JUKE BOX JURY
Introductions just take up space, so suffice it to say that three days ago I moved into a new apartment, and today, I’m reviving this column. The former is at 19505 Farmington Rd., Livonia Ml 48152 (send vinyl); the latter concerns singles (mostly the junky "pop” kind, 'cuz there’s nothing else left.)
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JUKE BOX JURY
CHUCK EDDY
BY
Introductions just take up space, so suffice it to say that three days ago I moved into a new apartment, and today, I’m reviving this column. The former is at 19505 Farmington Rd., Livonia Ml 48152 (send vinyl); the latter concerns singles (mostly the junky "pop” kind, ‘cuz there’s nothing else left.) Here’s 15 (in descending order-of-relevance) that’ve helped me survive the past few months:
Vivien Vee—"Heartbeat” (TSR 12-inch, 8335 Sunset Blvd., L.A. CA 90069). Heartbeats have gotta go on forever or otherwise you die, and the four remixes of this relentlessly excitable synth-surge jingle add up to 26 minutes, long enough to constitute some kinda life-force in their own right. A whole buncha disparate orchestrations get linked together Tinker toy-like, and on top some breathy lady who must be Italian quotes Perry Como and demonstrates her ability to count all the way up to three. Catchy as a commercial, and almost as archetypal as the Taana Gardner landmark of the same name.
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Def Leppard—“Hysteria” (Mercury). The subtly eloquent guitarglaze, five wistful notes repeated over and over with refrigerated brisk ness for something approaching six minutes, comes out of early Boston
(the group). The harmonies, mooning semi-sexistly over some girl, come out of heaven somewhere, by way of Badfinger I thought at first but then I realized really via the Easybeats (listen how Joe Elliot croons “tonight”).
A thing of pure beauty, and there’s something profoundly desperate about it. (Plus, Def Lep’s "We Will Rock You”-cum-Aerorap follow-up, “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” is fun-toannoying on the radio, with one breath swiping moment where the operator’s knocking on your dooror-or.)
Tiffany—"I Saw Him Standing There”(MCA). Here’s whereTiff’s thrift-shop trashiness comes into its own. Technovamps and American Graffiti guitars (cliff-dropping astoundingly when her heart goes boom) can’t hold our teen-dream redhead down; she belts like a Runaway (which, if you ask her mom, is kinda what she is, right?), and everything goes everywhere, her vocal cords included. She thus makes me care about a song that’s never meant beans to me before; she makes me believe it. Then, at the end, she throws a tantrum.
Prince—“Alphabet Street” (Paisley Park 12-inch). The only mustown on Lovesexy, and as wild as anything on The Black Album, even.
My wife says this is the Royal Flushness slating himself as the new FDR (Tennessee=TVA; “the only way to make this cruel cruel world hear what we gotta say/put the right letters together and,, make a better day,” get it?), the best translation I’ve heard. Me, I just got off on how the beat jerks its horny-pony body into so many weird contortions, and I think the Top 40 version’s too short, seeing how it leaves out Cat’s rap and the atomic dog’s woofs.
Sweet Sensation—“Take It While It’s Hot” (Atco). There’s soft and wet hot-pink Hispanic hormones busting out all over this pert perc-happy pube-fantasy, and more entendres then you can shake whatever bodypart you deem appropriate at. These brazen bimbos don’t leave much to the imagination: beg you to “come inside,” say they’re gonna “make a wish and blow.” A male wrote the words, so raise your moralistic exploitation questions, but what with that spicy salsa-break and those gaudy earrings I’m too smitten to complain. Ronnie Spector would approve, and Judy Blume might also.
The Deele—"Two Occasions” (Solar). Back in the genre’s Players/ Slave heyday, one did not listen to Ohio funk-bands for love-man revelations, Then again, I expect the Deele’s funk (which I’ve never heard) ain’t hard enough, ’cause this ballad’s bourgeois-but-not-bland vulnerability is my idea of Stylistics ’88. Black male falsettos in love can do amazing things with slush, and if you can get enough of the way obsessed smoothie here annunciates "in-tentsi-fy” and slurs “whitchoo,” you've got strongertear-ductsthan I do. But that’s your problem.
EPMD—"You Gots To Chill” (Fresh, 1974 Broadway, NY, NY 10023). The bottom’s from Zapp’s “More Bounce To The Ounce”; the hook’s from Kool and the Gang’s "Jungle Boogie”; the production’s crammed thick; the raps are mumbled, gruff, maybe strung out on Contra crack (Just.Say Noriega). Play it loud with your windows rolled down and your speedometer on ten through a neighborhood where lotsa white people live. See what happens. D.J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince—“Parents Just Don’t Understand” (Jive). In which hip-hop stakes its claim once and for all in the ’burbs, where it belongs. The GalleryMar part, where the emcee’s mom reminds him that he goes to school to learn, not for a fashion show, is a definitive depiction of half-assedly affluent adolescence, Americanstyle; the part with the Porsche and 12year-old hussy and child-abuse is Por/cy’s-level sensationalism, and pretty funny anyway. Most astute parent/kid-sociology since Cheap Trick’s “Surrender,” and I can’t wait for Tiffany’s cover version.
Honor Role—“Twist”/“Lives Of The Saints, No, 135” (Homestead, POB 800, Rockville Centre NY 11571). In case you’ve yet to catch on, 1988 is the most dismal year for indie-“punk” since the crap was invented—even Green River and Die Kreuzen, who used to be my heroes, are settling for the predictably venal incompetence the self-satisfied audience wants. Still, here (whether it’s getting played or not) is college radio’s answer to “Hysteria.” Which is to say the A-side’s got some creepy axe-wash (’76 Joe Perry meets ’79 Mark Knopfler meets ’78 B.C. Gilbert—the Wire guy), and the B-side’s jagged. The tone-poem vocabulary’s cynical schtick appears to argue that anomie is good, or something. So call it a novelty record.
E.U.—“Da Butt” (Manhattan). The dance-craze-instigating scene with this in it wasn’t one of School Daze's high points, but the horn-charts and bass-bursts and bongo-breaks maximize my gluteus okay. And though E.U.’s booties ain’t quite as loose as Trouble Funk’s useta be back when
go-go was still going somewhere, the former’s anatomically correct elocution nonetheless raises rumps and rumpuses alike.
Mekons—“Ghosts Of American Astronauts” (Sin import). The least boring post-’86 Meketone is maybe also Sally Timms’s nicest vocal-turn ever, and it captures a spacetime block (the moon, Houston, Saigon, ’69 and thereafter) real enough to not come across as unbearably pretentious and surreal enough to still be the Mekons. Protagonist: John “Icarus” Glenn, who (given his Senate voting record on nuke test-bans, Star
George Michael—“Faith” (Columbia). This dinkus can’t grow a real beard to save his sex-life, and mine’s doing just fine thanks without his slow schlock, but “Faith” is “Jet,” “Flonky Cat,” “Jive Talkin’,” all that dumb stuff, rolled into a split-second 3:14 of absolute popcraft genius, and as such it’ll live forever. Vapid as a Disney frozen treat, but it melts in your ears, not in your hands.
Wars and the B-1 bomber, not to mention his stock holdings) trusters of participatory democracy should rejoice did not end up as Dukakis’s running mate. Then they oughta check out Lloyd Bentsen, and wonder why they trust what they trust.
Poison —“Nothin’ But A Good Time” (Enigma). Nowhere near the best track on (no kidding) this year’s best r ’n’ r album (can’t stand Bret’s smarmy “toast to all of us who are breaking our backs every day”), but still real darn rousing as working-forthe-weekend anthems go. The riffs rip the Raspberries’ “Go All The Way,” yet more evidence that these hermaphrodressers have got their bubblegummy hearts in the right place, whether they admit it or not.
Spagna—“Call Me” (Epic). Started with Italo-disco, so I might's well end there (for symmetry’s sake, y'know?) This is neither the Al Green ditty not the Blondie ditty not the Skyy ditty, but both the artist’s elektroperk and her haircut are the stuff flocks of seagulls are made of. Very hip.
AC/DC—“Heatseeker” (Atlantic). Kicking off with Mississippi-crossroadschickenscratchthen kicking down your shanty’s walls and windows one by one, built like a brick Greenhouse Effect, with a riff that belongs in the zoo and a mad mongrel howl drooling phallic missile metaphors, this is merely your typically perfect AC/DC 45. For what more could you ask?
