BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN Tunnel Of Love (Columbia)

Musically speaking, this album is the story of a man and his band. Or rather, a man without his band. Well, not entirely: each member of the band makes at least one appearance here, just not as a member of the full band. Am I coherent yet?

No? Let’s start again. This is a Bruce Springsteen album, not a Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band album. After the tremendous success/overexposure of Born In The U.S.A. and the live box, it’s evidently time tor a more personal approach. Not another Nebraska—only “Cautious Man” reprises its slow-moving, detail-laden narratives—but a mostly solo show just the same. The thing is, without the E Street Band behind him, Springsteen is just another talented singer-songwriter-multiinstrumentalist in search of the right sounds for his songs, and as a result, Tunnel Of Love occupies a stretch of Everyman’s land between more-thana-bunch-of-demos and less-than-agreat-album.

Yeah, I said multi-instrumentalist. From hearing this record, I now know that Bruce can pound out a basic drumbeat, play elementary bass lines and hold down synthesizer chords. Considering how long he’s been leading bands, these are minor revelations.

When he does need some help, though, he calls on his old buddies— in ones, twos, threes and fours— primarily Max Weinberg, who drums or percusses on eight tracks here. The results are more evenhanded, less dramatic arrangements, which work for solid, understated material like “All That Heaven Will Allow,” “Two Faces” and “One Step Up.” On the title tune, though, the synth and sound effects get out of hand, so that—for the first time in Springsteen’s career—you hear the arrangement before your hear the song.

Usually, though, the song is still the thing, and, at his best, Bruce manages to impart contemporary wisdom in traditional rock ’n’ roll forms. “Brilliant Disguise” nods in the direction

of several Drifters’ oldies, and Bruce’s delivery echoes Ben E. King or Arthur Alexander in places. Yet, the tune is timelessly up-to-date as it details the doubts in a developing relationship: are we real or have we just fallen for each other’s intimate image marketing ploys? This one deserves to be a hit, whether you’re sick of hearing the guy on the radio or not.

So does “Spare Parts,” though I’m not sure the airwaves will agree.

Beginning with a classic couplet (“Bobby said he’d pull out, Bobby stayed in/Janey had a baby, it wasn’t any sin”), it goes on to describe Bobby’s cowardice and Janey’s resilience, even to the point of hocking her wedding dress and walking out proudly with the money. Despite few musical hints, she could be Johnny B. Goode’s granddaughter, though you never can tell.

Now most LPs with two songs this good—along with several other winners—would be greeted favorably, but since this is BROOOOOCE, our expectations are cast in the stratosphere. Now, even fanatics are acknowledging that there’s filler here. So OK, Bruce Springsteen has taken the plunge off the pedestal. He hasn’t printed a masterpiece this time around; but fortunately, he hasn’t painted his Self Portrait either.

Michael Davis

TERENCE TRENT D’ARBY

Introducing The Hardline According To Terence Trent D’Arby (Columbia)

Here’s the scam, or rather the situation. D’Arby, a black American gone to England, has had an enormous success among the Brits — number one album and all that. Now the album is available Stateside, and the question is whether he will break here as big as in England, and if not, is it the music or extra-musical considerations or what?

The music, largely self-composed, is pop-tinged soul with sharp lyrics that only occasionally slip over into the pretentious (young D’Arby is an ex-journalist so he can’t help himself). It’s tradition-conscious—most reviews and press releases aptly evoke the Soul Hall of Fame (Cook, Gaye, Green et al.) — but with an up-to-date hard edge. D’Arby’s voice is a marvel; sometimes a high lover’s croon and at others an authority-laden rasp reminiscent of Otis (that’s Redding — not the drunk on The Andy Griffith Show). On “Wishing Well,” which should be the first single,, he sounds like he’s been doing this for at least 50 years, so easefully does he signify between the socking beats (he’s even got the off-the-cuff-but-layered-with-meaning chuckle down pat). The accompaniment is unobtrusive—tastefully placed guitar parts, heavy rhythm, a little synth and doo wop harmonies (on “Sign Your Name,” which should be the second single). Possessed of chops, smarts, and feeling, D’Arby is a pleasure to listen to.

Whether he’ll duplicate his Brit success is hard to say (you’ll know by the time this appears). It's that tradition connection that might keep him off MTV—no obvious rock link— though he might end up on VH-1 with the other black schlockdealers, which wouldn’t be fair. On the other hand, if he’s made it big in style-mad Britain, then he must have a hot stage act, or at least presence, which could translate into a provocative video (cf. Sade, who doesn’t sound like much on record and probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere in the pre-video age). D’Arby does sound like much, and if his image plays right (sigh), then some sweet soul music is going to be heard in Nebraska this year.

Richard C. Walls

I SQUEEZE Babylon And On (A&M)

For a decade or so now, Squeeze bosses Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook have made some of the most literate, original and interesting pop music around. Their gift for matching bright melodies and witty lyrics has drawn favorable comparisons to Lennon & McCartney, and the boys always give ya a good solid LP for yer money. So why isn’t Babylon And On more exciting?

Good question, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, the answer has more to do with the essence of Squeeze than the merits of this particular album and may even (gasp) have profound implications for the state of contemporary culture as a whole. Before turning to the big stuff, let’s see how Babylon And On relates to the rest of the Squeeze oeuvre.

Although their last LP, Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti, seemed a perfectly respectable effort at the time, it sounds tentative next to Babylon. Everything’s bigger and badder here, with tighter arrangements, sharper playing, and an overall sense of gettin’ down to business. That feeling of purpose comes through most clearly in surprisingly forceful grooves. In part, credit dependable Eric “E.T.” Thongren, back to co-produce with Tilbrook and help counteract the band’s tendency toward sonic clutter!. Better still, give a big hand to good of’ Gilson Lavis. Always a hot drummer, he finally gets a chance to bust loose, bashing recklessly on “The Prisoner,” nursing the sexy undercurrent of “Footprints,” and thumping the brisk “Trust Me To Open My Mouth” like he was whacking a dirty rug. Squeeze’s raveup quotient is generally pretty low, so it’s great to see Lavis conducting a display of boogie firepower.,

Of course, it wouldn’t be much of a party if Chris and Glenn didn’t turn in their usual fine brace o’ tunes. Dissipation remains a prime topic, whether it’s the effects of “too much money” and “too many parties” in the sinuous “Footprints,” or the woozy “Cigarette Of A Single Man,” a melodramatic, almost campy tale of one fella’s descent into the gutter. Among the more thoughtful interludes are “Tough Love,” a lively waltz about a relationship ripped by substance abuse, and “The Waiting Game,” a country-ish love lament. Even lesser works, like the semi-funky “Who Are You?” and “Some Americans,” a failed stab at social commentary, offer a few entertaining wrinkles.

But the cruel, cold truth is that Squeeze will never be an electrifying combo. No matter how hard Lavis slams the skins, this is a mild bunch of guys. Especially Tilbrook, whose honey-sweet vocals hit all the right notes without generating many sparks. The grubbier Difford s occasional leads always provide an amusing change of pace—see the drunken “Striking Matches” here—although you wouldn’t want a whole LP of his oddball croaking.

As a philosopher once noted, it’s the singer not the song, at least in rock ’n’ roll. Look at Elvis Costello, an overrated songwriter who really earns his pay with compelling performances. Or consider the wretched Bob Dylan. Despite writing only a handful of decent tunes in the past 15 years, his sullen presence makes even the crummiest material strangely fascinating (though not particularly listenable). The Squeeze boys can outcompose ’em both, yet don’t command the same attention.

Thus, maybe there’s something seriously wrong with a culture that doesn’t allow genuine talents like Difford and Tilbrook to find their, true^ niche. Too nice for rock, too smart for the Streisand and Sinatra set, they need a new angle bad. Maybe a government commission could study the problem. A good band is truly a terrible thing to waste, you know.

Jon Young

ILYNYRD SKYNYRD Legend (MCA)

Grave-robbing outtakes is graverobbing outtakes, and a couple batches of Skynyrd ones have been let loose since that 1977 plane crash buried singer Ronnie Van Zant and guitarist Steve Gaines (numero-uno lost-talent death-tragedy in rock history), so obviously this new batch called Legend ain’t the place to acquaint yourself with this Wild Turkeyprimed gang of Confederacy-rockers (numero-three American band of the modern age, behind only ParliamentFunkadelic and the Stooges). There’s no trace of the wisdom and wit, and real little of the piss and grime, that made Skynyrd the greatest (and most underrated) of rock ’n’ roll populists (leaving Springsteen easily, and even Fogerty/Seger/Mellencamp, in the dust); what we get instead is solid boogiebook stompin’ with too much emphasis on unreconstructed sixpack/eight-track song themes and on the semi-virtuoso (i.e.: boring) twangintertwine business these rebels generally left up to lesser lights like the Allmans.

So curious-but-callow Georgia Satellites and Steve Earle and Guns N’ Roses partisans on the lookout for family-tree-type “roots” had better start out with Street Survivors or Second Helping, and save Legend for last. You’ll find no undiscovered “Sweet Home Alabama” or “Saturday Night Special” or “That Smell” here, nothing that turns a mirror on prejudiced liberal hypocrites, or fights for guncontrol from the bed of a four-wheeldrive pickup, or foresees imminent death (or takes on rock critics, or tackles record labels, or makes groupies look like human beings)—nothing even close. But, except for maybe this solos-out-the-ears electric-blues whimper called “Mr. Banker” (so tedious that, by the time it’s over, you’re praying the rich guy forecloses the farm and lets the hillbillies starve), Legend's also got nothing the surviving Skynyrds oughta be ashamed of, nothing unlistenable or exploitive or pompous, nothing spoiled by artificial additives. Which is sure more than you can say for most major-label product (or minor-label product, for that matter) in these extra innings of the rock ballgame.

Gazing at the MCA publicity photo (about the most-hip -looking band picture I’ve seen this year), I’m thinking of barbiturates, bongs, brazen broads in tight but otherwise flimsy white tanktops, attempted murder with sawed-off .22s. And the sounds on Legend conjure up similar scenery. Side one’s mostly tunes left off ’77’s Street Survivors—two barbecued funk-metal punches about full-grown Dixie women; a Western-Swing birthday present to Charlie Daniels that mentions lotsa musical good ol’ boys (and sounds just like the Pontiac Brothers’ “Brenda’s Mom”); a Deltaacoustic number where a Vietnam vet escapes from prison, and a cascading live version of “Simple Man.”

The predominantly-non-LP-B-sidefilled side two opens with more greased-up guitars-chomping-likegators funk-metal (these guys’ niftiest mode), this time praising a truck driver, then shoots straight into three blues-things, including a slinkified early number named “One In The Sun” that demonstrates redneck-rock’s Cream/Brit-derived proclivities as conclusively as anything on First.. .And Last, Skynyrd's original grave-robbing outtake compilation.

Just think: If this ensemble hadn’t turned into America’s answer to the Rolling Stones, they might well have turned into America’s answer to Led Zeppelin instead. If your palate doesn’t drool at that .potion, you’re a new-wave goody-two-shoes, and you’re probably too young to remember Billy Carter.

Chuck Eddy

THE LIVING ROOM TAPES

ROBBIE ROBERTSON Robbie Robertson (Geffen)

“And you know that we shall meet again

If your memory serves you well’’ -Bob Dylan, “This Wheel’s on Fire”

If you’re familiar with the history of the Band and your memory serves you weH, you know that the last place Robbie Robertson ever seemed to want to get caught was in the spotlight. Although the guitarist/writer authored virtually every great song the group ever did, it was his vision but never really his voice that was heard on such classics as “The Weight,” “Cripple Creek,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Rag Mama Rag,” etc., etc. While most groups are fortunate if they have one decent lead singer, the Band was blessed with three good ones in Levon Helm, Richard Manuel and Rick Danko, and that, apparently, was good enough for Robertson, whose onstage microphone usually went unused save for some background harmonies. In fact, if my memory serves me well, Robertson’s one and only lead vocal during the Band’s entire recording career came on a song called “Out Of The Blue,” which appeared on the last side of the last record they ever made—the soundtrack to The Last Waltz—and (punch line) the track wasn’t even used in the film.

I mention all this because the first thing you’re going to notice on Robbie Robertson’s first-ever solo album is that he certainly can sing. Although technically he might not score too high with the judges from the Eastern Bloc countries, his vocal style is both unique and arresting; whether he’s rumbling around in a soulful growl or flying tentatively into an eerie falsetto, Robertson makes it hard not to pay attention. And if you pay attention, you’re going to hear one very fine album.

Be forewarned: you're looking for here, you're bound feappotntel After all, as far back as 1971, on Cahoots' “Smoke Signal Robertson . observed that "your old neighborhood ain't even there no more,” and in the 11 years since the Band officially broke up, it was he who respectft declined every time:BankclMm or the now deceased Manuel took to the road under the group’sragged old banner. This record doesn’t sound anything like the Band; it's much too electric (naiy an accordion or mandolin in earshot). All the work that Robertson's done scoring films for Martin Scorsese has clearly enhanced his understanding of aural landscapes, giving sgngs—most notably, the swampy short story narration "Somewhere Down Tire Crazy River”—a width and dimension that's rather imoressive. And similarly, though religion and American anl Native American mythologies are themes that Robertson has always turned to in his writing, the perspective here, on songs like "Showdown At Big Sky,”' ‘American Roulette” and “Hell’s Half Acre {which are about, respectively, the threat of nuclear apocalypse, the nightmare of famepnd the scars of Vietnam), is far less country-inhented than urban-experienced,*

. Three other songs here warrant Special menbohjfflweet Fire Love” is one of two tracks that find Robertson backed by those frighteningly active boys from U2 and is ait too accurately titled, as Robertson and Bornpapproximate a marriage between heaven and hell against the burning, blood red backdrop of the Edge, Muflen and Clayton’s sonic fury.. “Fallen Angel||| dedicated to Manuel and is one of the most profoundly moving songs about the loss of a friend that you’re ever going to hear. And, speaking of once-in-a-lifetime songs, I strongly suggest that you play side one’s “Broken Arrow” after you've listened to the rest of the recortLOoce you ’ ve heard this breathtakingly beautiful piece of music, yothmay not want anything else on your turntable or in your tape dedGtor a good week or two. it’s that good.

Billy Altman

I NEW MONKEES New Monkees (Warner Bros.)

Saturday morning kid-vid just ain’t what is used to be. I mean, woe is me for a generation that has to choose between My Pet Monster and Gummi Bears. Gimme real adventure—Sky King (Penny, what a babe!), Sgt. Preston Of The Yukon, Heckle & Jeckle— over Voltron any day.

And spare me the agony of having to choose between The New Archies and The New Monkees, both in heavy competition with the cartoonized version of Teen Wolf at 11:30 a.m. every Saturday in New York. It’s almost sad enough to make ya want to switch the dial to Our Secret Jewelers To The Stars or Adam Smith’s Money World.

But since the New Monkees have a record and the New Archies don’t, the former seemed the way to go one recent weekend. And what a show it is! This particular episode found Marty, Larry, Dino and Jared—just doesn’t have the same ring as Mike, Micky, Davy and Peter, does it?—involved in a catastrophe, the gist of which was that one of the neo-prefabs turned into a dog and couldn’t find a fire hydrant. Not as big a dog as this show, mind ya, but a dog nonetheless.

In between barking and trying to make the best of their situation (namely being cast in this godawful program), the boys—picked from over five thousand auditioners, we’re told (is talent that scarce?!)—basically take part in an extended video, singin’, dancin’, makin’ bad jokes and generally living up to the motto cast forth by the original molded pop stars in their film Head: “Hey, hey we are the Monkees/ To that we all agree/ A manufactured image/ With no philosophies.’’

Of the latter two lines you can be sure. The brainlesschild of the creators of the original show, The New Monkees exude no noticeable personality. Probably, that’s why it took five thousand auditions; the producers couldn’t find anyone they could be sure would never rebel against the manufactured image and go make something like Head II. Not likely. Jared, Dino, Larry and Marty will probably always be good little New Monkees.

And that becomes even more obvious when listening to their debut album. If indeed the New Monkees album was conceived as an update of the perfect plastic pop of the original Monks, it’s succeeded admirably. With a list of producers, songwriters and musicians taller than Davy Jones, New Monkees couldn’t go wrong. Just as The Monkees utilized the likes of Boyce & Hart, Goffin & King, Neil Diamond and other top writers of the mid-’60s, New Monkees was crafted by professionals with two ears glued to the Top 40. Where The Monkees grabbed a bit o’Beatles, Byrds, Beach Boys and bubblegum, New Monkees is every successful cliche of late ’80s pop rolled into one carefully programmed and marketed package. Thing is, at this writing it’s been in the stores a few weeks and has yet to appear on the charts. Could something be missing?

Well, yes and no. Most everything a kid-vid viewer could want in a record is here. The leadoff track, “What I Want,” coulda been Duran Duran meets Def Leppard, while side one’s closer, “Boy Inside The Man,” is what U2 might’ve sounded like had they come from Hollywood and never discovered politics. There’s even a cut, “Affection,” that would probably feel right at home on any post-indie college radio type guitar-noise band album from the Midwest. Yep, song for song, New Monkees is a seamless concoction tailor-made for hitsville. It’s got synths and scrunchy guitars and a cover that looks like a pack of Lifesavers. It’s the Pet Shop Boys and George Michael and Bon Jovi all stamped out of a mold, probably the same one that makes Rockin’ Ken dolls. It’s even got the Tower of Power horn section! It rocks and grooves and soothes.

And it’ll probably touch very few lives. ’Cause in an age where the pop charts are nothing but image anyway, and a logo is chosen before the band members, the New Monkees offer nothing new. When the original Monkees emerged on prime time with their own half hour, it was the first time rock ’n’ roll of any sort had been given that sort of mainstream recognition. Kids needed that half hour; it was theirs. It wasn’t their parents’—and, best of all, it was rock ’n’ roll fun, presented in a manner unique to the medium of television.

In the late '80s, with 24-hour rock video long established, Larry, Jared, Marty and Dino may as well be Tony Orlando. Their pictures are on a record, and that record even sounds good—sometimes too good. But they don’t matter. Where the Monkees were a Frankenstein monster that got loose, the New Monkees will always be the New Monkees. They’ll never create a “Pleasant Valley Sunday” or a Head. They’ll never find themselves in the midst of a mammoth reunion tour in 2007. What is most likely is that when it’s all over—probably a few weeks from now—Marty, Jared, Larry and Curly will be wondering whether they’d gain or lose by adding “New Monkees” to their resumes.

Jeff Tamarkin

I BUSTER POINDEXTER Buster Poindexter (RCA)

For some strange reason I always thought that Buster Poindexter, David Johansen’s sophisticated alter ego, was meant to be a temporary lark— or at least an entertaining holding action until Johansen could regain a worthwhile rock ’n’ roll foothold. Upon emerging from the ruins of the forever-lamented New York Dolls, David Jo embarked on a series of solo albums; his debut was a real killer but successive efforts were much more unfocused and increasingly uninspired. His songwriting became slack, he couldn’t find the right band, the poisonality was weakening... he was in a real decline. Along comes Buster, hepcat archivist and saloon-swinging bon vivant with an eye for fun and next month’s rent check. Presto chango, the pressure’s off Johansen and he can just hang out, have a good time, and become the toast of downtown Manhattan.

Now, don’t get me wrong; an evening with Buster Poindexter can be a lot of fun and you should definitely check him out if and when he comes to your town. But, ultimately, it’s Johansen settling for schtick—granted, a very enjoyable and playful schtick— but schtick, nonetheless. And that’s regrettable because he’s capable of so much more.

Just as bad is the fact that so little of all this "madcap” burrowing into the past makes it onto Buster Poindexter without sounding hopelessly dated and/or self-conseiously sincere. Even worse, a few numbers come perilously close to the realm of camp. And as we all know, camp is strictly beneath contempt. Add to this overblown vocal arrangements, cluttered horns, and some torturous melodramatics...and you’ve got serious problems.

“Smack Dab In The Middle” and "Whadaya Want” have some semblance of bona fide savoir faire and the Jive Bombers' delirious "Bad Boy” (with one of doo-wop’s all-time bizarre tag-lines) was a superb cover choice even if it does fall somewhat short of the original’s genuine dementia. But this other stuff is like, for the birds, baby. Things like "Screwy Music" and "Cannibal” are novelty goofball items. The slow stuff is truly horrendous: "Are You Lonely For Me Baby” is buried under excess baggage (somebody put that woman out of her misery), Lulu’s powerhouse "Oh Me Oh My (I’m A Fool For You Baby)” gets absolutely slaughtered, and Johansen’s own "Heart Of Gold” (one of two originals here) drops dead after the opening line ("You think I’m a whore but I got a heart of gold") and just lays there waiting to be buried.

The lowest moment comes when you realize he still hasn’t got his Animals fixation out of his system. This ridiculously embalmed rendition of "House Of The Rising Sun” is bad enough to put you off the song for life.

For my money, Buster Poindexter is one personality crisis David Johansen can do without. It’s too damn limiting, and, on the basis of this record, I’d give him a great big yawn.

Craig Zeller

IT'S BEGINING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS...

JESUS & MARY CHAIN Darklands *

(Warner Brothers)

album-sphinx time for these lads, as it certainly is a riddle to everyone in die pop universe why they’ve abandoned the one gimmick that gave their mufij cBstfection. The#b*v got written up everywhere from Fleet Street

* MN$gah*fef|ts4rade*' ■ mirk monster-screech FBiDBAC^x Which cloaked every J&MC ditty pro-

* vocatively in veiled hipness, All that akrotchy feedback made Psychocan-

I dy’s songs seem faster and more ex-

. ping than they really were fas fans whoi»ugfit Jbe group live quickly discovered), but it was good for a season-and-a-haif of trendy adulation njpetheless. t had wry confidence

, that the Jesus & Mery Chain migfjt even become "the (Psychedelic Furs,” with just a little luck.

'. But feat was last year, which, in the chronology of fngKsh pop, was at least a milfenium ago. On the new Darklands, the Jesus & Mary Chain didn’t wm Ifeyrte take fidr feedback clothes off, but chose to anyway, in a quixotic gesture of putting their naked & pimply pop selves on die line once and for all. JFeetfeack fetishist or not, youWgbtfeadmire such a brave.

* and foolish' move oo.somallip or

other, and besides, fee feedback’s not entirely absent from Darklands. Dig that sweet Bttle puff of feedback which closes Me” (dof the'''

Big Brother & Holding Co. song, despite the feedback associations), or fee big sHverot fee stuff that furnishes

a coda to “Fail.”

^» And even without a big wail of feed* . back inflaming them, fee songs on.

'(darklands start to. sound a lot like those on Psyehocandy on repeated fistening, as the Jesus & Mary Chain haven’t abandoned their trademark dmne: droned guitars, droned vocals, and at bottom, passion's a drone, mannnnn.. .Deep down these guys have monotonal souls, which get expressed by eternal drone, feedback or not. Add a little echo to the hopefully deep vocals of the brothers Reid, and you get something that sounds like (not the Velvet Underground; get real) Tom Petty on Romilar (‘ April Skies”) if not also Lee Hazlewood sniffing Nancy Sinatra's boots ("Deep One Perfect Morning”). The Jesus & Mary Chain are the apotheosis of drone.

Naked and unadorned with feedback. the songs on Darklands include some pretty pleasanf pop ditties. They don’t possess much motion or resolution, but they’re helpful mood pieces if you like to glom on gloom. There’s ; even a full lyric sheet this time (talk about putting yer naked & scrawny seif on the line!), which reveals that the Reid boys are still young enough tp find whole apocalypses in the plodthrum affairs of their droning hearts. Darklands also indudeBlmeresdng suite of songs about rain, in which the seminal fluid of tie British isles is celebrated both^Beling life ("Happy When It Rains”) and for its sad expenditure thereof (“Nine Million Rainy Days”), inspirationat verse from the former song; "And we looked so good/And we %ed our lives in blacks ’ Hey, is the Pope Brii^^ .do I miss my guess?!?

Did I mention that J & MC’s "Cherry Came Too” is a limey love tune that CREEM’s own Eleganza wouldn’t lock out of its infallible fashion column? Darklands is fuH of the stuttered sweetboy innocence and depression that enlivens ordinary lives; you fans know who you are. And if you just can't live without the feedback, go py enough to hit plenty of feedback yowls anyhowl|g|

Richard Riegel