Roky Erickson

A garage rant about blues theology that built from blues readymades and accelerated on the kind of mad thrust you don't hear much from revivalists or anybody else, the now rerecorded title single was all natural timing and spirit possession, a paradise regained of rock and roll cliché. The album exploits this miracle--sounds like a bunch of would-be old farts (with genuine article Jack Casady lending a touch of authenticity) latching onto the old wildman for the kind of magic carpet ride other music lovers only collect. It's too precise, too forceful, too showy. And if you can bear the protracted tributes to Erickson's private gods, it'll rock you out anyway. Try "You Drive Me Crazy." Or "Crazy Crazy Mama." Or "Bermuda," about the triangle. (Grade: B+)