NAME THAT SICKNESS

NAME THAT SICKNESS

RECORDS

THE CURE

Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (Elektra)

The Cure are a squirelly, schizofrantic experiment that, for the most part, hits the nail right on the forehead with the release of this double LP set that'll no doubt raise, as well as shave, a few eyebrows amongst the legions out there in cynically-hip land.

While everyone else is cloistered around their CDs listening to the likes of Sgt. Pepper in a ritualistic fit of waxing '60s nostalgic (this sorta thing happens every 20 years whether we like it or not—just imagine what it’s gonna be like when we reach the '90s revival of KC & The Sunshine Band’s entire catalog; kinda bunches up the underwear, don’t it?), and missing the whole point all over again, the Cure have taken it upon themselves to create Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me— two records that just might become the fodder for the waxing '80s nostalgic we’ll all experience in the year 2000.

A 70-minute psycho-techno-delic symphony, Kiss Me... goes from the hysterical to the lyrical to the borderline hideous all in a single squeal of Robert Smiths’ admittedly singular voice. This merry mix of sonic sutures stitches up all the inherent optimism, confusion, brutality, contradiction and (on rare occasions) contrition of the present incarnation of the blank generation.

This opus in surly begins rhapsodically with "The Kiss," starting out as a portentious collection of guitar sounds that instantaneously translate the death screams of individual brain cells undergoing the suicidal pangs of love., then shifting gears into a brutal, plaintive rant against those contemptible feelings of hate that go hand in hand with said pangs of love. A good tune to put on if you wanna have an extremely vocal and physical fight with your mate—and not actually even have to be present. Obsession with the love of hate, the hate of love and all its aftermaths are the predominant themes coursing through this cranky canata, and all that can be said is "caveat emptor."

If you don’t like having your secret fears and desires tossed and stomped upon on the living room rug, then you should confine yourself strictly to the—ahem—“lighter" side of the Cure. Curetoons such as the hauntingly lyrical "Like Cockatoos" or the wispily romantic and simple “The Perfect Girl” fit perfectly with the soon to be amazingly popular “Why Can’t I Be You,” which—especially if you’ve seen the video of Robert Smith with his furry suit and totally zoned-out eyes—will immediately make you understand why he’d rather be you. There’s also "Hot, Hot, Hot,” an eventually popular pure dance epic. Finally, “One More Time” and “Just Like Heaven" are purring little ditties of cuddly romance that should put that faraway look in your lover’s eyes and begin the humidities of lust.

Naturally, where there’s light, there’s darkness—and the darkness descends like a guillotine on Curetoons like "The Snake Pit,” which could be easily misconstrued as a nuclear-mutated Harlequin romance, and the equally horrifying “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep.” Underscoring this side of the Cure is a massive, chopping, fragmentarily sonic sound that soothes and grinds at the same time. It's a sound that can best be described as, well, simply the Cure.

“All I Want,” “Shiver In Shake” and “Torture" could be classified dangerous, and should only be listened to when accompanied by either a consenting adult or a certifiably insane C.H.U.D. (for those unaware of the reference, it means Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller) on acid. These three songs are what would happen if you tried to distill the Children of the Corn.

Take the Cure. You'll be glad you did!

Joe

(What? No Moniker?—Ed.)

Fernbacher

I WARREN ZEVON Sentimental Hygiene (Virgin)

As a hard-boiled confessional work, Sentimental Hygiene (Zevon’s seventh album and his first in five years) has less in common with current rock than it does with modern lit. The anxious, wisecracking narrators of these songs recall such semi-fictional screw-ups as Frederick Exley in his autobiographical A Fan’s Notes, the “you” of Jay Mclnerney’s Bright Lights, Big City and numerous world-weary private eyes, from James Crumley's Milo Milodragovich to Andrew Vachs’s Burke. Like those ratty renegades, Zevon’s narrators are basically engaging guys who lost control somewhere along the line and are now trying gamely to file down the jagged edges of their lives. Given Zevon’s own selfabusive past and its inevitable consequences, it can be assumed that he’s writing from firsthand experience.

It’s hard to imagine a more quotable album than this one. In the title phrase, Zevon has coined a potent term for the age we live in, and the album reverberates with contemporary buzzwords, many of which (“detox,” “rehab,” “therapy,” “lectures,” "the rubber room” and, of course, “golf”) are found in the howlingly cynical “Detox Mansion”—right alongside Liza and Liz. The devastating “Even A Dog Can Shake Hands" contains the ultimate one-line putdown of the L.A. music biz: “All the worms and the gnomes are having lunch at Le Dome...” In "Trouble Waiting To Happen,” Zevon updates and personalizes the classic pitch from Jaws with the line, “Just when I thought it was safe to be bored On a grander scale, “Leave My Monkey Alone” borrows the frighteningly facetious narrative tone of Randy Newman’s “Sail Away" to describe (huh?) the Mau Mau uprising.

But we aren’t dealing with words on a page here; Zevon is a writer/singer whose work depends as much on his voice and melodies as his pen for its effectiveness. On that score, he’s never been a particularly inventive melodist, and his wobbly monotone vocal delivery is the aural equivalent of a squib lock in football—it’s just not gonna roll smoothly. If Zevon’s lyric writing is frequently nimble, his singing is just as frequently downright clutzy.

From the sound of his comeback album, however, it’s apparent that Zevon (along with his manager/coproducer, Andy Slater) has begun to face up to his chronic weaknesses. The presence of such guest artists as guitarists Neil Young, David Lindley, Brian Setzer and the Heartbreakers’ Mike Campbell, and backing vocalists Don Henley, Jennifer Warnes and Michael Stipe, serves to take the heat off Zevon in this role as frontman. Indeed, Young s squalling lead lines on the title track serve not only as its hook, but also as its dominant foreground element. With another artist, this tactic might be construed as a copout; in Zevon’s case, it’s a necessary "mini-surrender” (to borrow a term from the song in question).

In fact, the least effective musical aspect of the album has nothing to do with Zevon—it’s the stiff, stodgy rhythm section of drummer Bill Berry, bassist Mike Mills and guitarist Peter Buck, all of R.E.M. Their ensemble work bogs down the tracks rather than driving them, sabotaging their strengths. Groovewise, “Leave My Monkey Alone,” the R.E.M.-less, George Clinton-arranged closing track, simply blows away everything that precedes it. Ironically, though Zevon and Slater managed to overcome the artist’s inherent problems, they slipped up on the most fundamental level.

I wonder what the album would’ve sounded like if the principals had simply put together a truly inspired core group (as producer John Chelew did for John Hiatt’s classy new LP, Bring The Family, which teamed Jim Keltner, Nick Lowe and Ry Cooder) and let 'er rip. Maybe next time. It's a commendable effort—but because it doesn’t cook, Sentimental Hygiene doesn’t fly.

Bud Scoppa

CRUZADOS After Dark (Arista)

OK, let’s do it to it. Got no time to waste and I've got a lot on my mind. You see, I’m about to become a father. In fact, as I write, we're about 48 hours from the due date. Naturally, I’m thrilled beyond belief; I’m also extremely anxious and more than a little nervous. Parenthood is uncharted territory for me but I think we already have the makings of a great kid— when my wife and I went to see the Ramones for the umpteenth time some months ago, he/she was kicking like crazy.

What the hell am I doing? Come on. Cruzados. Concentrate.

Alright. You hardly ever hear any good bands coming out of L.A. anymore. That’s why it’s a pleasure to hear the Cruzados on After Dark. They’re now officially one of the good ones. I admit their debut didn’t make much of an impression on me: too derivative, too much unfocused material, too much roots-rock reverence.

After Dark is a big improvement on all counts. The songs are much sharper with several indelible moments, and the reverence has been laid to rest so they get to mix in some pure pop with all that two-fisted wailing. And while they’re still derivative, they’ve streamlined the influences and used them as a launching pad rather than a crutch. Now, with new guitarist Marshall Rohner, the Cruzados conjure up images like a garage-band-era Eagles, a revitalized Tom Petty and the criminally ignored Iron City Houserockers (to whom I say R.I.P.—“Junior’s Bar” still puts me away). In short, they’ve now got the goods and the gusto to get it in the grooves. They make bands like the Del Fuegos look as useless as they sound.

Lead singer Tito Larriva’s the one with the Petty fixation and he has the brains to put a spin on it. He loves it when the band pushes him to the limit. Just listen to them ignite “Young And On Fire” (great title), and hear that guitar fan those flames. "Young And On Fire” is right on the money, as are “Summer’s Gone” and “I Want Your World To Turn." Coming one after another, they are the undisputed triple threat of After Dark.

As always it’s the little touches— “the small details,” as Ed Norton would say—that make it all worthwhile. I’m talking about Don Henley's back-up angst on "Small Town Love,” the single-digit piano playing on "Chains Of Freedom,” the can’tgo-home-again hurt in “Road Of Truth.”

These guys aren’t perfect. They close each side with a lesser effort, and anyone who lets J.D. Souther sing on one of their songs isn’t just letting themselves in for trouble. 3ut the Cruzados are definitely on to something, and After Dark leaves their debut in the dust.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get ready to go greet my rock ’n’ roll baby.

Craig Zeller

ALISON MOYET Raindancing (Columbia)

BOY GEORQE Sold (Virgin)

Contrary to what you might think, panning records isn’t fun. After all, even the sorriest vinyl offerings are usually the culmination of months of earnest effort, however uninspired. In most cases, the inevitable commercial failure spells a quick trip back to that day job at the liquor store. And when the artist has some talent, how sad to tell him or her it’s all been for naught, a career-threatening misstep.

Of course, the critic’s first responsibility is to you, dear reader. And so, because the truth must out, it pains me to announce that two of the better singers from England have goofed. Both Alison Moyet, formerly of Yaz, and Boy George, fresh from the ashes of Culture Club, stand accused of slick, unremarkable LPs that don't do ’em justice.

Moyet continues to search for a style sturdy enough to accomodate one of the biggest voices around. As half of Yaz, she provided an earthy foil to Vince Clarke’s cool synths, but the pairing never transcended novelty status. On her solo debut Alf (no relation to the sitcom), Moyet found herself swept up in a wave of high-gloss pop, courtesy of Bananarama producers Swain and Jolly. It was crass, calculated and commercial (at least in the U.K.), neither terrible nor terrific.

Well, dadgum if she hasn’t gone and made another album just like it! This time, the producer-villain is Jimmy lovine, but Raindancing is the same sort of glib, shallow entertainment. While sprawling technicolor epics like “Is This Love?” and “Glorious Love” would’ve made fine Abba singles, Moyet deserves to be more than the centerpiece of someone’s elaborate soundscapes.

Those tracks sound pretty darn good, however, compared to the leaden mood pieces that close both sides. The funereal "Blow Wind Blow” suggests Sade in slow-motion (a terrifying thought!), while “Sleep Like Breathing,” which tries to be sensual, approximates a snooze-inducing lullaby.

Alf does break free and soar a few times, especially on "When I Say,” the brisk, witty tale of a woman juggling two lovers, and “You Got Me Wrong,” snarling, ill-tempered funk that’ll leave you begging for more. Mainly, Raindancing raises, then fails to answer, one very important question: should Alison Moyet sing pop music? She’s probably wondered herself, having filled the time between LPs with a 45 of Billie Holiday’s “That Ole Devil Called Love.” Though it may not say much for her chart prospects, Moyet could do a super job with the Bessie Smith songbook. Just the thought of her tackling “Empty Bed Blues” is enough to raise goosebumps.

Let me preface my remarks on Boy George’s solo debut by saying I’m a big admirer of the guy. Whatever his technical limitations, the Boy is one clever performer who knows how to put a song across. Heck, I even liked the last Culture Club LP, the commercially disastrous From Luxury To Heartache. So there.

Alas, even a diehard fan will have trouble endorsing this muddled affair. The best of Sold features George’s usual bubblegum soul, and it’s fine. “We’ve Got The Right” shivers with insistent passion; the frothy “Keep Me In Mind” visits Michael McDonald territory. Most impressive, the reggaefied cover of Bread’s (!) “Everything I Own” offers a stunning reminder of how vital and exciting the Boy seemed when he burst on the scene with “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?” So the tricks aren’t new this time around— you’ll still believe every word he sings.

Not so elsewhere. Attempting to stretch, George foolishly tries rockin’ out (“Little Ghost”) and staggers through uptempo romps like "Next Time” that are better suited to the Pointer Sisters. Other songs are just plain dull, resisting George’s magic touch. If Sold was intended to prove the Boy is still functioning, despite his well-publicized troubles, call it a success. Otherwise, pretty disappointing stuff.

Jon Young

HEART Bad Animals (Capitol)

The Cagney and Lacey of rock ’n’ roll are back with their increasingly polished version of Ms. Zeppelin. This is the kind of thing you get when you encourage women to have careers, fer chrissake. Only kidding, only kidding, though it beats me why a pair of healthy-looking, zaftig sisters from timber country would wanna come on like a pair of lumbering Amazon jock-rockers. Then again, some people get their kicks out of female wrestling, so go figure.

■ Lest you accuse me of sexism, rockin’ dudettes (always a heinous crime in the equal opportunity land of CREEM), let us first say the brand of melodic arena-rock, lead guitar-spiced power pop anthems essayed by Heart certainly partakes of the genre’s traditional loin pull. In simpler lingo, the Wilson sorority means business when they dub their new elpee, Bad Animals. Grrr! Hell, one of ’em’s married to a rock critic, even. Stick that one in your Gary Shandling instant wishfulfillment device, salivating voyeur!!

Which means, of course, that Heart ain’t the Roches (though I will take Terre over Ann, Nancy and Howard Leese). Much of your reaction to the music contained herein will depend on how you feel about Ann and Nancy, natch. If you like them, I’m betting you’re also a Tyne Daly freak. And I’m sorry, but nothing can help you in that case.

Back to the matter at hand, though. This ninth Heart album (quick, name ’em) deserves and yes, even rewards the multiple car stereo listens I afforded it before passing down this judgement. And I found a lot to like. Nancy’s “There’s The Girl” is the kind of thing Blondie should’ve been doing and they might still be around, while “I Want You So Bad” showcases the teasing, flip (pant) side of Ann, as opposed to the Mermanesque/Plant-like belter.

All in all, you gotta have Heart tor the rebuilding job the band’s accomplished over the past two LPs for new label Capitol, even if it has brought them perilously close to the middle of the road. Actually, Ann and Nancy appear to have realized the dangers of coming across as a couple aging rock ’n’ roll molls. Their resurrection, starting with last year’s mega-platinum, self-titled comeback album rivals Grace Slick’s in Starship, another group which has undergone almost a complete facelift (pun intended).

That said, I still get no feel from the gals what it’s like to be distaff in a biz that's overwhelmingly staff, as it were. Easy target isn’t just one of their song titles; in fact, all the male cliches of love lost and/or source!, emerge here, 'cept in their mirrored, opposite sex form. But that, after all, is a minor quibble. Accusing rock lyrics of cliche is akin to calling baseball boring. You’re either a fan or you ain’t. Take Heart... credit Ann and Nancy with aging gracefully. Kinda like Kate and Allie.

Roy Trakin

JOHN HIATT Bring The Family (A&M)

So you get these guys who’ve all their lives been rebellious cynical schmucks, and the reason they’ve never made you gag quite as much as the standard-issue confessionaltype soul-searching folkie sweetie is because they’re rebellious cynical schmucks, and they have some personal crisis in their lives that convinces ’em it’s time to hit the detox mountain (howdy, Warren), or they meet some curvy young thing and they can stand to be with her and she can stand to be with them so they visit the preacher and commence to makin' lovey-dovey-lovey-dovey all the time (howdy, Lou), and so all of a sudden they decide that they’re happy, finally, and they’ve found peace with the world and settled down and decided it’s time to be “mature’’ and all that, and that’s all well and good and you can best believe I'm pleased as a pig for them up to that point, but then they go and put out a record because they want to tell the world about their newfound joy, and the record makes ’em sound like just one more standard-issue confessionaltype soul-searching folkie sweetie, and their record company sends their record to me and the press release says it’s the "most honest” thing they’ve ever done and it’s “less smart-ass and much more positive” than their old stuff, and I'm s’posed to like it? Gimme a break.

Don’t really wanna sound hateful about all this, though, seeing as how the new LP by John Hiatt (who’s from Indiana and used to be billed as the “American Elton Motello” or something back in the gnu-wave daze and who’s had songs covered by everybody except the Butthole Surfers) is a right-listenable disc with nary a single absolutely yucky tune. Recorded in a lickety-split session with Ry Cooder on axe and Nick Lowe on bass (and supposedly somebody on drums, thought you’d never guess that to hear it), Bring The Family doesn’t crack its shaft nearly as hard as Hiatt’s previous Warming Up To The Ice Age, but thanks to rawness and improved epiglottal rasp, it’s maybe the more credible album. I’m no apologist for Cooder’s kind of chickenism nostalgia, but I’m all for how he helps Hiatt back his R&B into this rickety Brinsley/band/barnyard lope; Hiatt croons like a King when he catches a groove as smooth as the chorus of “Thing Called Love.” And the twanging "Your Dad Did” (unfortunately, the only storyline here detailed enough to enable allimportant empathetic identification/connection) is a skewed depiction of the urban everyday that could pass for Tom T, Hall. So anyhow, I’d really like to like this record. But for way too much of it, I get the idea Hiatt's trying to convince himself his recent domestic bliss is the best-of-all-possible-worids that his lyrics claim it is. That could be because “clever wordplay” (like rhyming "amoeba” with “Queen of Sheba”) always gets on my nuts and hits me as stilted (because it is) anymore; could also be that the vocalist’s certainly impressive mastery of Curtis Mayfield falsetto and James Brown screech and Dylan sustained nasality and Howlin’ Wolf wolfhowl and (all over the place) Van Morrison convulsive stutter suggest that this rock ’n’ roll adult’s still too unsure of himself to find his own voice. Mannerism-flaunting this studied can sure convey an appreciation for soulful music, but that’s not exactly the same as singing from the soul, catch my drift?

Chuck Eddy

X See How We Are (Elektra)

DAVE ALVIN Romeo’s Escape (Epic)

In 1985, the Blasters released their most musically-varied album, Hard Line, to reasonable acclaim and moderate sales. The same year, X, working with mainstream hard-rock producer Michael Wagener, released their most musically-polished album, Ain't Love Grand, to modest acclaim and moderate sales. Unfortunately, rock 'n' roll is not a medium of moderation, and being on the verge of breaking big for years produces, uh, shall we say, stress. In any event, various pressures popped both lead guitarists out of their respective bands: Billy Zoom has been laying low but rumors have persisted that he’ll be playing lead for the Blasters after the smoke clears, although even newer rumors suggest he'll be rejoining X. Dave Alvin has done a soundtrack (for Border Radio, LP available on Enigma), a solo album—and he was in X for a while.

Actually, finding Alvin’s guitar parts (or co-guitarist Tony Gilkyson’s, for that matter) can sometimes be a problem on X’s See How We Are. And this points up its primary weakness: a drum-heavy sound which all too often leaves songs stranded in the no-man’s land between rock ’n’ roll dynamics and dance club mix strategies. Sure, Bonebrake’s a good drummer, but too many single string licks get lost in the shuffle, as well as an occasional vocal line. And while the return to a more basic production style was probably inevitable, it’s too bad the substantial hooks of “You” aren’t set off better in the arrangement.

Fortunately, much of the material is strong enough to shine through the lapses in production. OK, side two has a couple of clunkers, but it also contains the most striking melody (“When It Rains”) on the album, as well as the two tunes where the guitars challenge the drums most successfully (“Left And Right,” “Surprise, Surprise”). Side one also has its winners, especially Exene’s cleverly bitchy “Anyone Can Fill Your Shoes,” and Alvin’s “4th Of July,” wherein John Doe really nails the tensions in a relationship breaking down to the point where all that’s left is hope— and a holiday. Both he and Exene are hitting more of the notes these days, but that doesn’t mean that they’re slacking off on the passion-compassion elements in their singing.

Dave Alvin also hits most of the notes on his solo debut; he may not have the distinctive pipes of his brother Phil, the Blasters' vocalist/leader, but he does OK, reminding me a bit of Johnny Cash on the ballads and approaching early Tonio K.’s craziness on the rockers. He, too, cuts “4th Of July,” but with a more Lobos-like flavor, imparted in part by the presence of David Hidalgo on guitar and Steve Berlin behind the board.

Most of the tunes here are new, but Alvin has chosen to recover three of his Blasters’ songs as well, dressing ’em up differently this time. So we get the forced raunch of “Long White Cadillac,” “Border Radio” turned into a ballad, and a decent rendition of “Jubilee Train” that really moved me since it was made for Phil’s fevered yelp. Dave’s got a right to re-do this material, but I got a right to prefer the Blasters’ versions.

Fortunately, the new stuff is mostly real good. “Every Night About This Time" is kind of a generic country ballad, but rockers like "New Tattoo” and “You Got Me” offer humor as well as a kick in the pants.

The album’s headiest moment comes at the end of side one. “Romeo’s Escape,” the title track, is the most raucous, good-natured thing here, but when the noise dies down, you find yourself on a coltl, bleak picket line. Alvin personalizes the union man/scab conflict rather than anthemizing it, capturing its essence in just a few lines: “When the bossman shakes your hand/And says, ‘Son, you’ll do just fine’/And you walk into the factory/To a job that once was mine/Weil, don’t forget your brother/Who’s still standing on the line." Stark and perfect. If someone would turn, say, Willie Nelson on this one, then maybe 1987 will go down as the year Dave Alvin becomes more than a moderate success.

Michael Davis