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COVER
Shapiro reviewed

RECORDS

ENTERTAINMENTS

Pages 3-4

Ann Arbor happenings

Pages 7-10

Harold Shapiro has been president of the Univer-
sity for five years now. Daily staff writer Eric Mat-
tson recently spoke with University regents, officers,
faculty members and student organizations, as well
as Shapiro himself. They all offer their views on
Shapiro and the University under his control. The
cover portrait was drawn by Daily artist Mike
Cramer.
MOVIES
Empty space Pages 5-6
You know what they say about sequels. Weekend
movie reviewer Byron L. Bull found that 2010 was an
incarnation of his worst fears. The music, the
characters and even the sets of Kubrick's classic 2001
are used again in 2010, but the results are
questionable.

This is a handy guide to this weekend's events.
From current and second-run films to music to
eateries, the Happenings section features
everything you need to know for everything you'd
want to do.
INTERVIEW
Historically speaking. . . Pages 11-12
Joan Peters' views of the problems in the Middle
East are the focus of this issue's Interview section.
Years of historical and social research are the basis
for Ms. Peters' opinionated comments.
BOOKS
Another perspective Page 13
The Arab-Isri. conflict has been raging for cen-
turies. Joan Peter.. author of From Time Immemor-
ial, has researched this conflict. A review of this in-
sightful book is by Amy Goldstein.

Alone in the world Pages 14-15
There are new albums out from members of three
recent semi-commercially successful bands. Coming
from the groups Television, The Teardrop Explodes
and Echo and the Bunneymen, these newly-solo per-
formers set themselves up for the inevitable com-
parisons; Weekend reviewer Dennis Harvey obliges.
Comments and contributions
to Weekend are welcome and
should be directed to the
Weekend Magazine Editors
(call 763-0379).


Weekend
Friday, February 8 1985
Volume III, Issue 16
Magazine Editors....................Paula Dohring
Randall Stone
Associate Magazine Editors........Julie Jurrjens
John Logie
Magazine Staff:J
Joshua Bilmes, Neil Galanter, Debbie Gesmundo
Diane Melnick, Sarah Rosenberg, Joyce Welsh
Arts Editors ............................Mike Fisch
Andrew Porter

Associate Arts Editors ..........Michael Drongowski
Movies ............................Byron L. Bull
Music ............................Dennis Harvey
Books................................Andy W eine
Weekend Marketing Coordinator......Miriam Adler
Sales Manager .................. Dawn Willacker
Sales Representatives:
Steve Friedlander, Debby Kaminetsky, Cynthia
Nixon, Leslie Purcell, Jenny Matz, Kathleen
O'Brian, Meg Margulies, Mary Anne Hogan,
Sheryl Biesman, Mark Bookman, Leigh Schlang,
Peter Giangreco

Weekend is edited and managed by students on the
staff of the Michigan Daily at 420 Maynard, Ann Ar-
bor, Michigan Daily 48109.
Weekend, (313) 763-0379 and 763-0371; Michigan
Daily, 764-0552; Circulation, 764-0558; Display Adver-
tising, 764-0554.
Copyright 1985, The Michigan Daily.

nymen, had practically nothing in
common beyond four members each
and a dominant angst-packed lead
singer/personality-which may have
aided the brevity of the media moment.
When the press couldn't justify the
band any more in terms of a trend, all
interest dried up.
Julian Cope, band wonderboy,
skulked away from the not-much-
mourned band dissolution to...well,
whatever he did, it took long enough,
since the solo LP Fried appears to be
his first post-Teardrop project. Wilder
opened with the pleasant observation
"All my life I've been bent out of
shape/Can't you see it's killing me?"
over a fairly bouncy tune. Fried starts
off with "Reynard the Fox," in which
Cope keeps seeing himself bleeding and
solemnly intones some prose about
Reynard taking his handy knife and
tearing his guts out. After this the
music jams out frantically-we know
something absolutely paralyzed with
personal metaphor has just happened.
A lot of people love any non star who
tries to be a poet-it's appealingly
novel enough that one can overlook the
fact that the pop star may be a terrible
poet.
This opening track starts Fried out
with a case of the screaming Morrisons
(and Cope does sound unnervingly like
the High Priest of Mystical Hoodah on
this and on "Sunspots"), but for-
tunately the heavy clouds of pretension
lift immediately afterward. Fried is
very uneven, with an air of emotional
futility even as it gropes about gamely
for a way to continue musically. At its
worst it's depressing and mildly ob-
noxious, but more often it has a plain-
tive charm. Cope is better when he's
trying to be Donovan than when he goes
the Morrison route, though the accom-
panying prose runs hot and cold in both
camps.
He's still writing Teardrop Explodes
songs-at least, there's nothing here
one couldn't have anticipated from
Wilder-but the instrumentation, freed
from the equal-opportunity demands of
an official band, is more playful and
varied. A certain fey folksy-psychedelic
air hovers over the whole affair; left
alone to construct his own variety show,
Cope goes the mini-Sgt. Pepper route,
constructing little scenarios, juggling
moods, balancing acoustic ballads
against the bigger studio constructions.
A good-to-excellent songwriter with a
nice, light poppy touch even when he's
otherwise faulty, Cope jumps from the
initial symbolism seizure of "Reynard"

to the irresistible, trotting-along bounce
of "Bill Drummond Said," then on to
the spacily mournful "Laughing Boy"
(big on rueful irony, this boy), which
has as its disarmingly vulnerable
refrain "No, don't cast me out of
here/I've got no place to go."
After some rather less-intelligent-
than-he-thinks depressive romantic
blathering on the acoustic "Me
Singing," side one pulls just short of ex-
cessive quivering sensitivity on "Sun-
spots," with its big fat circusy oom-
pahs, talk about "strolling around with
my very best friend and vocal imitation
of a Jew's Harp on the EEEEOOW.
Cope again sounds vocally a tad fear-
fully like Jim a.k.a. "Jesus" Morrison,
but in this case the overall effect is not
so much Doorsy as like the 1910
Fruitgum Company.
Side two kicks on off with ap-
pealingly frantic music ("The Bloody
Assizes") and less appealingly
gaseous lyric profundity (" 'Tell me
your plans, Hangman.' 'I built these
gallows for you.' ") Like the Smiths'
Morrissey and so many other lyricists
in intelligent British bands, Cope
sometimes seems stuck in a groove he
probably should have lost when he
found it 'way back at boarding
school-wanting. to be the little Bard,
spinning delicately overwrought webs
of pale tuberculic conscience and 0!
Nature effusions. Some people go out
for disillusionment the way others go
out for making the football team. The
remainder of the side is more or less a
gradual ease toward phase-out, with
Julian finally vanishing in the melan-
cholically thin air. The subtlety in the
production keeps Fried fairly in-
teresting, but one leaves with a sense
that this kid may be stuck with a sense
of unease; it has some wonderful
music, but one gets the feeling that
Cope is more interested in what he's
saying. The problem is, what he's
saying is not particularly interesting.
On the cover and enclosed poster for
tried, Cope is naked and vulnerable,
crawling around fields under the scant
shelter of a tortoise shell. It's a rather
sweetly vulnerable image, but it loses
considerable charm after one realizes
how much Cope would like to with-
draw into his shell entirely.
E CHO AND THE BUNNYMEN
seemed likely to be a permanent
cult fixture in the U.S. with zero com-
mercial potential, too moody and per-
sonalized in appeal to be anything but
the obsession of a decreasing few. They

were the epitome of the somewhat
avant-garde, relatively untrendy
British band that, given its American
chance, appears too 'difficult' for mass
wavin' consumption, and is rapidly
label-dropped back into the import
bins.
That is, until last year's Ocean Rain,
which reworked Echo's delicate,
neurotic atmospherics into a more
positive-sounding kaleidoscope of
lushly produced psychedelics. It also
transformed lead singer Ian McCulloch
from the cult audience's perfect wet
dream-deliberately remote, almost.
breakable (just like Robert Smith of
The Cure, who went through an iden-
tical change this year)-into a
gorgeously romantic crooner for
everybody and his little sister.
Uneven as Ocean Rain was, songs like
"The Killing Moon," "Silver" and
"Seven Seas" were full-tilt, classic
romantic epics, with McCulloch flexing
the sort of melt-inducing strong/wistful
dramatic resonance that just a few
really great popular singers (dare I say
Sinatra) can muster.
The heaves and sighs that greeted
Ocean Rain from most quarters, and
McCulloch's new cult-of-the-many idol
status, made solo work seem
inevitable. And here it is-two imported
sides (7, 10, or 12 inch versions all
available for you collectors out there)
of sheer romantic kitsch. The in-
creasing re-acceptance of romanticism
makes this more than forgivable; in
fact, we want McCulloch to get as
sublimely smarmy as possible, so we
can swoon without embarrassment.

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2 - - - - Weekend/Friday, February 8, 1985

- - Weekend/Friday

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