The Blue Oyster Cult shares certain traits with that other New York cult band, the Dolls: an appropriate image for the outpouring of urban (and seemingly bottomless) frustration, an offbeat sense of humor and an ability to rock with grandeur. Although theyÆve been together as the Soft White Underbelly and then the Stalk Forrest group since the late Sixties, commercial success has come only with the adoption of a new name and a modified stance: from straight rock & roll to a heavy-metal band. The change in direction and subsequent success can be attributed in large part to non-member Sandy Pearlman, the groupÆs lyricist, stylistic consultant, co-producer and long-time manager.

The heavy-metal connotation comes mainly from PearlmanÆs funny-fantastic lyrics and the vocals, which borrow the shrillness and exaggerated vibrato of lesser people like Black Sabbath and Uriah Heep--seemingly merely for the sake of genre classification.

PearlmanÆs lyrics are alternately concerned with the phantasmagoric modern myths most clearly envisioned by Marvel Comix illustrators, and with macho-military regalia, often associated with the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. But whatever inspiration PearlmanÆs approach provides, the band transcends eccentric detail when it launches into various instrumental sections. Don Roeser (aka Buck Dharma) plays a dextrous and muscular guitar; no matter how astounding his lead lines are, theyÆre never free-flight solos but rather the cutting edges of arrangements.

From the teamed virtuosity and forcefulness of such tracks as "Astronomy" (which sounds like Cossack-rock), "Career Of Evil" (with lyrics by poet Patti Smith) and "Flaming Telepaths" (driven by Don RoeserÆs overpowering guitar line), Blue Oyster Cult shows signs of achieving a rock & roll hybrid comprised not only of heavy-metal elements but also of the 5-D Byrds and the Brian Jones-dominated Stones. The blend is further modulated by recurring bits from Alice CooperÆs "Ballad of Dwight Fry," and the "Theme from Peter Gunn." And there are other quotes from the Sixties, including the Beatles and Motown.

If you play Secret Treaties at high volume (and you should if you play it at all), youÆll hear all these divergent pieces hurtling along together in tense but still very close formation. Proving that Blue Oyster Cult is at the very least a triumph of aero-dynamics. (RS 163)

Amid a growing Profusion of lightweight pop practitioners, one latter-day exponent of self-conscious pop stands out on the American scene: Todd Rundgren. A gifted studio technician and producer, he is also a resourceful composer and inventive plagiarist; in many ways, Rundgren is the SeventiesÆ journeyman pop stylist.

"I Saw the Light," "Hello, ItÆs Me" and, from the new LP, "A Dream Goes on Forever" all show his knack for churning out whimsical but effervescent formula tunes. And his lyrical preoccupations have helped give him a personal style: He has successfully nurtured a melodramatistÆs flair for milking adolescent romances, wallowing in self-pity.

Musically, RundgrenÆs several solo albums have specialized in quoting the right sources, from Laura Nyro to Stevie Wonder. On both The Ballad of Todd Rundgren, a tour de force, and the more uneven Something/Anything?, he proved himself a capable composer. And although his frail, reedy voice is weak, his production skills compensate: He mixes, overdubs and sweetens tracks like a true wizard.

But the salvation of his earlier albums has become the bane of his later records. RundgrenÆs last two efforts have passed the point of studio virtuosity to enter a unique realm of fatuous overproduction, rockÆs special outlet for ersatz creativity. He is still intent on becoming a pop "genius" but most of Todd sounds at best like a garbled reflection of earlier Rundgren glories. At worst, the album indulges ToddÆs growing fondness for artsy instrumentals, filled with bleeps, echoes and hand-me-down Frank Zappaisms--the antithesis of pithy pop.

In recent interviews, maestro Rundgren has grandiloquently announced that his work has moved from emotion to mind. "Once I got my emotions under control, I was able to recognize spiritual influences which could raise my consciousness. I donÆt want to respond to the coarser vibrations." Unfortunately, apart from the welter of electronic gimmickry, the casual listener might not notice the change in ToddÆs (spiritual) vistas. Todd generally sticks to familiar Rundgren fare, particularly on its more successful tracks (such as the relatively concise "The Last Ride" and "Izzat Love?")

This set is finally crippled by the overlay of studio junk on every cut. Even familiar Rundgrenesque entries suffer in comparison with earlier efforts. This may be his idea of space-age pop, or his foray into psychedelic bubblegum. Fortunately, when self-conscious pop becomes self-indulgent, it loses its sense of balance, and becomes either boring or offensive. Todd, at various points, manages to be both. (RS 163)

Jim Miller

Someone is trying to make Ann Peebles into something she isnÆt: a female Al Green, a shining star on the horizon, and God knows what else. In the process, her very special, if limited, talents have been so overextended that her new album sounds almost lifeless.

Ironically, Peebles was the first singer/producer Willie Mitchell signed to his Memphis label (Hi Records)-- years before he began his association with Al Green. Then, in the midst of the Al Green Craze, she and Mitchell cut the critically acclaimed Straight from the Heart, a traditional, no-nonsense R&B album, possibly the best sustained work in that genre since Sam and Dave left Stax in 1968. On some cuts, Peebles assumed the arrogant, almost machismo stance that soul singers like Johnny Taylor and James Brown (but rarely women singers) customarily invoke. On others, she could ask, "How strong is a woman?" and answer, "Just as strong as the love of her man."

When that album sold poorly, she released a violin-laden ballad, "IÆm Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down" -- included on the new album. Earl RandleÆs lyrics offered a new image: The song was more about her relationship to the man than herself as a woman. She sounded different, too --more pensive, less powerful, although still appealing. That single was also a commercial failure.

"I CanÆt Stand the Rain" was largely a return to the straight-from-the-heart-style, thought more gimmicky and sophisticated. That massively popular single spawned the current album, which is more in the tentative, self-conscious vein of "Tear Your Playhouse Down" than "I CanÆt Stand the Rain" or Straight from the Heart.

Even at its best, I CanÆt Stand the Rain sounds like Mitchell was merely trying to duplicate the success of Al Green's Let's Stay Together. Musically, Peebles swallows phrases, stops for breath at what seems like inappropriate moments, and the Hi session band turns in a lackluster performance.

Peebles (with the assistance of husband Don Bryant) contributed most of the material. Unfortunately, their writing is inadequate, the ballads tending to skimp on melody, and the rhythm tunes (with the exception of "Rain") sounding perfunctory.

Peebles also lacks the strength of voice to sing effectively against violins. She sounds especially out of her element on pop numbers like "Feed The Fire" and the C&W "Just Enough to Keep Me Hanging On." But Ann Peebles has a fine voice for the right kind of song, which is why it's distressing to hear her floundering on foreign soil. This album saps the life from her art, much as Quincy Jones did with Aretha Franklin last spring. (RS 163)

Russell Gersten