SILENT NIGHT, TROGLODYTE (OR CORPORATE METAL, YO MAMA)

SILENT NIGHT, TROGLODYTE (OR CORPORATE METAL, YO MAMA)

Various Artists

DUDES

(SOUNDTRACK)

(MCA Records)

Virginia Wolf

PUSH

(Atlantic Records)

Skagarack

SKAGARACK

(MCA Records)

The Doctor has decided: rock and roll needs a Ralph Nader to root out falsehoods in advertising, deceptive packaging and RAMPANT MISLEADING OF AMERICA'S YOUTH. What the Doctor is mewling about is the glut of records being released these days that are trying to cash in on the pop world's current infatuation with metal, while staying safe for democracy. To do this, it may be necessary to institute a new criteria forjudging this stuff, like along with the sound and intelligibility, instituting something like an MQ, or a Metal Quotient. Y'know, something that measures velocity and crunch and whether you have to see the tailor after listening, so's he can take in your eardrums, 'cause they've been knocked all out of shape. Something to protect us all from the CORPORATE ABOMINATIONS masqueradingas metal. For my purposes, a scale from 0-10, with zero being Barry Manilow, and 10 being Led Zep quality.

Case in point: Virginia Wolf. This is a group with pedigree. I mean, the guitarist dares to call himself Nick Bold. Then there's Jason Johnson' Bonham (in Russia it would be Jason Ivanovich Bonham), who is every bit as porcine as papa, but nowhere near as powerfully percussive. There's also Jo Burt, admittedly a former noowaver, but from a band that sounded like XTC with the pretension replaced by punch. Sector 27 probably would have done well if their front guy weren't a bigmouthed homosexual. So you've got a rhythm section with pud pounding potential. But on their latest slice, Push, they might as well be jacking off in the shower. Serves them right for naming the band after a famous lesbian.

Now part of determining what's good from the garbage is as easy as checking the liner notes, if it lists an arranger, watch out. If there are credits for a keyboard player who's not in the band, beware. If the first person listed under "special thanks" is a record company executive, they're probably thanking him for letting them get away with this bullshit. Also note: if there is equipment listed by brand name on the album, that means the musician is probably on the take from the company and HAS to do that. Virginia Wolf is guilty of all of that. (Other things to watch for, by the way, that these guys somehow manage to avoid, is a liner credit for hair dressers, make-up artists and the like; c.f. the liner notes for Bad).

Of course, while all of this is a good indication that it's not in the grooves, a band sometimes, rarely, manages to fool you. Not these guys, though. They are somewhat to the softer side of Foreigner, as "Tables Have Turned" demonstrates (they even use gospel singers for backing vocals [probably at the urging of the Atlantic records guy, who wanted to know what love is]). But, like that other Atlantic act, the synthesizers outshine the guitars, and if there is crunch, it's buried deep. So "Let It Go" may approach having more taste and crunch than, say, a bowl of cornflakes that have been sitting in milkforaseason, but it's closer to

"Beat It" than "Black Dog." Tunes like "One night" are more this album's speed: blatent MOR. If this band didn't have a reputation, they would probably be played on those stations that actually advertise playing the Beach Boys and Barry Manilow, and have "Baby Come Back" on the air daily. This is a dangerous machete to the straddling, and they sound like they've fallen on it a few times.

When they put out their first album there was some hope that these guys might some day rock. As the philosopher said, "We live in hope, die in despair." And hoping for this to rock is a definite cause for despair. That said, they have an MQ of 1.5, which puts them just slightly below John Parr.

Slightly less offensive are Europe-an ringers Skagagrack. Jan Petersen's guitar cuts through the keyboards sometimes, and they're pretty upfront about the keys. What they sound like more than anything else is Styx, which is okay, depending on how you feel about cutting your metal with quasi-classical chords, which is sort of like cutting good amphetamines with saccharine. So there are some good stupid rockers, like "Victim OfTheSystem" thatlumberoutof the speakers like brontosauruses, token b a Mads like "Damned Woman ' and "City Child" and the rest kind of fall into the middle.

What's really remarkable about Skagarack is how unremarkable they are. Not only do they seem proud not to have original ideas (again, check the album cover. Titles like "Lies," "Move It In the Night" and "I'm Alone" are stone give-aways for bands who give the muscle above their necks very little exercise) they are downright smug about it. It's not much fun. In fact, it's not much of anything, sort of like the musical equivalent of unbuttered popcorn. Still, they get a MQ of 4.5, which puts them in the league of, oh, Cinderella.

Then comes the extravaganza of hype, the soundtrack to the film Dudes. This is alternately the most and least metal record of all of the above. Ballyhooed by MCA as being for the "terminally hip" and "a dream for...metal tastes" some of this stomps and screams in surprising ways. Like The Vandals take on being Good Bad and Ugly, which they call "Urban Struggle" and would make Ennio Morricone roll over in his grave if he were dead. Jane's Addiction get by with warmed over Zep riffs on "Mountain Song'—crunchy, but not up to their growing rep as one of glammetal's bands to watch.

MM stalwarts WASP and Keel turn in typically rocking stuff, with Blackie and the boys selling out one of their strongest songs, "Show No Mercy," and Ron's merry band covering Rose Tattoo's (talk about obscure) "Rock N' Roll Outlaw." But if you like either of these bands, you either have or will have these two tracks anyway. One of the best things here is the reworking of "These Boots (Are Made For Walkin')" by Megadeth, which is less venomous than the version from their first LP, but more available.

But why would they have Steve Vai, the guitarist from arguably the most musical HM group in the land, the David Lee Roth Band, do an imitation of jazzman Stanley Jordan on "Amazing Grace"? Couldn't they have found a better use for him (-.5 MQ points for that one). The Leather Nun sound more like Bowie than Black Sabbath, but their tune, "Jesus Came Driving Along," is a pisser anyway. And what's with some of the non-meat filler, like Charles Bernstein's synthetic country twang, Legal Weapon's way lame country rock of "Time Forgot You" and Simon Steel and the Claw's "Vengeance is Mine"? Couldn't they find enough worthy metal bands willing to work in the Cowboy motif that the film maker seems to use a lot? (Hint: Legal Weapon is billed as a major new MCA artist). Still, there's enough good noise, especially on side one, to net this album a 6.5 MQ overall, though Megadeth get a 10.

Beware of imitations, like a lot of this. They're no fun.

— Dr. Rock

ROCKCANDY

Sucker For A Pretty Face

(Sweettooth Records)

#f you can't get a pretty good idea of what these sweethearts are all about from the above three lines above, let me know where you've been getting your drugs, huh? Let's just say they'd be right popular in prison, kay? Funny thing is, unlike the rest of the new crop of Fender queens, they've made a really good record. Mow, I'm not sayin' this'll make anyone forget Aerosmith, though it'll prob'ly make folks forgetTalas (if anyone remembers them anyway), who Rockcandy spun offa.

These Buffalo boys plow fields not unfertilized by the balletslippered feet of Poison, but their glitter-stomp isn't nearly as lamebrained or heavy-handed. Rockcandy are more authentic too— "Radio/' with a whispery chorus that consists largely of that piece of communication equipment being spelled over and over, has a nifty Sweet-like chorus. And the title cut, which rocks a little harder, even describes the face in question as belonging to "a fox on the run."

That pair, and "Stop Stop," (which incidentally, sounds almost exactly like Artful Dodger, a D.C. combo that passed for Brit during the height of 1973 s bout of Anglophilia) are the standout cuts. That's the case largely because they lend themselves best to fists-in-the-air. Rockcandy have a tendency to want everything to be an anthem, and their attempts, while several lengths ahead of anything, say, Quiet Riot ever did, don't always hold up over a full song. "Long Distance Love Affair," for one, strays toward garden-variety arena rock, though it's saved in part by the .38 Special-with-a-bullet dual guitars of Johnny Angel and Stephen Shaw (both of whom look uncannily like girls I had crushes on in junior high).

Singer Joie Anes (who should change that last name lest we pronounce it phonetically) is no slouch either. His high (though unreminiscent of Vincent Price in The Fly) vox holds these melodies spandex-tight. He has a perfect lovesong larnyx, and Rockcandy actually do love songs. Sappy, yer-breakin'-my-heart love songs that aren't just about "wimmin who done 'em wrong." Chivalry ain't dead, it's just wearing lipstick.

That's the second thing that convinced me Rockcandy were alright dudes. The first being that one of 'em has a girlfriend whose last name is Schneggenberger. A cool last name from a writer's point of view since a Schneggenberger in the hand is worth five Smiths in the bush and cool also because someone with a last name of that duration is definitely not a professional model. Even hepper, is the revelation, on "Head Over Heels," of their genyoo-wine lovesick natures. The song could be construed as an average come-on, but when the guy shouts "You got what I want," what's the first thing on his list? Why, her eyes of course. Sigh, what a dreamboat.

Almost all the pieces are there for Rockcandy to be the next Sweet, maybe even Gary Friggin' Glitter. Heck, if they got a team like Chinn and Chapman behind 'em, I'd even say they'd be good enough for their own Saturday morning cartoon show!

— David Sprague

PUSSY GALORE

Right Now!

(Caroline Records)

(via DC) aim straight at your large intestine like a sharpened pair of knitting needles. And they make you like it!! The Pussy Galore formula is a ridiculously simple one. Just three guitars and a pile of sheet metal. They meet, like a lawnmower and an alleycat. Only this is a really vicious cat—so just half of the shit here resembles lh a cat flying across a carport trailing its' intestines. The other >/2 is more like the ungodly sound of huge well-oiled pieces of machinery being ground into scrap by the jaws of a rabid feline killer.

Got it?

Well, think again. Right now! can't be pigeonholed (alongside most of the combos that veer toward this strain o' noise) as artshit, being that it's expelled from cheeks as brawny and scabrous as those of Mr s and Ms. Galore. Roughly translated—"Yes, it is rock and roll.'' "Pussy Stomp'' and "Trashcan Oildrum" take off from the valley of The Cramps, but sound uncannily like the country-blues as delivered by a troubador whose brains're too eaten away by a combination of moonshine and syphilis to notice the hell spawned sounds he's issuing forth. Oh yeah, the LP ends with a song called "Hell Spawn," but it's not close to the cream of the nineteen herein, so let's skip it for now.

Side one, however, is almost all cream—heavy and sweet. It goes like this: pigsweatwhitenoiseuptightbikerrockloserwretchrope legendfuckyoumanwhitepeople newbreedalright.

Why else do they qualify as rock n' roll? Well, they say "fuck" a lot. A whole lot. "Pretty Fuck Look," "Fuck you, man," Groovy Hate Fuck, "this fucking sucks "...Talk dirty to me? Be sure you know what you're asking for.

Their psychic powers rock, too. Just as I crept nearer the speakers for a possible translation of "Loser Wretch," Julia Cafritz's screeching, locked-brakes guitar crumbled away, leaving a glazed Jon Spencer mumbling "Fuck the words, maaaaan." You best believe I slunk back to my corner, red faced and flaccid.

And what could be more "rock n' roll" than the Rolling Stones (who used to say "fuck" a lot, too)? Pussy Galore released a cover version of an entire Stones' LP (Exile On Main Street) last year. It was simultaneously faithful/ unfaithful/better than the original, but you won't be able to find one, since they only spewed forth 500 or so copies. Better luck next time.

More than anything else, Right How! is physical music. Physical as in grabbed by the neck and stuffed into the trunk of a speeding car by a buncha post-teen hooligans with guitars. It's destined to get a physical response, too. Mo mere coincidence that Pussy Galore's first record—back in the netherdays of '86 —was dubbed Feel Good About Your Body. Right How! is guaranteed to make you feel one of two things. Odds are you'll either soil your pants in fear within seconds, or else piss yourself laughing.

Or both, ifyou're lucky.

— David Sprague

SHOK PARIS

Steel and Starlight

(IRS Records)

#n nigh on a quarter century of living, you learn there's a few things to avoid in the interests of extending that ol' lifespan. For example (trust meon thisone), ifyou're standing at a carry-out burger stand and the grill-goober greets the obviously dusted trauma case behind you with a cheery "What's up, Lino," it's not a good idea to turn and inform Mr. Twitchy that by merely changing one letter, his name becomes "Lint."

It's also kinda self-endangering to mention to a (undoubtedly equally horse-tranked) pack of metalboys that they sound like a gaggleo ...chicks...butdurned if Shok Paris don't. This is not necessarily a bad thing. Heck, Prince is generally cut from fine cloth, and his preening sometimes floats a bit far to the distaff side, right? And then there's Accept. But Shok Paris don't sound too much like the German gals — there's a real specific strain of woman to be found lurking in these Clevo-boys' er...instruments. The Wilson kind.

Steel and Starlight could besubtitled Barracuda II—They Spit (Peroxide) On Your Grave. The title cut borrows, well, almost everything from said fishy Wilson composition. And "Falling For You" (as well as the acoustic-laced "Castle Walls") struts more of the Wilsonian electro-baroque guitar diddling that "graced" AM radio throughout my pubescent years (sigh), riot altogether unpleasant, though I can't imagine having any jeans-distending fantasies about Shok Paris while listening to this. Unlessofcourseitwasreal late, I was real drunk and driving (oops...I mean being driven) around the streets of Cleveland without a Pere Ubu tape in my possession.

Even being wheel-less in treeovergrown Brooklyn, parts of Steel and Starlight strike me as more than mildly fist-pumpin' cruisin' music. Like "Tokyo Rose," where S. Paris finally cut loose and Vic Hix screams like he's yowlin' about DROPPING THE BIG ONE rather than just a bad plate of sashimi. Problem is, he doesn't hypervocalize quite enough elsewhere. Oh sure, he bleats a serviceable Plant plaint on bout half of these "numbers," but he's surprisingly subdued. Though not nearly as lame as you'd expect from a guy fronting a band half-named after a city in France, a place where they eat snails and Keep little fluffy dogs as pets (when everybody knows that civilized folks do just the opposite).

Ken Erb, though, while obviously a real nimble-fingered guy, doesn't do nearly enough damage to his six strings. Though he occasionally slams 'em as if his studded wristband was on backwards, he spends a little too much time in Yngwie Malmsteen (who Shok Paris resemble nearly as much as they do Heart, but Der Yngman isn't nearly as jeansdistending a topic to think upon) territory. And since this is heavy metal, it is he who forms the foundation of their sound, and he, unfortunately, sounds like he has spenttoo much time in Gay Paree. Hot that Shok Paris are hopeless—but they do have to decide whether they wanna sip Bellinis or guzzle brewskis.

—David Sprague

Goo Goo Dolls

GOO GOO DOLLS

(Mercenary Records)

— _ ^^hat do you make of a I Ml I 4j®r l'arK' that starts off a tune by humming W the theme to "Gone V With The Wind” and then launches into full-throttle bash? Starts an album like that, no less?

Or pays homage to Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Ramones? In the course of one song? Called "Don't Beat My Ass (With A Baseball Bat)"? Or does benzedrine covers of "Don't Fear The Reaper" and "Sunshine Of Your Love" (two way cool songs to begin with)? Or backward masks the message, "Mama, I'm gonna get me another corn dog"? Pretty cool, huh? But, I hear your telepathic cries across time and space, can they play?? Apart from everything else, can they live up to a name as impossibly ginchy as The Goo Goo Dolls? Well, yes, Buffalo's Goo Goo Dolls can crunch out some way raw metal that's as much fun to listen to as it is to drink.

A cursory listen would have you thinking that these guys are a thrash band. That would be a grave injustice to both thrash bands and the Goo Goo Dolls. For one thing, the Goo Goo Dolls are not nearly as serious minded as GBH or COC or any of those other initial bands. GBH wants to raise consciousness. Goo Goo Dolls want to get high and live in a hut. They "got an ugly liver from drinking too much." They also got the metal chant alongs and the bludgeoning riffs. What they do have in common with the thrashers is the slash and burn riffs of the Sex Pistols. But they've also got some hot-shot guitar work in the hot sweaty wall-ofnoise miasma that they call a mix. it is buried there in "Hammerin' Eggs," "Scream," "Sunshine Of Your Love" (not on the solo) and "Messed Up."

As you might have guessed, these guys have a streak of silliness a mile wide. Like, they got this song called "Beat Me" that is roughly a cop on that wimpy old hit "Rock Me Gently," cept their version goes, "Beat me gently, beat me slow." "Hard Sores" has something to do with pumping little elvis. Hot a lot of socially redeeming stuff here. And that's cool, too. Can't be grim alia time, eh? I mean, rock's supposed to be fun, right? If the back cover is any indication, they are of the Metallica school of drinking, as beer seems to be a major theme of the album's cover, if not the LP itself. Life, too.

Hank Bordowitz