BY RICHARD ELLIS Varsity Staff Writer

Really good secrets don't stay hidden for very long. Sooner or later the wrong people find out, and then the fun is ruined for those who were in the know.

In the world and culture of commercial pop music this usually signals the downfall of a band's artistic credentials, at least in the eyes of the original beholders. Singles follow singles. Success follows success. Then comes the first gold album and international stardom, followed meekly by cries of "I used to like Simple Minds when they weren't on the radio."

British pop upstarts The Jazz Butcher seem to be tottering on the edge of popularity — or at least marginal success — much to the chagrin of import-bin regulars like me who may soon be saying "I used to like The Jazz Butcher when ..."

For the moment, however, the Butchermen are Next To God. Seriously. They are the refreshingest breath of air to hit the platter in quite a while. While The Smiths are making alarming inroads with the teenie crowd and Billy Bragg has found his way into the homes of the Rosedale socialist set, The Jazz Butcher, surely the most unpretentious band around, have quietly but firmly brought a good sense of humour back to the whole thing. And I mean the Whole Thing.

Their first North American release. Bloody Nonsense, is (what else?) a compilation of some of their finer tunes already released in Britain. The bulk of the album is culled from the Scandal in Bohemia album and The Human Jungle EP.

Musically, The Jazz Butcher live up to their name, hacking apart genres as though there were no tomorrow. "The Devil is my Friend" is a country rave-up, "Partytime" is a hilarious send-up of smoky barroom jazz, and "CaroHne Wheeler's Birthday Present" would set the tootsies of the most ardent pogoer alight.

They really hit the mark, though, when they concentrate on their unequalled breezy pop melodies. Infectious and wonderful, songs like "Hard", "Big Saturday", "Southern Mark Smith", and "Girlfriend" jump out at you with their warm, straight, and honest sound. The music is pop at its best, with Max Eider spreading the icing on the cake with his witty and jazzy lead guitar fills.

Those who were at the Butcher's RPM concert last month were treated to an easygoing and friendly display of music that not only reached out to people, but also entertained them. The band members say they are too old and obstreperous to conform to an image or a formula. I think they're too intelligent to hop on any bandwagon, be it angst, heavy metal or whatever.

The mid-1980s pop music scene is beginning to look dangerously like the mid 1970s. We need to find bands like The Jazz Butcher: real people singing real songs to real people, shunning the image and pretentions, both lyric and musical, that make popular music so empty and imbecilic these days.

So buy the album, join the Jazz Butcher Conspiracy, and find out what you've been missing. But don't tell anyone. You may spoil a good thing.

Bloody Nonsense

The Jazz Butcher and his group are not in the business of belonging; they are too old and too obstreperous to conform to some attention-seeking image or commercially viable formula. Rather, they bring their not inconsiderable talents to bear on whatever happens to be in the way at the time. The results can only be described as essential.

BigTime