ROCK•A•RAMA

ROCK•A•RAMA

This.month’s Rock-A-Ramas were written by Michael Davis, Chuck Eddy, Bill Holdship, Richard Riegel, Dave Segal and Richard C. Walls

NICK CAVE

Kicking Against The Pricks

(Homestead)

You could say that Nick Cave plays David Lee Roth to Crime and City Solution’s lame-o Van Hagar, except that Van-Halenwith-Roth were never as boring as BirthdayParty-with-Cave, and except that Nick’s latest solo excursion (his third, and like Roth’s first, all covers) actually beats David Lee’s. Maybe reinterpreting the Velvets’ “All Tomorrow’s Parties” and everybody else’s “Hey Joe” is as predictable for Nicholas as “That’s Life” and “Tobacco Road” were for Dave, but “By The Time I Get To Phoenix” and “Muddy Water” and “Long Black Veil” are nothing less than inspired, and these sex-and-death epics have never been creepier. Mucho credit has to go to Blixa Bargeld (on loan from now-defunct Einsturzende Neubauten), who stands your neckhairs erect with his eerie axe carvings and vocal scrapings—in fact, I’d venture Neubauten’s 1985 retooling of Lee Hazelwood’s “Sand,” rather than any previous Cave disc, was this LP’S blueprint. But Nick’s darn frightening himself, clawing for lizard-king croon-space amidst the fragile, string-ridden, breaking glass instrumentation. Chilling stuff, even if Roy Orbison’s “Running Scared” and Ram Jam’s (or, OK, Leadbelly’s) “Black Betty” are reserved for a non-LP 12-inch B-side. Buy the single and album both. (POB 570. Rockville Centre, NY 11571) C.E.

THE FEELIES

The Good Earth

(Coyote)

Six years after the release of their seminal Crazy Rhythms, the Feelies prove they can still spill seeds of Velvetoid magnificence. As originators of nice-quiet-guy-in-plaidshirt-rock, these New Jerseyites know the value of gentleness and supple songwriting. Mercer-Million & Co. out-R.E.M. R.E.M. in evoking pastoral bliss as they romp through Elysian fields of dulcet Rickenbackers (or whatever they use). It’s been said before but it bears repeating: “Slipping (Into Something)” has the most exhilarating (Sterling) Morrison/Reed-storm since 1969 itself, going from the softest plectrumming to the most scorching white heat riffing. It’s the finest cut on an LP without a weak moment. The Good Earth is a most unassuming classic, a balm for the ^ars, and probably the best American album of ’86.D.S.

DOBIE GRAY

From Where I Stand

(Capitol)

Rather than try to get in with Dwight Yoakam’s and Steve Earle’s neo-trad C&W in-crowd, Dobie makes his big comeback by going full-tilt (localewise) full-bodied (production-wise), and full kerneled (corn-wise) Nashville. Which is to say that a lot of this is schlock—more slick/“mature” Music City assembly-line plaints on separatin’ and movin’ out and makin’ mistakes and waitin’ on a train than any non-hick needs. But the singer’s baritone remains soulful, and if that fact and his skin tone make this music soul music, then this is one of the few recent soul records that’s too pure to cross over to CHR, and that’s good. And there actually are a couple notable lyrics: “House Divided By Two,” which uses a collapsing shack as a metaphor for a collapsing marriage; “Dark Side Of Town,” a cheating-with-your-ex lament with a subtle racial undertone; and maybe “A Night In The Life Of A Country Boy,” a blue-collar anthem that sounds truer here than it ever could from some Jersey millionaire. Not really up my alley, and probably not up yours, and I’m still waiting for another “Drift Away,” but Dobie’s such a nice guy it seems OK to just forgive him and anticipate his next comeback anyway. C.E.

DOGMATICS

Everybody Does It

(Homestead)

Is it a Replacements imitation already? Maybe not, since this young Boston quartet has been playing around since ’82. But it sure reminds me a lot of Westerberg & the boys—and since those guys must’ve sold at least 20 albums in their lifetime, you know the Dogmatics have gotta be doing this for the love of it all. Definitely traditionalists at heart (“Saturday Night Again” quotes from Hank Williams, while “Drinking By The Pool” steals the opening riff from “Blitzkrieg Bop”), sometimes their lyrics drift into stupidity, nof stoopidity (“Teenage Lament” changes Dion’s immortal question to “Why must I be a teenager on drugs?”)—but at least it’s always amusing. “Everything Went Bad” is about a bad acid trip, “Cry Myself To Sleep” an actual “sensitive” losMove ballad with ’6)s-ish pop harmonies ’n’ stuff, and the great Jonathan Paley-produced “Thayer Street” just might be a classic. With terrific rock ’n’ roll guitar and piano (and self-admitted influences ranging from Buddy Holly to the N.Y. Dolls), this is one “wild” and “raw” (and what-not) unit that— wonder of wonders—actually makes you feel good. Punk rock the way I remember it. B.H.

DRAMARAMA

Cinema Verite

(New Rose import)

You might think that the number of Velvet Underlings who can dance on the edge of a chart might be saturated by now, but it looks like we’ll have to make room for at least one more. You might also wonder how a band that sounds basically like early Elliott Murphy fronting the Dream Syndicate could already be inspiring pockets of passionate . response when their lone LP is available only as an import. But spin it a couple of times and the answers make themselves obvious: these guys got a fistful of strong songs, where the sneers sneak underneath the skin instead of just staying fashionably frozen on their faces. M.D.

ARCHIE SHEPP

Little Red Moon

(Soul Notp)

Shepp, once the enfant terrible of the abstract but visceral scorching molten tenor sax spew (his two masterpieces, released in the mid-’60s on Impulse!, are Four For Trane and Fire Music, no doubt both reavailable soon as MCA’s CD reissue program expands) is now an elder statesman and speaks (through his horn) with the appropriate authority. Neo-classicism has brought this juju berserker back to the blues, on the Mingus-derived first side of this album at any rate, and Shepp plays and sings it loud and gritty (and Ray Charles he ain’t—though what he lacks in mastery he makes up for in verve, an old avant-garde strategy). The second side by this fairly straight ahead quintet (featuring trumpeter Enrico Rava) covers three jazz standards, with Shepp at his discursive best on Benny Golson’s “Whisper Not.” A merely good album, though it’s great to hear the old revolutionary keeping his hand in.R.C.W.

VARIOUS ARTISTS

Rock At The Edge

(Artista)

I was astounded when I first scanned this compilation and found that it includes not only many of the same artists—Richard Hell, Graham Parker, Lou Reed—but even some of the same cuts (Blondie’s “X Offender,” Ian Dury’s ‘‘Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll”). I put on a cassette I compiled last year for an old college pal who wanted more authentic music than he could get from his MTV. Rock At The Edge ipcludes Patti Smith, Television, and Iggy Pop as well, so it’s evident that this is a prime collection of late-’70s “punk” and ‘‘new wave,” as we rather naively called these artists at the time. I hate to admit how nostalgic I am already for the rock era represented On this album—I LOVE Rock At The Edge, and play it over and over—but I truly need these reallife rebels when I’m confronted with some of the loyal-opposition, closet-yuppie bands prominent on today’s “underground” scene. Special consumer note if you’re as hardcore a CREEM cultist as I am: the already wonderful Rock At The Edge was compiled by contributing editor Mitchell Cohen, and is ‘‘dedicated to Lester Bangs, whether he’d have liked it or not.” R.R.

EFFIGIES

Ink

(Restless/Fever)

I guess you could call this a failed experiment: An exemplary Chicago punk-rock (not hardcore) combo, which turned out one of its genre’s most brutal hard-rock (not heavy metal) hybrids ever on its previous album (1985’s sizzlingly excellent Fly On A Wire, whereon they also explicitly revealed the Midwest punk infatuation with art wave Britain by including a Joy Division cover), decides to go all-the-way AOR. Not a bad idea in itself, but the Effigies don’t come off so much like AC/DC (or even good Foreigner or early Ratt) as they do like friggin’ Bon Jovi or somebody: omnipresent muzaky keyboards, stifling echo effects, subdued guitars that go nowhere, raspy tough-dude vocals spouting “survival” cliches, the works. The LP’s press release talks about “new financial stability” and “a vow to release a new album and tour every six months,” like the Effigies were settling down for the careerist long haul. So it came as no surprise when I heard they’d broken up, just weeks after Ink came out. A shame, really—there was genuine intelligence here once. (1750 E. Holly Ave., POB 2428, El Segundo, CA 90245) C.E.

BOGSHED

Step On It Bogshed

(Shelfish import)

Bogshed is British slang for outhouse, and there’s your first hint of what this band’s all about. Bogshed celebrate the Ugly, the Downtrodden, the Outcast—they practice the aesthetics of scruffiness. You people out there with delicate sensibilities will probably wrinkle your noses at the ultracrunchy guitar textures, nervy vocals and splenetic rhythms. You bearded, mellow types won’t dig how these songs go in fits & starts, how they shit and bark. You Smiths-worshippers doubtless will hide from the riotous, rude, reckless, rambunctious (and other words that start with R) nature of Bogshedabilly. But anyone with fire in his/her guts should derive much satisfaction from these 14 blasts of sonic spunk in the face of prim pop & rock. D.S.

LAUGHING HYENAS

Laughing Hyenas

(Laughing Hyenas cassette EP)

It took 16 years, but Ann Arbor has finally produced a recording that can serve as a natural followup/extension to the Stooges’ Fun House, the greatest longplayer in the history of rock ’n’ roll. The Laughing Hyenas (mutant offspring of Detroit aggros Negative Approach and L-Seven) wail like Lucifec’s canine troops unleashed: Singer John vomits out violently pythonesque primal therapy, guitarist Kevin spews melodic free noise sludge that sounds to me like the reallife blues, bassist Larissa and drummer Mike tap the protoplasmic core of human existance with what may well be the most ceaselessly intense A-bomb beat to bang its way out of the rust belt since Asheton and Alexander themselves. These six incredible terror-tunes embody chaos, fear, pain, love, hate, desire to maim, you name it. (3416 Platt Rd., Ann Arbor, Ml 48104) C.E.