Like Todd Rundgren, John Fogerty, Paul McCartney and Peter Townshend, when Dave Edmunds talks about recording solo, he means it literally. And like all of the above except Townshend, what Edmunds has gained in technical control over his musical ideas he's sacrificed in emotion.

Edmunds is a somewhat mysterious Welshman, best known in this country for a 1970 single, "I Hear You Knocking," but with a considerable European reputation as a producer and guitarist. He is also something of a rock revivalist. Ten of the 12 tracks here are new versions of old hits (two of them, "Let It Be Me" and "A Shot of Rhythm and Blues" were featured in the film Stardust, in which Edmunds played David Essex's lead guitarist). Eight were recorded completely solo, two others with only a bassist and pianist or drummer; the last cut on each side was done with premier British pub rockers Brinsley Schwarz. While all of them have a certain energy, they show a lack of feeling that's disturbing.

For instance, Edmunds is so completely trapped into capturing the form of his favorite old rock styles that he misses the point of Chuck Berry's "No Money Down," a hilarious talking blues which relies completely upon the singer's ability to effectively create a persona. Similarly, his adaptation of "Leave My Woman Alone" in the style of the Everly Brothers is simply flat—the resemblance is uncanny but it remains a gimmick. The best interpreters of rock classics create a running commentary on their musical models. But Edmunds refuses to interpret. He just copies.

The problem is most extreme in a pair of Phil Spector-style productions. Edmunds fails to capture the resounding drum sound and pungent but awkward phrasing of the Crystals' original of "Da Doo Ron Ron," while the Chantels' "Maybe" is simply inappropriate for a male voice. On his version of the Ronettes' "Baby I Love You," where the parts are closer to the Spector sound, the only really exhilarating moment is a brief guitar solo just after the second verse. The solo is nothing like Spector but it adds immeasurably to the song's erotic feeling. It's also the only time on the record you can be absolutely sure that Edmunds cares deeply about what he's playing.

Self-contained musicianship may be less a problem here than extreme reverence for rock standards—John Lennon's Rock 'n' Roll album showed many of the same flaws—but Subtle as a Flying Mallet is too extremely marred by both to be more than a curiosity. Next time, Edmunds ought to try some original material or a few songs he holds less sacred. Or maybe just a few more guitar solos. (RS 207)

DAVE MARSH