STEELY DAN takes its name from the painting of a large dildo. Maybe group co-founders Walter Becker and Donald Fagen meant it as self-denunciation. Maybe they meant to give a unique image to the unique sound of pop with a rock/reggae edge. In either case Steely Dan today continues as the most consistent and developing band around. It also represents exactly what's wrong with American pop music.

Gaucho, its newest release, is typical Steely Dan. It sports a hit single, and Becker and Fagen once again play bass and sing, and co-write all the songs. The "finest studio musicians around," including Dire Straits' guitarist Mark Knopfler and veteran hornmen the Brecker Brothers, Tom Scott and David Sanborn again make appearances. Steely Dan isn't a band, it's a conglomerate. On one cut, sixteen musicians are listed. The result, which lacks the breadth of most big band music, sounds neither spontaneous nor energetic.

Dan's first album, Can't Buy a Thrill(1972), held some promise of transcending everyday pop. But the Latin beat of "Do It Again," the tight guitar work on "Reeling in the Years," seems, in retrospect, contrived and commercial. Now, the band members change from cut to cut, but it doesn't matter. As long as Becker and Fagen are at the helm, everything meshes, sounding like a jamming session between George Benson and the Doobie Brothers (they're even guilty of spawning the new Doobie sound).

The predictability is irritating as the band crafts each record and each song to sound slightly different than the last: Royal Scam ushered in horn sections; Aja added extended orchestration. Some call Gaucho the quintessential Steely Dan. It "took three years to make," the ads brag. The ads don't mention the contract dispute and auto accident that actually delayed the album. You're supposed to think Dan put more thought into Gaucho than the albums it churned out annually. Not so. When Becker and Fagen assemble an album, it's like a political party picking a presidential candidate: the question becomes one of riding the tide. Thus, they always come up with a hit single. Instead of going disco, they fill the niche perfectly for those golden-oldies stations. This is pop music you can play for your parents.

The themes of Steely Dan songs remain unclear. "Babylon Sisters" opens the album, a psalm to menages a trois. But not to worry, the Dan says, "The kid will live and learn, as he watches his bridges burn from the point of no return." Wow--three cliches strung together in an entirely new fashion! Music has never been so coolly banal.

THE WHOLE ALBUM--taking a cue from the title--seems devoted to the growing middle-American fantasy of donning one's Frye boots and Stetson, grabbing a Miller, and riding a bucking bronco out west. America is now Marlboro Country and it's hard to miss the growing fascination with ranch types on TV commercials, or the fact that Kenny Rogers sold $45 million worth of records last year. Steely Dan has joined the stampede. Granted, it might be parodying the way of life, but even that's not clear:

Bodacious cowboys such as your friend (who?)

will never be welcome here (why?)

high in the Custerdome (where?)

This, from the title song, is typical of the abundant half-finished thoughts which Dan fans call mysterious. Rather than make pronouncements about people outside their lifestyle, Becker and Fagen try to reveal life's secret through riddles about themselves. On "Time Out of Mind," an ode to drugs, they define being high: "It's the light in my eyes--it's perfection and grace--it's the smile on my face." Rock can live without such self-indulgent obscurism. "I was the whining stranger--a fool in love with time to kill," confesses Fagen in "My Rival," but he only croons, the love is self-love, and time is unfortunately flogged to death as we writhe, waiting for something to happen.

When they poke fun at Hollywood (a tough target!) in "Glamor Profession," they debase their argument by setting the lyrics to L.A.-mellow music. And this isn't clever melodic satire, because "My Rival" is much of the same, setting funk back a few decades. The vocal tracks removed, "My Rival" could play over airport sound systems.

Most bands get started by dedicating years to road work; Dan has toured only once. Becker and Fagen seem satisfied sitting in the studio, sipping Cuervo Gold, calling in friends for an occasional overdub, growing old and rich. And America eats it up. Easy rock with a pseudo-Latin chacha, the formula hits its peak. Even the fast songs sound slow, thanks to the preposterously uninspired dribble of the guitar solos.

THE PRICE TAG IS ALSO DEPRESSING. It ushers in the $9.98 list price for single discs. Even the Coop can't go lower than $6. This portends bad times for the record business, as companies will be more reluctant to sign bands out of the mainstream, and fans will have little incentive to buy expensive albums by unknowns. And it's fitting Steely Dan leads the price lunge. It fits their style. If you're smart, you'll buy one of their early efforts. It doesn't matter which--Dan enthusiasts don't agree on a 'best'--the albums are all interchangeable. But at $5.98 you won't feel as bad when, in six months, you realize how disposable the work is.

The U.S. needs more bands that kick down our doors and shatter our complacency. Give us the unrestrained Sex Pistols doing "Johnny B. Goode," forgetting the lyrics. Or Dylan or Springsteen, moving toward some poetic vision, trying to find a way to reaffirm life in the face of death. Leave the dildo to Steely Dan, to those who can't enjoy real sex.