Doug Ingle's ponderous organ that blew not a few minds on the group's first LP is still around, but it's time to ask whether Iron Butterfly has outlived its usefulness. The old band had a unified let's-fuck-up-some-heads approach, and even if they rarely made it past the earlobe, they were the Butterfly, distinctly bad and good. Now it's a little of this and that and trying to find out who their audience might be rather than just playing 'cause they got something going that's heavy and freaky.

The music on this album suggests maybe disintegration, not growth. On the other hand, you could say that the group is more flexible than when they first caught on, is willing at points to be placid and cautious. Yet rest easy, most of it is still about as subtle as a club, with orgasmic vocals falling into roars and grunts, and a rhythmic emphasis that's like a punch in the nose.

Despite my better instincts, I sorta like it. The organ line on "Shady Lady," in any case, is a joy, and, in general, the group don't sound like they're sitting on their ass. Though far from the best, you know they're not the worst group that ever made a record. (RS 69)

JACK SHADOIAN