ROCK MUSIC has not aged gracefully. Compare the lyrics of the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" to their recent "She's So Cold," or the Who's "My Generation" to their recent "Daily Records," and witness the loss of depth in both power and vision wrought by the past 15 years. One problem, paradoxical for this piece, is that the vigilance of reviewers' scrutiny has made pure pop songs, like, say "Da Do Ron Ron" taboo. Groups forced into mixing internal broodings with commercial and critical success wilted, or suffered tragic deaths. American "Top 40" music has since deteriorated to formulaic, dreary soft-rock songs and mindless disco.

Meanwhile, England, while also engendering experimental work, has retained an affection for good power-pop music. Singles remain a hot item t' ere today, while in the U.S. they're an albatross around the companies' necks. So in England, after John Lennon's death. "Imagine" made its way back to the top ten, an unheard-of event in America; and in England, a group can have many popular singles out without having to put out a whole album.

Some of this can help explain why the Rumour and Rockpile, two of rock's premier powerpop groups, are British. American rockers don't seem to have the musical knowledge, care, or sense of humor to do what these bands do--or at least do it well.

"We suck live," said Nick Lowe, when asked for comment about Rockpile's recent break-up. This self-effacing humor makes these bands sound so fresh, but also limits the market for them in this country. Where Adam and the Ants, a group that dons warpaint and drone on and on about "Ant-people" have become instant stars, the faceless three-minute ditty men, covering classic pop songs and penning their own to match, are buried forever.

ON DAVE, EDMUNDS' new album, Twangin', Rockpile backs him up: Lowe on bass, Terry Williams on drums, and Billy Bremner on second guitar. It's his fourth effort with them: Lowe has two, and the group as a unit has one. Twangin' is Edmunds in peak form--crafted, yet vibrant, rollicking yet soulful. Where Lowe's talent lies in witty sarcasm about everything from the Bay City Rollers to man-eating dogs, Edmunds lets his stinging guitar affirm rock and roll, putting polish on classics old and new. He plays in the Elvis Presley mode, but adds musicianship and production techniques the King didn't and couldn't have had.

Twangin' contains his usual grab-bag of songs, but Rockpile plays with more vigor than ever. The opening "Something Happens" (profound!) with its guttural voice and syncopated wall of guitars especially escapes the standard Edmunds rockabilly fare. His strength still lies in cover versions--not note for note copies, but revitalized obscure rockers from the days when a hummable tune wasn't a sin. Consider "Singing the Blues" and Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Almost Saturday Night." There were also quiet moments, like Lowe's Everly Brothers-like "I'm Gonna Start Living Again--If It Kills Me."

Perhaps Edmunds is better on radio than on record; this is definitely a collection of singles, rather than a cohesive "work." Yet hardly any seams show. The one oddity is that he chose to include an old Presley song Edmunds recorded in 1968. "Baby Let's Play House": whether this is here to show Edmunds hasn't changed in 13 years of pop music experience, or because he didn't think he could equal the performance today, is ambiguous. Rockpile's demise only complicates matters. It probably won't be permanent, but releasing an album without a tour is typical of the problems encountered by these veterans. Unfortunately, Lowe will probably best be remembered for his most innocuous song. "Cruel to be Kind," and for producing Elvis Costello; Edmunds will be remembered for his burning guitar interpretations of classical music in the late sixties, and for producing the groups Brindley Schwarz. Yet somewhere underneath all this lies great rock and roll that many people should be dancing to.

THE RUMOUR ARE inextricably linked with Rockpile: They even cover a Lowe song on their new album. Both bands are from the "pub rock" scene family tree of the early seventies, where band and audience got drunk and danced together. The movement was shorter lived than the hula hoop, and left these two groups without a musical home. The Rumour formed as a studio band for gas-station-attendant-turned-songwriter Graham Parker, and have had trouble appearing from behind his shadow. Their problem is not musical ability; they play everything from Motown to reggae to Abba, all with their own, flawless sound.

Thus we have Purity of Essence, their aptly titled third solo work. Their first, the bluesy Max can be had for a mere dollar at Beggar's Banquet in the Square, a comment on its popularity; and the second. Frogs, Sprouts, Clogs and Krauts didn't sell here either. Their problem lies in that after playing under Parker and Garland Jeffreys, they are, in comparison, devoid of poetic direction. They seem to have so sense as to what covers work and what don't. The new album contains Randy Newman's "Have You Seen My Baby" (which has also been covered by Ringo Starr) and "Rubber Band Man", a song already perfectly executed by the Spinners.

The strengths of the album lie not in the cover songs like Rockpile, but instead in the writing of Schwarz himself. It must be a comedown to go from a band with Nick Lowe and Ian Gomm named after oneself to front a band always known as "Graham Parker and the" of "Garland Jeffreys and the", but Brinsley has held up fine. The mix of his Brylcreem look and Martin Belmont's paunchy, fish-blowing-bubbles look are reflected in their complementary guitar styles, crafted pop and raunchy reggae.

Purity of Essence is by far the strongest Ip the Rumour has so far assembled--their songwriting still must catch up with their playing. In a recent radio interview, Belmont admitted it takes him six months to write a song. That would have worked in the sixties, when the singles were the dominant mode, but not now. Where Rockpile elevates old tunes like Fats Domino's "I Hear You Knocking" to new fame, the Rumour drags down Manfred Mann's "I Think It's Gonna Work Out Fine" into the dust heap. The tackiness of the album cover is a joke, but one that will hurt them in this country; Americans don't like being told flat out that they're stupid consumers. The music of the Rumour and Rockpile rockseven more in concert, but is drowned out by the record industry's find-me-something-new blues.