The Tubes seem to be a theater group that parodies rock & roll and its associated social conventions of the last five years. There are witless sendups of Bowie ("Space Baby"), Chicago ("Haloes") and heavy metal ("White Punks on Dope") as well as an expressed fondness for the revival of that ancient fad, sadomasochism ("Mondo Bondage").

Why anyone would be interested in recorded parodies of musical and social themes too recent to have any innate camp appeal doesn't concern the Tubes. Neither do they seem concerned that they lack both the sincerity and simplicity to make assets of their childishness, ineptitude, excess and obviousness, as committed rockers from Gene Vincent to the New York Dolls have done. Instead, Al Kooper's rococo production and rearrangements make the Tubes to the Dolls what Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat was to Jesus Christ Superstar: all surface and no joke.

The songwriting is especially dismal. A line like "I could run off to Jamaica/If this bondage I could breaka" (from "Mondo Bondage") might be tolerable if they hadn't used the same excuse for writer's block in "White Punks" by rhyming "ghetto" with "betto," as in "But born in Pacific Heights doesn't seem much betto." In spite of that, "White Punks" is kind of cute and catchy. But, like most second-rate show music, it seems made for the parents of rock fans, rather than the white punks themselves.

Partisans of the San Francisco-based Tubes believe they must be seen. But listening to their first album doesn't lead to the conclusion that they also must be heard. (RS 196)

WAYNE ROBINS