better! The latest entry in the Music That Matters sweepstakes, England’s Screaming Blue Messiahs occasionally recall the combat theatrics of the Clash or the wordy tirades of Midnight Oil, but they’re not really like either. Punk roots aside, Gun-Shy draws from the wellspring of crazed brilliance that’s nourished all great rock ’n’ roll, from Presley and Little Richard to Dylan and Lou Reed. I personally double dog dare ya to find a fresher, more distinctive or more addictive record in the current crop of crud.

Don’t be misled by stray topical references. Gun-Shy files a bulletin on the demons in Bill Carter’s head, not a political report. The head Messiah is bald, brusque chap who bellows, shouts and babbles while raking his guitar with harsh abandon. Carter usually seems more desperate than dangerous, whether clinging to a bumpy Bo Diddley rhythm in “Smash The Market Place,” or playing a wired, nothing-to-lose misfit “looking down the barrel of a loaded gun/Just to see where the bullets come from” in “Just For Fun.” Here and throughout, Kenny Harris’s bam-bam drums provide the perfect counterpoint to Carter’s prickly axes. Bassist Chris Thompson does good, too, remaining mostly in the background.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell precisely what’s going on during the emotional firestorm. Smothered in tremolo and sandpaper chords, “Holiday Head” builds up a storm-the-barricades momentum worthy of good ol’ kilter angst to fill in the blanks. Try not to get bogged down deciphering the soaring “Twin Cadillac Valentine,” a wiggedout metaphor for love.

Other times the meaning comes through loud and clear, and you’re left face to face with the jabbering, overwrought Carter as he spews out his anx-

ieties. “Someone To Talk To” features a disjointed rap about the terror of warfare and the ghastly anthemic refrain “If I die in a combat zone/Box me up and ship me home.” A twisted scrapmetal interpretation of Hank Williams’s classic “You’re Gonna Change” allows Carter to mix equal parts of hostility and abject hysterics, a volatile brew Hank hisself would appreciate. This nasty little gem is wholesome fare beside Gun-Shy’s closing track, though. The choppy, blues-tinged “Killer Born Man” nonsense syllables and muttering “kill, kill, kill, kill,” in need of strong medication fast.

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There’s nothing new about capturing life on the edge, of course. However, compare “Killer Born Man” to the Stones’ “Midnight Rambler,” or “Someone To Talk To” to the Clash’s “Guns On The Roof,” and

and decide who’s fake and who’s real. The Screaming Blue Messiahs don’t romanticize their subject matter, so Gun-Shy has a brutal ring of conviction. Watch out for shrapnel!

One could cite the ingenious simplicity of the production, with its stripped-down attack and black-hole echo, or praise Carter’s knack for squeezing a variety of wicked noises from his guitar. Enough already. Better you should sample Gun-Shy right away and get that adrenaline buzz firsthand.

DILL T dOEL

The Bridge

(Columbia)

Billy Joel promised us a long time ago that he’d never do the same thing twice, and The Bridge follows in his tradition of making a stylistic flipflop with each new album. Forget the Levittown Sgt. Peppehsms of The Nylon Curtain, forget the doo-wop nostalgia of An Innocent Man. The Bridge is Billy Joel heavy on the interpersonal emotions and light in the musical tone, which means he’s flipflopped all the way through the cycle, back to the style of the mid-’70s records that originally made him such a sooooperstar.

And since everybody and his significant other are telling me that we’re in the midst of a ’70s revival, Billy Joel’s latest flip couldn’t be timelier. Actually, though, before you can return to the mid-’70sisms on The Bridge, you have to dig through several characteristically mid-’80s pop gimmicks. The Bridge has its obligatory song-from-a-smashyuppimatic-movie (“Modern Woman,” from Ruthless People), and it also features Joel engaging in duets with several of his superstar peers, including Cyndi Lauper, Ray Charles and Steve Winwood. The latter two soul singer/keyboardists are long-time idols of Joel’s, though, so their appearances here are more “organic” than they might be; they aren’t the usual 1986 duets-to-do-in-the-competition between vested-interest pop moguls.

Or maybe Billy invited these other stars into the studio with him because he’s lonely (at the top), because on the songs where he’s theoretically on his own, he falls into his old habit of mimicking other people’s vocal styles note-perfectly. Remember how well Joel can do Harry Chapin or Paul McCartney? Well, on The Bridge’s opening cut, “Running On Ice,” he does a Sting vocal so perfect with Mr. Sumner’s piano-vamped, cultured paranoia that it turns my hair blond each time I listen to it. And in “Big Man On Mulberry Street,” Billy Joel vocalizes a remarkable simulation of his fellow Long Islander, Good Rat Peppi Marchello, a move so surreal in its uncommerciality that Joel must be doing this Rich Little vocal shtick “unconsciously.”

And even though he comes on in interviews as the angriest little pisser that ever was, Billy Joel strikes me as someone who still has a horrible need to be liked, even after all his superstardom, even after waking up with the bed on fire with Christie Brinkley. I think that this gnawing need for approval is the source of Joel’s wild stylistic shifts and bizarre vocal imitations. OK, fair enough, Billy, I like the way you still write better pop songs (as pop songs) than most of the selfconscious I’m-so-POP! types do.

“Big Man On Mulberry Street” is the jazzy, tears-for-beers midlife lament of a Long Islander lost in lower Manhattan. “Running On Ice” is nuclear tasteefreeze paranoia at the top. So is the Lauper duet, “Code Of Silence,” wherein Herr Joel confesses that he hasn’t confessed all in his angry interviews just yet. “Temptation” is about sex, interestingly enough. And “Getting Closer,” the marching-hippie duet with Steve Winwood, is Billy Joel getting ever closer to the Traffic sound he once worshipped, as in his version of “Coloured Rain” on the Hassles’ first album. The Bridge has several good songs I won’t mind hearing again, and I’m sure the radio will oblige me, again and again.

(Note to Editor: Somewhere in the fine print credits of The Bridge, it says, “ ‘Billy Joel’ is a registered trademark.” So if my taking his name in vain up above causes any trademark infringement problems, then every place I use it, cross it out and substitute “Mr. X, generic angry pisser who wants to be liked.”)

Richard Riegel

EURYTHMICS

Revenge

(RCA)

I can vaguely recall learning something in high school biology, an explanation why molecular goosh flows out of, rather than into, an amoeba under certain conditions. In the interests of keeping arcane firstsentence review digressions to a minimum, let’s cut to the chase as it relates to the Rthmx’ new LP: Dave Stewart’s been spreading his precious creative juices around so generously— on Tom Petty, Feargal Sharkey, Bob Dylan, Daryl Hall, Mick Jagger, the Ramones and others— that he isn’t operating at peak artistic virility here. What’s more, his supposedly hard-nosed, selfpossessed partner, Annie Lennox, seems so burnt by something of a romantic nature (the breakup of her marriage to Mr. Krishna last year?) that half of the songs seethe with undisguised and unflattering bitterness of a most individual nature. It’s a wonder no names are named.

The topic for the day is betrayal. In “The Last Time,” Annie complains "I am just a pretty thing/You wanted for a day”; a "Thorn In My Side” is “all you’ll ever be...I trusted you at first but I should have known better.” On the other hand, “The Miracle Of Love,” “When Tomorrow Comes” and others offer a positive outlook on romance, making Revenge an ambivalently sweet and sour temptation. Cumulatively, the songwriting is weak; flat arrangements leave the occasional melodic hooks hanging out like red knickers on a gray clothesline.

These guys are too smart and talented to make a crummy record, but with sporadic exceptions (especially “Missionary Man”—great harmonica work and wailing backing vocals), the LP generates surprisingly few strong impressions or memories. Compared to the gripping rocksoul of last year’s exciting Be Yourself Tonight, Revenge is a restrained letdown. There are no duets with legends, no manic guitar solos, no testifyin’ to the raunchy sound of sweetdrenched R&B. Lennox, in fine voice as usual, sounds wistful and disappointed rather than outraged. This vinyl placebo is easy enough to swallow, but causes no serious reaction.

Revenge should be deeply satisfying and unforgettable. Revenge ain’t.

Ira Robbins

BORN TO RUN

FRANK YANKOVIC 70 Years Of Hits (Smash/Polygram)

by Bob Dolgan

(What follows are the liner notes from Frank Yankovic’s 70 Years Of Hits.—Ed.)

Anybody who was there will never forget it. It was Frankie Yankovic, America’s polka king, giving a vintage performance.

It happened a couple of years ago at the SNPJ Campsite at Enon Valley, Pa. Yankovic was scheduled to perform at 5 p.m. on a hot summer Sunday.

The outdoor pavilion was packed with about 600 people, standing hip to hip, anxiously awaiting the King’s arrival.

Finally, Yankovic walked in with his four band members. He did his share of the work, helping to carry the sound equipment and instruments.

Yankovic wore Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless undershirt in the heat, contrasting sharply to those who put on tuxedoes to impress the public.

The throng watched quietly as Yankovic, the old handyman and electrician, carefully went through the exacting job of arranging the speakers and amplifiers. It took about 20 minutes.

The fans, who could hardly wait to hear the music, were quiet at first, but then they began to call out, “C’mon. Yonkee, let’s go,” and ‘‘Hey, Yonkee, you’re looking good,” and other cheerful greetings. Several said things to him in Slovenian.

The people behaved as though they were friends of Yankovic, as though they had known him all their lives. This is an advantage he has over other entertainers. He has been around for so long and so many people have heard his music that they feel they know him even if they have never met him.

A man in the crowd called out, ‘‘Hey, Frankie, have a beer.” Yankovic jovially took a swallow of the beer.

At last, the show was to begin. You knew it was going to be great. It could not miss, for the audience was in perfect, receptive mood. Yankovic could have hit nothing but clinkers and they would have loved him.

Without a word of introduction, Yankovic and his band began playing and singing. Yankovic sang every polka and waltz he could think of, in a gigantic, nonstop medley that lasted a full 30 minutes.

There was ‘‘Just Because” and “Rendezvous Waltz” and “Eee-Yi, Eee-Yi, Eee-Yi-Yo.” He just kept playing and singing. When he couldn’t think of a new song, the uninhibited Yankovic sang one that he had done previously. He must have sung “Eee-Yi, Eee-Yi-Yo” three times.

The audience went wild with delight. After about 15 minutes, they joined in and started singing with Yankovic. It became a great big love-in. Yonkee had some estimable musicians with him, including the splendid accordionist Joey Miskulia, but all eyes were on the King alone.

It was just another job to Yankovic. He broke every rule in the book. But it was one of the most enjoyable performances I have ever seen, anywhere.

That’s the way it has been with Yankovic for 54 years. He is the foremost man in polka history. Nobody is close to him. There are many fine polka musicians, and they have their local followings. Only Yankovic is known coast to coast.

He is the Babe Ruth of the polka, a legendary figure who will be talked about long after he is gone.

Rivals who scoffed and said he was ready for the junk heap 25 years ago have long since retired to their rocking chairs. But he keeps going on and on.

Some envious musicians scorn Yankovic’s playing ability. They say his is a mediocre accordionist and that many people play the box better than he does. That may be true. Even Yankovic admits it. But it doesn’t matter. Yankovic is the supreme entertainer. That is more important than hitting the correct keys on the accordion. Yankovic can hire all the excellent players he wants, and he has had loads of them—Johnny Pecon, Tops Cardone, Dick Sodja, Joey Miskulin. Top entertainers are rarities. Top accordionists are not.

And, let us not forget, he is a fine singer, with an unmatched folksy style, mispronounced words and all.

Yankovic has thrived because he understands what the public wants and gives it to them. He plays for the crowd, not to impress other musicians.

Like all entertainers who last, Yankovic is always himself. You never see him try to be fancy or be anything he is not. Incredibly, more than a half a century after it began, through all kinds of tragedies, mistakes and triumphs, the King is as good as ever.

NEIL YOUNG

Landing On Water (Geffen)

Well, folks, here it is, the one you’ve been waiting for. Or at least, the one David Geffen’s been waiting for. Maybe better, make that the one Geffen thinks he’s been waiting for.

In any event, this is Neil Young’s “contemporary” album, an up-to-the-microsecond excercise in musical marketing research. Yes, that means synths and samplers, but it also means the presence of co-star Danny Kortchmar as co-producer-guitarist-synthesistvocalist. Kortchmar has worked effectively with Don Henley, helping to keep the ex-Eagle flying strongly throughout the ’80s, so you can imagine the wheels turning in Mr. G’s mind. Enough yo-yoing between techno pop and rockabilly and country; now that I’ve found the right collaborator for Neil, let’s go for it. Toss in one of the most musical session drummers, Steve Jordan, and you can almost ensure a hit.

Maybe so, maybe not. Kortchmar may be Henley’s right hand man—but here, he’s lucky to be Young’s left big toe. Part of the problem is a lack of band dynamics. Landing On Water was recorded by just the three of them, backed by a choir on a couple of tracks—but there’s no sense of this being a newlyformed natural collaboration, as there was, say with Waylon Jennings on last year’s Old Ways.

For that matter, Jordan doesn’t seem to be particularly inspired either; it’s hard to believe that the same guy who sounds so funkily creative on recent Steve Khan LPs plays like such a clunky Phil Collins clone so often here. Maybe it’s the lack of a live bassist to work with or maybe it’s the material itself. Neil is writing with radio formats in mind, rather than his own natural strengths, and the sub-ordinary synthesizer arrangements only make his vocal shortcomings that much more obvious. Not everything falls as flat as the anthemic choruses of “Violent Side” and “Hard Luck Stories,” but only the last tune on each side, “Touch The Night” and “Drifter,” approach the level of the best stuff on Trans.

“Think I’ll sell this inferior mouth organ to Freddie Mercury as well!”

Fortunately, there is one other winner. “I Got A Problem” is constructed around one monolithic industrial riff and Young’s guitar fights its way out from underneath the hi-hat it had been hiding under to deliver a series of suitably nasty noises. This song oughta really kick ass when Crazy Horse gets a hold of it. And the word is that they’ll be going out on the road with Neil soon. Good. Maybe Young should think about recording with them again. And the next time he wants to go electronic, he should simply go to the experts and consider a collaboration with Kraftwerk.

Michael Davis

BANANARAMA

True Confessions (London)

First off, dumb name, one that’s practically become synonymous with the word “typo.” I mean, why not Banananarama or Bananaramalama? Or for that matter, what about Kumquatarama or Beets In Heat?

Great video, though. For “Venus,” that is—I bumped into it while remoting between My Three Sons and American Girls and—Up Periscope'.—for a second, I thought I’d blundered into boat cushion inspector’s paradise. No question about the trio’s dancing ability. In fact, they could be arrested in 13 states and two territories for impersonating bait.

Right now we’re dealing with the record, however. Seeing as how this is a vocals-only group, we should probably jump on those first.

Remember way back in the old days, when Debby Harry was still taken seriously? Billboard would always rush out a smooch-review of the latest Blondie single and rave about her “detached” singing. I’d read this and think, wotta concept She’s not detached, she’s dead\ Nah, she’s not even dead, she just plain can’t sing!

Same deal here. These three bimbos couldn’t tweet their way out of a wet pupa! Try this very scientific experiment—no need to buy the record, just wait for the next time the video comes on the tube. OK, now this here’s the hard part: close your eyes and just listen to the vocals. See what I mean? It could just as well be Martina Navratilovaroma for all the feeling they put into it.

Once you’ve got that down, you’ll have the whole LP figgered, because they use the exact same formula on every cut. First, their producers/arrangers/hairdressers rev up the drum box, or maybe they use a real drummer—what’s the diff anyway? Ditto on bass. Has the bass box been invented yet? Shouldn’t be too hard, all you’d have to do is teach it to chew gum and look bored.

After they’ve got the rhythm section wound up, there’s nothing left to do but plunk in a few snub-nosed synth riffs and start layering the vocals. I don’t think they have a machine for that, although all you can tell for sure from the melodizing here is that primates are in the area.

If you don’t expect actual songwriting from such an assembly line, you won’t be disappointed. Once you’ve heard “Venus,” you’ve also heard “Ready Or Not,” “Do Not Disturb” and several more. I’d give you the pet., but of course they had to go and put 11 songs on this thing and screw up the approach for me.

All right, all right! I’ll admit that not every track is identical. The title cut has such a long intro I thought it was gonna be an instrumental. Wotta concept—no vocal group’s had the nerve to do that since Jan & Dean! What else...oh yeah, they really tango down on “Dance With A Stranger,” which also has great lyrics—“There no emotion/only passion”—which exceeds the number of times I can legally say “wotta concept” in one review. Can’t decipher most of the words, I wish they’d included a lyric sheet so I could—hey, wait a minute! I’ve still got the Van Halen lyric sheet here from last week, I’ll just use that instead! Here we go: “Roll it over once or twice/then chow down/she’s good enough/good enough to huh!” Hmmm, these lyrics aren’t as bad as I thought!

In conclusion, I think Theodore Cleaver best summed up this LP and Bananarama’s entire act when he coined the genius phrase, "standing around to music.” Darn that Beav!

Rick Johnson

“Then it’ll be a feisty head shavin’ in the Stewart house tonight?’

ROD

STEWART

Rod Stewart (Warner Bros.)

Silly me. I actually believed Rod Stewart. Just before his new album came out, he appeared on that gutsy arts program, Entertainment Tonight, telling someone that his new LP would be “one for the rock critics. It has more story songs,” he promised. “More like the old Rod Stewart.” And I bought it.

Well, now that the album’s here it seems the “old Rod Stewart” he was referring to dates back to somewhere around, say, Blondes Have More Fun. What’s ever scarier, I think Rod is so out of it, he actually believes this stuff is his ticket back to his legit past. Just look at the new cover. No more fashion spread shots like the last few. Just Rod sitting under a train. Very Hank Williams. Likewise in the music, Rod is actually putting some effort into getting back home. He’s got j more ballads—all of side two except that superficially catchy j “Love Touch” single. And a cou1 pie of them even have Scottish j bagpipe flourishes. That’s 1 “roots,” folks. Also check out the j verses in “Every Beat Of My j Heart.” Kinda reminds you of J Gasoline Alley’s “Jo’s Lament,” j don’t it? And just in terms of 1 memorable tune this is probably j Rod’s most consistent LP since j Atlantic Crossing.

So what’s the beef? Well, let’s 1 start with Bob Ezrin. He producj ed the thing, so he’s essentially j responsible for the gloppy sound j which keeps anything-like-anemotion at arm’s length. Even the “guitar-rockers,” like “An1 other Heartache,” are afraid to I get too close. “A Night Like 1 This” is nearer to actual rock ’n’ I roll, with an Exile-style Stones j guitar riff. But even here there’s | that murkiness, like someone 1 was afraid to let the edges show. | Or worse, they’re so lame they 1 think they are showing.

The ballads get no better treatI ment. “Every Beat Of My Heart” I starts out subtle but then for | some reason the drums from 1 “Born In The U.S.A.” come I crashing in. “Ten Days Of Rain” I could’ve been a great J gospel/soul number if the sound | weren’t so soggy, and the 1 country-tinged “In My Own I Crazy Way” pleads for a sparse I Patsy Cline-type arrangement. 1 To muck up material this good j you must have no taste what| soever. Clearly, that’s what it’s come to. for Rod. The last 11 years he’s specifically selected producers who would erase just those quirks in his music that once gave him real feeling. Even I lyrically, those new ‘‘story 1 songs” he spoke about can’t I match the quirky detail of old. j

Still, ultimately I don’t think I Rod is really that interested in j “story songs” or “rock critics” I or anything he told E. T. Like any j lifelong ham, all he really wants I is to be liked. By everyone. Or at I least by everyone who watches I Entertainment Tonight. That | means not only using any rancid 1 sound to get on the radio, but I also duping yourself into thinking I that equals success. And that’s I why no one should ever find a I reason to believe Rod Stewart I again. Got that, E.T.?

Jim Farber

WHAT KRYPTO | FETCHED

SIGUE SIGUE SPUTNIK Flaunt It (Manhattan)

by Richard C. Walls

1 SSS is the brain child (or I tumor) of ex-Generation X I member Tony James—it was his I idea to get together a group of I non-musicians who looked the I part of ’80s rock-gods and turn I them into instant superstars. I James also contributes “space I guitar” to the group’s sound and, 1 along with vocalist Martin I Degville and Somebody named I Whitmore (who is probably the I group's guitarist Neal X), has co| written the album’s eight I ditties—catchy little candyI songs, somewhat clever, mostI ly satisfying, unexceptional. Not I that the songs matter all that j much—SSS is a metadance I band, excruciatingly Post| modern, a band less interested in winning you over (in the traditional way a performer wins over an audience) than in getting you to play along with the gag/concept. Sort of like the Jesus & Mary Chain, only this time, instead of avant-rockers, these guys are playing at being disco ! sex-bombs; instead of a faceful j of furious feedback, we get a fistful of familiar hooks (these | guys are the J & M Chain’s greedier, slightly older brothers,

[ figuratively speaking). They’re | exploiting a pop truth (which is i also a political truth) that the j perception is the reality. They’re j kidding, but then again, they’re i not—come on like superstars | and that’s what you’ll be. They hope. (Another point of reference is the Monkees, though SSS are much more sophisticated—they pull their own strings). If you play along it can be fun, up to a point. Otherwise, you’ll hate this.

Meanwhile, we have this aril tifact to pass judgement on, and m i it’s not too bad—not too great 8 1 either, but a little more varied 1 I and entertaining than all the 1 I hype might lead you to fear. With 1 I an ultra-gloss production by 1 I Giorgio Moroder, these are less 1 1 songs than pastiches—snatches 1 I of classical music (hey, that’d | I make a good album title), snip8 I pets of Golden Age guitar licks, 1 I all the latest synthesizer I I squizzes and electronically I 8 enhanced thunkas, combine to I 1 massage the mind and urge the 1 I body to move. Lyrically, James I I knows all the cool Cold War II 1 I buzzwords (and which ones 1 1 rhyme), and how to turn high j I tech death machine references I I into sexual metaphors. If you’ve I I heard the single “Love Missile” I I (you know “shoot it up!/shoot it 1 I up!”) then you know what about 8 1 half the album sounds like. Some j I interesting change-ups are the * I way “21th Century Boy” reworks at least three elements from Lou Reed’s “Walk On The Wild Side,” and Degville’s Joe Strummer impersonation on the midtempo numbers. And, oh yeah, there’s actually real commercials between the cuts, which is supposed be outrageous but they’re so sonically slick they sound like parts of the songs—little codas and lead-ins.

So it’s fun, but, despite Tony James’s plans to take over (or at least buy) the world, I don’t think there’s much future in this enterprise. ’Cause partying in the nuclear shadows is OK for an album or two, but if you’re gonna be around for the long haul you have to be dumb enough to really believe in what you’re doing (like, say, Kiss or AC/DC) or else you have to really start saying something, anything (like, say, Prince). And these guys aren’t dumb and I don’t think they have anything to say. Too bad.

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