There are times when you truly appreciate Foreigner. For instance, like when Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” comes on the air. A navel she may have, deeper than Frank Marino, wrigglier than Paul Stanley’s ass with an MX enema. But she doesn’t have the best paean to first adolescent dabblings, uh-uh. “Feels Like The First Time,” that’s the one. A Foreigner song! There are other times, of course, when you take Foreigner completely for granted—you might hum one of their inoffensive rock ditties as you go about the housework, but you rarely stop to think. That this is the group whose six album career has been the AOR equivalent of how many people can you stuff in a phone box; how many hits can you put on one LP? Foreigner make Michael Jackson look like a beginner.

Couldn’t see any Jackson albums in the small record collection in the lovely London flat, Mick Jones and family’s home-from-home when they’re not in New York City—just a copy of Urban Chipmunk, some glossy avant-garde magazines, gorgeous art-deco and a pair of ankle weights. I’ll leave you and your analyst to piece it together. Because what I found in Mr. Cold As Ice, Mr. Double Vision, Mr. (ah, brilliant) Feels Like The First Time was a man as calm and nice as the great god Valium itself—as collected as stamps, as controlled as the British press (and far more intelligent), so quiet and careful he makes Prince look like a blabbermouth. Generally self-deprecating and non-controversial. This is not, I found to my chagrin, the sort of bloke you can get to slag off Motley Crue. Though he did seem a mite intrigued at the prospect of Lou Gramm wearing a studded crotchpiece and Rick Wills and Dennis Elliott wearing matching bottomless leather pants.