The Demons of Pseudo-Euro-Disco; Jeffreys, Hunter, Kinks & Stones Redux
What would you do if you and two other guys dyed your hair blond, recorded a few records of slick, uptempo new wave-reggae, and suddenly found yourself a household word in India, Mexico, Japan, England, America, and Antarctica? You'd freak. That's obviously what has happened to the Police this outing.
After hitting the market in October 1978 as an unassuming, mellow but cool version of punk music, the Police were marketed by A&M side by side with fellow "Catch a new wave"r Joe Jackson. Their first album produced a hit single on FM, "Roxanne". Their second album was a rush job, showing a respectable sense of humor and musical variation. Then, like Blondie, the Police unfortunately broke out of cult status with their third album, obscuring both where they were coming from and where they were going to. Last year's Zenyatta Mondatta was the last we'll see of unself-conscious music from the trio of Sting, Andy Summers, and Stewart Copeland.
The sparseness is out the window, and with it the cuteness and understatement. Every song now attempts universality of topic, and is cluttered with synthesizer of horns to the point of giving a headache. "Too much information in my brain," complains one song. "One world is enough for all of us," declares another (as opposed to three, get it?). The problem is that these two sentiments (neither very profound) are practically contradictory. In trying to make a record encompassing the whole world, the Police show how their knowledge and talent can get muddled by self-consciousness.
Musically, the band is also confused. The most winning quality of their first three albums was the sharp bite of the guitar sound, the everpresent propelling drums of Copeland, and a liveness that defied the normal pitfalls of recording. Ghosts in the Machine, as the title implies, lets weird, ethereal, and blaring mechanical spirits defuse and diffuse all this. Change is not harmful in the music business; on the contrary, it can be as important as any lyrical or rhythmic talent. The Talking Heads have put out four dissimilar, yet nearly perfect, albums. The Police's first real experiment in four albums reeks of disaster, reflecting something about the popularity of globalism.
The Police remain second only to Abba in international record sales. Abba is an ineffectual, apolitical pop group bordering on muzak. The Jam, the most popular, most political, raw yet delicate, trio in England, will never sell as many albums worldwide as the Police do in America alone. Being on a sales level of Abba shows the kind of "importance" this trio cares about, and makes all the more repugnant Ghosts' French song, its song that murmurs. "When you've made your secret journey, you will be a holy man" and its whole slick psuedo-euro-disco flavor. I hope they exorcise these demons soon. Musical hell is just around the corner.
Billy Idol
Don't Stop [E.P.]
Chrylsalis Records
This record screams "We're ripping you off," pleasantly symbolizing the state of the art. Billy Idol has jumped on the bandwagon of re-recording 60s hits with the added technology of the 80s. When the songs come on the radio, in a bar, in a club, they ahve built-in instant recognition value. Barland Jeffreys did this to "96 Tears", Karla DeVito (on her astoundingly titled album, Is this a Cool World or WHAT?) recycled "Midnight Confessions." Last summer's "Stars on 45" melded dozens of these songs into one disco fiasco.
Here big Billy, the former lead singer of Gen (eration) X, a pioneer punk band, sells out in a big way, getting similar limited mileage out of Tommy James and the Shondells' "Mony Mony." Then there are two original throuwaway songs, and then last year's Gen X hit "Dancing With Myself". Four tunes. Hey, you only have to pay $4.50 for this. What a deal. Give me a throbbing bass drum, a digital recording studio, and I'll go re-record the theme from the Banana Splits. La la la....
Garland Jeffreys (and the Rumour)
Rock and Roll Adult
Epic Records
Garland Jeffreys will never be a superstar. But that can't stop him from trying, or keep me from liking him. There are many problems with this live set, though there shouldn't be. Jeffreys' tour with the Rumour this summer blew away his studio (and studio musician) versions of his reggae-pop-rock mini-anthems. And Adult was taped at the two places in the world that love Garland Jeffreys, New York and Paris. But something rings false. Maybe it's that the opening song, his classic "Wild in the Streets", was played last in concert, and most of the songs following are encores. There's no emotional buildup.
The most endearing feature of Jeffreys' music is his 'little boy lost' persona; a coy optimism pervades his slower, reflective tumes, and the tight, driving street-smart playing of the Rumour emboldens the unpretentious "I May Not Be Your Kind" and "Bound to Get Ahead Someday."
But when the little boy grows up (as the album title declares), we have to deal with new confidence. Grown-up Jeffreys mindlessly runs through R.O.C.K., his paean to his draft which sounded so heartfelt on last year's Escape Artist; the new version is like hearing 101 strings playing the Who's "My Generation." And "96 Tears" does not belong on another Garland Jeffreys album. He's been in the business for a decade, proclaims his allegiance to Frankie Lymon, so why doesn't he play something else to show it?
The record is a triumph for the Rumour; they play "Cool Down Boy" and "35 Millimeter Dreams" much better than they were ever written. Brinsley Schwarz and Martin Belmont's flawless, flowing guitars and Steve Goulding's syncopated drum riffs make everything fun to listen to. But some vocals mark a step back for Jeffreys. There is more posturing and drawing out than there should be. "Cool Down Boy" worked in concert as a 12-minute finale; but on the record it drags. A no-holds-barred rock-and-roll opening gives way to a meditative break, as Jeffreys talks of how his father beat him up. "I hated those days," he needlessly comments. The fans (with prompting) chant "Wanna give to you, my body and soul", and then the uptempo returns and Jeffreys declares "Nobody can hit me now, nobody can touch me now".
For some reason, the righteous, superstar assertion, that you want to believe so much, that I did believe when I say him in concert, once recorded, diminishes his victory. I'd rather Garland keep fighting his rather, fighting racial injustice, fithting urban dacay, than to tell me the fighting's over. This is a good collection of Jeffreys songs for the uninitiated, but besides having some of the best from his albums, it also exposes his weaknesses. Maybe the problem is that anyone who so completely bares his soul demands that we take the good with the bad. So Garland Jeffreys will never be a superstar; Rock and Roll Adult is a good, not great album; but I embrace it.
Ian Hunter
Short Bach N Sides
Chrysalis Records
Ian Hunter, once the driving force behind Mott the Hoople, released an album with half of Springsteen's band three years ago that was chock full of tunes and was played to win. You're Never Alone With a Schizophrenic was melodic, introspective, and fun. Now Hunter has returned to his homeland, hooking up with half the Clash, and the production hand of Mick Jones has added the 'Clash sound' to Hunter's--laser gun synthesizers, up-front guitars with a wall of various whatevers always in the bacgrould. The results are mixed. Somethines Jones pulls up an average song, like the horn-sectioned ditty-turned-anthem "I Need Your Love" or the off-beat, off-key "Lisa Likes Rock and Roll". Other times, it causes weak songs to show up even worse, like the ostentatious "Leave Me Alone," which sounds like Donna Summer having lost her lyric sheet, or the let's-play-with-synthesizers "Noises", which musically proves its lyrical intent--"Noises: the sound of mediocrity." The obligatory Hunter ballads sound tired--"Old Records Never Die" is certainly the result of a bottom-of-the-barrel search for a hero--and "Rain" is a sedative that goes nowhere.
But the few times where Ian doesn't outweigh Mick, and Mick doesn't outweigh Ian, we see What Might Have Been. "Central Park N West" is classic Hunter nonsense, and "(We Don't Want no) Gun Control" is an excellent, and singalong, riveting, sarcastic attack on the NRA. It's a shame that Hunter can't tell the difference between singing about handguns and old records; maybe a continued association with the Clash will push him toward musical complexity and moral integrity.
A quick plug for some great stuff, new old. Mercury Records just re-issued the New York Dolls' two albums, self-titled and Too Much Too Soon. The Dolls were "ahead of their time," and sometimes too out of control for their own good. This is raucous stuff, and lead singer David JoHansen sings of love, drugs, and insanity from firsthand knowledge. Don't be put off by the transvestite image; this is great rock and rool. "Personality Crisis" and the Bo Diddley song "Pills" from the first album, and the remake of "Stranded in the Jungle" on the second are the best, but there's oodles of fun for everyone who ever felt rebelliousness. And priced cheap, too.
The (English) Beat may singlehandedly save the ska revival. Out of all thos bands (Selecter, Madness, Specials, Bad Manners) they stand alone with two uncontestedly great, danceable, moody, records. The 50 plus year old saxist Saxa, vocalist Ranking Roger, et al, have great action. On their first disc, I Just Can't Stop it, they asked P.M. Thatcher, with propriety, "Please stand down, Margaret, stand down". This summer's Wha'ppen is one of the best releases of the year, discarding some of the cande-party for some somber, intricate, personal Anglo-Jamaican Salsa, all highly listenable, never dull. You can't listen passively--they shake a finger at you and say "Get a job!" or ask you "Dying to become a man? Well, I am your flag!". They mix the deadly earnestness of Elvis Costello with the singalong fun of the Beach Boys. It doesn't matter if you "hate new wave," or you "hate reggae"; you'll like this. No one can make warnings of Armageddon or attacks on commercialism ("Freedom's just a new deoderant"; "They're all out to get you") so enjoyable. Let's dance from here to the bomb shelter....
Also two valiant efforts from old warhorses the Stones and the Kinks. The Stones' Tattoo You has been bought by everyone in Boston, so I'll just comment that as good as the music is, the lyrics only matter on the second, ballad side, whereas ten years ago, "Sympathy for the Devil," "Satisfaction," "Gimme Shelter," while quick, all had something to say. The Kinks' Ray Davies, on the other hand, starting to recover from a decade's drunken stupor, has never been so lyrically biting. Give the People What They Want works on many levels; the fast songs reflect the harried mood of Davies' self-destructive persona--"Yoyo" delineates the internal discombobulation of a typical businessman. In "Destroyer," Davies rips off his own famous "All Day and All Night" guitar riff from 15 years ago and instead of mearly declaring love, the power chords represent the "Little man" always in his head, paranoia. The title song applauds humanity's affection for seeing sex and violence: "We all sit glued while the killer takes aim...hey ma, there goes a piece of the president's brain!" And the slow tunes continue Davies catalogue of kooks--"Art Lover" is a man who loves to watch little girls in the park, and "Killer's Eyes" asks the musical question, what's it like to live in hell every day? All of which is to say, the Kinks are alive and kicking as much as Mick and Co., and they deigned to play Boston, too. Mick Jagger is still singing to impress; Ray Davies sings to teach and laugh.