There is a long forgotten tradition in the land of Rock Journalism, the short, pithy review perpetrated in shorthand and published in an anthological manner. The best example of this (that I can recall) is Creem's not-oft-celebrated "Rock-A-Rama" Section. It is my hope that I can lovingly reproduce the style, if not the feeling, of that famed periodical's salute to the increasingly dizzying pace of modern life and music.

DONALD FAGEN - The Nightfly (Warner Bros.) : There are just some albums that beg to know why I ever put them back on the shelf. They have that precious, cliched timelessness that moves one to wonder how he could ever get tired of it. The actual reasons vary from album to album. In Bryan Ferry's case, his voice and talent for choosing good producers heal all wounds, especially those inflicted by changing tastes. There's a definite shortage on stuff by blokes like Tom Verlaine and Peter Laughner, so you savor what you've got. As for Donald Fagen's solitary solo outing, it's just a damn fine piece of work. It reeks of the type of jagged, future-nostalgia that produces men like Nietzsche and David Bowie. A lust for the coming utopia/dystopia/what-have-you that drives men to become philosphers when they should have been poets and poets when they should have been shoe salesmen. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it. Anyway, I still can't figure out why I put the damned thing away. Ever.

THE STROKES - Is This It? (RCA) :: Well, it seems New York's sons have stepped up to reclaim their heritage from the cherried-out Detroit-frenching ("Oh baby, you scream so nice and loud!") metal scene. What sets the Strokes apart from the wasteland of modern hard rock? First of all, they take the emphasis (distortion) off of the chords and bind it firmly to the vocals and lead lines. Second, these guys realize that tempo, not power chords, make the song danceable. Third, they strip away all the horrible balladic influences (I mean Mariah Carey, Glitterfans!) that have worked their way back into popular music without stripping away the actual ballads. Neat idea, huh? Iggy Pop's dead, folks, and so is Pearl Jam. Get over it and buy Is This It?. Paradigm shifting's a bitch, aint it?

HAWKWIND - “Urban Guerilla” :: Curses to all you Hawkwind fans that don't sell your grooveless LPs to your local Used Record stores! Curses to all you non-used record-selling stores that don't carry Hawkwind reissues! Curses to you, Hawkwind, for only touring England! Do you realize how many people I had to kill to get a copy of this song? Do you realize how much blood I had to spill to ink my "Official" Hawkwind T-shirt? You must. You

PHIL OCHS - Pleasures of the Harbor (Collector's Choice Music) :: Imagine Bob Dylan with a real singing voice, a proclivity for string accompanyment, and no career. You can leave out the suicide part. I listened to this album with the sincere hope that I could, somehow, muster a comparison to Dylan. I can't. Really. Ochs, though very talented ("Outside the Small Circle of Friends" is the ONLY protest song I would ever take seriously), wasn't an artist. He was a politician, like all true radicals. A pusher. He had things to say, and a great many were

important. It doesn't change the fact that he was bereft of taste, or any sense. That's not populism (yes, I'm talking to you DiFrankenbern fans), that's pretension, if not delusions of grandeur. In the words of Peter Laughner, another dumbass who kinda died for what he believed in, "I'm gonna listen to Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers with headphones. G'night."

NEIL YOUNG - After the Gold Rush (Reprise) :: Goddamn catchy Canadian folkie. This album (the acknowledged epitome of Seventies singer-songwriterdom) is decadent, self- indulgent, and utterly beautiful in many ways. So if you have any love for your self- respect, don't buy it. As a rock'n'roller, I can barely forgive myself ("Southern Man, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere). This is on the level of me applauding Sugar Ray and Third Eye Blind (for having a sense of humour and ripping Lou Reed licks, respectively), folks. It time to break out the tar and feathers.

WHITE STRIPES - White Blood Cells (Rev's Loaner/Coomers Media Corp.) :: A refreshing return to "power-duo" antics in a time where (like all other times, really) such things are a forgotten art. I just love "Little Room," the one track where they actually make good on their "artiest members of the Detroit rap scene" hype. I can take or leave the rest of the album, except when it comes to "Hotel Yorba," "Fell In Love W/ a Girl," and "The Union Forever," all of which now hold a special place in my heart, one specially reserved for guys who yell reel purty like.

JIM CARROLL - Side One Dry Dreams (Atco) :: What is this? Is it post-punk automatorock? Is it sub-Velvets perversity? Is it a dry, boring slab of listless goo, a total waste of vinyl? If you put down "D) All of the above," you must've made a 30 on your ACT! Sure, recieving I.V. doses of smack through a spliced orchid stem would've been a semi-cool idea way-back in 1972, but this the eighties, jack! Haven't you been listening to Huey Lewis?! Boooooring, stale, old ideas. Maybe if Carroll'd injected this album with some snappier instrumentals (a la "People who Died"), I wouldn't've fallen asleep halfway.

RADIOHEAD - "Knives Out" (Capitol) :: Nice sound, but the lyrics suck. These guys listened to Roxy Music's first two albums waaaaay too often without thinking about the experience. Or maybe they thought about it too much?