It's symptomatic of Nicolette Larson's problems as a performer that the finest singing on In the Nick of Time is by Michael McDonald. "Let Me Go, Love," written by McDonald (with B.J. Cook Foster) and tenderly orchestrated by Jimmie Haskell, is as gorgeous and elegant a soul duet as, say, Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway's "The Closer I Get to You." But McDonald's entrancing vocal presence—a velvet fog damp with sex — so overshadows Larson's that she seems to be playing second fiddle rather than sharing the lead.

Elsewhere, Larson is dwarfed by Ted Templeman's typically luxurious production, with its steamy, percussion-reinforced groove rhythms, sunburst horns, sumptuous backup vocals and glittering layers of guitars. Indeed, the only time her voice really leaps out is in Lowell George's "Trouble," where her singing is massively echoboosted while Van Dyke Parks' marvelously tinkly keyboard accompaniment enshrines her as country-rock's Shirley Temple.

Larson's rough-edged, down-home tone is definitely appealing—especially when she backs up the likes of Neil Young and Steve Goodman — but as a soloist, her limited vocal resources are severely taxed. Still, In the Nick of Time is the best kind of ear candy. Its choicest bonbons, besides "Let Me Go, Love," are Karla Bonoff's "Isn't It Always Love" and Lauren Wood's "Fallen." Yet, ironically, Nicolette Larson's reedy trilling is only a small part of the package. In fact, considering the similarities in sound and personnel to recent records by the Doobie Brothers, Little Feat and Chunky, Novi and Ernie, this album by all rights ought to be credited, after the manner of Ray Conniff, to something like "The Ted Templeman Experience." (RS 306)

DON SHEWEY