RECORDS

RECORDS

WAREHOUSE CLEARANCE

HUSKER DU Warehouse:

Songs And Stories (Warner Bros.)

by Gregg Turner

I remember the trip—well, maybe not that trip, or any of the other trips you could be thinking that I think I remember—but the, uh, trip down to the local rec’d racks of the notso-nearby vinyl emporium (way back when) where I picked myself up a copy of the just-out Stooges Raw Power, and, on first listen, found it sort of (there’s no way around admitting this) sort of sub-listenable. For reasons no longer vivid to my nearly 1.5-decade-latei (now) frayed and well-worn psyche, second, third and then infinitely subsequent playbacks infected said (then!) notyet too-frayed and well-worn psyche to (could one say) nuances and stuff—and overall bitchen-ness due musique not glued to the kingdom of my mind th’first time around. And similar tales may be told of Blue Oyster Cult’s fab first platter and even of the sometime ago LP of Ohio’s Bizarros and on and on and so forth. I guess the point is that nowadays I dig to the max each and any of these and a small forest of discs that upon incipient auditions seemed to (sort of) suck pumice. Which brings us to the present tense and that is, certainly, this new Husker Du mammoth foursided, 18-toon, second Warner Bros, release. And though it might be a bit unfair to analogize this alb w/the aforementioned pumice-sucking class of vinyl first-hearings, it’s fair enough to say that the first time out sampling this rec’s wares was a gigantic bummerino. That is to say, yes, there were/are hints that perhaps on the second or third go-around (could be) a focus will sharpen. And so, conceding that, maybe history does in fact repeat and reincarnate familiar facts of life. I, uhm, close my eyes to think.

(1.) Likeable folks, these Husker Dus, and tho they’ve gleaned considerable mileage from (you’ve heard this before) semi-heralded liaisons w/the Minnesota (OK!) artiste-community, the band itself has not bent over backwards (well ...) prostrate in convoluted shapes and forms a la T.Heads/Devo.

(2.) Raw and alive they inculcate^) (last time I saw) a more than different apparition of musician-people playing rock-performer people—they checked out goofy and not at all self-affected, if that makes any sense.

(3.) Cries of cop-out notwithstanding, first Warner’s alb softened the bark and bite of previous SST-labeled releases, and nothing on it was as growling (I’m still thinking) as maybe anything on Zen Arcade or their best, New Day Rising.

Eyes open, I’ve finished thinking, and what I’m thinking is that the second cycling of the sounds fare no better than the first go-around (uh-oh!|). A vacuous gap evidences (now) from w/in the creative side of the slate, plus and minus clever twists and turns of lyric (“Barren lands and barren minds/ln another place and time”—“Ice Cold Ice”), but the sounds are a pretty drab affair, an eerie (let’s call it that) lifelessness seems to grab ahold of the chords arid melodics here. Not that all of this seems so godawful, just that there’s nothing in particular that rockets out as being charged w/paranormal lifeforce. There are some A-OK song-titles once again (they are good at this!)—the previously cited “Ice Cold Ice” (wow!I) & “She Floated Away” ’s not bad at all—but really nothing at all by way of (now) the (gulp!) third listen makes much of a statement. There’s a conspicuous deficit of anything terribly riveting or quasi-riveting for that matter: the singer’s usual quirky voice sounds perhaps a bit too round and edge-less, the playing’s maybe not quite as ferocious which is more than OK, but the mellow vibes don’t quite cut it, mon. The heart punch is missing, resulting in four sides of (I concede) listenable but glaringly vacant forays into an un-arresting domain of sound and mood. Not a terrific way to be on a double-rec’d set, and for this reason alone, shall we not speak of this as the band’s Exile On Main Street? And, in fact, if comparisons are in order, why does Joe Byrd & The Field Hippies keep coming to mind (eyes closed again)?

Why indeed?

STEVE MILLER

Living In The 20th Century (Capitol)

If luck is the residue of design, then Steve Miller must have a warehouse full of residua Ivina around somewhere. I mean, how else does one explain his incredible longevity as a recording artist? No one’s saying he’s bad, because he certainly isn’t; he’s a fine guitarist, a good singer, and a decent songwriter. It’s just that I could probably name 500 other performers who generally fit that description, and 487 of them haven’t lasted even one-quarter of the now almost 20 years that Steve Miller has been recording for his one and only label, Capitol Records. He is not, it should be pointed out, an artist who has had a loyal group of followers “growing older” with him. Nor is he someone who tends to show up on most people’s list of favorite rock ’n’ roll stars. And yet he remains, in the industry vernacular, a “viable” act, who regularly, and (except for his mid-70’s The Joker/Fly Like An Eagle / Book of Dreams do-nowrong period) rather randomly seems to be able to score hit records completely out of left field, regardless of general audience taste and musical trends. For instance: His last hit was 1982’s “Abracadabra,” and here, in 1987, "I Want To Make The World Turn Around,” the single from his new album, Living in The 20th Century, may very well be his next one. And has anybody out there been holding their breath the last five years? Go figure.

Well, now that we’re here, let’s try and figure. Steve Miller may once have claimed to play his music in the sun, but the daylight seems to be the last place this phantom of rock ’n’ roll wants to be found in. Quick—what does he look like? Right. Nary a picture on a record jacket (and if there is one, it’s out of focus), cute touches like a black slit over his eyes in his token appearance in the “Abracadabra” video, and clown makeup over his whole face in “Make The World Go Around.” And by keeping such an unclear and low profile, Miller has stayed outside enough of the mainstream to be neither fish nor fowl—just a bluesman. And there’s the rub. Because the blues never really goes out of rock ’n’ roll fashion for too long.

Living In The 20th Century is dedicated to Jimmy Reed, the great easy-rolling performer who gave the world “Big Boss Man,” “Bright Lights, Big City,” “Baby, What You Want Me To Do,” “Ain’t That Lovin’ You, Baby,” as well as a host of other blues classics, and side two of this record finds Miller doing several of those songs with a gangster of love smile on that invisible face of his that you can hear right off the grooves. His guitar work is, as always, succinct and ontarget (check out “I Wanna Be Loved But By Only You”), and he’s even dusted off his old Marine Band harmonica as if “Fanny Mae” and “Key To The Highway” were only yesterday and not from the spring of 1968.

, Of course, you’ve come to the history lessons on this album by way of that haunting single—the kind of catchy, melodic pop that Steve Miller sneaks onto the charts every now and then, just to let everyone know he’s still kicking. The fact that it’s quite possible that he’s sold records to your dad, your brother, and now you means he kicks pretty good for a white guy, I guess. Pass that mojo residue this way, Stevie Boy.

Billy Altman

XTC

Skylarking (Geffen)

Listening to this smartly crafted collection of 14 pop songs with their charmingly pretentious lyrics about overwhelming summer days and lonely rainy ones, wistful relationship postmortems and paeans to mysterious but benign nature, I can’t help but be distracted by the sound of my space heater creaking lightly next to my cozy armchair; and I wonder what moved these guys to release this perfect summer album in the dead of January. Really, this trio has gotten so mellow (excuse me a minute, my neighbor’s snowblower is rumbling so loudly I can barely hear myself think...) uh, right, so mellow that they’re starting to sound at times like the Beach Boys, only with that somewhat more adept grasp of the language that we’ve come to expect from the English. Even as recently as their last official album, The Big Express, long after the group had evolved from being meta-punkers to purveyors of not fatally over-reaching layers of hooks and prolix lyrics, they were still often energized by a sometimes complex rhythmic momentum and Andy Partridge’s rude bellow. But now, listening to this unseasonably warm and pleasant album, there’s something missing ... something that can’t be blamed on Todd Rundgren’s cute production tricks (these guys always leaned toward cute) or the shorter song forms (no, that’s an improvement—and now the group’s detractors will have to cool it with the snide Yes comparisons,’cause Yes could never get in and out of a song in under three minutes) or the fact that there’s no social-issue or political songs this time out. ’Tis a puzzle to be pondered between this paragraph and the next, while I go outside to shovel the front walk (our mailman’s a real wimp).

Jeez! You wouldn’t believe how cold it is out there. I’ve been inside for 10 minutes and I’m still having trouble holding this pen—wind cut right through the old mittens, I’ll tell ya. Ah, Michigan. But I digress.

I think I’ve put my benumbed finger on what’s bothering me about this album. It’s the first XTC album I’ve heard where it sounds like they’re just going through the motions. It’s true that one can easily detect the care that’s gone into the record—there’s an impressive array of well-borrowed pop purities, from the * ’Glass Onion” strings of Partridge’s “1000 Umbrellas” to the sunny California harmonies of Colin Moulding’s “Grass” (another smart marketing move—write a nostalgic song about drugs during this most paranoid of times and then release it as the single). And every time the lyrics get a little precious (which is often), some arrangemental nicety will combine with the seductive but not sugary melody and we’re over the hump. But there’s a certain lack of ... sloppiness. A certain restraint. Sitting here, contemplating the trail of melting slush I’ve somehow managed to track all the way into this back room, I really don’t care if I hear this album again or not.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t love it in July.

Richard C. Walls

LITTLE RICHARD

Lifetime Friend (Warner Bros.)

If the big brothers who control the charts have decreed that we’ve gotta recruit most of our new pop stars from the ranks of television and the movies, then I’m glad that at least a few actual musicians—e.g., Ben E. King and Little Richard—are slipping through the programmers’ crack(s), to balance out all the mere methods singers like Don Johnson and Bruce Willis.

Don’t have a very Christian attitude, do I? Well, Little Richard claims he’s going Jewish now, so maybe it’s time for directing some Old Testament hellfire at the pop establishment. In any case, whatever your creed, give thanks to your respective divinity that Little Richard got that film role in Down And Out In Beverly Hills, because his audiovisual bankability there led to him gettting to record Lifetime Friend, his first album since the early 1970s.

Lifetime Friend’s not a great album (Little Richard’s voice has aged 30 years since the birth of rock ’n’ roll, but so have our brains), but it's so good somebody should’ve OK’d this project long before now. Don’t let Little Richard’s talk of commitment to Judaism frighten you into thinking this is somber stuff, as when a certain prominent Jewish singersongwriter went Christian a few albums back. I know, I know, I’ve watched enough Woody Allen movies, too, to envision the O.T. Jehovah as an irascible Norman Podhoretz supplysider who considers self-abuse a grave threat to national security. But you’ll forget that stereotype when you hear the pure sensual joy Little Richard extracts from his brand of the religion.

In fact, almost every song on Lifetime Friend, whether written by the hyper Mr. Penniman himself, or by sympathetic outside composers, celebrates the singer’s very personal relationship with a sweet & holy young male savior, strangely reminiscent of Jesus, who was a Jew before he converted to Capricorn anyway. Coming out of certain other popsters’ mouths, this material could sound incredibly hokey, but Little Richard makes it all compelling and believable, primarily on the testimony of his own life, which has swung back and forth between sensuality and spirituality with a violent schizophrenia young nihilists in synth-pop bands only dream about.

Little Richard claims Lifetime Friend isn’t gospel music (he says he doesn’t want to do that now), but rather “message in rhythm,” which he defines as positively-lyriced rock ’n’ roll designed to counteract recent attacks on the music by TV evangelists and other thought criminals. Could be, but the music on Lifetime Friend (provided by an anonymous studio band who learned many fine sax, organ, and guitar licks somewhere along the way) gives the lyrics a real run for the money in the positive-uplift department. Hotter than hot cuts to listen for: “The World Can’t Do Me” (“No harm, ’cause I’m safe in the Master’s arms!”) “Someone Cares” (which Little Richard persists in singing as “Somebody cares,” as the flesh continues to press its own spiritual claims.) Both cuts mentioned also happen to be R. Penniman compositions. Buy this man a royalty today.

Lifetime Friend goes a long way toward answering the current pop riddle as to who’s buried in Amy Grant’s tomb. Hint: Not Little Richard.

Richard Riegel

AMERICAN HOWL

LOS LOBOS By The Light Of The Moon

(Slash/Warner Bros.)

by Michael Davis

This pretty much puts the capper on Los Lobos’ underdog status, a situation that served them well in the early ’80s when they were first breaking out of their East L.A. barrio. As post-punk Los Angeles was beginning to reexamine its pre-punk roots, bands like the Blasters discovered and championed Los Lobos, and the Hollywood underground gradually warmed to them. They were nice guys—and their music was upbeat, authentic and fun. Eventually, they became headliners around town and their debut Slash EP proved they could' make good records as well as party.

With How Will The Wolf Survive?, however, the news about their command of diverse idioms and consistent songwriting spread like wildfire. Waylon Jennings covered a tune and named his LP after it. Individually and collectively, they played and/or sang on albums by T-Bone Burnett, Elvis Costello, Paul Simon and the Fabulous Thunderbirds.

And now we have By The Light Of The Moon, which ups the ante considerably. The group’s stylistic range is as wide as before, but now it’s more contemporary. There are more nods in the directions of, say, Creedence and the Band than there are toward Bob Wills, but, if anything, the songs are stronger than ever.

“One Time One Night” starts things off with a friendly, countryish guitar line that curls itself around John Fogerty’s feet before running outside to frame the lively-yet-sombre tales of the human struggles behind the headlines, sung by David Hidalgo with customary compassion. The problems of poor people inspire several songs here, yet Los Lobos don’t hit us over the head with

them, prefering to sketch a few scenes and letting us connect ’em.

Next up is “Shakin’ Shakin’ Shakes,” one powerful piece of rock ‘n’ roll, fronted by a cocky Cesar Rosas. Essentially, it’s a muscular shuffle, seasoned with “Tequila,” but it breaks into a raucous Yardbirdsian rave-up in the middle;

then, after the last verse, these guys just wail, as both Hidalgo and Rosas goose each other right off the ground, their guitars grinding and grinning to the fade. The first time I heard it, I remember thinking (after the smoke had cleared), “OK, Dave, I’ll never think of you as the mild-mannered accordion player again. I promise!”

Things keep right on cooking with the following “Is This All There Is?,” a vital offspring of Peter Green’s “Black Magic Woman,” with an improved groove and more emotional singing from Hidalgo about the “tired souls with empty hands.” Saxophone man Steve Berlin makes his presence felt here, even though he isn’t the main soloist; he fits right in because he’s another good team player, more into making the music happen than calling a lot of attention to himself.

After that, Los Lobos lighten up somewhat with the Latino ballad, “Prenda Dei Alma.” The accordion returns, after a brief spot in “One Time One Night,” and decides to stick around for the peppy little mover, “All I Wanted To Do Was Dance.” Even here, there’s more than first meets the ear (or rear, for that matter), both in the lyrics and rhythms, which include ingredients from Chicago, New Orleans and Texas,all bubbling together in one bodacious gumbo I can’t begin to pin down. These guys have been on the road a bit during the past couple of years, haven’t they?

As for side two, it’s just about as good but I’m out of room, except to mention that even though there are more ballads, they don’t weaken the music’s impact. I mean, is “Tears of God” Mexican gospel music or what?

So, like I said, these guys can’t keep releasing records this good and remain underdogs. Uh-uh. Top dogs maybe, leading the pack of American rock ’n’ rollers. Owooooooooo.

STEVIE RAY VAUGHAN & DOUBLE TROUBLE

Live Alive (Epic)

LONNIE MACK

Second Sight (Alligator)

ROBERT CRAY

Strong Persuader (Mercury/Hightone)

Beloved though they are by millions, you can’t denythat uuitar heroes are dang near useless. Apart from Hendrix, Eddie Van Halen, and a few others, most of the six-string studs we’ve seen over come down the pike have been plain stupid, wallowing in self-indulgence while having squat to say. So there!

On that cheerful note, let us still observe that young Texan Stevie Ray Vaughan epitomizes the modern guitar hero at his best, and further observe, with reservations, that his new Live Alive set offers numerous pleasures. Some of its problems are glaring and predictable, namely, the inevitable two records where one would do, and songs (or riffs masquerading as songs) going on much too long. SRV, as he calls himself, constructs crackling, bluesy soips and knows how to ignite a tune with a single hot chord, but the boy needs editing bad. Can we talk? 1 fell asleep during the gloomy “Texas Flood,” even though he’s playing his I’il fingers off.

Besides his dextrous digits, Stevie Ray’s great strength is simply an unabashed love for roots music, which shines through every supercharged boogie and every slow lament, no matter how second-hand his ideas seem. That’s why he fires off an uncannily faithful version of Hendrix’s “Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)” and cops the sprawling wah-wah effects of "Rainy Day, Dream Away” for “Say What!” Stevie ain’t trying to rip Jimi off, he’s just delivering, a snappy salute. Anyway, kids, you could get an outstanding single LP from Live Alive by retaining such hard-groovin’ numbers as “Pride And Joy” and “Love Struck Baby” and omitting creepers like “Ain’t Gone ’N’ Give Up On Love*” which betray his vocal shortcomings.

Hitting for a higher average on Second Sight is veteran axe wielder Lonnie Mack, one of Vaughan’s idols. Back in ’63, Mr. Mack scored with a blistering instrumental version of Chuck Berry’s “Memphis,” but he’s hever sought to be a guitar star exclusively. Indeed, the big guy sings more than he plays on this dandy LP, with only the slashing“Camp Washington Chili” recalling his moment of Top 10 glory. Otherwise; buckle up for a superbad barrage of rambunctious roadhouse rockers, featuring his burly vocals and vibrato-drunk licks. Among the tracks you’ll want to spin during your next Six-pack are the funky “Me And My Car,” the floor-Shakin’ “Rock And Roll Bones,” and “Buffalo Woman,” a rousing ode to warm weather with the following wacky lyrics: “There’s Doris and Dixie / Tina and Trixie / They must weigh a ton / But they’jl be tan and lookin’ fine / Before the summer’s done.” Second Sight is first-class fpn.

Rising star Robert Cray boasts the chops to go the Stevie Ray route—the compact solos on his first major-label LP have the sharp snap of an Albert King. Instead, he’s pursuing a more ambitious agenda, transplanting blues concerns into a modern-day setting. In classic fashion, Strong Persuader deals exclusively with the war between men and women, but has a more upscale sound designed to hook pop and soul audiences turned off by the oldfashioned way. The two best tracks even turn standard macho poses upside-lown. Thanks to a big fat assist from the Memphis Horns (also heard on Second Sight), “I Guess I Showed Her” recreates the Stax-Volt vibe, telling the tale of a jerk who walks out on his cheatin’ woman and secretly wishes he hadn’t. The more subdued “Right Next Door (Because of Me)” is the chilling account of a ladies’ man who callously destroys a happy relationship in the course qf carving “another notch” on his guitar. Although Cray’s singing (and sometimes playing) may strike purists as overly precise, j.e., not “dirty” enough, Strong Persuader, in its own subtle way, packs the kind of emotional puhch you demand from great artists, That’s because the material comes first here, and a good song beats a flashy solo every time.

Jon Young

RAP IT UP!

THE BEASTIE BOYS Licensed To III (Def Jam/Columbia)

by Iman Lababedi

The most exciting white rock album since Never Mind The Bollocks has lousy politics.

Real lousy. The Beastie Boys’ debut LP, Licensed To III, almost valjdates Tipper Gore: they advocate angel dust, crack, drinking huge amounts of alcohol, murdering twin sisters and shooting people in the back. They are homophobic, defiantly sexist—and suggest that you fight your hypocritical parents for the right to party.

Listening to the Beasties rap all over their rock rhythms, I found myself laughing out loud and gasping in disbelief. I’d thought rock couldn’t shock me anymore. W.A.S.P., of course, are more sexist than the Beasties, but W.A.S.P. are so bad they aren’t even boring. Schoolly-D is more violent, but his matter-of-fact delivery implies he’s been calloused by his lifestyle, and that’s the price. The Beasties are having the time of their lives, making lots of money apd sharing their joy in net doing what they’re tbld. No payback.

Undpr the auspicious direction of ccnproducer/writer Rick Rubin—a founder of Def Jam (the only record company that matters)—Mike D., MCA and Ad-Rock have forged white thrash-metal to black rap and formed an entirely wicked antiChrist. I’ve mentioned Schoolly-D, and he’s had a pronounced influence on the Beastie Boys. As for the other part of this unholy triumvirate? Weil, one song here’s called “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”—and I’m betting Lemmy loves them right back.

So is it rock? Well, yeah. As Rubin told Melody Maker: “What makes rock ’n’ roll is the beat, not the guitar ... We make beat-orientated records as opposed to pulse-orientated records.” And Licensed To III will bea(s)t you senseless; songs like "The New Style,” “Girls,” “Fight For Your Right” and "No Sleep” are so invigorating, alive, snotty and fun, they’re rock in the purest and most perfect sense of the term.

The Beasties’ sense of humor saves their excessive misogony and irresponsibility from becoming unlistenable. A band conjuring up Jimmy Page to note they share a taste in underage girls is, obviously, laughing itself sick. And while not justification in itself, their flaunting of the laws teenage kids have been force-fed (and swallowed) for years, may well be the only form of rebellion left. It’s a rotten rebellion, far more self-destructive than punk ever was. Still, if rock— by its very nature—should get up parents’ noses, this’ll drive ’em to distraction. Along with second-generation rappers like Schooly, LL Cool J and Mantronix, it might be the first ideological change for teens since Reagan took office.

Beyond social redemption, often beyond contempt, the Beastie Boys are getting away with murder. And you thought only the government could do that.