BIG MAC ATTACK

BIG MAC ATTACK

RECORDS

FLEETWOOD MAC Tango In The Night (Warner Bros.)

Yowling lackadaisically, scowlingly, unexpressively and prismatically— even adverbally—into the soft metal breeze that’s been shakin' hands with the night, 2 + 2 is firmly on my mind along with a wild and complex plan to bump off the Beastie Boys and any of their collegiate clones that might get in my way, I rise from my sweathardened white Corinthian leather hammock, caress Misrilou, my fave nymphette, who’s seated adoringly at my Puma-encased feet, watch as the red dingle balls nestled in her voidblack cornrows sway gently, and ponderously (well, hell, if you’d just drank yourself into a manic stupor so weird that you think of yourself as a 350 lb. iguana stoned on liquid paper, trying—desperately I might add—to get MTV on your stove, then you too might feel a bit prodigious) try to focus what’s left of my...m...y... my attention span onto these latest wispy intoxications of sound from the Mac...Fleetwood Mac, that is!

Never bastions of extreme rock ’n’ roll, the Mac have been nonetheless unflinchingly chameleon-like in their approach to every new musical trend, changing as it changed. Therein lies their Dorian Greyish longevity. And therein lies the fact that, even though four of the five have gone the wacky way of the dreaded “solo project” the last few years, they’ve still got enough internal cohesion as a “group” to pool up every once in awhile and let loose with a collective effort. What? Fernbacher’s saying he LIKES Fleetwood Mac! Holy sh...!

Lissen, my children. Besides gray hair, bad knees, and a penchant for nostalgia, age gives you tolerance, perspective and a lack of fear to express either one.

So within the ground the Mac have staked out for themselves in the everexpanding rock wasteland—a nice, grassy knoll with spreading chestnut trees full of flickering fireflies and ethereal fairy-like creatures dancing over the heads of young girls in virginal white dresses—ARGGGHHH!—they do excell and they do satisfy an audience content with lolling on that grassy-knoll. Hey, what the hell. The rock wasteland is a big place with lots of wandering tribes.

Tango In The Night, taken from the perspective and context of that grassyknolled audience, opens its trenchcoat with a thrumming, thumping quintessentional Macaholic daydream entitled "Big Love.” The song is resplendent with all of the Mac-magic: Mick Fleetwood’s deathlessly unerring backbeat, Lindsey Buckingham’s strong guitar and near-perfect production, Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks both doing vocal dirvishes way up there in the sky where the air is thin and ghosts play canasta with the clouds. The LP next dissolves into yet another showcase for Stevie Nicks, the acknowledged kittenish dryad of rockdom, entitled “Seven Wonders.” Next it’s Christine McVie’s turn on “Everywhere,” and her consistency is almost frightening. Side one ends with two strong Buckingham forehead slappers, “Caroline”—which is OK Buckingham with a lot of Mick Fleetwood Tusk-isms in it, but really nothing out of the ordinary—and the title toon, which, even out of the (context) of the grassy knoll theory, is hauntingly delicious and (for those of you who remember) a close kissin' cousin to the Beau Brummels song, “Wolf Of Velvet Fortune” from that band’s Triangle days.

All in all, about as satisfying a side for this sort of musical malmsey as you’ll hear all year. Side two is more of the same, yet somewhat weaker, with no Macathons really leaping outta the trees at ya.

Overall, it’s an almost sublime collection of air. And everyone needs air.

Joe (C15 H21 N02 HCI Rules) Fernbacher

LITTLE STEVEN Freedom—No Compromise (Manhattan)

Plenty of people are going to take plenty of pleasure in ripping this record to shreds. They’re going to say that guitarist/singer/writer/producer/activist/ ex-Springsteen right-handman Little Steven is a ’60s leftoverknee-jerk liberal, writing simplistic songs about complex world problems; that he’s taking strong stands on situations in places like Nicaragua and South Africa which he’s only visited. They’ll call him a grandstander, and then take even more pleasure in reminding folks that Steven Van Zandt’s first two solo LPs (Men Without Women and Voice Of America) sold next to no copies because Little Steven makes iffy music and this third album isn’t much better. The cool thing about all this is that Little Steven won’t change a thing he’s doing, no matter what anyone says.

Freedom—No Compromise doesn’t compromise. You’re either with Van Zandt or against him, ideologically. You’re either with him or against him musically. And the naysayers will be wrong: the music on Freedom is the best Van Zandt’s ever done, as powerful and fearless as its lyrics. The lyrics have some mighty fierce power themselves: they challenge us to snap out of our collective numbness and become active participants in the fight for global peace, human rights, ecological survival and cultural autonomy. The music, well, that challenges us to dance our asses off, to let the music uncork the parts of us that intellect can’t awaken. And if all of this sounds serious enough to make you choke, do yourself a favor and withhold final judgement until you hear the record yourself. The energy is high and loose, the grooves are so deep you can see China, and you could slap it on at a rowdy party and not have one guest bitch that Freedom was dulling the wild edge.

In fact, if anyone’s sitting by the speakers and listening closely, they might be interested in how many different influences are at play. There’s some Springsteen-type "anthem” feeling, of course (and Steven’s exBoss even shares a lead vocal on a killer Woody Guthrie-goes-Latin cut called “Native American”). In fact, there are lots of Latin rhythms—Latin American superstar Ruben Blades, who worked with Steven on the Sun City project, plays some percussion and does a vocal duet with Van Zandt on the defiantly joyous "Bitter Fruit.” Even Prince synth sounds and back beats show up on a few cuts. And almost each track features that Van Zandt jet-propulsion rhythm and lead guitar playing that did so much to light my fire under Springsteen’s sound over the years. Also—check “Can’t You Feel The Fire” for a Motown aftertaste, and "Pretoria” for the Anglo-African hybrid of the year (sorry, Paul Simon). It’s a testament to Van Zandt’s musical maturation that it all hangs together as a coherent whole.

And another cool thing about all this: Little Steven is not setting himself up on Freedom as a guy who’s already got his beliefs set in stone and his conscience on automatic pilot 24 hours a day. This is an album by a man who knows that it’s a constant struggle to keep the beliefs growing, the conscience vigilant, and the heart awake enough to hear the hearts of others. Freedom—No Compmmise could help lots of hearts stay awake.

Laura Fissinger

REDD KROSS Neurotica (Big Time/RCA)

Not only don’t I get MTV, my VHF antenna-connector-thingamajig’sbeen busted for some three months and I’m too lazy to buy a new one, so I hardly tube-view at all anymore, save the obvious: Fox Network (esp. the classic neo-con youth-cult rip-off 21 Jump Street) on Sunday nites, and o’course (this being Detroit Rock City) Hockey Night In Canada (octopi on ice rule: go Wings). But back in my deformative years, I watched loads, most notably Bradies/Partridges/Love Yank Style every Friday, and I bet few of y’all remember that the Partridges (I think) spun off a short-lived sitcom entitled Gettin’ Together, starring Bobby Sherman as somebody and Wes (no relation to Howard) Stem as Lionel Poindexter (I think), a tone-deaf songwriter. Pretty horrid stuff, needless to say, and I’ll wager these valley guys in Redd Kross were big fans, just like me.

Redd Kross have great hair and great clothes and great tunes and a great sense of humor and a great concept, and they’ve been around since 1978, when male-sibling junkfoodjunkies Jeff and Steve McDonald were 15 and 11 years old. Neurotica is their fourth contribution to the halls of vinyl academe, and if justice prevails, it’ll make ’em big stars, like Night Ranger. Past records have included bubblegunk cover versions of numbers by Kiss, David Bowie, Charles Manson, Serena (from Bewitched), the Carrie Nations (from Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls), and more, plus big-I.Q. originals like "Cover Band,” "I Hate My School,” and “Linda Blair.” They’ve yet to write an ode to that happenin’ young semi-buxotic boyishly voluptuous babe on Family, but the new LP has a good one about McKenzie Philips (final line: "Take it easy... one day at a time.”) I’ve even heard stories about the McDonald bros calling up Florence Henderson’s real-life house and asking if Jan or Marcia were home, so often that Flo had to change her number. What daring dudes!

The best cuts on Neurotica are mostly the ones that sound sort of like the Bay City Rollers and sort of like Led Zeppelin, but not exactly. “Play My Song” proves that catchy melodies are better than “metal sluts or punk-rock ruts.” “Love Is You” hiccups away sad times like Buddy Holly in cahoots with Tiny Tim. The title track steals a lyric from “Convoy” by C.W. McCall. “Peach Kelli Pop” and “What They Say” are maybe the hookiest anti-coke (but not anti-Coke!) ditties ever (“A nose is for snot, and baby it’s not/For straw and a dollar bill”). “Ghandi Is Dead” has Zep riffs and a jealous message to a fox-onthe-run who keeps flirting with a “stupid haircut jerk.” There’s a lot of clever Beatles references on the inner sleeve, and the record’s produced real nice by Tommy Ramone, and if it ain’t as neat as a free trip to Six Flags with Squeaky Fromme and Natasia Kinski as your tour guides, then I’m Tiffany-twisted with the Mercedes bends and Hotel California’s my castle 'cuz that’s where I dwell. All of which is obviously not the case, so buy it.

Chuck Eddy

GENE CLARK & . CARLA OLSON So Rebellious A Lover (Rhino)

DESERT ROSE BAND (MCA)

THE LONG RYDERS Two Fisted Tales (Island)

When you look at these three records lumped together, you immediately think, uh-oh—country rock time. Country rock has become one of those phrases nobody wants to hear, like “I’m Telly Savalas,” “reverts back to original price,” or the recent Ann Landers headline, “IMPOTENCE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE HORRIBLE.” And who could blame you after witnessing a music scene swamped for years by hordes of flaming Poco-sexuals whose idea of incorporating country into their sound was to heap boring harmonies an octave’s length apart on every song, while some bearded dupe whose face looks like a double-rut logging road chokes a pedal steel in the background? I mean, turn on the Windmere, puh-leez!

Lucky for us that ain’t the case here, ’cause one of these discs is “just” country, one is “merely” rock and the third is blatantly acoustic. Nope, the common denominator here is the Byrds, a great ’60s outfit that is as important a pop development as mood stickers. First, they practically invented folk rock, then they practically invented country rock, then they pretty much flunked out of the food chain. But people are still trying to copy their sound 20+ years later, so they must’ve had something.

Gene Clark was the Byrds’ original tambourine dribbler and vocalist, who was reportedly forced out of the group due to his extreme fear of flying. Ain’t that a hoot? Kind of like Nikki Sixx getting booted from Motley Crue for fear of impoliteness. Clark went on to devise all sorts of solo and group projects, including a brief, ill-advised country-glam look that went over about as big as the Velcro condom.

Gene teamed up with ultimate Textone Carla Olson when he read in her bio the first two records she ever bought were the first two Byrds LPs. It’s as good a reason as any, since they’ve come up with some ingratiating, if tame, tracks on Rebellious.

All the playing is dope on acoustic instruments, including some killer bass from Roscoe Beck that sounds like he’s wacking a cockpit inertia cable with a nerf crowbar. Carla’s in fine voice and pen throughout, but Gene’s definitely fading on both counts. When he kicks off “Del Gato” with his quavering “My name is Del Gato...,” you can’t help but laugh. Del Peepee is more like it.

There’s some good stuff here though, like Olson’s excellent “Are We Still Making Love” and their inspired cover of John Fogerty’s “Almost Saturday Night,” both of which feature tight, well-thunk harmonizing. If you’re looking for Byrds vibes, check out “Why Did You Leave Me Today,” which would fit perfectly into Tut77, Turn, Turn if it was plugged in.

Chris Hillman was another original tweet, but his Desert Rose Band is strictly slick country radio ’87. Some of this stuff is so bland, so utterly dead, you’d think the sounds were being produced by Egyptian cat mummies. With the exception of “One That Got Away,” a near-classic regret howl, all the original material should be secluded offstage, handed parting gifts and sent on its way. As for the cover tunes, they’re so desperate for album fodder, they even drag out an ancient Byrds song, “Time Between,” and bore it to death.

Contestant #3, the Long Ryders, blow the previous two right out of the studio. Two Fisted Tales is a mighty satisfying record and has nothing to do with wanking.

The Ryders are so cool, aw hecklet’s call ’em Rheem! While they’ve been compared to the Byrds on occasion, it’s more a case of traditioncarrying-on than upsuck. OK, there are a couple Byrdsy 12-string guitar rave-ups—rave-upettes actually—but if I was gonna compare ’em to a '60s group, it’d be the early pre-puke Youngbloods.

The Long Ryders have seasoned their influences with plenty of Bac-Os and devoured 'em, so what you get is all Ryders and not something a buzzard would kick out of bed. In songs like "For The Rest Of My Days,” you can hear everything from country to Dylan to snatches of R&B, but thoroughly digested into a single compelling style.

And what a style! These guys can really rock (check out "Gunslinger Man” and “Prairie Fire”) and roll (“Spectacular Fall,” "Long Story Short”). Not to mention write, sing and play (“He came back/but not the same,” etc. in “Man Of Misery”). They could definitely teach some of those other love-it-or-leave-it contingents like R.E.M. or even Bruce Himself a few things about Yankee imperialism musically.

OK, cowpokes, here’s the final score: try Clark & Olson, fry Desert Rose, buy Long Ryders and remember—like Jimmy said—proverbs help us all to be better Mouseketeers!

Rick Johnson

SUZANNE VEGA Solitude Standing (A&M)

I feel like a big brute for saying this, but I wish this album were better than it is. Vega’s lyrics are often very impressive. “Luka,” ostensibly written from the point of view of an abused child, could be the song of any brutalized and deadened soul: “They only hit until you cry/And after that you don’t ask why/You just don't argue anymore.” “Language” offers a paradoxically articulate description of the limits of words: “I won’t use words again/They don’t mean what I meant/ They don’t say what I said/They’re just the crust of the meaning/With realms underneath/Never touched/ Never stirred/Never even moved through.” The title cut evokes the romance of suffering a bit too floridly for this listener, but “In The Eye” is uncharacteristically sparse, and raises a chill. Only "Wooden Horse (Casper Hauser’s Song)” slides from the indirect into the impenetrably cryptic.

What’s disappointing here is the music. Vega has a band now, and on cut after cut, they come on like a bunch of nondescript New Age fuzak hacks, their basic limpness undisguised by the big fat drum beat they occasionally proffer. Since Vega already has a tendency to go ail whispery and gentle, the last thing she needs is to have her lily gilded by swooning synths and tasteful guitar fills. It’s odd, in a way, that such a thoughtful lyricist can come up with no better accompaniment—that it hasn’t occured to her to question the hackneyed assumption that people 'capable of absorbing the insights of a song like "Language” are so (literally) sensitive that they have to be coddled and soothed by pretty music. Only the enigmatic "Wooden Horse” has an arrangement that seems to want - to break away from Contempo Adult sludge. The opening cut, “Tom’s Diner,” is sung a cappella (which suggests one way out of cliche-land—or maybe six basses and a bicycle horn—anything!) and is reprised at the album’s end as an instrumental, a sad tango with amusing wind-up toy percussion sounds (which suggests another way out—though one is suspicious as to whether or not this only sign of humor on the album is intentional).

In between are some very affecting lyrics, ill-served (yeah, I know, I’m a beast).

Richard C. Walls

WIRE The Ideal Copy Ahead EP Snakedrill EP (Enigma)

COLIN NEWMAN Commercial Suicide (Enigma)

Wire were always different. They took the anything-goes punk aesthetic on a musical level, learning their instruments as they went along, but effectively breaking songwriting boundaries at the same time (late 70s). They were prolific and fearless; a startling percentage of their constructions worked, yet they were impossible to pin down for longer than the side of a 45. No wonder Michael Stipe likes them.

They’ve been working apart or in different combinations for twice as long as they were together the first time, but now there is a sudden burst of activity. It began last fall with a new solo LP from guitarist/vocalist Colin Newman and continues with a handful of new Wire records (the music from which is collected on one cassette-somebody’s thinking at Enigma).

The Newman record isn’t bad at all, although it’s certainly more atmospheric than driving; no drummer, you see. It’s got some interesting textures certainly, but the lack of a beat makes this guy sound more solemn than he needs to. Cocteau Twins/This Mortal Coil fans could flock to it, if they hear about it, however. It’s nice, but it pales beside the band at full force.

And there’s no question which band this is, from Snakedrill onwards. Oh, the sound is a trifle more streamlined than when Mike Thorne was at the controls; here, Gareth Jones (with a little help from Daniel Miller) produces, bringing them closer to the Depeche Mode/New Order mainstream. But not all the way—Newman’s evenhanded delivery can be maddening, for he gives few emotional clues and the lyrics are full of tantalizing details which often aren’t connected in any obvious manner. Since each song has at least one off-kilter aspect—a bass tone, a synthesizer voice, an unusual chord progression—this makes for teasing, evocative music.

Bassist Graham Lewis also sings lead now and then, and his deep delivery is equally off-the-wall. On “Feed Me,” he recalls the Bryan Ferry of “In Every Dreamhome, A Heartache,” while “Ambitious” finds him blustering hilariously. And when the two of them combine for a live a cappella version of “Vivid Riot Of Red,” they confuse everyone, even though they do a good job of singing it.

Oh well, Wire seem as inventive as ever, but they still fail to communicate the warmth many people desire in their pop music. Is there a hit here? “Ahead” is certainly danceable, but I don’t see-millions of people singing along to “I remember, I remember making the body search.”

Fortunately, more people listen to haircuts than they do to lyrics these days, so there’s still hope. What? No haircuts on any of these sleeves. When will Wire ever learn? When will we?

Michael Davis