This very undistinguished-looking album, with its absence of liner notes and its beatnik-flavored photos, is astonishing for a couple of reasons. To begin with, Loudon Wainwright III writes very forcefully incisive songs and, better yet, brings them across totally with his pleading, highpitched vocals and competent guitar work. This may not seem like a hell of a lot—but for those who recall the halcyon days of guys like Anderson, Dylan, Spoelstra, Ochs and Van Ronk, these eleven songs that Mr. Wainwright offers are a vivid change of pace in these rather few and far between times.

From the rambling, Delaware-flavored "School Days" through the moody "Hospital Lady" to the wryly confessional "I Don't Care," Wainwright moves in a highly personal, often allegorical fashion through what seems to be the late afternoons of his memory and out again. At times his reliance on rhyme becomes a trifle over-much ("Uptown" and "Movies Are A Mother To Me"), but mostly he conquers stunningly with the choppy-rhythmed, cleverly moving "Glad To See You've Got Religion" and the terse, to-the-point portrait of "Black Uncle Remus" that gets more incisive every time you hear it: "When you've got the whiskey habit/You don't talk about Brer Rabbit/You really recall the catfish catches/When you're living your life in the briar patches."

Other high points on this album are Wainwright's pastiches and evocations of The City that stud his "Ode To A Pittsburgh": ("You were smokestacked/You were laid in cobble-stone/You were trolley-car-tracked/And for you the red skies shone") and the confusing yet compelling "Four Is A Magic Number" that is a study in the wonder of hesitation, in lyrics as well as in Wainwright's guitar playing and vocal approach. Not to forget his gripping, wail-laden performance of "Central Square Song"—the story of Mary McGuire and Big Frank Clark who "got drunk again last night." This cut alone is worth the album price—it's a short story in song, a novel in a few lyrics, a lifetime full of cause and effect, love and loneliness—the true anthem of what life in America is like these days—watch out, Studs Lonigan. Finally, Wainwright's closing, melody-crippling tale of life at "Bruno's Place," with its oiled rhythms and total cast of characters, is addictive and, besides that, lets you know that Wainwright is a vegetarian.

Usually artists of Wainwright's obvious genius write and play out their lives and songs on old friends' back-porches, in local smoke-stung coffeehouses or on anonymous sidewalks and park benches. Somehow Wainwright found his way onto a record. I just hope it's not a one-shot affair—he's got some things to say. (RS 69)

GARY VON TERSCH