The Guess Who: Live At The Paramount : Music Reviews : Rolling Stone

Album Reviews

Burton Cummings may be a punk, but fortunately he's a punk with considerable talent and rock consciousness. For this reason alone, The Guess Who Live at the Paramount (in Seattle) is a surprisingly good album. Surprising because the Guess Who have never been noted for the excellence of their concerts. They are, and always will be, a studio oriented band of which Cummings has always been the center attraction both musically and physically (apart from Cummings, the remainder of the group have to rate as one of the ugliest ensembles of all time, even challenging Canned Heat and Buddy Miles for grossness). So despite the fact that there are damn few flashes of instrumental brilliance presented on this LP, it is the punky arrogance of Burton Cummings that makes the whole package so downright neat.

First off, though, side one is pretty much a throwaway. The group opens their show with tired-blood versions of "Albert Flasher" and "New Mother Nature" which plod along dismally for the first seven or eight minutes. Then they plow into a thankfully short number called "Glace Bay Blues", which establishes a suitable low point for them to work up from. "Running Back to Saskatoon," a new song in typical Guess Who tradition, manages to pick up the tempo to a large degree, and "Pain Train" generates just enough interest to make you want to turn the album over.

And it is on the second side that Cummings and the band come off best. Most of side two is a 16-minute rendition of "American Woman," (quite an incredible feat, in itself) with another new song called "Truckin' Off Across the Sky" neatly tacked to the end. Here, Cummings proves himself a snotty rock star in the best tradition—contemptuous, egotistical, spotlight-grabbing. He clutches the spotlight greedily, singing along even when there are no words to sing. He fills the instrumental segments with growls, grunts his final notes a trifle longer than he ought. "American woman, American bitch, American lesbian, American whore," he gnarls and spits—no idea of the limits of even decent taste. A punk Canadian sliding into an American theater and telling the kids what he thinks of them, and they all eat it up. A lot of people have criticized this song, labeling it decadent, disgusting and piggish, but it sure as hell conveys Cumming's weird message. And on the album, the knife-edged and pulverizing treatment the band gives it makes it all the more meaningful.

As I hinted earlier, the instrumentals lack the punch that the long-departed Randy Bachman used to provide. Guitarists Kurt Winter and Don McDougall are adequate at best, and Jim Kale's bass work (Jim has since left the group) and Gary Peterson's drumming are certainly there alright, but hardly worthy of international acclaim. It's Cummings himself who carries the show, and carries it well.

Live at the Paramount proves once and for all that this band can rock, and although this isn't the most scintillating live album you'll ever hear, it has to rank as one of the most fun to listen to for the second side alone. I figure avid fans of the group will play this more than any other G-W album they own. I know I will, and I got 'em all.