Of course, there's no way to win with a record like this. Like the Eddie Haskel-type kid down the block, who was always spotless and mannerly but innately a creep (remember Leave It to Beaver?), there's no way to convince Mom–or the fans – that it's all a fraud. Who'd believe you?

There was once a pernicious rumor to the effect that Alice Cooper was Eddie Haskel. What Alice ever did to deserve that is beyond me – he was really a nice guy. On the other hand, the Knack's rhythm-guitar mouth-piece. Doug Fieger, is the perfect Haskel stereotype: in every photo I've ever seen of him, he's either smirking or about to, and his singing is just an aural smirk. It's not that Fieger or the Knack are bullies exactly – there's nothing that forceful about them–but there's a sense they'd like to have it both ways. Doug Fieger claims in his rare interviews that he's little more than a "craftsman," then turns around and utters philosophical pronouncements that reveal his profound ignorance of rock & roll history and make him sound like a poor man's Pete Townshend. Where does this terminally (I hope) cute joker get off?

Don't ask. The most salient characteristic of both Knack albums is their repulsive misogyny. Sexism pervades every song these guys have written, so much so that looking at that fresh, innocent young woman's face on the cover of ... but the little girls understand is enough to make you nauseous. I'm not talking about the usual heavy-metal, my-cock-is-harder-than-yours posturing either. In Fieger's lyrics, women are literally commodities whose chief purpose is to be brutalized. The kid in "Baby Talks Dirty" is a foul-mouthed windup doll, and in "Mr. Handleman," the tame calypso that's the new LP's catchiest number, the protagonist is pimping for his wife–a situation the group views with dispassion, if not outright approbation.

The music can't redeem the lyrics–not only because such dehumanization is irredeemable, but also because the music is lame. Indeed, the Knack are the most nefarious sort of hacks. They're terribly competent and they have a seemingly inexhaustible storehouse of clichés, drawn from everybody from Buddy Holly and the Beatles–check out "Tell Me You're Mine" and "(Havin' a) Rave Up" here – to early Fleetwood Mac ("End of the Game") and the Lettermen ("How Can Love Hurt So Much"). In a way, Fieger & Company manipulate their stockpile of banalities with as much finesse as any band since Foreigner – though that's a little unfair to Foreigner, who at least grind out their radio fodder with some verve. But the Knack's greatest achievement is to make hard-rock clichés sound completely gutless. Which comes as no surprise, since Fieger's original Detroit group. Sky, was mewling Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young harmomes at the same time the MC?? were inventing the punk-rock genre the Knack now dilutes and exploits.

To be entirely honest. I must admit that the Knack does have a message. All of Fieger's lyrics finally boil down to one sentiment: fuck me, honey. (When he's feeling ambitious, he writes something like "Can't Put a Price on Love," which translates: fuck me for free, babe.) How pleasant it'd be to lock this clown in a closet with a tape loop of Marianne Faithfull's "Why D'Ya Do It." Because, at their most wimpoid. Fieger's puling vocals suggest that, for him, the ultimate agony would be to imagine that somewhere in the world there exists a woman who might find him sexually unattractive. Compared to Doug Fieger, Rod Stewart is a paragon of sexual humility.

It might be argued that my analysis takes such a featherweight hand far too seriously. But faced with an Eddie Haskel, there are only two choices: ignore him (which is what we used to do with Sky) or call his bluff and kick his ass. Take your pick. Me, I'm a man of action. (RS 314)

DAVE MARSH