The Test Tube and the Scale

  During the year 1975, while American teenager Garth Brooks split his extracurricular time between sports and family talent shows, providing entertainment with guitar and banjo, former members of Australian country-rock bands Mississippi and Axiom began recording together under the name Little River Band. Prior to his brief career with Axiom, lead singer Glenn Shorrock had performed as a founding member of mid-sixties Australian sextet The Twilights. Influenced by the British Invasion, The Twilights struggled for international recognition but, except for the occasional perk—an invitation from the Beatles to attend studio sessions for the recording of Penny Lane during a prize trip to London, for instance—the group returned to Australia having only absorbed a raw exposure to the briefest flash of a luminescent fraction of the planet’s most formidable pop musical talent. Their final single to chart in Australia, Cathy, Come Home, discloses what is both The Twilights’ strength and weakne

  Highly stylized and toned to mock emotionlessness, Gary Numan’s singing voice is the definitive pop expression of twentieth century alienation. A common complaint held by critics of electronic based pop music when it began to chart in the States was against its supposed “inhumanity,” but what was really at issue was the intended discomfort provoked in those listeners   by largely unrecognizable, programmable instruments creating, with artistic     precision, an atmosphere of modern vulnerability and    distrust. That segment of the pop audience decrying the inhuman was only having another facet of its humanity stimulated by what it had never before heard on commercial radio. Texturally, Cars—from Numan’s third record The Pleasure Principle, his first without Tubeway Army—suggests a fantasy of high speed traffic, elegant, and swiftly paced, with a disquieting, erotic undercurrent that satisfyingly retains its synthesizer driven tension throughout. The song is cleverly structured—four

  Rock and roll history is like a geographical survey of community trends as they went about the cultural business of shaping, through the galvanizing shock of immediate pleasure, our national taste in pop music. Pick up the eponymous Warren Zevon record, and reading the personnel credits will evoke that mid-seventies Los Angeles musical style that was an extension of the Laurel Canyon aesthetic with added barroom truculence for masculine, delinquency cool. Zevon, like Gram Parsons or Lindsey Buckingham, was too sophisticated a musical talent to remain fixed behind one artistic persona for very long; a deeply flawed romanticist, gifted with poetic insight, Zevon burned perilously close to the ill defined borders of pop genius. His early career ballad Carmelita is more than just a clever marriage of singer-songwriter conceits. By fusing the rock clichè of the drug addicted personality to the country and western lyricism of the desperately lonely stranger, Zevon created a new archetype b