Toto
Toto XX (1977-1997)
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Toto is the kind of dull debut you'd expect from a bunch of career session players—which is really disappointing, because the musicians involved are unusually fine. David Paich, Jeff Porcaro and David Hungate have been sensational in backing Boz Scaggs, Dirk Hamilton, et al., on record, but Toto lacks at least two elements crucial to good rock: a singer and a writer. Three group members sing passably; a fourth, Bobby Kimball, is terrible—and, unfortunately, the lead vocalist. Paich is chief songwriter, but most of his tunes are merely excuses for back-to-back instrumental solos. Toto is a band of skilled craftsmen without a mesmerizing mastermind: pros, but no poetry. (RS
Read More 283) DON SHEWEY Toto sings love songs of little distinction or consequence, offering greeting-card verse and aural bouquets to fantasy lovers via the medium of cutting-edge studio technology and their own well-honed sessionman "chops." The group's cleverly titled new album, Toto IV, follows this formula to a T, mixing sodden ballads taken at tiptoeing-rhino tempos with booming, echoey rock songs. Toto builds its AOR heroics upon a steady-as-a-metronome rhythm section and a vaguely gospel-tinged piano, which serve as a backdrop for David Paich and Steve Porcaro's Technicolor synthesizer wonderment. Guitarist Steve Lukather gets a fat sound with lots of sustain, sending his fingers into overdrive on the solos. And singer Bobby Kimball scales the upper registers in an L.A. approximation of blue-eyed soul. This band of pros doesn't miss a trick: since Asia has lately become the platinum nom de plume of four British art-rock superstars, Toto has asserted its territorial imperative with a tune called "Africa"–a ringer for the U.K. group's FM smash, "Heat of the Moment." There's even a touch of Asia on Toto IV in the artificially malleted xylophone sounds that pop up on occasion. Typical of an album that feels about as real as a Velveeta-orange polyester leisure suit. (RS 374) PARKE PUTERBAUGH |
