CONSUMER GUIDE

CONSUMER GUIDE

Robert Christgau

DAVID BOWIE Never Let Me Down (EMI America)

Maybe he’s lost touch so completely that he’s reduced to cannibalizing himself just when the market dictates the most drastic image shift of his chameleon career. But maybe this is just his way of melding two au courant concepts, Springsteenian rock and multi-producer crossover. After all, why pay good money to outsiders when your own trunk of disguises is there for the rummaging? Of course, crossover artistes can generally sing. When Bowie wants to play the vocalist, he puts on a bad Anthony Newley imitation. C +

THE CULT Electric (Sire)

Rick Rubin meets the former Southern Death Cult and concocts the metal dreams are made of. One reason it’s a great joke is that in 2087 almost nobody will be able to tell it from Aerozep. The other reason it’s a great joke is that right now almost anybody can. Inspirational Verse: “Zany antics of a beat generation/ln their wild search for kicks.” B +

CUTTING CREW Broadcast (Virgin)

Hip punky look, hip_hop name, superhip label (and airline), pop dreck. The only good Brit is a good Brit. • C +

FLEETWOOD MAC Tango In The Night (Warner Bros.)

Fifteen years ago, when their secret weapon was someone named Bob Welch, they made slick, spacey, steady-bottomed pop that was a little ahead of the times commercially. Now, when their secret weapon is their public, they make slick, spacey, steady-bottomed pop that’s a little behind the times commercially. This is pleasant stuff, nothing to get exercised about either way—no Rumours or Fleetwood Mac, but better than Bare Trees or Mystery To Me, not to mention Mirage. Marginally better, anyway. In a style where margins are all. And all ain’t all that much any more. B +

THE GOLDEN RALAMINOS Blast Of Silence (Celluloid)

It was thankless enough conceptualizing arena-rock, so what gave Anton Fier the bright idea of adding country to the synthesis, as he probably calls it in the privacy of his own cerebration? Did he meet T-Bone Burnett at a party? Fight with Syd Straw about her roots? Or just think it would sell? Anton, get this straight: especially as you approach country, sincerity sells. Sincerity soulful, sincerity stupid, sincerity ironic, sincerity faked if necessary. Not this cold shit. B-

LADYSMITH BLACK MAMBAZO Shaka Zulu (Warner Bros.)

Though I continue to prefer the curlicued sound effects of Induku Zethu, the lyric sheet alone (with four songs in English!) makes this the Ladysmith album of choice for any normal U.S. dabbler. Roy Halee separates the harmonic elements just enough to enhance their fit and shows off Joseph Shabalala’s grainy tenor, which anybody but a devoted family man would go solo with tomorrow. The politics settle in around a generalized gospel yearning, but the sheer sound is gorgeous enough to embarrass most Americans. Let’s just hope they last longer on Warners than Urubamba did on CBS, so we get a chance to listen deeper. A-

LISA LISA & CULT JAM Spanish Fly (Columbia)

Aphrodisiac they ain’t—just Hispanic and, supposedly, fly. Hell’s Kitchen scullions who’ve made good in typical onepart-talent-to-10-parts-application Fame fashion, they’re just street-smart enough to want nothing so much as to escape to the suburbs. Their kids will either carry on the family business or join hardcore bands. C +

HUGH MASEKELA WITH KALAHARI Tomorrow (Warner Bros.)

The words document his losses, his struggle, his oppression as a South African exile. I learned from them, and that’s high praise for any lyric. The music documents the life he wants to lead, which is as corny as any other dance-fusion jazz played by musicians overimpressed with their own chops. He has a right to that life, obviously. Just as obviously, I have a right to pursue my own life elsewhere. B-

THE

MCGUIRES Start Breathing (Righteous)

With hundreds of other bands working out imperceptible variations on songform, usually by admixing noise or roots or exoticism, the McGuires aim to do nothing new, and since they have the gift of song to begin with, that’s a plus. Oh, they do call their friendly sound “barbeque-beat,” but there’s no petty territoriality here, no minute formalism expressing selves that are barely worth the trouble. Just middleclass rock ’n’ rollers voicing their middleclass disaffection with a measure of lyric grace. I’m fond of “TV Party” (they’re not going), “Let You Down” (and apologize in advance), and "She’s A Lawyer” (“Sorry, sister, she’s not gay”). You may like the one about the prophet Elijah. B +

MINUTEMEN Ballot Result (SST)

As someone who’s never had much patience with the mystique of the ill-recorded moment, music overheard just before it slips into the historical void its creators figure it for, I’ll make a partial expression for the Minutemen, because I miss them so much. I know most of the songs on this mostly live double in versions I prefer, but better than any studio distillation it underlines the crucial point: they lived. And given the modesty so intrinsic to their world-historical public ambitions, its muffled take-a-flier intimacy speaks. Also, I like the covers. A-

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TOM PETTY & THE

HEARTBREAKERS Let Me Up (I’ve Had Enough) (MCA)

For such a downhome guy, Petty has a major instinct for the news hook. Here, after defying premium pricing, reconstructing the South, and touring with somebody famous, he exploits the Dylan connection once again. In the tradition of his new hero, Petty’s plan was no plan—he and the guys just went into the studio and these songs came out. And whaddya know? Stick the thing in your playback mechanism of choice and these songs come out—for the first time in his career, the man sounds like the natural he’s worked so hard at being. B +

PROFESSOR LONGHAIR Houseparty New Orleans Style (Rounder)

If you don’t know why Fess is a national treasure of obstinate localism—not rock ’n’ roll or blues or even R&B, just Nworlins— these lost recordings from just after his 1971 revival will teach you a lesson. Then again, so will any of his other LPs: Fess’s wobbly vocals and careening piano apotheosized the city’s crazy independence the way Allen Toussaint’s did (if not does) its pop affability. With eight of 15 songs otherwise available, novices can skip it if they promise to start somewhere else. Treasure hunters need only be apprised that Snooks Eaglin is on every track and Ziggy Modeliste behind four. A-

THE

REPLACEMENTS Pleased To Meet Me (Sire)

It’s no different for Paul Westerberg than for less talented mortals—sooner or later he had to grow up or fall apart. That’s why he got rid of Bob Stinson, who threatened to destroy the band along with himself and anybody else within range. But that doesn’t mean Westerberg’s guitar can extend Stinson’s perpetually broken promise to harness the power of naked anarchy. Or that he can altogether avoid the sentimentality inherent in subjects like teen suicide and red red wine. Of course, with almost any other band those two songs would be airplay cuts, but compared to “I.O.U.,” “Alex Chilton,” “I Don’t Know,” and “Valentine,” they’re product and filler. For the third straight album Westerberg delivers the goods—grimy, uplifting, in the tradition and shocking like new. No competing rock ’n’ roll mortal can make such a claim. If by some stroke he learns to handle maturity, Valhalla awaits him.A-

ROYAL CRESCENT MOB Omerta

(Moving Target)

Although those who think all funk sounds the same might confuse them with, er, Cameo, unlike other umpteenth-generation new wavers they have identity to burn. Say they’re '60s types hip enough to have learned their wacked-out anarchy from Pedro Bell’s mid-’70s psychedelic cartoons. Partly because funk gets over on a groove more muscular than they can cut and partly because they put their all into a selfmanufactured EP, only “Get Off The Bus,” which also led the EP, and “Mob’s Revenge,” for an ass-grabbing asshole with a rousing “You’re fucked” refrain, belong on their best-of. But their identity comes this close to carrying them over the top anyway.

B +

SLY AND ROBBIE

Rhythm Killers (Island)

Language Barrier was a world-music mishmash. Taxi Connection Live In London and The Sting are show and schlock reggae, respectively. This is nonstop funk—powered by world pop’s greatest rhythm section, which happens to be Jamaican, and filled out by a chauvinistic variation on Bill Laswell’s usual international brigade—Daniel Ponce and Aiyb Dieng are the only furriners, although Henry Threadgill, Nicky Skopelitis, and D.S.T. aren’t exactly from the same neighborhood. Art-rapper Rammelzee, Brooklyn toaster Shinehead, and studio mouthpiece Bernard Fowler add their lyrical signatures to those of P-Funk satellites Bootsy and Mudbone, but S&R’s sensationalism combines with Laswell’s imperiousness to rock each side from its Ohio Players or Allen Toussaint intro. Word. A

THAT PETROL EMOTION Babble (Mercury)

Although I’Vn a known sucker for fast guitar bands, I’ve turned down hundreds that shall remain nameless. So why do I love these guys? Specifying comes as hard to me as their originality comes easy to them. Except in snatches, I can’t understand the words, which apparently only add up to snatches anyway. From the press packet I gather that their politics are no more than you’d expect from Northern Ireland, not enough to win me over. And however I shuffle perfectly applicable terms like “punk” and “pop,” they just won’t form a suitable pigeonhole. One thing I notice: in addition to tunes, which can’t put bored music over any more, they’re given to scalar guitar hooks that remind me of nothing so much as art-rock ostinatos. In theory, I hate this device. But here it’s just another token of smart, untrammeled enthusiasm. A-

WIRE The Ideal Copy (Enigma)

The Wire of punk myth abraded like the smell of gunpowder, fucking in the sand, a scouring pad. This is more like digital sound turned up too loud, a cold shower, a dash of aftershave: chronic alienation converted into quality entertainment. Except on a terrible track that outdoes slow Roxy Music, it’s pretty bracing in both rock and disco modes. It’s also no more. B-