Consumer Guide '70s: F

Faces: Long Player (Warner Bros., 1971) The difference between these guys and their smaller forebears, the ones who released round-covered albums and sang "Itchycoo Park" with whine and phase, isn't just Steve Marriott vs. Rod Stewart. It's 1968 vs. 1971. Marriott was a pop craftsman with the Small Faces; with Humble Pie he's a boogie man. Stewart is a pop craftsman solo; with the Faces he's a boogie man. Boogie's not a bad idea, especially when you play it fast and loose rather than 'eavy like the 'Umbles. But as exciting as it is theoretically--and by comparison with the competition, boogieing and otherwise--it doesn't have much staying power. That's partly because they play it too loose and not quite fast enough. And partly because Stewart reserves his popcraft for solo LPs. B

Faces: A Nod Is as Good as a Wink . . . to a Blind Horse (Warner Bros., 1971) Rod Stewart sings lead only half of the time, which gives Ronnie Lane a chance to prove himself--his "You're So Rude" is a better (funnier and warmer) song about getting laid than "Stay With Me." Other standouts include the story of how Rod's brother became a hippie and a version of "Memphis" that's a gift from a band that has tightened up just enough. A-

Faces: Ooh La La (Warner Bros., 1973) They do what they want to do very likably--this is as rowdy and friendly as rock and roll gets. But only on the title song and finale--written by the Rons (Wood and Lane) rather than the Rod--do they slap your back so's you'd still feel it five minutes later. B

Faces: Snakes and Ladders/The Best of Faces (Warner Bros., 1976) Not counting "Pineapple and the Monkey," a special for all those who believe their quintessence was sloppy instrumentals, this showcases the good stuff from Long Player and Ooh La La. Lots of fun, a solid testament to a band that was never very much into solidity--and a little more of a Rod Stewart album than is desirable for peak flavor. B+

John Fahey: Of Rivers and Religion (Reprise, 1972) Fahey is immersed in country blues, from which he drives his own unique guitar music--eerie, funny, stately, and incredibly calm. The best tranquilizing music I know, because instead of palming off a fantasy of sodden deliverance it seems to speak of real reserves of self-control inside the American psyche. Not for everyone, but I think this is his best. A

John Fahey: After the Ball (Reprise, 1973) I'm a rock and roll fan, too, and I'd rather listen to this collection of standards and acoustic blues and rag inventions than any rock record this side of the Allmans and the New York Dolls. Conditionally guaranteed. A-

Fairport Convention: Unhalfbricking (A&M, 1970) Folk-rock is a doubly willful idea in England--our bluegrass and acoustic blues are closer to rock than their Child ballads. And Fairport's eleven-minute version of "A Sailor's Life" doesn't come up to the three Dylan songs (one in French) or Richard Thompson's quite un-English "Cajun Woman." But they do inject a droning energy into the material that suggests real synthesis. Thanks be to Thompson's guitar, Dave Mattacks's drums, and Sandy Denny's fondness for booze. A-

Fairport Convention: Liege and Lief (A&M, 1970) Because the rhythm section has oomph and the singer soul, their pursuit of the Pentangle down the wooded path of jigs and ballads isn't entirely disastrous. But it sounds more like liege than lief to me. Traditional or original, these songs are either momentary escapes--that is, dances--or tales of common folk battling fate and the class system to something less than a standoff. Matty Groves outfucks Lord Donald, but Lord Donald kills Matty as well as his own wife; the Deserter is betrayed by comrade and sweetheart, then saved--to be a soldier--by Prince Albert. And the music, inevitably, reflects this fatalism. B-

Fairport Convention: Fairport Chronicles (A&M, 1976) Stonehenge on the cover, but inside only traces of the English-folk purism that's limited the band since Dave Swarbrick began fiddling with it. Instead we get tasty Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson oddments, including Dion and Gordon Lightfoot transmuted into impure English folk. The trans-Atlantic connection dominates only one side--my favorite, needless to say. But "Tam Lin" sounds weirder in conjunction with "Percy's Song," "Walk Awhile" merrier in conjunction with "Come All Ye," "Farewell, Farewell" more final at the end of four progressively doomier sides. In short, an intelligent compilation. Great notes, too. A-

George Faith: To Be a Lover (Mango, 1977) I know, you love (and miss) soul music so much you don't care if it's deprived of its cultural context--when you got what it takes you hold on to what you got, right? Well, I don't know. Faith is a soft-sung reggae stylist vaguely reminiscent of early Joe Simon or some small part of David Ruffin. He writes ordinary songs and executes a delightful segue from "In the Midnight Hour" to "Ya Ya." And he lets you know why he loves "Turn Back the Hands of Time" and "So Fine" by covering Paul Anka's "Diana" along with them. B-

Marianne Faithfull: Broken English (Island, 1979) A punk-disco fusion so uncompromised it will scare away fans of both genres, which share a taste for nasty girls that rarely extends to females past thirty with rat's-nest hair and last night's makeup on. The raw dance music isn't exactly original, and sometimes the offhandedness of the lyrics can be annoying, but I like this even when it's pro forma and/or sloppy, or maybe because it's pro forma and/or sloppy, like Dylan when he's good. "Why'd ya spit on my snatch?" indeed--the music's harshest account of a woman fending with the world. A-

The Fall: Live at the Witch Trials (I.R.S., 1979) After dismissing this as just too tuneless and crude--wasn't even fast--I played it in tandem with Public Image Ltd. one night and for a few bars could hardly tell the difference. Of course, in this case the heavy bass and distant guitars could simply mean a bad mix, but what the hell--when they praise spastics and "the r&r dream" they're not being sarcastic (I don't think), and in this icky pop moment we could use some ugly rebellion. How about calling it punk? B+

The Family: Anyway (United Artists, 1971) Back before Rik Grech deserted them for (and on) Blind Faith they were a slightly demented hard rock band that made arty with a violin. Now they're a slightly demented hard rock band that makes arty with unidentifiable percussion and various croons and mumbles--at least on the studio side. On the live side they make shift. C+

The Family: Fearless (United Artists, 1971) This hooks in on "Sat'd'y Barfly," which sets Roger Chapman to bellowing drunken boasts over dissonant piano chords. The rest is equally abrasive and eccentric, but not always so good-humored, which when it doesn't hook in can be a problem. B

The Family: Bandstand (United Artists, 1972) When they kick ass on "Burlesque" or "Glove" or "Broken Nose" they sound raw and abrasive in the great English hard rock tradition, but the discords are altogether more cunning, and on this album their stubborn lyricism finally finds suitable melodies on "Coronation" and "My Friend the Sun" and the bittersweet "Dark Eyes." Their sexual anger is class-conscious, always a plus, and their sadness usually a matter of time, which they get away with when the melody is very suitable. And just as they begin to get it together they break up. B+

The Family: It's Only a Movie (United Artists, 1973) So they didn't break up after all, but the close call seems to have mellowed them--this is their funniest, funkiest, most relaxed album. I know an autumnal Roger Chapman is a little hard to imagine, but this is a man of many guises--back in the beginning he sometimes came on like an opera singer. Pick: "Leroy," inspired by "No Money Down." B+

Fancy: Wild Thing (Big Tree, 1974) Especially on the tour de force title track, it sounds at first as if lead singer Ann Kavanagh might be the real Suzi Quatro, but she's not, she's just the pro. You can imagine hard-core rock? Well, this is soft-core. C+

Fania All-Stars: Delicate and Jumpy (Columbia, 1976) I don't know much about salsa, but I know what it means when it says "arranged and conducted by Gene Page." In or out of clave, elevator music is elevator music. C-

Fanny: Fanny (Reprise, 1970) Rather than getting all hot and heavy, Burbank's entry in the Ladies' Day Derby emulates the circa-1965 sound of groups like the Hollies and (says here) the Beatles. Execution is competent enough--axpersonship isn't an issue with the style. But the Hollies (forget the Beatles) always had pretty good material--better than these four women can provide, although making an AM novelty out of Cream's "Badge" is a cute idea. Also, as producer Richard Perry must know, the Hollies always had amazing arrangements. C

Fanny: Charity Ball (Reprise, 1971) Seeing this band live was a revelation--for women, playing old-fashioned tight commercial rock and roll was a challenge rather than a self-conscious historical exercise. But that's not why there's been such improvement in the studio, although the live show held a clue--drummer Alice de Buhr was the most exciting musician on stage. This record exploits her chops and presence, sinking the pop harmonies in a harder, funkier frame. The title tune is a pure raver that oughtabeahit, but almost every song has something--or several somethings--to recommend it. Which is a lot more than I'd say of the Hollies' latest. B+

Fanny: Fanny Hill (Reprise, 1972) Three albums in not much over a year is two too many, and though half the new material is catchy enough, they give themselves away by opening sides with Marvin Gaye's "Ain't That Peculiar" and the Beatles' "Hey Bulldog." Several lyrics do groundwork in important women's themes (autonomy, motherhood, like that), but not one--not even "Wonderful Feeling," a disarmingly happy-sounding breakup song--offers the kind of concentrated perception that makes a song work or the kind of "Charity Ball" hook that makes you stop wondering whether a song is working. B-

Fanny: Mother's Pride (Reprise, 1973) In which Richard Perry bows to Todd Rundgren, June Millington aims for the balls and shoots some guy through the knee, and Alice de Buhr sings (off key) (best thing here). C+

Donna Fargo: All About a Feeling (Dot, 1974) Even though she promises her share of rose gardens, Fargo is a lot more credible than Lynn Anderson, her major competition in the young country woman sweepstakes, adult division. Her cheerfulness carries real conviction, and this might function as an object lesson in how to be happy without being stupid to anyone but a dour young city man like myself. C+

Donna Fargo: The Best of Donna Fargo (ABC/Dot, 1977) Despite her fondness for rose gardens, Fargo in her prime was a lot more credible than Lynn Anderson. Her good cheer always carried real conviction, perhaps because she wrote her happiness prescriptions/descriptions herself, although that little growl she learned from Loretta didn't hurt. Only a dour young city man like me (or woman like me wife) would complain about the way hubby and Jesus combine to stop her nagging in "How Close You Came (to Being Gone)." But we also note that the happiest girl in the whole USA has a job and lets her husband make the coffee. And that a year later she allows as how she's just not up to cohabiting with Superman. B

Mimi Farina and Tom Jans: Take Heart (A&M, 1971) I'm no necrologist, but the difference between Richard Farina, sharp-witted and spirited even when he was throwing himself away, and Tom Jans, often pretty and always insipid, is as telling an indictment of the acoustic singer-songwriters as I can offer. Mimi's muted burr still catches me up short sometimes, but this is what I call decadent. C

Fashion: Product Perfect (I.R.S., 1979) Order of topics on first side: consumerism, imperialism, racism, sociopathy, "rock culture," apathy (right-wing), apathy (left-wing). Sounds predictable but it isn't--all of these songs are based on post-Marcusian cliches sophisticated enough to get the average rock fan thinking hard, and some of them are based on post-Marcusian ideas sophisticated enough to get the average post-Marcusian thinking hard. Sounds unmusical but it isn't that either--the singing is clever and impassioned, the punkish, futuristic reggae-synthesizer fusion often catchy and always apt. If only I were a post-Marcusian myself I'd be in heaven. And a second side as good as the first might convert me. A-

Jose Feliciano: Encore! (RCA Victor, 1971) Pretty soulful in his Castilian way, and his "Wichita Lineman" beats the Meters' (and Glen's). But the live version of "Light My Fire" mysteriously included on this best-of records for posterity one of the more obsequious band intros in entertainment history. And didn't anybody tape the scandalous "Star Spangled Banner" he did at the World Series? C+

Narvel Felts: Narvel Felts (ABC/Dot, 1975) An r&b singer on the country side of the fence, Narvel recalls Roy Orbison (they both worked for Sun) or Ferlin Husky at the fountain of youth. Wotta voice--he even does "Gone." It should go without saying that I love sexy r&b covers like "Slip Away" and "Honey Love" and filthy-minded country originals like "Let My Fingers Do the Walking." But even when he's maudlin and self-involved I get off some on his naked, nasal emotion. Sometimes I like the country side of the fence myself. B+

Narvel Felts: Greatest Hits Volume 1 (ABC/Dot, 1975) In the wake of "Reconsider Me" I consider Narvel a marvel myself, but it's hard to believe this compilation from his precrossover days hit very big anywhere. For authenticity we have four tunes from Nashville hacks Jack Foster and Bill Rice. And for eccentricity we have "Love Me Like a Rock." C+

Freddy Fender: Fuera de Alcance/Out of Reach (Starflite, 1974) Né Baldemar Huerta, this South Texas legend is a real traditionalist, as he illustrates on the title number, a country song warbled in Spanish over a reggae backing track. Cutting that one inspired him to write a little tune called "Jamaica Farewell" twenty years after Harry Belafonte went pop with it. Time travel is nothing to a man who's done three years for weed, a drug commemorated--along with wine, cocaine, and morphine--on a version of "Junko Partner" that made Dr. John blush as he tickled the ivories in fond support. And "holding his hand and showing him the way is, no other than the great, incredible TV personality, Mr. Domingo Peña known from coast to coast!" B+

Freddy Fender: Rock 'n' Country (ABC/Dot, 1976) Fender is a wonder of nature--I just wish one of his albums was a wonder of human devising. This is his third LP for ABC in ten months, and like the others it doesn't get the essence of a man who can follow an incandescent country version of "What'd I Say" with an incandescent country version of "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window." That's the parlay that opens side two of Are You Ready for Freddy, his most satisfying side for ABC to date; this is his most satisfying whole LP. His tenor is so penetrating, his Spanish lisp so guileless, that it's a pleasure to hear him sing almost anything, but he doesn't transcend himself as often as seems possible; why, for instance, should "Big Boss Man" work so much better than "Since I Met You Baby"? If only there were someone who knew. B+

Freddy Fender: The Best of Freddy Fender (ABC/Dot, 1977) Alamo diehards claim that stardom's turned Freddy into a Nashville clone, but I prefer this to the Starflite LP he cut as a local hero. It's not just that the horns no longer sound like they're coming in on another station, either--I believe in the material and I think Freddy does too. Like any overworked recordmaker, he's had his share of clinkers, but they're avoided here, and if he has to hug a stuffed (and spineless) cactus on the cover for image's sake, well, that seems authentic enough to me. A-

Freddy Fender: Feliz Navidad: Merry Christmas From Freddy Fender (ABC/Dot, 1977) A tough ex-con blissfully unembarrassed by sentimentality, and with a terrific sense of rhythm, Freddy could have made a (bilingual!) Christmas album to rank with Phil Spector's. If only Huey Meaux (producer-svengali) hadn't hogged the copyrights, thus keeping Freddy away from "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" (his kind of song!) and--even worse--"Feliz Navidad" itself. But I kind of love it anyway, and if it doesn't match UA's rereleased 12 Hits of Christmas or Rhythm and Blues Christmas, it beats hell out of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's White (get it?) (do I have to complete this title?) B

Freddy Fender: Swamp Gold (ABC, 1978) There are 15 songs here, most of them, from what I read on the back cover, originally hits for producer Huey P. Meaux, who loves Freddy almost as much as he loves his own catalogue. Nice idea. But Freddy's chronic case of hit-or-miss disease is unaffected by this treatment--of the four cuts I'd consider for the Real Best of Freddy cassette I'm going to compile some day, three do not seem to belong to Meaux. B-

Bryan Ferry: "These Foolish Things" (Atlantic, 1974) "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" defines this collection of rock classics--ranging from "It's My Party" to "Sympathy for the Devil"--as a pop statement. By transforming Dylan at his most messianic into gripping high camp complete with sound effects (when the poet dies in the gutter the chorus gives forth with a cute groan), Ferry both undercuts the inflated idealism of the original and reaffirms its essential power. Along the way, he also establishes "It's My Party" as a protest song. And just in case we're getting any highfalutin ideas, the title track reminds us that pop is only, well, foolish things, many of which predate not only Andy Warhol but rock and roll itself. A-

Bryan Ferry: Another Time, Another Place (Atlantic, 1974) Comedy routines are rarely as funny the second time around, especially when you've used up your best lines--"The `In' Crowd" is the only zinger Ferry comes up with here. Elsewhere he who plays at corruption is afflicted with disease--lead poisoning, it sounds like, affecting not only his brain but also his lungs and his pants. "You Are My Sunshine" makes "sense" slow, but too often Ferry simply indulges his taste for the lachrymose on songs that deserve better. B+

Bryan Ferry: Let's Stick Together (Atlantic, 1976) A lot of people are crazy about this record, but I find its bifurcation alienating. On the one hand, we have the usual unlikely borrowings, the most effective from Wilbert Harrison and the Everlys. And as usual, these are powerful, strange, and interesting--and often quite compelling. On the other hand, we have unlikely remakes of old Roxy Music material, much of it from the group's very first album. Although Ferry proves that he knows more about making records (and music) than he used to, the songs remain powerful, strange, and interesting--but not quite compelling. Add it all together and you get . . . two separate parts. B

Bryan Ferry: In Your Mind (Atlantic, 1977) Ferry has custom-designed a new line of songs for his solo concept, rather than borrowing from early Roxy or his humble forebears, and especially on side one the stuff is appealingly down-to-earth. But it doesn't go far enough. I used to think Ferry's big problem was the fruity baritone that epitomized his deliberate unnaturalness, but now I think it's the hopeless romanticism of his half-realized dreams. If he ever did convince large numbers of people to care about his obsessions, the result would be nothing more than a rather scary collective escapism. B+

Bryan Ferry: The Bride Stripped Bare (Atlantic, 1978) Maybe the smoke in Bryan's eyes has finally reached his heart; the apparent sincerity of some of the singing here makes those five-minute moments when he lingers ponderously over a key lyric easier to take. The Los Angeles musicians don't hurt either--the conjunction of his style of stylization (feigned detachment) makes for interesting expressive tension. And Waddy Wachtel is as apt a sound-effects man as Phil Manzanera ever was. B+

W.C. Fields: The Further Adventures of Larson E. Whipsnade and Other Taradiddles (Columbia, 1974) A quarter century after his death, Fields is harder to deny in the contemplation than on the TV or the stereo. Sure, he was a great comedian, but that doesn't make his films or records compellingly funny. Poppy and The Great Radio Feuds, two companion discs, suffer from limitations of format and context (radio play, complete with ingenue at swimming hole for sex appeal, running gags about Charlie McCarthy's wooden legs) that seem quaint at best. This collection, however, is so wild that to call it surrealistic is to taint it with aesthetic respectability. Laugh first, appreciate later, I say. A-

15-60-75 the Numbers Band: Jimmy Bell's Still in Town (Water Bros., 1976) What is this I hear? Some kind of weird cross between the Grateful Dead and the Velvet Underground making its own record in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio? No, that's not what I hear, but the description will have to do until the group comes up with another album--which I hope will feature more public lyrics and a drummer who can propagate the polyrhythms. B-

The 5th Dimension: Greatest Hits (Soul City, 1970) Strange that a black pop chorale should break at the same time as soul and psychedelica--even with a far-out name and black-identified label. I don't know which is worse--straight slick Jim Webb or stoned slick Laura Nyro. (Answer: Hair.) But I still get off on Webb's "Paper Cup," which I always regarded as the authentic alienation song ("Dangling Conversation" was the phony). And get with Nyro's "Wedding Bell Blues." C+

Firefall: Luna Sea (Atlantic, 1977) In which Rick Roberts allows as how he's "gonna quit that crazy runaround"--cross your heart, Rick?--and the whole band muses about how nice it would be if things never "changed for the better/But never got no worse." Such dreamers! Alternate title: Compa Tents. C

Firefall: Elan (Atlantic, 1978) I do too pay attention to mainstream rock product: in fact, I listened to this five or six times without a trace of stomach upset. The group achieves more of that old CSN(Y) feel than any of the decade's country-rock spinoffs; the album achieves more of that old rock and roll feel than any of the decade's CSN(Y) records. Commendable if not quite recommendable--didn't think they had it in them. B-

Firesign Theatre: Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers (Columbia, 1970) The Firesign Theatre is a comedy group that uses the recording studio at least as brilliantly as any rock group, and there's really nothing else to say, except that they'd be scary-funny in somebody's living room, too. A+

Firesign Theatre: I Think We're All Bozos on This Bus (Columbia, 1971) This is everything you would expect from the Firesign Theatre except funny, which is something like saying the Stones had a great session only Bill and Charlie stayed home. B-

Firesign Theatre: Not Insane (Columbia, 1972) At their best, these four men represent the pinnacle of recorded comedy--multi-leveled both aurally and intellectually, almost silly-funny and very serious at the same time. Their second and third albums (How Can You Be in Two Places at Once When You're Not Anywhere at All? and Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers) present their basic thesis--that the US lost World War II. Their fourth, a two-LP set of radio tapes entitled Dear Friends, is more conventionally ha-ha, albeit devastating. But on I Think We're All Bozos on This Bus, they abandon humor for sci-fi middle seriousness, and this one, recorded mostly at one of their rare live performances, is mostly sight gags. Nos. 2 and 3 are A+, No. 4 an A, No. 5 a B-. This one, C-

Firesign Theatre: Everything You Know Is Wrong (Columbia, 1974) Firesign's sci-fi schtick doesn't seem as revelatory in 1974 as it did in 1970, but this relatively lightweight piece about the end of the world is not only clever but honestly conceived--as coherent as there is any reason to expect, with enough laughs, verbal and aural, to justify its classification as comedy. A-

Firesign Theatre: Just Folks . . . A Firesign Chat (Butterfly, 1977) It's a good year when the grand old men of head comedy release two albums (including Forward Into the Past, a skillfully reedited twofer best-of on Columbia) and Cheech & Chong release none (yet, and let's hope). This LP concentrates on what Firesign does best--turning tolerant radio chitchat into a horror show. But the edge is off their discovery--the details change but the perception itself seems stagnant. For followers only. B-

The First Choice: Armed and Extremely Dangerous (Philly Groove, 1973) The only musicians not named on the back cover are the three women depicted on the front, the ones with the voices, including a satiny lead (Rochelle Fleming, according to informed sources) who shouldn't do songs about lovable polio victims and suicidal feelings--at least not these songs. I don't expect feminist anthems against the girl-group undertow, and these people have a lot more spunk than the Three Degrees or Love Unlimited. But I do insist on high-quality schlock, and beyond the pleasant-plus hits and a memorable cover of "Love and Happiness" this isn't it. I know, the Shirelles and the Chiffons never made great albums either. So buy the singles. B

The 5 Stairsteps: Stairsteps (Buddah, 1970) Soupy at times, but most of the "O-o-h Child" side (including two creditable Beatle songs) is eminently listenable sweet soul. Docked a notch for time: 27.57. B-

Roberta Flack: Quiet Fire (Atlantic, 1971) Flack is generally regarded as the most significant new black woman singer since Aretha Franklin, and at moments she sounds kind, intelligent, and very likable. But she often exhibits the gratuitous gentility you'd expect of someone who says "between you and I." Until she crackles a bit, forget about significance and listen to Ann Peebles. C

Roberta Flack: Killing Me Softly (Atlantic, 1973) Q: Why is Roberta Flack like Jesse Colin Young? A: Because she always makes you wonder whether she's going to fall asleep before you do. C

Flamin Groovies: Flamingo (Kama Sutra, 1970) The mix and the groove are fierce enough to accommodate "Keep a Knockin'," "Comin After Me" is worthy of Chuck Berry, and "Second Cousin" could have been written for Jerry Lee Lewis, which makes a trinity. I do miss the wacked-out head of such Supersnazz classics as "Laurie Did It" and "The First One's Free," but the fifteen minutes expanded on the last three cuts are a bigger problem--even the fast one drags. Sophisticated r&r primitivists are supposed to know about that stuff. B+

Flamin Groovies: Teenage Head (Kama Sutra, 1971) Surprisingly bluesy, with a good Robert Johnson cover, a great John Lee Hooker rip, and lots of slide guitar. Plus the title track, an inspired articulation/sendup of "California born and bred" youth rebellion. But "High Flyin Baby," "Evil Hearted Ada," and "Whiskey Woman" fall into the blues-rock trap--not surprising at all. B

Flamin Groovies: Shake Some Action (Sire, 1976) So authentic that producer Dave Edmunds has reverted to the muddy mix--kinda like the Beatles or the Byrds or the Flamin Groovies. Actually, what it sounds like is mono electrically rechanneled for stereo. The Flamin Groovies were Haight-Ashbury enough to exploit aural distance in the service of a sly, spaced-out obliqueness, but these guys, deprived of singer-composer Roy A. Loney and making their way as an English pop-revival band, get their kicks by playing dumb. This compiles their best recent work and includes some good songs. But only cultists will ever hear them. B

Flamin Groovies: Still Shakin (Kama Sutra, 1976) The back cover of this compilation excerpts ten favorable reviews of Flamingo and one of Teenage Head. The first side features two songs from Flamingo and four from Teenage Head plus an oldie of the latter vintage. The second side features a live-in-the-studio set of six more oldies from the same sessions. Howcum? Ask Richard Robinson, who produced all three albums. Or your collector friends. C+

Flamin Groovies: Now (Sire, 1978) In the late '60s they harked back to the late '50s; now, to borrow their title, they hark back to the middle '60s. Pretty hookily, too, though I don't get why the vocals are so ragged. And where (or when) will they be in 2001? Now? B-

Tommy Flanagan: Something Borrowed, Something Blue (Galaxy, 1978) Decorative flourishes and all, Flanagan's cocktail piano is as intelligent as easy-listening music ever gets--bebop as a received style. I prefer this to the classic Flanagan trio record--Eclypso, on Inner City--because I prefer the tunes (especially Monk's "Friday the 13th"). Also because the less auspicious rhythm section--Smith (Jimmie) ain't Jones (Elvin)--merits fewer solos and breaks. And despite--tsk, tsk--the electric piano on the title cut. B+

Flash: Flash (Capitol, 1972) People who love Yes will probably like this spinoff and imitation. I find Yes sharp and clever at best and the shapeless and intolerably precious at all times. Nor do I believe music gains body (or sexuality) by capillary action from its cover--the "advance" from Yes's psychedoodles to Flash's rear-view crotch shot only make me wonder whether this band comes by its name lysergically. C-

Flash & the Pan: Flash & the Pan (Epic, 1979) In which Australian power-pop producers Harry Vanda and George Young choose a nom de studio and turn into an instant cult item. Since the singing makes Rex Harrison sound like Mario Lanza, it's tuneful in only the most abstract sense. (Already the fanzines are paying attention.) Without the usual vocal surges it's also quite static. (Veddy interesting.) What hooks there are inhere in the chord changes. (Sounds more like art all the time.) And V&Y's ruminations on sociopolitical realities are worthy of a second-rate caper movie. (Bingo.) C+

Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kids: There's No Face Like Chrome (Epic, 1974) Unlike Sha Na Na, who are forced to rediscover how great oldies are every time they write an original, this isn't strictly a copy band, and on their follow-up album they prove it. Despite their unnecessarily stupid appearance, duh guys do not revert to the '50s solely for hard grit and axle grease, either, focusing instead on the sweet and funny part of pre-Beatles rock and roll. Tunes like "Dancin' (on a Saturday Night)" and "Standin' on the Corner" are impressive exercises. But only "First Girl" has a shot at entering the after-the-manner-of-Leiber-&-Stoller canon, and they didn't write it. Also, Jerry Leiber produced it, which must have helped quite a bit. B

Fleetwood Mac: Fleetwood Mac in Chicago (Blue Horizon, 1970) Combining the recently released Vols. 1 and 2, this two-LP set lets five sincere but never sedulously irrelevant (cf. John Mayall) English lads explore their branches. It almost brings you back to those distant days when "white blues" was more than code for "heavy." Knowledgeable song selection, expressive playing--especially by Peter Green, who filters B.B. King through Santo & Johnny with a saxophonist's sense of line--and lots of help from Otis Spann, Willie Dixon, Shakey Horton, and others makes the thinness of the singing seem like a tribute to a new tradition. B+

Fleetwood Mac: Kiln House (Reprise, 1970) Despite the departure of the miraculously fluent Peter Green, the mansions in their jazzy blues/rock and roll guitar heaven are spacier than ever. A country parody called "Blood on the Floor"--a clumsily convoluted "Dear Doctor"--is less charitable than one would hope, but it's more than balanced off by Jeremy Spencer's membership pledge to the rockabilly auxiliary, "This Is the Rock." And somebody up there loves Buddy Holly so much he unearthed "Buddy's Song," by Buddy's mother. A-

Fleetwood Mac: Future Games (Reprise, 1971) These white blues (and hippie rockabilly) veterans shouldn't have to depend on new recruit Bob Welch's deftly metallized r&b extrapolation for rock and roll, but unless you count the studio jam, they do. And if the best song on the album isn't the slowest, that's only because Welch also has mystagogic tendencies. It's the simplest in any case: Christine Perfect's "Show Me a Smile." B

Fleetwood Mac: Bare Trees (Reprise, 1972) Their new identity is ominously mellow, but at least this time it's recognizable, and they've upped the speed a little. A lot less muddled than Future Games and occasionally as rich as Kiln House, but so thoroughly homogenized that it's hard to remember exactly how the cream tasted once it's gone down. B+

Fleetwood Mac: Penguin (Reprise, 1973) Those who complain about the remake of "(I'm a) Road Runner," with Mick Fleetwood smashing past the cymbals while Dave Walker shouts, probably think these studio craftspeople were slumming when they jammed with Otis Spann. I love it. I also like all of Christine McVie's husky laments. But could rilly do without Bob Welch's ever-mellower musings. B

Fleetwood Mac: Mystery to Me (Reprise, 1973) I downgraded this at first because I doubted the continuing usefulness (much less creativity) of such smooth-rocking expertise. And I still do--when they achieve the contained, "Layla"-like freneticism of "The City," their professed distaste for urban "darkness" insures that the breakout will be a one-shot. But this album epitomizes what they've come to be, setting a gentle but ever more technological spaceyness over a bottom that, while never explosive, does drive the music with flair and economy, the least you can expect of a band named after its rhythm section. Even Bob Welch does himself proud. B+

Fleetwood Mac: Heroes Are Hard to Find (Reprise, 1974) The proof that their formula has finally trapped them is the pitifulness of their attempts to escape--with string synthesizer, pedal steel, half-assed horns, and other catch-22s of the International Pop Music Community. Bob Welch sounds bored, which is certainly poetic justice, and even Christine McVie is less than perfect this time out. Their worst. B-

Fleetwood Mac: Fleetwood Mac (Reprise, 1975) Why is this Fleetwood Mac album different from all other Fleetwood Mac albums? The answer is supergroup fragmentation in reverse: the addition of two singer-songwriters who as Buckingham Nicks were good enough--or so somebody thought--to do their own LP for Polydor a while back. And so, after five years of struggling for a consistency that became their hobgoblin, they make it sound easy. In fact, they come up with this year's easy listening classic. Roll on. A-

Fleetwood Mac: Rumours (Reprise, 1977) Why is this easy-listening rock different from all other easy-listening rock, give or take an ancient harmony or two? Because myths of love lost and found are less invidious (at least in rock and roll) than myths of the road? Because the cute-voiced woman writes and sings the tough lyrics and the husky-voiced woman the vulnerable ones? Because they've got three melodist-vocalists on the job? Because Mick Fleetwood and John McVie learned their rhythm licks playing blues? Because they stuck to this beguiling formula when it barely broken even? Because this album is both more consistent and more eccentric than its blockbuster predecessor? Plus it jumps right out of the speakers at you? Because Otis Spann must be happy for them? Because Peter Green is in heaven? A

Fleetwood Mac: Tusk (Reprise, 1979) A million bucks is what I call obsessive production, but for once it means something. This is like reggae, or Eno--not only don't Lindsey Buckingham's swelling edges and dynamic separations get in the way of the music, they're inextricable from the music, or maybe they are the music. The passionate dissociation of the mix is entirely appropriate to an ensemble in which the three principals have all but disappeared (vocally) from each other's work. But only Buckingham is attuned enough to get exciting music out of a sound so spare and subtle it reveals the limits of Christine McVie's simplicity and shows Stevie Nicks up for the mooncalf she's always been. Also, it doesn't make for very good background noise. B+

Flo & Eddie: Illegal, Immoral and Fattening (Columbia, 1974) No heavy surprise, rock critics usually make lousy records, but not this lousy. Kaylan (wonder why he changed his name from Kaplan) and Volman would have provided some formal balance by including a song about how Jews own all the record companies. We are not amused. C-

The Flying Burrito Brothers: Burrito Deluxe (A&M, 1970) The Gilded Palace of Sin was an ominous, obsessive, tongue-in-cheek country-rock synthesis, absorbing rural and urban, traditional and contemporary, at point of impact. This is a skillful, lightweight folk-rock blend, enlivening the tempos and themes of the country music whose usages it honors. Its high point is called "Older Guys," a rock (as opposed to rock and roll) idea by definition, and though songs like "Cody, Cody" and "Man in the Fog"--as well as Jagger-Richard's previously unrecorded "Wild Horses"--obviously speak from Gram Parsons's Waycross soul, they're vague enough for Chris Hillman's folkie harmonies to take them over. B+

The Flying Burrito Brothers: The Flying Burrito Bros. (A&M, 1971) Gram Parsons having gone off to follow whatever it is he follows, the Burritos are a solid, plaintive country band with rock influences. Realer than average, and nicer, but just as easy to ignore. C+

The Flying Burrito Brothers: Last of the Red Hot Burritos (A&M, 1972) Chris Hillman rocking through previously unrecorded covers from "Orange Blossom Special" to "Don't Fight It," Gram Parsons's original country-soul concept for this band lives again. Unfortunately, it lives best on the previously recorded Parsons originals. And it lived better when he was singing them. B

The Flying Burrito Brothers: Close Up the Honky Tonks (A&M, 1974) This repackaged best-of-Gram is baited with five previously unreleased Parsons vocals. These are nice, but since even an unreconstructed Parsons nut like me can reel off more interesting cover versions of "Sing Me Back Home" (the Everlys), "Break My Mind" (the Box Tops), and "To Love Somebody" (initials: JJ), maybe they were unreleased for a reason. It also puts the six greatest cuts off Gilded Palace of Sin on one side, a convenience I'd appreciate more if Gilded Palace of Sin, the only full-fledged country-rock masterpiece, weren't still in the catalogue. Your local record retailer will no doubt order you one if you take the trouble of kidnapping his children. B-

Focus: Mother Focus (Atco, 1975) In which art-rock frankly abandons all pretense of both art and rock for tongue-in-cheek mood mush. Which is a relief, if only because you know George Melachrino would never record a tune called "I Need a Bathroom." C+

Dan Fogelberg: Souvenirs (Epic, 1974) It took the poor fellow three years to write these songs--why, just the title of "Changing Horses" represents weeks of thought--but in a heartwarming show of togetherness his friends helped with the record. Joe Walsh produced, Don Henley played some drums, and Graham Nash sang a few harmonies, though in the spirit of his overarching vision Fogelberg prefers to tape those on himself. Inspirational Verse: ". . . you wish someone/Would buy your confessions." C-

Dan Fogelberg: Captive Angel (Epic, 1975) Such kind folks at Epic Records and Full Moon Productions--not only have they let Fogelberg record nine more songs, and taken down something he hummed in the rec room for Glen Spreen to orchestrate, but they've let him put some of his art therapy on the cover. Dimensionality is beyond him (or else he doesn't know much about breasts), and it does look as if somebody put out the angel's eyes with a poker, but after all, it's the spirit that counts. D+

John Fogerty: John Fogerty (Asylum, 1975) The best singing here is at medium tempos--Fogerty sounds distraught for no reason when he rocks out, and the revved-up horns just push him harder. But the best songwriting is on the fast side-openers--"Rockin' All Over the World" and "Almost Saturday Night," neither of which could be called an illumination. This is what happens when rock devolves from a calling into an idea--you can't even be absolutely certain it's him rather than you, but you know he'll never get away with it twice. B

Tom Fogerty: Tom Fogerty (Fantasy, 1972) This is not incompetent, but it is exceptionally unoriginal--even a pretension or two would be welcome. Good thing identity crises weren't so fashionable in the days of David and Ricky Nelson. D

Foghat: Energized (Bearsville, 1974) Conceived in memory of Chuck Berry when Kim Simmonds began handing out Kenny Burrell chord books to his Savoy Brown cohorts in 1970, this band has taken a good idea way too far. Rod Price's ubiquitous slide and Dave Peverett's iniquitous rave are decent trademarks, but energized becomes enervating in the absence of dynamic changes. Is good competent rock really good and competent if its excitement never transcends the mechanical? Is that what getting off means? So maybe they're not good and competent. B-

Fools Gold: Fools Gold (Morning Sky, 1976) Should this become a million seller, it will provide the most pungent do-it-yourself review since the classic This Is Bull. But it won't be worth it. C-

Steve Forbert: Alive on Arrival (Nemporer, 1978) I thought this kid's folk songs were promising the first time I saw him--which was before I knew he was destined to share management with the Ramones--and I still do. B

Steve Forbert: Jackrabbit Slim (Nemporer, 1979) John Simon's settings go every which way--from Muscle Shoals to Kingston, from country to folk to r&b--but always seem to come up pop. Then again, what else do you do with Forbert? He's as all-American as the Band, but beyond that catchy young heartland-soulful voice he has no musical identity: his lyrics are omniverously observant, but beyond an attractive all-purpose compassion they never reveal a point of view either. Steve Forbert Reporting, that's all. Which means you have to care about him as much as he does--"Make It All So Real" is as shameless as the suffering-artist theme gets--to care about his songs. And the voice doesn't do that for me. B-

Foreigner: Foreigner (Atlantic, 1977) You've heard of Beatlemania? I propose Xenophobia. C

Foreigner: Double Vision (Atlantic, 1978) I like rock and roll so much that I catch myself getting off on "Hot Blooded," a typical piece of cock-rock nookie-hating carried along on a riff-with-chord-change that's pure (gad) second-generation Bad Company. Fortunately, nothing else here threatens their status as world's dullest group. Inspirational Verse: "She backhanded me 'cross my face." C-

Foreigner: Head Games (Atlantic, 1979) This isn't as sodden as you might expect--these are pros who adapt to the times, and they speed the music up. I actually enjoy a few of these songs until I come into contact with the dumb woman-haters who are doing the singing. I mean, these guys think punks are cynical and anti-life? Guys who complain that the world is all madness and lies and then rhyme "science" and "appliance" without intending a joke? C

David Forman: David Forman (Arista, 1976) Comparisons are odiferous, and this one--David Forman/Randy Newman--is commonplace as well. Sorry. At least I don't mean the words; except for the unconvincing "Rosalie" and one or two others, these employ evocative metaphor, in the manner of Jackson Browne, rather than evocative social detail. It's the r&b-based singing and precise, manneristic arrangements, both (unintentionally?) redolent of Newman, that bother me. Even Jackson Browne knows that groupings of associative metaphors hold together best along a groove, and since Forman, unlike Newman, has the pipes to bring off the sweeter soul modulations, you'd figure he'd go that way. Instead, he sets each song--like a jewel, or a loose tooth in a denture. Many-faceted though they may be, these songs are neither gemlike nor biting, and the settings, unlike Newman's, too often sound readymade. B

Sonny Fortune: Long Before Our Mothers Cried (Strata-East, 1974) Support your local jazz musicians. Fortune is a sax player whose warm-up for the Wailers at Schafer turned my head around not with its originality--Fortune is a cultivator rather than a ground-breaker--but with its commitment to plain good music, from bop to new thing. A righteous thing to do with your life, and righteous to hear. Despite even the bracing piano comps of Stanley Cowell, there's nothing compelling here. But satisfying. B+

Sonny Fortune: Awakening (Horizon, 1975) I'd better watch out or I'm gonna turn into a fan of this guy. No great innovations, as I mentioned in conjunction with his Strata-East LP (shame on A&M for calling this "his debut as a great leader"; what's the catch, the last one wasn't great?), but plenty great synthesis. Shades of hard bop and late-'50s Miles in a more modal setting, so lyrical and tough-minded that the 12-minute flute-and-congas thing (the title cut, wouldn't you know) becomes quite credible, even listenable. A-

Fotomaker: Fotomaker (Atlantic, 1978) In which the label that has already brought us Firefall, Festival, Foreigner, Funkpot, Fishwife, Failure, and Fuckall sponsors yet another dupergroup made up of yet another batch of craft-obsessed rock dues-payers. Unfortunately, this one is faceless even by low-profile dupergroup standards. (Say, there's a name for a band--Faceless.) After all, Firefall did blend second-line graduates of Spirit and the Flying Burrito Brothers into their distinctively unexciting rock country-pop. And Fuckall did fuse second-line graduates of Chelsea and the Harlots of 42nd Street into their harmlessly obscene rock punk-pop. But second-line graduates of the Rascals and the Raspberries make only for depressingly mediocre rock abcxyz-pop. This is formally appropriate--titles like "Where Have You Been All My Life" and "Two Can Make It Work" would be altogether overwhelmed by hooks, melodies, or singing of the slightest originality or enthusiasm. Beat the rush--boycott now, before anyone has even heard of them. D+

Four Tops: Greatest Hits Vol. 2 (Motown, 1971) If Levi Stubbs is one of the definitive soul men, as some believe, then what he defines is the pitfalls of the style. He's a singer who's more interested in impressing the deacons (and their wives) than feeling the spirit--overripe, self-involved, and in the end pretentious. And this material is far from his best--stuck with the low-grade rock gentility of "Walk Away Renee" and "If I Were a Carpenter" and the sermonizing of "What Is Man" and "In These Changing Times," he's a typical victim of Motown's decadence. Despite some good rhythm tracks--they always seem to get good rhythm tracks out there--the only one of these songs you'll remember fondly is "Just Seven Numbers," a simple-minded throwaway about swallowing your pride and making that call. C+

Four Tops: Keeper of the Castle (Dunhill, 1972) The contrast of Levi Stubbs's self-indulgence against Motown's economical bottom worked sometimes, although toward the end the breast-beating began to sound like an Olatunji imitation. But when superschlockers Lambert, Potter, and Barri meet force with force, the results are too overbearing to interest anyone but professional theorists of camp. C-

Kim Fowley: I'm Bad (Capitol, 1972) I've nothing against hype, but it's a little low to distribute snazzy jackets containing blank discs. Caveat emptor. E-

Peter Frampton: Wind of Change (A&M, 1972) Not hard to hear why he wanted out of Humble Pie--with his pretty guitar and air of abstracted yearning, the boy's almost a ringer for Dave Mason. He's equally tuneful, vague, and confused about women ("I wasn't made to do no cooking"?). The difference is that Mason would never cover "Jumping Jack Flash." But if he did he'd take it at the same insipidly insinuating tempo. B-

Peter Frampton: Frampton Comes Alive! (A&M, 1976) All right, Peter, you've made your point--tour enough and smile enough and the tunes sink in. I'll rate your fucking album--it's been in the top five all year. Now will you please leave? B-

Peter Frampton: I'm in You (A&M, 1977) Like Steve Miller, Frampton is a medium-snazzy guitarist taking no chances on an absurdly salable formula this time out; the only development from his first (and best) two albums is that this one has a kinda "live" feel, and the material is very thin. But at least Frampton sounds completely unsmug, an achievement in a star of his magnitude. C-

Frampton's Camel: Frampton's Camel (A&M, 1973) Peter F. is rocking harder, probably because the above-mentioned Camel is a regular touring unit. He's writing fewer catchy tunes, probably because the abovementioned Camel is a regular touring unit. He dedicates a song to his manager, probably because the abovementioned Camel is a regular touring unit. He identifies white sugar as evil, probably because he's into health food. B-

Aretha Franklin: This Girl's in Love With You (Atlantic, 1970) Although Soul '69 didn't convince me she was made for pop standards, this (basically appealing) mish-mash suggests that she's better suited to pop disposables like the title track and "Son of a Preacher Man" than to rock statements like "Eleanor Rigby" and "The Weight." I admit that when she sings "The Weight" it sounds as if she knows what it means. But I still don't. B+

Aretha Franklin: Spirit in the Dark (Atlantic, 1970) At first this may sound unnaturally even--jazzy in its pleasantness, pleasant in its jazziness--but that's just because no Aretha album has ever generated such a consistent groove. Four different bands, notably the Dixie Flyers and the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section, keep things rocking at a medium-fast tempo, and what's lost in soul intensity is more than made up for in a kind of dusky barroom aura--if you can imagine walking into some funky cocktail lounge and finding the greatest singer in the world at the piano. Infinitely playable. Powerful song for song. Classic in its casualness. A

Aretha Franklin: Aretha's Greatest Hits (Atlantic, 1971) Great stuff, but not the greatest--and not as consistent stylistically as 1969's Aretha's Gold, which it duplicates on eight out of fourteen cuts. As for the latest hits, well, Aretha's done better recently than the contrived humankindness of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," the contrived religiosity of "Let It Be," and the contrived black consciousness of "Spanish Harlem." B+

Aretha Franklin: Aretha Live at Fillmore West (Atlantic, 1971) This record almost gets over on sheer vocal excess. Neither Aretha in Paris nor any of her studio albums has ever caught her in such an explosive mood, and the result is a "Dr. Feelgood" that could heal the halt and versions of "Eleanor Rigby" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water" that sound like Sunday morning. But though the speedy tempos help vitalize those last two songs as well, they do less than nothing for "Respect" and "Don't Play That Song" and can't save "Love the One You're With" or "Make It With You" (did she have to do 'em both?). And while in theory nothing could be more exciting than an eight-minute duet with Ray Charles on "Spirit in the Dark," in practice I'd rather hear Ray sing "The Three Bells" and Aretha go it alone. B

Aretha Franklin: Young, Gifted and Black (Atlantic, 1972) This plays straight to the nouveau-bourgeois black album audience, with all the self-consciousness and instrumentation that implies, but though it's genteel it's never bloodless: Aretha's free-flight improvisations are vehicles of a romanticism extreme and even unhinged enough to soar from the Afro-American experience right into the blithe fantasies of pop. She makes "Long and Winding Road" rock and turns the programmatic title anthem into a hymn. She proves herself a fond observer of everyday life on her own "First Snow in Kokomo." And on "Day Dreaming" she provides a metaphor her American-dreaming sisters and brothers can relate to: the song is wishful thinking, but the man it's about may just be real anyway, and that's the way America is sometimes. A

Aretha Franklin: Amazing Grace (Atlantic, 1972) Because I don't think God's grace is amazing or believe that Jesus Christ is his son, I find it hard to relate to gospel groups as seminal as the Swan Silvertones and the Dixie Hummingbirds and have even more trouble with James Cleveland's institutional choral style. There's a purity and a passion to this church-recorded double-LP that I've missed in Aretha, but I still find that the subdued rhythm section and pervasive call-and-response conveys more aimlessness than inspiration. Or maybe I just trust her gift of faith more readily when it's transposed to the secular realm. B+

Aretha Franklin: Hey Now Hey (the Other Side of the Sky) (Atlantic, 1973) In which she rejects the producers who made her career for Quincy Jones and drifts off into the hey now hey with rudder trailing. "So Swell When You're Well" and "Sister From Texas" might sneak onto Spirit in the Dark with a little more funk, and "Just Right Tonight" busies itself nicely, but too much of this is pretentious baloney, and "Somewhere" and "Mister Spain" are horrid. B-

Aretha Franklin: Let Me in Your Life (Atlantic, 1974) Welcome Tom and Jerry (Dowd and Wexler) back--this isn't great Aretha, but it rocks steady even on the ballads. If she doesn't get away with "The Masquerade Is Over," she does renew "A Song for You" with a fresh electric piano part and a good helping of indiscreet interpretation. Guided indiscretion, that's the key--her great gift is her voice, but her genius is her bad taste. B+

Aretha Franklin: With Everything I Feel in Me (Atlantic, 1974) Aretha has established herself as such a solid property--certain to hold onto a good-sized audience for years to come, but unlikely to expand any further--that it's getting hard to resist thinking of her as a cross between Frank Sinatra and Nancy Wilson, turning out collections as custom-designed as next year's Oldsmobile. This one's more ethereal styling--less bottom, more la-la scatting--is presaged by Young, Gifted and Black's exploration of the spirituality on black pop rather than Hey Now Hey's spindrift, and I like it fine. But it's hard to get excited about an album that puts so much of its soul into the codas. B+

Aretha Franklin: You (Atlantic, 1975) Does the curiously unfocused effect of this album reflect Aretha's inability to direct her own career? Or is it just the way the bass is mixed? Or are the two the same? B-

Aretha Franklin: Sparkle (Atlantic, 1976) Aretha vamping over competent-plus Curtis Mayfield tracks is sexy at worst, mixing rhythmic and emotional frisson, soul product as it should be, albeit deplorably post-verbal. Good late-night listening, I suppose--but not as good as Spirit in the Dark, or Super Fly. B

Aretha Franklin: Sweet Passion (Atlantic, 1977) When I work at listening, I can tell that she still sings real good. C+

Aretha Franklin: Almighty Fire (Atlantic, 1978) Well, she did call the last one Sweet Passion, and if she calls the next one Transcendent Glory it won't bring the spirit back. C+

Aretha Franklin: La Diva (Atlantic, 1979) Blame what's wrong with this record on the late trite Van McCoy, one of the most tasteless arrangers ever to produce an LP. What saves it is that McCoy didn't control half of these songs--arrangements by Richard Gibbs and Arthur Jenkins (rhythm only) and Zulema Cusseaux and Skip Scarborough (rhythm plus orchestration) provide frequent relief. Aretha contributes two sisterly originals, which are really fine, and one loverly original, which isn't. Because McCoy keeps intruding she never gets a flow going. But there haven't been this many good cuts on an Aretha album in five years. B

Michael Franks: Sleeping Gypsy (Warner Bros., 1977) I don't trust Franks's sambas to drowse by, but when he mentioned that he heard from his ex on the back of his checks he woke me up long enough to make me believe he had some smarts. Quite a lot of smarts, actually. Then I dozed off again. B

John Fred and His Playboy Band: Love My Soul (Uni, 1970) With his sharp, nasal drawl, Fred was born to pop, and though he's lost collaborator Andrew Bernard, he's keeping Shreveport's Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Fan Club going all by himself. Would anyone but a genuine eccentric rewrite "Sweet Soul Music" as a tribute to Johnny Winter, Pete Townshend, and Nilsson? "Agnes in Disguise (With Blanket)": "Sadie Trout." B-

Jeffrey Frederick & the Clamtones: Spiders in the Moonlight (Rounder, 1977) Fredericks is the secret hero of my beloved Have Moicy!, but I had to penetrate a whole lot of received music before I could be sure that his own album was more than hippie cute. What it is instead is insanely funny. Dedication: "We would like to apologize to our mothers." B+

Free: Fire and Water (A&M, 1970) From sodden blooze to steady, unpretentious rock and roll in three progressively simpler--as opposed to easier--albums, climaxing with "All Right Now," a bone-crunching single you can groan along with. Recommended follow-up: a shortened "Mr. Big." Predicted follow-up: the already shortened "Fire and Water." B

Free: Highway (A&M, 1971) I know you think they're dumb, but they're not, they're just slow, and this intelligent noise proves it. Every instrument in what is basically a trio format must make a solo-quality contribution, yet every one is held in check, by the tempos and the structures in which flash is strictly discouraged. The tension that results is more gripping here than on Fire and Water because vocalist Paul Rodgers and guitarist Paul Kossoff have mastered the reined-in expressiveness that comes naturally to drummer Simon Kirke and (especially) bassist Andy Fraser--last time they showed off, but this time you can hear them trying not to. Equally important, the tracks average 3:48 instead of 5:02. But though there are hints of melodic and verbal facility as well, there aren't enough. B

Free: Free at Last (A&M, 1972) The usual steadily unpretentious hard rock. This one sounds a little sodden and listless at first, but it does come on. Nice extension of a simple, intelligent concept, recommended to the group's fans. B

Free: Heartbreaker (Island, 1973) "I was walking in the rain with my shoes untied," a line from newcomer Rabbit Bundrick, sums them up--I don't know myself whether it's a cleverly modified cliché or an overgrown one. But I do know that if Free at Last was simply listless this is actively deficient in formal acuteness. Andy Fraser has been replaced by both Bundrick's generally unnecessary keyboards (check out his organ on the otherwise engaging "Travellin in Style") and Tetsu Yamauchi's more stolid bass. Paul Kossoff, replaced by other guitarists on half the tracks, sounds like he's pursuing a solo career when he's on. And Paul Rodgers sounds more full of himself than his songs or his guitar warrant. C+

Free: The Best of Free (A&M, 1975) I could complain that the format automatically glosses over their austerity with an uncharacteristic catchiness, but in fact it sounds better and says more about them than Highway. Just as annotator Jim Bickhart claims, the band wasn't "only effective at gut-level; it was effective as music." But often the gutty moves--Rodgers's or Kossoff's crowd-pleasing flourishes--weren't musical, while the arty touches--the deliberate pace and general sense of containment--socked you right in the cerebrum. Which is why Bad Company grandstands, and why I'm on the critical fence. B+

Fresh: Fresh Out of Borstal (RCA Victor, 1970) This candidly Stonesish studio quasi-hype is dutifully class-conscious, but it bears about as much relation to the prison homosexuality alluded to in the ads as an aspirin dramatization does to open heart surgery. That is, lest my rhetoric confuse you: this is not a record about bugger-rape. Docked two notches for misrepresenting itself. D+

Dean Friedman: Dean Friedman (Lifesong, 1977) He tells us right off that he's got "a rich man's dream" and "a poor man's needs"; in other words, he's got the soul of a middle-class kid who hopes he's hitbound and doesn't have the faintest idea what rich men dream about. Hitbound he may be--this is replete with nice reflections nicely melodized. But only once, on the transcendent "Ariel," does he sound as cute as he wants to. B-

Kinky Friedman: Sold American (Vanguard, 1973) Too bad Kinky's unique cross between Don Rickles and Woody Guthrie extends to his singing. Doesn't matter on the lip-smackingly tasteless "Ballad of Charles Whitman" or the foolproof "We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service." But when he gets a leetle serious, as on the title song or the signature "Ride 'Em Jewboy," you wish his voice could convey something of what he means. B

Kinky Friedman: Lasso from El Paso (Epic, 1976) The clue to whether this guy deserves his reputation as a wit is that Joe Cocker, who doesn't even know what the words mean, does a funnier version of "Catfish." The clue to whether he deserves his ambitions as a romantic figure is "Lady Yesterday." C

Robert Fripp: Exposure (Polydor, 1979) Fripp has always been a bit of a jerk, but over the years he's figured out what to do with the talent that goes along with his affliction. This concept album earns its conceit, orchestrating bits and pieces of art-rock wisdom--from punk to Frippertronics, from King Crimson to singer-songwriter--into a fluent whole. Maybe soon he'll get smart enough to forget about J.G. Bennett. "It is impossible to achieve the aim without suffering" isn't exactly big news, and old Crimson fans will swallow side two without the caveat. B+

Fripp & Eno: No Pussyfooting (Antilles, 1975) Although art-rockers praise Fripp's undulating phased guitar and Eno's mood-enhancing synthesizer drones, they also complain that it all gets a little, well, monotonous after a while. That's the problem with art-rockers--they don't know much about art. I think these two twenty-minute duets, recorded more than two years ago, are the most enjoyable pop electronics since Terry Riley's A Rainbow in Curved Air, achieving their goal with admirable formal concision. What do the bored ones want? Can't have meter shifts 'cause there's no beat, can't have bad poetry because there's no vocalist, can't have fancy chord changes 'cause there's no key center. What's left is tranquility amid the machines, more visionary and more romantic than James Taylor could dream of being. Highlight: the unrestrained snake guitar on the unfortunately titled "Swastika Girls." B+

Fripp & Eno: Evening Star (Antilles, 1976) This time F&E take dead aim at the hit single they so manifestly deserve by breaking their magic music into four distinct pieces on side one, but as a result I find the total effect more static--the endings are disconcertingly arbitrary, while No Pussyfooting's full sides just keep on moving. Special award for the simulated scratch that decorates "An Index of Metals"--one of the most reassuringly fallible moments ever recorded. B+

Frummox: Here to There (Probe, 1970) Pretentious cowboy music? Yes, pretentious cowboy music. C-

David Frye: Richard Nixon: A Fantasy (Buddah, 1973) Buddah isn't just hedging when it disclaims any "special or political" intent on this one. Unfortunately, the label forgot to mention humorous intent. All the good jokes are available on the radio ad. D

The Fugs: Golden Filth (Reprise, 1970) Not enough Tuli and a touch too much Ed, but this LP--recorded June 1, 1968, at one of their last shows--is their scush-slurfing testament. The best tune was written by William Blake under the romantic sway of a lesbian troll, but you can tell the other composers are poets too--listen to the similes break down in "Supergirl," or tell me that Jim Morrison knows somebody who "humps like a wildcat" (or anyway, knows enough to laugh about it). The music is, well, a mess, but a purposeful mess, and Ed Sanders's poems are dirty jokes at their most divine. B+

The Fugs: Fugs 4, Rounders Score (ESP-Disk', 1975) Previously unreleased (Holy Modal) Rounders oldies (the original "Romping Through the Swamp") plus a mid-'60s best-of on the original rock-poets, with ample room for the musical genius of Tuli Kupferberg--including "Morning, Morning" in a version far lovelier than Spyder Turner's and the peristaltic "Caca Rocka," a/k/a "Pay Toilet Blues." The musicianship will offend the fastidious and loses even me at times. But there's a sense in which the halting drone of these sessions, vaguely reminiscent of the early Velvets, is more appropriate to the Fugs' secondhand rock than all the classy folkies they later patched on. B+

Funkadelic: Funkadelic (Westbound, 1970) Q (side one, cut one): "Mommy, What's a Funkadelic?" A: Someone from Carolina who encountered eternity on LSD and vowed to contain it in a groove. Q (side two, cut four): "What Is Soul?" A: A ham hock in your corn flakes. You get high marks for your questions, guys. C+

Funkadelic: Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow (Westbound, 1970) This is as confusing and promising and ultimately ambiguous as the catchy (and rhythmic) title slogan. Is that ass as in "shake your ass" or ass as in "save your ass"? And does one escape/transcend the dollar by renouncing the material world or by accepting one's lot? Similarly, are the scratchy organ timbres and disorienting separations fuckups or deliberate alienation effects? Is this music to stand to or music to get wasted by? In short, is this band (this black band, I should add, since it's black people who are most victimized by antimaterialist rhetoric) promulgating escapist idealism or psychic liberation? Or do all these antinomies merely precede some aesthetic synthesis? One thing is certain--the only place that synthesis might occur here is on "Funky Dollar Bill." B-

Funkadelic: Maggot Brain (Westbound, 1971) Children, this is a funkadelic. The title piece is ten minutes of classic Hendrix-gone-heavy guitar by one Eddie Hazel--time-warped, druggy superschlock that may falter momentarily but never lapses into meaningless showoff runs. After which comes 2:45 of post-classic soul-group harmonizing--two altos against a bass man, all three driven by the funk, a rhythm so pronounced and eccentric it could make Berry Gordy twitch to death. The funk pervades the rest of the album, but not to the detriment of other peculiarities. Additional highlight: "Super Stupid." B+

Funkadelic: America Eats Its Young (Westbound, 1972) Their racial hostility is much preferable to the brotherhood bromides of that other Detroit label, but their taste in white people is suspect: it's one thing to put down those who "picket this and protest that" from their "semi-first-class seat," another to let the Process Church of the Final Judgment provide liner notes on two successive albums. I overlooked it on Maggot Brain because the music was so difficult to resist, but here the strings (told you about their taste in white people), long-windedness (another double-LP that should be a single), and programmatic lyrics ("Miss Lucifer's Love" inspires me to mention that while satanism is a great antinomian metaphor it often leads to murder, rape, etc.) leave me free to exercise my prejudices. Primary exception: "Biological Speculation," a cautionary parable about the laws of nature/the jungle. Secondary exception: "Loose Booty." Remember what Hank Ballard says, you guys: how you gonna get respect if you haven't cut your process yet? C+

Funkadelic: Cosmic Slop (Westbound, 1973) Thank, well, Whomever, the "maladroited message of doom" inside the doublefold comes not from Brother Malachi but from Sir Lleb, and Whomever has rewarded the band with two definitively scary takes on sex and life in the future present--"Cosmic Slop" and "No Compute," both of which combine humor, pessimism, incantation, and baloney in convincing and unprecedented amalgams. Unfortunately, most of the rest is "interesting," including one profundo Vietnam monologue and many parodies of harmony-group usage. B

Funkadelic: Standing on the Verge of Getting It On (Westbound, 1974) Although too often it lives up to its title, this is the solidest record this restless group has ever made (under its own name--cf. Parliament) and offers such goodies as Alvin Chipmunk saying "gross mutherfucker" and a stanza that takes on both Iggy Stooge and Frank Zappa with its tongue tied. It also offers this Inspirational Homily: "Good thoughts bring forth good fruit. Bullshit thoughts rot your needs. Think right and you can fly." B+

Funkadelic: Let's Take It to the Stage (Westbound, 1975) The group that makes the Ohio Players sound like the Mike Curb Congregation still has a disturbingly occultish bent--"free from the need to be free," indeed. But at this point I'm inclined to trust the music, which is tough-minded, outlandish, very danceable, and finally, I think (and hope), liberating. Including a Stevie Wonder ripoff and a Jimi Hendrix impression and a Black Sabbath love song and a long Bach organ coda ("Atmosphere," by Clinton-Shider-Worrell) over a rap that begins: "I hate the word pussy, it sounds awful squishy, so I guess I'll call it clit." A-

Funkadelic: Funkadelic's Greatest Hits (Westbound, 1975) After "Can You Get to That," "Loose Booty," and "Funky Dollar Bill," which really are great, I'm ready to believe that "A Joyful Process" is balanced on an Ellingtonian paradox rather than immersed in schlocky pretensions. But the selection could be even better, and because Funkadelic is a groove band rather than a song band it's not very well-served by the "hit" format. In short, this is hardly the perfect Funkadelic LP. And in truth, neither are any of the others. A-

Funkadelic: Tales of Kidd Funkadelic (Westbound, 1976) As with James Brown, whose circa-1971 J.B.'s provided this band with its horns and rhythm section, there always seem to be waste cuts on George Clinton's albums. The difference is that Brown's are intended as filler even when they come out inspired, whereas Clinton's feel like scientific experiments even when they're entirely off-the-cuff. The title cut here, a thirteen-minute congas-and-keyboard reconnaissance decorated with a few chants, turns out to be fairly listenable. Which I noticed because it's preceded by a catchy march called "I'm Never Gonna Tell It," their greatest post-doowop experiment yet. Also out there: "Take Your Dead Ass Home!" Not to mention the horns and rhythm section. B+

Funkadelic: Hardcore Jollies (Warner Bros., 1976) A good sample of their surrealistic black vaudeville, this offers none of the great climaxes of their Westbound albums--no come shots, you might say--but an abundance of good old-fashioned raunch. As consistent as any album they've made, it's dense with ensemble funk and catchy riffsongs, post-heavy Mike Hampton guitar and post-backlash soul voicings. And it rescues from the public domain not only middle-period Jimmy Page but "Comin' 'Round the Mountain" and "They Don't Wear Pants on the Sunny Side of France." A-

Funkadelic: The Best of the Early Years Volume One (Westbound, 1977) By cutting down to one track each from the first two albums, this upgrades Westbound's (now deleted) 1975 compilation. The only essential addition is "No Compute," but most of the six substitutions are improvements. And the one regrettable deletion, "Standing on the Verge of Getting It On," serves a rough concept: to present a very strange vocal group rather than a funk or psychedelic band. A

Funkadelic: One Nation Under a Groove (Warner Bros., 1978) I can't figure out why some Funkateers profess themselves unmoved by this one. The twelve-incher does come up a little short on guitar, but a generous Hendrix fix is thoughtfully provided on a seventeen minute, seven-inch third side, and the title cut is as tough and intricate as goodfooting ever gets. Plus: "Who Says a Funk Band Can't Play Rock?" and "Into You," two manifestos that bite close to the bone, and "The Doo Doo Chasers," a scatological call-and-response cum responsive-reading whose shameless obviousness doesn't detract from fun or funk. Fried ice cream is a reality! Or: Think! It ain't illegal yet! A

Funkadelic: Uncle Jam Wants You (Warner Bros., 1979) This is fairly wonderful through the first cut on side two, but in a fairly redundant way. Bernie Worrell's high synthesizer vamps sometimes seem like annoying cliches these days, and not even Philippe Wynne can provide the marginal variety that puts good groove music over the top--maybe because he sounds like a high synthesizer himself. B+

F: Compilations

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