Consumer Guide '70s: K

Si Kahn: New Wood (June Appal, 1975) I was put off at first by the indifference to sales claimed in the booklet that accompanies this. Such smug anticommercialism usually betrays mixed motives in a purportedly political artist, and I associated this smugness with Kahn's willfully austere Appalachian music. But the songs soon shone through, correctives every one (despite an occasional baldness of instructional intent) to the romanticizations of Southern pastoral individualism that are currently so profitable. Kahn is an aficionado of poor-white virtues, but not at the expense of his vivid understanding of the labor, sadness, frustration, and small-mindedness that go along with them. B+

Si Kahn: Home (Flying Fish, 1979) This Carolina-based union organizer--who dedicates his second album to his father, Rabbi Benjamin M. Kahn--is the most gifted songwriter to come out of the folkie tradition since John Prine. His overview is political and his songs personal, their overriding theme the emotional dislocations of working far form home. No doubt part of his secret is that he lives among folk rather than folkies, but his understated colloquial precision is sheer talent. Some will consider the all-acoustic music thin (it's often solo or duet, twice a cappella) and the voice quavery. I find that both evoke the mountain music of the '20s in a way that makes me long for home myself, and I'm from Queens. A-

Madleen Kane: Rough Diamond (Warner Bros., 1978) The perfect punk rock ashtray. Madleen looks like a Penthouse blonde with a camera-shy vulva and sings the same way--Andrea True telling little white lies. Promo copies of her LP come with a promo booklet featuring lotsa pix (dig those leg warmers) and text in six languages, including the original Japanese: "She chooses to sing. With her own voice. . . . The wildest words grow tame. . . ." D+

Madleen Kane: Cheri (Warner Bros., 1979) On one side you can't even dance to it--it's like Cheryl Ladd recorded Edith Piaf tributes, which she might yet, all topped off with a paean to "retro," which in case you didn't know means nostalgia with a will to power. C-

Kansas: Leftoverture (Kirshner, 1976) Q: How do you tell American art-rockers from their European forebears? A: They sound dumber, they don't play as fast, and their fatalism lacks conviction. The question of humor remains open: Impressed as I am with titles like "Father Padilla Meets the Perfect Gnat" and Leftoverture itself, I find no parallels in the music. D+

Paul Kantner/Grace Slick: Sunfighter (Grunt, 1971) More sci-fi rev and Tamalpaian grandeur from Frisco's royal family. I dig the cover and the two Grace Slick songs, though not the way she keens them, but the rest of this is Paulie II picking his nose. C

Paul Kantner/Jefferson Starship: Blows Against the Empire (RCA Victor, 1970) Not counting friendly neighbors, there are only two changes from the usual Airplane lineup on this "solo" venture: Jerry Garcia replaces Jorma Kaukonen for reasons of interstellar propulsion, and Paul Kantner replaces Marty Balin for reasons of ego. As much Marty's ego as Paul's, probably--I wouldn't want my name on this thing either. Kantner's singing is as murky as his melodies (there's a connection there somewhere) and for all the record's sci-fi pretensions (does Philip K. Dick actually like this stuff?) it never even gets off the ground. C+

Thomas Jefferson Kaye: First Grade (ABC/Dunhill, 1974) Like the Triumvirate album he produced for John Hammond, Mike Bloomfield, and Dr. John, Kaye's debut was sensually laid-back, with a sly intelligence he hoped to pass off as an active relationship with his environment. But this one stands beside Eric Clapton's 461 Ocean Boulevard as a critique of the laid-back mode. The secret is the covers, which I bet producer Gary Katz (also of Steely Dan) had something to do with--especially since the whole album centers around Fagen & Becker's bitter, poignant farewell to the counterculture, "American Lovers." Together with Loudon Wainwright's painful "Say That You Love Me" and natural boogies from Link Wray and Dr. John, it puts such Kaye titles as "Northern California" and "Easy Kind of Feeling" into the ironic perspective the artist intends. Maybe this is Katz rather than Kaye--but when you hear Kaye describe a "new religion/Called everything's gonna be all right," you won't think so. A

Eric Justin Kaz: If You're Lonely (Atlantic, 1972) James Taylor without panache. D

K.C. & the Sunshine Band: Do It Good (T.K., 1974) Keyboard player (and now vocalist) H.W. Casey and bassman Richard Finch made so much moolah for T.K. prexy Henry Stone that he told them they could spend as much as $3150 on their own LP. What they come up with is the real Miami sound--the sensual Latin accents that really are sensual in New Orleans sound altogether more hyped-up here. "Queen of Clubs" was a smash in the Queen's clubs, while "Sound Your Funky Horn" and "I'm a Pushover" have creased America's soul charts, which makes three hooks right here. A weirdo and a sleeper. B+

K.C. & the Sunshine Band: K.C. & the Sunshine Band (T.K., 1975) No matter what you label them, these otherwise meaningless dance tunes are as bright and distinct as the run of disco mush is dull--when it comes to formula, always opt for top forty, which compels innovation, over Muzak, which forbids it. The horns and vocals are less candidly soulful here than on their debut, and the result is an album that's poppier, lighter--almost airy. And though the songs do all sound alike, that doesn't mean they are. Far from it. A-

K.C. & the Sunshine Band: Part 3 (T.K., 1976) I don't know how many KC albums the record lover need own. One may well be enough, but zero is certainly too few. This is less consistent than the second and more predictable than the first, but it's a close question: Casey and Finch are remarkably inventive within their unique little ambit. Like the others, this sounds so samey you think the riffs will never kick in--and then they do. B+

K.C. & the Sunshine Band: Who Do Ya (Love) (T.K., 1978) They lead off side two with a cover of "It's the Same Old Song," and given the new ones it's a shame it isn't. C+

K.C. & the Sunshine Band: Do You Wanna Go Party (T.K., 1979) The slight shifts in rhythmic and compositional strategy are dubious. But this band is like the Ramones--the hooks sneak up on you. What can I say? Not only do I love the title cut, but I find myself humming everything else on the record--the slow one, the cover version, the one in Spanish. B+

Roberta Kelly: Gettin' the Spirit (Casablanca, 1978) One good thing about disco manufacturers is that they'll try anything. Here the gimmick is Jesus, invoked by name over unusually bright, bouncy, and consistent dance tracks flavored with gospel piano and some Jerry Jumonville saxophone. For me, this conjunction adds a perverse fillip to an already attractive record--I'm sure the folks at Studio 54 can use any kind of salvation that comes their way. Mary Magdalene would approve. B+

Eddie Kendricks: Eddie Kendricks (Tamla, 1974) Most over-extended falsetto of the year. Motown was probably right to try and keep him in the Temptations. C-

Eddie Kendricks: At His Best (Tamla, 1978) Rarely has a talented singer been so ill-served by his corporate connections without failing altogether. Kendricks doesn't have the depth of a natural solo performer--the sweet clarity of his falsetto rang nice spiritual overtones against his more earthbound fellow Temptations, but it gets thin all by itself--and he needs good material to compensate. This ain't it. Most of these songs were hits, but the two uptempo smashes, "Keep On Truckin'" and "Boogie Down," are proto-disco at its most ominously one-dimensional, and except for the Tempts' "Just My Imagination" and the never-a-hit "Skippin' Work Today," the rest range from passable ("He's a Friend") to deplorable ("Shoeshine Boy"). C+

Sarah Kernochan: House of Pain (RCA Victor, 1973) The lyrics looked so great--like good words, not bad poetry--that I put the record on instantly, only to recoil seconds later. Admittedly, I got used to this mannered (ill-mannered?) music eventually; but I recommend a year of live audiences before her next studio date. C

Doug Kershaw: Ragin' Cajun (Warner Bros., 1976) Warner Bros. has been betting for years that "Diggy Liggy Lo" and "Louisiana Man" were the mark of a classic songwriter and borderline insanity the mark of a star. But his two '60s hits proved novelty one-shots (or two-shots) and his manic intensity proved impossible to sell. Here they finally let him do a rocking country album that may or may not appeal to the rocking country market, by which I do not mean the outlaw market--I'm talking about a market too small to make him a star. "It Takes All Day" is a minor hit, "Blow Your Horn" and "I'm Not Strong Enough" deserve to follow, and the filler is inoffensive, proving only (outlaws take note) that those who act macho are more appealing if they also act a little nuts. B

KGB: KGB (MCA, 1976) Heavy horseshit. Carmine Appice, Rick Grech, Barry Goldberg, and Ray (the K) Kennedy don't make a supergroup any more than Jim Price (last espied trying to bury Joe Cocker) makes a superproducer (overproducer, maybe). As for Mike Bloomfield--well, he's deserved better ever since he left Butterfield, and there's obviously no reason to believe he'll ever go out and get it. D+

Chaka Khan: Chaka (Warner Bros., 1978) Arif Mardin and the usual En Why studio funkies lay down a heavier bottom for Ms. Rufus than her El Lay street bottom for Ms. Rufus than her El Lay street players have in years. She's expressing herself by looking for songs, too, but while every one gives her something to say, only Ashford & Simpson's "I'm Every Woman" is up to her human potential. B

B.B. King: Indianola Mississippi Seeds (ABC, 1970) I hate to sound like a fuddy-duddy, but the best moment here is unaccompanied--"Nobody Loves Me but My Mother," all 1:26 of it, with King singing and playing piano. B.B. King, that is--most of the piano here is by Carole King, who sounds fine, as do Leon Russell and Paul Harris. Even the strings and horns avoid disaster--B.B. goes pop with real dignity. But he's rarely brilliant, and the only songs on this record with a chance of being in his show a year from now are "Chains and Things" and Leon Russell's "Hummingbird," hooked on the deathless line "She's little and she loves me." I mean, what good does it do to perform that kind of tripe with dignity? B

B.B. King: Live in Cook County Jail (ABC, 1971) This begins inauspiciously, with introductions and a thrown-away "Every Day I Have the Blues" (compare Live at the Regal and weep), and ends dubiously, with the sappy show-closer "Please Accept My Love." In between B.B. socks home old hits as familiar as "Sweet Sixteen" and as worthy as "Darlin' You Know I Love You" with a tough intensity he rarely brings to the studio. I prefer the horn arrangements on the Kent originals, but the unpredictable grit with which he snaps off the guitar parts makes up for any lost subtlety. A-

B.B. King: B.B. King in London (ABC, 1971) Overlooking Alexis Korner's acoustic boogie, this encounter with Brit second-liners (famed blues devotee Ringo Starr is the big catch) and L.A. session stars is substantial stuff. "Caldonia" and "Ain't Nobody Home" are more than that. But rock with a steady roll it doesn't. Maybe Klaus Voorman, listed on bass, knows why. B

B.B. King: L.A. Midnight (ABC, 1972) Hey, I've got an idea--how about sending B. into the studio to do a blues album? We could bring in a tuba like Taj Mahal, hire some decent rhythm players this time, call up a coupla good white guitarists--B.'ll cut the shit out of them, of course, but it can't hurt. He's got a great new iceman-cometh song, he's always good for a jam or two, and if we have to we can always do "Sweet Sixteen" again. Roots, get back, it's a take. B+

B.B. King: Guess Who (ABC, 1972) Bluesy soul records aren't getting any easier to come by, and who am I to complain about one with the great B.B. King contributing guitar parts? "It Takes a Young Girl" and "Better Lovin' Man," which sound like standards that somehow passed me by, more than make up for the clumsy "Summer in the City" and the rereremade "Five Long Years." But the singer obviously isn't getting any younger, and when he begs comparison with Lorraine Ellison and Howard Tate on "You Don't Know Nothing About Love" he's risking more than he ought to. Which is admirable, in a way. B+

B.B. King: The Best of B.B. King (ABC, 1973) King is human and then some--never less than intelligent but often less than inspired, especially with words. So I'm delighted at how many high points this captures--"Caldonia" and "Ain't Nobody Home" from London. "Nobody Loves Me but My Mother" (marred by unfortunate engineering tricks) from Indianola, two classic blues, and "The Thrill Is Gone," one of his greatest ballads. And though I still find "Why I Sing the Blues" self-serving and "Hummingbird" silly, they sure make classy filler. A-

B.B. King: To Know You Is to Love You (ABC, 1973) The Stevie Wonder-composed title track isn't blues or even soul--it's one of those slow, funky grooves that smolders along for minutes before you notice you're dripping from the heat, and it almost justifies the lame idea of sending King into Sigma Sound with Dave Crawford. Elsewhere King sings indifferent songs sincerely, recites a poem he wrote, and plays his guitar when he gets the chance. B-

B.B. King: Friends (ABC, 1974) If Dave Crawford really wants to turn B.B. into a major "contemporary" soul singer, he shouldn't make him sing Dave Crawford's songs. Best cut: the instrumental. C

B.B. King: Lucille Talks Back (ABC, 1975) In which King expresses himself by (a) following "Have Faith" with "Everybody Lies a Little" (b) covering Lowell Fulson, Z.Z. Hill, and Ann Peebles (c) conversing with his guitar and (d) producing himself. Personal to Dave Crawford: listen hard to those horns. B+

B.B. King: King Size (ABC, 1977) Old Chess man Esmond Edwards acquits himself with honor--the charts are sharp, the sidemen prime, and most of the songs good ones. But the mildness of the two Muddy Waters covers reminds us that King conceived his style as progressive from Muddy's Delta-Chicago gutbucket, and the segue from "Mother Fuyer," the dirtiest traditional blues in the repertoire, to Bill Withers and Brook Benton is disorienting rather than revelatory. B-

B.B. King: Midnight Believer (ABC, 1978) In which B.B. and the Crusaders cut room for a party between sincere schlock and pseudo purism. The King's voice hasn't regained its edge and his guitar is used mostly to decorate Joe Sample's tunes, but this would rate as a mini-comeback if it included another song as good as "Never Make a Move Too Soon," the only one on the album that Sample didn't help write. B

B.B. King: Take It Home (MCA, 1979) The Crusaders' songwriting doesn't peak the way it did on B.B.'s 1978 collaboration with the L.A. topcats, but that's OK because it doesn't dip either. The Crusaders jam, B.B. jives and raps, and the result--give or take some background vocals and a few overworked horn charts--is the topcat equivalent of the kind of wonderful blues-bar album Bruce Iglauer of Alligator has been getting out of less accomplished musicians throughout the '70s. A small delight. B+

B.B. King & Bobby Bland: Together for the First Time . . . Live (ABC/Dunhill, 1974) This is my kind of exploitation--a commercial gimmick that gets two masters back to their form. An honorable document it is, too, especially Bland's part. King's voice and guitar have both been more searing, the latter within recent memory, and though I'd rather hear him singing familiar old blues than mediocre new pop, the classic material does resist renewal, which is why he and Bland do so much pop these days. Sometimes, too, the joking interaction sounds a little uncomfortable--almost as if they're rivals or something. B+

Carole King: Carole King: Writer (Ode, 1970) I liked these musicians better when they called themselves the City--seemed to protect them against string arrangements, folkie jazz, and other exurban excrescences. Must admit, though, that the first side is a lot more eloquent, confident, and tuneful than the nice little album the City put out in 1968. Now if only the Drifters cover on the second side had some company--the reason I'm listening, after all, is that she also wrote hits for the Chiffons, the Shirelles, Little Eva, . . . B

Carole King: Tapestry (Ode, 1971) Pacific rock, sure, but with a sharpness worthy of a Brooklyn girl--if there's a truer song about breaking up than "It's Too Late," the world (or at least AM radio) isn't ready for it. Not that lyrics are the point on an album whose title cut compares life to a you-know-what--the point is a woman singing. King has done for the female voice what countless singer-composers achieved years ago for the male: liberated it from technical decorum. She insists on being heard as she is--not raunchy and hot-to-trot or sweet and be-yoo-ti-ful, just human, with all the cracks and imperfections that implies. And for the first time she has found the music--not just the melodies, but the studio support--to put her point across as cleanly and subtly as it deserves. A-

Carole King: Music (Ode, 1971) Initially this record sounds like a mechanical follow-up to Tapestry. Then you begin to notice the subtle musical advances and the ever more assured backup, especially from guitarists Danny Kootch and James Taylor and saxophonist Curtis Amy, and start humming "Sweet Seasons" or "Song of Long Ago." Then you realize it's really just a mechanical follow-up to Tapestry. I love Carole King, but her value is as limited as it is intense, and her lyrics are banal even when she doesn't write them. C+

Carole King: Rhymes and Reasons (Ode, 1972) The melodies retain their overall charm, but because the lyrics continue their retreat, the hooks, such as they are, never jolt the expectations. C

Carole King: Fantasy (Ode, 1973) The title means she's decided to step outside herself and write songs about imaginary situations, just like some Brill Building hack. A decision which seems to have brightened her music considerably. As for the situations themselves, well, what hath Walter Lippmann wrought? But the odd thing is that in the context of her junkie and housewife soap operas, her quest for "Directions" and "A Quiet Place to Live" could almost make you "Believe in Humanity." I said almost. B

Carole King: Wrap Around Joy (Ode, 1974) The good news is that Carole's new lyricist used to work with Steely Dan. The bad news is that in Steely Dan he was a vocalist. C

Carole King: Really Rosie (Ode, 1975) I've been saying she needed a new lyricist, and here he is--Maurice Sendak, a writer of children's books favored by adults, which makes him a rock (not rock and roll) natural. By side two you begin to resent the repetitiousness of some of King's devices, but since side one comprises her most exciting music since Tapestry you're already converted and it doesn't matter. B+

Carole King: Simple Things (Capitol/Avatar, 1977) Inspirational Verse: ". . . it's not for me to understand/Maybe destruction is part of the plan." Maybe? Worth millions and she doesn't know how to make an omelet. C-

Carole King: Her Greatest Hits (Ode, 1978) Cut for cut this compilation is probably as strong as Tapestry, from which it appropriates four excellent tracks. "Believe in Humanity" is no worse than "Tapestry" itself, and it's nice to have the nicest tunes from all the dud albums that followed it in one place--especially "Corazon," "Brother, Brother," and "Been to Canaan." But it's docked a notch for lacking mythic significance. B+

Clydie King: Direct Me (Lizard, 1971) Clydie has a voice that's more sly Diana than robust Martha and addresses the title plea to Gabriel Mekler, who (this time, anyway) proves neither as sly nor as robust as Berry Gordy. Luckily for her, Clydie also has a studio job with a backup trio called the Blackberries. I wonder when solo LPs from Venetta Fields and Shirley Matthews are expected. Not too soon, I hope. C+

Freddie King: The Best of Freddie King (Shelter, 1975) Although Freddie's renown as the inventor of electric blues guitar is a reward for his shameless Anglophilia (here documented on "Palace of the King"), he did cut some acute r&b sides for (of all labels) King in the '50s. Forget what the Anglophiles claim for his recent work--he's been coasting for years. Here he makes do with a bunch of Leon Russell and Don Nix boogies, his voice blurred, his guitar all fake and roll. C+

King Biscuit Boy: King Biscuit Boy (Epic, 1974) King Biscuit Boy/Richard Newell is a Canadian Paul Butterfield, which I mean as a compliment, and when he sings lead with producer Allen Toussaint doing backups it's the ultimate white blues fantasy. In reality, though, Newell's high-strung earnestness and virtuoso harmonica can't take this album away from Toussaint, and like so many of Toussaint's albums it's only half great. But since it divides neatly into a side of Toussaint songs (great) and a side of Newell's (passable), this time you can't blame that on the auteur. B+

King Crimson: In the Wake of Poseidon (Atlantic, 1970) For a long time I thought this was the worst rock band in history simply because it was the most pretentious, but sometimes pretensions are (at least partially) earned. Their second album is more muddled conceptually than In the Court of the Crimson King, quite a feat. But they're not afraid to be harsh, they command a range of styles, and their dynamics jolt rather than sledgehammer (properly electric, that). Also, they can play: kudos to drummer Michael Giles and guitarist Robert Fripp, who also illustrates the old adage, "Better a Mellotron than real strings." C+

King Crimson: Lizard (Atlantic, 1971) To call this progressive rock is only to prove the term an oxymoron. But if you don't insist on snappy tunes with a good beat there are quite a few textural and technical attractions here, and the cold (not cool) jazziness of their compositions does project a certain cerebral majesty--third stream that deigns (rather than fails) to swing. Unfortunately, neither Gordon Haskell nor (keep off the weeds) Jon Anderson delivers Pete Sinfield's overwrought lyrics with the sarcasm they deserve. B-

King Crimson: Islands (Atlantic, 1972) Just as I was learning to hear past the bullshit they upped the ante, so fuck 'em. When I feel the need for contemporary chamber music or sexist japes, jazz libre or vers ordinaire, I'll go to the source(s). C

King Crimson: Lark's Tongues in Aspic (Atlantic, 1973) More appetizing than you'd expect--new lyricist Robert W. Palmer-Jones and new vocalist John Wetton add roughage to the recipe. But it's still the instrumental stuff that's worth savoring, and not only doesn't it cook, which figures, it doesn't quite jell either. B-

King Crimson: Red (Atlantic, 1974) Grand, powerful, grating, and surprisingly lyrical, with words that cast aspersions on NYC (violence you know) and make me like it, or at least not hate it (virtually a first for the Crims), this does for classical-rock fusion what John McLaughlin's Devotion did for jazz-rock fusion. The secret as usual is that Robert Fripp is playing more--he does remind me of McLaughlin, too, though he prefers to glide where McLaughlin beats his wings. In compensation, Bill Bruford supplies more action than Buddy Miles. Less soul, though--which is why the jazz-rock fusion is more exciting. A-

King Crimson: Starless and Bible Black (Atlantic, 1974) This is as close as this chronically interesting group has ever come to a good album, or maybe it's as close as Robert Fripp has ever come to dominating this chronically interesting group. As usual, things improve markedly when nobody's singing. The lyrics are relatively sharp, but there must be better ways of proving you're not a wimp than casting invective at a "health-food faggot." Unless you are a wimp, that is. B

King Crimson: USA (Atlantic, 1975) Since the nearness of death was good for this band, I figured a posthumous live album might be even better, and though lyrics and vocals are still pompous annoyances, these musical themes (including the off-the-cuff "Asbury Park") are among their best. In Central Park they have no choice but to skip the subtlety and turn it up. The excitement thus generated is more Wagner than Little Richard--this record is a case study in the Europeanness of English heavy metal. But that doesn't mean it's not classic. B+

King Floyd: King Floyd (Cotillion, 1971) This is virtually the only good soul music to come from Atlantic in recent memory, which must mean something, probably not good. A standard solid soul LP, nothing ruinous and a couple of good singles to get off on. B

King Floyd: Well Done (Chimneyville, 1975) Floyd's quiet, chocolatey voice--cf. Lee Dorsey, Aaron Neville--is prized by seekers after the New Orleans dispensation, but he's never grooved me without skipping like a cheap bootleg. So I'm pleased to report that side one of his fourth LP, climaxing with the neglected regional hit "I Feel Like Dynamite," provides songs as winsome as the straight-ahead Caribbeanisms (even some reggae) of the New Orleans r&b behind. Location of studio: Jackson, Mississippi. B

The Kinks: Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround (Reprise, 1970) Although "Lola" was an astounding single, the only astounding thing about this album is its relentless self-pity. The evolution of Ray Davies's singing from raunch to whine is now complete; the melodies are still there, but in this context they sound corny rather than plaintive. It's one thing to indulge your nostalgia re village greens, another to succumb to it all over a concept album about modern media. N.b.: bookkeepers, song publishers, union reps, and musimoguls aren't all like rats. Key line, from "Got To Be Free": "We've got to get out of this world somehow." B-

The Kinks: Muswell Hillbillies (RCA Victor, 1971) Because the Kinks Klaque hyped this as a great album when a simple perusal of the lyrics revealed more of the same olde alienation, I overreacted violently, but in an unsentimental retrospect I can hear it, and I do mean hear. Most of its charms are in the casual-to-messy eclecticism with which it revives time-honored effects from the music hall and the mod era and even the mountains, and in the dotty good humor of Ray Davies's singing, which makes you think that maybe--just maybe--he doesn't take the "Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues" of the "20th Century Man" at face value. But combine those two titles circa 2001 and you're in the court of the Crimson King. B+

The Kinks: The Kink Kronikles (Reprise, 1972) Self-konfessed kultist John Mendelsohn has kreated an inkomparable kompilation. Great hits are few--the Kinks have made U.S. top forty only twice since their first best-of, with "Lola" and "Sunny Afternoon." But great songs abound, assembled with a konnoisseur's kraft (all right, I'll stop) from available (and deleted) LPs, uncollected singles (told you I'd stop), and the vaults. Mendelsohn has little use for Ray Davies the would-be satirist ("Well-Respected Man," etc.), apologizing even for such marginally "boorish" efforts as "King Kong" and "Mr. Pleasant." So we get twenty-eight tracks that concentrate on Davies the lyric realist, the poet of pathos and aspiration, at his tuneful, readymade best. Definitely the world's most charming (and untidy) ripoff artist. And he wrote "Waterloo Sunset," the most beautiful song in the English language. A

The Kinks: Everybody's in Showbiz (RCA Victor, 1972) A few of the new songs here are as strident as anything Ray Davies has done since before he started playing the recluse in London in the late '60s. They're tight; they have a firm beat; they're, you know, rock and roll. Unfortunately, they're still self-pitying--the reformed recluse doth reflect overmuch these days on the travails of the touring superstar. But for only an extra dollar you get a live album worth at least that, featuring the antics of a reborn showman who has turned stage fright into a way of life and thus rendered his self-pity somewhat more palatable. B+

The Kinks: The Great Lost Kinks Album (Reprise, 1973) It says something about the limitations of the Kinks' professional renaissance that this belated compilation of B sides and outtakes, most of them recorded pre-renaissance, at around the time of Village Green Preservation Society, stands as the group's best album of the decade. Fragile, unkempt, whimsical, sometimes thrown away, with brother Dave left room for a cinematic fantasy of his own, it sticks close to the harmless eccentrics who comprise the only socially significant subculture about which Ray has ever had anything interesting to say. A-

The Kinks: Preservation Act I (RCA Victor, 1973) Ray Davies is a sensitive artist, but he's never had an idea worth reducing to prose in his life. When he tosses off music toward no grand purpose his satire takes on a charity that justifies its shallowness. But when he gets serious he always skirts the edge of small-mindedness. This time he falls in. C+

The Kinks: Preservation Act II (RCA Victor, 1974) Many are impressed by the fact that Davies's characters (yes, folks, another dramatic work here) have taken on an extra dimension, but I say that only makes two. He's finally figured out a way to integrate the horns and the girlies--sloppy Weill and sloppy madrigal on top of the sloppy rock and roll, all very lovable--but that's not enough. B-

The Kinks: Soap Opera (RCA Victor, 1975) Maybe because it works so perfectly in the theater, this doesn't seem to work too well anywhere else. If you want a memento of the show, so be it. Otherwise avoid. C+

The Kinks: The Kinks Present Schoolboys in Disgrace (RCA Victor, 1975) Yet another original cast recording--in the big production number, Ray Davies indicts "Education" for its failure to teach. Ultimate Cause. Go get 'em, Ray. C+

The Kinks: Celluloid Heroes (RCA Victor, 1976) Them as wants an overview of Ray Davies's RCA period are referred to this upstanding compilation, with eight cuts from the first two RCA albums and four from the four others. Although such unlikely gems as "Have a Cuppa Tea" and "Look a Little on the Sunny Side" are overlooked for more obvious staples of the Kinks' road-band phase, none of the selections is bad. But they're all, well, obvious--devoid of Davies's saving grace, which is subtlety, eccentricity, some combination in there. Overview: the knack remains and the craft may actually have increased, but the gift has flown. B+

The Kinks: Sleepwalker (Arista, 1977) Ray Davies's temporary abandonment of theatrical concepts may have ruined his show, but it's freed him to write individually inspired songs again. It's also freed his band to play up to its capacity, which unfortunately falls midway between professional virtuosity and amateur fun. Doubly unfortunate, at least half the songs are in a similar range. Recommended: "Jukebox Music" and "Full Moon." B-

The Kinks: Misfits (Arista, 1978) Ray Davies hasn't put so many hummable melodies in one place since Everybody's in Showbiz (just to make sure, he's put a couple of them both places), and the lyrics evince renewed thought and craft. All of which makes his congenital parochialism and ressentiment seem surprisingly fresh and vivid. Dismaying: "Black Messiah"--Enoch Powell would be proud. B

The Kinks: Low Budget (Arista, 1979) Ray Davies hasn't rocked so hard since his power-chord days in the mid-'60s, and often he shores up sloppy burlesques like the title cut just by trying harder. But I don't find his poor-mouthing crassness--the fusion of syndrum and macho-flash guitar on "Superman" or the schlock hooks from "Jumping Jack Flash" and "Jesus Christ Superstar"--at all charming, and anyone who detects irony in "Catch Me Now I'm Falling," his threnody for "Captain America," is too worried about the ayatollah or the Russkies to think straight. With his ceaseless whining about strikes and shortages, the plight of millionaires and the cruelty of prostitutes, Davies has turned into the voice of the middle-class ressentiment he's always been a sucker for. No, Ray, you don't have to be a superman just to "survive." Especially if you've got a song catalogue. B-

Kiss: Dressed to Kill (Casablanca, 1975) I feel schizy about this record. It rocks with a brutal, uncompromising force that's very impressive--sort of a slicked-down, tightened-up, heavied-out MC5--and the songwriting is much improved from albums one and two. But the lyrics recall the liberal fantasy of rock concert as Nuremberg rally, equating sex with victimization in a display of male supremacism that glints with humor only at its cruelest--song titles like "Room Service" and "Ladies in Waiting." In this context, the band's refusal to bare the faces that lie beneath the clown makeup becomes ominous, which may be just what they intend, though for the worst of reasons. You know damn well that if they didn't have both eyes on maximum commerciality they'd call themselves Blow Job. B

Kiss: Alive (Casablanca, 1975) There are those who regard this concert double as a de facto best-of that rescues such unacknowledged hard rock classics as "Deuce" and "Strutter" from the sludge. There are also those who regard it as the sludge. I fall into neither category--regret the drum solo, applaud "Rock and Roll All Nite," and absorb the thunderousness of it all with bemused curiosity. The multimillion kids who are buying it don't fall into either category either. B-

Kiss: Destroyer (Casablanca, 1976) Like most hard (not heavy) groups wildly favored by young teens (cf. Alice Cooper, BTO), these guys have always rocked better than adults were willing to enjoy, but pro producer Bob Ezrin adds only bombast and melodrama. Their least interesting record. C+

Kiss: Rock and Roll Over (Casablanca, 1977) Those who dismiss them as unlistenable are still evading the issue: they write tough, catchy songs, and if they had a sly, Jagger-style singer they'd be a menace. But they aren't a menace, my wife and my sister assure me; the kids get off on the burlesque. Does this mean that when the cartoon hero in the platform shoes bellows an order to grab the rocket in his pocket all the twelve-year-olds are aware that this is a caricature of sex, and macho sex at that? Really, I'd like to know. But I'm not getting down on my knees to find out. B-

Robert Klein: Child of the 50's (Brut, 1973) In person, Klein is quick, energetic, nasty, compassionate--very New York. This record captures about half of that, which isn't bad, and I bet the next one is better. B

Robert Klein: New Teeth (Epic, 1974) The funniest album by a standup comic since George Carlin's Class Clown leaves behind the grammar-school nostalgia--which although frequently amusing always seemed formulaic when it wasn't--that kept Klein from sounding commercially uncompromised. Unlike Carlin, Klein gets better all the time. Never trivial, never cynical, never lacking a comic purpose for his outrage, he's up there with Pryor and Tomlin. A-

The Knack: Get the Knack (Capitol, 1979) Cognoscenti I know tend to couch their belief that this is the Anticlash in purely technical terms--harmonies treacly, production punched up, and so forth. Bullshit. I too find them unattractive; if they felt this way about girls when they were unknowns, I shudder to think how they're reacting to groupies. But if they're less engaging musically than, say, the Scruffs, they have a lot more pop and power going for them than, say, the Real Kids. In other words, "My Sharona" is pretty good radio fare and let's hope "She's So Selfish" isn't the next single. Face it, this is a nasty time, and if the Stranglers are (or were, I hope) Sgt. Barry Sadler, these guys are only Freddie and the Dreamers. Docked a notch for clothes sense. B-

Gladys Knight: Miss Gladys Knight (Buddah, 1978) The most inconsistent of Gladys's albums with the Pips offered frequent glimmers of the soul in the middle of the road, but this solo shot is dreary. Not only is it markedly duller than The One and Only . . . , supposedly her farewell to the Pips, but it's also less interesting than Callin', the second album by the Pips along together. I assume producer Gary Klein arranged the switch from New York soul session guys, who have their moments, to El Lay schlock-pop session guys, who don't. So he and second-stringer Tony Macaulay (why he have three songs on this album? why he produce them?) will do as scapegoats. But is it their fault she says "little one" instead of "little wog" on a version of "Sail Away" in which the slave trader's gently humorous persona recalls the narrator of "Try to Remember"? And was it they who saddled her with the Jim Gilstrap Singers, soon to change their name to the Paps? Even her summer TV show was more fun than this. C-

Gladys Knight & the Pips: Greatest Hits (Soul, 1970) Reviving "The Nitty Gritty" isn't a very good way of getting down there--nothing else here matches the shouting funk of "Grapevine" or "End of Our Road," and her penchant for solid schmaltz obviously goes way back. But so does her genius for it. Annoyance: the tasteful but extraneous strings on the remakes of "Every Beat of My Heart" and "Letter Full of Tears." A-

Gladys Knight & the Pips: Neither One of Us (Soul, 1972) If Knight is the golden mean of female soul, here she could use some burnishing. From the hits through the covers to the fillers she turns in a more than creditable job, but only on a slow version of "For Once in My Life" do you feel she couldn't go a little deeper. You'd think she was planning to leave her label. B

Gladys Knight & the Pips: Imagination (Budah, 1973) Damn right "Midnight Train to Georgia" is a great single, but that's no reason to devote an album to the wit and wisdom of Jim Weatherly. Weatherly's stuff does beat out the two Pips showcases, though--a transparently hokey "I Can See Clearly Now" and a song about Granny's window designed to recall the one about Daddy's mouth. B

Gladys Knight & the Pips: Claudine (Buddah, 1974) Gladys Knight, always in thrall to her material, meets Curtis Mayfield, always a more undisciplined composer than is safe for such an undisciplined singer. Object: soundtrack. Result: Knight's most satisfying regular-release LP. It's a little skimpy (six songs plus one instrumental for just over thirty minutes), but given Mayfield's discursive propensities I'll withhold my complaints. A-

Gladys Knight & the Pips: Knight Time (Soul, 1974) Or does she transcend her material after all? This is a typical Motown exploitation, comprising two strong songs that should have been on Neither One of Us plus manufacturer's seconds. Yet her moral seriousness loses none of its weight, and there's something in her voice, a hurtful rough place the honey missed, that makes me want to listen through the humdrum dynamics of the tracks. B-

Gladys Knight & the Pips: I Feel a Song (Buddah, 1974) Compared to sisters like Aretha Franklin or Tina Turner, Knight is a moderate. Her way with a ballad is suspiciously smooth and direct, and her demeanor flirts with the respectable. But she always radiates a great singer's luminous conviction, and beneath the moderation she's very comfortable with her emotional extremities. When she adds a squeal or a grunt or a growl on this album, or holds back a tear, or turns a song into a trembling sigh, you know she means exactly what she isn't saying, and I've never heard her in better voice. The material is still a little flat, but it does take in uptempo soul and Dionne Warwick pop and Bill Withers funk and Bill Withers sentiment. Plus a version of "The Way We Were" that establishes her claim to a middle-class veneer in perpetuity. B+

Gladys Knight & the Pips: Second Anniversary (Buddah, 1975) Success of the Vegas/television sort does more than pollute the sensibility--it diverts one's attention from the grubby business of making records. It took two production teams to turn out this arrant product, a sure sign she knows something's wrong. Strongest cut: the Pips' (and Eugene McDaniels's) "Street Brother." C+

Gladys Knight & the Pips: The Best of Gladys Knight & the Pips (Buddah, 1976) The second disappointing album to include both "Midnight Train" and "Imagination" isn't at all bad, but it isn't what it says it is, either. B+

Reggie Knighton: Reggie Knighton (Columbia, 1975) People who still believe Randy Newman's Little Criminals is a great record may be silly enough to think this is a good one. C+

Kokomo: Kokomo (Columbia, 1975) OK for a buncha Britons, sort of like the Hues Corporation grown nostalgic for its roots. How impressive you find that depends on what you think of the Hues Corporation. C+

Bonnie Koloc: After All This Time (Ovation, 1971) On the first side she wishes to combine Grace Slick's priestess with Joan Baez's bowdlerizing aesthete, and the strain is gruesome, especially on the high notes. On the second side she shows the makings of a likable folkie, especially on a blues she wrote herself. But the high notes are still a strain. C

Bonnie Koloc: Bonnie Koloc (Ovation, 1973) After a bland follow-up complete with standard singer-songwriter covers, this fulfills perhaps half the promise of her more attractive pretensions. Her songs drift off into their own imagery, and I've caught her rhyming "warm" and "morn," but she has more to say about her father than Judy Collins and more to say about snakes than Alice Cooper. Her melodies are durable. And the cleanliness of her voice is saved from antisepsis by a cornfed openness that has Waterloo, Iowa, written all over it. B-

Bonnie Koloc: At Her Best (Ovation, 1976) Her most consistent album to date is marred by chummy material (who is David Van Delinder and why did she release his "Roslyn" once much less twice?), half-assed commerciality (two is one too many Jim Croce songs), and dumb experiments (arting up Jackson Browne is carrying grass to Topanga). Fortunately, it's also marked by a goodly selection of her more consistent originals--the eighty-percenters is how I think of them--as well as the definitive version of "You're Gonna Love Yourself in the Morning" (not to mention Jim Croce's "Hard Way to Go"). But the real reason I continue to listen through the bad tries is that she sings the way Lily Tomlin has always wished she could. B-

Bonnie Koloc: Close-Up (Epic, 1977) This is where Koloc's modest, unmistakable intelligence--and voice--finally make a record work. Not that the old problems don't persist--I disapprove of songs about silver stallions, I'm sick of "We Had It All," and I guarantee that Koloc's own unaccompanied "I'll Still Be Loving You" requires more camouflage than her Marxophone (?) coda. But the two Lil Green compositions that kick off side two vie with the originals and would set the right tone even if they didn't. She does all right by Hank Snow's "Rhumba Boogie," too. B+

Bonnie Koloc: Wild and Recluse (Epic, 1978) I still like Koloc's individualism--anybody who can sing Willie Dixon's "I Need More" like a B-movie schoolmarm who's sexy when she takes off her glasses is jake with me. But despite her ear for songs and her willingness to experiment (a wino provides running commentary on side two) she still gets boring. Maybe she should try contact lenses. B-

Kongas: Africanism (Polydor, 1977) This Cerrone-Don Ray concept group is the most convincing rock-disco fusion to date. The 15:21-minute A side sustains the propulsion of "Gimme Some Lovin'" for twelve-and-a-half minutes longer than Spencer Davis and Stevie Winwood did, proving (despite one dumb pseudo-seduction interlude) that Stevie's organ roll did more to keep the song going than his famous vocal. B+

Kongas: Anikana-o (Salsoul, 1978) Here we have the best tracks by a 1974 version of the Kongas remixed and lengthened according to current disco usages. As any good Africanist would hope, the music depends more on congas and less on traps--the A side comprises some sixteen minutes of multipercussive dance music that moves steadily after a slow start. The B side is marred by a silly Eurorock voice going on about what ever happened to his world. Africanism, that's what. B

Al Kooper: A Possible Projection of the Future/Childhood's End (Columbia, 1972) I know, what could be worse than a sci-fi concept album by Al Kooper, who hasn't been good for a whole LP since early electric Dylan? Only it's really solid, without one bad cut. Kooper's melodies stick to the ribs, and his lyrics are adequate or better, and does he do a job on some oldies from Curtis Mayfield and Smokey Robinson. Recommended. B+

Alexis Korner: Bootleg Him! (Warner Bros., 1972) The most authentic English blues rediscovery since Long John Baldry. C-

Ernie Kovacs: The Ernie Kovacs Album (Columbia, 1977) Kovacs could make me laugh very hard when he was alive, but that was 15 or 20 years ago, and like a lot of comedy his material doesn't age well, at least not for me. I mean, a lisping poet who complains to Brooth about his martini? (Compare Bob and Ray's "Charles the Poet, on RCA's sadly deleted Golden Age of Comedy.) As with the TV revivals the record is not without laughs, but they come about once every five or 10 gags, wan little chuckles that feel forced even when they're involuntary. C+

Kraftwerk: Autobahn (Vertigo, 1975) The Iron Butterfly of überrock--Mike Oldfield for unmitigated simpletons, sort of, and yet in my mitigated way I don't entirely disapprove. A melody or two worth hearing twice emanates from a machine determined to rule all music with a steel hand and some mylar, and the title track is longer than "In-a-Gadda-da-Vida" sans drum solo, with a lyric (trot provided) that could become the "What's Life? A magazine" of high school German classes all over America. B-

Kraftwerk: Trans-Europe Express (Capitol, 1977) No, I have not shorted out or fallen in love with a cyborg. No, I do not like Kraftwerk's previous craft-work, Radio-Activity, which consists mostly of bleeps. But this shares with Autobahn a simple-minded air of mock-serious fascination with melody and repetition. Plus its textural effects sound like parodies by some cosmic schoolboy of every lush synthesizer surge that's ever stuck in your gullet--yet also work the way those surges are supposed to work. Plus the cover and sleeve photos are suitable for framing. A-

Kraftwerk: The Man-Machine (Capitol, 1978) Only a curmudgeon could reject a group that synthesizes the innovations of Environments and David Seville & the Chipmunks, not to mention that it's better make-out (and dance) music. B+

Kris Kristofferson: Kristofferson (Monument, 1970) "Me and Bobby McGee" is only the beginning--this former Rhodes scholar is as deft and common as any songwriter in Nashville, though he's better off keeping it personal with a heartbreak song like "For the Good Times" than justifying his scruffy appearance with penny-ante satire like "Blame It on the Stones." But he's the worst singer I've ever heard. It's not that he's off key--he has no relation to key. He also has no phrasing, no dynamics, no energy, no authority, no dramatic ability, and no control of the top two-thirds of his six-note range. Recommended to demo collectors. C

Kris Kristofferson: The Silver Tongued Devil and I (Monument, 1971) People say Kris is ruined by producer Fred Foster. Note, however, that the ruin isn't commercial but artistic--the man sells a lot better than Randy Newman. That's because Kris's pet paradox--hobo intellectual as Music Row hit man--almost demands extraneous strings. Ungainly, not to say dishonest. C-

Kris Kristofferson: Songs of Kristofferson (Columbia, 1977) Over the years, Kristofferson has learned enough about acting to challenge George Burns as a crooner, although the veteran is stronger in the rebop department. It's conceivable he might even do somewhat better now on some of his great early songs. But not on this glorified repackage. C

Kris Kristofferson and Rita Coolidge: Breakaway (Monument, 1974) The least embarrassing LP either had made in years is a testament of what just might be a fairly interesting marriage. The way you can tell is that the love songs about separation and temptation and compulsion and good-timing work out, while the ode to romantic serenity (could it be by the same Sherman brothers who occasionally soundtrack a Disney movie?) sound like it was recorded at gunpoint. B-

Kris & Rita: Natural Act (A&M, 1979) Before the days of Oscar nominations and Jackie Wilson atrocities, when these married hippies were striving to gain acceptance as a mainstream country duo, they actually went out of their way to be boring--the material on Full Moon was so damn acceptable you almost didn't notice it was there. So I guess Breakaway was "transitional," because this time the outlaw superstar duo work with much sharper songs, including three from T-Bone Burnett and two (good ones) from Billy Swan. Unfortunately, K&R don't go out of their way to be interesting, and when you're as somnambulant as this pair, sharp songs aren't enough. B

Fela Anikulapo Kuti: Zombie (M.I.L. Multimedia, 1977) Fela Anikulapo Kuti is a Nigerian pianist-saxophonist who makes real fusion music--if James Brown's stuff is Afro-American, he is Amer-African. No U.S. percussion ensemble would distinguish between first and second conga, but Fela's harmonic, melodic, and improvisational ideas are all adapted from Afro-American (which means part European) models. His sax style recalls the honkers, but it's more staccato, more complex rhythmically. Not only that, there are lyrics, in English, with crib sheet--very political, very associative, explicitly antibook. A-

Jim Kweskin: Richard D. Herbruck Presents Jim Kweskin's America (Reprise, 1971) I approve of any revitalization of the American-democratic myth, but life in the Lyman Family must not be very good-timey. Though these great traditional songs sound undeniably idiosyncratic, they're idiosyncratic with the kind of ol'-folks-at-bay decripitude you might expect from people who believe God is a harmonica player. B-

K: Compilations

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