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Arto Lindsay is a missionary's son from Brazil who hasn't changedhis geeky glasses since 1978, when he attracted attention by wringingthe neck of an untuned guitar in the postpunk noise trio DNA. Notwhat's ordinarily thought of as a sexy guy, yet on the AmbitiousLovers'Greed (Virgin), his second album with the permanentfloating samba-funk-noise unit he runs with synth chameleon PeterScherer, he manages to fuse Joao Gilberto-style insouciance withthe direct attack of modern dance music. "You're no exception/Tothe law of symmetry," he reminds a modest beauty inAdmit It,and the same voice that gasped and gurgled incomprehensible metaphorfragments a decade ago sounds sweet and slyly seductive--withoutfalling prey to the sun-dazed romanti-cism that's the bane of Brazilianpop. Scherer's rhythms are both light and tough, and sidemen likeNana Vasconcelos, Vernon Reid, and Bill Frisell could make a fellabelieve in world-beat. Hot, cool, irresistible.
David Thomas is a schoolteacher's son from Cleveland who's almostas fat as he was in 1978, when his postpunk art-rock quintet PereUbu released the classicDub Housing. After becominga Jehovah's Witness, Thomas gradually transformed Ubu's industrialnoise into fairytale whimsy almost as willful as Jonathan Richman'skiddie-rock. Other members left to pursue other interests, but a1987 reunion tour proved harder-edged than grizzled postpunks hadany right to expect, andThe Tenement Year (Enigma)is the best album to bear the Ubu name in a decade. In every phaseUbu was a funny band, and here synth player Allen Ravenstine goesbatshit with sound effects as Thomas rechannels his whimsy intothe kind of jazzy setting often favored by grizzled art-rockers.But there's always the Ubu difference--these guys rock out. Howmany other reunion bands can make that claim?
Playboy, Dec. 1988
The news that rap is now where pop's creative action is won't thrillthe average rock and roll fan, because rap gets along fine withouthim. Targeting a loyal but discriminating audience of young blackmen, the best rap offers few sops to outsiders who aren't attunedto its musical language. Its lyrics are no longer dominated by sex-and-moneyboasts too unlikely to be threatening--these days, militant blackpride is a commonplace if not a commercial necessity. The primeexample is Public Enemy'sIt Takes a Nation of Millions to HoldUs Back, a major hit despite (because of?) a beat harder thanthat of the toughest punk or funk and a dense mix whose atonalitiesrecall the most abrasive harmolodic jazz.
Public Enemy the band aren't as hostile to white people on recordas in interviews, but even a well-meaning Euro-American progressivelike yours truly is liable to find their music brilliant pain andtheir ideology hurtful. So I'm pleased to note equally militantbut more humanistic raps on lesser albums I can nevertheless recommend:Gettovetts' Bill Laswell-producedBattle Call onMissionariesMoving (Island), Afrika Bambaataa and Family's Bill Laswell-producedWorld Racial War onThe Light (Capitol), and Stetsasonic'sCentral America- and South Africa-inspiredFreedom or Death onIn Full Effect (Tommy Boy).
And since only those attuned to rap's musical language are gonnalisten, let me also mention the freshest current introductions.OnFollow the Leader (Uni), Eric B. & Rakim sample theirway beyond the spare James Brown rips of last year'sPaid inFullinto a fast- and smart-talking world of strange world-pophooks. And onStrictly Business (Fresh), EPMD loot theirway into disco heaven. The irresistible title track advertises theirtechnical prowess over a backing track lifted fromI Shot theSheriff--just to prove they don't hold grudges, Eric Clapton'sversion rather than Bob Marley's.
Postscript Notes:
This was written in Sept. 1988 for publication later.
No sooner did he dump his long-suffering spouse and partner Lindafor an L.A. folk impresario in 1982 than Richard Thompson turnedinto a walking advertisement for connubial stick-to-it-iveness--hissolo albums started off vaguely unsatisfying and got deader everytime out. Since Thompson is world-class guitarist and composer whocan outsing Ry Cooder himself, it's news thatAmnesia (Capitol)is at least a big improvement and maybe the rock and roll he's beenaiming at all decade: his skill no longer cries out for Linda'sacrid contralto and contrary soul. I must note, however, that someromantic reversal or other has inspired an even nastier set of lovesongs than has been his nasty habit. The uproarious revenge hyperboleofDon't Tempt Me is the pole that defines the regretsof no fewer than six additional songs, some of which motorvate whileothers brood. Like so many artists before him, Thompson seems tothrive on friction.
Back from limbo at less apparent personal cost are two veteran soulsingers who've never been saddled with the label. Both reggae fixtureToots Hibbert and blueswoman-to-the-stars Etta James choose thesame route out of the rut: via Memphis.Toots in Memphis(Mango) is a cover album that doesn't cloy-- these oldies taughtToots to sing, though never (before) for the record. His Otis Reddingis as on it as anyone who knows his sound would figure; his JackieMoore and Ann Peebles are strokes. Cut in Nashville and producedby Muscle Shoals's Barry Beckett, James'sSeven Year Itch(Island) is more ecumenical, but its deep groove is pure Stax-Volt,the kind of firm musical ground James hasn't stood on since sheprovided makeout music at basement parties from Chocolate City toWatts 25 years ago. And her Otis Redding ain't bad either.
Postscript Notes:
This was written in Oct. 1988 for publication later.
The title that sums up Sonic Youth's early '80s isConfusionIs Sex, which for you it probably isn't and for them maybe itwas. But they got bored with chaos, and unlike so many bohemianswho see through that cliche, they proved to have more socially redeemingtalents.Daydream Nation (Enigma/Blast First) won'tstorm the charts--the high-energy monotones of Thurston Moore andKim Gordon aren't radio-ready, the functional audio is grungy by64-track standards. And so what--if you crave stick-to-the-ribstunes that won't turn your stomach, they go 14 for 14 on this doubleLP, sustaining the extended lengths with an avant version of whatIggy Pop ID'd as raw power. With forced rhythms poweringa tuning system that delivers their guitar sound from the bent-notebullshit of a thousand beer commercials, they uplift and abradeat the same time. When Moore yells "Forget the past and just sayyes" or Gordon progresses from "I wanted to know the exact dimensionsof hell" to "He was candy all over," they flip the bird to an impoverishedtime that's designed to lull body and spirit into passivity. "Does`Fuck you' sound simple enough?" Gordon inquires. Not always. Forthe duration of this album, though, you can just say yes.
Lucinda Williams won't be showing up on any commercials, either,but not for want of bent notes--she just takes no flak. A rock androll traditionalist whose generous voice comes by its drawl naturallyand its blues feeling hard, Williams has been trying to put herexuberantly well-turned songs on an album for most of this decade.Lucinda Williams (Rough Trade), her third try, cameout her way, and why any record man would want to order her aroundI can only guess. Maybe because she seems just an inch's compromiseaway from a hit. But that inch is probably why this rock and rolltraditionalist still sounds fresh.
Postscript Notes:
This was written in Nov. 1988 for publication later.
It would be silly to complain about the continued and possibly permanentfailure of African music to sell to Americans the way it does toEuropeans. Europe is closer to Africa and home to more Africans--asopposed to Afro-Americans, who have their own music to listen to,and to divert white Americans with. But that doesn't mean Americansaren't missing something. And not sinceThe Indestructible Beatof Soweto have I found proof as convincing asAfrica ConnectionVol. I: Zaire Choc (French Celuloid cassette/CD).
A variant of Congolese soukous, the funk-inflected Afro-Cuban fusionthat's dominated Afropop since the early '70s,choc's commonpool of musicians and recording techniques lends itself to anthologization.Virgin Earthworks'sHeartbeat Soukous was like a qualitydisco compilation: generic, maybe, but plenty hot.Zaire Choc,assembled by the biggest and sharpest manufacturer-distributor ofa music whose studio center is Paris rather than Kinshasa, is moreindividuated without any sacrifice of flow, mixing contrasting vocalhooks, quicksilver guitar figures, and negotiable rhythm changeslike a great dancefloor deejay working the crowd for an hour-longpeak.
As for the rest of Africa (ha!), a coded shopping list. The BhunduBoys'Tsvimbodzemoto: Sticks of Fire (Hannibal): mbira-tingedsoukous variant from down Zimbabwe way. Stella Chiweshe'sAmbuya?(U.K. GlobeStyle): sweet, strong neotraditionalist Zimbabwean sister.Zani Diabete & the Super Djata Band (Mango): Malian Hendrix.Obed Ngobeni'sMy Wife Bought a Taxi (Shanachie): minoritytownship jive.
Postscript Notes:
This was written in Dec. 1988 for publication later.
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