In these days of Whatsit And The So-And-Soes, it's generally the bands who go solo. Whatsit withdraws from constant live work in order to husband his resources, leaving The So-And-Soes to earn some interim crust of their own. Funnily enough it's only the outfits who were farsighted enough to retain an independent trading name who are in a position so to do. If Buckler and Foxton took to moonlighting that would constitute A Split.
    It's an anomalous situation. As the tone arm drops on to both of these albums you think of those signs you see outside theatres from time to time. "The star is temporarily indisposed. In tonight's performance his place will be taken by..." etc.
    Certainly both of these groups labour in the shadow of exceptionally gifted artists. However much they may have contributed to the fame of their respective paymasters, and in both cases that's plenty, the fact remains that they owe their musical point of view to his voice, songs and temperament.
    It's perfectly feasible that without Costello or Parker at least a couple of these musicians would be in Barbara Dickson's band or some mundane orchestra. On their own projects they are faced with a choice between trying to wear the guvnor's trousers and playing their own hand.
    The Rumour incline to the latter course, slipping into a modest, genial groove that in no way attempts to ape the little man's passionate reach. Two years ago they pulled off a similar stunt in fine style, investing "Frogs, Sprouts, Clogs And Krauts" with an intricate wit that made it one of the year's more caustic efforts.
    It's disappointing therefore to report that this third album surrenders much of the ground gained, placing too much faith in solidly crafted standards by Nick Lowe, Bacharach & David and Randy Newman. And although none of these covers aspire to any great interpretative heights they manage to leave the band's own compositions looking pretty pale and perfunctory. Only Parker's contribution, "That's The Way The Ball Roils", seems anonymous in the right way.
    The Attractions, whose packaging just about out-camps The Rumour's by the width of a Bruce Thomas lapel, are decidedly more set on making an impression, proffering an album which is busy in the extreme, composed of wall to wall Attractions-type noises.
    The songs are the work of either Steve Naive, Bruce and Pete Thomas, or the mysterious team of Brain And Hart, a credit I'm convinced must conceal the identity of either a) Elvis Costello, b) Nick Lowe, or, c) a person who wishes the listener to assume that a) is the case. Not even The Jags would sail so close to the wind as to write a line like "Exposing all your loaded lines/And instamatic whispers".
    Aside from the fact that most of the material offers little more than banalities dressed up to imitate wit and the songs are crammed with more unpleasant persons of the female persuasion than the world economy could possibly sustain, what lets the album down is broadly the same thing that lets down The Rumour's; the lack of a voice with any kind of emotional authority.
    The tunes pull the singers all over the shop, exposing frailties in delivery and a lack of conviction which renders the laboured lyrics doubly hollow. Anyone can bob and weave; the ability to administer The Big Punch is given to few.

DAVID HEPWORTH 

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