deadpan. On the current single "Detachable Penis," Hall recounts waking with a hangover, discovering his penis is missing again and ultimately having to buy it back from a street vendor ("He wanted twenty-two bucks, but I talked him down to seventeen"), all to the throbbing echo of Dave Rick's taut guitar and Roger Murdock's crisp backbeat. A parable of self-emasculation? Who knows? And Hall's not telling.

When King Missile tries the straight rock-song format with Hall singing, neither the lyrics nor the song structures work. The further the group pushes its avant-jazz leanings, the more original it becomes. The pulsing rumble of "Martin Scorsese" fits Hall's Travis Bickle rant perfectly ("He makes the best fucking films ... I fucking love him"); drummer Murdock's syncopated stickwork on "It's Saturday," the lone background for Hall's calm call for "revolution for the hell of it," is exquisite; and Rick's psychedelic jazz guitar on "Ed" provides the perfect accompaniment to this strange tale of a twentieth-century existential dyslexic.

Happy Hour's crowning achievement is the disturbing "Take Me Home," a dirge of strangled guitar and perverse love: "You're the one who knows my whole life is a pathetic sham/Take me home and tie me up." Happy? No. An hour? To the minute. (RS 652)

MICHAEL C. HARRIS