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B-52's
Time Capsule: Songs For A Future Generation
Reprise
I VIVIDLY REMEMBER deejaying a college shindig back in 1980, and
what happened after I casually tossed then-unknown "Rock
Lobster" on the turntable. The crowd froze like deer in the
oncoming headlights, or staring, dumbfounded zombies at a spelling
bee. They were simultaneously baffled, disgusted and offended.
This wasn't Springsteen or Kurtis Blow. Three months later, the
B-52's novelty-cum-new wave cult classic had become our most requested
song. The same idiots who screamed for the Boss and "the
Breaks" were then flopping around like hooked fish on a filthy,
beer-soaked dance floor as soon as the needle touched the groove.
Nobody expected the curious attraction that beckoned from the
squealing voices and silly bouffant wigs of Kate Pierson and Cindy
Wilson, or the fluorescent '60s retro-shtick emanating from Watusi-crazed
frontman, Fred Schneider.
As years passed and mass audiences became hip to the kitschy
tongue-in-cheek jokes of this surreal Athens, Georgia, quintet,
the B-52's carved out a silly niche a mile wide. Time Capsule
collects a generous helping of the B-52's butt-shakin' faves,
but barely scratches the surface of the group's weird, bumpy musical
odyssey. Strangely absent are any rare or live dance scud missiles.
Only two newly recorded songs have been unceremoniously tacked
on as an afterthought: "Debbie," the alleged love-struck
ode to new wave uber-diva Debbie Harry, and the interstellar fantasy
worship of "Hallucinating Pluto." Stand-out tracks include
the campy sci-fi brilliance of "Planet Claire," the
irresistible "52 Girls," and underrated "Mesopotamia,"
a groove-oriented robotic bop that deserves a second chance among
the knuckleheads who program today's retro alt-rock airwaves.
--Ron Bally
CHUCHO VALDES
Bele Bele en La Habana
Blue Note
CUBA EXPORTS SOME of the hottest jazz pianists, no question about
it. Back in '91, they gave us keyboardist supreme Gonzalo Rubalcaba;
and now we get Chucho Valdes, who's not been heard much since
he led the Latin band Irakere back in the '70s. While tethering
his playing a bit more than the younger Rubalcaba, Valdes nonetheless
flings himself across the expanse of the keyboard so regularly
he must have stretch marks under his arms. His flashy fingerwork
on "But Not For Me" is as percussive as the two drummers
who back him, leading Valdes to occasionally sound like a Latin
version of McCoy Tyner. This latest effort is at least several
steps above the typical Cuban salsa jazz outing.
--Dave McElfresh
MONSTER MAGNET
Powertrip
A&M
A SMIRKING KID lounges on a glittering mound of Ft. Knox's chief
crop, which is guarded by strippers dressed as cops. Dead presidents
flutter in the air like moths navigating a flame while bikini
bimbos pout and push their own assets towards the camera. A pair
of vulcanized dominatrixes flank a Satanic-looking lead singer
as a host of worshipful devils hoist goblets of blood in toast.
And a manic, snarling driver, inevitably accompanied by two scantily-clad
models, plows his lowrider into a screaming pope, bishop and nun.
And that's just the artwork, Skeezix! Gotta be the latest dope
dropped by Master P, right? Yo, yo, check this shit out, it ain't
no homies and hoes kickin' it in tha hood, but the most retarded
New Jersey invention since row housing. Monster Magnet's the name,
psychedelicized Quaalude rock's da game. Zone out to the Hawkwind-like
"Crop Circle," or kneel and say your mantra in the Stones-meets-Seeds
"Temple Of Your Dreams," or simply wait for the chemicals
to take effect in the lunkhead metal of the delicately-titled
"Bummer."
Baby, I'm your man of the hour/Some people go to bed with
Lucifer/I know life's a bummer baby, but that's got nothing to
do with me! wails Magnet singer Dave Wyndorf, a master of
the rock non sequitur, unfolding the rock-theatre canvas as his
bandmates paint big, gaudy slabs of instantly familiar riffage.
And you thought rappers had all the fun being self-referentially
stupid! Word up!
--Fred Mills
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