Point Blank
On A Roll

The Texan band Point Blank was one of the best southern rock groups, and in the second half of the seventies, when the genre was thriving, they played hundreds of concerts (as the main attraction or opening for big names like Lynyrd Skynyrd and ZZ Top) while releasing four albums one after the other, selling more than decently.

Then came the eighties, and the meek managers said that things couldn't continue as they were, they needed to modernize, and they tried: they brought in a keyboardist allowed to use big background layers and digital sequences that were so fashionable at the time. Out with the old singer with a bluesy and gritty voice, and in with another whose voice was higher, clearer, slicker, more pop. It didn't work; the Confederate die-hards felt betrayed, and few new fans came along. After two albums with the new lineup, the band lost their record contract and disbanded. It seemed final, but they recently got back on track, naturally with the original lineup or so, and now they're touring the States (but they did a few European dates this summer) with their guts and bald spots but still tough and powerful like when they were young.

This 1982 album is their sixth and last before breaking up. As previously hinted, it's a hybrid between southern rock and AOR: guitars, lungs, and grit are those of the nasty dirty racist chauvinists of the South; the rhythms and keyboard blasts are those of eighties melodic rock (which I personally find a bit hard to listen to today: it hasn't aged well, but my CD collection is full of Def Leppard, Boston, Foreigner, Journey and the like, and woe to anyone who mocks them; they are all legitimate offspring).

The "leader" of the group is one of the two guitarists, named Rusty Burns, a left-hander who plays his left-handed Stratocaster without reversing the strings (with the high notes on top, therefore). He's one of many skilled and fervent American rock-blues guitarists, the kind that will never be born in Italy—we just don't have the chromosome. It's a spectacle to watch him play: superb! Fluid and fierce and full of feeling yet precise and direct, no ifs and buts. Unfortunately, in this album, Rusty and his guitar-mate Kim Davis are half-buried under the layers of their keyboardist, but they manage to deliver some excellent moments ("Gone Hollywood" above all). As for the singer, a certain Bubba Keith, he might be slicker than his predecessor, but he has two steel lungs and a considerable range; he sings strong and decisively and not at all syrupy, great voice.

The CD is quite rare, printed only in Japan and at prohibitive prices. The vinyl is easier to find in some second-hand store. So, hooray for the Internet, then? As mentioned, I remain very attached to this music even if I objectively find it has aged poorly. But there's warmth and vigor behind the musical concessions to the fashions of the time, there's guts, big ones. People who know how to compose, sing, and play, no kidding.