Nantucket Sleighride is either Mountain's third album or their second. (Felix Pappalardi insists that Leslie West: Mountain was Leslie's solo vehicle, and that Climbing was actually the group's first.) For the uninformed, "Nantucket sleighride" is an old whaling term, describing what occurs when a dory was pulled across the ocean by the harpooned whale at the other end of the rope. Unfortunately, it seems that the whale got away this time.

Anyone who's ever seen Mountain perform live can't help but be impressed by the unabashed affection West and Pappalardi have for one another, for their music, and usually, for their audience. (Although I did once hear Felix address a crowd from the stage of the Fillmore East–Jack Bruce had just finished an electrifying hour and a half, and the audience was unappreciative in responding to the transition –as "a bunch of fucking creeps.") Felix and Leslie spend about half of every show playing belly-to-belly, getting off on each other.

Besides the sheer joy they can project, the group's strong suit has always been its versatility, particularly West's, and it is precisely this quality which seems to be lacking on Nantucket Sleighride. Live, West comes across as everything from a roly-poly Nashville musician or an explosive Janis Joplin in drag to a damned good approximation of a Chicago bluesman, and his soaring, wailing obbligato riffs frequently make his instrument literally a third voice.

Much of this was evidence on Climbing, an album not without its shortcomings, but all the same an excellent representation of the wide range of Mountain's material. On Sleighride, West's playing is strangely subdued, predictable, and ultimately monotonous, almost as if he hasn't learned any new licks since Climbing. And Pappalardi, who has played over the years with everyone from Cream to Ian and Sylvia, sounds like, well, any other bass player, which he clearly is not. Both Corky Laing's drumming and Steve Knight's keyboards are singularly undistinguished.

Sleighride, as did Climbing, carries instructions to the listener to turn the volume up as loud as it will go. Obviously, this tends to obfuscate the lyrics, which is probably a good idea in the case of the present album. They have included, probably unwisely, a little booklet which, besides some cute drawings of whales and ships and things by Gail Collins, transcribes the lyrics–which range for the most part from pretentious and/or tedious to poetically disastrous.

There are exceptions: "The Animal Trainer and the Toad," West's tribute to Pappalardi, is one of the better cuts, with only a trace of the saccharine sense transmitted by most of the material on the record. "My Lady" seems to be constantly on the verge of really taking off, but you keep waiting for West to leap in with a searing burst of electric counterpoint. And waiting. And waiting.

The title song seems out of place, both on the album and in the group's repertoire. Another one of those "bits and pieces" compositions, it simply doesn't work like, say, "Silver Paper" on the previous album, and West's best vocal cut here, "Don't Look Around," doesn't come close to something like "Mississippi Queen." On "You Can't Get Away," West's playing suggests some of the virtuosity of which he is capable, but the riffs are again all too familiar, not significantly different from "Never In My Life" on Climbing.

Nantucket Sleighride isn't really a bad album, but it's hardly a leap forward for Mountain. Those who dug Climbing (I did) will find little new to dislike. It's more a case of treading water. Or sitting in the middle of the ocean after the whale got away. (RS 78)

GEORGE KIMBALL