Newsweek, August 30, 1982
BYLINE: JIM MILLER
BODY:
Spending a day listening to the current crop of rock albums is a little like window-shopping at a suburban mall. The packaging is bright, the mood bustling, the wealth of goods striking, any sterility a calming sign of safety.
Old-fashioned brands of pop predominate. Last week's Top 10, for example, included Pictures at Eleven, by Robert Plant (Swan Song), lead singer for Led Zeppelin, the archetypal "heavy metal" band of the '70s; Abracadabra, by the Steve Miller Band (Capitol), the low-key blues-rockers popular since 1968; Daylight Again, by Crosby, Stills and Nash Atlantic), the classic hippie harmonists, who look older and plumper but still sound like dewy denizens of Woodstock Nation. Even the one brandnew band on the list, Asia (Geffen), consists of seasoned veterans, in this case playing progressive rock, a type of grandiloquent pop fashionable in the early '70s. Most of these albums have an up-to-date aura of resplendent spectacle. Like a Las Vegas showstopper, they're flashy, lavish -- and monumentally vapid.
The nation's No. 1 album, Mirage, by Fleetwood Mac (Warner Bros.), is a showstopper, too, but in this case we feel like we're backstage, where we can see that the props are papier-mache. Much of the record follows the band's own well-known formula: start with an understated, rock-ribbed rhythm section; add a filigree of guitars, chiming with harmonics, plucking out muted chords; top it off with Christine McVie's honeyed sighs or Stevie Nicks's warbling, pseudo-mystical bleats.
Enter guitarist Lindsey Buckingham. He helped to produce the album; he sings 5 of the 12 songs, and he acts like the impish kid who was always blowing up his experiment in your high-school chemistry class. Whenever he sings, he's fooling around with someone else's style: on "Empire State" he's the Beach Boys; on "Oh Diane" he's Paul Anka; on the oddball "Eyes of the World" the backup vocals sound like the Swingle Singers while he's Eddie Cochran (or is it Rod Stewart?). His songs are rough jingles: the detritus of a 34-year-old's rock 'n' roll memories. By sprinkling such jokey, atavistic pranks between the sumptuous ballads, Buckingham deflates the band's own mannerisms. By itself, "Only Over You," ; new song by Christine McVie, sounds like classic Fleetwood Mac -- pensive, pretty, wistful. Coming midway through this particular album, it also sounds contrived, artificially polished, a "mirage" -- all form and no content.
A similar sort of legerdemain is at work on Marshall Crenshaw (Warner Bros.), this season's sunniest debut album. (Like most first albums, it's had no luck so far in cracking the Top 40.) A 28-year-old veteran of Michigan bar bands and a road company of the show called "Beatlemania" (he played John), Crenshaw, like Buckingham, affects an innocent stance. The difference is that he plays the game with a straight face. Brisk, upbeat, richly lyrical, his music reenacts rock 'n' roll as an exuberant ritual. On a track like "Mary Anne," what matters isn't the words, it's the punch of the guitar, the snap of the bass, the crashing tambourine, the sweet, slightly nasal vocal. His music echoes with influences: Buddy Holly, the percussive production of Phil Spector, the jangling guitar sound of the Searchers and the Byrds. The fun comes from hearing such influences seamlessly joined in catchy songs, sung with apple-cheeked spunk.
Still, there's a lot missing from this music: a personal voice, artistic daring, a sense of inner conviction. Just compare the other recent noteworthy debut, "Ji," by Junior (Mercury). He's British, black, with a funk band focused on guitar and synthesizer. His singing and writing sometimes recall Stevie Wonder, but he's clearly after a style of his own. Two cuts achieve just that. Noisy and roiling, "Mama Used to Say" erupts with a cacophony of clanging bells, congas, wood blocks -- synthetic ones probably -- and a horn section that sounds like it's riffing in a shower stall. "Too Late," by contrast, is a lilting lament. The tale of an alcoholic husband, it's a declaration of independence ("now's my time to go") written from the wife's point of view and sung in a high tenor, gliding into falsetto. The melody soars, the words sting. Both of these tracks were hit singles on black radio -- a good place to look for pop music with a bite.
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