Blue Oyster Cult is a band at the crossroads. Not necessarily Robert Johnson's, but their sonic souls lie in the balance. After three LPs and a live dud, they have come back eclectic and accomplished on Agents of Fortune. But you lose a bit for every gift you allow yourself. In their own term, the BOC have become "pros," which, if you wanted to get realty cynical, could mean they'll be in competition with Barry Manilow or Elton John. Somehow we (and, some say, they) never conceived them that way. There may have been a synthetic feel to much of their previous music, but it always had teeth and sufficient dementia, the sense that things could go completely out of control and reduce us to rubble.

Now the BOC are phasing out their old producers, Sandy Pearlman and Murray Krugman, and phasing in a new era of democratic self-determination. But can they hold their fangs out of captivity? The question depends in midair, tense as the group, as reporters who have cared about their destiny at various stages of the game, as you if you liked them in the first place, probably. They'll be all right, but is all right enough? What follows are three faces of BOC—who they are, where they've been, where they're going, questions, answers, ad hominems. Hitler was nowhere in sight.