of coolly cooed pop tunes, sparely orchestrated but numbing in their similarity of tone. Each cut is a midtempo ballad, except for two midtempo demirockers. On last year's Watermark, Garfunkel transcended this kind of pop banality by immersing himself in a batch of Jimmy Webb songs. Webb supplied the spirit—an obsessive, neurotically romantic spirit—that Garfunkel obviously lacked, and the LP was a fascinating, if ultimately rather hateful, exercise.

Nothing spirited, let alone obsessive or neurotic, breaks Fate for Breakfast's serene surface. Los Angeles sessionmen glide by with their patented riffs as Art Garfunkel calmly injects narcolepsy into yet another soul standard ("Oh How Happy") in what is becoming an obligatory gesture for white soft-rockers.

If this be breakfast, bring on lunch. (RS 294)

KEN TUCKER