RECORDS

RECORDS

DEPARTMENTS

HERE COMES TOMORROW

MEAT PUPPETS “Huevos” (SST)

DIVINE HORSEMEN Snake Handler (SST)

If there’s any doubt that the balance has shifted in the bi-coastal rock community—in terms of talent, excitement, commitment, energy, etc.— from East to West, one need only observe feisty Lawndale, CA indie label SST, founded by Greg Ginn and Chuck Dukowski a decade ago as home for their own seminal punk band Black Flag. Through the years, the company has served as home for any number of radical, independentlyminded rock groups, including Husker Du, the Minutemen, Firehose, Sonic Youth and countless other off-shoots and oddities, including the pair under consideration right here.

That’s not to say the SST stamp is a blanket seal of approval, but they are out there on the cutting edge, and haven’t seen fit to take any filthy corporate lucre, either, even tho’ you’ve gotta figger they’ve had the chance by now to go the Enigma/Slash/I.R.S./Twintone route of latching on to the multi-national mammary. Some people prefer to remain unencumbered so they don’t have to make the sort of compromises required by, unh, how can we put this... selling out?

Which brings us to Meat Puppets and Divine Horsemen, both of whom have been on SST practically their whole career, and each of whom has released three whole LPs within the last two years, a prodigious output by any standards. Why haven’t the cactus roots Phoenix trio nor the former rock scribe-and-the-Mrs.’ slinky country-blues unit graduated to the majors? Perhaps they’re happy right where they are.

Certainly Meat Puppets’ mentor and Guitar Player muso Curt Kirkwood has taken advantage of the incubation period from major label restrictions. Evolving from thrash-rockers to “Uncle John’s Band’’-era Dead over the course of a trilogy of desert-dry, psychedelicized masterpieces in Up On The Sun, Out My Way and Mirage, the Puppets have veered off once again. “Huevos" is a kind of quirky, chugging mini-ZZ Top blues shuffle, shrunken further by a grungy, no-frills production. It could be the MPs have gotten just a tad too precious here, though there are crystalline moments of Kirkwood’s gurgling Gibson laced through the meticulously off-hand arrangements. Considering the album was recorded in a scant six days, ’s no wonder it comes off like it does. Unfortunately, this Meat could be undercooked; the Puppets would profit right now from a big league production, or even an inspired amateur job, like the garage-perfect digital playpen Jim Dickinson gave the Mats. Warners, are you listening?

On the other hand, Divine Horsemen, led by onetime Slash writer Chris D., his lovely wife Julie Christienson and a more-than-servicable back-up including guitar star (and frequent co-writer) Peter Andrus, are getting better and better. Like his Puppet labelmates, Chris D. has gone from the hardcore rant of his first band, the Flesh Eaters, to the oozing, bottleneck blooze of his latest incarnation over the course of four years and as many LPs. The call-and-response harmonies ’tween Chris and Julie owe at least a passing nod to X, especially on the title cut from the current Snake Handler, but the talented poet/screenwriter/actor/bandleader is more than adept at describing evocative, noirish pockets of hipdom, as he does on ‘‘What Is Red,” a who’s-who of Beat characters like Chester Himes, Donald Goines, Jim Thompson, Ambrose Bierce, Juan Luis Borges and Julio Cortazar. Of course, Chris D. himself is not in that company, but those underground, counter-cultural conceits make him right at home at ’90s-going-on-’50s SST, which seems to be doing its bit toward linking rebels over the last half-century, from cowboys to greasers to beatniks to hippies to punks to postmoderns to what? By updating past traditions with a personal stamp, Meat Puppets and Divine Horsemen affirm an ongoing link between the Old and New West. If they take the next logical step and hook up with a major distributor to disseminate those principles on a national scale, will they dilute their message past the point of recognition, like, say, Lone Justice? That, of course, is the $64,000 question, which, given inflation, is probably up to a few million by now.. Meat Puppets and Divine Horsemen are ready for prime time. But is prime time ready for them?

Roy Trakin

I EURYTHMICS Savage (RCA)

Since 1980, when they left the Tourists to become a duo, Dave Stewart and Annie Lennox— a.k.a. the Eurythmics—have displayed an intriguing case of split personality. After a tentative debut album, In The Garden (never released in the U.S.), the Eurythmics made a big noise on the American charts with the definitive electronic pop of their ’83 smashes, “Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)” and “Here Comes The Rain Again.” But the hornbuttressed Eurythmics who toured behind the hits bore a closer resemblance to the Ike & Tina Turner Revue than to Yazoo. The duo’s ensuing work, the formally ambitious Be Yourself Tonight (’85) and its memorable hit “Would I Lie To You?,” along with “Missionary Man” (from the otherwise wimpy ’86 LP, Revenge), resolved the apparent contradictions between high tech and gutbucket rock. Meanwhile, Stewart’s collaborations with Tom Petty and Daryl Hall furthered his rep as a feisty neoclassicist and rawboned guitarist.

Now, after an extended hiatus, Stewart and Lennox, last seen traveling south on Highway 61, are racing along the autobahn via the calculated, processed avant-pop of Savage. Gone is the quasitraditional rhythm section of the last two LPs; in its place is solitary programmer Olle Romo (who alternated between acoustic and electronic drums on Be Yourself Tonight). Absent, too, are the Americanized rock and soul elements of recent Eurythmics efforts; in their place is a bank of synths and sequencers, surrounding a glacially arrogant Lennox. Savage is less a collection of songs than a series of repetitive sonic constructions, over which Lennox spins her grandiloquent webs, with Stewart firing off a nasty guitar salvo here and there. At best, the effect is like an imagined collaboration among Kraftwerk, Prince and Grace Jones. The severe methodology pays off on the riffy “Put The Blame On Me” and the tunefully somber “You Have Placed A Chill In My Heart”; otherwise, the results are shallow and monotonous, as Lennox sings sparse, cryptic lyrics while the hardware drones with all the emotion of a car alarm.

The stultifying approach employed throughout Savage typically involves the construction of one or two precisely organized four-bar segments composed of drum machine, sequential bass line, synthesized melody and (frequently) Lennox backing vocal, which are then repeated and/or alternated under the lead vocal as many times as deemed necessary, until the track fades. You hear it once and you’ve heard it all—literally. The album is the antithesis of spontaneity, with producer Stewart singlemindedly substituting contoured cleverness for content.

There s surely an intended irony to the inclusion of the penultimate track, “I Need You,” in which Annie sings heartfully over the sole accompaniment of Dave’s acoustic guitar. Here, the partners say, in effect, ‘‘See, we could play real music if we wanted to”—but even this pristine performance is messed with, as Stewart fills the spaces—and undercuts the mood—with fake cocktail-lounge chatter. The effect is diabolically annoying—which makes it contextually apt, if nothing else. The virtually total absence of songs, soul and substance makes Savage a monumental yawn. The talented twosome ought to be embarrassed by this premeditated retreat from relevance.

Bud Scoppa

I MOSE ALLISON Ever Since The World Ended (Blue Note)

If you don’t know Mose Allison’s music, it’s hard to convey its most cogent qualities in print—it’s pretty much all in the delivery, a bunch of contradictions cozily coexisting. The guy’s voice is a thin untrained tenor with deadpan tendencies; simultaneously folksy and hip, he’ll clip off his would-be poignant lines with an ironic blue note, twist his cool lamentations into fatalistic pretzels (I told you it was hard). A jazz singer, maybe (he sings with jazz musicians), but more like a folk singer who’s learned a few jazzy tricks; Mose s deepSouth background has tempered his sophisticated crooning with an earthy drawl. His lyrics are as idiosyncratic as his voice; dry-witted, ruefully funny—at his best he can make you feel good about your skeptical worldview (pessimism swings, it’s an attractive stance). At his worst he can get a little cute.

Not unexpectedly, Mose is something of a cult item. His most notable inroad into mass consciousness was probably when the Who covered his ‘‘Young Man Blues.” He did get a lot of attention (it seemed) during the early to mid-’60s folkie surge, and a little less, but some, during the late ’60s-early 70s era of ‘‘free form” radio. Since then, things have been a little slow. A few years ago at Elektra Musician there was an attempt to bend him into a light fusion mode (perhaps it was his own idea), but it was an uncomfortable fit. Now, surprisingly, Blue Note, hardly a bastion of commercial-free motives, has released a set of unadulterated Mose—the ol’ philosopher/sharecropper in an ungimmicked jazz setting, doing his little thing while some impressive jazz folk, namely guitarist Kenny Burrell and saxophonists Bennie Wallace and Arthur Blythe, take serious solos (honest, Wallace and Blythe should play this well on their own recent releases). Mose himself plays a decent bop piano. Is there no end to his talent?

The title cut sets the tone with Mose making his sharp observations painless—not everyone can put a sentiment like “ever since we all got blended/ dogmas that we once defended/no longer seem worthwhile” across without sounding pretentious or petulant Or hysterical. Mose is the unruffled if slightly depressed observer of foible-ridden humanity, not exempting himself. Sometimes his bite is so muffled you can miss it. “Tai Chi Life,” e.g., sounds like a paean to New Age Orientalism until you catch the line about being “serene among the cannon fodder.” But the song which best sums up Mose’s schtick is “Gettin’ There”—after offering a litany of disappointments we can all relate to, he seems to be reaching for something like optimism only to pull back at the last moment and regain his disenchanted cool “But I’m not downhearted/I am not downhearted/l’m not downhearted/But I’m gettin’ there.” Again, you have to really hear it to know what I’m talking about. That’s Mose Allison, American original. Ask for him by name.

Richard C. Walls

I FOREIGNER Inside Information (Atlantic)

Long-time Foreigner fans should open this album’s gatefold jacket very slowly (if at all), as the double-spread group photo within confirms that Our Boys are aging even faster than their hoary music. The picture reminds me of all those late’60s-artists’ future-shock conceptions of what the Beatles would look like at Paul’s longed-for 64—except that Foreigner are already there, no projection about it.

Actually, Rick Wills may be with us well into the 21st century, as he looks so much like Larry Bird that he must be “healthy as a Hoosier,” as we say around here. But Dennis Elliott has the drawn visage of a victim of an advanced case of ledzepdudsitis, as he looks like his codpiece is chafing him horribly and that he can’t wait to get this fuggin’ Foreigner reunion over with, so he can go back to weaing his faded Levis and a skoosh more room. Mick Jones appears to have become the bloated, prosperous Tory we always suspected lurked within his mellotronic soul, but Mick’s still easy on the eyes compared to what Old Man Time’s done to Foreigner’s renowned vocalist.

Sorry kids, I know Lou Gramm’s fresh off a stellar solo career that lasted about as long as Gary Hart’s non-candidacy for President, but in this photo he looks like a bulimic poodle, all curls and pop eyes. Gramm’s photo appears more heavily retouched than those of the other Foreigners, so maybe the airbrush artiste removed a double chin or goiter or some other sign of relative humanity from Mr. Lou.

In another triumph of modern packaging demonstrated on Inside Information, both the edges of the jacket and the labels on the record are distinguished by a grayish-brown pattern that’s probably supposed to suggest concrete or something equally heavy (get it?), but which in actuality is a graphic representation of vomit. Either Atlantic wanted to avoid product-liability lawsuits by discouraging people from opening the gatefold at all (Foreigner fans with heart conditions are strongly advised not to remove the shrinkwrap from Inside Information at any time), or (and this gets really scary) the upchuck-cheesy color scheme of the album is a subtler-than-Andy-Warhol symbolic reference to Lou Gramm’s apparent canine bulimia.

Don’t you just love how I’ve expended all these words and I still haven’t mentioned the music on Inside Information? Well, since Foreigner and Boston pioneered the megabucks concept of faceless rock back in the 70s (and are both cashing in on its revival this year), I decided to do a classic CREEMster-irony turn-the-table number on ’em and give top billing to their roc/r/ess faces. And they’re even duller this way, aren’t they? Now, just simmer down, keep that $7.99 clutched in your sweaty palm just a few minutes longer, and I’ll let you know whether Inside Information contains enough power ballads to justify you stimulating your local record store’s economy.

IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

THE CHURCH Starfish (Arista)

An Important person once wrote that “some people are recognized in their own time, and some aren’t." Sadly, that’s been the story behind a lot bf great rock music. The Church are just one more example.

The Church have been making great music since 1980. All their albums are available in Australia, but they’ve only managed to release a couple over here on three different labels: Capitol, Warner Bros, and how Arista. They haven’t sold a lot of records. They haven’t even gotten much media attention. That’s really hard to understand...

Heyday, the band’s last American release, seemed like an especially tough act to follow. And when word came down that this one was being produced by L.A. “singer/songwriter” session guys, Greg Ladanyi and Waddy Wachtel (that just didn’t seem to make sense), there were doubts. Fortunately, those doubts had little basis, as Starfish is a truly wonderful album. What kind of feelings does it bring up? Oh, try some of those same feelings once conjured by classic Kinks, Television, Pink Floyd, the Velvet Underground, the Only Ones, the Byrds, the Who, Diamond Dogs-era Bowie, Cockney Rebel, and even the Beatles, all tied together with this grand production. And yet, the Church don’t sound * like anybody else, really. In fact, they sound like a lot of bands out there probably wish they sounded right now.

And it’s very psychedelic... I mean that in the best possible sense. Like their earlier stuff, it still has something to do with the concept of disillusionment. But rather than gloom ’n’ doom, the sound is often positively other-worldly. The guitars sound fantastic. Some of those harmonies sound like they could be Beach Boys. The songwriting (handled by three different members of the group—but predominantly by leader SteVe Kiibey) is wonderful, and those arrangements are incredible. It all soda fits together as a piece (and I don’t mean like Yes or the Moody Blues or even ELO: the closest example might be Dark Side Of The Moon.. .imagine you’ve never heard that record before), and it's difficult at this point to say which track is better or more melodic or has better lyrics. Better to experience it as a whole. But when the electric-sounding country & western fiddle comes in during the middle of “Milky Way,” with all the sound effects and space music going on behind it, you’ll probably be inclined to say, “Yep, that’s psychedelic.”

Of course, I’m not exactly sure what to make of lines like “Imagination is your butter and your bread, it's an exquisite corpse and its lips are red,” although “If you’re alone and you’re feeling blue, everyone in Persia probably feels that way, too” got a big smile the first time around. Sure, it’s a tad dark (disillusionment usually is), but everyone’s thought of a former love as a “Reptile” at least once. And doesn’t the title “Hotel Womb” intrigue you just a little bit?.. .Groovy decay, indeed.

Starfish is full of melancholy, but it isn’t bleak at all—not even as much as something like the Smiths or the Cure, I don’t think. On the contrary, sometimes the ethereal music and Kilbey's reassuring vocals make you feel downright triumphant. It’s a beautiful record. These guys are great— they’ve always been great—and they just keep getting better. Starfish is their finest effort yet.

Bill Holdship

Actually, I couldn’t find much to say about the music on Inside Information. If you loved Head Games and all those other smash Foreigner albums of a few years ago, you’ll like Inside Information, as it’s more of the same, just slightly less lively. Two things I like about the music on the new album: ‘‘The Beat Of My Heart,” an energetic (if generic) hard rock thumper I wouldn’t kick out of the bed of my pickup truck at the city dump, and the title song, which Lou Gramm sings with one of his patented glottal stops, between “inside” and “information”—and on the lyric sheet they represent each of Lou’s pregnant pauses with a preciselyplaced comma, so that you-the-reader won’t outrace languid Lou’s tonsils. Awrite!

Inside Information features the most-perfectlyproofread lyric sheet I’ve perused in ages; the only problem is that all the lyrics are by the clichemongering Foreigners themselves. (I know, I know their accountant told ’em to do it that way.) I won’t embarrass Bryan Adams by listing all of Foreigner’s white-bread lyric “concepts” on this new LP. But these guys certainly do play hard rock with highcalibre professionalism; wouldn’t it be neat to hear Foreigner sharpen their chops on more stimulating material, say the Blue Oyster Cult songbook or something?!? Hornswoop me bungo pony, I only hope 'they live that long!

Richard Riegel

CARLOS SANTANA Blues For Salvador (Columbia)

DANIEL PONCE Arawe (Antilles/New Directions)

Seems to me that every time mechanical, metronomic rhythms threaten to dominate pop, a posse of polyrhythms, usually borrowed from a Third World source, comes to the rescue, injecting some human vitality into the scene. In the disco era, it was reggae; in the post-punk years, ska. More recently, African artifacts have been showing up in the mainstream. But Latin American musics, from delicate indigenous folk to fiery salsa, are also becoming more popular and influential. And no, Ruben Blades and Los Lobos aren’t the only ones exploring ways of crossing over cultural barriers without burning bridges behind themselves.

Carlos Santana has been doing this sort of thing since 1969 and lately, he’s achieved a balance of sorts. He makes layered vocal rock albums to keep the radio stations and his accountants happy; then he turns around and makes mostly instrumental records to keep his muse smiling.

This is one of the second types, although it’s got its differences. Most of the rest have featured lots of guest artists, often from the jazz world, but, with the exception of Tony Williams’ locomotive act on “ ’Trane,” this is primarily the current Santana band, letting the music spasm out spontaneously instead of smothering it with professionalism. It’s an album of unpolished studio takes, live jams, bits thrown together at sound checks: a collection of sparks flying, of musicians speaking to one another in rhythm and melody. The bluesy, jazzy, Latin blend that is the basis of Carlos’ guitar style hasn’t changed, but he seems more at ease with it, yet more fired up, than be has been ip years. This is probably the guy’s most consistent album this decade and you might have to go back to his classic Lotus to top it.

Daniel Ponce is a New York-based percussionist/composer who’s come up with a different sort of crossover—not with ’60s-style rock jamming but with contemporary dance music production techniques. This album is physical; you don’t just hear the percussion tapping away in the distance, you feel ’em, pounding their way through you.

Musically, there are no compromises with current trends; if anything, the tunes filter some sonic experiments into the mix. I mean, how many Latin tunes do you know that feature a tamboura and a buzzbomb guitar (courtesy of Vernon Reid)? Other soloists include Paquito D’Rivera and Steve Turre but it’s the rhythmic forcefulness that you’ll notice most. If this record doesn’t get you up off your seat, consult your butt doctor immediately.

Michael Davis

I VARIOUS ARTISTS The Island Story (Island)

Speaking as an American, Island Records means little to me perse beyond Bob Marley and U2. For the first decade of its 25-year existence, the pioneering British label lacked a full-fledged presence here in the States, instead licensing a lot of powerhouse acts to U.S. labels. After that, Island engaged in series of distribution deals moving from Capitol to Warners to Atlantic, and probibly stopping at other places I've forgotten about as well. Meaning, in short, that Chris Blackwell’s Company has suffered in the visibility department.

Regardless, Island’s vaults contain a heap of swell stuff (along with the inevitable dreck, of course). And for an indie label to survive a quartercentury with some sort of dignity still intact is pretty darn impressive, so why not The Island Story? No reason at all. These two jam-packed discs—one side tops 30 big minutes—contain enough aural delights to tickle new and old listeners alike, not to mention some sobering lessons on the perils of nostalgia. (Some of the fondly remembered tracks shouldn’t have been revisited, ’cause they sound awful today.)

Among the triumphs: If you haven’t heard Free’s “All Right Now” in a while, it’s still great. Paul Rodgers’ determined caveman continues to outstupid most of the dumb-rockers that have come along since, and Paul Kossoff’s twisting guitar licks remain thrilling. The Spencer Davis Group’s “Keep On Running” has actually improved with age. Back then, it paled next to “Gimme Some Lovin’ ” and “I’m A Man.” Now, it’s easy to appreciate the rude blast of noise that powers little Stevie Winwood’s adolescent shouting. “My Boy Lollipop,” the 1964 pop-ska smash by Millie Small (missing her last name here, for some reason), remains kick-upyour-heels fun. Surely we need no reminders of Bob Marley’s brilliance, although this live version of “No Woman No Cry” glows with holy charisma. The effortless vocal seems drawn from a natural well of pure emotion; follow with a selection from Bob Dylan’s similarly awesome Basement Tapes. Others who shine on brightly include Jimmy Cliff (“The Harder They Come”), Sparks (“This Town Ain’t Big Enough For Both Of Us” ain’t so shrill anymore), Toots & The Maytals (“Funky Kingston”), and Robert Palmer (amazingly, “Addicted To Love” holds up fine).

But beware the wretched refuse! Winwood’s glossy “Night Train” and Jim Capaldi’s oily reading of the Everly’s classic “Love Hurts” graphically illustrate the tragedy of senility. Will Powers (a/k/a photog Lynn Goldsmith) earns an extra raspberry for the insufferable “Adventures In Success,” a distillation of Talking Heads’ most annoying qualities. From 1977, Eddie & The Hot Rods spunky “Do Anything You Wanna Do” was, and is, a genial “Born To Run” ripoff, which isn’t so terrible. However, it’s a also a reminder Island kinda dropped the ball at the start of punk, failing to land any of the important bands. Instead, they got the worst of new wave with the Buggies’ irritating novelty, “Video Killed The Radio Star.” To boot, ex-Buggle Trevor Horn later struck again with Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s “Relax.” Now there’s one that’s already staler than an old cigar.

Whatever your pleasure, The Island Story can’t be considered a definitive history, ’cause too many major names are absent, including Mott The Hoople, Roxy Music, Jethro Tull, King Crimson and Cat Stevens. So just take it at face value, as an interesting collection of artifacts whose cumulative meaning is probably.. .nothing at all.

Jon Young

GOD: THE ORIGINAL SOUNDTRACK

ARETHA FRANKLIN One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism (Arista)

SWANS Children Of God (Caroline)

One time back at Immaculate Heart of Mary elementary, Sister Mary Elephant made us raise hands about which hymns should get sung more, and which ones sung less, in our weekly camp meetings. Being a reactionary kid, and digging Latin to the max, I naturally nominated “Ave Maria” for increased airplay. All that hippified folk-mass garbage, what with the bright-colored cutouts of fish scattered across the walls, not to mention nuns who wore street clothes that proved they didn’t have shaved heads after all, conflicted with my whole theological aesthetic—I mean, what the hell good’s religion if it ain’t scary, right?

Dunno if Aretha Franklin ever had to vote on church songs, but she might have, ’cause damned if her first gospel offering in 16 years don’t have “Ave Maria” on it! It ain’t the LP’s best track— not much energy, too Catholic or somethin’—but so what? One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism, recorded amidst Motor City ruins last July, is a sociology course demonstrating how “down-to-earth” a wealthy professional singer is, and lots of it (mostly the parts where Jesse Jackson and other parsons wail about how we might die before we wake up) is scary. More than you can say for the Swans’ Children Of God, which, like Aretha’s record, has two discs and lotsa thrusting rhythms and crucifixes on the cover, but which has such a bloated sense of self-importance that it comes off ridiculous even when it’s dishin’ hellfire and brimstone. Which ain’t to say it wouldn’t look dandy on your coffee table.

Never had much use for ’80s ’Retha myself; Who’s Zoomin’ Who was a glossy comeback-hype self-parody even more embarrassing than Tina’s Private Dancer, and “Jump To It," “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” etc., were worse. (In fact, I hate to be a heretic, but I’ve never had much use for her old Atlantic hits, either. So sue me.) No way is she the star of One Lord—she usually sounds flimsy, way out of her element. But teamed up with Staple Singer Mavis Staples or Mighty Cloud Of Joy Joe Ligon, she helps get those Baptists boppin’ nonetheless.

Mavis slips some exclamations from “I’ll Take You There” (and even some “haw haw haw”s, perhaps from 71 Top’s “La Grange”!) into “Oh Happy Day,” and the Aretha/Mavis duet “We Need Power” is a roly-poly holy-roller of a blue-light booger-rooger, with Wicked Picket quotes and hot funk-bass. There’s Holy-Ghost-induced speakingin-tongues stuff all over (Simon Frith: “The test of soul conviction is the singer’s way with nonwords”), and Ligon fires up the “Packing Up, Getting Ready To Go” coda with some gaspingly coitus-like intensity-acceleration. All the reverends (there’s fourl) 'cept Cecil Franklin pull off powerhouse preach-rhythm endurance-tests; Jaspar Williams does a monstrous rap about how “we look down and we act down and we feel down and many of us are /ow-down,” but Aretha keeps trying to upstage him. And then they cruise into “Higher Ground,” which is stupid, ’cause it ain’t the Stevie Wonder one, plus it gets split in half between Side Three and Side Four. Don’t ask me why.

Aretha Franklin’s fellow God-pals the Swans useta play cavernous slow-fi theatre-slop, all dolorous and dragging and weighted through the floor-boards. They still do, but lately they’ve been incorporating sampled emulator-beats, fake-horn charts, cellos and oboes, even this melancholy babe named Jarboe who sorta quivers like Kate Bush in mid-yawn. 1986’s Holy Money LP and Time Is Money/A Screw cassette bounced and boomed like boxing kangaroos, but the side-effect of these weird ducks’ newfound sprightliness was that you could finally decipher M. Gira’s self-pitying basso-profundo denunciations: sex is flesh is money is time is work is degradation is power is sex. Nothing we didn’t already know.

The Lurch-moans on Children Of God are a little less slogany, though they still don’t rhyme or anything. Funniest lines (all unintentional, natch) are the Impressions and Tom Jones quotes, the references to Being There and River’s Edge, and the number about doing the limbo-dance (“as low as I can go, I will go there.”) Actually, the band claims this record is a major statement about “religion,” but the stained-glass window they’re hiding behind never lets in the sun. I’ll give ’em credit for pulling off decent swipes from Master Of Reality, Another Green World, Radio Ethiopia, Evol, and Trans-Europa Express. “In My Garden” ’s melody is pretty in a totally vacuous way, the percussion in “Beautiful Child” descends like gumballs, and “Like A Drug (Sha La La)” has a cute title. But these twits are as passionless and strictured and boring as they’ve always been. You’re not supposed to enjoy this music; it’s supposed to be good for you, like liver. Plodding the way it does, I keep hoping Gira will intone “Fee-fifo-fum,” but all I ever get is “I am unkind. Feel my hand. Feel my dead hand.” Not exactly my idea of a good time, bucko.

Chuck Eddy