ROCK • A • RAMA

ROCK. A. RAMA

THE BOLLOCK BROTHERS The Prophecies Of Nostradamus (Blue Turtle)

Evidently this record is supposed to be some kind of dumb joke. It is. What would you think of a dance band that covers “Magic Carpet Ride” and “Heartbreaker” (Zep, not Funk) in metal-disco cadences with a nerdy vocalist who chants the lyrics with all the panache one can muster when reading from a cuecard? Not only that, but they ripoff the Sensational Alex Harvey Band’s “Last of the Teenage Idols/Vambo Marble Eye” on “The Beast is Calling” and end it in a skirl of bagpipe noise which appears to be a kind of backhanded tribute to poor dead Al. Additionally, there is a woman in the act who provides “special entertainment” (I geddit, she’s an exhibitionist, right?) sorta like that real tall girl in Skafish a coupla years back. The record finally ends on the single “Harley. David,” where Jock McDonald intones “Harley David, son-ofa-bitch/l like girls who have big tits,” which is certainly “biker” enough but howcum I think this was written after a viewing of Anger’s Scorpio Rising? It is prophesied that if the Bollock Brothers tour the heartland of America they will surely have their arms torn off and be beaten over their heads with the bloody stumps. G.S.

THE LODGE Smell Of A Friend (Antilles/New Directions) Golden Palomino leader/drummer Anton Fier’s latest move involves following the Blegvad Bros, to John Greaves’ Lodge, where they reinterpret various exotic strains of art-rock for their own amusement (and ours?). Initially, it comes off like a mainstream rock record... for the first ten seconds, at least, until the singer opens his mouth with, “The human ass comes underfire.” From then on, you’re adrift in a non sequiturial sea, both musically and lyrically, recalling past giants of the genre like Jack Bruce and John Cale, as well as more contempo outfits like the Bears. Intriguing, puzzling, even occasionally rocking, this is music to contemplate the why-bothers of normality by. M.D.

ERIC BURDON I Used To Be An Animal (Striped Horse)

He used to be an Animal, now he makes dodgy solo albums. Post-War Burdon is problematic, in that the off-hand recklessness that’s resulted in so many clumsy records is also a very big part of his charm. I Used To Be An Animal (originally intended as a companion piece to oI’ Leather Lungs’ year-old autobiography) is, by Burdon standards, quite restrained and professional, which is good. The music’s smooth R&B orientation keeps the singer’s customary histrionics in check, and the loose autobio concept results in some genuinely affecting introspection, as on the uncharacteristically non-mawkish “Leo’s Place.” Meanwhile, the title track is an appealing attempt at rap, and “Don’t Give A Damn” is a pretty convincing fuck-you from a guy in his 40s. H.D.

LAST EXIT Cassette Recordings ’87 (Celluloid)

No, that is not a mastodon munching out your mom’s washer-dryer, it’s saxman Peter Brotzmann, dodging the guitar shards of Sonny Sharrock and responding with lungfuls of

outrage. No, that’s not the ghost of Robert Johnson’s grandfather, that’s beat blaster Shannon Jackson rheumin’ the blues. And no, that’s not Cream disappearing into an industrial strength trash compactor, it’s Bill Laswell’s most rewarding ongoing, non-pop, improvisational project. Last Exit—whatta band. M.D.

THE PEDALJETS Today Today (Twilight/Fundamental)

One look at the album’s cover—a black and blue number with a deteriorating human head, a fish and two skeletons—might lead you to think the Pedaljets are a hardcore band. No way. The Pedaljets sound like snippets of the Dream Syndicate, the Replacements and Dramarama all rolled into one. Except these clever guys had the good sense to add a hefty dose of jangle to the guitars. The constant theme running through frontman Mike Allmeyer’s lyrics is that nothing seems to stay the same from today to tomorrow. “Today, Today,” the title track, is the band’s quest for a rock anthem. Other strong cuts include “Hypothermia,” “Lullaby Alone,” “Dumbwaiter” and “One Million Lovers.” Allmeyer has a strong raspy voice. His howling is awesome on “Hide and Go Seek.” The rockin’ riffs and clever hooks only get better on side two. The end result? This is a record to flip over and play again. D.R.

MISSING FOUNDATION 1933 (Your House Is Mine) (Purge)

It’s pretty much impossible to talk aboutMissing Foundation’s output apart from their violent, crowd (and venue) threatening live performance. I say “performance” as opposed to, say, “act” because even the most cursory listen to Pete Missing’s primal/viral screams’ll drive home the notion that this guy is either real ahead of his time or real nuts. Pieces (“songs” seem to be a little too pleasant a word) like “Kingsland 61 ” and “Burn Trees,” both heavy on the metal (as in scrap being beaten and crushed/compacted) side, are more in keeping with what you’ll experience at a MF performance—should you ever get to attend one. See, actions like trashing/setting ablaze New York’s CBGB’s and helping along that city’s infamous Tompkins Square riot make ’em unlikely for booking elsewhere. A shame, since on a purely sonic plane, their music often (“Martyr Of The City,” “Your House Is Mine”) hits harder than most any other “noise” band working similar territory. Missing Foundation should make you sit up and take notice, both musically, and politically—they’re probably the first real Anarchist band since the BaaderMeinhofs. D.S.

MY DAD IS DEAD Let’s Skip The Details (Homestead)

Here’s the real soundtrack to River’s Edge. My Dad Is Dead is one man, Mark Edwards, and the name is very appropriate. His songs tell the stories of burned-out people who are closest to happiness when wallowing in apathy (‘‘Bad Judgement Day”), who can’t control their violent feelings (“Lay Down The Law,” “On Holy Ground,”), and who occassionally feel a kind of vague, confused compassion (“Baby’s Got A Problem,” “The Water’s Edge”) At times, My Dad Is Dead seem like a Midwestern garage band version of Joy Division. Edwards’s vocals are monotonal and flat, and his guitar playing sounds tinny and coiled, as if something’s holding it back. Occasional solos provide the only moments of relief in the otherwise unrelenting bleakness. But somehow, the depression avoids becoming oppressive or seeming like a pose. S.E.

DANIEL JOHNSTON The What Of Whom (Stress)

Texas has produced a long string of, shall we say, slightly off-center performers. If the stories I’ve heard are true, Daniel Johnston is a prime candidate to become the Roky Erickson of the 1990s. However, this isn’t a freakshow; there’s a lot of genuine talent beneath the oddball aura. His voice is strained, his lyrics are morbid and he’s not exactly a virtuoso on either guitar or piano. Despite this, Daniel is one of the best singer/songwriters to come along in years. He’s got a gift for making

these songs sound good out of pure passion, which infuses every last one. He reminds me more of a combination of Neil Young at his whiniest, Alex Chilton at his bleakest, and early Jonathan Richman at his most awkward. The best songs indicate that he might one day make his own Sister Lovers or Rust Never Sleeps. (4716 Depew; Austin, TX 78751) S.E.

RAN BLAKE QUARTET Short Life Of Barbara Monk (Soul Note)

Ran Blake is hard to peg—ostensibly a jazz pianist, he neither cooks nor swings, nor does he, in the avant-garde manner, arpeggiothe audience to death in nod-time. More remarkably, he doesn’t remind one of anybody else except, vaguely, Thelonious Monk (dissonance and surprise). His playing is sparse, tentative, as though bad news awaits at the end of each phrase. Drawing inspiration from film noir and gothic Americana he has, in the past, made anxiety poignant (this is the guy who should have scored In Cold Blood). Blake often records solo, or in duet, or with small orchestrated groups— here, with a conventional jazz quartet, he1 s somewhat more accessible. Tenorist Ricky Ford is a robust, healthy foil to the pianist’s morbid introspection (though he does go a little mad on “Impresario of Death”) and the bass and drums occasionally succeed in getting a spongy sort of groove going—but Blake is the auteur and despite the Stan Kenton covers, the Sephardic and Greek themes, a Cole Porter repast, the motif here is one man’s take on doom. R.C.W.

MATERIAL ISSUE (Landmind)

The test of any potentially great single is two-fold: it tempts you to crank it real loud so that your neighbors can share in the pop culture experience (perhaps unwillingly) and it gives you a little thrill just imagining that you’re hearing it on the radio. Chicago’s Material Issue write consumate 45s, just as certainly as lazy radio programmers ignore ’em nowadays.Theirdebut EP is bubblegum in the Chuck Eddy sense of the word—lots of wonder and innocence. “A Very Good Thing,”

a simple slice of pure crystal set bliss, gives away the identity of Material Issue’s “very most favorite Sweet record.” (Hint: it got radio airplay—but those were different times.) “Carol” is a realistic, hardrocking song for the young adult crowd. The guy tells about the girlfriend he almost lost due to his formerly adolescent, ass-like behavior (“I tried to run, but she ran right behind me”) Run out and buy this record quick—beforethese gutsy 20-year-olds follow fellow I Mini Green’s bad example and switch from bubblegum to (gasp) MitchEaster-worthy college wimp-pop. (P.O. Box 148, Downers Grove, Illinois, 60515) J.B.

TEXAS INSTRUMENTS Sun Tunnels (Rabid Cat)

So far in 1988, we’ve got the Pontiac Brothers, who wish they were the Stones... Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan, who wishes he was Lou Reed (and has written a few songs as great as Lou’s best) . . . and Texas Instruments, who wish they were Bob Dylan. Their recent LP, Sun Tunnels, ain’t Blonde on Blonde ... yet it ain’t all down (and out) in the groove, either. I like the folky, real human intelligence of the love song “She’s My Muse” and of “Floating Off To Graceland.” But the album as a whole has precious little emotion and plenty of tedious song refrains, even if the vocalist apes Bob Dylan’s voice. Missing i^ the angry hope found in Dylan lyrics such as “Sometimes you make it so hard to care, it can’t be this way everywhere.” (Texas Instruments wrote a lyric that goes “And I’ll walk the earth, till I find someone I can trust.”) A little punk, a little Meat Puppets-like countrywestern guitar psychedelia, and about as Dylan-like in impact as U2, who, by the way, probably have more in common with Dylan than do Texas Instruments—didn’t Dylan once write a song about Calling U2??? (P.O. Box 49263, Austin, TX 78765) J.B.

This month’s Rock-A-Ramas were written by: George Smith, Richard C. Walls, Brett Bush, Jill Blardinelli, Harold DeMuir, David Sprague, Deborah Richard and Steve Erickson.