it's all compensated once you rip off the shrink wrap and dig in: The slipcover inside the sleeve has a plastic lining. There's nothing classier than that, as Capitol's previous exclusive reservation of this privilege for its classical line makes clear. Not only that, but the label is Deutsche Grammophon yellow.

Some people snorted when Grand Funk announced that they were going to be producing themselves, as if they were only kept afloat in the first place by Terry Knight. That's never been true, of course: What has made Grand Funk a phenomenon is the combination of Knight's promotional acumen and the band's extraordinary relationship with its audience. As a producer, Knight often left a good deal to be desired. The first two Grand Funk albums were notable for a fuzzy quality as if the sound were channeled through wool. Survival, on the other hand, sounded almost too clean, too clear and precise, to the point of virtual sterility. The closest they ever came to achieving a recorded sound commensurate with their name was E Pluribus Funk, and even there they were left in the shade by the overwhelming recorded work of bands like Black Sabbath or Dust.

So you really can't say that the absence of Knight has hurt Grand Funk on wax yet, because this album mostly sounds just about as thin as its predecessors. And the material is for the most part just about as plodding as we've come to expect. Most rock is plodding now, and the real question is whether you can forget all about the adrenaline whoop of Chuck Berry and Little Richard and let yourself get into it on its own terms. If you can, you'll leave Phoenix with the confirmation, the same confirmation made by past songs like "Closer to Home" and "Comfort Me," that Grand Funk have real songwriting talent. That's if you're not already convinced. Unfortunately, though, if you haven't been previously initiated, the good moments on this album won't be strong enough in themselves to keep you coming back to it, and you would do better to pick up Mark, Don & Mel 1969-1971.

Songs: "Flight of the Phoenix" is as close as this band has ever come to their last name, the kind of music heard far more in bars than at pop festivals. It's nice, and Doug Kershaw is of course excellent on fiddle, though hardly employed to the up-front extent of a Papa John in a Jefferson Airplane. Craig Frost's organ dominates, as i