under the rug by the heavy metal kids or the gentle singers of song. In their cross-country live performances, including an epic stand at an otherwise-moribund Fillmore East closing that neatly showed the way for everyone else on the bill, and with their fine debut album, they've displayed a musical acumen that most groups never reach; and like it might have always been hoped for, in some rock & roll dreamland, it looks like it's only the beginning for New England's finest.

Live, this is all easy to explain. Caught in a time-warp where most bands have given up their melodramatics to concentrate on music, the six man J. Geils Band have set their minds to the construct of a Show, with lots of visual action to please the eyes while the ears are in motion. Peter Wolf, moving around the stage like some Bronx-bred version of Rasputin, spouting out catch-words that punctuate the set's momentum, might well be the finest up-front performer to come down the pike since Iggy hisself, and Wolf's control, his ability to sense out an audience situation and proceed from there, could truly provide a manic textbook for any and all who might want to create the same kind of mayhems. The Band (fronted by J. Geils' Gangster of Love guitar) shovels support under him, with a rhythm section that pushes just that extra inch harder, with nobody taking any more than the song says they should. Add a knack for choosing semi-obscure gems of rhythm 'n' blues to provide their material, a pile of terse arrangements that keep building to all ends of the dynamics scale, some well-done (if at times a little obvious) originals, and a collective personality that's in the best American Tradition (y'all have read Iceberg Slim, haven't you?), then it's not hard to see how the combination could keep getting better and better.

But it does, and although The Morning After strikes me as being just a shade less impressive than their first effort (due to a slight material problem), there's no sign of any stopping. If you put this record on at just a hair more than halfway volume on a good set, stand back a little and let the opening traditionals of "I Don't Need You No More" strike you full in the gut, there's no way you're going to keep yourself from being knocked across the room. No joke: I tried it and before you could say "Let's get cra--zy baby!" I was flat up against the wall, just like friend Larry the