ROCK • A • RAMA

ROCK 'A' RAMA

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

ROBERT FRIPP & THE LEAGUE OF CRAFTY GUITARISTS Live!

(Editions)

Fripp has been busy since closeting King Crimson away in the Royal Mothballs; the master of the precise arpeggio has found time to record with David Sylvian, Marry Toyah and present a series of guitar classes. This last course of action may strike some of you as a bit academic but since he’s also come up with a new batch of tunes and needed an acoustic guitar ensemble to play ’em, I’d say he’s just smart. The music itself is pretty varied: some Reich-like pieces, some stuff that’s more ECMish, and one extended Frippertronic tonic for these who need their fix of electro-Fripp. No rock ’n’ roll to speak of but it still sounds good to me. M.D.

THE STRAHGLERS Dreamtime (Epic)

Loving these oldfart misogynists splat in the face of 1977 punkdom was one of the bolder heterodoxies of my “politically correct” rockwriting career, and, monogamist that I am, I expected a lifetime “giving” relationship in return. But each new album by the Stranglers during the ’80s has included less and less of that quality that led me to forgive the sexism back in ’77—Dave Greenfield’s brilliantly florid electric organ, Beyond Farfisa in its neplus ultra luridness. What’s up, Master Hugh Cornwell, is this world series of muted albums a continuing Self Portrait loyalty test for us old troopers? Neutering your whole sound by keeping Greenfield’s organ sheathed is not going to make A-mend One for your past foulmouthing of the feminine race. But it well could make the Stranglers “Too Precious,” as your new song puts it.

I apologize for being intensely bored with you. R.R.

PONTIAC BROTHERS Fiesta En La Blblloteca (Frontier)

The most head-kicking roots-edged plate let loose since Scarecow, this is some seriously brawny born-in-the-backseat-ofa-Greyhound-Bus Schlitz-rock. Gun Club grad Ward Dotson ignites hefty Rossington-worthy fretwork, Matt Simon plunges sorrow up through his rusty-drain throat, D.A. Valdez pounds the cans like he’s auditioning for Nazareth—these womenhatin’ dudes (Michigan emigres to California, just like CREEM) met each other at a Black Oak Arkansas concert, and it shows. They balance the down-south jukin’ with an arena-meets-Burundi stomps and a pretty lament in the “Beth”/“l Never Cry” mold, and they balance the American mythology with some American truth. “Ya drink down the bottle and you’re ready to kill,” they wail, punching so hard they make Bryan Adams seem like John Waite. (P.O. Box 22, Sun Valley, CA 91353). C.E.

DURUTTI COLUMN Valuable Passage (Relativity)

Vini Reilly’s about the sickliest skinny-boy I’ve ever seen. His music, like he, almost disappears when you turn it sideways. But taken head on, it’s every bit as hypnotic, refreshing and reaffirming as all this “New Age” twaddle’s supposed to be. This twodisc sampler, culled from the score of releases Vini & Co. have produced since ’79, is the proverbial “good starting place” for potential converts to the camp of this guitar hero for the sensitive set. Reilly glides through flamenco flourishes, jazzy strumming and even some lounge lizardry with a minimum of sweat (and a maximum of reverb ... verb ... verb). Best stuff is the earliest—“Sketch For Summer” from D.C.’s first album, and the gorgeous “Lips That Would Kiss.” The one-man-band format of much of this might seem a tad ego-heavy, but when he decides to share the spotlight, as on “Without Mercy,” it’s time for a beer break. D.S.

PAUL BLEY ,

The Paul Bley Group (Soul Note)

Fragments

(ECM)

Odd how a pianist as fiercely individualistic as Bley can seemingly change his approach to fit the dictates of a given record label, e.g., the Soul Note set is relatively straight ahead (for Bley), while Fragments is spacey—most often gentle— with those deep-dish textures are associated with ECM. Either the producer as an influence on the artist’s vision has been underrated (by me, anyway) or it’s all just a nutty coincidence. At any rate, I’ll pick the Soul Note, a live quartet date with guitarist John Scofield, who’s always great to hear indulging in some serious fun away from the grasp of his fusion group. Meanwhile, Bley responds to this conventional setting by picking apart the chords and rhythms and somehow achieving poignancy (as with Monk, there’s a pervasive sadness in his iconoclasm). On Fragments, which features reedman John Surman and guitarist Bill Frisell, the sadness is engulfed in chilly space, the rhythm usually slowed to a glacial pace ... even the three changeups (and that leaves six slooow ones) have that thrice-polished sheen. Interesting but cold, except when Bley gets bluesy, which isn’t often enough. R.C.W.

DICK DALE & THE DEL-TONES King Of The Surf Guitar (Rhino)

Well, surf music fans can finally throw their sand-scratched copies of Surfers’ Choice away because after more than 20 years in vinyl limbo, Dale’s original hits have been re-released in another classy Rhino package. The laudatory liner notes don’t really stretch the truth: Dick Dale not only helped create surf music as a genre, but he was a true sonic explorer in the days when reverb was considered an exotic effect. Nobody else could touch him in terms of flash and finesse and during the music’s peak period, 1962-63, he was just as big as the Beach Boys—in Southern California, anyway. Besides, anyone who could make “Hava Nagila” sound hip enough to become a hit has gotta be cool, right? M,D.

THE FLAMING LIPS Hear It Is (Pink Dust)

With screaming guitars, deranged vocals, and a drumset haunted by the ghost of Keith Moon, the Lips are staking out a weird terrain somewhere between Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy and vintage Blue Oyster Cult. A sturdy foundation of Black-andDecker guitar chords keeps the gloomy material from degenerating into more wouldbe Ian Curtis drivai. As a result, you get the spectral beauty of “She Is Death” (sort of like Poe with a whammy-bar), and if “Man From Pakistan” doesn’t get your corpuscles pumping, your circulatory system must be in a condition similar to that of the aforementioned Mr. Curtis. Dig the demented “lala-ia-la” ’s in “Charlie Manson Blues.” Break things to the two-note dinosaur stomp of “Jesus Shootin’ Heroin.” And remember that the singer/guitarist still holds down a day job at Long John Silver’s. T.A.

THE YOUNG GODS The Young Gods (Wax Trax EP)

A weird one for sure. Angry, destructive, industrial/architectural/mechanical disco-ish tanz-muzik in a language I can’t understand (French, I suppose). And even if I was fluent in the tounge, I doubt I’d ever get past the esophagus charring, consonant-crashing, inhaling-and-exhaling, way-beyond-gutteral vocals. Circular/marchtime synthesizer surges come at you like whiplash lightning bolts and hammer away at your some kind of domino-effect syncopation, feedback explodes like land mines, snatches of Tchaikovsky and Schoenberg and Billy Idol and Prince drift in and out. And I don’t know which one of these three Swiss lads had to get the band’s name carved into his chest for the record cover, but I’ve got feeling it must have hurt real bad. Almost as bad as these four brillant songs, I bet. (2445 N. Lincoln Ave., Chicago, IL 60614) C.E.

FETCHIN’ BONES Bad Pumpkin (Capitol)

Hope Nicholls has a voice that could turn live pigs into sizzling bacon instantly. Listening to her squeal and moan through “Bed Of Seams” and “Half Past,” respectively, makes for a very stimulating and steamy experience. Behind Nicolls, the band churns out a countrified rock crunch, coming up with a big riff on “Leaning On The Horn.” The rest of the time, the Bones storm through standard arrangements with uncommon spirit. This is a good record to get funky on your front porch with, and if David Byrne ever makes a cowboy movie, he should check out “Chitty Chitty” as a possible theme song. B.W.

BUTCH MORRIS

Current Trends In Racism In Modern America (A Work In Progress) (Sound Aspects)

Big chunks of this fail into the godawful noise category, which is to be expected given the programmatic thrust of the piece, which runs 36 minutes plus a 10-minute coda, and that it’s played by an 11-tet featuring such sonic daredevils as John Zorn (here cavorting with his wacky duck calls, as well as an alto sax), tenor saxist Frank Lowe (who screamed for abut 40 minutes on the legendary ESP Black Eteings album) and, adding to the confusion, Christian Marclay on turntables and Yasunao Tone on “voice” (he sounds like a Sumo wrestler passing a peach pit). Even those familiar with Morris from his collaborations with David Murray may not be ready for this—although, aside from the stretches of white knuckle intensity, there’s some good old-fashioned avant-garde dueting and trioing, some of it rather introspective. Hell, let’s face it, nobody’s gonna buy this record—though it does deserve to go gold, just for the title alone. R.C.W.

DIED PRETTY Free Dirt (What Goes On)

Maybe, to quote Mitch Easter, this rock ’n’ roll thing has run its course. When a band as essentially perfect as Died Pretty can be totally ignored in favor of revivalists (on one hand) sensationalists (on the other), why bother? Treading none too daintily through the twin territories of hardass gitrock and tune-smithing craftwork, these Aussies colonize both. On “Just Skin” and the frothing coda of “Next To Nothing,” the gtr/keys tandem of Brett Myers and Frank Brunetti yammer like a pair of rhesus monkeys rippin’ pieces from each others’ torsos. But such overdrive would matter little (OK, purists, less) if it didn’t cozy up to such boss tunes as “Blue Sky Day” (a hit in a just world) and “Stoneage Cinderella.” And for all the connotations of love beads ’n’ strobes that might be drawn from some of these titles, this is a different kind of psychedelia, although the kind that comes from woozy mornings after, not starry-eyed nights memorizing reruns of The Monkees. Sure to leave ya gasping for Dramamine, and if you don’t think that’s a compliment, go back to your soap opera. D.S.

JENNIFER WARNES Famous Blue Raincoat (Cypress)

A Leonard Cohen tribute album is a good idea, and if Nick Cave won’t do it then we’ll have to settle for this. La Jennifer gives us interpretations of nine Cohen songs (including three new ones), brings in some big name help like Stevie Ray Vaughan and Van Dyke Parks, and even gets Leonard to duet with her on “Joan of Arc.” But what she’s perhaps overlooked is that the impact of Cohen’s best records has come from the stark arrangements and the lugubrious nature of his voice as much as from the high quality of the songs themselves. Here she’s opted for loads of synths and dancebeats and vocal dramatics (“A Singer Must Die” approaches Queen in terms of sheer gaudiness). Maybe the idea was to introduce Cohen’s music to the Lionel Richie/mainstream pop crowd. Warnes is okay in my book for simply putting an album like $is out. I just wish it came in a darker shade of blue. T.A.

DUKE

ELLINGTON Money Jungle (Blue Note)

About as far from a big band as you can get, 1962’s Money Jungle was just Ellington at the piano, supported and challenged by two of the next generation’s leading composer/instrumentalists, Charlie Mingus and Max Roach. Mingus laid down some of the most confrontational acoustic bass ever recorded and Ellington responded with force, finesse and an instant harmonic imagination that matches anything I’ve ever heard. Because it keeps blowing people away, this is the third time this LP has been reissued. This time around, they’ve included four unreleased tracks—including three blues—us a bonus. ”... one of the greatest piano trio recordings in jazz history,” says the liner notes, and for once, that is no hype. M.D.

THE JONESES Keeping Up With the Joneses (Dr. Dream Records)

It’s not easy to find a band with hooks, guts, and flowing, blond locks, but the Jonses have all three. This hyper chug-alug crock is made for folks who want to party from now until the apocalypse—pit stops be damned! “Chip Away At The Stone” is the stuff that shakes empires, and the rest rocks with the same barbarism. Plus, as a nostalgic bonus, Jeff Drake sings like Mick Jagger with the rust scrubbed out of his veins. New blood, old ideas, and a helluva good time. B.WP