RECORDS

RECORDS

SOMETHING ELSE

GEORGE HARRISON Cloud Nine (Dark Horse/Warner Bros.)

In many ways, George Harrison’s kinda had it unfair. Just as Let It Be has probably always been underrated mainly because it was a Beatles LP, Harrison’s songwriting’s always been a little underrated mainly because he played in a band that included two of the greatest pop geniuses in the history of Western civilization. But Harrison could be damn good. “Cry For A Shadow,” “Don’t Bother Me,” “I Need You,” “Think For Yourself,” “Savoy Truffle.” His ended up being two of the best songs on Let It Be. I mean, the man never really produced anything to be embarrassed about. All Things Must Pass was an excellent album; how many three-record sets can you say that about? There were scattered brilliant moments afterwards—“You” from the Extra Texture LP sounds like punk (depends on your definition) pop as Phil Spector might’ve done it, and remains a killer to this day. And when I saw Harrison perform in 1974, he put on a far better show than the one I would later see Wings do.

At any rate, burn out and just dealing with the pressures of being formerly fab led to two final LPs that didn’t do much to bolster Harrison’s (at the time) sagging reputation. So he did what several other smart rock ’n’ rollers have done over the years, retiring from the rat race. Cloud Nine is Harrison’s first release in years and the time away has evidently been good for the man and the artist, not to mention his backlog of material.

With Jeff Lynne (who’s finally sorta done what he’s wanted to do ever since Eldorado) at the boards—not to mention a stellar cast, including Ringo and Elton John, in the band—the first thing you might notice about Cloud Nine is how good the sound is. The title track and/‘That’s What It Takes”. kick the album off on a pleasant pop note; both are immediately likeable. But it’s “Fish On The Sand” that really clues you in to the fact that Harrison still has it. He’s always been someone who knows a good riff when he hears it, and “Fish On The Sand” features a great melodic riff.. .well, a couple of them, actually. This should be the record’s next single—along with the current hit, “Got My Mind Set On You,” it’s the kind of song I sure wouldn’t mind hearing on the radio. Especially in the summertime.

“When We Was Fab,” a wry look back at those swingin’ moptop days, quotes Lennon, Dylan and Harrison’s own “Within You, Without You” and—while it may not be as memorable as its Lennon or Zimmy reference points—it’s a vast improvement over George’s songwriting contribution to Sgt. Pepper. And “Devil’s Radio” (interpret it as you will) just might steal the disc, especially with its choral “gossip, gossip” refrain, complete with Jerry Lee-like pounding piano licks.

The major problems on Cloud Nine come in the form of ballads. Harrison has always been far better with his rockers (though “Something” fans may care to argue that point)—and he reaches what might be a pinnacle of mediocrity here with “Breath Away From Heaven.” Still, he reflects his Eastern roots in it, and even the “bad” songs on Cloud Nine reflect a certain psychedelic spaciness, not to mention a sense of George s muchvaunted spirituality—that is, good vibes. Kinda refreshing. (What the hell? I liked hippies.)

Cloud Nine ends on a great note with “Got My Mind Set On You,” an obscure little chestnut that I won’t pretend to have ever heard before Harrison recorded this version and turned it into a current radio staple. People might complain that he didn’t write one of the best tunes on the record—but neither did a lot of great artists. As George’s old mate in that band we used to love back when we was all fab once said: “A good song’s a good song.”

And a good album’s a good album, and Cloud Nine is plenty good. It’s by no means a GREAT record in the classic sense of stuff we used to expect, but it’s the best record from a former Beatle in at least seven years.

Bill Holdship

STING . . . Nothing Like The Sun (A&M)

Straddling a fine line between LP and EP, this almost-but-not-quite twofer boasts 12 tunes thinly spread out over four sides of plastic. That’s three songs per side, kihz—and seeing as how each side contains somewhere between 11 and 16 minutes worth of music per go-round, you don’t need no calculator to figure out how much blast you’re getting for your buck.

As any consumer advocate worth his Fight Back\ T-shirt will attest, however, quantity isn’t everything, as long as the quality end of the deal can hold its own—and, make no mistake, ... Nothing Like The Sun simply reeks with enough bogus class and sophisto to make even the most refined culture vulture’s juicer hard.

Basically, it s a yuppie s wet dream: designer music just made for sipping orange juice and champagne on a Sunday morning while perusing the real estate section of The New York Times. On the ersatz-jazz scale, this double meisterwack ranks slightly above Sade, which means it offers less of a vicarious escape for those inclined to daydream.

In other words, this ain’t bully; it’s not even wooly; rather, it’s 100 percent dyed-in-the-acrylic filler for a new generation of soporifics. You can lay the blame at old Gordo’s tired feet—a former teacher who still can’t refrain from carrying the classroom burden on his shoulders, a chalkboard cross he continues to haul from album to album.

Which wouldn’t be all that galling if the guy had the wherewithal (or guts) to just simply be his own man instead of emulating others like, say, Terence Stamp (ref: Brimstone And Treacle, treacle being another word for molasses—which is itself another word for this pair of discs).

Clone fans, however, will rejoice in the knowledge that Gordo is up to his tricks again, this time pretending he’s not only Peggy Lee (witness “Rock Steady,” Gordo’s “Siamese Cat Song” paean to Sonny Burke) but Julie London as well (“Sister Moon”).

Still, there’s no doubting that Gordo’s got a few smarts up his sleeve. Just as he sung a few lines of “Every Breath You Take” at the end of Blue Turtle’s “Love Is The Seventh Wave,” he quotes from “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free” at the end of “We’ll Be Together.” Also, the Dave Roth/Mojo Nixon, howl he unleashes at the beginning of the latter, while not exactly being in the Wango Tango category, is at least a lightened-up step in the right direction.

Unfortunately, such cool moves are few and far between. His cover of Hendrix’s “Little Wing” is limperthan Clapton’s version—and Clapton’s wasn’t exactly a barn-burner to begin with. Meanwhile, a quicksand bog ballad like “Secret Marriage” is bound to be a perennial standard in EuroGothic piano bars for years to come.

Then again, what do you expect from a pranny who gushes in his liner notes that famed jazzbo Gil Evans actually knew who he was? A simpering plea on the back cover from this pseudo-intellectual that goes “can’t I do anything original?”

You got it.

Jeffrey (I’m Back) Morgan

NUMBER OF THE BEAST

VARIOUS ARTISTS Less Than Zero (Def Jam)

I readily admit that I have not seen die film Less Than Zero, based on the novel of the same name that I haven’t read, either. However, I am very familiar with the Elvis Costello song “Less Than Zero,” which the book’s title was more than likely stolen from. And, since that song is not on this record (there is a song called “You & Me [Less Than Zero]” here, but it has about as much in common with the Elvis Costello song as Elvis Costello has in common with Zero Mostel), I feel sufficiently qualified to review the soundtrack album. Besides, everybody knows that these days most of the songs they use for soundtracks have nothing whatsoever to do with what's happening onscreen, and from what I've read about Less Than Zero—the book and the film (you’ve missed the work, now read the reviews!)—I don’t want to know. Bored rich kids am as messed upas anybody else? WOW! NEWS TO ME!

I mean—to switch mediums for a moment—what does the theme from $&y, Moonlighting have to do with the spirit of the show? If I was up to Bruce Willis, the theme would probably be a Motown version of “Expressway To Your Heart,” and if it was up to Cybiii Shepherd it’d probably be some piece of elevator fluff— you get the feeling that she’s the kind of gal who just hums whatever’s on the radio. Now, I like At Jarreau as much as the next guy (that’s if the next guy is Joey Ramone), but honestly, can you just see the Moonlighting theme showing up on the 2005 version of Television’s Greatest Hits and waxing nostalgic about it? I don’t think so.

And speaking of nostalgia, that does seem to be part of the name of the game (now there’s a theme and a show I am nostalgic about. Ever see the / Love You, Billy Baker episode with Sammy Davis, Jr. in a Beatle wig? Ever see the Mod Squad episode with Sammy-Davis, Jr. as the reformed junkie priest? And how about Sammy’s Baretta themd, fer Chrissakes?) insofar as the Less Than Zero LP is concerned, as there are a number of bona fide “oldies” dressed up here for reasons that escape me, but will perhaps make sense if you see the movie—and if that’s so please drop me a line and tell me how, but don’t wait too tong because the film’ll probably be on cable by then which is most likely the only way i’ll ever see it. "

Why this album juxtaposes raps by LL Cool J (“Going Back To Cali”) and Public Enemy (“Bring The Noise”) with Aerosmith’s buzzsawing of Huey “Piano” Smith’s “Rocking Pneumonia And The Boogie Woogie Flu” (wait’d you hear Steve Tyler’s fordogs-only screams near the end) and Poison’s version of Kiss' "Rock And Roll All Nite” is beyond me. What isn't beyond me are the two sole reasons anybody might buy this albumnamely, neato remakes of two late ’60s hits: Simon & Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade Of Winter” and Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” The former, done up by those dartin' Bangles gals, sounds better than the original (not sayin’ much, true), what with Our Miss Hoffs’s melt-butter vocal cords cuttin’ through the “Look around/ Leaves are brown” chorus near the end (boy, that Simon fella sure was profound back in the old days), As for the latter, well, Slayer’s no-frills approach to a song that helped mam of us separate wheat from chaff in those halcyon hippoid days (anyone who liked it was on tie Wrong side; a few years later it was Jesus Christ Superstar that did the trick) is grungily fabulous. Playing "In-A-Gadda-DaVida” without a keyboard and minus the drum solo is sheer genius if you ask me And when they say, “don’t you know that I WANTS you,” well, if that don’t beat all, I don’t know what does.

Billy Altman

AZTEC CAMERA Love (Sire)

Love. Love?

Yes, mes amis, Love. The word gets abused, distorted, twisted hither and yon all the time, yet never goes out of style, never becomes mundane. However you define love, it’s a powerful force, and an endlessly fascinating concept.

Paul Anka sings about love. So does Bon Jovi. So does-Bob Dylan, and just 'about everybody else. Big deal. Now young Roddy Frame, who is Aztec Camera in effect, had made a whole LP devoted exclusively to the subject. Despite the familiar contents, the 40 minutes required to explore its lush, elegant 'textures are well spent, I assure you.

Love refreshes, like a cool drink on a hot day, because Roddy doesn’t settle for the obvious. His songs aren’t just the usual “boy meets girl” or “you left me and now I hate you” drivel. The shrewd lad has taken a more inventive approach, showing how the ideal of love influences, or should influence, our lives. Rather than a wide-eyed ode to cuddly feelings, Love laments the way we fumble chances for happiness and celebrates those few times we rise above our pathetic everyday lives.

If this all sounds a bit dizzy, it is. And Roddy’s just the person to conduct the discourse. He’s got one of those soft, mopey voices England’s been turning out in droves throughout the ’80s, minus the annoying narcissism. In the acoustically-inclined pop context of previous Aztec Camera works, Roddy made pleasant murmurs. Here, set against superslick U.S. session players (Steve Gadd, Marcus Miler, et al.), he’s a lot more compelling. Maybe it’s the way his callowness clashes with the cooler adults in the background.

Most of these highly polished melodies could have come from Steely Dan or the Doobie Brothers, but the obsessive singing and perceptive lyrics occupy centerstage. The loping lead-off track, “Deep & Wide & Tall,” rejoices in the comfort of that special someone, only to lose the glow with “How Men Are,” a somber tale of unthinking macho cruelty. Roddy seems to be bucking for an entry in Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations as he sighs, “Love is the power to have/ Without the premise that there’s nothing for free.” He tries again on “Everybody Is Number One” with the observation “Love is a burning ring/At the bottom of our being.” The boy’s a poet and I’ll bet he knows it.

Love actually touches many bases, since the topic can, after all, be applied to just about any issue. “Somewhere In My Heart,” a rare rocker, looks at the chances for survival in a callous world; “Working In A Goldmine” shows how easy it is to lose the way. While the gloomy strokes are a bit more vivid than the positive ones, Roddy’s not a whiner, just a realist. Careful tabulation reveals a pretty good balance between optimism and pessimism—and he does advocate happy endings throughout, which is reassuring.

Longtime devotees may sniff at the disappearance of Aztec Camera as a band, or pause at the fact that six different folks get production credits. Not being a purist myself, I don’t care. If this be product, it’s mighty persuasive. Love vividly depicts Roddy Frame walking around with his head in the clouds and makes the prospect of doing likewise seem very appealing indeed.

Jon Young

BILLY JOEL Kohuept (Columbia)

Most rock/pop “live” albums have a contradictory agenda. On the one hand, unless the band and/or singer has a justified rep as a killer in-person act not quite captured in the studio (e.g., the Who, E Street Band), the concert album usually offers a somewhat sloppy, occasionally self-indulgent ensemble or singer minus the compensating thrill of seeing the creatures in the flesh; i.e., the kind of record only a real fan would want. On the other hand, “live” albums tend to be made up of greatest hits and near misses, geared toward a wider audience than usual. So the hardcore fans, following their completist impulses, get so-so versions of songs they already have, while the more casual consumers get unsatisfactory versions of songs that sounded so cool on MTV or the car radio. And nobody’s happy. The new Billy Joel (double) album, unusual extra-musical circumstances notwithstanding, is in this way typical.

It is, then, what you call product—a document from Joel’s recent U.S.S.R. tour which will help defray some of that tour’s expenses. Less cynically, it’s a record of a “historic” event. As a casual consumer of Joel (I think all his hit singles have been pure pop treats and when the videos come on I usually stick around until the end— without feeling quite moved enough to spring for a whole new album) I find this historic artifact to be on the boring side. The band is bombastic (when you can hear it over the drums) in a way that can be fun “live” but tedious on record—such showmanship was not intended to be merely heard (the “Liberace Principle”). As for Joel’s singing, I never noticed before just how much he sounds like Elton John—at times (“Stiletto,” “Big Shot”) it’s downright spooky. On one cut, “The Times They Are A Changin’,” his voice suddenly becomes Dylan-husky; on another, “Baby Grand,” he does the whole thing as Ray Charles (actually, it sounds more like Joe Cocker), an impersonation that is, at best, in dubious taste. A regular chameleon, this guy.

Anyway, the Russian audience loved it, they stomped and cheered and whistled (the infamous Joel temper tantrum, where the crew filming the concerts for an HBO special irked him by shining their lights into the audience’s faces, can be heard at the end of side three—backwards). One wonders what these cheerful citizens of the evil empire made of the song’s "messages.” Much of Joel’s material—both the mocking, edgy stuff and the more romantic ballads—doubtlessly has universal appeal. “Goodnight Saigon” may at first seem problematic for the Russians—just substitute Afghanistan for Vietnam—but in his understandable desire to be sympathetic to vets, Joel compromises his effective verses with a chorus that sounds like “We Are The Champions” for cannon fodder. Is it possible to write an anti-war song that isn’t tainted by sentimentality? One suspects that pointless dying is here given a heroic ring to prevent the song from being too depressing. The real subversive moment on the album comes, surprisingly enough, with “Allentown”—in his intro Joel says the song is about people who have lingered too long in a bad place because they’ve been promised that things will get better and then suggests that it’s a situation the audience may find “familiar.” Smart. Less smart, though, is his intro to the album’s closer, Dylan’s “Times,” where he muses that there’s a parallel between what’s happening in Russia and America in the ’60s—a gross simplification for both ’60s America and ’80s Russia. This tendency we Americans have of projecting our own experiences onto foreign cultures.. .oh what the hell, it’s only product, no point in thinking about it too much.

Richard C. Walls

BRYAN FERRY Bete Noire (Reprise)

Bryan Ferry was easier for a common clod like me to take back in the 1970s, when his precocious elegance and studied world-weariness were contained by the twin musical formats they inhabited. Roxy Music was fleshed out by fellow egotists like Brian Eno and Phil Manzanera, who didn’t hesitate to tread on Ferry’s patent-leather pumps if it meant asserting their own instruments. And Bryan Ferry’s solo albums of that time were nicely checkered with those bizarre cover versions of unlikely rock standards. In either context, Bryan Ferry’s innate egomania was kept greased back in a smooth pompadour by the multitude of disparate personalities who lent their styling combs to each album.

However, like all other good ideas and creative personalities, Bryan Ferry one day turned 40, and like certain other males of that age group, he must’ve become obsessed with the idea that the all-or-nothing apocalypse was finally at hand. At least that’s how I hear Bete Noire, as another slice of determinedly solo Ferry, cold on the heels of 1985’s solo Boys And Girls, and eons removed from the “last” Roxy Music album, 1982’s justlycelebrated Avalon. Never mind that Bete Noire borrows the instrumental skills of some of the Avalon Roxies, like Andy Newmark and Jimmy Maelen; the new album’s music, which includes no cover versions, is definitely not from a self-contained band, but from the popular personality + orchestra format. It’s hypercompetent late-’80s international funk pop, the same stuff anybody from Elton John to Whitney Houston would gladly pay good $$$$ to hire.

In fact, I had to break a long-standing personal rule just to keep my copy of Bete Noire around the house, as I noted in the lengthy credits that it includes the services of percussionist Paulinho da Costa. Over many, many years of professional reviewing, I’ve found the presence of Mr. da Costa on a record to be an infallible signal to hit the reject button; not only is da Costa the yes-musician par excellence, but like a fly to carrion, he always seems to be drawn to the most vacuous product available. Blimey, Bryan, if you needed percussion so badly, you could’ve hit your cuff links together, but then I forget (I always forget) that on certain levels you want your music to sound slick and superficial.

So Bete Noire, with a-bargain-attwice-da-Costa and all those other studio humanoids aboard, has remained on my turntable all week. I must admit that the melodies sound prettier each time through, and even if their hypnotic nature has sent me dozing a few times, the click of the turntable shutting off has inspired me to hop up and flip Bete Noire over for another assault on that same old scene. After all, Bryan Ferry has promised me, almost since my own premonogamous days, that the next romantic conquest might be the ultimate one, so I’ve got to plunge into this seductive disc one more time!

But what does Bete Noire reveal of the life of Bryan? Well, there are hints throughout the new album that Ferry may finally be approaching the end of the night of all his journeys through the singles bars (or whatever they’re called in his set) of the Western world. Religious imagery rears its righteous head in “Limbo,” which is not just a trendy dance by a halfway house just outside Hell, and in “Seven Deadly Sins”: “When you long for/What you don’t have/lt’s why you live and die.” But don’t expect Bryan Ferry to don the hair shirt just yet, not unless it’s properly tailored, of course. In the meantime, one more foray to sniff out ‘‘The Right Stuff” won’t hurt a bit, ‘‘Kiss & Tell” is “The Name Of The Game,” after all...

Still, the title song of Bete Noire suggests that Bryan Ferry may be ready to grapple with his own black beast one day soon: “I know you— inside me like poison...” Back in honking-sax, Roxy-Music 1972, Ferry seemed paranoid that somebody would rip off his tuxedo, expose the coal dust ingrained in his flesh, and crow, “So you’re nothing but a coal miner’s son after all!” But like his predecessor, D.H. Lawrence, the longer Bryan Ferry lives, the more he may realize that he wants no more than to be his miner father’s son, for good and for all. That’s the bete noire within Bryan Ferry; it’s made of bituminous coal. The extraction may take some time, so I guess it's a good thing that Bryan Ferry’s bete noire learned at an early age how to tie a bow tie and which fork to use. Good manners can carry a humble lad far.

Richard Riegel

SCREAMING BLUE MESSIAHS Bikini Red (Elektra)

Go’head and complain about Pavlov Radio ’til the cows come home, but at least AOR’s horrible enough to still be good for a laugh now and then. More than you can say for the new college-rock middle-of-the-road, too damn “tasteful” to be worth a Schick, and scared of its own shadow besides. The Paul Westerberg Band, one occasionally inspired singer-songwriter and three nonentities who couldn’t rock out if their beer depended on it, got where they are by borrowing old Defranco Family schlock, and now they can’t understand why “Livin’ On A Prayer” earns precious metal and “I.O.U.” doesn’t. (Couldn’t by any chance be ’cuz it’s hookier and more original, could it?) And at sub-iceberg-tip-level we got B. Poindexter and A. Chilton greasing back their minstrel-kitsch all set to be the supper-club Sha Na Nas of the Albert Gore (or Bill Lee if we’re lucky) presidency. And there’s more.

We got a million mannerist tin-can soldiers (from Mojo Nixon to Chris Stamey to Tom Waits to Age Of Chance to Pussy Galore) all too stuck on their own personae to be crass and too froze-up-inside to manage any real unstifled initiative, so instead they just look for round holes to plug their square pegs in, as if ersatz-scary or ersatz-quirky or ersatz-jokey irony was somehow its own justification. Fools to the left of us, creeps to the right, and eventually they’ve conned us out of our hard-earned so many times that we decide to settle back with whatever oldies we started out with, call it a career, become lacrosse fans instead.

Of course, rock-is-dead’s been the world’s biggest cliche ever since the Velvets broke up (what a crock—after those artsies wimped out with their third album, we needed Led Zeppelin), and I’m not lazy enough to buy the it’s-all-over lie (find a copy of Feedtime’s LP—it’ll save your life). But rock-crit crying-of-wolf helps my hitlist grow longer every day, and today I’m out to get Screaming Blue Messiahs. I had hope for these Brits once, I really did; two-thirds of ’em used to be one-half of Motor Boys Motor, who tied postpub punk ’n’ blues in some snottily frantic knots back in ’82, so they’ve got a cool pedigree. And though the Messiah's’ debut last year didn’t smoke like some claimed, I dug its displacement-anxiety politix and back-to-the-woods/every-dog-forhimself survivalist ethics, and figured there’s more (though not much more) unconquered terrain left for Beefheart (or Give ’Em Enough Rope'?) disciples than Velvet Underground disciples. So more power to ’em.

Bikini Red, the Messiahs’ new one, has tough-guy talk and rock-historic smarts (references to “My Generation,” Bo Diddley’s “I’m A Man,” Link Wray’s “Rumble”). But the rockabilly and waltz and ska attempts are as superfluous as you better expect they’d be, and the humor (in “I Can Speak’American,” “Jesus Chrysler Drives A Dodge” and “I Wanna Be A Flintstone,” the latter a blatant rehash of Motor Boys Motor’s “Here Come The Flintstones”) is as forced and obvious as everybody else’s in 1987. Producer Vic Maile transforms Kenny Harris, who cracked rough-andtumble-like on the debut, into a drum machine. And he mixes the metronomic timekeeping all the way forward, so the snarls and powerchords of baldie Bill Carter come off as mere incidental gestures. Whatever small urgency the Messiahs once displayed is thus hopelessly obscured.

Can’t say I’m disappointed, because I really wasn’t anticipating that much; this sort of stuff’s become pretty easy to predict. Bikini Red is by no means offensively dumb, so if you listen long enough you’ll be able to brainwash and flatter yourself into believing you like it, and thereby assert your smug superiority, seeing how you were discerning enough to have bought this record instead of one by Cutting Crew or Judas Priest. In other words, this music serves the purpose college-rock is supposed to serve. What an accomplishment.

Chuck Eddy

INXS Kick (Atlantic)

A kick’s usually a simple, spontaneous movement, nothing you’d give a whole lot of thought to, either beforehand or afterwards. Though Kick (the album) is probably as wellplanned as its predecessor—like Listen Like Thieves, it’s produced by Chris Thomas—it has a more casual flair to it. It also rocks out a little more.

Arrangementwise, this means more guitars. Louder guitars. Rowdy guitars that stop just short of metal intensity in places, guitars that dominate the landscape, often leaving the synth just a keyhole to play through. Lotsa drums, of course—betcha knew that. Horns show up most prominently on “Kick” itself, bowing down in the direction of Memphis soul. The bottom on several tunes comes closer to contemporary funk than all-out rock ’n’ roll, but fortunately, the band has left the stiffness that weakened The Swing far behind.

Wordwise, this LP is not massively deep, but not every pop record’s gotta pretend it’s a newspaper. Between the anti-war “Guns In The Sky” and the sharp character questionings of “Tiny Daggers,” we’re handed “Misty streets of blue/Almond looks” vagueness or “Raised on leather with flesh on her mind” directness. The main exception is the hilariously terrible (hilerrible?) “Mediate,” which resembles the Moody Blues trying to rap. Thankfully, it’s short.

From a rock ’n’ roll standpoint, of course, the specific words coming out of Michael Hutchence’s mouth don’t matter as much as his manner. Over the years, he’s developed an effective vocal swagger which seems to say, “There’s more to me than meets a lyric sheet.” The critics may shrug or grumble but the little girls do understand.

Michael Davis

FINGER TIPS

STEVIE WONDER Characters (Motown)

I This is almost as satisfying a return to form as Sugar Ray Leonard’s victory over Marvelous Marvin Hagler and practically as much of an upset. After alf, Stevie’s really been on the skids since 1976’s Songs In The Key Of Life, and even that wasn’t up to the mind-altering troika-pius-one of Music Of My Mind, Talking Book, Innervistons and Fullillingness’ First Finale. Now that was a streak of creativity combined with commercial success the likes of Prince and Michael Jackson still aspire to.

So if is no small praise indeed to say that Characters, Stevland Morris’s first effort since 1985's In Sguare Circle, favorably evokes those halcyon days of "Superstition," “You Are The Sunshine Of My life” and "Living For The City.” In fact, the new LP opener, “You will Know” is a spitting image of the latter, complete with its landscape of those ‘‘using pharmaceutical extractions to find the paradise’ ’ and “single parents) trying to raise their children.” It’s not surprising to discover that a number of the tracks on Characters— my guess is “With Each Seat Of My Heart” and “Cryin' Through The Night,” with the last-; named sounding much tike “Sunshine Of My Life”—have been plucked from Stevie’s supposed storehouse of halfformed song ideas and demos. Whatever the case, they are timeless Stevie Wonder ballads that resonate emotionally with our memories of other, warmly familiar numbers from the past

Characters is the first Stevie Wonder album in recent memory which arrived without both fanfare and frustration on the part of Motown over delays by its perfectionist genius. The two yearn between In Square Circle and the new LP are downright miniscule compared to the five-year wait which separated the former from its predecessor, 1980’s Hotter Than July. The lowered expectations result ina more ready acceptance of Characters’ relaxed nature, while the album’s concept of shifting masks and personal identities is a far more effective frame than In Square Circle's abstract equations. In fact, the lilting township shuffle of “Dark ’n Lovely” and the playful funk of the first single, “Skeletons,”can’t hide tile fact Stevie’s laying some heavy statements on us about apartheid and government interference with personal liberties, respectively. This is a welcome return to the old Wonder turf of hope and despair existing side by side against a decaying but colorful urban backdrop.

As prolific as Stevie Wonder is, it’s a crime the guy doesn’t release at least a record a year. Recently, Stevie announced that Characters would be the first of a proposed trilogy of records dealing with man’s self-image and conflicting roles which would Me him into the next decade. Lite Sugar Ray, Stevie Wonder has come back to prove he’s still capable of delivering a knockout punch. He might not dazzle technically like he used to, for now, Stevie Wonder prefers effortlessly employing the tools of his trade to create something more important than mere electronic wizardry. On “With Each Beat Of My Heart,? he incorporates his own heartbeat by miking it and using it in the nix of the song, and that’s getting closer to the point of Characters. Whether he’s jiving with Michael Jackson on the duet “Get It” or wrestling with the ghost of Prince on a one-man effort like “Galaxy Paradise,’ Stevie Wonder’s still the class of the (heavy) weight division. The man has returned to reclaim his crossover throne. And not a moment too soon...

Roy Trakin