Bad Company: Live In Albuquerque 1976

BAD COMPANY: LIVE IN ALBUQUERQUE (1976; 2006)

1) Live For The Music; 2) Good Lovin' Gone Bad; 3) Deal With The Preacher; 4) Ready For Love; 5) Wild Fire Wo­man; 6) Young Blood; 7) Sweet Little Sister; 8) Simple Man; 9) Shooting Star; 10) Seagull; 11) Run With The Pack; 12) Feel Like Making Love; 13) Rock Steady; 14) Honey Child; 15) Can't Get Enough; 16) Bad Company.

The «Bad Company Archives» are hardly the merriest place on Earth to spend one's free time, but on this particular occasion at least, they might be worth a brief visit — in 2006, Mick Ralphs fi­nally got around to cracking the vaults, within which he had stored a large amount of live shows taped from the band's classic era, and selecting for release this lengthy concert, played on March 3, 1976, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, at the time when Bad Company's successful run had al­rea­dy begun to lose steam and purpose (ʽYoung Bloodʼ — "it's a silly tune, really, but we like it", Rodgers admits right in front of the hardcore New Mexican audience), but the setlist still con­sis­ted of catchy tunes, and the energy level had not yet sunk below «optimistic». Unfortunately, soon after the original release, Live In Albuquerque was pulled from the shelves for obscure «licensing rea­sons», never properly explained in any press releases, and the 2-CD package is somewhat of a collectible item today — of course, in our modern age, this does not automatically surmise «un­avai­lability», especially considering how many Paul Rodgers fans are still out there.

But is it worth searching for? Surprisingly, yes. At the height of their powers and influence (a fairly modest height, but still...), Bad Company actually did follow the golden rule of hard rock bands: polished and, consequently, somewhat restrained in the studio, lean, mean and dirty in a live setting. This isn't necessarily a good thing for Paul, whose secret weapon has always been the subtlety of phrasing, and in the live setting, especially if he has to play something while singing, it is very hard to keep that subtlety. But it is a great thing for Mick Ralphs, who, after all, initially made his reputation with Mott The Hoople as one of the grittiest rock'n'roll players of the 1970s, and on Live In Albuquerque, he has plenty of opportunities to confirm that status.

No surprise that he was the chief culprit behind the album's release — of all the original players, Ralphs gains the most from making it public. Boz has always been «just a bass player», no excep­tions ever. Simon Kirke is a good enough drummer and that's that (he is given a little «solo» at the beginning of ʽRock Steadyʼ, which is quite pathetic — it would be much better not to draw special attention to him at all). Rodgers is decent, but, as I said, his charisma works fullest in the studio. But Ralphs? Listen to him go on the final barroom boogie numbers: this version of ʽHo­ney Childʼ, had it only been a little bit faster, could give AC/DC a good run for their money (ac­tually, parts of the instrumental jam bit sound uncannily like AC/DC's live arrangements of ʽHigh Voltageʼ — that is, before Ralphs rips into the riff of the bridge section of ʽJumpin' Jack Flashʼ), and ʽCan't Get Enoughʼ, as soon as you get through the obligatory audience participation bit, be­comes a rock'n'roll fiesta that no lover of rock'n'roll could honestly despise.

The best thing about the album, really, is the setlist — it doesn't just consist of the band's cat­chiest hits, it also emphasizes those particular hits that have the most rocking potential. The only non-rockers are ʽSimple Manʼ — a nasty blight, but they did need to play some songs off their freshly released third album — and ʽSeagullʼ, performed to let the rhythm section take a short toilet break. Everything else is non-stop rock'n'roll ranging from the passable to the excellent (this version of ʽRock Steadyʼ almost ends up beating the studio original, were it not for several flub­bed vocal lines on Paul's part).

And yes, there are quite a few kick-ass live rock'n'roll albums that put Bad Company to shame in terms of technique, loudness, speed, and creativity, but that is not the point here — the point is to show that, after all has been said and done, Bad Company were still a legit rock'n'roll band rather than some sort of 1970s-bred perversion of the correct image. These performances show that they did have as much spirit as Slade, AC/DC, Aerosmith — any of those baddest boys of their era — even if their act was «cleaner» and targeted at less risk-taking audiences. In a way, Live In Albu­querque is reassuring — there is nothing wrong with guarding those Rodgers-era B.C. records on your shelves, they have their marketing flaws, but it's not as if these guys are just phoney clowns or arrogantly crass money-makers.

Actually, if the latter were the case, I think they would have put this album on the market a long time ago — indeed, 1976 was the year when it should have come out, propping up the band's re­putation that had already started wobbling. But even today is not too late, particularly with the aid of some extra thumbs up from people whose judgement you can trust (wink, wink). In any case, the whole thing is much better — sharper, crisper, louder, reckless-er — than those come-lately live albums from the Howe era, or Merchants Of Cool which is not really Bad Company; it takes a Live In Albuquerque to clearly show that a Bad Company without Ralphs at the helm is really Bum Company.

Bad Company: Merchants Of Cool

BAD COMPANY: MERCHANTS OF COOL (2002)

1) Burnin' Sky; 2) Can't Get Enough; 3) Feel Like Makin' Love; 4) Rock Steady; 5) Movin' On; 6) Deal With The Preacher; 7) Ready For Love; 8) Rock And Roll Fantasy; 9) All Right Now; 10) Bad Company; 11) Silver, Blue And Gold; 12) Shooting Star; 13) Joe Fabulous; 14) Saving Grace.

And now we know who is really the heart and soul, the kernel and pivot of Bad Company: drum­mer Simon Kirke, the only irreplaceable member of the band. It is the year 2002 and things have changed, and how. After a brief reunion of the original Bad Company in 1998, resulting in a total of two new songs released on a new compilation of old hits, Ralphs and Burrell left the band for good, but Rodgers and Kirke decided to carry on, with the help of Dave Colwell on guitar (who had already backed Ralphs on several albums in the Howe / Hart era) and Jaz Lochrie on bass.

So what we have here is basically «Paul Rodgers & Piss-Poor Company», playing a live selection of Bad Company's greatest hits (1974-1979), one classic Free track — which does not hurt, since ʽAll Right Nowʼ, in style and mood, could very well be considered the true progenitor of Bad Company — and two new studio recordings, supposed to carry on the flames of old. The new band does take itself pretty seriously, as the album title (directly incorporated into the lyrics of ʽJoe Fabulousʼ) implies. But do we need to follow the implications?

Well, at the very least Paul Rodgers is still in fine voice, as you would probably expect from a lead singer who (a) did relatively little over several decades to blow it to pieces and (b) was never famous for a wide-reaching range anyway. He does seem to lose a bit of the smoothness and «in­telligence of phrasing» of old, but that might simply be due to the live context, where these things can be lost at any time. Other than that, it's okay.

What is not okay is that Dave Colwell is no Mick Ralphs, and although he does a technically res­pectable job of learning all the required parts, his guitar tones are blander, and his inventiveness equals near-zero. He is not helped out too much by Rodgers, either: check Live In Albuquerque from 1976, where Rodgers is handling rhythm guitar while Ralphs delivers a blazing solo at the end of ʽFeel Like Makin' Loveʼ — on Merchants Of Cool, Colwell just plays the old Who-rip­ped-off-riff over and over again. Most of the melodies are set to the same grayish distorted tone, often «smudging» the precise riffage of the original tunes, so you don't even get to enjoy what little there originally was of a composing talent of the band. You do get to headbang, though, and maybe that's what is more important in a live setting — who knows.

«Surprise» elements are quite few. There is an audience participation bit in ʽShooting Starʼ where Rodgers makes the crowd sing not just the chorus, but even an occasional verse (personally, I'd be deeply embarrassed caught knowing an entire Bad Company song by heart, but then again, I wasn't there). ʽAll Right Nowʼ gets an unimpressive bass solo in the middle. And ʽRock And Roll Fantasyʼ, after an announcement of "I'll take you to a land you've never seen, come dream with me", flows into a short medley of Beatles songs — with ʽTicket To Rideʼ and ʽI Feel Fineʼ ma­king guest appearances, even though the announcement would rather make one think of Sgt. Pep­per or Yellow Submarine. Actually, the gesture feels nice rather than corny, even if all the songs, be it the Bad Company original or the Beatles covers, are set by Colwell to more or less the same guitar melody. Makes one think, doesn't it?

The two new tracks are nothing special, but they are better than the Howe / Hart stuff — nicer, old-school guitar tones, less country-rock-radio-oriented hooks, and Rodgers on vocals. If this is where the official studio history of Bad Company is supposed to end, it is better to see it end with ʽJoe Fabulousʼ than with Stories Told & Untold, no question about that. And then it is probably better to just have them around as an oldies act — in all fairness, they should have stopped polluting the planet with new «creations» right after 1979, as the setlist of Merchants Of Cool more or less implies on its own. That is the policy to which Bad Company have been adhering ever since Rodgers reclaimed the label, although it should be noted that quite a few different «Bad Companies» have circled the globe in the 2000s, including a «Mick Ralphs' Bad Company» with Hart on vocals — so don't forget to check the billing closely if you find a «Bad Company» doing a local gig in your backyard or something: you might just as well get a Hart / Colwell expe­rience, which is the last thing anyone in this world really needs.

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Bad Company: Stories Told & Untold

BAD COMPANY: STORIES TOLD & UNTOLD (1996)

1) One On One; 2) Oh, Atlanta; 3) You're Never Alone; 4) I Still Believe In You; 5) Ready For Love; 6) Waiting On Love; 7) Can't Get Enough; 8) Is That All There Is To Love; 9) Love So Strong; 10) Silver, Blue & Gold; 11) Down­pour In Cairo; 12) Shooting Star; 13) Simple Man; 14) Weep No More.

There can only be two motives behind the production of this kind of album, and neither of the two is particularly cheerful. One is that you just don't have enough creative energy in you any more to pro­duce an entire LP of new material, and have to resort to re-recording old standards out of plain old desperation. Another one is that, deep down inside, you instinctively feel that your new material is not up to par — mildly speaking — and that it would be a good commercial move to somehow «legitimize» it by mixing it up with classic, sanctified material.

My personal feeling is that Stories Told & Untold must be a combination of the two, because these new songs really, really suck. They do try to continue the «rootsy revival» of Company Of Strangers, but with a deeper nod to adult contemporary this time: except for the opening number, ʽOne On Oneʼ, whose riff sounds gritty enough for about five seconds before you realize it has been shamelessly lifted from the Stones' ʽCan't You Hear Me Knockingʼ, everything else is in the deeply sentimental vein and hopelessly generic. ʽWaiting On Loveʼ and ʽDownpour In Cairoʼ, with slightly more down-to-earth arrangements, are listenable if,perchance, encountered on a modern country rock radio station. Everything else is disgusting plastic soul pathos.

Surely against a background like this the old classics must sound revitalized and refreshing — es­pecially considering that the band was so intensely pushing forward Robert Hart's «new Paul Rod­gers» image. And for the most part, he is doing a fine job on the old tunes: I personally find his tone a little bit more «grayish» than Rodgers', but that's a purely subjective feeling. The real problem, of course, is that the re-recordings slavishly follow the original versions, and when they do not, it actually gets worse — for instance, setting the entire first verse of ʽReady For Loveʼ to a minimalistic «unplugged» setting simply deprives it of one minute of enjoyment (the deeply melancholic rhythmic arrangement of the original was one of its major assets). ʽCan't Get Enoughʼ also gets a laid-back acoustic basis, but it's not as if the entire idea was to make an «un­plugged» version of Bad Company's biggest hits — it just sort of happened that way, with the old bite surreptitiously taken out of the arrangements. And these horn overdubs on ʽWeep No Moreʼ? No, can't say that I'm a fan.

No big surprise that much of the material here was recorded in Nashville and featured cameos from contemporary country-rock stars, since it is contemporary country-rock: professional, clean, formulaic, and deadly dull. It is true that replacing Howe with Hart made Bad Company sound more like Bad Company, but the price was that they sort of became the wax facsimile of what they used to be, and who really needs that? Thumbs down for this whole cheesy business — not even the regular fans were fooled, and Stories Told & Untold became even more of a commer­cial bomb than Company Of Strangers.

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Bad Company: Company Of Strangers

BAD COMPANY: COMPANY OF STRANGERS (1995)

1) Company Of Strangers; 2) Clearwater Highway; 3) Judas My Brother; 4) Little Martha; 5) Gimme Gimme; 6) Where I Belong; 7) Down Down Down; 8) Abandoned And Alone; 9) Down And Dirty; 10) Pretty Woman; 11) You're The Only Reason; 12) Dance With The Devil; 13) Loving You Out Loud.

Believe it or not, but this is a genuine «comeback». A whole decade after they had broken their allegiance to roots-based hard rock, trading in the salt-of-the-earth aura for hair metal posturing and bland pop hooks, Bad Company are on the right trail again! Goodbye, Brian Howe; hello, Ro­bert Hart, a singer who sounds not at all unlike Paul Rodgers, and who, along with his voice, brings pack the old predilection for country-rock, acoustic guitars, barroom boogie, and, well, everything you need to try and wipe out the memory of that awful last decade.

There is but one problem: the songs, with not a single exception, leave a uniform impression of «uh? what was that?». The sound is perfectly decent — not overproduced, stylishly retroish, quite compatible with what they did in the 1970s. But the vocal and instrumental melodies are every bit as good/bad as the hundreds of «authentic country-rock» records with a hard edge thrown on the mar­ket every year. And even worse, there is a clear feeling that the band has consciously set the mode to «nostalgia»: "Let us make a record the way we used to!"

Because, somehow, I cannot get the same kicks out of something like ʽAbandoned And Aloneʼ the same way the kicks were coming from some of the Rodgers-era «despair» songs. They have everything here: a singer ready to rasp his guts out, Mick Ralphs in the mood for shrill blueswai­ling, a classic build-up from tense, moody, quiet verse to screechy chorus — but there is no desire to try and hook your own emotions up to the song, because it still comes out hollow. I don't know why. ʽJudas My Brotherʼ tries to bare the band's soul in an even more obvious manner (the title alone suggests a shirt-ripping tear-jerker), but its power chords are by now tired rehashings, and its painfully stressed chorus is a stale cliché. Maybe in a different age these tunes would have sounded more involving.

But in this age, it's, you know, mostly stuff you expect to encounter in truck commercials. Too safe, too predictable, too bland (even for a Bad Company album). ʽClearwater Highwayʼ has an odd shade of CCR to it — ʽClearwaterʼ in the title may be a conscious hint, but Hart's vocals on the chorus are very much in a Fogerty style, and the whole thing seems influenced by the likes of ʽSweet Hitch-Hikerʼ, which is a bit silly, but at least turns it into a marginal standout. The rest al­ternates between country ballads and barroom rockers without any staying power.

Still, as the last ever Bad Company album consisting entirely of new studio material, Company Of Strangers is a half-decent way of going out — even the title somehow alludes to them co­ming round full circle, and, indeed, all major fans of the «classic» Rodgers era that jumped ship as soon as Howe came aboard should feel free to scrape this one off the walls of used bins with­out feeling the slightest pang of guilt. If there ever was such a thing as «Bad Company magic» (well, at least when the gruff riff of ʽRock Steadyʼ is combined with Rodgers' singing, it does come close), it is probably not rekindlable any more, not even if they bring Boz Burrell back from the dead. But at least it is possible to make another Bad Company record that does not sound as if it came from a bunch of miserable clowns, applying for whatever job there is to earn one last buck. In that respect, it is a comeback — to the state of «satisfactory boredom».

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Bad Company: What You Hear Is What You Get

BAD COMPANY: WHAT YOU HEAR IS WHAT YOU GET (1993)

1) How About That; 2) Holy Water; 3) Rock'n'Roll Fantasy; 4) If You Needed Somebody; 5) Here Comes Trouble; 6) Ready For Love; 7) Shooting Star; 8) No Smoke Without A Fire; 9) Feel Like Makin' Love; 10) Take This Town; 11) Movin' On; 12) Good Lovin' Gone Bad; 13) Fist Full Of Blisters; 14) Can't Get Enough; 15) Bad Company.

It is curious, actually, that Bad Company never released a live album while still in their prime — one of the very few 1970s’ hard rock bands to do so, or so it seems. This was probably acciden­tal, but it might also have something to do with the fact that, simply put, they were never a particular­ly interesting live band (not that they ever were a particularly interesting studio band, for that mat­ter, but hey, it’s always up to you if you want to suck twice, rather than once) — and they may have subconsciously felt it themselves. They certainly gave the fans their money’s worth, but they never felt the pressure to pay any interest.

All the more strange is this decision to finally come forth with a live album in 1993 — more than an entire decade after they’d already shred the last vestiges of relevance. Recorded at various ve­nues on the 1992 tour of America, the sternly titled What You Hear Is What You Get, subtitled The Best Of Bad Company (not necessarily so, if you take a glance at the setlist), seems to have but one reason for existence — other than ensuring a little extra cash flow — and that reason is to satisfy our curiosity in one department: how well does Brian Howe handle «classic» Rodgers era material? The predictable choice is between «barely tolerable» and «Godawful», of  course, but still, that curiosity is not going away all by itself, so the record warrants at least one listen.

I have to admit that, for the most part, it’s okay. Howe cannot handle the subtlety where subtlety is needed most of all — the most glaring fuck-up is on ʽReady For Loveʼ, a song that was, from the very beginning, very much «made» by Paul drawing out the “I want you to stay.... I want you today” passage with a bit of subliminal howling, nursing a dangerously affected libido. Howe just does not «get» it, and cannot convey this sexual torment that Rodgers captured so well. But on the rockers (ʽGood Lovin’ Gone Badʼ, ʽCan’t Get Enoughʼ) he is way more successful, and at least there is no denying the professionalism — you can hate his tone, or his volume, or his path­etic overtones, but he does hit the right notes, and when they are stuck on good songs, well... the fans did get their money’s worth.

The main problem is with the setlist, which simply features way too many «hits» from recent al­bums, including the lacklustre Here Comes Trouble which they were promoting on that tour — hilariously, the announcer yells «ARE YOU READY FOR SOME TROUBLE?» at the start of the show and then the band launches into ʽHow About Thatʼ, arguably the friendliest and most toothless tune of them all. Furthermore, not all of the songs stand to their studio counterparts — for instance, the Zeppelinish bluesy riff rage of ʽHoly Waterʼ is oddly compressed, as if the rhythm gui­tarist just didn’t see fit to play all the extra notes (this is probably because Ralphs played both the rhythm and the lead parts on the studio original, whereas here all the rhythm du­ties go to Dave Colwell, a pretty bland player even for the usual level of Bad Company).

On the other hand, it is Ralphs’ and nobody else’s fault that the original cool psychedelic guitar swoops on the coda of ʽFeel Like Makin’ Loveʼ have been replaced by muffled, low-pitched guitar grum­bling that deprives the song of its impressive metamorphosis. Now it’s just a song about feelin’ like makin’ love. Were you a Bad Company fan in 1992? Did you pay to see them just to hear a song about feelin’ like makin’ love? Do you give the slightest damn about the band compressing the pleasant little subtleties into a monolithic leaden sound? If you do, remember the title of this record and stay away from it.

If you don’t, well, the only really bad song on here is ʽIf You Needed Somebodyʼ (and we can excuse them for it — what is a mainstream rock’n’roll band without a power ballad?), and the only laughable «track» is ʽFist Full Of Blistersʼ, a one-minute long drum solo from Simon Kirke who handles drum solos with about as much love for them as Ringo, to whom the title is alluding. But maybe he was able to get a bit more royalties that way. Drummers all over the world, remem­ber — if you do drum solos, insist on having them credited to yourselves and occupying a sepa­rate track. Best guarantee of not ending up in the gutter.

Other than that, it’s all moderately competent; there just isn’t any need to listen to any of it. Par­ticularly now that the archives have finally cracked, and true fans of the band have easy access to hearing the band live in its «prime» (Live At Albuquerque ’76). I cannot bring myself to be­stow­ing the «true fan» label on admirers of Brian Howe, but I do know that such peculiar gents do exist — for them, this record is a must, since their idol works as hard as he can on stage. It’s just that «hard work» and «adequate performance» do not always coincide.

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Bad Company: Here Comes Trouble

BAD COMPANY: HERE COMES TROUBLE (1992)

1) How About That; 2) Stranger Than Fiction; 3) Here Comes Trouble; 4) This Could Be The One; 5) Both Feet In The Water; 6) Take This Town; 7) What About You; 8) Little Angel; 9) Hold On To My Heart; 9) Brokenhearted; 10) My Only One.

Misery comes in different flavors, some of which are more tolerable than others. For their last al­bum with Brian Howe at the helm, Bad Company preferred to choose «Romantic Dung», which might explain why the album failed to go platinum — quite a few people out there prefer to ex­tract their ro­manticism out of other substances — but also might explain why, in the end, it did at least go gold — quite a few people out there are easily satisfied with said flavor.

At least the previous two albums could qualify as glossy, pop-metallized hard-rock; Here Comes Trouble, for the most part, consists of singalong feel-good arena anthems and «let-me-die-for-you-on-the-spot-every-night» power ballads. No idea what happened here, or why they suddenly felt the need to mutate the formula in this particular way — maybe the ongoing «grunge revolu­tion» simply threw them off balance, and they decided to cut down on the «hair metal» elements in the music. But in the end, what we are left with is no longer just «uninspiring», for the most part, it is simply «unlistenable».

The musicality of the big single ʽHow About Thatʼ extends to three notes in the riff and one silly old power chord in the chorus, the rest of the spotlight almost completely occupied by Mr. Howe pouring his tired old heart out — and ending each chorus with a raspy, «sexy» "how about that?" which does not even come across as provocative. Just pompous and annoying in its operatic op­timism (which might have sounded more convincing in a different musical setting).

«Heavy» songs on the album are limited to the title track — catchy, but riffless — and ʽBoth Feet In The Waterʼ, a little stronger in the riff department, but less catchy. Nobody needs them any­way, because Mick Ralphs must have slapped together those arrangements over a sandwich break or something. And at this particular juncture, titles like ʽLittle Angelʼ, ʽHold On To My Heartʼ, and ʽMy Only Oneʼ should probably speak for themselves (the latter in particular is a synth-led adult contemporary ballad whose first verse runs: "I miss you / I just can't resist you / I need you like the sun needs the day / Oh please, won't you come back again" and is delivered with all the seri­ousness of feeling you'd expect from a John Donne poem).

True enough, some of the choruses are catchy — ʽHere Comes Troubleʼ and ʽTake This Townʼ were written as singalong audience baits, and they work that way. But the music they are equip­ped with is almost non-existent, and raises the old issues of «adequacy» and «entertainment vs. art» and what-not. Maybe if they had thought about reinventing themselves as a bona fide power pop band, with legit, non-trivial guitar melodies, tonal variety, unpredictable overdubs etc., these and other songs could have fared better. Instead, this is rote, banal, instantly forgettable corporate rock that does not even do justice to the best of the Brian Howe years, let alone Paul Rodgers. Avoid, avoid — probably their weakest offering since Fame And Fortune; thumbs down all the way and then some.

  
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Bad Company: Holy Water

BAD COMPANY: HOLY WATER (1990)

1) Holy Water; 2) Walk Through Fire; 3) Stranger Stranger; 4) If You Needed Somebody; 5) Fearless; 6) Lay Your Love On Me; 7) Boys Cry Tough; 8) With You In A Heartbeat; 9) I Don't Care; 10) Never Too Late; 11) Dead Of The Night; 12) I Can't Live Without You; 13) 100 Miles.

If Dangerous Age was Bad Company's Permanent Vacation, then Holy Water is its Pump. Of course the gross figures are incomparable, but look at the tendency: Fame And Fortune – US No. 106, Dangerous Age – US No. 58, and Holy Water going all the way up to No. 35! Hitting pla­tinum heights! And the title track going all the way up to No. 1! Holy water indeed!

Honestly, though, this next try is a little better cooked than the previous. There are all sorts of funny little rip-offs, from Aerosmith to Michael Jackson, that are fun to spot; the truck stop an­thems are gone (unfortunately, the power ballads are not); and the overall proportion of sticky riffs and quasi-fun singalong choruses has also increased. Basically, Holy Water is as good a pop metal record as this band would ever be capable of putting out — its «rootsiness» is long gone now, all of it squeezed out, filtered and concentrated in a brief two-minute long acoustic ditty that finishes the album on a most surprising note — drummer Simon Kirke's first lead vocal on a Bad Company record (and the guy actually shows more soul than Brian Howe, but somehow, that doesn't come off as such a big surprise for me). Other than those few seconds of hearkening back to the good old days when the rock of America absorbed its strength from the salt of the earth, it's all strictly under the rule of hair, hedonism, and high technologies.

But you gotta give hair and hedonism their due — those first ten seconds of ʽHoly Waterʼ really kick ass. That's one really mean bluesy guitar roar from Ralphs, and the song is genuinely im­pressive until it gets to the chorus, when it just becomes catchy, but loses the thunder-and-light­ning potential as the ballsy riffage gets lost behind the fruity vocal harmonies. But it isn't the only relative highlight: ʽStranger Strangerʼ opens out on another fine riff, and adds sharp slide lead work to its advantages; and even though ʽDead Of The Nightʼ is not about zombies, as I had ho­ped in utter vain, it is still dominated by guitar crunch rather than poppiness.

ʽFearlessʼ is odd, somewhat of a cross between generic AC/DC and the funky wobble of ʽ(Dude) Looks Like A Ladyʼ; ʽWith You In A Heartbeatʼ is more in the style of Jackson's ʽBeat Itʼ; but then the gentlemen get their revenge by previewing Genesis' ʽI Can't Danceʼ with ʽI Don't Careʼ (really, there is a curious similarity between the riffs, although probably not enough to override chances of sheer coincidence). All of this is silly rather than stunning — clumsy attempts at co­ming up with their own hard rock formula — but at least they had enough sense to cut down just a bit on the machismo angle, focusing less on the «nasty» lyrics and more on the riffs.

Still, don't get me wrong: the simple fact that Holy Water might be the peak of the Howe years does not mean it can be honestly recommended. Why listen to a bunch of mediocre old pros try to sound like Def Leppard when nobody has so far deleted the Def Leppard catalog? Why listen to an album where, in the first song, the singer tells you that he is walking on holy water, and then in the very next one, he already could walk through fire? If they themselves don't really know all that well what they are walking through, how can anyone else?.. Maybe they should have re­leased a Simon Kirke solo album itself. Somehow, "Hey little girl, I love you so, I'd walk a hund­red miles to let you know" sounds more humane here than everything before it.

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Bad Company: Dangerous Age

BAD COMPANY: DANGEROUS AGE (1988)

1) One Night; 2) Shake It Up; 3) No Smoke Without A Fire; 4) Bad Man; 5) Dangerous Age; 6) Dirty Boy; 7) Rock Of America; 8) Something About You; 9) The Way That It Goes; 10) Love Attack.

There must be one thing and one thing only that has determined the sound shift from Fame And Fortune to Dangerous Age, and it must have been the success of Aerosmith's Permanent Vaca­tion in the interim. Suddenly, it was mathematically proven that aging, no-longer-hip rockers could be cool with the primary record-buying crowd once again, as long as they filled out a sub­scription to cheesy pop-metal with an almost clownish approach to sex matters. And the most awesome thing about it: you don't even have to rely on synthesizers any more, because synthesi­zers do not prolong your male dignity to the same extent as Mr. Rawk Guitar.

So the first thing you get to see when you pick the album up is the title, and it has the word Dan­gerous on it. Dangerous? Bad Company? Even Paul Rodgers could only seem «dangerous» to a very, very bored housewife with pretty low-set standards of «danger», and Fame And Fortune was no more dangerous than Chris de Burgh. Then you put it on, and whoops, a blues-pop-metal riff explodes straight in your face. Then come the lyrics: "One night ain't no love affair, but I won't ask no more from you / One night with you anywhere, heaven knows what we can do". See? It's a song about a one-night stand. And Brian Howe really only asks to plug her once, like the good old-fashioned gentle­man he is, because he is a God-given gift to all the ladies. As long as they do their hair in 1988 fashion, enjoy Dirty Dancing, and have not already been chosen by Steve Tyler whose publicity advantages over Brian Howe are undeniable.

You have already understood, I gather, that, in between 1986 and 1988, Bad Company made the «smart» choice to shift from one sort of awfulness (bland, languid synth-rock) to another: metal-guitar-dominated cock-rock. «Smart» only in that this really helped them, on the heels of Aero­smith, to sell more copies: quality-wise, this shit is only marginally better than that shit, since the change gave the band more chances to work out some concentrated, precise riffage — most of which is still fairly rotten.

There is more to this than the riffs, though. If your goal is to present yourself to the rest of the world as some sort of orgasmic terror-inspiring sex god of hellfire, you have to know how to do it with humor and irony — qualities that were no enemies to Steve Tyler or Gene Simmons, but se­em fairly incompatible with Brian Howe and Mick Ralphs. Instead of truly sounding «dangerous», or at least «hilarious», the title track just sounds stupid. Chorus lines like "young girl has found her stage, watch out, she's a dangerous age" are delivered as if the singer is really warning you to watch out. Of course, the style was not invented in 1988; but it looks ever so dumber when it is dressed up in musical clichés of 1988 — its glossed-out metal sound, Big Terror Drums, and sa­tanic echo effects on the dude's voice.

Things can only get worse in a song that has the word «rock» in the title, and there it is: ʽRock Of Americaʼ, a certified «truck driver anthem» the likes of which this band had never stooped to be­fore. It's a good stimulus for punching your fist through the wall to the merry sounds of "I wanna ROCK!", but it isn't a frustration-venter, and what's the use of having to pay the repairman if you didn't even properly vent your frustation? If you really want to rock the rock of America, go climb Mount Rushmore or something.

Just like Permanent Vacation, this miserable imitation features just one schmaltzy ballad (ʽSomething About Youʼ, a song that even Diane Warren could never have written — I think she ge­nerally uses a couple more chords in her monstrosities), buried in a sea of Sex, No Drugs, and a Facsimile of Rock'n'Roll — a sea whose individual waves roll over and fade away so quickly, it hardly makes sense to mention them at all. Recommendable only for those who are curious about cross-breeding «classic» Bad Company with «classic» hair metal. Those who have better plans for their time can simply follow my thumbs down.

Bad Company: Fame And Fortune

BAD COMPANY: FAME AND FORTUNE (1986)

1) Burning Up; 2) This Love; 3) Fame And Fortune; 4) That Girl; 5) Tell It Like It Is; 6) Long Walk; 7) Hold On My Heart; 8) Valerie; 9) When We Made Love; 10) If I'm Sleeping.

Had this band enjoyed a little less fame, and had I had a little more fortune, I would not be ob­liged to review this at all. But it so happened that, after the initial dissolution of Bad Company after Rough Diamonds, as Mick Ralphs and Simon Kirke were about to team up with ex-Nugent vocalist Brian Howe for just a little fun and a little cash, some thugs at Atlantic convinced them that the cash would be flowing far steadier if triggered by the good old moniker. Besides, how could 1986, arguably the worst year for commercially oriented music in the XXth century, begin and end without a Bad Company album?

Not that Fame And Fortune sounds anything like old time Bad Company. Instead, it sounds like new time Foreigner — no surprise, since it was produced by Foreigner's producer Keith Olsen. Thus, folksy and bluesy stylizations are mostly out, replaced by bombastic arena-rock. Heavy, but glossy-safe guitar riffs, crappy cheap keyboards all over the place (played by Gregg Dechert, whose only claim to fame so far was playing for Uriah Heep in 1980-81), electronic echo on the drums, and a generic pop vocalist with Siegfried-size ambitions. Whoo!

It goes without saying that there isn't a single song on here that even barely approaches «good». The only possible question is «in a better time and place, could any of these songs be better?» I am not sure. The riffs are fairly rotten, and the vocal melodies are mostly dependent on how much pathos the new singer guy is capable of generating. Considering that 99% of the time he flat out refuses to sing like a normal human being, I am not sure that replacing him with a Ray Davies could have saved the situation.

Particularly low points involve the power ballad ʽWhen We Made Loveʼ (on which Howe's little «rasp» seems even more annoying than usual); the awful teen pop send-up ʽThat Girlʼ (unless the chorus reall goes fat girl!, which is how I hear it every time, in which case it's self-ironic... nah, not really); and the humiliating ʽHold On My Heartʼ, a suspicious attempt to write something in the style of Born In The USA — except that it takes more than simply mimicking Bruce's brea­thy intonations to succeed.

The only track here that deserves half a grain of attention is ʽTell It Like It Isʼ, a rougher-edged rocker, generally unspoiled by keyboards and somewhat strengthened by a well-meaning sax backing. This one could be thought of as slightly watered-down, less focused and intense AC/DC, and in the context of all the chest-beating, synth-pumping dreck on here it almost feels like real rock'n'roll. Of course, there is still no reason to keep its memories in your head one hour after the fact. Useless, spiritually and intellectually offensive dreck. Even honest, hard-working truck dri­vers — the band's most faithful audience — acknowledged that at the time, judging by the charts. Total thumbs down.

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Bad Company: Rough Diamonds

BAD COMPANY: ROUGH DIAMONDS (1982)

1) Electricland; 2) Untie The Knot; 3) Nuthin' On The TV; 4) Painted Face; 5) Kickdown; 6) Ballad Of The Band; 7) Cross Country Boy; 8) Old Mexico; 9) Downhill Ryder; 10) Racetrack.

A completely misguided, fatal failure here. Apparently, the band was not «feeling well» in the ear­ly 1980s, due to personal problems, exhaustion, and, according to some sources, a certain dis­appointment in their image and the whole rock star thing, brought on by the deaths of labelmate John Bonham and soulmate (you wish) John Lennon. Thus, following up on their hearts' desires, they decided to make a more «personal», «darker» record than usual.

They forgot one important thing, though: dark and personal albums absolutely require musical genius in order to make their point. Just to select a few minor chords, sew them up in a traditio­nally honored way, and let Paul Rodgers take care of the rest won't do. But that is exactly how the band preferred  to behave anyway, dumping most of their «conquests» on Desolation Angels — all the disco and New Wave influences — in favor of the good old brand, without any interesting riffs but with a lot of feeling. Paul Rodgers isn't feeling too good, and he wants you to tear your sorry little ass out of the embraces of Thriller and know it. Obey!

Okay, it isn't really that gloomy. Actually, the album does veer between the usual mid-tempo not-so-hard-rock in the pangs of depression, and a set of cheerier, more evidently danceable R'n'B numbers with heavy emphasis on saxophone support, provided by guest star and one-time Boz Burrell's colleague in King Crimson, Mel Collins. On any other album most of these numbers would just look stupid, but here, stuff like ʽBallad Of The Bandʼ is at least a temporary respite from hearing Rodgers complain about life's treachery on interchangeable dreck like ʽKickdownʼ and ʽElectriclandʼ. (Yes, the former is a sincere lament built upon horror brought on by the Len­non murder. No, it isn't a good song at all. The very fact of Lennon's death did not exactly set off an extra wave of genius inspiration in people).

For objectivity's sakes, I can list a few scraps of relative goodness. John Cook's piano intro to ʽCross Country Boyʼ (apparently three or four seconds out of one hundred and seventy). The dumb, but sticky five-note riff in ʽDownhill Ryderʼ (but why the ʽyʼ?). Mick Ralphs' excellent slide guitar part on ʽRaceʼ — a last-moment set of gorgeously strung chords, totally wasted in the context of an otherwise pedestrian song on an otherwise pedestrian album. Not much, eh?

All right: for total objectivity, I must say that the overall sound of Rough Diamonds is fairly decent for a 1982 album. The new style of mainstream-oriented production had not yet taken over fully, and electronic support is used quite sparingly: a few synth parts here and there, but no at­tempt to let the robots take over the real men. On the other hand, in 1982 this couldn't be quali­fied as a brave, integrity-boosting artistic move. It just meant the new standards hadn't yet been fully established. By 1986, the band would catch on. In short, nothing saves Rough Diamonds from a predictable thumbs down — not even the fact that ʽElectriclandʼ scored relatively well on the single charts. Everything that had to do with Lennon's death scored well on the charts, so it doesn't really count.

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Bad Company: Desolation Angels

BAD COMPANY: DESOLATION ANGELS (1979)

1) Rock'n'Roll Fantasy; 2) Crazy Circles; 3) Gone, Gone, Gone; 4) Evil Wind; 5) Early In The Morning; 6) Lonely For Your Love; 7) Oh, Atlanta; 8) Take The Time; 9) Rhythm Machine; 10) She Brings Me Love.

Surprise! Just as you started to think it could never ever get better, the Bad Company boys make one last concentrated effort. Perhaps even the band members themselves were so horrified with the apathy and facelessness of Burnin' Sky — Desolation Angels at least sounds as if somebody gave them a much-needed cold shower.

I know the idea of Bad Company doing disco sounds horrendous on paper, and that their decision to hop on the train during disco's last profitable year reveals agonizing desperation, but ʽRhythm Machineʼ is not utterly trashable as far as trashable disco goes: its chunka-chunka bassline does not take the attention away from triple guitar parts, with Ralphs alternating catchy slide lines and razor-sharp electric leads over a rhythmic jangle. If you can get past such amazing showcases of lyrical genius as "I'm a rhythm machine, you know what I mean" (not exactly atypical for disco hits), the thing almost counts as a breath of fresh air in the context of the ultra-stale BC formula.

The band did not dare to release the song as a single, though, probably afraid of losing the truck driver segment of their audience without picking up the «Tony Manero» group. They went with ʽRock'n'Roll Fantasyʼ instead, which became their last certified big hit — and also represented a weak effort to catch up with the times: Ralphs is playing electronically treated, «cold-hearted» guitars, giving the whole thing a little bit of a «Cars» attitude. Why they decided to further «em­bellish» the song with silly-sounding electronic percussion bursts that punctuate the breaks is not clear. Or, rather, it is quite clear, but I am not sure it works in any way other than utterly comic. But remember, one reason why Burnin' Sky sucked so much was its total lack of humor, inten­tional or not. Even a good laugh at the band's antics automatically makes Desolation Angels an improvement, if not exactly a proper «comeback».

There is also a feel of increased diversity, something the band never displayed as a cherished va­lue before. Besides disco and «electronized» pseudo-New Wave rock'n'roll (the second single, ʽGone Gone Goneʼ, also belongs to the same category), there is also a touch of basic country-rock — the unexpectedly catchy ʽOh, Atlantaʼ, which I really like in all possible ways: upbeat, boun­cy, lyrically simple, but non-moronic, cool singalong vocals: «poor man's Allman Brothers», which really sounds like a great compliment for the band.

And, of course, a couple traditional varieties of the band's hard rock spirit: another spin-off from the pub boogie of ʽCan't Get Enoughʼ (ʽLonely For Your Loveʼ, perfect for stomping your beer mug on the table) and another metal-tinged blues-rock growler (ʽEvil Windʼ, also «spoiled» a bit with the band's strange new passion for electronic percussion). The soft, folksy numbers are no­thing to write home about, but ʽEarly In The Morningʼ could almost be worthy of a contemporary Eric Clapton solo record — not that this should be a reason for rejoicing.

In any case, the album puts the band at an interesting crossroads: the incorporation of synthe­sizers, disco rhythms, and a puff of New Wave spirit does not disrupt the continuity — this is still very much a bona fide Bad Company record — and points a possible way at a marginally respec­table future. Why they preferred not to pursue it any further is beyond my comprehension. Maybe Paul Rodgers got cornered by one of the truck drivers. Maybe they experienced a nervous break­down seeing the «disco sucks» campaign unfurl at the very moment that they came forward with their first experiment in the genre. May be a million other reasons — the fact is, this is the only point in the «listenable» part of their timeline that they had a good chance to modernize their sound and remain relevant for the next decade. Then again, does it really surprise anyone that they ended up blowing it?

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Bad Company: Burnin' Sky

BAD COMPANY: BURNIN' SKY (1976)

1) Burnin' Sky; 2) Morning Sun; 3) Leaving You; 4) Like Water; 5) Knapsack; 6) Everything I Need; 7) Heartbeat; 8) Peace Of Mind; 9) Passing Time; 10) Too Bad; 11) Man Needs Woman; 12) Master Of Ceremony.

Apparently, this album was recorded so quickly after Run With The Pack that they even had to delay the release a few months — so as not to let two records compete on the charts at the same time. But what am I saying? Compete? Only in terms of whichever one manages to bore the ma­ximum shit out of you. And by now, even the fans were getting tired: Burnin' Sky peaked at #15, ten positions below Run With The Pack, and its only single of any importance (the title track) went no higher than #78. For a band that placed 100% of its faith in record sales, the sky must have been burnin' indeed.

But then again, what else do you expect from a record that allows itself to build a seven-minute long track on a four-note bass riff? ʽMaster Of Ceremonyʼ may feature plenty of absent-minded organ punching, a distraught, echoey Paul Rodgers vocal that seems to betray traces of pot, and even an occasional sax solo or two, but they are just fooling you: it is really all about the «doo-dum... doo-dum! doo-dum... doo-dum!» Nazi torture assault on your brain. Seven bleeding minu­tes of a pseudo-funky, pseudo-gritty pseudo-jam whose only purpose is to let you know: «Yes, we can make long improvisations that are every bit as minimalistic as our singles!»

The rest is divided more or less equally between rote, unmemorable, trivial rockers and rote, unmemorable, trivial ballads. The title track, believe it or not, is also based on a four-note riff that is nearly the equal of ʽMaster Of Ceremonyʼ, and it happens to be the hookiest thing on the whole album, with Ralphs' electronically treated solo briefly reminding the listener of the existence of such a thing as «danger». But ʽLeaving Youʼ, ʽEverything I Needʼ, ʽMan Needs Womanʼ, etc. — does anybody need to hear these songs even once? Trust me, the music inside is about as appeti­zing as the mega-inventive titles.

Straining my already tired mind, I can perhaps acknowledge that there is a bit of pretty acoustic picking on ʽMorning Sunʼ, and the joint effort of the phasing effect between verses and the pasto­ral flute interludes is enough to at least recognize the song as something on which these guys might have worked, meaning it at least creates an atmosphere (in comparison, something like ʽPeace Of Mindʼ doesn't even begin to create one — just blunders about in a mid-tempo puddle of generic country-pop pianos and electric guitars).

Come to think of it, I may be slightly downplaying the band's will for change. There is really a noticeable increase in all sorts of instrumentation that is not hard rock guitar: folksy acoustic melodies, pianos, saxes, even synthesizers (including synthesized strings). None of which helps, unfortunately, because the basic ideology and style remains the same: SMUT (Simple Music for the Undemanding Toiler). Sometimes I think that the job must have really been a hard one — the guys had so many things to unlearn about their playing, I almost feel like pitying them. Howev­er, not even this kind of pity should stay our thumbs from going down. This is an album that was born begging for a thumbs down.

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