Consumer Guide '70s: J

Joe Jackson: I'm the Man (A&M, 1979) Oh yeah? Then get the knack back. C+

John Jackson: Step It Up and Go (Rounder, 1979) Jackson is a fifty-six-year-old gravedigger who's been on the folk blues circuit since 1964 and has three albums on Arhoolie, though I'd never heard of him till this one. His guitar style is eclectic, as befits a man who got his best songs from Blind Boy Fuller and Blind Blake 78s but who also played in a country band in the early '40s. His voice is gutteral yet well-defined. No innovator, and not as arresting through a whole side as he is at the outset, he's nevertheless responsible for the most pleasing (and well-recorded) new country blues record I've heard in years. B+

Michael Jackson: Music and Me (Motown, 1973) Having finally gotten it through my head that Michael isn't the black Donny Osmond--not only does he have a sense of natural rhythm, but he's a singer not a marionette--I listened hard and decided he's not a very good singer. Genuinely sweet and genuinely clean, when Motown provides the material. But if he's a real interpreter, I'm too old to understand where the interpretations are coming from. B-

Michael Jackson: The Best of Michael Jackson (Motown, 1975) Because you can believe that their sincerity is neither feigned nor foolish, it's good in theory for children to sing romantic ballads. But in the end only pederasts, parents, and horny little girls can get off consistently on the interpretive nuances of a boy whose voice hasn't changed--the manipulation from above is simply too transparent. I love "Rockin' Robin" and hate "Ben" and find most of the rest in between. The most interesting exception is "One Day in Your Life," a first-rate tearjerker that achieves just the right mix of autonomy and helpless innocence--probably because Michael cut it about a year ago, when he was sixteen. B-

Michael Jackson: Forever, Michael (Motown, 1975) I'm converted. Because it's possible to believe that their sincerity is neither feigned nor foolish, it's good in theory for children to sing romantic ballads. The reason it doesn't work is that the sincerity is so transparently manipulated from above. At 16, however, Michael's voice combines autonomy and helpless innocence in effective proportions. He also gets production help from Brian Holland (who begins one side like Barry White and the other like the Ohio Players) and a few romantic ballads (sure hit: "One Day in Your Life") that are as credible on their own terms as the rockers. A-

Michael Jackson: Off the Wall (Epic, 1979) In which fast-stepping Michael J. and quick-witted Quncy J. fashion the dance groove of the year. Michael's vocabulary of grunts, squeals, hiccups, moans, and asides is a vivid reminder that he's grown up, and the title tune suggests that maybe what makes Stevie Wonder (who contributes a good ballad) such an oddball isn't his genius or even his blindness so much as the fact that since childhood his main contact with the real world has been on stage and in bed. A

Millie Jackson: Millie Jackson (Spring, 1972) Producer Raeford Gerald's "My Man, a Sweet Man" and "I Miss You Baby" are as melodically upbeat as Jackson's own "Ask Me What You Want," and she delivers a ghetto sermon so unfashionably judgmental it makes me want to shout amen just to be contrary. But most of the rest is so nondescript that even Jackson's big, rough, tremendously vital voice can't bring it to life. Marginal. B+

Millie Jackson: It Hurts So Good (Spring, 1973) A hint of concept brings the tracks on this album together--on side one she's playing up to her man, while on side two she's playing around--and the production mixes (alternates, really) Holland-Dozier-Holland and Norman Whitfield, with guest Brad Shapiro adding the occasional modernism, all of which makes for instructive contrasts with Jackson's definitely unsubtle attack. But if there isn't a bad track on the record, there isn't a compelling one either, and in pop that's the kiss of obscurity if anything is. B

Millie Jackson: Millie (Spring, 1974) On stage, her dress, demeanor, and delivery put across a hooker's street toughness a lot more daring than the stage toughness of Tina Turner or Laura Lee. On record, though, she remains one more funkier-than-average but basically anonymous mama. She doesn't even know what to call this album--it's Millie in the notes, (big caps) Millie (small caps) Jackson on the cover, Millie Jackson on the spine, and I Got to Try It One More Time on the label. I guess I'd prefer she try it one more time myself. B-

Millie Jackson: Caught Up (Spring, 1974) Jackson rights the flaws of a promising career with this concept album about infidelity. The other woman starts an eleven-minute version of "If Loving You Is Wrong" by talking big, briefly allows herself some typical other-woman complaints, reasserts her independence, then suddenly finds her predicament untenable. She gets better lines than the wife's, which are on side two, but any artist sharp enough to cut through the overstatement of Brad Shapiro (production) and Bobby Goldsboro (one lyric) won't let that ruin her record. If you liked Quadrophenia (or still recall "A Quick One"), you have no excuse for not liking this. A-

Millie Jackson: Still Caught Up (Spring, 1975) Jackson's specialty--the funky truth about husbands, wives, and other women--is worth this sequel. As with Caught Up, she has her theme in control about eighty percent of the time, and her tone has become even nastier. But since she no longer has the advantage of surprise, her stridency is beginning to seem a little forced. B+

Millie Jackson: Free and in Love (Spring, 1976) The songs aren't getting any stronger, bad news for a concept artist who's slowly running out of concept. But "Feel Like Making Love" (Bad Company's, not Roberta Flack's--score one for Millie), "A House for Sale," and Clarence Reid's super-funky "Do What Makes the World Go Round" combine with a terrific dramatic monologue about scoring at a party and a tour de force demonstration of sexual noises to push this one over the line. B+

Millie Jackson: Feelin' Bitchy (Spring, 1977) Fuck this ten-pop-tunes shit, Millie says. Almost literally--the FCC will not approve. She's appealing more explicitly to her black audience, too, and has apparently returned to concepts--or rather, messages, two of them. The second side says "Don't cheat" and the first side says "Eat pussy." The first side is definitely more fun. B

Millie Jackson: Lovingly Yours (Spring, 1977) Her third consecutive nasty album having stiffed, she makes nice, and boy does she sound bored--a song called "Body Movements" and she barely raises an eyebrow. C+

Millie Jackson: Get It Out'cha System (Spring, 1978) As a convinced monogamist, I've always approved of Millie's no-shit shtick--there's a lot more commitment to love and marriage in her acerbic skepticism-going-on-cynicism than in the old escapist fantasies or the new therapeutic bromides. Still, shtick does wear out, so I'm happy to report that "Why Say You're Sorry" is her sharpest lyric in years and "Logs and Thangs" her funkiest monologue. Also, the title tune has a line about bosses that should raise class consciousness a notch. B+

Millie Jackson: Live and Uncensored (Spring, 1979) Millie was made for live albums, as the rap-and-belt format of her studio work suggests, and the drama here, with its raunchy audience interplay, is at least as natural as anything she's ever devised for vinyl. Her timing keeps getting sharper, her voice keeps getting bigger, the songs amount to a best-of, and you also get a monologue about soap operas and the "Phuck U Symphony." Certainly her best since the Caught Up diptych, and probably definitive. A-

Millie Jackson: A Moment's Pleasure (Spring, 1979) If only because it's so patently unlikely to result in dancefloor hits, the arrant discofication is annoying at first--these songs don't need David Van De Pitte's clamorous strings and horns or bass lines that pine for a kick-drum. But Brandye's back-ups add extra nuance to Jackson's ever subtler singing, and Clayton Ivy's guitar obbligatos insure a flow her declamatory approach often lacks. What's more, the disco touches lend Millie's bawdy moralism special relevance to the latest arena of modern hedonism. If only her lyric on "Seeing You Again" didn't sound like an ad for Eastern Airlines I'd be convinced she was above gross hedonism herself. B+

Millie Jackson & Isaac Hayes: Royal Rappin's (Polydor, 1979) The title is misleading--this meeting of the bullshitters is more groove than rap. Not that it's devoid of spoken vamps or pointed byplay--the joyful havoc they wreak on "Do You Wanna Make Love" transforms it from pap to aphrodisiac. But mostly it gives Millie a chance to get out of her bag and really sing, with Isaac playing the likable foil and the Muscle Shoals boys making it sexy. B+

Jackson 5: ABC (Motown, 1970) Admittedly, the charm of hearing an eleven-year-old cover Smokey, Stevie, and the Delfonics may not be enduring. And admittedly, some of the filler--"The Young Folks," for instance--is embarrassing even by Motown standards. But in fact the eleven-year-old doesn't disgrace himself against Smokey and Stevie and beats the Delfonics going away. And some of the filler--"ABC" you know, but how about "2-4-6-8"?--recall the days of great B sides. B+

Jackson 5: Third Album (Motown, 1970) The first bad sign is that the best cut on the album is a ballad. The second is that the best fast one is the tossed-off "How Funky Is Your Chicken" rather than a Corporation special like "Goin' Back to Indiana" or "Mama's Pearl." The third is the worst "Bridge Over Troubled Water" I ever want to hear. Is that Jermaine or Jackie? Are we supposed to care? B-

Jackson 5: Greatest Hits (Motown, 1971) Surprisingly resistible for a record that offers "I Want You Back," "ABC," and "The Love You Save," three of the greatest radio ups ever. I wish they were on the same side along with the second-line fast ones so the hits could just keep on coming, you know? Admittedly, the boys do have a cute, astute way with a ballad, too. Just thank Berry that "Never Can Say Goodbye" and "I'll Be There" are good ones. A-

Jackson 5: Maybe Tomorrow (Motown, 1971) It's getting serious when the only discernible appeal of the title hit is that Michael is singing. The follow-up "Never Can Say Goodbye," has more going for it. As do "Sixteen Candles," originated by the Crests, and "Honey Chile," originated by Martha & the Vandellas. C+

Jackson 5: Lookin' Through the Windows (Motown, 1972) They're wonders of nature no longer, but they're still a good group, and this snaps back toward the usual marvelous Motown multiplex. Jackson Browne's specifically late-adolescent "Doctor My Eyes" brings Michael along too fast, but it sounds good on the radio. And Jermaine (I think) proves equal to Ashford & Simpson's specifically adult "Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing." Recommended ballad: "If I Could Move a Mountain." Continuing a great tradition: "E-Ne-Me-Ne-Mi-Ne-Moe." B

Jackson 5: Dancing Machine (Motown, 1974) My friend who goes to discos tells me the Jacksons are the first major artists to put out a real disco album--designed for dancers, and listeners be damned. This may well be true--certainly the guitars and electric keyboards are more noteworthy than the singing. He also tells me it's the Jacksons' best album since who knows when, and what's surprising is that he's right again. This is a tribute to the aforementioned instruments, but the singing is fine, and if a lot of the songs live up to the album title, that ain't necessarily bad. For listeners (dancers too): "What You Don't Know." B+

Jackson 5: Anthology (Motown, 1976) The only one of Motown's triple-LP retrospectives to concentrate on (or even include much) '70s music documents an institution in decline. Initially, the company marshalls everything it's got for one final push--not for nothing was the group's songwriting-production combine called The Corporation, and it's a measure of their seriousness that they asked the Crusaders to help with the tracks. But within two years they'd run out of gas--all the mini-comebacks after that, even the dancing-machine coup, were flukes. The proof is that the old-formula filler often surpasses the desperate imitations that became minor hits--better "E-Ne-Me-Ne-Mi-Ne-Moe" than "Skywriter" or "A Little Bit of You." The selection includes Michael's hits, Jermaine's hit, the works, and as the other albums disappear it will become essential in its way. But not to listen to, much. B+

The Jacksons: The Jacksons (Epic, 1976) Sorry--Michael and his brothers just aren't high-powered enough to rev up Gamble & Huff's faltering music machine. Or is it vice versa? C+

The Jacksons: Destiny (Epic, 1978) They wrote all the songs, but it's the debut self-production--after a second stiff in Philadelphia--that puts their best regular-release album since the beginning across. Specifically, it's the production on the dance tracks--the lyrics are best when you can blame them on the boogie. B+

Jade and Sarsparilla: Jade and Sarsparilla (Submaureen, 1976) If this record weren't by two women who sing love songs to each other, I'd quickly dismiss it as long on melodrama and short on melody. But the built-in societal conflict faced by two women who sing love songs to each other not only makes the melodrama more credible--conflict is the stuff of drama, right?--but is also interesting in itself, and if I were a woman who loved women I'm quite sure I'd be playing it all the time. B-

The Jaggerz: We Went to Different Schools Together (Kama Sutra, 1970) I must have gone to a different school, too--I never seem to learn that a great pop single like "The Rapper" rarely has a half-decent album attached. Well, AM fans, let this be a lesson to you. C-

The Jam: In the City (Polydor, 1977) Here we find an English hard-rock trio who wear short hair and dark suits, say "fuck" a lot, and sound rather like The Who Sing My Generation, even mentioning James Brown in one song. They also claim a positive social attitude--no police state in the U.K., but no anarchy either. Is this some kind of put-up job, pseudo-punk with respect for the verities? Could be, but it doesn't matter. When they complain that Uncle Jimmy the "red balloon" (or is it "reveloo"?) never walks home at night, they've got his number, but when they accuse him of sleeping between silk sheets they're just blowing someone else's hot air. In the end, they could go either way--or both. In the meantime, though, they blow me out. These boys can put a song together; they're both powerful enough to subsume their sources and fresh enough to keep me coming back for more. A-

The Jam: This Is the Modern World (Polydor, 1977) The naive, out-of-the-mouths-of-careerists clumsiness is endearing partly because it gets at truths too obvious to interest the sophisticated; the assumption that the word modern has sociopolitical import, for instance, is laughably autodidactic at one level and yet not without resonance when pounded out over and over. Would that the pounding were a little more flexible--this might rock as invitingly as their first if only it were varied with some appropriate covers. How about "Kicks"? B+

The Jam: All Mod Cons (Polydor, 1979) Far from the posers cynics believe them to be, these guys are almost painfully sincere, and on this album their desire to write commercial songs that say something is palpable and winning. Unfortunately, their success is mixed at best, and the music is so tentative that I was surprised by how hard they made a set of new material rock in concert. But last year's set rocked even harder. And though I can overlook the record's gaffes and forced lines and faint playing in the aftermath of the show, I'm too much of a cynic to believe the glow will last. B

Bob James: Heads (Columbia/Tappan Zee, 1977) This was the number one jazz album in Record World not long ago, and I predict trouble. Already the people who put out those Environments nature soundscapes must be wondering why their records never make the list. D+

Etta James: Etta James Sings Funk (Cadet, 1970) As you can read on the back, funk isn't a style or something like that--it's just, well, Etta. Etta with chorus, Etta with full brass, Etta with strings even. Etta singing a Gershwin song, Etta singing a Bee Gees song, Etta singing three Acuff-Rose songs, Etta singing four Pearl Woods songs. (Pearl Woods?) Highlights: the Acuff-Rose songs. B

Etta James: Losers Weepers (Cadet, 1971) Kittenish one moment and cathouse the next, James offers disappointingly subtle pleasures for such a big singer--except for two ASCAP standards, the title song is the only one I'd care to hear from someone else, and not even James's foxy delight in her own moods can salvage some of them. Nor will the orchestrations--conventional in blues, soul, and big-band modes--draw anyone in. But these days only Tina Turner (who couldn't provide subtle pleasures if she wanted to) seems to get much of a kick out of the down and dirty, and James's uninhibited sense of humor and fondness for sexual combat finally jollies this album over the line. B+

Etta James: Etta James (Chess, 1973) Gabriel Mekler (of Steppenwolf, Kozmic Janis, Nolan Porter) introduces Etta to the rock audience with three Randy Newman covers plus, and it almost works. To hear this gospel-trained ex-junkie turn "God's Song" into a jubilantly sarcastic antihymn is to know why pious blacks consider blues devil music, and Tracy Nelson fans should hear how low "Down So Low" can get. James is full-bodied, bitter, hip without sounding educated about it. But she has trouble finding a female persona for "Sail Away" and "Leave Your Hat On." And she has trouble making anything at all out of Mekler's own stuff. B

Etta James: Come a Little Closer (Chess, 1974) Last time Gabriel Mekler went one for three as a songwriter and half-ruined his producee's album. This time he goes two for six. A "Mekler" tune on which Etta does nothing but moan is one of the good ones, which will give you an idea of whose contribution matters. "St. Louis Blues" is also a winner. B-

Etta James: Etta Is Betta Than Evvah! (Chess, 1976) What a mess. The side-openers--"Woman (Shake Your Booty)" (she's dirty and she's proud) and "Jump Into Love" ("You gotta wallow in it," opines a lowdown male chorus)--promise an album of raunch after all that classy stuff. But except for a literal version of King Floyd's "Groove Me," the only other raunch here is Randy Newman's "Leave Your Hat On," which Mekler originally produced. Makes a lot more sense in this context. B

Etta James: Deep in the Night (Warner Bros., 1978) Most of James's albums suffer from radical unevenness; this one is marred by its consistency. Producer Jerry Wexler's song choices are as tastefully imaginative as his arrangements, but James has never had much midrange, and her versions of (good) material from such luminaries as Kiki Dee, the Eagles, and Alice Cooper are inferior to the originals. She doesn't get much out of "Piece of My Heart," either. That said, I'll admit to enjoying side two--opening with a jaunty "Lovesick Blues" and touching base at gospel (Dorothy Love Coates), soul (Allen Toussaint), and r&b (revamping her own "I'd Rather Go Blind"). But it's still a little boring. Which means it's not the real Etta. B

Freddie James: Get Up and Boogie (Warner Bros., 1979) Just what you've been waiting for, I'm sure--another soprano crooning over another cleverly entitled dance track. And coming up next, oh my god, it's "Crazy Disco Music." Think it might help if the singer were male? Well, it does, quite a bit--very cute, very unusual. In fact, since he's already fourteen, very very unusual--his soprano days are numbered. Next step, he says, is to go to "Hollywood," where they'll tell him to "Dance Little Boy Blue." Don't put your advance on it, kid. B-

Rick James: Bustin' Out of L Seven (Gordy, 1979) Funky, sure--he's fairly funky, although not on the slow ones. But if this is 'delic, so was the Strawberry Alarm Clock. B-

James Gang: James Gang Rides Again (ABC, 1970) I grant that Joe Walsh's band is more interesting than the usual power trio--because it isn't a power trio, just a trio. Walsh's guitar dominates, as is customary, but by stealth, by which I guess I mean style--rather than blasting fast he goes for country-spacey glisses that are all slide and sustain. Just wish he didn't sing that way--makes it sound like his songs are (is it possible?) guitar showcases. When's the last time my fave cut on anything was an instrumental? "Asshtonpark," it's called, and it's funker than "Funk #49." B-

James Gang: Passin' Thru (ABC, 1972) Okay, boys, just as long as you're out of town by sundown. And Troiano, leave your guitar with me. That Walsh feller, he was a gentleman, but there's no tellin' what you'll be shootin' off next. C

Al Jarreau: Glow (Reprise, 1976) This man has the looks and voice and technique and support of an instant superstar. So why isn't he? Maybe because he neither writes nor interprets songs with the soul to match his freeze-dried facility. C+

Keith Jarrett: Fort Yawuh (Impulse, 1973) The first acoustic jazz record I've made an effort to like in years, and it was worth it. Side two is easy--Paul Motian draws you into "De Drums," and Jarrett's "Still Life, Still Life" is instantly pretty and gets better. But side one sounds like the usual new jumble for at least ten plays until suddenly Dewey Redman establishes himself as heir to Ornette, just like the highbrows say he is. Redman's Ear of the Behearer is my next project. A-

Keith Jarrett: Treasure Island (Impulse, 1974) If Jarrett's Solo Concerts are too statusy and static, then this moves with a suspiciously unambitious ease--it's true to all its own assumptions, only it assumes too little. When he is on (e.g., Fort Yawuh) Jarrett can conjure beauty out of chaos and agitation out of peace. All he comes up with here is pleasant little surges of melody. B

Keith Jarrett: Death and the Flower (Impulse, 1975) Jarrett has the kind of gift that is labeled genius because it's so hard to put down. But for a genius, he makes an awful lot of music that can best be described as pleasant. Granted that its pleasantness is substantial and sensual and spirited all at once. Granted too that the accomplishment of this album is more reliable than that of his last group effort, Treasure Island. I still expect more from a genius. B

Keith Jarrett: Bop-Be (ABC/Impulse, 1978) Unspiritual clod that I am, I can live my life content without ever going along on one of Jarrett's endless solo pilgrimages, but I love this collection of circa-1976 quartet material. Ah, ain't theme-and-improvisation grand, especially when Dewey Redman is showing so much control and heart on the saxophone that dominates what is nominally a pianist's record. Redman also contributes two angular compositions and a desultory one that I like anyway, and Charlie Haden chips in another two. I don't even mind when Jarrett plays soprano sax, or sounds--appropriately enough--like Brubeck on the final cut. Ah, ain't group creation grand. A

The J.B.'s: Food for Thought (People, 1972) On "Pass the Peas," "Gimme Some More," and an ensemble showpiece called "The Grunt," JB is conspicuous by his conceptual presence even when he's not passing, giving, or grunting. On "Escape-ism" he's conspicuous by his spiritual absence even though he raps through most of the track. Elsewhere he's just missed. B-

The J.B.'s: Doing It to Death (People, 1973) The consumerist-conservationist in me is appalled by the whole idea of J.B.'s records, which are basically another way for James Brown to spread himself thin. The title riff is the best he's come up with since There It Is--two soundtracks, a compilation, a studio double, and another J.B.'s album ago--and might have been put to better use elsewhere. On the other hand, the whole first side is adequate James Brown--that is, pretty damn good. The second side stretches Brown out on organ, never my favorite vehicle for his talent. Theme song: "You Can Have Watergate Just Gimme Some Bucks and I'll Be Straight." Lot of different ways to take that. B

The J.B.'s: Damn Right I Am Somebody (People, 1974) Significance of title designation: album masquerades intermittently as funk opera about black identity. Significance of artist designation: bandleader Wesley plays his trombone about fifty times as much as bandleader Brown sings. C+

Jebadiah: Rock 'n' Soul (Epic, 1978) At last, a record designed to end those party-pooping disputes over whether to dance to disco or the Stones. Yes, record-buyers, Michael Zager has discofied six Stones classics, and I beg him to check with Santa Esmeralda (or hire the Hollyridge Strings) before trying anything like it again. Advice to partygivers: settle those arguments with the "Miss You" disco disc. Personal to Ralph Abernathy: Boycott "Brown Sugar." E

Jefferson Airplane: The Worst of Jefferson Airplane (RCA Victor, 1970) For someone who enjoys their albums, like me, this factitious compilation--fifteen cuts is a lot, but though it includes all (two) of their AM smashes it doesn't even pretend to be a singles anthology--is a waste. But for someone who finds their albums wanting, like me, it has its uses, especially as overview. These folks are literate both verbally and musically. Their chops don't quite equal their tastes--"White Rabbit," with its bolero build and librarian's-eye view of lysergic acid, is perfect, but "Chushingura" is almost as sloppy in the picking as "Today" is in the sentiment. They were hippies when becoming a hippie took beatnik initiative and psychedelic imagination. And when they're good they make the for-better-or-worse evolution of rock and roll into rock seem both appropriate and inevitable. B+

Jefferson Airplane: Bark (Grunt, 1971) This isn't as bad as the faithless claim (a lot better than Bite, for instance), but it's definitely a collection of weirdnesses rather than an album: duh boys in duh band sing a cappella, Grace sings German, Grace defies cop, Hot Tuna outtake, fiddle feature, and so forth. And so on. C+

Jefferson Airplane: Long John Silver (Grunt, 1972) Easily the most coherent album to come from Airplane Associates since Volunteers--the music is muscular, the hole left by Marty Balin finally covered over. But the printed lyrics are catchier than the tunes. Grace sings like she's facing Mecca, and Paul sings like an automatic pilot. Which suggests that maybe a hole is still there. C+

Jefferson Airplane: Early Flight (Grunt, 1974) Artists are always claiming embarrassment at the unauthorized release of their early work, but this group owns the company, so I guess they know no shame. They ought to--not about these nine cuts, six recorded in 1965-66 and three in 1970, but at how played out the band has become. The two originals with Signe Anderson are early Airplane at their folkie-trippy worst, although "High Flying Bird" is fine, but even the six-minute blues jams, one with Jorma and one with Marty, sound more alive than all their space operas. The 1970 single "Mexico," about Nixon's dope crackdown, is their finest recording of the decade. And "Have You Seen the Saucers," the B side, sounds more alive than all their space operas too. B

Jefferson Starship: Dragon Fly (Grunt, 1974) The key cut here is Grace Slick's gnomic "Hyperdrive," in which supertechnology (spirit-powered, perhaps?) cuts through "corners in time." If in 1973 you'd been responsible for Baron von Tollbooth and the Chrome Nun (Jefferson Jitney), Thirty Seconds Over Winterland (dead live), and Bodacious D.F. (Marty's party), you'd want to think you'd turned a corner in 1974 yourself. But though this does achieve a slick modernization of their polyvocal sound (Barbata-powered, definitely), with Papa John Creach's fiddle and Craig Chaquico's guitar synthesizing past and future for purposes of metaphor and stage presentation as Marty Balin's cameo contribution links them audibly to their own history, it also proves that you can't get along forever on generalized imprecations against the powerful and invidious oriental-occidental comparisons. C+

Jefferson Starship: Red Octopus (Grunt, 1975) This is indeed their most significant record of the decade, but what does it signify? It's their first number-one album, but it sells to an audience that refuses to distinguish between production values and musical ideas. While the returned Marty Balin is the most soulful folkie ever to set voice to plastic, he remains a mushbrain--the paragon to whom he addresses "Miracles" is actually compared to both a river and a stringed instrument. And to call "I Want to See Another World" and "There Will Be Love" jive-ass would be to imply that standard-brand American bullshit has style. B-

Jefferson Starship: Spitfire (Grunt, 1976) I still respect this group, I really do. Their apparently random yet inexorable evolution as a collective entity (not just Grace & Paul Plus) resonates in their deepening textures. They seem to have ideals. You might even say they keep '60s notions of communality alive. Or are they just accommodating '70s notions of corporate identity? They're so vague--they meaning the people, the ideals, and on this album even the textures--that it's hard to tell. Or care. C

Jefferson Starship: Flight Log (Grunt, 1977) The truism is that their history matched the counterculture's from optimism to visions to anger to dissolution, and this compilation devotes more than a disc to phase four. I really tried to pin down some overarching theme I'd missed at the time, but dissolution seems to be it--not only did they have nothing to say, they didn't have much to say it with. The three Hot Tuna cuts sound fresh and intelligent by comparison, and the '60s stuff--only two repeats from Worst plus a live "Somebody to Love"--is, well, optimistic and visionary and angry. C+

Jefferson Starship: Earth (Grunt, 1978) This is slightly better than Spitfire (not to mention Baron von Tollbooth) and rather worse than Red Octopus (not to mention Crown of Creation). Its only ambitious lyric seems to equate skateboarding with sex with (male) hubris; its expertness conceals neither schlock nor shtick nor strain of ego. It is leading the nation in FM airplay. C

Jefferson Starship: Gold (Grunt, 1979) Though their biographies suggest no special expertise in the subject, these aging romantics sing only about love. To put their generation in kinder perspective they encourage young Craig Chaquico to play his stupid guitar. Perennially poignant Marty Balin, now departed once again, dominates this compilation like a matinee idol squeezing another year out of his profile; perennially unpredictable Grace Slick, now also departed, sounds less and less interested in providing point or counterpoint. The music isn't utterly formulaic--from their tight folkie harmonies to their John Creach phase through various oriental mysteries they've cultivated an agreeable exoticism. But it goes nowhere except the bank. B-

Jefferson Starship: Freedom at Point Zero (Grunt, 1979) Hawkwind-goes-commercial leads off one side, Foreigner-hurries-home the other; both cuts are catchy, both sexist tripe. The rest of the album is a familiar muddle of fixations: space travel, good-time, the deluge, the possession of pretty girls. Personal to Mickey Thomas: ain't nobody gonna boogie to the moons of Saturn. C-

Garland Jeffreys: Garland Jeffreys (Atlantic, 1973) A classy singer-songwriter with staying power; a classless singer-songwriter with at least two bags of tricks. "Black and white as can be" right down to his vocals, he's a living breathing advertisement for the mongrelization of the races, and it's his existential dilemma that permits Michael Cuscuna a gourmet coproduction in which Stonesy blues shuffles rub elbows with reggae from Kingston and a song about the zoo that makes Paul Simon sound like Marlin Perkins. Is he streetwise? Damn right--wise enough to find the streets a little scary. B+

Garland Jeffreys: Ghost Writer (A&M, 1977) Four years is a long time between LPs; if Jeffreys sounded like a talented cult artist on Atlantic in 1973, by now he's collected so much material he sounds like the most fecund singer-songwriter since whoever. Well, save that for the next time. Meanwhile, the racial paradox is dramatized audaciously, the dreams of showbiz glory rendered with an uncommon knowing subtlety, the reggae natural-born, the voice fuller and more passionate, and the album a great buy. A-

Garland Jeffreys: One Eyed-Jack (A&M, 1978) If this were a "sellout" it would be mottled with slavish attempts at a catchiness inimical to the reggaefied groove Jeffreys explores so deliberately. Take it as Product Due from an artist who for some reason hasn't written any of his best songs in the past year, and hope his muse returns. C+

Garland Jeffreys: American Boy and Girl (A&M, 1979) Jeffreys has never shown much knack for love songs, and he's not getting any better with melodies either, which means that half of this encouraging comeback gets by on his acumen as a singer and bandleader. But as you might expect from somebody who rhymes "you know what it's like" with "Wilhelm Reich," he retains his feeling for cafe society and his sense of the street, which synthesize into his eternal theme of making it. And while you might suspect him of sentimentalizing the street kids on the cover, he doesn't--he just cares about them, that's all. B

Johnny Jenkins: Ton-Ton Macoute! (Atco, 1970) The former Pinetopper got upstaged by stablemate Otis Redding at his big recording opportunity many years ago, so now, in the spirit of fair's fair, the Allman Brothers Band (sans Gregg) give him another chance by backing him with some rock and roll (not "Rock"). They sound great, too. Only problem is, Jenkins got upstaged for a reason--he doesn't have much of a voice. B-

Waylon Jennings: Ladies Love Outlaws (RCA Victor, 1972) Waylon lets you know he has balls by singing as though someone is twisting them. C

Waylon Jennings: Lonesome, On'ry and Mean (RCA Victor, 1973) I can't say for sure whether it's him or me, but Waylon doesn't sound anywhere near so . . . strained this time out. Maybe it's just "Sandy Sends Her Best," as powerful a song about the guilty good will on the hurting side of a breakup as you'll ever hear. Still a touch or four melodramatic, though. B

Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson: Waylon and Willie (RCA Victor, 1978) Commercially, this collaboration was a sure shot. They could have hammed it up or run through on automatic; they could even have avoided connecting altogether. But as it happens, this is the strongest album either has made in a while, as full of enthusiasm and devoid of posturing as a dressing-room singout. As in most dressing-room singouts, though, things get a little too loose at times--sometimes it's hard to tell whether they remember the words. B+

Jethro Tull: Benefit (Reprise, 1970) Ian Anderson is one of those people who attracts admirers by means of a principled arrogance that has no relation to his actual talents or accomplishments. He does have one undeniable gift, though--he knows how to deploy riffs. Nearly every track on this album is constructed around a good one, sometimes two; play it twice and you'll have the thing memorized. But I defy you to recall any lyrics. For all his e-nun-ci-a-tion and attention to wordcraft, Anderson can't or won't create the impression that he really cares about love/friendship/privacy, which I take to be his chief theme--the verbiage isn't obscure, but he really does make it hard to concentrate. I'm sure I hear one satirical exegesis on the generation gap, though. B-

Jethro Tull: Aqualung (Reprise, 1971) Ian Anderson is like the town free thinker. As long as you're stuck in the same town yourself, his inchoate cultural interests and skeptical views on religion and human behavior are refreshing, but meet up with him in the city and he can turn out to be a real bore. Of course, he can also turn out to be Bob Dylan--it all depends on whether he rejected provincial values out of a thirst for more or out of a reflexive (maybe even somatic) negativism. And on whether he was pretentious only because he didn't know any better. C+

Jethro Tull: Thick as a Brick (Reprise, 1972) Ian Anderson is the type of guy who'll tell you on one album that a whole side is one theme and then tell you on the next that the whole album is one song. The usual shit--rock (getting heavier), folk (getting feyer), classical (getting schlockier), flute (getting better because it has no choice), words. C-

Billy Joel: Piano Man (Columbia, 1973) Joel's Cold Spring Harbor was recorded in the vicinity of 38-rpm to fit all the material on--he's one of these eternal teenagers who doesn't know how to shut up. Stubborn little bastard, too--after his bid stiffed, he worked a Los Angeles cocktail lounge soaking up Experience. Here he poses as the Irving Berlin of narcissistic alienation, puffing up and condescending to the fantasies of fans who spend their lives by the stereo feeling sensitive. And just to remind them who's boss, he hits them with a ballad after the manner of Aaron Copland. C

Billy Joel: Streetlife Serenade (Columbia, 1974) Boy, these piano boys--on "Root Beer Rag" and "The Mexican Connection" Joel abandons Irving Berlin for George Gershwin, or do I mean Roger Williams? Granted, "The Entertainer" is so nasty it's witty--so nasty it may be about Joel himself. But why does it include a Rick Wakeman imitation? C

Billy Joel: Turnstiles (Columbia, 1976) As Joel's craft improves--I can recall four of these songs merely by glancing at titles--he becomes more obnoxious: the anti-idealism of "Angry Young Man" isn't any more appealing in tandem with the pseudoironic sybaritism of "I've Loved These Days." But I do catch myself in moments of identification with the three place-name songs on side one--"Say Goodbye to Hollywood" more than the overrated "New York State of Mind." C+

Billy Joel: The Stranger (Columbia, 1977) Having concealed his egotism in metaphor as a young songpoet, he achieved success when he uncloseted the spoiled brat behind those bulging eyes. But here the brat appears only once, in the nominally metaphorical guise of "the stranger." The rest of Billy has more or less grown up. He's now as likable as your once-rebellious and still-tolerant uncle who has the quirk of believing that OPEC was designed to ruin his air-conditioning business. B-

Billy Joel: 52nd Street (Columbia, 1978) Despite the Chapinesque turns his voice takes when he tries to get raucous, he makes a better Elton John than Leo Sayer--he's got that same omniverous hummability. But when he is (was) good, Elton balances(d) off the smarm with camp, while Billy makes as if he really wants people to believe the words. Yuck. B-

David Johansen: David Johansen (Blue Sky, 1977) Balancing the unrecorded classics of the Dolls' rent-party phase--"Girls" ("I love 'em seizin' the power"), "Funky but Chic" ("Mama thinks I look pretty fruity but in jeans I feel rotten"), and "Frenchette" (as in laundrette)--against ground-breaking love/heartbreak songs like "Donna" and "Pain in My Heart," this is in many ways a "better" record than either Dolls LP. Sound quality is fuller, the rhythm section funks and flows, the guitarists play genuine solos and respond to the call, and Johansen's voice is as open and direct as his new songs, finding an almost soulful musical and emotional range. Conceptually, though, it's singer-with-backup in a post-garage mode, packing no distinctive structural or sonic kick, pretty conventional for the pied piper of outrageousness. A-

David Johansen: In Style (Blue Sky, 1979) Johansen is equal to his more soulish musical concept--no "disco," just slower tempos, subtle be-yoo-ty, and some reggae--but he doesn't have the chops to get on top of it, and while this is solid stuff, the best of it tends to thin out a little. Although the problem isn't how often you think "that's bad" but how often you don't think "that's great," the record is summed up for me by "Big City," the most banal lyric he's ever written. Until now, you see, he'd never written any banal lyrics at all. Now he's got three or four. B+

Elton John: Elton John (Uni, 1970) A lot of people consider John a future superstar, and they may be right; I find this overweening (semi-classical ponderousness) and a touch precious (sensitivity on parade). It offers at least one great lyric (about a newborn baby brother), several nice romantic ballads (I don't like its affected offhandedness, but "Your Song" is an instant standard), and a surprising complement of memorable tracks. But their general lack of focus, whether due to histrionic overload or sheer verbal laziness, is a persistent turnoff. B

Elton John: Tumbleweed Connection (Uni, 1971) Between the cardboard leatherette jacket and the cold-type rotogravure souvenir booklet is a piece of plastic with good melodies and bad Westerns on it. Why do people believe that these latter qualify as songpoems? Must be that magic word "connection," so redolent of trains, illegal substances, and I-and-thou. Did somebody say Grand Funk Railroad was a hype? What about this puling phony? B-

Elton John: Madman Across the Water (Uni, 1971) The two decent songs here--I refer primarily to the melodies of "Tiny Dancer" (just how small is she, anyway?) and "Levon"--clock in (with lots and lots of help from Paul Buckmaster) at 6:12 and 5:37 respectively. In other words, they meander. The others maunder as well. Ugh. C

Elton John: Honky Chateau (Uni, 1972) John is here transmuted from dangerous poseur to likable pro. Paul Buckmaster and his sobbing strings are gone. Bernie Taupin has settled into some comprehensible (even sharp and surprising) lyrics, and John's piano, tinged with the music hall, is a rocker's delight. Also, he does have a knack for the hook. If like me you love "Rocket Man" despite all your initial misgivings, try "I Think I'm Gonna Kill Myself," about the state of teenage blues, or "Slave," about slavery. A-

Elton John: Don't Shoot Me, I'm Only the Piano Player (MCA, 1972) Dear Elton: If you're trying to claim it's all Bernie's fault, just hold on. One half of a songwriting team can always bail the other out of rock and roll as competent and (not counting that new sexist streak) unexcessive as this, as each of you proved on Honky Chateau. Maybe Bernie refuses to outgrow his pistol envy. But that's no reason for you to make the music not-with-a-bang-but-a-whimper. C+

Elton John: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (MCA, 1973) Two LPs ago, Bernie Taupin passed on his way from obscure banality to clean, well-lighted banality to write a batch of imaginative lyrics, and set to those lyrics John's music sounded eclectic but not confused. Too often now it seems to chatter on anonymously. The title cut is good, "Bennie and the Jets" is great, side four is good-to-great, and a few other songs here would probably benefit from more exclusive company, but this is one more double album that would make a nifty single. B

Elton John: Caribou (MCA, 1974) I give up. Of course he's a machine, but haven't you ever loved a machine so much it took on its own personality? I was reminded of my first car, a '50 Plymouth. Then I decided Elton was more like a brand-new Impala I once rented on a magazine's money. Then I remembered that I ended up paying for that car myself. Yes, I hate the way he says "don't diszgard me" too, but "The Bitch Is Back" is my most favorite song. B+

Elton John: Greatest Hits (MCA, 1974) I don't agree that singles are Elton's metier--his method is too hit-or-miss to permit such a surefire formula, and some of his best stuff ("Your Sister Can't Twist," "Solar Prestige a Gammon") has proven too wild or weird for a&r/p.d. consciousness. There are no clinkers here, and I suppose if you only want one of his albums this is it. But it's stylistically ragged, two of its four great cuts are also on Honky Chateau, and I'd just as soon hear the first side of Caribou. B+

Elton John: Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy (MCA, 1975) Says B.T. as E.J.: "I once wrote such childish words for you." Do they feel guilty about it? Have they put away childish things? What's happening to our children when a concept album about the hard times of a songwriting team hits number one on all charts the week it's released? Does it matter that the five good songs on this one aren't as catchy as the five good songs on the last one? Probably not. B

Elton John: Rock of the Westies (MCA, 1975) First time I read the lyrics I got angry, but not at he lyrics, which are Bernie's best; I thought the new band's machine-tooled hard rock and Elton's automatic good cheer was negating their toughness and clarity and complexity. But I was wrong. Intentionally or not, the marimba accents of "Grow Some Funk of Your Own" and the faked-up Caribbean inflections of "Island Girl" elaborate the songs racial ironies, while the band's fiery temper on "Street Kids" and "Hard Luck Story" cuts through John's arbitrary ebullience. Now if only Bernie furnished every song with a perfect out like this one, from "I Feel Like a Bullet": "You know I can't think straight no more." A-

Elton John: Here and There (MCA, 1976) I had a syllogism worked out on this one. Went something like a) all boogie concerts rock on out, b) Elton is best when he rocks on out, c) therefore Elton's concert LP will rank with his best. So if this sounds like slop (concert-slop and Elton-slop both), blame Socrates--or find the false premise. C

Elton John: Blue Moves (MCA, 1976) None of the few rockers on this impossibly weepy and excessive double-LP match anything on Rock of the Westies. Or, as my wife commented in all innocence of who was on: "What is this tripe?" C

Elton John: Greatest Hits Volume II (MCA, 1977) The two previously-unavailable-on-LP originals here are peaks, but the two covers are dippy. Plus the lead cut from Caribou and two hits from Rock of the Westies and leftovers from 1971 and 1976 and the climax of Captain Fantastic. Is this product necessary? Depends on who's doing the needing. B+

Elton John: A Single Man (MCA, 1978) Like the homophilophile I am, I'm rooting for Elton, but though this isn't as lugubrious as Blue Moves, it comes close, and the flat banalities of new lyricist Gary Osborne make Bernie Taupin's intricate ones sound like Cole Porter. Personal to Reg Dwight: Rock and roll those blues away. C

Elton John: Victim of Love (MCA, 1979) What's most depressing about this incredibly drab disc is that Elton's flirtation with Eurodisco comes a year too late. Even at his smarmiest, the man always used to be on top of the zeitgeist. C-

The Jimmy Johnson Band: Johnson's Whacks (Delmark, 1979) Syl's cousin performed better on Alligator's Living Chicago Blues Volume I, but only marginally, and he compensates by showing unexpected chops as a writer. Whether hoping to make the cover of Living Blues magazine or complaining that women aren't loyal any more, he comes across as a bold-faced contemporary. But his basic wail starts to sound thin after a while, his band is only solid, and his guitar can't carry the extra load. B+

Linton Kwesi Johnson: Forces of Victory (Mango, 1979) You have every right to be suspicious of a Jamaican-English intellectual who writes message poems in patois and then sing-speaks them with the support of top reggae professionals. But you're wrong. Politics aside, Johnson has fresh musical gifts--an inside-outside awareness of the inherent musicality of Caribbean English and a rhythmic touch as uncanny as his band's. On this album they're enhanced by insinuating horn charts, even melodies. While some prefer his debut, the bloody Dread Beat an' Blood (Virgin Front Line import), for striking closer to the broken bone of British racism, I actually like the abstractions here better, especially on "Reality Poem." Also, it's a relief to encounter a reggae album that doesn't once refer to Jah. A-

Syl Johnson: Back for a Taste of Your Love (Hi, 1973) Note label, imagine formula. A good one, of course--as the horns ascend over bass and drums you half expect him to break into "You Ought to Be With Me" or "Here I Am." Unfortunately, the voice is too narrow and nasal to take full advantage of such a smooth approach--good thing he gets gritty now and then. Mistake: Jerry Vale's (and Ray Charles's) "You Don't Know Me," which sounds like something Al thought better of. B

Syl Johnson: Diamond in the Rough (Hi, 1974) At its best this is competent-plus Memphis uptempo. Which is fine, but it's no accident that the best tune is the only one that didn't come out of Hi. It's the Cate Brothers' "Stuck in Chicago," and maybe he should have stayed there. B-

Syl Johnson: Total Explosion (Hi, 1976) Johnson has tended to disappear in between Willie Mitchell and Al Green, but on this LP he takes his harmonica up to the microphone and stands clear as a lapsed bluesman. Good move. His voice is still shriller, and more strained than Green's, but that can be a satisfying distinction in the right context. A comparison of his unexceptionably dynamic rendition of "Take Me to the River" to Green's sublime original, however, renews one's understanding of what divine spark might be. Although I wish the folks at Hi would let him sing just one Junior Wells song, say, they've done him proud. B+

Syl Johnson: Uptown Shakedown (Hi, 1979) Some worthy soul veterans turn disco into commercial or even artistic regeneration. Others don't. For Johnson, who here abandons the rough, bluesy intensity of Total Explosion, disco means compromised semi-contemporaneity. "Mystery Lady" (she wears a mask) and "Let's Dance for Love" affect post-hustle hipness but don't achieve it, lyrically or musically, which may be why the Otis Redding medley and the Brenton Wood cover sound so half-assed. C

The Johnstons: The Johnstons (Mercury, 1972) What do you call it when an honest and political Irish folk duo adds strings and horn arrangements for no perceivable purpose, including increased sales? How about sham-rock? C

Jo Jo Gunne: Jo Jo Gunne (Asylum, 1971) A hard rock band that digs structure and texture as well as drumming and amplification. Vaguely reminiscent of Layla and Detroit, this also derives from the best of Spirit--namely, "I've Got a Line on You." Hi-high, American pie. B+

Jo Jo Gunne: Jumpin' the Gunne (Asylum, 1973) For three straight albums this second-generation band, named after a Chuck Berry song by Spirit keyboard man and hard rock stalwart Jay Ferguson, has hung tough enough to attract my attention, but despite their high-speed, cross-riffing structural facility they haven't played smart enough to hold it. "At the Spa," a nasty metaphor about the limits of entertainment, almost changed that. But in the end I find their oddly un-Californian rock cynicism almost as wearying as the other kinds. B-

Jo Mama: J Is for Jump (Atlantic, 1971) A weird one. This is one of those bands that wants to shove its idea of "good music" down the audience's collective throat, and I think most rock and rollers will find the style cute and constricted. But me, I enjoy it, on this album. Danny Kootch's songs are wry, just the way I like 'em, and even the phony cocktail jazz ditty framed by the pseudo-Chick Corea piano excavations sounds good. And though the subtle sexuality that pervades the record is hardly original--vocalist Abigale Haness's stuff goes back to June Christie at least--it still turns me on. So this is recommended to my soul/brain/gonad siblings, with the added warning that it doesn't jump much. B+

George Jones: The Best of George Jones (Musicor, 1970) Don't take the title too seriously--the clenched jaw and rubberband larynx of honky-tonk's greatest honky have graced more albums than he can count (seventy, eighty, like that), and only the Lord knows how many singles he's put out. This is a fairly nondescript selection of ten of them, including one B side and two I can't trace. As usual, the highest-charted are the blandest, and neither of my faves--the hyperextended deception trope "Tell Me My Lying Eyes Are Wrong" and the poor white "Where Grass Won't Grow"--made top ten country. B+

George Jones: The Best of George Jones, Vol. 1 (RCA Victor, 1972) "White Lightnin'" isn't the only white lightnin' Jones's longtime but no-more producer "Pappy" Daily passes around--to commemorate Jones's desertion to Epic, Daily has sold all the George he owns to RCA, and the initial result is a hither-and-yon compilation that skips from the high purity of his work with Mercury and United Artists (no Starday stuff) to the tortured midrange of the recent "I'll Follow You" and "A Day in the Life of a Fool." Much too brief, but not a bad introduction. A-

George Jones: The Best of George Jones (Epic, 1975) You can hear why people say Billy Sherrill has compromised Jones on this compilation's only great song, "The Door"; Bergen White's strings begin tersely enough, but by the end the usual army of interlopers is sawing away, so that you barely notice how Jones lowers the boom on the two "the"s in the song's final line. Ultimately, though, it isn't the production that makes this acceptable but less than scintillating--it's the conception. Too many of these songs lay out the conventional romantic themes with a slight twist, and there's virtually no room for Jones the honky-tonk crazy, the one who sang "The Race Is On" and "No Money in This Deal." One Epic cut that would help on both counts is the unsarcastic "You're Looking at a Happy Man," in which his wife leaves him. B+

George Jones: The Battle (Epic, 1976) One of the artiest cover illustrations ever to come out of Nashville has misled casual observers into the belief that this is a concept album about George and Tammy's marital problems. What it is is a slightly better-than-average George Jones LP marred by a surfeit of conjugal-bliss songs. First by a country mile: "Billy Ray Wrote a Song," about two up-and-coming Nashville professionals, both male. B

George Jones: Alone Again (Epic, 1976) Although it sticks too close to heart songs, this comeback-to-basics statement is the best country album of the year and far surpasses the rest of Jones's recent work. I'm getting to like the over-forty Jones as much as the rawboned honky-tonker anyway--what's amazing about him is that by refusing the release of honky-tonking he holds all that pain in, audibly. The result, expressed in one homely extended metaphor per song (the only one that's too commonplace is "diary of my life"), is a sense of constriction that says as much about the spiritual locus of country music as anything I've heard in quite a while. A-

George Jones: All-Time Greatest Hits: Volume 1 (Epic, 1977) Jones afficionados may well object to his re-recording his old standards, especially while some of the prototypes remain in catalogue on RCA and Musicor. But though I miss the revved-up boy-man lightness of some of the originals, these are much brighter and more passionate than most remakes, and I welcome the improved sound quality and relatively schlock-free arrangements. Likable at worst, revelatory at best, and recommended. A-

George Jones: I Wanta Sing (Epic, 1977) The vocals aren't as intense here as on Alone Again, so the tomfoolery seems a little forced, though I hope he keeps trying. But as long as he's not buried in strings, soul choruses, and Peter Allen songs, I don't think he can make a bad album. Will somebody tell Billy Sherrill to withdraw that call to Australia? B

George Jones: 16 Greatest Hits (Starday, 1977) [CG80: Rock Library: Before 1980]  

George Jones: My Very Special Guests (Epic, 1979) This collection of ten collaborations with outlaw old-timers, country-rock phenoms, Staples, Tammy, and someone named Elvis has low points, as you might expect. But its quality has more to do with what's being sung than with who's singing it where. James Taylor, harmonizing from New York on his neo-classic "Bartender's Blues," sounds fine; Emmylou Harris, chiming in from El Lay on the lame "Here We Are," fares only slightly worse than Johnny Paycheck does on poor old "Proud Mary," which comes complete with made-in-Nashville interaction. Must-hears: "I Gotta Get Drunk," with Willie Nelson, and the amazing "Stranger in the House," which gives an unexpected clue about who taught Mr. Costello to sing. A-

George Jones & Tammy Wynette: Greatest Hits (Epic, 1977) If rock and roll plunges forward like young love, then country music partakes of the passionate stability of a good marriage, and here's one couple who know for damn sure that the wedding doesn't end the story. Their hits are alternately tender and recriminatory, funny and fucked up, but they're always felt and they're always interesting. And even though George and Tammy eventually succumbed to d-i-v-o-r-c-e, they don't give you the feeling that that's the way it has to come out. A-

Grace Jones: Portfolio (Island, 1977) This disco queen sings flat enough to make Andrea True sound like Linda Ronstadt and Tom Verlaine like Art Garfunkel, which is nice--very liberated, very punky. But it's less than ironic that a woman who demands an end to jealousy--that is, who demands the same license to fuck around that male rock stars claim as their due--should (as a fashion model) occupy a similar power position. And while I prefer her version of "Send in the Clowns" to Judy Collins's, I'd just as soon she cover "Pretty Vacant" or something. C+

Linda Jones: Your Precious Love (Turbo, 1972) Jones isn't too long on artistry--she likes to dispense with formality and just start at the climax throwing her emotions and her high notes all over material like "Dancing in the Street" and "I Can't Make it Alone." Pretty amazing, in its way, and definitely recommended to people who always get out of their cars to look at waterfalls and strange rock formations. B+

Rickie Lee Jones: Rickie Lee Jones (Warner Bros., 1979) It isn't just the skeptic in me who suspects that, despite the critical brouhaha, this young singer-songwriter's attractions are more sexual than musical or literary. It's also the male--"Stick It Into Coolsville," eh? But the critic knows that there are only three or four of her songs--including "Coolsville"--that I'd enjoy hearing again. B-

Janis Joplin: Pearl (Columbia, 1970) Full Tilt Boogie prove themselves the most musicianly of her three backup bands--there's not a track where they don't help her grab the moment by the seat of the pants. Nevertheless, they and their soul/blues do her a disservice. I miss Big Brother, whose bizarre lumpenhippie "acid rock," when combined with her too frequently ignored country roots and her blues allegiances, made for an underclass triple-header altogether too threatening and unkempt to suit the kind of professional advisors who help singers assemble backup bands. No accident that the only transcendent tracks here are "Me and Bobby McGee," an country song, and "Mercedes Benz," an impromptu (or simulated impromptu) hippie goof. A-

Janis Joplin: Joplin in Concert (Columbia, 1972) Sure would be nice if there were more new material on this double-LP--all the Full Tilt cuts and over half the Big Brothers are available in earlier renditions. But given how little studio time she clocked, I treasure it, especially "Ego Rock," a screaming, joking blues duet with Nick Gravenites, and the expansive concert versions of three neglected classics from Big Brother's Mainstream album. Sound quality: vibrant. Stage patter: poignant. A-

Janis Joplin: Janis Joplin's Greatest Hits (Columbia, 1973) I was disheartened to learn that five of these ten tracks were cut with Full Tilt Boogie, but one of them is a live "Ball and Chain," and I'm delighted to report that such competent classics as "Cry Baby" and "Move Over" sound a lot more raucous following "Try" and "Bye Bye Baby" than they did on Pearl. In short, this blatant piece of product represents her more fully than any other disc: spontaneity as rebellion, tied to the will, the major mode of the late '60s, preserved--imperfectly, of course--forever on a piece of plastic. A

Janis Joplin: Janis Joplin (Columbia, 1975) Because it captures such subtle yet essential virtues as intelligence, humor, and compassion as well as the big stuff she was famous for, film may have been Janis's real medium, and I recommend the documentary to which this double-LP is the putative soundtrack. But it ought to be seen and not heard--most of these cuts are available elsewhere, and the newly compiled early tapes are the rather tinny record of a singer who hasn't found her music or her band. C+

Jerry Jordan: Phone Call From God (MCA, 1975) Jordan is a Christian comedian who makes jokes about arcane subjects like tithing. I like him. He's sharp, charitable, genuinely folksy, and without sanctimony, reminding me of all the best qualities of the people in the church where I grew up. And it's worth noting that I got a lot more pleasure from this than from the latest George Carlin. B

Louis Jordan: The Best of Louis Jordan (MCA, 1975) [CG80: Rock Library: Before 1980]  

Louis Jordan: Greatest Hits Vol. 2 (1941-1947) (MCA, 1975) [CG80: Rock Library: Before 1980]  

The Joy: The Joy (Fantasy, 1977) Maybe freedom from preconceptions has enabled this group, which never achieved its proper impact to begin with, to make the best comeback LP in memory, but more likely it's the quality of the competition. Because basically this is just a good Joy of Cooking album. It probably helps that Terry Garthwaite and Toni Brown now work with black studio musicians--the white ones on Cross-Country did nothing for them, and neither did the hassle of maintaining a band. But this music is about sure-brained songs and an ever richer vocal interplay, just like always, and if Toni's "You Don't Owe Me Spring" reminds me never to forget her penchant for limpid soppiness, everything else makes clear that once a rock band defines itself as adult it need never grow old. B+

Joy of Cooking: Joy of Cooking (Capitol, 1971) Led by ex-folkie Toni Brown (the principal composer) and ex-blueswoman Terry Garthwaite (whose three rhythm songs sizzle joyously), this may not be your idea of rock and roll. The music revolves around Brown's piano, which rolls more than it rocks, and the band goes for multi-percussion rather than the old in-out. I find it relaxing and exciting and amazingly durable; I can dance to it, and I can also fuck to it. The musical dynamic pits Brown's collegiate contralto against Garthwaite's sandpaper soul, and the lyrics are feminist breakthroughs. "Too Late, but Not Forgotten" remembers a trailer camp while "Red Wine at Noon" touches international finance, but the two protagonists are united by one overriding fact--they're victimized as wives. And it's about time somebody in rock and roll said so. A

Joy of Cooking: Closer to the Ground (Capitol, 1971) I knew Toni Brown was a folkie, so it shouldn't surprise me that a lot of this is organic bullshit gone to rhythm school--the title of the title cut speaks for itself, and "Sometimes Like a River" might also be like a "Rainbow," "Mountain," or "New Wind" (adjectival scansion, they call that trick in rhythm school). Depressing to hear somebody who knows as much about male-female as "The Way You Left" and "First Time, Last Time" apply her creative-writing skills to anti-urban bromides. Graded leniently because I like the way (and how much) Terry Garthwaite sings (and writes). B+

Joy of Cooking: Castles (Capitol, 1972) If last time Toni Brown was betrayed by her folkie upbringing, this time she makes something of it, leading off elegantly with a modernized blues, "Don't the Moon Look Fat and Lonesome," and following up quickly enough with "Lady Called Love," a modernized heroic ballad. Both the incitements to independence and the love advisories are more general than need be, but the music has grown crisper and fuller while continuing to flow as swimmingly as you'd hope. A-

Jukin' Bone: Way Down East (RCA Victor, 1972) Anyone in the market for one more better-than-average hard rock record? This is it. B-

Jules and the Polar Bears: Got No Breeding (Columbia, 1978) Jules Shear is an engaging singer who is no stupe and has a way with a hook. At least half of these songs provide mild pleasure. But Jules Shear is also a limited singer who has nothing special to say and no special way to say it. Los Angeles's version of Steve Forbert? B

J: Compilations

Jesus Christ Superstar (Decca, 1970) Outsiders since Pat Boone have had the dumb idea that rock and roll means projecting the kind of sham intensity that the worst kind of opera lover is a sucker for, and here's more--"rock musical" is too kind. Tommy, in which real rock and rollers pursued a grandiose dramatic concept, was risky enough. But set semiclassical-twice-removed melodies amid received, overrehearsed rock instrumentation and all the verve and spontaneous power which is the music's birthright gets crucified. C-

June 1, 1974 (Island, 1974) The highlights of a concert organized by genial eccentric Kevin Ayers (ex-Soft Machine, but he got out when the getting was good), this offers one side of Ayers's genially eccentric songs and one of Eno singing Eno songs at full volume (note demonic cackle) and John Cale singing an Elvis Presley song at full volume (note lupine howl). And also, oh well, Nico singing "The End." But if there's gotta be art-rock, Lord, let it be like this. B+

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