TIN EAR Ballad Of A Tin Band ShimmyDisc Records WELL, THESE GUYS have nailed it. Falling like a blind carver's shavings into the cracks where such iconoclastic nutcases as The Godz, Deviants, and Shockabilly once furrowed about for spare change and beatnik finger-snaps, the three Tin-sters announce that psychedelia ain't a style, but a way of life. This 17-song magnum opus covers a lot of ground. There's your Guided By Voices-goes-Brit Invasion xerox ("It's Too Late"), with intriguing lyrics about suicide and masturbation. There's your point-me-at-the sky reverb-rocker ("Space Is The Place"), which has that same teens-on-the-moon urgency that informed "I'm Five Years Ahead Of My Time" two decades prior. There's your Mungo Jerry-does-Ry Cooder ("Govindam Highway") with kazoo-sounding guitars. And yes, that's our John Lennon, dug up and forced to sing with Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels ("You Are A Liar") for Anthology Part 10: The Post-Mortem Years. Utterly twisted, and udderly delicious. --Fred Mills MARTY STUART Honky Tonkin's What I Do Best MCA Records PART OF THE fun of a new Marty Stuart album is the sound bites scattered among the tracks--here, it's bluegrass legend Jimmy Martin introducing his singing coon dogs and letting go with a hair-raising yodel. You see, Marty is a fan, has been since he was knee-high to a blue-tick hound, and these little gems are a bow to country music's past. Stuart's style also is an homage to country's past, but with a contemporary sensibility. There's more to Stuart than the "Marty Party" image, and Honky Tonkin' is a fine example of his range. From the rowdy title track--another of a series of duets with Travis Tritt--to a handful of tender love songs highlighted by "So Many People," Stuart shows increasing confidence and dexterity with his winning formula. --Pam Parrish DUMMIES Dummies Get Hip HEY, ALL YOU Rat Fink mofos out there, listen up: This just may be the best damn album of 1996. These four beer swillin' social rejects uncork 12 rapid-fire, ultra lo-fi blasts of garage-punk obliteration; a whirlwind three-chord buzzsaw attack that'll slice your soul to shreds. Dumb and simplistic songs about drinking ("Beer Drinker"), more hooch guzzling ("Cold Ones"), and boozing till death ("Robot #69"), proliferate the intoxicating proceedings. Vocalist Sgt. 6 even sounds as though he's singin' through a flattened Blatz can. No romantic, angst-ridden or pretentious bullshit here. Just raw, primitive snot 'n' saliva trash-gunk that would make porno freak Chuck Berry beat his meat with delight. If yer a fan of bands like Lazy Cowgirls, Rip-Offs and Teen Generate, this is right up your alley. --Ron Bally

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