If narcissism paid two bucks an hour, J.D. Souther would be a billionaire. Writing songs for Linda Ronstadt, the Eagles, et al., he probably is anyway. But take a quick look and a careful listen to his third record, You're Only Lonely, and you'll realize that this very spoiled and unfunny valentine wears his heart on his sleeve only so he can see it reflected in the mirror. Like Patti Smith, he's his own greatest fan, just doing us a favor by existing.

It's too bad, because Souther's not untalented. His debut album, John David Souther (1972), was sadly underrated, one of the finest of the year, and has held up very well. It's full of good songs and genuine emotions. The second LP, Black Rose (1976), is best remembered for the most hilarious and/or pathetic advertising pitch ever: "The Scent of Genius." On You're Only Lonely, the artist's pretentiousness and self-satisfaction sink him like a stone.

These days, J.D. Souther is mostly a parody of the sensitive California singer/songwriter. He's calendar art, the aural equivalent of a Kodak color slide: leaves turning in the autumn as photographed by Felicia Filigree of Vassar. He's so lazy that too often his songs have trouble holding even the most clichéd poses, because their creator can't be bothered to supply the necessary conviction, much less any at all. "If you don't want my love/Well, there's nothing I can do," he mewls, sounding like he's mildly annoyed because his Perrier is getting warm. The vain singing in tunes like "The Last in Love" is embarrassing enough, but when Souther actually tries to rock & roll on side two, it's time to put this record away and stop. Right now. (RS 306)

PAUL NELSON