ROCK • A • RAMA

ROCK • A • RAMA

This month’s Rock-A-Ramas were written by Michael Davis, Bill Holdship, Richard Riegel, Karen Schoemer, Dave Segal, Jeff Tamarkin, Harold DeMuir, Jon Young and Craig Zeller.

GUADALCANAL DIARY 2X4 (Elektra)

Unless 2X4 precipitates an unexpected commercial breakthrough, this super Georgia quartet gets my vote for most underrated act the second year in a row. Initial inspection reconfirms the Guads’ roots in ’60s guitar bands, an impression supported by groovy Don Dixon’s sparkling production. However, don’t expect soft-headed power pop—as singer Murray Attaway wails his li’l lungs out, the group recalls nothing less than the pre-Tommy Who on brash rockers like “Say Please” and “Let the Big Wheel Roll,” then shift to spooky atmospherics for the dreamy “Little Birds” and “3 AM,” a compassionate look at the ravages of alcoholism. Still not convinced? Try “Lips of Steel,” a sly retread of “Tomorrow Never Knows” bursting with tripped-out energy. Every note of this dandy disc crackles with a fierce confidence that’s downright thrilling. Smells like a classic to me. H.D.

DINOSAUR You’re Living All Over Me (SST)

What we have here is the missing link between Neil Young and the Meat Puppets. Leaping back and forth across the chasm of preand post-punk with a rare agility, these three young Bostonians have created a sound that’s as exhilarating as plunging your head into a beehive. J. Mascis (gtr, vox) sings as if his entire record collection got wasted in a flood. His parched, forlorn vocals ride fuzzed waves of Zuma-ed feedback and the turbulent swells of melody and noise have a genuine poignance unusual in postpunkdom. The unconventionally traditional Dinosaur are a true revelation.D.S.

DEPECHE MODE Music For The Masses (Sire)

D Mode have usually come across as the offspring of Kraftwerk and Bryan Ferry meeting in a bank vault hidden beneath some high-tech bordello-cathedral complex, and this time around is no exception. Oh, their drum simulations sound more forceful than usual, but they’re still applying their considerable melodic and textural talents to their big three: guilt, desire and acquiescence. Musically, they make it with a metronome as well as most of their peers, but there’s something missing. Maybe it’s called spirit.M.D.

VARIOUS ARTISTS A Very Special Christmas (A&M)

Aside from getting neat presents, it’s music that makes the Christmas season so special. This LP—featuring a wide assortment of current rock superstars, and put together by producer Jimmy lovine to benefit the Special Olympics—is a fine addition to the tradition. There are more hits than misses here, though there are a few of the latter, including an incredibly off-key Chrissie Hynde and a song by Sting that might give new meaning to the term “Catholic guilt.” But let’s accentuate the positive. You’ve already heard Springsteen’s “Merry Christmas, Baby,” but J.C. Mellencamp’s “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” is every bit as good. Whitney Houston has finally been given a song that befits her extraordinary vocal talents with “Do You Hear What I Hear?” Interestingly (and perhaps surprisingly), the best moments here belong to the Eurythmics, who turn in a marvelous “Winter Wonderland,” as well as Bono, who almost sounds like he’s actually having fun on U2’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home),” which goes neck-to-neck with Darlene Love’s original. This isn’t the best rock era Christmas record ever, but a few of these tracks are going to be radio standards in December for many years to come. B.H.

THE RADIATORS Law Of The Fish (Epic)

They call what they do “Fish head Music” and they’ve been doin’ it in New Orleans for about a decade now. You can call it the return of Southern rock or Little Feat revisited. Or you can just call it unpretentious, guitar-happy chops-strutting the likes of which haven’t been heard since Lynyrd Skynyrd went down with the ship. The Rads’ recipe ain’t an original one, to be sure— take the spontaneous combustion of the Dead, the down-hominess of the Band, the slide guitar pyrotechnics of lates Lowell George and Duane Allman, and stick it in a gumbo-ized rhythm handed down thru generations of N’awlins pickers—and you’re on your way to getting the Radiators’ heat. As often happens with bands that spend all of their time onstage, Law Of The Fish only hints at what these aces are capable of. But throw ’em on the skillet, and see if they don’t fry; this is packed to the gills with good rockin’. J.T.

DROOGS Kingdom Day (PVC)

Funny how all the old punksters are getting on bigger labels now that their need for expression’s not so urgent. Well, these guys weren’t really punks anyway, but the Droogs were the first self-consciously garage band I ever heard on record, way back in 1973, when the Clash still thought a garage was a place to park a Jaguar (should they be so lucky). Droogs finally made their first LP, Stone Cold World, on their own Plug-nSocket label, in 1984, and this is only their second. These Droogies worshipped the immortal Sonics when I was a tad, but such applied Louie-Louieisms show up only in tunes like “Call Off Your Dogs” by now. Most of the cuts on Kingdom Day are churningly intense in a grim, sober way that hints how much the Droogs must’ve resented all the assholes who got contracts while these originators were still slogging out “He’s Waitin’ ” on the clubland circuit. Droogs’re deepfried now. R.R.

THE ROYAL COURT OF CHINA (A&M)

Too bad about the stupid, off-putting name, ’cause the Royal Court Of China provides a heap of good listening on their debut LP. This Nashville-based foursome hark back to classic country and folk-rock styles, except there’s rough edges all over the place, giving lurching tunes like “Trapped in Waikiki” and “Tell Me Lies” a gritty vitality. And that Joe Blanton is one hot ’n’ bothered dude, howling from the depths of his soul on “It’s All Changed,” not to mention lapsing into a guttural frenzy for the sublimely overwrought “Man in Black.” In short, the guys have got themselves one swell little band. So get a new moniker, already. J.Y.

RICHARD LLOYD Real Time

(Moving Target/Celluloid)

Nearly a decade after the demise of Television, Richard Lloyd has released his third solo album, recorded live at CBGB’s and featuring, as the lead-off track, a staple of Television’s CBGB’s shows: Roky Erickson’s “Fire Engine.” Unlike TV compatriot Tom Verlaine, Lloyd’s approach has become progressively uncontemporary, and when he strips his songs down to the bare necessities of riff, bass and backbeat (as he does throughout Real Time), his persona emerges fragile, understated, almost apologetic. Until his guitar takes the lead, that is: Lloyd’s guitar has a language all its own, and once he lets loose, it’s like listening to a foreigner rant and rail about injustice, innocence, evil and good in words so frantic and emphatic you almost understand them despite their strangeness. Real Time is being billed as a “past-presentfuture retrospective”—-that is, you only get three new tracks; the rest are reworkings of tunes from his previous Alchemy and Field Of Fire LPs. Get the CD for Lloyd’s acoustic reading of “Black To White,” Field Of Fire’s best track and perhaps Lloyd’s best ever. K.S.

THE BEATLES Abbey Road (Capitol compact disc)

Well, gee, I guess there’s no excuse for not owning a CD player now. B.H.

DON DIXON Romeo at Juilliard (Enigma)

Ace producer of R.E.M., Guadalcanal Diary and other neat folks, Dixon showed off his chops as a performer some months ago on the awkwardly titled Most Of The Girls Like To Dance But Only Some Of The Boys Like To. It was a treat to hear this canny pro turn out keen, impertinent pop, Nick Lowe-style; but now it’s a surprise to discover he’s a hopeless Elvis Costello fanatic. Raspy voice and all, Dixon does his darndest to recreate the poisoned mood of This Year’s Model, where sexual tension constantly seemed to verge on violence. Ace that he is, Don pulls it off: “Heart In A Box,” for example, practically chokes on its own bitterness, while “February Ingenue” presents a creepy tale of middle-aged man/teen girl romance. But as noxibusly effective as these tracks are, I’d still rather hear Dixon speak with his own voice, not parrot a neurotic Limey. That’s why secondary cuts like a jivey version of “Cool” (from West Side Story) and the hearty soul stomper “Cat Out Of The Bag” ultimately provide more satisfaction. A curious case. J.Y.

DONNA SUMMER All Systems Go (Geffen)

So, go. M.D.

FRANKIE VALLI AND THE FOUR SEASONS 25th Anniversary Collection (Rhino)

No doubt about it: this super deluxe fourrecord boxed set is the everlovin’ past blast anthology of the year. The Seasons were one of the major—you hear me? MAJOR— groups of the ’60s and certainly one of the most overlooked in these troubled times. Now, at long last, every one of the classic AM hits (including a well-selected sampling of Frankie Valli’s solo career) have been collected under one roof. The final side falls a bit short only because it’s 70s stuff (sorry, grease just ain’t the word), but what comes before that is out of this world. These masters of heartbreak martyrdom, excrutiating self-sacrifice, agonizing break-ups and hopeless obsessions always had two secret weapons on hand—ultra-hot percussion (I mean, great drumming) and an unerring sense of vocal dynamics (“Let’s Hang On,” “Dawn (Go Away)” and “Walk Like A Man”—and about two dozen others—are masterpieces of tension-release euphoria). As for Frankie’s falsetto. . .well, I’ll let Nik Cohn have the last brilliant word: “It would scream out of your hi-fi like some insane airraid siren, and it deafened you, destroyed you, turned you blind. So you’d stumble and shake in the sheer wildness of it. You’d be tripped out on sound alone.” C.Z.

ORAL

Happy Nightmare Baby (SST)

Opal are not of this earth. Their music soars into the firmament, every sonic nuance resonating 1967 like a brilliant pink neon sign. How these Californians can conjure the spirit and ambience of Syd Barrett and Marc Bolan will baffle historians for centuries. But here it is, and you’d best clamp your ears to it. The cosmic baby of Kendra Smith (ex-Dream Syndicate) and David Roback (ex-Rain Parade), this LP surpasses anything done by those two groups. Suffused with the glazed, lotus-eating aura from the Summer you Love to Haight, this is the type of humorless, long-songed psychedelic LP that should rustle the nose hairs of those who hold no truck with pre-punk sensibilities. But I urge you to shelve your prejudices and float in the etherized loveliness of Kendra Smith’s voice and David Roback’s astral guitar. A better trip I could not imagine. D.S.

THE FLAMING LIRS Oh My Gawd, The Flaming Lips (Restless)

Your kid brother sits down with his new chemistry set, deciding he’s going to conjure up Led Zep, so he mixes overdoses of Poison, the Butthole Surfers, Eugene Chadbourne—and winds up with the Flaming Lips instead. Oh My Gawd’s 11 tracks crash, clang and splatter in spurts of psychosonic vandalism, although there are also disturbingly calm pastoral interludes which inevitably erupt into an even more demonic, cartoonish screech. Only the heckling maniacs who gave us “Jesus Shooting Heroin” and “Charles Manson Blues” on their last LP would dare wrangle with a torpid tune called “One Million Billionth Of A Millisecond On A Sunday Morning,” manage to slaughter the thing—and still end up on top. K.S.