Punch review

[chris@world.std.com (Chris'n'Vickie of Kansas City)]

The following is from the October 27th issue of Punch, the british humor mag.
 It's not a great review, but then, getting a review in "Punch" is like getting
a review in "National Lampoon". Warning: contains pointless comparisons.


Everything and the girl

Richard Cook on Kate Bush et al.


Sex isn't what it used to be, in popular music as everywhere else. Singers 
bill and coo more explicitly than ever before, but today's pillow-talk is 
either the phallic conceits of rap of the professional lip-smack of a new
generation of disco tarts. It's as depressing as anything else that has to 
be fetched off the top shelf. No wonder that the return of Kate Bush, often
pinned up as a thinking man's strumpet, has brought forth a gush of enthu-
siastic copy from sensitive music writers. It's understandable. This is like
getting your hands on a Henry Miller after toiling through a trunkful of
exploitation.
  Actually the inspiration behind "The Sensual World" (EMI), or at least the
title song, is James Joyce. The song refurbishes Molly Bloom as a pop goddess,
and with it's swirl of pipes and synthesisers around the repeated cue of Bush's
'mmm-yes', the music takes on some of the giddy excitement which marks the best
of her work. It's a trick which she has trouble in pulling off. Most of her 
songs shudder under the weight of ingredients. If it weren't for Bush's fruity
soprano, delivering some of the most exaggerated vowel sounds this side of Al
Jolson, the LPs could be the work of some refugee from the rarified climes of
art-rock: Jon Anderson, say.
  "The Sensual World", though, aims to concoct yet another world-music for our
pan-continental palates, as well as imparting a 'feminine statement' (note to
feminists: this is not what you're thinking). The Bulgarian singers Trio Bul-
garka, world music's answer to The Beverly Sisters, warble away on three tracks,
while Kate ululates through lyrics about a woman and her computer, meeting Adolf
Hitler at a Saturday dance and so on. In spite of all that, it's a pretty 
record, melodies peering through the jumble sale of musics which seem to turn
up on most 'serious' rock records at present. Bush's persona, though, grows
increasingly like some scatterbrained Home Counties postmistress who's had one
too many sherries at the WI function and starts spouting Blake. Her perennial
complaint is of being seen as a sex kitten with brains, but it's difficult to
sympathise with any conviction. Launching a record at the Top Ten which has the
singer talking about her breasts and 'feeling his spark grow in my hand' might
be a shot at getting real-capitol-P-Poetry on to Radio 1. It's still going to
end up as sex therapy for unrequited fans.
   I imagine there are, so far, no plans for "The Sensual World" to be covered
by Linda Ronstadt. It seems bizzare to recall that Ronstadt was once considered
the raunchiest thing on two white legs in American rock. After a bunch of dreary
standards with Nelson Riddle arrangements, her return to her roots on "Cry Like
A Rainstorm - Howl Like The Wind" (ELEKTRA) is about as sex-charged as a sniff
at a Milk of Magnesia bottle. Ronstadt remains America's sweetheart so she's 
lucky that she doesn't have to get by on the quality of the music, which is
flabby with orchestras and bad guitarists. It makes me wonder if she ever looks 
twice at the song on the stand: Jimmy Webbs 'I Kept It Hid', once superbly 
recorded by Glen Campbell, should end with a quiet shrug of the shoulders, but
Ronstadt gives it the full emotional breakdown.
   Pop-sex is still most successfully  handled by gentle, allusive words and
music, and the best performer in that style is the Canadian songwriter, Jane
Siberry. She is painfully thin and wears a pointed, Jack Frost face. Her new
record, "Bound By The Beauty" (REPRISE), is more or less thrilling in its
ingenuity and capriciousness - at one point, she does a piece called 'Every-
thing Reminds Me Of My Dog' - and it ends with two songs, 'Miss Punta Blanca'
and 'Are We Dancing Now', which swim in all the sensual charm and secrecy which
Kate Bush splashes desperately after. She's also very funny. I'll give you that
name again: Jane Siberry.