Consumer Guide '70s: P

Pablo Cruise: A Place in the Sun (A&M, 1977) This mainstream synthesis is not without a certain agreeable tension--vocally and instrumentally, these boys do have their licks down. But it's also a demonstration of how today's pop exploits the rhythmic and dramatic clichés of yesterday's black music. Lyrics, too--Cory Lerios and Dave Jenkins are credited as the sole composers of "Raging Fire," in which love lifts them higher than they've ever been before. C

Pablo Cruise: Worlds Away (A&M, 1978) The Cruisers hit my enemies list somewhere on Interstate 95. Hook glut, it's called--hear David Jenkins sing "once you get past the pain" fifty times in a day and the pain will be permanent. Even if the next hit is the title cut, a genuine rocker, the band is the '70s Grass Roots, and if Orleans and the Doobie Brothers are the obvious forerunners, that's their cross to bear. It don't mean a thing if it's studio swing. C

Tom Pacheco: Swallowed Up in the Great American Heartland (RCA Victor, 1976) Harry Chapin meets Waylon Jennings and guess who cornholes who. Or: I do too love America, that's why I hate what it's become. Or: this land is your land, this land is my land, from the Armadillo to the Rikers Island. C

Pacific Gas & Electric: Are You Ready? (Columbia, 1970) Great single, easily their best cut ever, but the album is a comedown. Charlie Allen is not an entirely convincing Otis. B

Robert Palmer: Some People Can Do What They Like (Island, 1976) My guess is that Palmer dresses classy as a subterfuge, to make people think that subdued quality is deliberate. Instead he's convinced me that I'll get off on a white r&b singer from Savile Row the same day I give up Jack Daniel's for sherry and join the Dartmouth Club. C+

Paris: Big Towne, 2061 (Capitol, 1976) Here's Robert Welch, the American rock singer who joined Fleetwood Mac in 1971 and quit in frustration in 1975. His second LP--smooth and hard-rocking, or course--is perfect for Fleetwood Mac fans nostalgic for Mystery to Me. Wherever you are. B

Graham Parker: Howlin' Wind (Mercury, 1976) Parker builds his white r&b of such familiar materials that it takes awhile for the songs to sort themselves out, but their fury is unmistakable--in the time-honored English manner, bass and drums play the house-rocking rhythms of Chicago and Detroit for righteous anger rather than good-time escape. Then songs come clear, marred at times by the white bluesman's chronic romanticism of the blood--"Gypsy Blood," to be precise--but so passionate that every personal animus takes dead aim at the great world. Parker's "strange religion/Without any God" may well be himself. But when he instructs the Lord not to ask him questions, he doesn't extend the prohibition to Graham Parker. A

Graham Parker: Heat Treatment (Mercury, 1976) Parker doesn't just have the makings of a major artist, he is one. Because his more reflective and/or accusatory tendencies here show up his rather narrow timbral and melodic range, this isn't quite as engaging as Howlin Wind. Even the verve of the Rumour's arrangements and Parker's deft and pithy way with vernacular speech don't entirely redeem "Black Honey" or "Help Me Shake It." But the sound is a lot fuller, and the defiance in the face of social collapse more bracing as a result. A

Graham Parker: Stick to Me (Mercury, 1977) This is indeed a disappointment. The production is muddy, the female chorus an excrescence, and "The Heat in Harlem" vapid and overblown. But it's not as depressing as the faithful believe. Sure, I'll probably put on Howlin Wind or Heat Treatment when I feel like hearing Parker--unless I just have to hear one of these songs, most of which eventually implanted themselves in my subconscious just like the others. A-

Graham Parker and the Rumour: The Parkerilla (Mercury, 1978) If you think it's a little early for a concert album by Parker, who's not exactly Peter Frampton on the rackjobber circuit, you're right, but only if you view this--three live sides plus one 33-rpm single (the fourth version of "Don't Ask Me Questions" Parker has put on disc)--as music, or product. Regard it instead as a gambit designed to terminate his contract with Mercury. The music that fleshes out the gambit has a nice intensity that gets left out of those nasty rumors. But none of the songs are new and none of the remakes revelatory. B-

Graham Parker and the Rumour: Squeezing Out Sparks (Arista, 1979) An amazing record. Parker's mood, which has narrowed into existential rage with a circumstantial root, makes for perfect, untamable rock and roll. Guitar, drums, vocals, lyrics, and hooks (and more hooks) mesh into ten songs so compelling that you're grateful to the relative lightweights for giving you a chance to relax. And if Graham is pissed off merely because he's not a big star yet, he translates his frustrations into credible, emotionally healthy anger--the kind you feel when they can't fit the real news into print. A

Junior Parker: I Tell Stories Sad and True, I Sing the Blues and Play Harmonica Too, It Is Very Funky (United Artists, 1972) Once a big man on the blues circuit, Parker was turning into the forgotten Beale Streeter by the time he died last year, and this is a respectful farewell--Sonny Lester, who wrecked his recent collaboration with Jimmy McGriff, keeps things simple (well, fairly simple). Never as penetrating as B.B. or Bobby, Parker smooths his way over the arrangements with the calm of a man who was mellow before the concept existed, at least in its present deracinated form. Highlight: the sad, true story that goes with "Funny How Time Slips Away." B

Parliament: Osmium (Invictus, 1970) What happens when a black harmony group names an album after the heaviest metal, depluralizes its name, and pluralizes its music? It may be pretentious bullshit, but it sure is interesting pretentious bullshit--bagpipes and steel guitars, Bach and rock, Satchmo as Kingfish, work chants as dozens, all in the service of a world view in which love/sex becomes frightening, even brutal, and no less credible for that. B

Parliament: Up for the Down Stroke (Casablanca, 1974) What seems to distinguish this mysterious alternate version of Funkadelic (same personnel, different label) from the original is that it's more politic. Its excesses don't offend. Gone is all the scabrous talk of holes and bitches, and gone too are the politics themselves--the nearest this comes to social criticism is to praise the brain. But what's left is damn near a (musical) revolution. The material George Clinton has amassed over the years--the harmony-group vocal chops, the Jimi H. guitar, the James B. horns and rhythms--is here deployed in yet another audacious deconstruction/reconstruction of black pop traditions, and this time it works. All of the voice arrangements skew the original "I Wanna Testify" (which is reinterpreted for comparison) the way those of Big Star do, say, "Run for Your Life." The horns and guitars weave and comment and come front. And the title cut kicks and jams. One more riff like that and they'd take over the world. A-

Parliament: Chocolate City (Casablanca, 1975) On the first side A DJ who reminds me of original AM scatman Jocko Henderson jive-raps on the satisfactions of suffrage and then gives way to a danceable, listenable, forgettable groove. On the second side, interesting but hookless off-harmony excursions, two of them too slow and/or too long, break into some heavy funk for the ages. B

Parliament: Mothership Connection (Casablanca, 1976) That DJ from Chocolate City, or maybe it's the Chocolate Milky Way, keeps the beat going with nothing but his rap, some weird keyboard, and cymbals for stretches of side one. And later produces the galactic "Give Up the Funk" and a James Brown tribute that goes "gogga googa, gogga googa"--only believe me, that doesn't capture it. A-

Parliament: The Clones of Dr. Funkenstein (Casablanca, 1976) The message seems to be that clones are cool, and the proof seems to be the predictable yet effective funktoons that dominate the album. But I remain an unreconstructed Yurrupean rationalist/individualist, and I wish there were a few more tracks as specific as "Dr. Funkenstein" and "Sexy Body." B+

Parliament: Parliament Live/P-Funk Earth Tour (Casablanca, 1977) Because it mixes music from all three George Clinton creations (including a new chant) and conveys a lot of the anarchic, participatory throb of a P. Funk concert, this live double serves a real function. But the recording doesn't do much justice to the music's bottom, or its top. B+

Parliament: Funkentelechy Vs. the Placebo Syndrome (Casablanca, 1977) This seems like your representative 'delicment LP at first, featuring one irresistible and quite eccentric dance cut, other dance cuts that are at moments even more eccentric (including one based on nursery rhymes), bits of inspired jive, bits of plain jive, and an anomalous slow one. But with familiarity the three rhythm hooks that anchor the album start sounding definitive. And never before has George Clinton dealt so coherently with his familiar message, in which the forces of life--autonomous intelligence, a childlike openness, sexual energy, and humor--defeat those of death: by seduction if possible, by force if necessary. A

Parliament: Motor-Booty Affair (Casablanca, 1978) A kiddie record that features the return of the Chipmunks as "three slithering idiots" doing their thing underwater. Irresistible at its most inspired--aqua-DJ Wiggles the Worm is my favorite Clinton fantasy ever--and danceable at its more pro forma. A-

Parliament: Gloryhallastoopid (Casablanca, 1979) At its stoopidest ("Theme From the Black Hole," which features a "toast to the boogie" that goes--naturally--"Bottoms up!") this makes Motor-Booty Affair sound like The Ring of the Nibelungenlied. But at its dumbest ("Party People," apparently a sincere title) it makes Motor-Booty Affair sound like "Sex Machine" or "Get Off Your Ass and Jam." And there's too much filler. Stoopid can be fun, George--even inspirational. But mainly you sound overworked, and that's a drag for everybody. B+

The Alan Parsons Project: I Robot (Arista, 1977) I might agree that the way this record approximates what it (supposedly) criticizes is a species of profundity if what it (supposedly) criticized was schlock. As it is, the pseudo-disco makes Giorgio Moroder sound like Eno and the pseudo-sci-fi makes Isaac Asimov seem like a deep thinker. Back to the control board. C

The Alan Parsons Project: Eve (Arista, 1979) Musically, this is a step toward schlock that knows its name--a few smarmy melodies mixed in with the production values and synthesizer furbelows. Thematically, it's both sophomoric and disgusting--programmatic misogyny rooted in sexual rejections that were clearly deserved. Visually, it's sadistic--the three women on the Hipgnosis cover wear black veils that only partly conceal their scars, warts and blotches. What is it they stencil on street corners? Castrate art rockers? D

Gram Parsons: GP (Reprise, 1973) In which Parsons stakes his claim to everything he loves about country music--its bathos, its moral fervor, its sense of peril. Whether he's replicating these qualities in his own songs or finding them in the genuine article, his interpretations achieve the synthesis of skepticism and longing that drove him to devise country-rock in the first place. Physically, he isn't always up to what he knows--that's a folkie's voice cracking on "She"--but he can be proud that the only track here that beats Tompall Glaser's "Streets of Baltimore" is his own "Kiss the Children." B+

Gram Parsons: Grievous Angel (Reprise, 1974) On GP, Emmylou Harris was a backup musician; here she cuts Parsons's soulfully dilettantish quaver with dry, dulcet mountain spirituality. On GP, Parsons was undeviating in his dolor; here he opens up the honky tonks, if only to announce that he can't dance. The best Gram Parsons album--and hence the best country-rock album--since Gilded Palace of Sin, with all that irony and mystery translated from metaphor into narrative. A

Gram Parsons/The Flying Burrito Brothers: Sleepless Nights (A&M, 1976) These cover versions--some cut with Emmylou, some with the Bros., all but two previously unreleased--were outtakes for a reason (shaky vocals and/or conceptual irrelevance, usually), and they don't make him any more alive. For archivists only. B-

Dolly Parton: The Best of Dolly Parton (RCA Victor, 1970) The clear little voice is camouflage, just like the big tits. When she's wronged, as she is in five of this record's six sexual encounters (four permanently premarital, one in which hubby throws her into a "mental institution"), her soprano breaks into a cracked vibrato that for me symbolizes her prefeminist pride in her human failings ("Just Because I'm a Woman") and eccentricities ("Just the Way I Am"). Not all of these mini-soaps are perfectly realized and "In the Ghetto" is a mistake. But as far as I'm concerned she rescues "How Great Thou Art" from both Elvis and George Beverly Shea, maybe because a non-believer like me is free to note that the one who ruined her only happy love affair (with her fella Joe and her dog Gypsy, both of whom die) was the Guy in the Sky. A

Dolly Parton: Coat of Many Colors (RCA Victor, 1971) Beginning with two absolutely classic songs, one about a mother's love and the next about a mother's sexuality, and including country music's answers to "Triad" ("If I Lose My Mind") and "The Celebration of the Lizard" ("The Mystery of the Mystery"), side one is genius of a purity you never encounter in rock anymore. Overdisc is mere talent, except "She Never Met a Man (She Didn't Like)," which is more. A-

Dolly Parton: My Tennessee Mountain Home (RCA Victor, 1973) This concept album begins with the letter Dolly wrote her mom and dad when she was first pursuing her dreams on Music Row. Fortunately, its subject isn't Music Row, except by contrast. Unfortunately, its pastoral nostalgia, while always charming, is sometimes a little too pat. Sentimental masterpieces like the title track are no easier to come by than any other kind, and the slowed-down remake of "In the Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)"--the early hit in which she declined to go back--doesn't add as much bite as this city boy needs. B+

Dolly Parton: Bubbling Over (RCA Victor, 1973) A better-than-average Parton album in many ways, but beyond the usual dull spots two cuts really bother me. Often her genteel aspirations are delightful--who else would pronounce it "o'er our heads," just like in poetry books, instead of slurring "over"? But when her sentimentality becomes ideological--"Babies save marriages," or "Stop protesting and get right with God"--you remember why most great popular artists have rebelled against gentility. B

Dolly Parton: Jolene (RCA Victor, 1974) "Jolene" proves that sometimes she's a great singer-songwriter. "I Will Always Love You" proves that sometimes she's a good one. Porter Wagoner's "Lonely Comin' Down" proves that sometimes she should just sing. Her own "Highlight of My Life" proves that sometimes she should just shut up. And the rest proves nothing. B-

Dolly Parton: Love Is Like a Butterfly (RCA Victor, 1974) Except for the title tune, the only really interesting songs here are two by Porter Wagoner--Dolly's already done a whole album of "Take Me Back," and "Bubbling Over" is a lot more effervescent than "Gettin' Happy." Still, she repeats herself (and apes others) nicely enough. And blues strings followed by gospel medley rescues side two at the close. B

Dolly Parton: Best of Dolly Parton (RCA Victor, 1975) In her productivity and devotion to writing Parton is like a nineteenth-century woman novelist--a hillbilly Louisa May Alcott. What's best about her is her spunkiness and prettiness (Jo crossed with Amy); what's worst is her sentimentality and failures of imagination (Beth crossed with Meg). And this is the best of her best. At least half of these songs have an imaginative power surprising even in so fecund a talent--images like the bargain store and the coat of many colors are so archetypal you wonder why no one has ever thought of them before. The psychological complexities of "Jolene" and "Traveling Man" go way beyond the winsome light melodramas that are Parton's specialty. And even when the writing gets mawkish--"I Will Always Love You" or "Love Is Like a Butterfly"--her voice is there to clear things up. A+

Dolly Parton: Dolly (RCA Victor, 1975) Another concept album, this one about--uh-oh--love. All that salvages what would otherwise be atrocious greeting-card doggerel is her singing, and it's not enough. C+

Dolly Parton: All I Can Do (RCA Victor, 1976) Emphasizing Dolly's perky, upbeat side, this doesn't offer a single must-hear track, but it's remarkably consistent. Songs like "When the Sun Goes Down Tomorrow" (country girl goes home) and "Preacher Tom" (saving in the name of the Lord) reprise old themes with specificity and verve, and the covers from Emmylou Harris and Merle Haggard broaden her perspective without compromising it. Intensely pleasant. B+

Dolly Parton: New Harvest . . . First Gathering (RCA Victor, 1977) Aficionados complain that her sellout has become audible, but while I admit that the cute squeals on "Applejack" are pure merchandising, she's always been willing to sell what she couldn't give away. I think Dolly has made the pop move a lot more naturally than, say, Tanya Tucker. The problem here afflicts every genre: material. B-

Dolly Parton: Heartbreaker (RCA Victor, 1978) Her singular country treble is unsuited to rock, where little-girlishness works only as an occasional novelty. As a result, the rock part of her crossover move fails, relegating her to the mawkish pop banality that tempts almost every genius country singer. This she brings off, if you like mawkish pop banality; I prefer mawkish country banality, which is sparer. C

The Partridge Family: The Partridge Family Notebook (Bell, 1972) Since the Osmonds are energetic enough to be worth criticizing, it ought to be mentioned that this group is not. All David Cassidy has is prime time and nice nipples, and the producer, Wes Farrell, has been giving commercialism a bad name for close to a decade now. Expert glop. D+

Billy Paul: 360 Degrees of Billy Paul (Philadelphia International, 1973) At his worst, Paul is black naturalness at its most mannered--florid, hyped up, homiletic, sort of a Les McCann of small-time jazz singers. But Gamble and Huff have been making great music out of middlebrow jazz for years, and when they give Paul a good song--several of the black-consciousness riffs, which G&H seem to turn out as if they were so many follow-ups to "Tighten Up," are better than "Me and Mrs. Jones"--his overstatement is no more offensive than Ray Charles's. On stupid, unrealistic songs (e.g., "I'm Just a Prisoner") he sounds stupid and unrealistic, which figures. B-

Tom Paxton: Heroes (Vanguard, 1978) As dinky musically as any other electric folk session, but most of the songs escape the sentimental self-righteousness you expect from this old-timer. They're funny when they mean to be, which is often. And two very impressive farewells, to Phil Ochs and Stephen Biko, aren't funny at all. B

Johnny Paycheck: Greatest Hits (Epic, 1974) The one-time rockabilly's unassuming Nashville-macho baritone proves a surprisingly ductile medium for Billy Sherrill's basic love-and-marriage exploitation--he defers so meekly to his material that he sounds more domesticated than Tanya, Tammy, or even Charlie Rich. C+

Johnny Paycheck: Take This Job and Shove It (Epic, 1978) If this is proof that country is the real working-class music, then the only oppressor the working man knows is the woman whose pedestal he supports and the only right he demands is the right to cry in his beer. There's enough anomie, male bonding, and random violence on this record to inspire one cover story on whither outlaw and another on whither punk, and although it offers numerous insights, I wish I believed just a few of them were as intentional as the catchiness of the tunes. B-

Johnny Paycheck: Greatest Hits Volume II (Epic, 1978) Outlaws are hardly immune to palaver, of course. But the best-of format eliminates the posturing to which this well-named entertainer resorts when the songs get thin, while his current Waylonism limits him to one pretty good romantic ballad. Almost every other selection talks funny and sings tough--in my favorites, a drunk who picks on a Mexican has his ear surgically removed and John resigns from the I.R.S. A-

Freda Payne: Band of Gold (Invictus, 1970) I loved the title cut, too--on the radio--but this is not, as I had hoped, the auspicious debut of a new soul talent. Invictus is the Holland-Dozier-Holland label that represents their breakaway (as producers) from Motown, but this album represents no breakthrough. True, the material is mostly original, but the arrangements aren't, and Payne's emotional range is narrow. C+

Freda Payne: The Best of Freda Payne (Invictus, 1972) Recommended to those who neglected to purchase "Band of Gold" (wedding-night impotence!) and/or "Bring the Boys Home" (Vietnam with violins! a black sister calling out for peace with her brother content to exhort from the background!), which together with two familiar-sounding tunes by label-owners Holland-Dozier-Holland and two entertaining soap operas make for as nice a side of minor Motown as you're likely to get from the original these days. B

Peaches & Herb: 2 Hot! (Polydor, 1978) Anyone who believes all black pop is "disco," nothing more and nothing less, should analyze the outfront vocals and submerged grooves of this enthusiastically lascivious Freddie Perren trifle, which broke because disco DJs are willing to program whatever's danceable, not because AM DJs are willing to program whatever's listenable. And in the end it proved so listenable that "Reunited" established itself as an anachronistic smooch classic--the counterpart of "Shake Your Groove Thing," a timely hoochy-cooch classic. B+

Peaches & Herb: Twice the Fire (Polydor, 1979) There's not a bad cut on this album, and though there isn't a great one either I'll settle for "Howz-about Some Love," the Sunshine Band song of the year, "Roller-Skatin' Mate," the dance craze song of the year, and "Love Lift," the neologistic song of the year. Boogaly-boop to you. B+

Pearl Harbor & the Explosions: Pearl Harbor & the Explosions (Warner Bros., 1979) A rhythm band ought to have a better rhythm section--most of this rocks OK for DOR, but the funk beneath "Get a Grip on Yourself," for instance, is stiff to no purpose. The riffs are hooky, though, and Pearl E. Gates is an independent--not to say insular--woman who knows what her habits cost. There are no tears on her pillow and she doesn't care if your aim is true, but she doesn't waste her energy on macha bluster, either--prefers the cutting remark and isn't above turning her wit on herself. Which does not mean she has any intention of "reforming." B+

Ann Peebles: Part Time Love (Hi, 1970) Suggesting what we already knew: that good soul music is more a matter of faith than of fashion. Wilson Pickett may have lost his, but this twenty-three-year-old is just beginning to testify. Her background is gospel and her dynamic blues, the perfect combination, and even when the songs aren't first-rate, which they usually are, her lean, slightly burred timbre meshes with the incredibly spirited Memphis music (Memphis is where even session men believe) to intensify their meaning. Among my faves: "Give Me Some Credit" (downhome girl-group) and "It's Your Thing" (it's hers, bro). I just wish there were a dozen songs instead of ten. Time: 26:59. A-

Ann Peebles: Straight from the Heart (Capitol, 1972) Why gritty singing like this can't be heard on "progressive" radio when a borderline hysteric like Lydia Pense is an automatic add ought to be investigated by the Civil Rights Commission. "I Feel Like Breaking Up Somebody's Home Tonight" is pre-ideological female rage, and the woman shows her sense of roots and prerogatives by coming up with competitive covers on both Bobby Bland and Sam & Dave. Time: 26:08. A-

Ann Peebles: I Can't Stand the Rain (Hi, 1974) After two hot albums that didn't sell and a smoldering single that did, Peebles slides into the best-selling Al Green groove and doesn't quite catch fire. Reason: neither her raw honey timbre nor her bright, direct personality give her much access to Green's incendiary guile. Salvation: the Hi rhythm team. B+

Ann Peebles: Tellin' It (Hi, 1975) Peebles's small, rough-cut ruby of a voice can't buy her Aretha's kind of time, her hesitant pursuit of a dramatic frame, an artistic self, will never do the duty of a real persona. Which may mean that Willie Mitchell is wrong for her. Not only does this seamless funk deprive her of the sharply accentuated settings her instrument was created for, but his concentration on music to the exclusion of image leaves her singing warmed-over Millie Jackson wife-and-other-woman lyrics with the wan confusion they deserve. B-

Ann Peebles: If This Is Heaven (Hi, 1977) Peebles believes heaven is doing it every night after the kids have gone to bed ("I'm So Thankful"), and if only she'd work a little harder on her Mavis Staples impression ("It Must Be Love") she'd make a believer out of me. B

Ann Peebles: The Handwriting Is on the Wall (Hi, 1978) More tough talking about sex and love (and sex)--unfalteringly funky, consistently credible, and mildly enjoyable. Great one: "Old Man With Young Ideas." B-

David Peel and the Lower East Side: The Pope Smokes Dope (Apple, 1972) The hippie as hype strikes again. Not that Peel isn't a "real" hippie--on the contrary, he's a case study in the moral inadequacy of authenticity. He's real, yes--and he's also stupid and hypocritical. In 1969 Danny Fields, then "house hippie" at Elektra, got Peel's Have a Marijuana onto the charts; now John Lennon's doing the same thing for this tuneless doggerel. It's enough to make you miss the Maharishi. E

Paul Pena: Paul Pena (Capitol, 1972) Certain black bohemians--Richie Havens is the perfect example--have developed a style of humanitarianism unspecific enough to make "War" and "Ball of Confusion" sound like Frantz Fanon. Pena's outlook is similar, but between his rolling virtuoso guitar and his abiding vocal soulfulness (the man leaves mere conviction back with Norman Vincent Peale) he moves me. Even the naivete of the lyrics makes for home truths unavailable from more sophisticated writers. A-

Teddy Pendergrass: Teddy Pendergrass (Philadelphia International, 1977) In the immediate wake of Teddy's break with Harold Melvin, this sounded like pure cop-'em cut-'em con-'em and account-'em, but time quickly proved it an ordinary quickie. That is, the first two tunes on each side, estimable though they are, aren't what make you forget the last two. It's the last two that make you forget the last two. B

Teddy Pendergrass: Life Is a Song Worth Singing (Philadelphia International, 1978) Romantic schlock at its sexiest and most honest. Pendergrass is in such control of his instrument that the more commonplace of the Sigma Sound orchestrations never spoil the mood, while the good ones--let's hear it for the sax breaks on "Only You"--accent it the way they're supposed to. The key is that he's not belting much--except for one dull party number, everything is medium-tempo or slower. Pendergrass has a tendency to bluster when he belts, to come on too strong. The slow stuff--these aural seductions are hardly "ballads"--plays up his vulnerability and gives his vocal textures room to breathe a little. B+

Teddy Pendergrass: Teddy (Philadelphia International, 1979) Whether he's flexing his chest at Madison Square Garden or inviting the (presumably female) listener into his shower, Teddy has a self-deprecating sense of humor that his obsessive male posturing tends to obscure. Call him butch rather than macho and be thankful for small favors. B

Teddy Pendergrass: Teddy Live! Coast to Coast (Philadelphia International, 1979) The three live sides include no new tunes and none from his first album. Many women scream, and a few sing into his hand-held mike. Both uptempo tunes on the studio side are pretty good, but they're interspersed with an exceedingly distracting interview conducted by one Mimi Brown. MB: "How do you like your eggs?" TP: "Hard." MB: "Out of your three albums, which is your favorite?" TP: "I'd say my first." C

The Pentangle: Cruel Sister (Reprise, 1970) They still declare fealty to Transatlantic Records, but this is a retreat into pure--or impure, ask a folklorist--traditional English balladry. Gone is the jazz feeling Danny Thompson and Terry Cox can insinuate so cunningly, not to mention the American songs, and I prefer "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida" to the eighteen-minute "Jack Orion," about a noble fiddler betrayed by his serving lad. Don't they realize that every verse of "Cruel Sister" used to end "Fa la la la la la la la la la" because in the olde days people had nothing else to do at night? C+

Pere Ubu: The Modern Dance (Blank, 1978) Ubu's music is nowhere near as willful as it sounds at first. Riffs emerge from the cacophony, David Thomas's shrieking suits the heterodox passion of the lyrics, and the synthesizer noise begins to cohere after a while. So even though there's too much Radio Ethiopia and not enough Redondo Beach, I'll be listening through the failed stuff--the highs are worth it, and the failed stuff ain't bad. A-

Pere Ubu: Dub Housing (Chrysalis, 1979) Because I trust the way Ubu's visionary humor and crackpot commitment rocks out and/or hooks in for the sheer pleasure of it, I'm willing to go with their excursions into musique concrete, and on this record they get me somewhere. The death of Peter Laughner may well have deprived America of its greatest punk band, but the subsequent ascendancy of synth wizard Allen Ravenstine has defined a survival-prone community capable of bridging the '60s and the '80s without acting as if the '70s never happened. Imitating randomness by tucking randomlike sounds into deep but tactfully casual structures, joyfully confusing organic and inorganic sounds, they teach us how to live in the industrial shift--imaginatively! A

Carl Perkins: Ol' Blue Suede's Back (Jet, 1978) Perkins was never an Elvis or a Jerry Lee or even a Gene Vincent, and Ricky Nelson, for instance, put more good rock and roll on record. Young Blue Suede's Original Golden Hits is still in catalogue on Sun, and (for completeness freaks) his entire Sun output is available on three Charly imports. Excepting "That's Alright Mama," nothing on this Nashville we-can-too-rock-'n'-roll session conveys the verve and discovery of even his optional '50s stuff. C+

Carl Perkins and NRBQ: Carl Perkins and NRBQ (Columbia, 1970) This is uniformly pleasant, but Carl can't wear those shoes no more--he's an aging country singer who sounds it. And since he wrote about half of these tunes as well as singing half of them, we might mention that for the most part he's a competent and utterly unexciting composer. As for NRBQ, their jumpy version of that blues-bopping beat merges all too well with the novelty-music aspect of rockabilly--at times this sounds an itty bit cute. Cute and I like them: Terry Adams's hippie pastorale, "On the Farm," and a Perkins guitar showpiece called "Just Coastin'." B

The Persuasions: Acappella (Straight, 1970) By recording half of this live, the best way to assure that the vocal textures will be lost (they sound better in subway tunnels than on stages anyway), Frank Zappa and/or his agents reduce this group to the level of Alice Cooper, Wild Man Fischer, and the GTOs--another act in the freak show. C+

The Persuasions: We Came to Play (Capitol, 1971) "You should never try to put a tuxedo on the funky blues," reads Richard Penniman's epigraph, but that doesn't mean they should go naked: Jimmy Hayes's bass pulse may be a wonder, but it isn't a trap set. The studio work here captures their live blend, but that's not quite enough--every lyric, melody, arrangement, and lead has to rank with those of "Man, Oh Man" or "Walk on the Wild Side" for an acappella album to call you back. B+

The Persuasions: Street Corner Symphony (Capitol, 1972) If you believe acappella is inherently superior to "commercial" rock and roll, you'll prefer the Persuasions' covers to the Sam Cooke and Impressions and Temptations originals. But if you think it's an eccentric alternative, you'll note that Jerry Lawson's style is a punchier, less delicate variation on the sweet gutturals of David Ruffin, who himself barely gets by--with skillful help from Norman Whitfield--on a grade-B ballad like "I Could Never Love Another." B

The Persuasions: Spread the Word (Capitol, 1972) The offhand concept announced by the title--gospel and its dissemination--doesn't come out as sentimental as you might expect. Not counting "The Lord's Prayer," the only straight gospel song here is "When Jesus Comes," a millenarian vision that seems rather vague after the more detailed (and profane) utopia described in "When I Leave These Prison Walls." "The Ten Commandments of Love," "Heaven Help Us All," and "Hymn #9" (a Vietnam junkie song recommended to John Prine) all translate church metaphor into secular maxim, while "Lean on Me" and "Without a Song" apotheosize the pious commonplace. "T.A. Thompson" reveres a rev. And Bob Dylan's "Three Angels"--one of the dopiest songs about religion ever written--is here transformed into apt intro and reprise. B+

The Persuasions: We Still Ain't Got No Band (MCA, 1973) On their r&b album they go head to head with Jimmy Reed and outdo Sam Cooke as well as unearthing a doowop standard that Don Robey probably doesn't remember he wrote (if he did). They also go head to head with the Impressions, the Drifters, and the Coasters. And unearth a soul substandard by one Jimmy Hughes that will live on in the memory of Jimmy Hughes's mother. B

The Persuasions: I Just Want to Sing With My Friends (A&M, 1974) Most of side two works despite the horns. But producer-songwriter Jeff Barry's benign poppificiation sounds positively metastatic when counterposed against the arty purity of the few acappella cuts he permits. B-

The Persuasions: Chirpin' (Elektra, 1977) Those who agree with the group's in-it-for-love producer David Dashev that this disc is "definitive" find Jerry Lawson's deadpan interpretation of Tony Joe White's "Willie and Laura Mae Jones" and Joe Russell's solo claim on "To Be Loved" more resonant than I do. But I am impressed by the acappella anthem "Lookin' for an Echo" and the way they sustain "Women and Drinkin'" for seven minutes, and I really like the easy stuff: "Papa Oom Mow Mow" and "Sixty Minute Man." B+

The Persuasions: Comin' at Ya (Flying Fish, 1979) The least "contemporary" record they've ever essayed--except for "Love Me Like a Rock," all the material dates back to when their acappella style was a genuine urban folk response to what was on the radio--is uniformly listenable. It's also their first for this bluegrass-centered Chicago label, and thanks--here's what folkies are for. B+

Peter, Paul & Mary: Reunion (Warner Bros., 1978) To turn "Forever Young" into the post-hippie "My Way," the way Dylan does, just means you've become a showbiz reprobate. To turn it into a rinky-dink reggae like these three geezers means you've been middle-aged and liberal since you were fifteen. D+

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (MCA, 1976) Addicts of updated nostalgia and rock and roll readymades should find this a sly and authentic commentary on the evolving dilemma of Harold Teen. The songs are cute, the riffs executed with more dynamism than usual, and the singing attractively phlegmy. And like they say at the end of other cartoons, that's all, folks. B+

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: You're Gonna Get It! (ABC/Shelter, 1978) ". . . might sound strange/Might seem dumb," Tom warns at the outset, and unfortunately he only gets it right the second time: despite his Southern roots and '60s pop-rock proclivities, he comes on like a real made-in-L.A. jerk. Onstage, he acts like he wants to be Ted Nugent when he grows up, pulling out the cornball arena-rock moves as if they had something to do with the kind of music he makes; after all, one thing that made the Byrds and their contemporaries great was that they just got up there and played. Thank God you don't have to look at a record, or read its interviews. Tuneful, straight-ahead rock and roll dominates the disc, and "I Need to Know," which kicks off side two, is as peachy-tough as power pop gets. There are even times when Tom's drawl has the impact of a soulful moan rather than a brainless whine. But you need a lot of hooks to get away with being full of shit, and Tom doesn't come up with them. B

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: Damn the Torpedoes (Backstreet/MCA, 1979) This is a breakthrough for Petty because for the first time the Heartbreakers (his Heartbreakers, this L.A.M.F. fan should specify) are rocking as powerfully as he's writing. But whether Petty has any need to rock out beyond the sheer doing of it--whether he has anything to say--remains shrouded in banality. Thus he establishes himself as the perfect rock and roller for those who want good--very good, because Petty really knows his stuff--rock and roll that can be forgotten as soon as the record or the concert is over, rock and roll that won't disturb your sleep, your conscience, or your precious bodily rhythms. B+

P.F.M.: Cook (Manticore, 1974) I've always wondered what it stood for, and this title gives me a clue: Pasta Fazool Machine. Somebody ought to tell them about red pepper. C-

PG&E: The Best of PG&E (Columbia, 1973) You have to sympathize with a band whose tragic history includes the theft of their name--a name greater than Tongue & Groove or Nova Local--by a power monopoly. But this boasts as many moments as they deserve. Charlie Allen synthesizes Taj Mahal and Otis Redding (more Arthur Conley, actually) over a blues-soul ensemble without the chops or drive of the similar bands led by Delaney Bramlett, one of Pacific Gas & Electric's producers. The highlight is their only hit, the rousing "Are You Ready?" Added attractions include "Rock and Roller's Lament," which is autobiographical, and "Staggolee," which isn't. B-

Philip & Lloyd (the Blues Busters): Philip & Lloyd (the Blues Busters) (Scepter, 1975) Anybody who thinks Jamaican music is all ganja and so-Jah-seh should check out this not-bad collection of soul remakes, produced by Kingston's answer to Herb Alpert, Byron Lee (whose own American LP, Disco Reggae, includes a slinky version of "Shaving Cream"), and showcasing an accomplished duo of long popularity. Not bad, like I say, but nothing to make you jot down WLIB's Caribbean hours on the door of your refrigerator. Exceptions: "Baby I'm Sorry" and (especially) "Keep on Doing It," both of them, oddly enough, reggae originals. C+

Esther Phillips: Burnin' (Atlantic, 1970) With her lubricious, naturally sardonic high vibrato, this modern blues singer is well equipped to carry Dinah Washington's torch, and a club date with the likes of Chuck Rainey and Cornell Dupree is the perfect place for her to shine her light--even the horn overdubs sound hot. But there are only three blues, and she doesn't bring quite enough to either the standards ("Shangri-La" is the most regrettable) or the "contemporary material" (one Aretha, one Beatles) with which a nightclub pro fills out her act. B+

Esther Phillips: From a Whisper to a Scream (Kudu, 1972) The idea is for her to go pop in two opposite directions--(black) rock material, which is good, and slick arrangements, which aren't. So while it's gratifying to hear her tackle Allen Toussaint, Marvin Gaye, and Gil Scott-Heron, whose song about a junkie with no reason to kick is her tour de force, Creed Taylor proves a thankless producer. It's not just the strings, but the way their simple syrup is played against climaxes that pack all the excitement of an escalator. B

Esther Phillips: Alone Again, Naturally (Kudu, 1972) Here Phillips gets too cocky with her song choices. By eschewing the piano hook, she covers "Use Me" without making you fantasize about Bill Withers. But Gladys Knight still owns "I Don't Want to Do Wrong." And Gilbert O'Sullivan still owns "Alone Again, Naturally." B

Esther Phillips: Black-Eyed Blues (Kudu, 1973) Because the excess instruments support a funkier groove (not to mention that they support a groove at all), the six songs on this album convey more of her smarts and soul than the ten on its predecessor--she really gets to signify, even on the two ballads. High point: a straight Dinah Washington blues. A-

Esther Phillips: Performance (Kudu, 1974) Phillips's adventurous material is one reason her jazzy pop blues are so lively, but here she's bested by Eugene McDaniels's "Disposable Society" ("They've thrown away sincerity, the keystone of integrity") and Allen Toussaint's title tune ("I'm a thing that makes music they don't understand"). On the other hand, eight minutes of Chris Smithers's "I Feel the Same" seems just about right. B+

Esther Phillips With Beck: What a Diff'rence a Day Makes (Kudu, 1975) When it works, Phillips's music balances good songs and a good beat. This time her new arranger tries to push her over into a disco groove, so it's not surprising that some of this sounds a little untracked. B

Esther Phillips With Beck: For All We Know (Kudu, 1976) Well, "What a Diff'rence a Day Makes" was a hit. So it follows that "For All We Know" will be a hit too. Right? B-

Esther Phillips: Confessin' the Blues (Atlantic, 1976) Consistent material (lots of twelve-bar) and the complete absence of violins make these sessions--recorded in the mid-to-late '60s, half with big band and half with combo--preferable to the run of her Kudu albums. But that's not to make the purist assumption that the settings are ideal--the combo is a bit too elegant, the charting ordinary. Compare "Cherry Red" on Alone Again, Naturally, where modernistic blues from Stuff inspires a funny, pained intimacy, to this one, which begins with Sonny Criss blowing some real blues out from between his colleagues but ends with a climax that compels Phillips to belt for no dramatic reason. A-

Esther Phillips: Capricorn Princess (Kudu, 1976) In which Creed Taylor rescues her from Joe Beck and then immediately swamps her in mush yet again, so that her Janis Ian cover doesn't match the original and her bitter "All the Way Down" almost sounds out of place. Q: And what's your sign, Creed? A: $ B-

Esther Phillips: You've Come a Long Way, Baby (Mercury, 1977) Anyone who believes Creed Taylor is a neutral presence should check out Phillips on her own: using Kudu producer Pee Wee Ellis and the basic Kudu formula--mixing blues and standards and rock with MOR and disco crossovers--she comes up with her most consistent album of the '70s. She divvies up the sides, putting mostly crossover stuff on the B, where it holds its own. She takes on someone named Mischa Siegal to help Ellis with the string arrangements, which are discreet, more trim than wallpaper. And she does an extra blues. Not to mention "Into the Mystic." B+

Esther Phillips: All About Esther Phillips (Mercury, 1978) I thank Esther for making me hear that "Native New Yorker" is about danger and selfishness. But not for the discobeisance and inbred songwriting. B-

Esther Phillips: Here's Esther . . . Are You Ready (Mercury, 1979) Proving her resilience once again, this thirty-year-woman skates over "Philadelphia Freedom" with a lot more cool than Aretha managed on "The Weight," explores her blues roots with a Ruby & the Romantics cover, and gets good material out of what still looks suspiciously like a stable. Special plaudits to producer Harvey Mason, who reminds us that disco horns and strings are supposed to push push. Fave: the danceable get-down parody, "Oo Oop Oo Oop." B+

John Phillips: John Phillips (Dunhill, 1970) Phillips doesn't have a beautiful voice--that was Denny Doherty--but he can project as well as write, and most of these murmured reports from Topanga and Malibu are tossed off with a not unattractive noblesse oblige. Lou Adler's unhurried, witty, soul- and country-tinged production suits them perfectly. Elitist, perhaps, but more about leisure enjoyed in the wake of accomplishment than about the perquisites of money and power. B+

Wilson Pickett: Right On (Atlantic, 1970) It's good that Pickett is tempering his pricky masculinity with gospel compassion, but not so good that he's softening his edge. "Sugar Sugar" (which is fun) plus "Hey Joe" (which is I'm not sure) do not equal "Hey Jude." B

Wilson Pickett: In Philadelphia (Atlantic, 1970) What the Gamble-Huff band does for Pickett, Pickett does for the Gamble-Huff songwriters. The way the horns mix Southern drawl and Northern speed-rap makes me nervous, and I wish side two slowed down with the oblique "Help the Needy" instead of the all-over-the-place "Days Go By," but overall the musicians make the singer go and the singer makes the songs go. B+

Wilson Pickett: The Best of Wilson Pickett Vol. II (Atlantic, 1971) "A Man and a Half" is the quintessential Pickett title from this period--he's always striving to become more than he has any reason to expect to be. Yet for all the overstatement of "Born to Be Wild" or "You Keep Me Hangin' On" (the Box Tops did a better job on that one) he got there pretty often--in screaming tandem with Duane Allman on "Hey Jude," in voluble tandem with Gamble-Huff on "Engine Number 9," in can-you-top-this tandem with his own greatest hit on "I'm a Midnight Mover." And on "She's Lookin' Good" he matched the ease of "Don't Fight It," which was probably hardest of all. A

Wilson Pickett: Don't Knock My Love (Atlantic, 1971) Pickett's variation on the New Pretentiousness in Black Music is to progress beyond simple horn riffs into the busy little world of producers Brad Shapiro and Dave Crawford. As an idea, it's better than most--Duke Ellington did a lot with something similar--but in practice it's just about unlistenable. The nadir is "Don't Knock My Love--Pt. 2," a fantasia for brass on which Pickett doesn't sing at all. But Wade Marcus's strings can make anything worse, and Pickett sounds as desperate when his interpretations are spiritless as when they're frantic. Best cut: a cover of Free's "Fire and Water." Hmm. C+

Wilson Pickett: Wilson Pickett's Greatest Hits (Atlantic, 1973) Packaging the magnificent Best of (still using fake stereo on ten cuts) with a modification of the excellent Best of Vol. II (trading "Hey Joe," "Cole, Cooke and Redding," and "Born to Be Wild" for "Don't Knock My Love--Pt. 1" and "Mama Told Me Not to Come" even up). A must-own for the benighted. A

Wilson Pickett: Join Me and Let's Be Free (RCA Victor, 1975) As a respecter of history, I want to note that this is the Wicked's best since he stopped being bad, kicking off with a likable groove that I began to find tedious well before Carola stopped dancing. C+

Wilson Pickett: A Funky Situation (Big Tree, 1978) Pickett's halfhearted disco move won't go over at the Loft, but it sure beats anything he did for RCA. "Changed my clothes, but I didn't change my soul," he assures us, and that's it exactly. The production (by Rick Hall and Don Daily) and especially the horn arrangements (by Harrison Calloway, Jr.) are dense and eventful rather than overblown and crowded, and unlike so much disco they're designed only to kick ass, never to engulf and wash over. What's more, Pickett is singing again--rarely does he resort to the random scream. His own "Lay Me Like You Hate Me" is a startling distillation of what he's always really been about, and though most of the other songs are just ordinary-plus, they've been chosen with obvious care--no song-factory seconds here. B

Wilson Pickett: I Want You (EMI America, 1979) I'd like him back too, but wishing won't make it so. Half straight disco, half soft--for Pickett--soul, this is a mildly enjoyable album that hasn't broken pop or disco or added a "Lay Me Like You Hate Me" to his legend. N.b.: the four (out of seven) best songs are the ones he helped write. Also n.b.: the best of them all is on the disco side. B-

Pilot: Pilot (EMI, 1975) All those nostalgic for Hollies harmonies about the girl next door line up here. Will it bother you if the recording is as slick as tomorrow's oil spill? Somehow I thought not. C+

Pink Floyd: Atom Heart Mother (Harvest, 1970) Believe it or not, the, er, suite on the first side is easier to take than the, gawd, songs on the second. Yeah, they do leave the singing to an anonymous semi-classical chorus, and yeah, they probably did get the horns for the fanfares at the same hiring hall. But at least the suite provides a few of the hypnotic melodies that made Ummagumma such an admirable record to fall asleep to. D+

Pink Floyd: Meddle (Harvest, 1971) Not bad. "Echoes" moves through 23:21 of "Across the Universe" cop with the timeless calm of interstellar overdrive, and the acoustic-type folk songs boast their very own melodies (as well as a real dog, rather than electronic seagulls, for sound effect). The word "behold" should never cross their filters again, but this is definitely an improvement: one eensy-weensy step for humanity, one giant step for Pink Floyd. B-

Pink Floyd: Obscured by Clouds (Harvest, 1972) (Very) occasional songs from the Barbet Schroeder film La Vallee. The movie got buried, now skip the soundtrack. C

Pink Floyd: The Dark Side of the Moon (Harvest, 1973) With its technological mastery and its conventional wisdom once-removed, this is a kitsch masterpiece--taken too seriously by definition, but not without charm. It may sell on sheer aural sensationalism, but the studio effects do transmute David Gilmour's guitar solos into something more than they were when he played them. Its taped speech fragments may be old hat, but for once they cohere musically. And if its pessimism is received, that doesn't make the ideas untrue--there are even times, especially when Dick Parry's saxophone undercuts the electronic pomp, when this record brings its cliches to life, which is what pop is supposed to do, even the kind with delusions of grandeur. B

Pink Floyd: Wish You Were Here (Columbia, 1975) No dumb tribulations-of-a-rock-star epic here--the dedication to long-departed crazy Syd Barrett gives it an emotional resolve that mitigates what little self-pity lyricist Roger Waters allows himself. Even more remarkable, the music is not only simple and attractive, with the synthesizer used mostly for texture and the guitar breaks for comment, but it actually achieves some of the symphonic dignity (and cross-referencing) that The Dark Side of the Moon simulated so ponderously. And the cover/liner art is worthy of all the stoned raps it has no doubt already inspired. A-

Pink Floyd: Animals (Columbia, 1977) This has its share of obvious moments. But I can only assume that those who accuse this band of repetitious cynicism are stuck in such a cynical rut themselves that a piece of well-constructed political program music--how did we used to say it?--puts them uptight. Lyrical, ugly, and rousing, all in the right places. B+

Pink Floyd: The Wall (Columbia, 1979) For a dumb tribulations-of-a-rock-star epic, this isn't bad--unlikely to arouse much pity or envy, anyway. The music is all right, too--kitschy minimal maximalism with sound effects and speech fragments. But the story is confused, "mother" and "modern life" make unconvincing villains, and if the recontextualization of "up against the wall" is intended ironically, I don't get it. B-

Plastic Bertrand: Ca Plane Pour Moi (Sire, 1978) French rock and roll is French rock and roll--good for a novelty, maybe, but that's it. Ditto for Belgian, wise guy. Anyway, I can't understand the words. C

Platinum Hook: Platinum Hook (Motown, 1979) Taken though I am with the nominal ingenuity of such pomp-rock tyros as Trillion and Tycoon, this disco concoction wins first prize in the latest name-that-band sweepstakes. Talk about your money and your mouth. But in the future perhaps an even more direct approach is indicated. Possibilities: Rack Jobber, Airplay, AOR, A&R, Executive Vice President for Promotion and Marketing. D+

Poco: Poco (Epic, 1970) The most overrated underrated group in America. All of CSNY's preciosity with none of the inspiration, all of bluegrass's ramifications with none of its roots. In short, the perfect commentary on the vacuity of competence. Q: Is that useless long instrumental rock or jazz or country or bluegrass? A: If it's useless, it's none of the four. And if it's all of the four it's none of the four. C+

Bonnie Pointer: Bonnie Pointer (Motown, 1978) Thanks to (coproducer) Berry Gordy and the miracle of modern multitracking, Bonnie makes like the Marvelettes of your dreams for an entire side. People didn't conceive vocals this intricate and funky back in Motown's prime, much less overdub them single-larynxed, and the result is remakes that outdo the originals--by Brenda Holloway and the Elgins--and originals that stand alongside. The other side comprises originals of more diminutive stature cowritten by (coproducer) Jeffrey Bowen. (Catalogue number: M7-911R1). B+

The Pointer Sisters: The Pointer Sisters (Blue Thumb, 1973) "All this rock and roll you hear don't mean a thing to me," they admit, although in other respects they seem like young women of superior intelligence. Really, sisters, we let rock and rollers redo Lambert, Hendricks & Ross and sing Barbara Mauritz songs (good ones, anyway) and mention Volvos. Not to mention cover Lee Dorsey. Although encouraging the Hoodoo Rhythm Devils to play "Wang Dang Doodle" for seven minutes is a no-no. B

The Pointer Sisters: The Best of the Pointer Sisters (ABC/Blue Thumb, 1976) I realize in retrospect that I didn't like how they sounded mostly because I didn't like what they portended--camp-elegant escapist nostalgia--less liberating than Bette or Dr. Buzzard, but less reactionary than Manhattan Transfer or whoever's breaking out of the boites this month. Church roots help, and not just vocally--their superb taste (from Dizzy Gillespie to Allen Toussaint) has a moral center expressed in songs of their own like "Jada," a generation-gap lyric that ranks with "Handbags and Gladrags," and "Shakey Flat," about moving to the country from an actual city. What's more, someone seems to know when they're good--with David Rubinson putting his twenty grand in, they've committed a lot of excesses and banalities, but not too many survive on this compilation. B+

The Pointer Sisters: Energy (Planet, 1978) With Richard Perry at the helm and the hyperactivity of sister Bonnie channeled into a socially useful project, they reappear here as Linda Ronstadt, in triplicate and with a beat. In other words, these are excellent songs rockingly performed. But there's something overly temperate about the music, and most of the songs have been interpreted more smartly by artists who care as much about words as they do about notes. B-

The Police: Outlandos d'Amour (A&M, 1978) Tuneful, straight-ahead rock and roll is my favorite form of mindlessness, and almost all of these songs--riffs-with-lyrics, really--make the cretin in me hop. But only "Can't Stand Losing You" makes him jump up and down. And the "satiric" soliloquy to an inflatable bedmate makes him push reject. B+

The Police: Regatta de Blanc (A&M, 1979) The idea is to fuse Sting's ringing rock voice and the trio's aggressive, hard-edged rock attack with a less eccentric version of reggae's groove and a saner version of reggae's mix. To me the result sounds half-assed. And though I suppose I might find the "synthesis" innovative if I heard as much reggae as they do in England, it's more likely I'd find it infuriating. B-

The Pop: The Pop (Automatic, 1977) Jesus, another one of those self-motivated hard rock bands putting out its own album. These guys are from L.A., with OK lyrics and better everything else; little things like breaks and bridges mean a lot to them, and so do big things like guitars. Intense (rather than inflated) and understated (rather than wimpy) at the same time. B+

The Pop: Go! (Arista, 1979) Amid the sludge of Yew Ess Ay 1977, the chiming, slightly tinny British Invasion tributes of these pioneering L.A. power poppers were as daring formally as their self-distributed album was politically. Two years later everybody's doing it and their synthesis has become correspondingly fuller and more intricate, incorporating Anglophile moves that range from Roxy Music automation to Clashy football-cheer backup vocals. Still missing are depth of vision (these are power poppers, after all) and killer hooks (aren't they?). B+

Iggy Pop: The Idiot (RCA Victor, 1977) The line on Iggy is that this comeback album with Bowie and friends proves his creative power has dissipated. I say bullshit. The Stooges recorded prophetic music, but only some of it was great: because Iggy's skill at working out his musical concept didn't match his energy and inspiration, the attempted dirges fell too flat and some of the rockers never blasted off as intended. Dissipated or not, the new record works as a record. By now, Iggy barbs his lyrics with an oldtimer's irony, which suits the reflective tone Bowie has imposed on the music just fine. In retrospect, it will appear that this was Iggy's only alternative to autodestruct. Not true, perhaps, but retrospect favors artifacts. As do I. A-

Iggy Pop: Lust for Life (RCA Victor, 1977) If The Idiot exploits the (tranceprone) affinity for the slow rocker that Bowie evinced on Station to Station, this reestablishes the (apollonian) affinity for the dionysiac artist Bowie made so much of five years ago on Mott's All the Young Dudes. Like most rock and rollers, I prefer this to The Idiot because it's faster and more assertive--which means, among other things, that the nihilistic satire is counteracted by the forward motion of the music itself. A-

Iggy Pop: TV Eye (RCA Victor, 1978) In the great tradition of Uncle Lou, here's a live quickie for you--four songs from the two recent RCA albums, plus a classic or two from each hard-to-find Elektra, plus the collectors' single "I Got a Right." You get to hear "Lust for Life" without the laff-a-line chorus. "Funtime" with anti-Semitic flourishes, and lots of irrelevant bombast and concert-hall echo. Much of it works anyway, but that doesn't mean I can't dock it a notch for pissing me off. C+

Iggy Pop: New Values (Arista, 1979) This album provides what it advertises only to those who consider Iggy a font of natural wisdom--there are such people, you know. But it does get at least partway over on the strength of a first side that has the casual, hard-assed, funny feel of a good blues session--except that it rocks harder, which ain't bad. B+

Iggy Pop & James Williamson: Kill City (Bomp, 1978) Unlike the Stooges' albums, this collection of doctored tapes from 1975 is never brought to a halt by some luded-out threnody. But it doesn't offer any necessities of life, either--no "I Wanna Be Your Dog" or "Search and Destroy," not even a "Gimme Some Skin" or "Here Comes Success" or "China Girl." And it sounds sludgy. B

Nolan Porter: Nolan (ABC, 1972) Reggae-flavored originals and interpretations from a college-educated, opera-trained black cab driver who ought to put a band together. He strains Randy Newman and Van Morrison but the reggae on this record sounds better cut for cut than Johnny Nash's. Superb: "If I Could Only Be Sure," the single, with a hook that makes me talk to myself everytime I hear it. B+

Roger Powell: Cosmic Furnace (Atlantic, 1973) Untutored as I am, some tutor could probably convince me that this synthesizer record is excess hardware, but for now I know what I like--the best pop electronicism since Terry Riley's A Rainbow in Curved Air. B+

Andy Pratt: Andy Pratt (Columbia, 1973) "Avenging Annie" is an astounding tale of feminist revenge in the twilight of the counterculture. I can't imagine how it occurred to this poor little rich boy. (Oh, all right--this poor little rich boy with the bizarre falsetto and eccentric pop sense.) (Hey, maybe his wife left him.) C

Andy Pratt: Resolution (Nemporer, 1976) The craft that went into this record could pass for genius, and side one includes four or five memorable songs and one moment of wit--a line about a "fuzzy-brained intellectual" that reviewers delight in quoting. I guess I just expect more than one moment of wit per side from self-described intellectuals, even fuzzy-brained ones. Sententious pop at its best, recommended only to those whose taste for such junk amounts to a jones. B

Andy Pratt: Shiver in the Night (Nemporer, 1977) In which Leo Sayer goes berserk. Or is it Eric Justin Kaz? A repellent image in either case. C

Elvis Presley: That's the Way It Is (RCA Victor, 1970) His seventh album (three admittedly reissues) and third live LP of 1970 leans toward uptempo countryish ballads rather than the usual pop-rock eclecticism and proves that he can remember the words without cue cards. I know that's the way it is--but is it the way it has to be? C+

Elvis Presley: Elvis Country (I'm 10,000 Years Old) (RCA Victor, 1971) A disastrous conceit, in which snippets of a "theme" song segue between tracks, makes it very hard to tell what happens to the Big Concept--Elvis Sings Ernest Tubb, Bill Monroe, Bob Wills, Anne Murray, etc. Most of his recordings sound suspiciously casual anyway, like preconcert runthroughs, and these segues add a rushed medley feel. "The Fool" and "It's Your Baby, You Rock It" work, and "Whole Lot-ta Shakin'" works out. But Tubb's "Tomorrow Never Comes" is a horn-fed monstrosity. And somehow I don't think Elvis had his heart in "Snowbird." B-

Elvis Presley: Elvis Sings the Wonderful World of Christmas (RCA Victor, 1971) I prefer the open-throated version of his awesomely pious sentimentality--"It's Now or Never," "If I Can Dream," etc.--to his more constricted attack, used here to signify high seriousness. But when he's serious about classic catchy pop like "Silver Bells" and "O Come, All Ye Faithful" it doesn't much matter, especially when you also get a transition from "I'll Be Home on Christmas Day" to "If I Get Home by Christmas Day." And here's what everyone was really waiting for--"Merry Christmas Baby," 5:45 of awesomely offhand dirt. B+

Elvis Presley: Elvis as Recorded at Madison Square Garden (RCA Victor, 1972) If you want post-comeback Elvis, stick with TV Special and Memphis/Las Vegas. Unless your home entertainment center is equipped with a magic holograph and seats 20,000, this will not recreate the excitement of that justifiably fabled concert. In fact, it won't even come close. That's what arena gigs are about. C

Elvis Presley: He Touched Me (RCA Victor, 1972) As an evangelical tool, white gospel balances the sweet and the sententious the way "Reach Out to Jesus" does, but too often it topples like "An Evening Prayer," and guess in which direction. Still, Elvis doesn't toss this stuff off--he hasn't sung with such consistent care since his comeback was at stake. And just like black gospel (fancy that), "sacred" music isn't always solemn--half the time it's fast enough to pass for rock and roll. In fact, for a counterpart to the airy intensity and passionate grace of "I, John" you might have to go back to the Sun recordings. B+

Elvis Presley: A Legendary Performer (RCA Victor, 1973) I'm told this compilation is his best in years, but what does that mean? That people play it instead of A Date With Elvis or TV Special, from which all the "later unreleased" tracks were originally excluded? And the interviews are all right, but you can't dance to them. For collectors, historians, and popular culture majors. B

Elvis Presley: Good Times (RCA Victor, 1974) It seems somehow fitting that EP's best collection of new material in years looks like a sorry Camden reissue. B-

Elvis Presley: Promised Land (RCA Victor, 1975) Why is the new Elvis Presley album slightly better (even according to the singles charts) than, for instance, the last Elvis Presley album? Because Elvis decided to make like a big baritone? After all, he's often horrible when he chooses that move. But inspiration is funny, and on this one he'll make you care about, for instance, how a cliché like "Your Love's Been a Long Time Coming" is going to end. B

Elvis Presley: Today (RCA Victor, 1975) Just in case you were starting to think there's no such thing as eternal life, I decided to acknowledge this, one of the King's thrice-yearly mixes of three (almost classic) killers and seven (not bad) fillers. As sloppy as ever, of course--you want he should be neat? B-

Elvis Presley: The Sun Sessions (RCA, 1975) [CG70s: A Basic Record Library; CG80: Rock Library: Before 1980]  

Elvis Presley: Moody Blue (RCA Victor, 1977) Despite his capacity for undifferentiated emotion and his utter confidence with almost every kind of American music, Presley didn't automatically impart dignity to anything he laid his voice on the way such natural singers as George Jones and Al Green and Dolly Parton do. Originally a spoiled tough of omnipresent sexual magnetism, he deteriorated into a spoiled stud past his prime, so that while he was always sexy he wasn't always seductive. Whether he's turning it on ("Unchained Melody") or playing it cool ("Little Darling"), his miscalculations can be embarrassing. But he retains so much presence that he can make two Olivia Newton-John songs sound like country classics indifferently remembered. And when he hits it right, as on the first three tracks of side two, his sincerity, vulnerability, and self-possession are as potent as ever. It seems perfectly suitable that this shoddily conceived LP, pressed on blue plastic for gimmick appeal, should turn into his biggest of the decade on the strength of the ultimate gimmick. B-

Elvis Presley: His Hand in Mine (RCA Victor, 1978) With its mawkish self-righteousness, the title epitomizes why we backsliders have permanent doubts about fundamentalist culture. As do the music's secular sellouts, overblown sanctimony, and simulated heavenly hosts--and the thought of RCA making money on two dead messiahs at once. C

Elvis Presley: Our Memories of Elvis Volume 2 (RCA Victor, 1979) The idea is to remove the goop--strings, horns, choruses--from nondescript '70s album tracks, shuffle 'em up good, and call it "pure Elvis." But though Volume 1 was a bare-faced exploitation, this one happens to work. Maybe someone figured the potential market hated goop of any kind. In any case, the song selection is neat, including "Green Green Grass of Home," "Thinking About You," the lovely "I Can Help," and a previously unreleased "studio jam session" on Dylan's "Don't Think Twice" that is actually too long at 8:36. The mix is weird--I hear imperfectly erased goop ghosts on "Way Down," for instance--but as near as I can tell this is EP's best pop album of the decade. B+

Billy Preston: The Kids and Me (A&M, 1974) True enough, his songs have become less offensive, but his instrumentals remain in the novelty phase and he still sings like Soul Synth No. 1. Take "Nothing From Nothing" as this year's "You're So Vain"--proof that a great single can come from any fool. But don't be quite so positive he won't make an album you want to hear some day. B-

Pretenders: Pretenders (Sire, 1979) Tough gals, tough gals--suddenly the world is teeming with tough gals. And Chrissie Hynde is a good one. Maybe not all of her songs are championship singles, but she's got more to offer emotionally and musically (and sexually) than any of the competition, unless Patti counts. She's out for herself but she gives of herself as well; when she alternates between rapacity and tenderness you don't feel she's acting coy or fucked up, although she may be. And she conveys these changes with her voice as well as with her terse, slangy, suggestive lyrics. James Honeyman Scott's terse, slangy, suggestive guitar steals don't hurt either. A-

Dory Previn: Mary C. Brown and the Hollywood Sign (United Artists, 1973) Previn doesn't just belabor a cliche, she flails it with barbed wire, and she never writes about a concrete situation when with extra words she can falsify it via abstraction. A feminist friend once persuaded me that such transparent pretension can only signal pain and bewilderment, but if I found a cat trapped in a washing machine, I wouldn't set up a recording studio there--I'd just open the door. D

Alan Price: O Lucky Man! (Warner Bros., 1973) How does an acerbic, good-humored music journeyman like Price (find This Price Is Right, on Parrot) fall in with a pompous, overfed con artist like Lindsay Anderson? By playing the Acerbic, Good-Humoured Music Journeyman Symbol in a pompous, overfed movie. Two or three deft political songs do not redeem an LP that runs 24:43 despite filler. It figures--the movie is an hour (or three hours) too long. B-

Alan Price: Between Today and Yesterday (Warner Bros., 1974) So many tastemongers promoted this as a great one that I listened hard, which didn't work--most of it is simultaneously banal and overstated, which adds up to pretentious. Saved by the last three songs on the "Yesterday" side, which are, I admit, kind of Brechtian. But three songs do not make a great one. B

Alan Price: Alan Price (Jet/UA, 1978) Yet another demonstration that smart people have as hard a time writing credible love songs as everybody else. See Rick Danko. B

Charley Pride: The Best of Charley Pride Volume 2 (RCA Victor, 1972) Says Paul Hemphill: "There might be something to the suspicion that he is Nashville's house nigger . . . if he didn't sing `Kawliga' better than Hank Williams did." Wrong. First you sing real good, and then maybe they let you be a house nigger. Pride's amazing baritone--it hints at twang and melisma simultaneously, and to call it warm is to slight the brightness of its heat--loses focus as he settles exclusively into "heart songs." Though these tales of married love are worthy enough, only "Is Anybody Goin' to San Antone" ranks with "Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger" or "Just Between You and Me" or "All I Have to Offer You," while "I'm Just Me" asserts an "identity" so vague it couldn't get him a tricycle license. In however irrelevant a way, "Kaw-Liga" at least acknowledged the existence of race, and "The Snakes Crawl at Night" at least cast him as a criminal. Neither was much to retreat from. But they helped round out a persona that's beginning to seem dangerously shallow. B

Charley Pride: The Best of Charley Pride Vol. III (RCA Victor, 1976) It's no longer so easy to hit consistently in Nashville with such MOR (MOR country, I mean) material, but Pride does it, specializing in happy-marriage songs (which I often find likable) and touching such themes as Jesus, elusive dreams, childhood home, and country-singer-on-the-road (with sex). An achievement, even though he's got a gimmick as well as a voice--which seems to be softening slightly, losing its resonant edge. But especially given how middling his MOR often is, I wish he wanted to do--or is it could do?--more. B-

Prince: For You (Warner Bros., 1978) Like most in-studio one-man bands, the nineteen-year-old kid who pieced this disco-rock-pop-funk concoction together has a weakness for the programmatic--lots of chops, not much challenge. But I like "Baby," about making one, and "Soft and Wet," ditto only he doesn't know it yet. And his falsetto beats Stevie Wonder's, not to mention Emitt Rhodes's. B-

Prince: Prince (Warner Bros., 1979) This boy is going to be a big star, and he deserves it--he's got a great line. "I want to come inside you" is good enough, but (in a different song) the simple "I'm physically attracted to you" sets news standards of "naive," winning candor. The vulnerable teen-macho falsetto idea is pretty good too. But he does leave something to be desired in the depth-of-feeling department--you know, soul. B+

John Prine: John Prine (Atlantic, 1971) You suspect at first that these standard riffs and reliable rhythms are designed to support the lyrics rather than accompany them. But the homespun sarcasm of singing that comes on as tuneless as the tunes themselves soon reveals itself as an authentic, rather catchy extension of Nashville and Appalachia--and then so do the tunes, and the riffs, and the rhythms. Anyway, the lyrics are worth accompanying--not the literary corn of the absurdly overpraised "Sam Stone," but the cross-generational empathy of "Hello in There" and "Angel from Montgomery," the heartland hippieism of "Illegal Smile" and "Spanish Pipedream." And Arif Mardin hooks up "Pretty Good" pretty good. A

John Prine: Diamonds in the Rough (Atlantic, 1972) Not as rich as the debut, but more artlessly and confidently sung--the gruff monotone avoids melodrama in favor of Prine's own version of good-old-boy, adding a muscular good humor to throwaway gems like "Frying Pan" and "Yes I Guess They Ought to Name a Drink After You." Plus several decent lyrics about women, the Jesus song of the year, and a Vietnam tribute dedicated to Henry Clay, who helped start the (first) American Civil War. A-

John Prine: Sweet Revenge (Atlantic, 1973) Prine is described as surrealistic and/or political even though the passion of his literalness is matched only by that of his detachment: inferential leaps and tall songs do not a dreamscape make, and Prine offers neither program nor protest. It's the odd actions of everyday detail--as in the "four way stop dilemma" of "The Accident"--that heighten the reality of his songs, and his elementary insight that social circumstances do actually affect individual American lives that distinguishes him politically from his fellow workers. That's why when he finally writes his music-biz takeoff it's a beaut; that's why "Christmas in Prison" deserves to be carved on a wooden turkey. A

John Prine: Common Sense (Atlantic, 1975) Despite the singer's lax manner, these songs are anything but throwaways. Nor are they self-imitations. Prine customarily strives for coherence, but this time he has purposely (and painfully) abjured it. He seems to regret this at one point--during a more or less cogent lament for a dead friend--but the decision was obviously unavoidable. It results in the most genuinely miserable album I've heard in years. A-

John Prine: Prime Prine: The Best of John Prine (Atlantic, 1976) Not as rewarding cut for cut as John Prine or Sweet Revenge, not as interesting conceptually as Diamonds in the Rough or Common Sense. Good songs, useless album. B-

John Prine: Bruised Orange (Asylum, 1978) In the title tune, Prine reports that he's transcended his anger, and I'm happy for him, but a little worried about his music. Common Sense was agitated to the point of psychosis, but it had an obsessive logic nevertheless. Here Prine sounds like he's singing us bedtime stories, and while the gently humorous mood is attractive, at times it makes this "crooked piece of time that we live in" seem as harmless and corny as producer Steve Goodman's background moves; no accident that the closer, "The Hobo Song," is Prine's most mawkish lyric to date. Still, Edward Lear's got nothing on this boy for meaningful nonsense, and just to prove he's still got the stuff he collaborates with Phil Spector on a surefile standard: "If You Don't Want My Love," with lyrics worthy of its title. B+

John Prine: Pink Cadillac (Asylum, 1979) Weird. With production by Knox and Jerry (Sons of Sam) Phillips, Prine has never rocked harder. But he's slurring his vocals like some toothless cartoon bluesman emulating an Elvis throwaway--related to the Sun sound, I guess, but perversely. Are the new songs any good? Hard to tell. B-

Procol Harum: Home (A&M, 1970) A Salty Dog had Matthew Fisher putting his two pence in, not that I've ever missed an organist before. And on A Salty Dog the Robin Trower blues was country and droll rather than technological and macho. And on A Salty Dog they didn't print the lyrics, which ought to end those silly rumors about Gary Brooker's intellectual attainments. Believe me, a smart singer would try and play "Whaling Stories" for laughs. Then again, a smart singer wouldn't write with Keith Reid in the first place. C+

Procol Harum: Broken Barricades (A&M, 1971) Just because the resident poetaster doesn't have his own acoustic guitar, people make this out to be some kind of triumph for good old rock and roll, which is absurd. Good old rock, maybe. Pompous, muddy, indecipherable. C-

Procol Harum: Live in Concert With the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra (A&M, 1972) Gigging with a local band this way would be a terrible idea for more accomplished rock and rollers, but as it is, the enthusiastic provincials kick Procol's ass on "Conquistador," great meaningless fun in the tradition of "Quick Joey Small." And you have to admit that the string and horn arrangements are different. B-

Procol Harum: Grand Hotel (Chrysalis, 1973) For years these guys have vacillated between a menu of grits that certainly ain't groceries and larks' tongues in aspic. Despite their current white-tie conceit, they still haven't decided. Personally, I wish they'd pick their poison and choke on it. C

Procol Harum: The Best of Procol Harum (A&M, 1973) Not bad for profit taking. The melodies are at their ingratiating schlock-classical best, the tempos up enough to render the lyrics extraneous. Among the four never-on-LP inducements are "Lime Street Blues," a jolly barrelhouse that mentions underpants, and "Homburg," which introduces their "multilingual business friend." But the old stuff reminds us that Keith Reid once knew writing can be a goof--even his "commercial" lyrics from the '70s ("Simple Sister," "Whiskey Train") are self-servingly arrogant. And the Gary-Brooker's-greatest format demonstrates conclusively that he learned his oft-praised blues mannerisms from the constipated guy in the next toilet stall. B+

Proctor & Bergman: Give Us a Break (Mercury, 1978) In which the funny half of the Firesign Theatre regresses from mini-dramas to blackout bits. It figures that comedians who were so funny stoned should have trouble when they stand up. C

Professor Longhair: New Orleans Piano (Atlantic, 1972) Thirteen boogie blues (from sessions in 1949 and 1953) by one of Dr. John's earliest mentors, a local legend named Roy Byrd. The kind of record that's nice to have around because you're not likely to own anything remotely like it, but the liner notes make you wonder why Atlantic didn't trouble to obtain rights to all the stuff on other labels. B+

Professor Longhair: Live on the Queen Mary (Harvest, 1978) Roy Byrd's pianistic intricacies--which inspired Fats Domino, Huey Smith, Allen Toussaint, Dr. John, and other New Orleans luminaries--come through better on this live recording than on Atlantic's '50s compilation. This I credit to the hazardously busy (and uncredited) bass-and-drums accompaniment, which provides enough movement down below to allow Prof to really get rolling up top. Blues backup isn't supposed to work that way, but these guys get away with it, and good for them. P.S. Prof sings off-key a lot. P.P.S. It doesn't matter--sometimes it's even cute. A-

Richard Pryor: That Nigger's Crazy (Partee, 1974) Whether a white Voice writer has the right to enjoy a black comic mocking the desperate inadequacies of black junkies, chickenshits, and comedy fans ("You can't land here, nigger--this is Mr. Kramer's property") is a troublesome question. Meanwhile, I bust my gut. There hasn't been a stand up comedian funnier since you-know-who, and Pryor is funnier, if less solid. A

Richard Pryor: . . . Is It Something I Said? (Reprise, 1975) All comedy albums have flat bits--which probably vary from listener to listener--and there are moments here when you get the feeling Pryor is making nasty not to shock but to fulfill expectations, like the guys in the fourth year of Hair waving their cocks at the tourists. But his long tale about Mudbone (stupidly edited between two sides) is so breathtakingly wise and weird that--and I never say this--it's worth the price of the record. A lot of the rest is pretty funny, too. Maybe you and your friends can chip in. A

Richard Pryor: Wanted (Warner Bros., 1979) Believe it or not, Pryor has mellowed--he does stuff about kids and pets that's like Bill Cosby with trenchmouth, and he finally seems to have gotten the message about women's liberation. Though the fourth side drags and nothing on the first three is as visionary as the title cut on Bicentennial Nigger, there are a lot fewer nightclub quips and sight gags, and Pryor's warmth has heat. Next best thing to the movie. A-

Flora Purim: Stories to Tell (Milestone, 1974) If there were no lyrics on this revolving misnomer, I might kowtow before the kozmic ineff of its big-name jazz accomp, but I know that any musician (singer) who tells me "time is lie" ain't telling nuthin but lies. C

Flora Purim: Open Your Eyes You Can Fly (Milestone, 1976) Shut your mouth and maybe they'll let you land. C

P: Compilations

Permanent Wave: A Collection of Tomorrow's Favorites by Today's Bands on Yesterday's Vinyl (Epic, 1979) "Television Generation" and "Just Another Teenage Anthem" never really got me as singles, and neither the Kursaal Flyers nor New Hearts proved deep enough to make good albums, but on this pop punk compilation they sound absolutely ace. Masterswitch's "Action Replay," the Cortinas' "Heartache," and the Vibrators' "Judy Says" also fit in. The Diodes' "Red Rubber Ball" is as useless as every other piece of Toronto punk I've heard. Since they also lead off the group's new collection on domestic Epic, the two nice cuts by the Only Ones are redundant. The teaser by the Spikes is good enough to make me hope they record an album. And the teaser by After the Fall is so good that I won't mind owning it twice when their album comes out. Quite snazzy, recommended to dabblers and discophiles alike. B+

Phil Spector's Greatest Hits (Warner/Spector, 1977) [CG70s: A Basic Record Library; CG80: Rock Library: Before 1980]  

Propaganda (A&M, 1979) A new wave (it avoids that term but that doesn't fool me) sampler on which the most exciting cut is Joe Jackson's live Chuck Berry remake (Chuck Berry?). Also commendable are two English singles from Charlie Gillett's Oval label, especially Bobby Henry's "Head Case." Negatives include a live exclusive from the Granati Brothers (who?), less-than-prime cuts from Squeeze and the Reds, and the second version of the Police's "Next to You" featured on an A&M new wave (see first parenthesis) sampler. C+

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O [P] Q R S T U V W X Y Z