CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

CHRISTGAU CONSUMER GUIDE

ROBERT CHRISTGAU

THE ART OF NOISE “In Visible Silence”

(Chrysalis)

Not only do they sacrifice meaning to sensation, they happily exploit ersatz meaning as a sensation-heightening device. So fine, don’t trust them. Only since when is music supposed to be trustworthy? Just note that deprived of genius Trevor Horn these mad studio pros have to go with what they know, subjecting their sound-effects music to hook and beat when no grandiose electronic joke comes to mind. And a good thing, too—not since the glory days of the Penguin Cafe have instrumentalists confounded the arty and the trivial and had fun at the same time. A-

THE BEAT FARMERS “Van Go”

(Curb)

Except for the deadpan “Gun Sale At The Church’’ and maybe the Johnny Cash schtick, their country-rock is now proudly generic. In a world of lame concepts, this approach is jake with me, and if their sharpest song is by Neil Young, well, they didn’t write the flattest one either. B

“BIRDLAND” WITH LESTER BANGS (Add On)

Since I knew Lester, I don’t entirely trust my moderate delight with this nine-cut, 26-minute demo, recorded one day in 1979 with the future Rattlers, soon to kick him out (as Lester told the tale) because he was “too fat.” But since Lester was a genius, I have to mention that it’s manifestly more confident than 1981 ’s perfectly acceptable Jook Savages On The Brazos, with which it shares four songs, preserved for posterity a second time after the singer had the opportunity to develop some mannerisms. He was better off relying on force of personality—musically he always had the instincts, and words were no problem. B +

PETER CASE (Geffen)

Case’s problem is that he’s a born actor who won’t cop to it. Folkies have always enacted authenticity, and great ones from Dylan to Roches have role-played with a vengeance. But by pretending that his songs are about “sin and salvation” rather than the more problematic “America,” Case evades challenges to his new homespun persona—supposedly, sin and salvation are everybody’s heritage. And hence he’s no more convincing now than he was when he led a group named after the Beatles’ sneakers. B

THE COOLIES “Dig.. .?”

Lame as the assembled Simon & Garfunkel songs were in the original, they’re lamer still in these speedy, occasionally funny-voiced takeoffs. Though the band might have gotten away with an EP featuring “Having My Baby,” the only satire here with any teeth and the only one that doesn’t target Paul Simon, I find it bewildering that anyone can hate Graceland enough to pay them for turning their stoned fantasy into an album. A glaring example of the postmodernist dictum that art about art is boring but junk about kitsch isn’t.C

ELVIS COSTELLO &

THE ATTRACTIONS “Blood And Chocolate” (Columbia)

To pigeonhole this as just another Elvis C. (& The Attractions) record is to ignore the plain fact that he (they) hasn’t (haven't) sounded so toughor single-minded since This Year’s Model. Like Little Creatures, it’s a return to basics with a decade of growth in it, and until midway through side two, when the songs start portending more than they deliver, it’s so straightforward you think he must be putting you on. But he’s just voicing his pain and the world’s, in that order, as usual. When the two strongest songs on a pop record run over six minutes apiece, you know we’re talking sustained vision. A-

H THE DIRTY DOZEN ^ BRASS BAND

“Mardi Gras In Montreux:Live” (Rounder)

No longer bummed out by false promises of funk, we can settle for fun. Even if it’s right to suspect that their synthesis is less than historic, their lively, unsentimental update of New Orleans polyphony proves once again that the best way to honor the dead is with a party. But not that the guest of honor should get up in his best suit and sing “Stormy Monday.” B +

THE GO-BETWEENS “Liberty Belle And The Black Diamond Express”

(Big Time)

The lyrics, which set oblique but never opaque romantic vicissitudes against a diffidently implied existential world-historic, aren't the secret of their lyricism, and why should they be? These Aussies make music, with Robert Forster’s intensely sincere vocals and Grant McLennan’s assertive but never pushy hooks pinning down the melodies. Granting all reservations about the form itself and with apologies to skillful romantics from R.E.M. to XTC, there are no popsters writing stronger personal love songs. I doubt there are any page poets envisioning more plangently, either. A -

BRUCE HORNSBY & THE RANGE “The Way It Is”

(RCA)

Schlock has roots, too, which is why sentimental bizzers hail this mildly surprising platinum-plus debut as the second coming. Hornsby roughs up a piano that’s more Elton John than Floyd Domino with a voice on the boogie side of country-rock and adds folkie manque David Mansfield to songs that divide the same way—they sound like pop and read like something closer to the source. Title tune was my guilty pleasure of 1986 because what makes me feel guilty is succumbing to the blandishments of liberalism. The rest I don’t have much trouble fighting off. B -

RONALD SHANNON JACKSON WITH TWINS SEVEN SEVEN “Live At The Caravan Off Dreams” (Caravan Of Dreams)

For the first time, harmolodia’s master drummer requires no decoding; sparked by a Nigerian chantmaster, he vamps along without ever risking implosion. But a vamp isn’t always the deepest of grooves, and though the synthesis should engage devotees from both sides, only “Ire,” in which various sidemen shadow the chanter a note and a harmony behind, will give agnostics a joyride. B +

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EARL KING & ROOMFUL OF BLUES “Glazed”

(Black Top)

Like B.B., Albert, and even Freddie before him, New Orlean’s finest juices his horny blues record with prime guitar. Helps as well that he’s been pulling in songwriting royalties for 30 years—nobody ever mistook him for a singer. B +

JOHN LENNON “Menlove Ave.”

(Capitol)

The late-night session-band workups of songs later embalmed on Walls & Bridges are startlingly stark and clear, making side two the finest music of the hiatus between Imagine and Double Fantasy, whose precisely felt studio-rock they prefigure. Phil Spector produced Rock ’N’ Roll, source of the outtakes on side one, which were rejected because they’re even stiffer than the intakes. John never could figure out what to do about loving Rosie & The Originals. And Phil wasn’t the guy to tell him. B +

YOUSSOU N’DOUR “Nelson Mandela”

(Polydor)

One NME raver cites Einsturzende Neubauten, which may not turn everybody on but does imply Eurocentrism subjected to underdevelopment and its discontents. I hear a gifted singer making a choppy crossover move. The horns recall the pretentious big-band clutter Dave Crawford and Brad Shapiro worked up for a fading Wilson Pickett, and the tama drum is so far up in the mix it tapdances on the groove. N’Dour’s high Islamo-Cuban cry and crack Afro-Gallic byplay generate plenty of intrinsic interest, but only on the simple little “Magninde” do they avoid fragmented overconceptualization. If you say it’s ethnographic condescension to prefer the more organic effects of Immigres (Celluloid import), I say it’s reflexive progressivism to claim that nobody ever trips going forward—or that every African pop star is a moral force. B

THE PONTIAC BROTHERS “Fiesta En La Blblloteca”

(Frontier)

*Their dense mix is twixt-punk-and-pop Replacements with plenty of Husker thrown in, their idea of cover homage the Dead’s “Brown Eyed Woman.” So say they’re a roots band the way the Exile Stones were, shading their guitar barrage into bottleneck and gingerpick. The songs are mostly on it, too. But Hunter & Garcia had tuffer attitude—beyond the occasional one-line hook, medium equals message here. Again. B +

PSYCHEDELIC FURS “Midnight To Midnight”

(Columbia)

As his pose proves ever more profitable and baroque—dig that silken-haired punk deshabille—Richard Butler reminds me more and more of Glenn Miller, who in his time also provided a lush, enthralling, perfectly intelligent alternative to the real thing. Butler’s snarl is a croon, his harsh guitar sound a grand echo, his selfish rage a soothing reminder that some things never change. B

SLAYER

“Reign Of Blood”

(Def Jam)

I’m not about to check out the complete works of Venom to make sure you can’t do better, but anyone who wants to know what gets Washington ladies hot should steal, tape, or purchase this piece of speed satanism quote unquote. Rick Rubin focused, CBS passed, guitar’s quicker than a theremin on reverb, and “Jesus Saves” mauls the enemy. Who ain’t Jesus—or, damn right, Satan either. Time: 27:58. B +

(Addresses: Add on, 82 Charles Street 5R, NYC 10014; Big Time, 6777 Hollywood Boulevard, Seventh Floor, Hollywood 90028; Black Top, c/o Rounder; Caravan of Dreams, 312 Houston Street, Fort Worth, Texas 76102; DB, 432 Moreland Avenue NE, Atlanta 30307; Frontier, Box 22, Sun Valley, California 91353; Rounder, One Camp Street, Cambridge, 02140.)