RECORDS

RECORDS

MAGICALLY DELICIOUS!

THl ROQUES

If I Should Fall From Grace With God (Island)

On this, their first new album since 1985’s terrific Rum, Sodomy And The Lash, the Pogues prove rather convincingly that growing up doesn’t necessarily mean a loss of spirit, or nerve, or ideals. Not that they’re not still the same gang of rabblerousing, whiskey-stained bums whose when-woridscollide sour mash of traditional Irish folk music and nihilistic English punk thrashings made them the talk of the barstools on both sides of the Atlantic just a few years ago. You may still feel the urge to get out an umbrella to protect yourself from the spit, sweat and bile of Shane MacGowan’s lead vocals and, just as before, nary a tune goes by without at least one less than respectful reference to either God (organized religion), country (the British government) or the law (judges, cops and jailers). The difference is that If I Should Fall From Grace With God carries itself with a pride equal to its swagger. The Pogues aren’t simply coming out of any old traditions or new movements anymore. With this record, they have succeeded in becoming a viable part of both.

To understand how far the Pogues have come, one need only listen to a track like “Streets Of Sorrow/Birmingham Six.” The former, written by newcomer Terry Woods, is a haunting song of farewell to Northern Ireland (“I’ll not return to feel more sorrow/Nor to see more young men slain”), and it segues right into MacGowan’s “Birmingham Six,” an angry and powerful attack against the oppressive British rule of Northern Ireland: “A curse On the judges, coppers and screws/Who torture the innocent, wrongly accused/For the price of promotion and justice to sell/May the judged be their judges when they rot down in hell.” And the music for the track moves, fittingly, from an almost fragile finger-picked acoustic guitar to a churning, full throttle swirl of banjos, tin whistles, guitars, bass and drums—only to climax with the lonely sound of a button accordion fading off into the distance. Likewise for the title cut, in which MacGowan leads his troops through your basic Irish drinking/death song (“Bury me at sea where no murdered ghost can haunt me/lf I rock upon the waves, then no corpse can lie upon me”) to music that sounds like the Clancy Brothers meeting Buddy Holly’s Crickets.

This album has a little bit of everything, from “lullabies” in which parents gleefully scare their kids half to death (“Sit Down By The Fire”) and all-out bits of musical mayhem (the fife-and-buglecorps-meets-the-West-Side-Story-kids instrumental, “Metropolis”), to poignant Irish immigrant songs (“Thousands Are Sailing”) and idealistic calls for world peace and unity (“Medley”). And, just so you know that the Pogues’ thumb-your-snottynose devilish touch is still intact, there’s the rollicking “Bottle Of Smoke,” in which a gambler gets a reprieve from a lifetime of losses by betting on a 25-1 longshot that wins, resulting in a joyous celebration in which the world is summarily advised to go straight to hell as long as the money holds out. “Slip a fifty to the wife/And for each brat a crisp new five/To give me a break on Saturday night/When I had the Bottle Of Smoke.” As long as they keep making records like this, it’ll be Saturday night every night in Pogues land. And I’ll drink to that.

Billy Altman

MIGHT AS TOLL JUMP!

DAVID LEE DOTH Skyscraper (Warner Brothers)

As I’m sure he’ll inform you if you ask him, Diamond Dave Roth is thee consummate entertainer of our era, a superhuman hdman, the Rambo of bimbos, a real go-getter. (This IP’s got the definitive statement-of-Daveness: “The meek shall Inherit shit.”) So, like always, I had high hopes for Skyscraper. And I’m gonna feel like a real jerk raggin’ on it, but the fact remains that not only can it not stand up to any album David Lee made with Van Haien (especially 1984, shaping up as one of the most time-capsule-worthy artworks of the Reagan years), it can’t stand up to his previous solo LP and EF, which were no great shakes anyway.

In fact, I’m not even positive it’s better than Van Hagar’s5750, a road-apple if ever there was one. (For sure the single, ‘‘Just Like Paradise,” the second-best track here, ain't half as disposable durable as ‘‘Why Can’t This Be Love.”) Which kinda stinks, Sammy being Sammy and all, but also kinda serves Oave right, ’cause Eat ’Em Ami Smile at least had an OK objective (back to basics, got ’n’ grime early-VH boogie-pop, like that), whereas Skyscraper sets out to be Dave’s 5150 (or his Third Stage, maybe), about as mediocre a move as lean imagine. So, despite the presence of two immensely cooi personalities (Dave and Steve Vai, whose slope-rappelling guitar-wank-as-parody-of-guitarwank bit is a trip, especially in “Bottom Line”), ami despite an admirabte-as-always sense of hardyhar-har (best big-label jokes since Redd Kross’s last plate appearance), the sum total here resides at the merely-competent-professionalism level.

Word-wise, at least, the material is generally pretty inspired. Plenty suburban wbiteboy jive-scat: “Rockin’ steady in her daddy’s car/She got the stereo, and die big guitars”; “Kiss me quick/I’m double-parked”; “I see ya shake and shimmy ’cross the burger-shop floor”; “Got a rosy future and a big behind”; ail hammy-enough by me. The Oran “Juice” Jones swipe (that "silly rabbit” line) is more than compensated for by the Mr, T imitation (“Don’t be starin’ at pur stereo, fooi\") The problem is sound—in the tradition of Aerosmith's Permanent Vacation, this slab likely would’ve dented the speakers justducky five pars ago, but now it wants so bad to be a slick and bombastic CD mat it’s completely forgotten about being a rock ’n’ roll record.

HARO ROCK IS NOT SUPPOSED TO SOUND CLEAN!! It sounds stupid that way. I’m no technophobe (Expose use technology the right way; 8 maybe Bon Jovi do, too), but c’mon, guys: If you’re gonna use all these fancy-dancy 21st Century processing machines, at least have the good taste to be wimpy, OK? “ Just Like Paradise" does a passable job In the wimp-department (video’s a bit, urn, “conventional” for Dave, though, ain’t It?), and (now-exited-stage-right} bassist Billy Sheehan’s got the right idea with his cheery/bubbly back-up chirps disc-wide, but when could-have-been-" ‘Ain’t : Talkin’ Bout Love’’/‘‘Hot For Teacher”-guality erotch-stompers like “Hot Dog And A Shake” and “Hina” come out sounding thin as the mountain X air (or Phil Collins's hair!), we’re in serious trouble. Machine Head for 1988 lop 40 is land of a ^ contradiction, it seems to me.

I haven’t even mentioned the outrages calling themselves “Perfect Timing” (AOR kiss-up), “Stand Up” (“reggae” on a starvation diet), “Skyscraper” (where's my headphones?), and (sappiest of ail) “Damn Good” (Vai strumming Segovia whilst Dave reminisces over an old photo album, totally straightfaced, somehow). And I don’t particularly want to, ’cuz I’m too much a Dave-fan to wanna risk hurting his feelings or anything. But that’s aii the more reason why I can’t figure out why such a smart guy would be caught dead manufacturing the hohum kind of aerosol-residue he's shoveling us now. Another hero down the tubes, maybe. What a waste.

Chuck Eddy

SINEAD O’CONNOR The Lion And The Cobra (Chrysalis)

JANE SIBERRY The Walking (Reprise)

We all know from constant repetition that high female voices are fine for perky dance-pop; these two are hoping a lot of you will agree they’re also fine for more distinctive art-pop as well. Duh market will probably try to plug the Kate Bush gap with ’em (although LaBushka has a tune on the She’s Having A Baby soundtrack herself), but aside from sharing some folk roots and favoring lofty melodies, they don’t sound too much like her.

The Walking is Siberry’s third U.S. release— there’s supposed to be an earlier, less high-tech effort still hiding in her native Canada—and it’s a continuation rather than a departure for her. That means perceptive, poetic (if occasionally awfully precious) lyrics sung in a clear voice, often harmonized, with sensitive accompaniment from her regular band. A tad too sensitive this time around; there’s little of the new wavey energy of her earlier efforts and barely any bottom at all. Hard to believe the bass player co-produced this baby.

Love lost appears to be the central theme of The Walking and it’s here that Siberry shines; she’s sharp and she couldn’t coin a cliche if she tried. During “The Walking,” she flits between unfocused vagueness in the verses to the inexorable chorus (“There’s nothing that will bring you back... ”), just like people’s brains/hearts do. “Goodbye” fits emotional shock into a social setting that doesn’t work, kinda like real life. “Red High Heels” finds her in a more resilient mood and she fits oodles of metaphors and details into the nine-minute “The White Tent The Raft” without bogging it down on a topographic sandbar. She can get obscure—I have no idea what "Lena Is A White Table” or “The Bird In The Gravel” are about—but for the most part, these songs will please the fans she already has. I don’t hear any crossover hits, however.

O’Connor has no such problem. She’s said she thinks she’s lucky to have written "Mandinka,” the rocker that’s powering The Lion And The Cobra up the charts, but she’s got a lot more than luck on her side. Besides, the devastating dance track, “I Want Your (Hands On Me)” will also slay some people, although there is much more here than a good groove.

In fact, O’Connor gives every indication of being more than an up-and-comer, and the music has much more depth than we expect from one so young (20). She can sing sweetly but does so briefly; then the emotions charge through and her voice becomes a buzzsaw with a diamond edge. I’m talking about the ability to cut through glass so she has no trouble with bullshit; the intensity she brings to the lines, “So stop talking of war/’Cause you know we’ve heard it all before/When are you going to learn to do something useful?” reflects centuries of conflict, not a mere pair of decades.

Oh yeah, she’s Irish. Much has been made of the U2 connection—evidently, Bono discovered her and The Edge worked with her on the Captive soundtrack. She’s supposed to be touring with the old Smiths’ rhythm section, but the fellow who has more to do with the sound of the album is coproducer Kevin Moloney, who’s worked with Clannad, one of the other folk-based groups successfully incorporating ’80s technology into their sound. But the drama and dynamics here take it to a higher level still. Unlike Siberry, O’Connor doesn’t so much entice and intrigue as boot your ass, slice open your conscience and make you like it. Real major league stuff.

Michael Davis

MIDNIGHT OIL Diesel And Dust (Columbia)

If Midnight Oil was a Top 10 enterprise with a string of gold records, I’d start by telling you Diesel And Dust showcases a craftier, better band while they still resemble a cultured pop combo in a bad mood—Genesis with a stomachache, more or less—Australia’s most sincere group has finally taken to heart that cliche about catching more flies with honey than vinegar. Holding firm to a sense of outrage at the crappy state of the world, the Oils have cooked up a tasty set of melodies to make their edgy symphonies more digestible. Yum!

However, the fellas remain fairly obscure here in the States, an unfortunate condition this third U.S. LP (following a bunch of Oz-only platters) isn’t likely to change. How come? Because it’s loaded with elements sure to irritate the contemporary domestic audience, which has, of course, been trained to accept NOTHING but brain-killing entertainment and AVOID challenges like the plague. (See what happens? Just a few listens can turn even mild-mannered moi into a finger-pointing firebrand.) Anyway, Diesel And Dust displays too much real anger and takes too many unexpected twists to qualify as simple fun. It’s aggressive without bein’ brutal, intelligent without being pretentious. No party grooves here, boogie hounds!

Sympathetic souls are in for a fine fist-shaking time, however. Led by tall, bald Peter Garrett, who’s half singer and half lecturer, the Oils deliver an impassioned treatise on (I think) the abuse of the Aborigines by white colonial Australians, which (I think) parallels the way we mistreated Native Americans here. Despite references to the Breakfast Creek Hotel, Redfern, and other spots that won’t ring any bells with you and me, the intent is clear: wrongs must be righted. “The time has come/A fact’s a fact/lt belongs to them/Let’s give it back,” exclaims Garrett in “Beds Are Burning,” the roaring lead-off track. Later, he insists, “(There is enough) for everyone” in “Wara Kurna”; lambasts “mining companies, pastoral companies, uranium companies” to the ominous rumblings of “The Dead Heart”; and generally acts like a guy reporting on life or death situations from the front line.

Lotsa cool sonic touches enliven the proceedings. “Dream World” offers an absolutely, uh, dreamy chorus that contrasts nicely with its tale of impending doom, while “Put Down That Weapon” must be one of the saddest-sounding tracts against imperialism ever. The sober contemplation of human folly does tend to put one in a blue mood, after all. And “Sell My Soul” kicks off with a flurry of beautiful guitar chords before shifting abruptly into one of Garrett s desperate recitations.

That pretty little intro suggests Midnight Oil could turn themselves into a nice little band and find themselves a nice little niche on the charts if they so desired. Hope they don’t —and I know they won’t. These lads are committed, so show ’em a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T. They deserve it.

Jon Young

I JAMES TAYLOR Never Die Young (CBS)

There was a time when James Taylor was considered uncool, a symbol, to many, of a bad turn taken within the rock/pop nexus: that toward the singer/songwriter. It was distressing enough that, in the wake; of the Beatles, foolishly bloated preand proto-metal groups swamped the airwaves; here was a movement, or tendency, whose measured narcissism and determined gentleness indicated something far worse than folly: retreat. Those who find these sentiments obscure are directed to Lester Bangs’ 1971 essay, “James Taylor Marked For Death,” in the Psychotic Reactions And Carburetor Dung collection.

But all that was then and this ain’t and, despite what lingering deposits of hostility were stirred by the fuzak smoothness of the first few cuts on Never Die Young, I’m inclined to feel (when I can respond at all) kindly toward the small pleasures this LP offers. Because once Taylor gets the demographically-dictated VH-1 licks out of the way (including the mandatory saxophone cooing by Michael Brecker) he settles into various modes of Adult Contempo low-keyed swing—lightly cajun (“Runaway Boy”), trace elements of Graceland (“Sun On The Moon”), Brazil ’88 oh xanex (“First Of May”)—which keep the album moving along, content on the far side of arousal, soothing in its example of emotion contained. In a world of doubt you can be sure that James Taylor’s music won’t bite you.

I know, you think I’m being sarcastic, but can you be sure? Like everyone else, I’m a person of various moods and it’s possible that one of them may include an openness to James Taylor’s postcoital bop. Consider the following words of praise for JT’s lyrics and see if you can detect signs of insincerity: It seems to me that Taylor’s lyrics are less romantically (and righteously) pained, more whimsically resigned than in the past. The nostalgic pieces—“Letter In The Mail,” “Runaway Boy”— are more subtle and sad than something like “Mud Slide Slim,” and the playful lyrics of a song like “Valentine’s Day” or the minimalist imagery of “First Of May” seem to reflect a hard-won and personal sophistication (tricky word, that—may be complimentary, maybe not).

That sounded authentic, didn’t it? Still, there’s a certain absent-mindedness to this review—the omnipotent narrator is so distracted that another, irreverent voice keeps intruding. I think it’s the album’s fault. When one can zero in on it, it seems pleasant enough... but the concentration wanders, the focus blurs. This isn’t 1971, but there’s got to be more happening than this icy fun. Yeah, that’s it.. .James Taylor is too cool.

Richard C. Walls

GEORGE THOROGOOD & THE DESTROYERS Born To Be Bad (EMI-Manhattan)

I have this friend. He took me to my one and only Thorogood concert about five years ago. I thought it was good, no-frills bar band music but after the umpteenth 10-minute Chuck Berry jam I was getting a little restless. Guy was running it into the ground, you know? My friend just stood there and grooved on it.

I have another friend. When “Bad To The Bone” came out, he used to get a wicked kick out of repeating Georgie Boy’s stuttering “B-B-B-Sad’s” at top volume. It used to drive his wife crazy (especially when he used to sneak up behind her in the kitchen and belt one out). He finally wore me down to where I bought the damn record.

I have a brother-in-law. His wife can’t stand Thorogood. He sometimes takes a perverse delight in subjecting her to “the collected works” and is more than happy to duet with George at the drop of a needle.

And I have another brother-in-law. This guy, in years gone by, used to start off his Saturday night beer blasts by singing “Ride On Josephine” at fever pitch as he walked out to his car. Of course, he was a big hit with the neighbors.

Now, fortunately for me, none of these guys ever read CREEM so I don’t have to worry about aggravating and/or upsetting some of the finest young men I have ever known. As for the rest of you...

Is it too early to make a call on the worst album of the year? (You’re right, it is... ya never know when Meat Loaf might release another one.) Christ, what a load of regurgitation! Thorogood has been spewing out his bastardized brand of blundering blues-rock for what seems like an eternity. He’s real big on championing R&B/blues/R&R pioneers like John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley etc. And every time he "interprets” one of their classics it’s murder in the first degree. When you let George do it, it's a pretty thin line between reverence and rape.

On Bad To The Bone (excuse me, Born To Be Bad—he knows which side his bread is buttered on) greats like Howlin’ Wolf and Chuck Berry get it in the neck. If there’s anything more excruciating than listening to Thorogood and his deadly dull Destroyers plod through Wolf’s “Highway 49” it’s having to hear them plow through Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightning.” I mean, clumsy isn’t the word (idiotic might be, though). And it’s a case of sopathetic-it’s-funny to put Chuck’s “You Can’t Catch Me” in such a stumblebum state.

Thorogood’s “originals” are like the Fabulous Thunderbirds’ “originals”—you’ve heard them done better a thousand times before. So if you think you’ve heard “Bom To Be Bad” (no argument from me) or “I Really Like Girls” (let’s hear it for the happy hetero) in previous reincarnations, keep it to yourself—I wouldn’t want Thorogood’s powers of creativity to be called into question (heaven forbid). As for his long-winded, low-IQ guitar solos— better keep that to yourself, too.

And if any of my aforementioned buddies are reading this—if you can’t take a little razzing at one of your main men, all I can say is too b-b-b-bad for you, boys.

Craig Zeller

SPIN THE THERMOS

AC/DC Blow Up Your Video (Atlantic)

TED NUGENT If You Can’t Lick ’Em.. Lick ’Em (Atlantic)

Ampheti-meta! is all well and good, and it’s great to see real teenagers once again highballing their way across the sonic-tundras of fabled teenage! wastelands, but too much of the same thing tends to stretch the rubber band a bit thin—especially when you’re my age and so close to rock senility. So it is with little difficulty and some wistful sighing that I suck on the 10 pound 'lude-ring I bought back in 73 and lie back in my low-rent wikiup down on the edge of lonely street and serve up some good, old-fashioned muzzy-headed accu-metal that’s lower in velocity and somewhat more refined in decibels.. .yet still, y’know, warm and violent.

AC/DC have long been a fave of mine, especially in those bygone dog days of Romilar ’n’ Bud carnivals, when metal was more blues-oriented than buzz-oriented. And, as the song goes, they’ve certainly come up the years in a lot better shape (excluding Bon Scott) than me. This all being evidenced with ball-peen hammer to the balls certainty on the latest, and perhaps greatest, Blow Up Your Video.

First off, what a noble sentiment, that title; an act of retribution I’m sure a lot of us would like to do. Excuse me; I just lit three M-80s and stuck ’em in the front loader.. .ahahhahhaha.. .now where’s that Kevin (This Guy’s GOTTA Die) Seals and...

“That’s The Way I Wanna Rock ’N’ Roll” is the song this vid-sentiment emanates from and it's a blistering homage to the sonic-paganism that reiterates the concept of noise without eyes. Face it: it’s much more fun to cranially envision the cosmic noisestomp of Angus Young as he takes his shamanistic walkabout through the backstreets of rhythm than have it fed to you, like some invisible milk-ray, through the glass teat of your Trinitron.

' -After “Rock ’N’ Roll," the boys sit back, down a few loud, slurping golden throat charmers, and hit the groove that is theirs and theirs alone. “Meanstreak" hits your ears like a ’Roo hitting a truck, “Go Zone" is quintessential AC/OC and “Kissin’ Dynamite" is dangerous, if not good fun. Side two comes whiffling at ya like a Volkswagensized boomerang with “Some Sin For Nuthin" and “Ruff Stuff,” both crunchers of anthemic proportions. “This Means War” is like having Ayers Rock dropped on your left testicle while being forced to watch yet another “charming" interview with Paul Hogan and is without a doubt as much an AC/DC classic as “Who Made Who” and “For Those About To Rock," which just might be my closet fave of faves because it’s so.. y know, giaditorial.

“Blow Up Your Video” (which I just did, and it felt WONDERFUL) is primal metal screaming in the outbacks of your mind and AC/DC at their finest. By the way, it was produced by Vanda and Young, who used to be the Easybeats.. . had to throw in a ’60s reference ’cause that’s hip these days.. .just wait ’til it’s hip to throw in those disco references. Then it’ll be time to give up the ghost.

Speaking of giving up the ghost, is Ted Nugent actually serious about still making records? I’d’ve thought he’d be starring in Tour Of Duty or Wiseguy by now, or some other TV-com too intense to watch, especially after his stint as little Mr. Dangerous on Miami Vice.

But to answer the question posed, I guess Ted really is still serious about making records. Ergo, If You Can’t Lick ’Em.. .Lick ’Em, an unspectacular yet efficient dip into Ted’s bottomless vortex of noisesome ramblings. The thing you gotta remember about Nugent records is that: (a) Ted’s forgotten more riffs, licks and noise than most current metalkhansters would ever hope to learn, (b) You don’t go into a Nugent LP expecting the lyrical outpourings of a Dylan or Springsteen, and (c) Ted can’t sing, shouldn’t sing, and, unfortunately, sings. He should just zip his lip and let his guitar do the talking.

Point (c) is the major moan on this LP: Ted sings and all it does is distract and annoy. When he doesn’t sing, what we have is a pretty solid exercise in machometalmisogyny, if a bit dated and slightly out of touch with current metaltudinizing.

Side one just sort of lopes along like a dog with mange lookin’ for a bullet. It only lifts its leg on the title song, which is inherently goofy bur survives long enough to be OK, and “She Drives Me Crazy," which is what young, teenaged girls do to us guys hitting the launch pads of middle-age.

Side two is, on the other hand, vintage Nuge. “Spread Your Wings,” is, of course, Ted’s paganized version of that lilting homage to archaic planet love, “Little Wing," even down to the Hendrixtinged rhythm chords and etheral leads. It’s the best thing on the LP, whether by inspiration or intent. I guess even predators have to sing the blues, especially when meat and trophies are scarce.

“The Harder They Come (The Harder I Get)” is well, Ted, showing a little sign of being that ’80s man we all know lurks inside us, and I do mean all of us. On this Nugetoon he actually acknowledges the female orgasm—what next, Ted Nugent surrenders blazing G-chord for a dripping G-spot? Naw—never freekin’ happen.

The next three songs kinda blend together, but hold the same pose. “Separate The Men From The Boys, Please" is femacho strutting, “Bite The Hand” is blue-collar cock swinging down at the local bar, and “That’s The Story Of Love” is a tongue-incheek answer to the wild call of manliness Ted pisses out on “If You Can’t Lick ’Em... Lick ’Em."

My last comment on this.. .hey, Ted, get hip, hire Sam Kinison as your lead singer—now that would be interesting. Which is something, ultimately, that this latest record just isn’t.

Joe (Did I Make the Deadline?)

Fernbacher