RECORDS

RECORDS

HOSANNA!

fIREHOSE

“if’n”

(SST)

Got a minute? I want you to meet some cats you’re sure to dig. Ed, Mike and George aren’t my official buddies, but I feel like they’re pals after a few satisfying spins of the new fIREHOSE platter. If an album could kick off its shoes, plop down on your couch, pop open a cold one, and shoot the breeze for a spell, “if’n” would be the disc to do it.

Although the story’s been told a zillion times, one more recounting won’t hurt: Mike Watt and George Hurley were two-thirds of the Minutemen, a natural wonder of a band that ceased to be when leader-guitarist D. Boon died in a highway accident. Along with Husker Du, the Replacements and a few others, they grew from punk-hardcore-etc. roots into an exciting, original combo. Unlike those groups, the Minutemen were probably too noisy and too political (i.e., leftist) to ever “deserve” a berth at a major label, thanks to burly Boon’s wonderful bull-in-a-china-shop sensibility.

Anyway, Watt and Hurley picked up the pieces, recruited Ed Crawford (billed as ed fROMOHIO), and returned as fIREHOSE last year on Ragin’, Full On. And what a surprise! Led by the relatively restrained Ed, they were a totally different animal: intriguing in a cooler, more cerebral way, though perhaps a bit tentative.

Or maybe just hard to nail down, judging from “if’n.” While the sound’s essentially the same, Ed’s pretty pipes—even the guy’s shouting is pleasant—and clipped guitar licks make a heap more sense now that we’re used to him. His precise manners contrast nicely with Watt’s rumbling bass and Hurley’s fervent stickwork, sparking an interesting tension in “Honey, Please” and “Windmilling,” where the boogie quotient reaches high levels.

Now this ain’t no conventional ZZ Top boogie. In fact, the best way to describe “if’n" is droll. Ed’s crooning has an agreeably bemused tone, whether he’s travelling the leisurely “Backroads” via a bluesy ramble, or yelling “time stuffs the culture into human socks” in the skittish “Hear Me.” And Watt and Hurley must be sporting big grins, since

they seem like they re having a grand old time. Besides growling grizzly-style, Mike makes the “thunder broom” (his term) moan real good on “Thunder Child,” a grinding piece also showcasing George’s neat, showoffy drum solo. Spoofing heavy rock conventions? Possibly, but Hurley pulls it off, kidding or not. Because he supports the songs rather than trying to dominate them, you may overlook his mighty talents. So please, appreciate the locomotive-train rolls that power “Sometime” and notice how deftly he ranges over

the entire kit in “Me & You, Remembering.

“if’n” ain’t mere oddball noodling by any means. “Anger” explodes in a rip-roaring display of fury, which edgy Ed aptly calls “not love, not reality but a cold sense of endlessness.” Best of all, “For The Singer Of REM” offers an side-splitting parody of Stipe and crew, featuring gruffly earnest vocals and goofball lyrics: “Here’s a version of tradition/you can put in your drawer/in the desk where next to your chair’s the handle to your door,” and so forth.

Then again, it’s a nifty I’il track on its own, minus the satiric dimension. Truth is, a body really can’t go wrong with any of “if’n." If’n you pass this ’un by, you’ll be missin’ some darn fine listenin’. And y’all come back now, y’hear?

Jon Young

LYLE LOVETT Pontiac (MCA)

One of the few truisms of life in the mu$ic business is that artists have their whole life to put into their first album and usually less than a year for the follow-up. The result is that second albums often provide sound grounds for evaluating an artist’s abilities, at least insofar as the proverbial long haul is concerned. This is especially true in the dreaded territory of that want-of-a-better-term species known as the singer/songwriter, where the material can’t help but reveal the holes and stains of wear and tear much more readily than in almost all other musical genres. So when you hear an exceptionally good second record by a singer/songwriter, it’s usually a safe bet that you’ve got the goods. The line goes from Bob Dylan (who, in retrospect, is probably responsible for creating the mold back at the very beginning of the ’60s) right through Randy Newman and Elvis Costello and on up to Roseanne Cash, John Hiatt and Suzanne Vega. It’s a pretty exclusive club we’re talking about here—one whose dues (as people like Newman and Hiatt have seen) aren’t necessarily measured in hits, just damned good work. On the basis of his exceptionally good second album, Pontiac, it would seem that Texan Lyle Lovett is about ready for that admission card.

While Lovett’s self-titled debut LP leaned heavily towards country (the record spawned a Top 10 country hit, “Cowboy Man,” and “Closing Time” was covered nicely by Lacy J. Dalton), there were noticeable folk and jazz elements around the edges of Lovett’s songs, and it is in those very directions that the marked expansion and growth evident on Pontiac is most prominent. It’s hard to believe that songs not only as good but as far-afield as “Walk Through The Bottomland,” “She’s No Lady,” and the title track all exist on the same record. “Bottomland” is a straight country ballad about the hurt some people allow themselves to absorb, and features a breathtaking duet between Lovett and guest star Emmylou Harris. “She’s No Lady,” on the other hand, is all cocktail lounge cool, a swinging horn-laced jazz number which finds Lovett singing the dubious praises of the woman who “likes to sleep beside me almost every night—she’s no lady, she’s my wife.” And “Pontiac” is a real stunner, a song that takes a seemingly nondescript scene—an aged man sitting in a parked car smoking a cigarette in the late afternoon—and paints into it a deep and chilling commentary on surpressed emotions and hidden rages. Against a spare and taut piano/cello arrangement, Lovett’s character stares at a young girl across the street and thinks about two things: the German soldiers he killed with his bare hands in World War II and the longtime wife he’s dreamed of leaving every day for countless years.

These three are by no means the only strong songs on the album, either. Like most good songwriters, Lovett has a wry sense of humor and a refreshing touch of the warp factor: “If I Had A Boat” finds Tonto telling the Lone Ranger to “kiss my ass, kimosabee, I’m going out to sea,” while “L.A. County” tells the tale of a jilted lover with an interesting response to his ex-girlfriend’s marriage plans. (The Graduate it ain’t.) And, as tracks like “Simple Song” and the aforementioned “Bottomland” attest, Lovett can sling a melody with the best of ’em. My only gripe is minor: the sequencing of the album seems to have been done with a corporate hatchet, with all the country songs on side one, and all the jazz and folkish tunes on side two. It’s thinking like that which often keeps good music from finding good'listeners. So upset a demographic or two and get into Lyle Lovett. Whatever your supposed orientation, music fan, I’ll bet you’ll be glad you did.

Billy Altman

REG REDUX

ROBYN HITCHCOCK & THE EGYPTIANS Of Frogs (A & M)

I recognize ydu in the strong® of the pleasures here; although you are only the lace of yourself. You are the ultimate uselessness, the laundress of fish,

—Andre Breton Soluble Fish (1924)

worry about Robyn Hitchcock. I mean, here’s a guy, obviously talented, exceedingly clever, writes these neat pop songs assiduously borrowing mod-utations and nuances from the tradition—a little Beatles flourish here, an extract of B-52-like motratone riffing there—really, one would have to be essentially unhappy or just not like music to not appreciate, even enjoy, Hitchcock’s smart poperaft J^jSl^And yet. though that smart ability continues on Globe with its 16 originate just waiting to get -tlieir hoOky fittte clivvs under your skin, lyrically think Hitchcock has hit a deaderid, torn always

8 been of the minority opinion that, (yrtef weren’t his 2j Strong sufrtdbegin with (hisgiftisfo shape them into seductive songs)—from the Soft Boys through his solo career (the' Egyptians are two ex-Soft Boys, but iet’s cail tesoio for conyenience) he’s displayed tefidency -te get cute or lazy Or both, resulting i in the kind of nonsensical,archness that serves to -t|hpk)ple With nothing to say off the hook. Stilly on:every album (hear the impressive Groovy Decay i or / Often Dream Of Trains) there have been songs end parts of songs that evoke a meatier emotion - ;than-whimsical detachment.

Hitchcock starts out side two of Globe singing fv'What can I say to you?” and throughout the Balbum Jte seems to have despaired of saying : anything in particular. There are hints of the crisis.

. inf tiner rap under the heading Manifesto. Here •Hitchcock declares a withdrawal from specificity, indicating he bas given up writing about the “conventional probiems of so-called reatWer because, whatever point one wants to make, “everybody •.who,wants to know that knows it already.” I don’tthink he could be more wrong about that, but one understands the frustration. Anyway (he goes ori);. ' “all of us exist in a swarming, pulsating wOrld,driven mostly by an unconscious we ignore and misunderstand” and “our inflamed and disoriented psyches smoulder on beneath the wet .leaves-of ’ habit” (dang, that’s.purt’yj). This is the old surrealism gag (and a good gag it is): images burble

“To palaver with the Bangles under this very tree would., Of course, be neat.”

.up from Hitchcock’s unconscious, untainted by the hackneyed and inhibiting hand of mere rationality and,, wftb a little nompoercive guidance from fhe conscious artist, these smouldering clumps of thought are formed into song lyrics. Sometimes the meanings-that-defy-linear-representation seem fa hover close.to (he surface (“Balloon Man, ““The Shapes Between Us Turn Into Animals”) but mostly they be locked away fordvef f’Tropical flesh M|b* dala,” “Steeping With Your Devil Mask,’^“Chindse Bones”|f Fishy sexual symbolism abounds, a la ■ Breton, surrealism’s original pamphleteer. It’s all very unsatisfying, though extremely catchy.

Maybe Hitchcock’s dodged obfuscation is a good * ’cause when be does get fairly explicit, on. the album closer “Flesh Number One (Beads Denntey” it’s to reveal the ugly sentiment that other* people’s problems just aren’t re&l. f)f course, he could be satirizing blissedrOUt hippie soul isolationism (recently reincarnated as New Age mellow uselessness), but f worry about this guy.* dnfj sighs indicate that 1%’sdespairing and Nvorrythat he won’t he able inbreak through that melancho^ ly passivity into the rpore active emotion of disgust and its attendant hope. Jerry Harrison has long maintained the lowest profile in Talking Heads. Within the group, he’s the journeyman guitarist/keyboardist, crafting layers of rhythm and touches of color within the arrangements. But since his first solo LP, The Red And The Black, sank quickly from view back in ’81, when David Byrne’s multi-media collabs and Chris & Tina’s Tom Tom Club were getting off the ground he’s favored a less out-front approach for Jiis work outside the band. Much of it’s been behind the board for people like the Violent Femmes and the BoDeans, but he’s evidently been working on this baby for awhile as well.

Richard C, Watts

JERRY HARRISON Casual Gods (Sire)

The music that jumps right off it, beginning with the peppy opener, “Rev It Up,” is both familiar and fresh. Why familiar is easy: this is essentially Talking Heads music, infectious Afro-funk that could fit neatly between Remain In Light and Speaking In Tongues. Fresh is a little harder, but at the beginning of ’88, time is a factor. Talking Heads have abandoned the almighty groove for a more concise, melodic pop approach on their last couple of albums; Adrian Belew, with the Bears, at least, has moved in a similar direction. So, for the moment, Harrison has the field to himself.

Fortunately, he's learned some things over the last few years. The Red And The Black had two main flaws.,A few of the grooves were so thick you couldn’t stir ’em with a hatchet: fascinating, but way too sticky. But the main problem was that Harrison’s singing often came off like an unfaithful reproduction of David Byrne’s: the irreplaceable element of personality was missing.

Neither weakness is replicated here; the record makes it because it doesn’t seem to try as hard. Its grooves are as propulsive as they are “interesting,” and Jerry’s learned how to sing better. He employs a touch of languid distance effectively and he arranges/mixes the background vocals to blend with (or answer) his own at crucial moments. It works; if Leonard Cohen ever wants to make a dance record, Harrison is the guy for him to work with.

Jerry’s not alone of course; in a way, the album is a triumph of the extended Talking Heads family. Guitarist/bassist Alex Weir and synthesist Bernie Worrell are at the heart of most of these tunes, while drop-in drummers Yogi Horton and David Van Tieghem work wonders on “Man With A Gun” and “Song Of Angels,” respectively. There are also a pair of guest guitarists: Chris Spedding adds erotic whines to “Rev It Up” while Robbie McIntosh offers some quick explosions to “A Perfect Lie.”

But even their combined efforts can’t save “Cherokee Chief.” When Harrison goes into his “night warrior” schtick, he’s about as convincing as Patty Smyth, i.e., heeeeeeeee. Still, one public embarrassment out of 10 isn’t bad at all; most casual gods can live with that.

Michael Davis

MEGADETH So Far, So Good. . . So What!

(Capitol)

The primary reason Megadeth is famous, and probably the only reason they’re on a major label, is because Dave Mustaine used to be in Metallica. Also, Megadeth have a neato name (recall the National Lampoon-era John Belushi’s proto-Spinal Tap band Megadeath), and Joe-Walsh-worthy album titles with plenty of ellipses in ’em (Killing Is My Business.. .And Business Is Good!, Peace Sells.. .But Who’s Buying?). Dave Mustaine is a shrewdly self-promoting image-maker, fond of hokey militarism: e.g., “Your chain is only as strong as your weakest link.” Rote NCO Academy jargon—these John Waynes would’ve made fine 11-B (grunt infantry) E-4-promotables, I’m sure. But their music has even less personality than Anthrax’s. And they don’t rock.

By now, speedmetal’s old news—it promised something a year ago, but now it pretty much all sounds the same. Some’s not horrible: Slayer’s a dumbo unadulterated-noise onslaught, the Voi Vod/Celtic Frost nuke-rock thing is a radical kinda garbage-disposal soul-vent. And Metallica is one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll bands in the world. Voi Vod’s like Blue Cheer; Metallica’s like the MC5. Megadeth remind me of the boring mush certain creeps at my high school useta listen to instead of Abba, ’cause they thought it was “uncommercial”: Jan Hammer, Jethro Tull, Al DiMeola, like that. Triumvirat, maybe. Metallica are a people’s band; Megadeth call themselves “a musician’s band.” They want to “progress.” They sound safe—just like moderately sped-up mainstream sludge.

Worthwhile metal bands don’t have to impress you with their “chops”; some of the best are idiotsavants who wouldn’t know a chord if they tripped over it. So Far, So Good.. .So What!, produced by a guy who’s made his name with losers of the Dokken/Scorpions-stripe, has delusions of grandeur-aimless demi-classical virtuistics, overdramatized histrionics that usually sound like they’re out of breath. The new drummer ain’t no ton o’ bricks, either. Metallica (and sometimes even Death Angel and Hades) get away with symphonic stuff, but they’ve got hooks, anthemic finesse, tricky elaborations that leave your skull spinning gyroscopelike back around the corner somewhere. Megadeth don’t. Their only new song with anything resembling a hook is “Liar,” which has simple repeat-a-riffs and a nifty “Subterranean Homesick Blues”-ish speedrap toward the end. And “Mary Jane” has an ethereal chorus that soda catches you off guard, 1 guess. But the rest is all emptythud fanfare: the taming of thrash.

Supposedly there’s “messages” here “about” DWIs, the PMRC, and teen suicide, but I don’t hear ’em; caught something about “no survivors” in one cut, for whatever that cliche’s worth. For the most part, this would appear to be the fake-rebellion stupid scholars accuse all HM of being—the lamest

track is the rendition of the Pistols’ “Anarchy In The U.K.,” with its halfway-accelerated vocal that sounds like Mustaine doesn’t understand the lyrics. (He pronounces “passersby” “possibly,” which kinda misses the point.) And it’s amusing to hear that these guys are apparently just now finding out about Fear and Killing Joke. Like where’ve they been for the last 10 years, anyway? Beirut?

Oh yeah. The major apprehension in thrashcircles, I’m told, is that So What! might be a “sellout” of some kind. But it ain’t: this squad has a way to go before they’re as dangerous as Bon Jovi or Poison. So Megadeth’s old fans have nothing to worry about.

Chuck Eddy

I THE GODFATHERS Birth, School, Work, Death (Epic)

Seems like whenever we colonials get into one of our capitalism-induced cultural ruts, it’s time to

turn to our former U.K. bosses for inspiration and delivery from the doldrums. Starting with the Revolutionary War, through the Beatles and Stones, up to the Sex Pistols and Clash, England has produced the goods which revived moribund American rock culture, saving it first from the Tories, then from Fabian and Frankie Avalon, and finally, Journey and Styx. They simultaneously mythologized and adapted, selling the result back to us by the pound. That’s how we got Elton John and Led Zeppelin, Boy George and Duran Duran, and it’s arguable whether we came out on top in these particular social exchanges. Certainly a matter for discussion.

As the Godfathers themselves are, even though I do not invoke the British rock ’n’ roll pantheon for just any lime-sucking newcomer. It’s only because this five-man outfit—founded by South London brothers Chris and Peter Coyne, bassist and lead vocalist, respectively—insists you take them on those terms. They graduated from the marvelously-named Sid Presley Experience, a band reportedly known more for its onstage antics than music. With the addition of acid-metal guitarist Kris Dollimore from Kent, as well as drummer George Mazur and second guitarist Mark Gibson from Yorkshire, the Godfathers surged through the competitive U.K. indie scene as spiritual heirs to the Clash and the Jam, if not the Smiths. With the demise of the latter (never a true band anyway, merely a Morrissey and Marr duo), there’s a vacuum that the Godfathers have their sights set on. And come mighty close to filling, I might add.

Impossible, huh? Try these influences on for size: “Strawberry Fields”-era Beatles, both the Satanic and “Honky Tonk” side of the Stones, the lyricism of Lou Reed, the punch of his Hunter/Wagner bands, the twisted fury of Iggy, the stomping football cheer rhythm of Gary Glitter, the gift-wrapped hook choruses of Paul Revere & The Raiders. Not bad for starters.

Savor the title. It’s from the first song, which has the iyric, “I’ve been abused and I’ve been confused/And I’ve kissed Margaret Thatcher’s shoes’’ and the refrain, “Birth, School, Work, Death.’’ What more can you say? Have you ever heard it more succinctly put, to a propulsive Rock ’n’ Roll Animal beat, no less? Not recently, you haven’t.

And that’s just the beginning. We’ve got guitars suddenly erupting into blasts of metallic fury (the climax of “Tell Me Why’’) or backwards-masked in raga-like wah-wah’s for the acid-soaked “When Am I Coming Down, ” one of the best tripping songs to come along in years. We’ve got the gnarliest electric blooze since Richard Hell & The Void-Oids on “ ’Cause I Said So,” which cops its bump and grind from “Now I Wanna Be Your Dog.” “S.T.B.” struts like “Brown Sugar” while “Just Like You” is the child Lou Reed and Ray Davies never had. There’s a demented Duane Eddy “Twilight Zone” riff that pops up in the middle of “Obsession” and the closing “Love Is Dead” sports the missing link chorus from the great unreleased follow-up to the Outsiders’ “Time Won’t Let Me.”

All in all, a wealth of second-hand nods and allusions, lovingly tendered, with the belief and sincerity perhaps only a non-U.S. citizen could muster. Ya gotta hand it to dem Brits. They sure know how to redeem the deitrus of American civilization, rock ’n’ roll division. Nothing original here. Just the eternal verities of the form. Birth, School, Work, Death.. .Over and over and over again.

Roy Trakin

VARIOUS SUN ARTISTS

The Complete Million Dollar Session (Sun/Charly import)

Totally unexpected, totally out of the blue, and just when you’d almost given up on hearing anything this exciting again...

Even in my imagination, I never thought it would be this good, especially in light of the shoddy Million Dollar Quartet bootleg that came out several years ago—the contents of which (mostly all gospel) only constitutes about one-third of this two-disc masterpiece. And the sound on this one.. .why, you’d almost swear it could’ve been recorded yesterday!

It’s December 4,1956. Carl Perkins (who recently had a big national hit with “Blue Suede Shoes”) is laying down some tracks at Sam Phillips’s Sun studio in Memphis. Twenty-one-year-old Jerry Lee Lewis—whose had some regional success with his “Crazy Arms” single (though it will be several months before ‘>Whole Lotta Shakin’ ” turns him into a genuine star)—is there to play his “pump-

ing piano” with Perkins’s band. Johnny Cash was obviously there at some point (he’s in the legendary photo, of course)—but he can’t be heard anywhere on these tapes (and, like I said, the sound is real good). In the middle of the session, Elvis Presley stops by to say hi and visit the place that gave him his start. “Hound Dog,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” the Ed Sullivan apparances, the Love Me Tender flick—all are under his belt by this time. He’s the biggest star in the world.. .why, heck, even bigger than Jon Bon Jovi and Bono combined. Of course, the casual listener might not realize this from the way he acts here. This is just a tape of some Southern good old boys.. .and when Elvis sits down at the piano to start jamming with the others, and Sam Phillips rolls the tape for posterity’s sake, it’s some good old boys having one hen of a good old time.

This is fascinating stuff. It’s often been said that Elvis (and the other rockabillies) invented rock ’n’ roll by combining gospel, country & western, American pop and R&B all together. Well, this record is proof positive, as they cover songs from each category, jumping from one to the other without a second thought. Listen to “I Will Not Be Moved.” Sometimes, it’s as though these guys get punk out of gospel and gospel out of punk. Sometimes,

when they get “real gone” and start cooking, you realize that this is the greatest garage band ever. Yep, this is history in the making—but the most refreshing part is that these guys sound like they didn’t care if the tape was running. They’re relaxed, natural, and in their element. Elvis doesn’t have to play Captain Marvel here, nor Jerry Lee the drunken madman. As the latter exclaims: “This is fun! I like this!”

Imagine: these guys covering Chuck Berry’s “Brown Eyed Handsome Man,” laughing and marveling at the genius of Berry’s lyrics (they actually know them), concluding with Perkins talking about his time on tour with Berry. Or Elvis imitating the lead singer of Billy Ward’s Dominos (probably the then-unknown Jackie Wilson) covering “Don’t Be Cruel” in Las Vegas. So what you have is Elvis Presley imitating a black man imitating Elvis Presley! He has Wilson’s diction down (“He was a Yankee, you know...”), and it’s now obvious where Elvis got the dynamic ending he used for that same song on the infamous “from-thewaist-up” Ed Sullivan appearance. Or Elvis doing an impromptu “Paralyzed” with this band. Or singing “It's Saturday night and I just got laid” on Little Richard’s “Rip It Up.” Or introducing “That’s When Your Heartaches Begin” (complete with the spoken part) to these guys. Or definitive proof that Elvis really could play the guitar, and of his muchvaunted perfect pitch (“What key is this in, Carl?” he asks at two points—and he hits the first note with no musical cue both times). Or the raw-yeibrilliant harmonies this trio sometimes achieves. By the time Elvis says “That’s what happens at these jam sessions. I’m always the last to leave”— signaling that it’s almost a wrap—you’re sorry to hear this ending.

But no amount of words can really clue you in to what a great, great, great record this is. You have to hear it for yourself. Suffice it to say that had someone played me a bootleg tape of this at any point during the last 20 years, I’d have been willing to pay $100 or more for it. If you look hard enough, you can find this for less than $12. Hell, hearing Jerry Lee wailing on “Crazy Arms” and his own terrific “End Of The Road” at the conclusion of this album is alone worth that much money.

The only question is:,what in the hell took them so long to release this?

Bill Holdship

ROAD WARRIORS

THE KINKS Live—The Hoad (MCA)'

A “live” Kinks album! What a wonderful respite from the whining megaiosonic hoefads and synchropsycho-tech-a-delic sychopbants seeking comfort and escape through incessant time-warping. And from the funkalimpoid hipster teenoldsters squeezing ’n’ wheezing out rodk ’n’ roll by the number, and obviously tadioactively-enhanced nubilettes doin’ frazzled hooter-stomps nightly on MyTV. A “live” Kinks LP—it's like meeting an old friend after a long.separation. 1 basis own special comfort.

While certainty not as combative as ’72’s Everybody’s In Show Biz, nor as frantically exhilarating as One For The Road (which was released with one of rock’s first full-length videos, by the way), this . “live—lNoes manage somehow tq insinuate itself into your head with sugh subtlety you hardly even notice that you’ve played it about five. ooopps, make that, six times in a row already.*

It all begins with a patented Kinks studio opus (produced to the hilt by Ray Oavies, as is the rest of the ‘flivt“ matehai) called, not Surprisingly, “The Road.” A kronicle which proudly takes up Ray’s banner of the road being the only “pure” environ-! ment for working out rock’s demons (and waxes nostalgic over his 25 years on said mad), it’s also a diary of bittersweet memories that refreshingly teils us;the road has to .remain roeky in order for it tb remain vital, Or even remain at all.

Jpst as say's voice has trapped us in this lyrical, introspective skein, it.pauses for the briefest of moments and launches into mid-frenzy at a “live”

show.) .the song “Destroyer,” and the mood from That point on is pure, undiluted rock n roll. The band is tight, Ray’s voice,grinding, Dave’s guitar staccato and mean, the rhythm section working hard Inspired versions of “Apeman,.”. “Come Dancing,” the flirtatious “Art Lover,” and the pointed'^'Cliches Of The World (B Movie)” follow, it’s pure, unadultered Kmksmania, and it smokes.

Onto page two with a flippant, “Think Visual,Dave Davies’s stunning “Living On A Thin Line,” (which gives new meaning to the concept of metaphor), the hard-edged romance of “Lost And Found” and the most hauntingly bizarre leap into the psyche Of the housewife that’s ever been attempt^:,Quintessential^ Ray Davies and quintessential^ the Kinks, it’s my fave of the whole bunch. It does a lot to expand my understanding that which is not understandable from my gender point of view... more so than, say, Annie Lennox’s latest “Diary Of A Mad Housewife” video. I mean, it gets scary. This LP just doesn’t want to throw in a bad song.

The Road winds down with “Give The People What They Want,” which is apparently what Ray and the boys have been doing, and doing well. After all, they’re still making records and touring. By the way, whatever happened to the Knack, Badfinger, Crabby Appleton, Grand Funk Railroad, the... Beatles. . .the Stones? Guess the road just doesn’t go on forever for everybody.

Joe (So Detoxifying Sad) Fernbacher

WRITE A REVIEW & WIN A SLEW OF CDs!

You’ve read fearless Joe Fernbacher’s review of the new Kinks’ album and—great as it is— we’re not happy. We want more reviews of this album. We want everyone in the world to review it. And even that’s not enough. We even want John Mendelssohn to review it. Groovy, huh?

So here’s the deal: send us your brilliant review of The Road and we’ll pick the three best. Our good friends, and Spin’s good friends, over at MCA will send the first-prize winner any 12 MCA CDs of their choice! The second-prize winner gets six zesty MCA CDs, and the thirdprize winner will receive a CD of this here Kinks’ LP. You can’t lose, we can’t lose—heck, only Fernbacher’s in any real trouble here—so dash off that insightful look at The Road and send it to Kinks Kontest, c/o CREEM, 7715 Sunset, Suites 202-204, Los Angeles, CA, 90046.