ROCK • A • RAMA

ROCK • A • RAMA

This month’s Rock-A-Ramas were written by Jon Young, Michael Davis, David Sprague, Craig Zeller, Chuck Eddy and Jeffrey Morgan.

SLAMMIN’ WATUSIS (Epic)

Watusis? Actually, they’re from the Midwest. Slammin’? You betcha! While the hot ’n’ nasty attack sometimes verges on hardcore cruelty, these window-rattling raveups unleash the joyous, liberating power of good old rock ’n’ roll (They thank the Damned, appropriately.) Like a bar band obsessed with speed, the Watusis dash through emotional pop tunes (“It Just Ain’t Right”), take bluesy grooves at doubletime (“King Of Cha Cha"), and anxiously wring every last drop of slob angst from earnest morality tales (“It’s Alright To Show You CARE”). Frank Raven’s squawking sax and Mark Durante’s overheated guitar provide numerous thrills, but keeping this good-natured bluster on the right side of chaos required a true group effort. Way to go!

J.Y.

ZODIAC MINDWARP & THE LOVE REACTION Tattooed Beat Messiah (PolyGram)

At last, a slam-bam metal-glam band good fdr more than a date with Mommy’s mirror. Sounds like these guys learned their swagger from Mott The Hoop'e ana their dynamics from early BOC, but there’s a lotta Lemmv-like attitude and song smarts, too. They re pretty hilarious when they play up to song titles like “Spasm Gang” and “Driving On Holy Gasoline,” but this is no Spinal Tap or Sig.ue Sigue Sputnik. They rock like the real thing because they are. Zode’s jive is alive, Clive; the only thing that might stand in their way over here is their post-Motorhead sartorial slop.

M.D.

DREDD FOOLE & THE DIN Take Off Your Skin (Passport)

Never saw as much in the “late” “legendary” Mission Of Burma as a lotta folks did. Their studied lack of lettin’ go always—as might’ve been the intent—kept me at arm’s length, if not further. Post-Burma projects have proved far more promising, what with Roger Miller’s various keyboard workouts, and now the remainder of Burma (plus one whacked-out wilderness hick) as they appear here. Said hick, Dan “Dredd Foole” Ireton, sings like he’s coming off a hefty ’lude binge, awash in three days worth of his own filth (on “Paralyzed”) and/or midway through a grueling 10-rounder with Julio Cesar Chavez (pound for pound the toughest man in boxing today) on “Put-Down” or “Not A Beast.” Foole’s larynx wraps best around wordless vocals (which turn up pretty often), like the Alice Cooper circa Killer “Sonic Webb Theme” and the swampgoblin mysticism of “Not Right,” where the Legendary Stardust Cowboy meets Nick Cave’s ballsier older brother. And the music? Well, a more brutal strippin’ down of the gee-tar to its essential, mechanical guts, you’ll never hear. The J&M Chain? Wussies, by comparison.

D.S.

JONATHAN RICHMAN & THE . MODERN LOVERS Modern Lovers 88 (Rounder)

Over the last few years, Jonathan’s been bouncing from label to label making music that seeks to recapture and reiterate the innocence of youth—his youth, your youth, everybody’s youth. Along the way he’s managed to come up with some of the most refreshingly honest love songs around (“It’s You” is a recent unheralded masterpiece, right up there with “New Teller”). Modern Lovers 88 is filled with Richman’s youngerthan-yesterday warmth and contains another one of those direct love songs (“Gail Loves Me,” J.R.’s euphoric evocation of his wife’s affection for him). A lot of these songs do coast on minor melodies and self-borrowings a little too often, but—as usual—Jonathan’s engaging manner pulls you in. “I Have Come Out To Play” may be light years from “Astral Plane,” but they’ve both got that same unique style. Give a listen.

C.Z.

KING CURTIS Trouble In Mind (Original Blues Classics)

King Curtis was one of the major tenor sax men in R&B during the ’50s and ’60s, inspiring Clarence Clemons, among countless others. This recent re-issue from ’61, a blues date featuring Curtis on alto sax, guitar and vocals, isn’t at all typical of him, yet on its own terms, it’s not bad at all. His singing is more than adequate, with the exception of a pair of gospelish tunes where he comes off like Ray Charles, Jr.—but it’s the instrumentals, “Jivin’ Time” and “Deep Fry,” where the band stretches out with a pair of relaxed grooves and Curtis’s special skills (even on his second axe) that shine through.

M.D.

ELLIOTT SHARP In The Land Of The Yahoos (SST) Tessalation Row (SST)

Here are two very distinct recent outings by a noted New York art-baldie. Yahoos has well-educated American men and women pretending to be a drumtribe of Ituri Forest pygmies, then doing other world-geographic stuff and making doggie barks. Meanwhile, Christian Marclay’s dexterous turntabletwistin’ throws everything into hi-speed reverse, then tries to shake their groovethangs alleyside. But the “funk” is too trebly and antiseptic, and annoyingly phony Beefheart-wannabe grunts disclose the hateful self-indulgence that made the project possible. On Tessalation Row, thankfully, everybody keeps their mouths shut, and we get clangingly megadirectional math-muzak from two violins, a viola and a cello, all of which jolt jaggedly against each-other to conjure up those heat-sounds that come out of the center of your brain amidst the summer swelter. The vibratory strings create multirhythmic friction now and then, and the atmosphere never really sounds pretentious, ’cause it’s too much like a freak-ofnature that just “happened,” an accident from the hand of God. The only problem is that, if you listen to it, you’ll go deaf!

C.E.

CARLOS ALOMAR Dream Generator (Private Music)

Whaddya call an ace rhythm guitarist who wants to be an ace synthesizer player? Wendy Carlos Alomar? Well, don’t laugh too hard, ’cause that’s exactly what this is. Anybody expecting to get on the funk foot should be warned that D.G. is a smooth cross between (figures) Low and (go figure) Larry Fast’s Synergy album—not a slouch comparison, but one that makes this album a mite redundant since both originals are still readily available (not to mention better).

J.M.

ELVIS PRESLEY Essential (RCA)

Essential for fools (like me) willing to hear the King’s every belch, perhaps, but this mishmash of sounds from his first flicks won’t entice a normal person. The hook: alternate versions of well-known tunes mixed with original soundtrack recordings, which often differed from the official vinyl counterparts. Thus three varied renditions of “Loving You,” two of “Jailhouse Rock” (including one with the backing chorus shouting “Lay it on me, daddy-ol”) and so forth. From the soulful “Don’t Leave Me Now” to the inane “Poor Boy,” Essential captures all the glory and stupidity of the young Elvis, already corrupted yet still magnificent.

J.Y.

NRBQ God Bless Us All (Rounder)

America’s most under-appreciated allpurpose rock ’n’ roll band has now been making records for 20 years—and they’re still running wild and free! You better believe that’s a major achievement, pal. This, their long-awaited live album, was taken from a single set that captures them in typically fine free-wheeling form. There are occasional misfires amidst all the new material (like a drawn-out “Shake, Rattle & Roll”) and a few glaring omissions (what?—no “Ridin’ In My Car” or the love-crazed “I Want You Bad”?), but overall it’s a hoot and a holler. As always, “Me And The Boys” is one of the peak moments in cruisin’ music. And my new fave, “Here Comes Terry... ” is the most disarming tribute a group’s paid to itself since the Monkees. Bless you, boys. And keep on rockin’.

C.Z.

JOHN ZORN Spillane (Elektra/Nonesuch)

Avant-bigwig (and self-proclaimed Die Kre jzen fan) Zorn’s title track tribute to the century’s most acclaimed thug-novelist is a twisted thing—kicks off with some ditsy dame screamin’ her head off, then all these 100-or-so few-second compositional snatches (sax-bop, barroom ivory, sounds of breaking glass, etc.) get pieced together like Legos. It’s totally clinical, evocative here and there but zilched emotionwise, and same goes for the Tokyo rows of side two’s scramble-suite, “Forbidden Fruit.” But for the first five minutes or so of the 18-minute “Two-Lane Highway,” with Albert Collins deep in a whale’s belly, battling Robert Quine’s snarling wangbar twang, ice-picking some intense delta-factor muck over a futhermucker of a Shannon Jackson cancannonade, this dish cooks hot as Dinty Moore beef stew on a jeep manifold. Then, inevitably, the avant-bigwig pulls rank, so it’s back to the cut-and-splice conservatory, which ain’t hardly where I want to be.

C.E.