POP RECORDS
Playing pictures
DUNCAN FALLOWELL
King Crimson: Lizard (Island £2.15). King Crimson are a cult group, which is a pity since it divides people for and against and denies the music the kind of audience flexi- bility which it could certainly sustain. Their first album established them immediately as a new force; the second, with its unnecessary cribbings from Hoist, was less impressive; this new one reaffirms their exceptional talents. They play pictures: the music is structured in images and events, deceptively complex since its underlying patterns are quite simple, and for these musical landscapes they deploy all the devices one would expect and several one wouldn't. Let me say outright that this album is at an imaginative level rarely encountered in pop,with the additional embellishment of Keith Tippett's glittering and supple piano. But I do wish Robert Fripp. the composer, did not have such a penchant for Tchaikovsky-cum-Mancini climaxes in the Lawrence of Arabia tradition. They cling to you like damp macintoshes. Also, the pseudo-surrealisms of Peter Sin-
field's words strike me, after three LPS, as
exasperatingly facile and sometimes silly— which is not to say that he hasn't spent ages over them. Perhaps a little less effort on his part would produce less constipated results. The cover is superb.
McDonald and Giles (Island £2.15). This duo are a spin-off from the previous group, King Crimson minus the psychedelia, more simplistic, with suggestions of acoustic plucking on the Giihlhane roof. They have plenty of soft sweet musical ideas but often these have not been thought through and so, especially on the second side, fail to connect with each other or with us.
Jody Grind: Far Canal (Transatlantic £2.15). This was released some months ago and I might have passed it by. Then one evening I realised how. remarkably good it was. The musicianship in inventiveness and integration is beautifully robust. But grab it while you can: Jody Grind have a habit of breaking up, which no doubt explains their comparative obscurity.
The Alan Bown : Listen (Island £2.15). The Alan Bown have been called Britain's Blood, Sweat and Tears. They are not, thank heav- ens. Their use of brass is more finely cut, with none of BST's metallic histrionics and purple-faced puffing. The songs too are all their own, full of original touches, the essence of urban melancholy amplified through the quiet agonies of the lead singer. If you want to call this jazz-rock you may, but creatively it is miles beyond most of the squawking which goes on under that name.
Yoko Ono: Play in the Dark (Apple £1.991). Backed by the Plastic Ono Band (John Lennon, Bingo Starr, Klaus Voor- mann), Yoko Ono has produced a real weirdie. The first track is the most ferocious and frantic piece of rock I've heard in along time and sets the pace for much of the rest. The most extraordinary feature of all is Yoko's high-pitched voice which she uses not for singing but for producing streams of vocal effects. This releases a whole new territory of sound which, in pop, she is alone in exploring with any thoroughness, and unless her voice has been fed through elec- tronic modulators she has quite remarkable tonsils, But I doubt whether this album will receive the attention it deserves. Such is the antipathy towards Yoko One that she can do no right. Yet why she should be the object of so much derision and plain insult I have never been able to understand. A couple of odd films and a couple of odd records hardly explain it.
Man (Liberty £2.25). Man have been exploring the frontiers of progressive music for some time and although they haven't yet come up with anything really first-rate—this album is no exception—their records always suggest that they might. They now seem to be working in a style similar to the German group, Amon Dahl, although they lack
An-ion tonal ingenuity. If only Man were more clear in their own minds about what it is they are trying to do there would be fewer longueurs in their work. At present they are indecisive and something of an unknown quantity.
Van Morrison: Van Morrison, His Band and the Street Choir (Warner £2.15). A well. made album of elegant happy songs from an Irishman who went to Los Angeles. But Van Morrison's new-found happiness in what appears to be a Californian commune rather takes the edge off his music, certainly if you recall the intense drifting sadness of Astral Weeks. The sun is there but the magic isn't.
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