William Shatner Live. Mr. Whipple Live. Mothra Comes Alive. Only a keen machete in the most ruthless hands could cut a swath through the jungle of live albums and emerge undamaged. But in this wilderness of vinyl undergrowth is a sunny clearing occupied by Foghat Live. The LP is no bandwagon-jumper. Indeed, it could serve as an object lesson to shiftless rockers who dub studio vocals over in-concert backing tracks and tag the outcome "live."

Stripped on record of their absurd silver sneakers and glowing stage props, Foghat had to play well to prove themselves more than a Muddy Waters-inspired band with shag cuts and big amps. Here, they've distilled two recent performances which needed no more touching up than some editing. The result: an album so brash that it makes Kiss sound like a folk act.

In hard-rock, there's a tendency to single out a personality within a band. Such spotlighting is no boon to ensemble playing, and self-important soloists can undermine group unity. No ego clashes disturb the music of Foghat. The two guitarists are both assertive without undercutting each other ..... Rod Price always gives Dave Peverett breathing space, and lead guitarist Peverett rarely eclipses Price. The rhythm section of Roger Earl and Craig MacGregor plays with the rapport of Siamese twins.

Good fellowship carries built-in dangers, too. A band not on its toes can boogie compatibly into oblivion or collapse in unison from metal fatigue. No chance of either here. Foghat's pace is barrelhouse, its power flow nonstop. The audience gets no chance to drift. Terse spoken introductions, cleverly addressed to the crowd, are really cues for the drummer to crash into the next song.

The strengths of a good "live" album can also be its drawbacks. The location echo on Foghat Live turns the best-damped playback room into an aircraft shelter. Except for "Home In My Hand," which is strongly sung, Peverett's thin voice tends to float too near the rafters. The guitars have the immediacy of nearby gunfire, but don't sound as crisp as they did on the studio-made Fool For The City.

But the group's interaction more than makes up for the disc's metallic mercilessness. Price and Peverett mimic absent keyboards with their Les Pauls. The bass line is much more distinct than on Foghat's last two records. New arrangements showcase unabrasive solo talents. Peverett takes a trim guitar break on the Joe Turner tune, "Honey Hush," and the song is performed in a manner that gives Earl a welcome excuse to loosen up the relentless 4/4 beat and show what he can do with his drum kit. Price's rude slid-guitar style and fondness for feedback fuse perfectly into the general clangor. And producer Nick Jameson manages to weave some continuity into this paste-and-scissors dovetail of two shows.

A whole Foghat concert could fill four sides, but only raving feebs clamor for double live sets. This band's sins of omission are forgivable next to some of the excesses of their platinum peers.

--- by Richard Hogan