POP MUSIC REVIEW : Jazz Butcher Blasts Out Glib, Familiar Slices of British Life

If names told the whole story, the Jazz Butcher could be a pretty tremendous group. Suggesting as it does the savaging of a rich and varied art form, the title well might lead one to expect some pretty impressive rubble to be left in this band’s wake.

Alas, in a world where governments can’t even get accurate labeling from the food industry, it may be some time before we get around to truth-in-advertising legislation for rock acts. At the Coach House on Sunday evening, Britain’s Jazz Butcher neither carved up the past with any particular flair nor did it create much of anything new.

Singer/rhythm guitarist Pat Fish, a.k.a. the Jazz Butcher, deserves some points for endurance: Since 1982’s “A Bath in Bacon” album his act has weathered numerous personnel changes, shrinking to a solo or duo at stages. Even the lineup he had Sunday--with drummer Paul Mulreany, bassist Laurence O’Keefe and guitarist Richard Fromby--was missing two of the participants from this year’s “Big Planet, Scarey Planet” album.

If Fish’s music hasn’t suffered overmuch from its changing players, it may be because it might not aspire to much in the first place. To Fish’s credit, the set’s 20 glibly worded songs flew fast and furious, but they didn’t fly very far, being hampered by Fish’s one-dimensional voice and a song construction that often relied on just bashing out one or two chords.

On certain numbers, the band was very effective within those limitations, but spread throughout the performance, one tended to peg Fish--despite a winningly manic stage manner--as a small contender in an already crowded sea.

Many of his songs are rooted in the vagaries of British life, but they largely lack the insight and humanity, not to mention compositional gift, of XTC’s Brit portraits, and Fish’s whimsy falls far short of Robyn Hitchcock’s quirky explorations.

Though diminished by the similarity of the show’s material, Fish and Co. did have some semi-splendid moments, particularly on the uproarious, frantic one-chord rap of “Chickentown,” the muscular pop of “Burglar of Love,” the humorous take on the changing East in “Moscow Drug Club” and on two songs dating from his first album.

One, the updated “Sex Engine Thing,” goofily posited the august members of the Traveling Wilburys as “sex engines,” while “Zombie Love” built to a sufficiently thrashing two-chord “Pushin’ Too Hard”-like finale, aided by Downy Mildew’s Charlie Baldonado on guitar.

Except that they might lack Fish’s self-assurance, Downy Mildew, the locals who opened the show, would be just as well placed as headliners.

The quartet’s engaging harmonies and arrangements--favorably recalling 10,000 Maniacs at times--call for only a bit more drive and personality to make this a truly potent band.