In this, the final edition of Reels of Dreams Unrolled, Chuck Hamilton, John Shannon and I have sought to review a few of our favorite progressive rock albums of all time. This was intended to be a fun and easy reward to ourselves, since, in the past, we have reviewed so many albums with which we were not all that familiar or enamored. This was meant to be a chance to talk about whichever albums we loved the most, without any constraints. Of course, we have already managed to review several favorites in the past, and there are still some that just didn't get done here. The fact that no Genesis, Magma or Gentle Giant albums appear here seems like a crime. And no Italian albums either? Well, had we written a few more reviews, surely things would have been different. What we have here then, is a very, very small cross section of our favorite albums – the ones we continue to turn to regularly, year after year, even after past favorites have fallen by the wayside. Probably most of our readers will be familiar with most of these albums, and there will probably not be many surprises. If your prog collection is relatively small, however, allow us to recommend the following. Otherwise, sit back and re-familiarize yourself with some of our (and your) favorites. – SH
Änglagård
Epilog
1994
independent release
“The two albums by Änglagård are so far the apotheosis of the new scene’s accomplishments.” So said New Sonic Architecture’s Matthew Martens in the NSA catalog a few years ago. That was then, this is now. The new progressive rock scene he mentioned has lost much of its creative steam. Many of the new scene’s original movers and shakers have moved and shaken right out of existence or drastically decreased their output. And recent newcomers have made little lasting impact. One thing seems to remain true: even ten years after their arrival on (or should we say creation of?) the new prog scene, Änglagård’s contributions to the prog rock revival remain unequaled. It seems that no new band or artist has had more impact or become so legendary. Fueling the legend of Änglagård are the facts that the band broke up almost as quickly as it burst onto the scene and that the band’s two studio albums have been out of print for many of the last few years. Hybris was re-released a couple of years ago, but Epilog remains out of print and routinely commands nearly double its original price on Ebay only eight years after its release. How ironic it is that one of the best prog albums of the ‘90s revival is also among the hardest to obtain.
What makes Epilog magnificent is what so many of the ‘90s prog revivalist bands sought so hard to achieve: an almost perfect amalgamation of the old and the new. The most obvious aspect of the old is the use of authentic instrumentation that was common in prog’s heyday. Extensive use of Hammond Organ and Mellotron as well as a lack of obviously modern guitar tones/effects and recording techniques help make Epilog sound like it could have been recorded in the 1970s. The sound is entirely authentic and vintage, yet without any sort of campy, contrived ‘70s vibe that is so often constructed for the sake of luring Generation X. On the other hand, however, Änglagård’s compositions seem just a bit more radical and uncompromising than what most of the major ‘70s prog acts ever did. Epilog sounds as if Änglagård takes up and continues on the progressive path near the point where so many of the classic bands left it. One could argue that Änglagård’s first album sounds fairly derivative of prog’s past, but Epilog finds the band in relatively new territory, treading unbeaten parts of the path Genesis and Yes never got to travel.
While Epilog is a remarkable album, it is not necessarily an easy listen. If Epilog has any flaw, it is the lack of “hooks” or catchy sections that the listener can easily look forward to. This is complex, ever shifting music that rarely stays in one place for very long. Epilog requires close attention for full enjoyment, but it can be difficult to devote such attention over the course of the whole album. It is easy to drift away mentally during the many sections of delicate guitar arpeggios and subdued Mellotron chords. These lulls, however, are often rudely broken by short violent outbursts that shake the listener back to attention.
When one can devote the attention Epilog deserves, the results are quite rewarding. One may find the album seems much more relevant in the fall or winter months, when the atmosphere outside seems to match perfectly with the somber, lonely mood that pervades the entire album.
Epilog is comprised of six all-instrumental tracks. The album begins with the two-minute “Prolog,” which sets the tone for the entire album quite well. It begins with a quavering, diaphanous melody on solo Mellotron. Then the entire band restates the same melody with increased drama and vigor. The effect is melancholy, yet powerful. “Saknadens Fulhet” serves as the opposite bookend of the album. Like “Prolog,” it is exactly two minutes long, but it is a poignant piece for solo piano. Its effect is bittersweet and ends the album on a somewhat uncertain, unfinished note.
In between these two pieces are three very long tracks – the meat of the album – and a peculiar 14-second track of barely audible ambient noise. The three long tracks are all wondrous, massive studies in contrast. It is in the stark, sometimes jarring contrasts between light and dark, loud and soft, masculine and feminine that one can most easily see the often-cited influence of early King Crimson. The instrumentation and melodies, however, usually speak of early Genesis. This is especially true in the beautiful flute and acoustic guitar passages.
In almost every way, Epilog is a much more mature, “serious” sounding album than Hybris. A string quartet augments the band on much of the album, lending a strong baroque feel to the music. It should be no surprise that several of the members of Änglagård pursued classical music studies after the band broke up. It must have seemed like the only logical direction for them after recording rock albums of such complexity and quality.
Epilog is not music for parties or for trips to the grocery store. This album is like a fine wine. It should be brought out only on occasions when one can sit down and quietly savor the artistry and quality of this masterpiece. – SH
The Beatles
Revolver
1966
Capitol
There has never been any lack of debate over which album is the original progressive rock release – the grandfather of the genre, the one that started it all – and that debate continuously recurs in fan magazines and on internet message boards, as any reader of this review will probably already know well. Most typically, prog rock enthusiasts rattle off a few choice titles: In the Court of the Crimson King, Days of Future Passed, something from the early Zappa, something from The Nice, etc. Just as often, though, and just as interestingly, there is a swelter of discussion with regard to the prototypes out of which even the first prog album emerged: the predecessors whose music hinted at the extravagant and often bombastic developments to come and whose success – commercial and aesthetic – widened the road for the passage of the later behemoths of classical rock. Commonly, the discussion about prog prototype albums involves a decent variety of artists and recordings – The Who, with its naïve but powerful Tommy; the chaos and whimsy of Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd; S.F. Sorrow; perhaps Pet Sounds – and this variety at the least points out the abundance of influences which did eventually coalesce into the (admittedly tenuous) category of progressive rock music. However, there is one album that, more than any other, heralded an era of high musical experimentation and the incorporation of non-standard pop elements, and that album – the prototype for the art/classical/progressive rock of the late ‘60s and most of the ‘70s – is none other than Revolver, the Beatles’ 1966 release.
One could not go so far as to label this album a bona fide entry into the progressive rock canon: that claim is extreme. But within Revolver – an absolute contender for the title “Greatest Album of the Rock and Roll Era” – are the seeds out of which will eventually grow the strong, sprawling vines of progressive rock composition and virtuosity.
The album opens with “Taxman”, and The Beatles are already deconstructing Fab Four past. The song is a George Harrison classic and the movement away from “She Loves You” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” is obvious enough, but as well, “Taxman” indicates the maturity of Lennon and McCartney, who step to the rear of the stage and let another Beatle bask in the limelight. Ironically, though, once to the fore, George laments, complaining about the machinations of government, which rob him of his wealth: there is no love in this song – it is political protest, satire, and existential angst. The Beatles have grown savvy, and are unimpressed with the designs of the old order. There is no little girl to make the man feel the part: there is the brutality of human strife with its high-handed thievery and deceit. A song of awareness, in short, accented by McCartney’s demonic, acid-thrust guitar solo – short and searing, like a blast of LSD realization forced upon the consciousness – with distinct Asian halftones promoting a new pop-rock epistemology. The Beatles, like Bob Dylan, teach the coming generation of pop minstrels a new vocabulary, one that can, when spoken, effect change in the mind and in the heart. Progressive rock will later attempt further lessons in morality and sheer humanity.
George introduces another motif into the album with “I Want to Tell You,” a jaunty little hippy-bounce that nevertheless rides atop some waves of dissonance; George (and John) will continue to delve into the realm of discordant sounds, and The Beatles’ exploration will make possible much of the strident, harsh emotion found in the progressive offerings of, for example, King Crimson and Van der Graaf Generator. Playtime is (mostly) over and The Beatles have become musicians, and even artists.
The Asian strain runs rampant through Revolver, and this foreshadows the adoption of world-music themes and instruments into popular music that will, by the end of the twentieth century, become somewhat trite. George gives us a fairly pure dose of classical Indian music in his “Love You To,” aligned with the lyricism of LSD and Hindu insight:
Each day just goes so fast
I turn around, it’s passed
You don’t get time to hang a sign on me.
This track also shows us to the true use of the sitar, about which Rubber Soul’s “Norwegian Wood” merely teases. McCartney’s closing vocals on “I Want to Tell You” echo the Oriental tonality of “Taxman” – a slippery singing, fluid and irregular, hard to catch and hold. And John Lennon utilizes the extreme mysticism of Tibetan Buddhism in the lyrics for “Tomorrow Never Knows.” The Beatles have evolved and have brought the world into themselves (perhaps in part because they, as recognizable superstars, could not readily go out into the world). Progressive rock will not shy away from any of this (e.g., Jethro Tull’s Stand Up) and, because The Beatles were indeed the biggest band in the land, and because they – whether willingly or not – grew out of the moptop teenage cuteness into large experimentation, still financially potent, they made the later tangents and deviations of progressive rock possible.
It is primarily George Harrison and Paul McCartney who are concerned with Asian music on Revolver; John Lennon is more intrigued by the effort to convey the intensity of the acid experience, the prismatic swirl of nightmare and infinite horizons. Lennon’s music is the boldest on Revolver, utilizing syncopation and odd time signatures, bizarre sound effects, distorted vocals, stinging guitar tones, and the poetry of lysergic inebriation. It is just this very boldness – such a thorough disruption of the early Beatles mythos and naïve musical charm – that authorizes the future novel adventures of progressive rock.
Notably, John Lennon’s music is mainly far from pleasant or uplifting on Revolver; his angst spills out into the world of white pop and rock, and the future progressive musicians will be perhaps even more willing to explore their subjective response to existence, be it sweet or sour. Lennon envisions death on “She Said She Said,” with its hornet-buzz opening guitar, and on “Tomorrow Never Knows,” derived from Buddhist instruction for passage into eternal oblivion. Elsewhere, Lennon revels in a stoned, lazy ease (“I’m Only Sleeping”) and the convenience of an accessible pusher (“Doctor Robert”). Although the fantasy element of his lyricism is evident (“Yellow Submarine”), the acerbic John Lennon is climbing out of the chrysalis, and while the memory of simple rock ‘n’ roller Beatle John lingers (“And Your Bird Can Sing”), still, the new visionary John is avant-garde and bitter.
Paul McCartney’s contributions to the album are seemingly straightforward and yet his inventiveness at songcraft is no less apparent, and maybe more evident in juxtaposition with John and George’s acidy meanderings. Paul’s pop dabbling is really nothing short of brilliant and certainly works well to highlight the congruity of experimentation and formalism in rock.
Paul wears an assortment of musical coats on Revolver. On “Eleanor Rigby” he is back as the chamber ensemble maestro, but instead of the bittersweet “Yesterday,” the tune paints a bleak, barren picture of modern culture, with lonely souls littered about and helpless. The deep under-rumblings of the cello give the song a brown hue. Many bands following the Beatles will at some point turn to orchestration to bolster their music: again, the enormous popularity of the Beatles, leading into the cultural acceptance of their inventiveness, made the development and advance of progressive rock quite permissible. In “Got to Get You into My Life,” a glowing affirmation of LSD insight and the attendant freedom, utilizes brassy horn charts to drive along the song’s positive vibe. McCartney, more than the other Beatles, was willing to incorporate the instruments of the symphony and jazz to expand the possibilities of pop music; bands like Gentle Giant could and did exist because of Revolver.
Paul does not abandon his trademark cuteness or sharp melodic sense, or his romanticism. “For No One” warns of love’s tendency to fade; “Here, There and Everywhere” highlights the thrill of love’s first (and remaining) blush. And on “Good Day Sunshine,” Paul throws back the shades and lets the warm morning light shine down. On Revolver, Paul makes each of his songs a stew, tossing in this, then that, with a quick stir – and the blend does taste quite nice. Progressive rock will not necessarily adopt a McCartneyesque pop sensibility but it will remain open to the infinite possibilities of musical form and structure (or their absence).
Revolver is decidedly not a progressive rock album. But it is the album that, even in its compressed style, legitimized the evolution of rock music out of three-minute ditties. With its incorporation of world music, non-Western philosophical and psychological notions, orchestration, electronic gadgetry, existential reflection, and an expanded idea of what territory does in fact belong to the rock musician, Revolver proved that risk-taking could mix with commercial viability in pop music, and that proof was indeed the start of the progressive rock period. – JS
Jethro Tull
Thick as a Brick
1972
Capitol
It seems quite clear that prog enthusiasts primarily view Jethro Tull as a second-tier representative of the style. I believe the usual discussion runs along this line: Jethro Tull was a decent, late ‘60s, blues-based rock band with jazz overtones and an eccentric frontman (one Ian Anderson); after the departure of founding member Mick Abrahams, Tull became a bit more eclectic, offering a hard rock ‘n’ roll tinged with acoustic touches and world-music flourishes. Aqualung made the band an arena smash and an FM radio staple; Tull then enjoyed back-to-back number one releases in the United States – Thick as a Brick and A Passion Play – which were composed in the contemporary idiom of progressive rock; and subsequently, Tull returned to a more streamlined musicality, perhaps highlighted by the folk-rock musings of Songs from the Wood. That is the story, indeed, in the proverbial nutshell, except that it fails to capture the grandness of Tull’s foray into progressive rock. And not only is Thick as a Brick exemplary of Jethro Tull’s immersion into the genre – of the band’s control over the compositional complexity and performance acumen typical for progressive rock – but it is exemplary for the entire era. Here’s why.
Jethro Tull first and foremost did not take the progressive rock rubric too seriously or too much to heart. In fact, Thick as a Brick is in some ways a satire of the entire development of the genre. Ian Anderson has stated that his original intent, in response to the incorrect assertion that Aqualung had been a concept album, was to create the “mother of all concept albums,” but as “a bit of a spoof.” So, while the fans and sundry listeners do find Thick as a Brick a conceptual piece, it is clearly a laugh up the sleeve as well. The liner notes – in the form of daily newspaper articles, no less - indicate that the lyrics are authored by one “Gerald (Little Milton) Bostock”, an eight-year-old poetic prodigy, who has won first-place in a writing contest. Alas, though, there is a scandal; Gerald’s work is protested; the judges revoke Gerald’s prize; and the Thick as a Brick lyrics are deemed “obscure and verbose assertions.” A conceptual non-concept: that is the joke of Thick as a Brick. Tull blurs the distinction between art and comedy, between impressive aesthetic display and mockery. Especially in contrast with A Passion Play, which is foreboding and marginally disjointed, Thick as a Brick is light in its refusal to be too well-lauded. And whereas something like Van der Graaf Generator’s Pawn Hearts smacks of self-consciousness and existential absorption, Thick as a Brick seems quite playful, but all the while ambitious and clever.
Tull’s lineup in 1972 had altered significantly since the previous year’s success of Aqualung and the musicianship of the players certainly bears the stamp of progressive rock prowess. Thick as a Brick is possibly John Evan’s finest hour, as the various keyboard solos and accompaniments fill the album: most notably, it is rare for any individual tone to repeat, except as reprise, and Evan’s contribution is remarkably fresh, moreso because he does not play with an Emersonian grandiosity but strives to accent and complement. Barriemore Barlow – easily the unsung drum hero of progressive rock – lends subtle intricacies here and there but does not hesitate to pound out a menacing throb when requisite. Martin Barre as always is a study in understatement, but also he is the epitome of finesse and guitar tact. Ian Anderson of course commands the show and holds the loose ends together. The vocals range from weary resignation, “Your sperm’s in the gutter, your love’s in the sink,” to exasperated imitation of the self-appointed aristocracy of modern humanity.
I’ve come down from the upper-class
to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man of power
whom everyone obeyed.
But there is also always a smirking transcendence throughout the tunes, as if to witness such sad mortality is of course to rise above it. Well, not always, but observation often makes attractive verse, and the idea that Gerald Bostock would understand, at eight, the follies of Homo sapiens is ludicrous, and wraps Ian’s intensity in levity. The tricky acoustic guitar arpeggios, flute trills, and accurate ensemble playing merely point out a musician – and an entire band – at the pinnacle of its career.
The musical scenery of Thick as a Brick is quick shifting, like some quaking landslide. Tull gives us marches, dirges, a smattering of English folk music, aquatic sound effects, interludes, the occasional nasty rock ‘n’ roll outburst, pastoral quietude, and devilish jams: sheer mastery of forms.
The long form of the album – the unbroken concatenation of song and instrumental segue – is a derivation from classical music, and it would perhaps be ridiculous and ill fitting if it weren’t constructed so tightly. By and large, the album never drags or flattens; each new theme is vigorous and compelling, and draws attention forward into the next segment. Most enjoyable perhaps is the return to the “Thick as a Brick” guitar strum, the repeating motif, which is instantly recognizable but, slightly altered, lends to the music a new emotional emphasis, a different perspective on the overarching structure. The miracle of Thick as a Brick is somewhat its length but more importantly its continuity and consistency.
My idiosyncratic fondness for Thick as a Brick stems mostly from my love of a good, solid, sing-along melody. I sense a strain of holier-than-thou contempt in progressive rock as a genre, an attitude of elitism and snobbery, and that attitude often involves a dismissal of radio play and popular success, of simple harmonic congruence and compositional regularity. I am certainly one to enjoy the avant-garde and even doses of outright discordance (God bless you, Mr. Fripp!), but I regard as the best of the breed those more melodic prog bands that still retained an adventurous musical disposition and a desire for innovation. In short, I want my prog solos and extended flights into the tonal ether, but I also want a nice bit of tune. Thick as a Brick satisfies that craving. There is no lack of hummable snippets and I find that those short segments of pure pop songcraft blend well with the fanciful musings and skilled dexterity of prog instrumental music. I’m selfish: I need the experimentation and I need the melodic comfort, and Tull supplies me with both in Thick as a Brick.
The early '70s was the banner era for progressive (and what is now termed “classic”) rock and there were many gems in 1972, but I can always return to Thick as a Brick – like I might return to Dickens’ Oliver Twist, or Kubrick’s 2001 – and find an excellence that really serves to crown the genre. I like it moreso because it is Jethro Tull, the (pseudo-prog, say the detractors) prog band, that taught the other boys how it should be accomplished. – JS
King Crimson
Lizard
1971
EG
Lizard is certainly not one of the better-known Crimson albums. Even in the circles of Crimheads everywhere this album seems to be regarded in a somewhat dubious manner by many. No real reasons are given for this disparity. It definitely has a sound altogether unique, a sound not even approached on any other KC album. Though this was only Crimson's third album, the band had already undergone more lineup changes than most bands see in a lifetime. All but one of the founding members had moved on to other things, and by this time the band's sound and vision bore almost no resemblance to the King Crimson most people had heard before. Indeed, right after this album the personnel and sound of King Crimson changed once again, leaving Lizard pretty much standing all alone. In addition to this, the fact that Lizard has an overt jazz influence – rather than the neo-classical sound heard before and after – can tend to isolate many of its fans looking for Bartok and Orff instead of Coltrane. While this jazz would remain in one form or another throughout the rest of the ‘70s, never again would it be so prominent in King Crimson's sound as with this album.
These factors notwithstanding, Lizard is, on its own, a wholly amazing piece of work. As mentioned before, the jazz influence is unmistakable, and the sound and lineup on this album are completely unique from everything that came before or after in the Crimson catalogue. However, these things should be reasons for people to listen, not to stop their ears. After In the Wake of Poseidon, which was basically a rehashing of KC's first album, Lizard should hit like a breath of fresh air, a completely new Crimson with completely new ideas.
The most notable change in personnel has to be the new vocalist, Gordon Haskell. Haskell actually made his Crimson debut on Poseidon in the song "Cadence and Cascade," but once Greg Lake left for the chance to play love ballads elsewhere, Haskell took over the full vocal and bass guitar responsibilities. His vocals, while definitely not perfect, are at least interesting. His voice is very liquid and throaty, like he's singing with marbles tucked way in the back of his throat and at any minute he might choke on them. One really gets the impression that for some odd reason, every sound he makes is produced farther back in the throat than is normal.
In a few places it sounds like the microphone has actually entered his mouth. While this may not sound attractive, keep in mind it's hard to describe some voices, and his is one of them. His is certainly not a charismatic voice like Greg Lake, not powerful like John Wetton, but very controlled. These vocals provide the perfect atmosphere for the rest of the crew.
Lizard almost always sounds like the band was one beat away from falling completely apart. There is a very palpable sense of controlled chaos, a sense that nobody ever really knew exactly where they were in the music.
The new drummer, Andy McCulloch, continues (and even surpasses) Michael Giles' style of playing pretty much everything but a normal beat. Add to that a piano player who approaches the music like a true free-form jazz musician – any chord, anywhere, any time – a Robert Fripp who appears on acoustic guitar as much as electric, yet still plays it like a madman, and Mel Collins, a woodwind player who can play the flute to the utmost of beauty, as he does on "Lady of the Dancing Water," and switch to saxophone which he belts out, overdubbed, raw and meaty, on almost every other track. This lineup would never be heard from again, and it's really a shame because Lizard shows us a potential for power that could give even the later Wetton/Bruford combination a run for its money. And last, throughout all this chaos is Haskell on the bass. Unlike everyone else, Haskell plays his bass as the anchor to the rest, playing a pretty steady rhythm, never flashy, rarely syncopated, even. His lack of excess seems almost boringly normal compared to the overindulgence of the rest, yet his careful plodding might have been the glue that kept it all together.
Through this controlled chaos flows some of the most incredible, thought-provoking lyrics ever put on paper by Peter Sinfield. Many consider him to be an amazing lyricist, while still others consider him to be a bit overblown, yet almost all seem to agree that on this album he achieved something extraordinary. Almost every line invokes images, teases the ear with tongue twisters and jangled constructions. The first track, "Cirkus," is an incredible example of just what Sinfield could do, with lines like,
Night: her sable dome scattered with diamonds,
Fused my dust from a light year,
Squeezed me to her breast, sowed me with carbon,
Strung my warp across time.
For a detailed analysis, look elsewhere; just know that on this album Peter Sinfield shines clear and raises the bar for wordsmiths everywhere. A few highlights to watch out for: The song "Happy Family" is a clever tune that really concerns the break-up of The Beatles, whose images can be seen on the cover itself; and our illustrious editor chose the phrase "reels of dreams unrolled" from this album for the name of this website due to the fantastical mental images it evokes.
Without a doubt the highlight of this album is the beginning of side two. The second half of this album is the title track, but is broken down into several smaller parts. The first of these, "Prince Rupert Awakes," is unique because in the sea of turmoil on this album we have a few minutes of beautiful rest. There is nothing crazy here, just a beautiful section of music, made even better by the addition of guest vocalist Jon Anderson from Yes. Those who know his voice know well what he can add, and he does not disappoint here. When this section ends the music leads to “Bolero,” and we hear the guest musicians on oboe, trombone, and trumpet – this bolero section is true to its name, and while it begins with a beautiful, completely rock-less tune much in the style of Maurice Ravel himself, it winds up again with the chaos and craziness that we have grown to expect, and takes us back to the brink of madness. – CH
King Crimson
Larks’ Tongues in Aspic
1973
EG
In 1969 King Crimson released what many consider the first full-fledged progressive rock album: In the Court of the Crimson King. This album won the band instant acclaim and was vastly influential in shaping the sound and style of the burgeoning progressive rock movement of the early ‘70s. By 1971, Crimson had released three other studio albums that all fell more or less in line with the popular symphonic rock style it had helped to create with In the Court of the Crimson King (Lizard being a possible exception). Then King Crimson changed radically.
Rather than continue in a style which Crimson’s unofficial leader Robert Fripp would eventually deem dead and bloated, Fripp shifted gears, beginning the push for the figurative and literal red line portrayed in the music and on the back cover of the band’s temporary swansong, Red. This dramatic shift was made all the more possible because all the previous members of King Crimson (except Fripp) quit and were replaced with fresh, very forward thinking musicians. Bill Bruford, John Wetton, Jamie Muir and David Cross were all recruited to join the ranks of the Crimson King in 1972. By early 1973 the band had released an album that was every bit as groundbreaking and eye-opening as In the Court of the Crimson King had been. Larks’ Tongues in Aspic shattered all previous notions of what progressive rock or King Crimson should sound like. In fact, in the liner notes to the Epitaph box set Fripp has even denied that King Crimson’s music post-1970 even qualifies as progressive rock. While these attempts to disassociate from the progressive movement (also practiced by members of other seminal progressive bands in recent years) may irritate prog fans, Fripp’s argument has some merit by the time of Larks’ Tongues in Aspic. None of the big name prog bands had ventured into such unpredictable territory and none would dare to follow. The large-scale commercial success they achieved in the mid-‘70s would have been impossible if they had.
Larks’ Tongues in Aspic is a remarkable album for several reasons. Firstly, it deviated from what would become prog rock’s traditional mold while the mold was still relatively new. Many of the elements of classical music that had become hallmarks of King Crimson and prog rock in general were abandoned with Larks’ Tongues in Aspic. Instead, the group looked increasingly toward jazz and the avant-garde for inspiration. The 1972-74 incarnation of King Crimson would become known for its stunning prowess in the area of improvisation. This was not improvisation in the manner of most rock groups of the day, which usually meant a guitarist improvising a solo over a repeated chord progression. This was real group improvisation in which almost everything played by each member was unscripted. There is only a little improvisation on Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, (there would be much more on the next two albums) but the band had begun experimenting with serious improvisation before the recording of Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, and evidence of the newfound freedom it provided is certainly apparent in the compositions on the album.
Larks’ Tongues in Aspic is also unique for its subtle incorporation of non-western musical influences for the first time on any King Crimson album. On page 59 of the libretto to The Great Deceiver box set, David Cross writes about early auditions for forming the Larks’ Tongues in Aspic band: “We had a jam with a wonderful eccentric gentleman/musician called Jamie Muir with a view to doing an Indian type album.” Cross goes on to point out that the Indian album never happened, but there is no question that experimentation with non-Western musical traditions made an impact on the sound of Larks’ Tongues in Aspic. The use of thumb piano (from Africa) and dulcimer (an ancient instrument possibly originating in the Middle East) on the first track are clues, but more so are the unusual scales and melodies found throughout much of the album. “The Talking Drum” and “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic” parts one and two all nod to exotic scales and Oriental sounding melodies. While the incorporation of non-Western influences into rock music had already begun well before 1972, King Crimson was on the front line of bands doing it in a more profound way. King Crimson's approach on Larks’ Tongues in Aspic was in stark contrast to the more common technique of adding a token sitar player in the background for a song or two.
One final trait that makes Larks’ Tongues in Aspic so unusual is its amazing dynamic range. Drastic contrasts between loud and soft were always a hallmark of early King Crimson music, but Larks’ Tongues in Aspic took this phenomenon to a much higher level. In Eric Tamm’s book, Robert Fripp from King Crimson to Guitar Craft, the writer illustrates this point perfectly.
“Dynamic contrast is of the essence in the music of Larks’ Tongues. There is a psychological difference between loud and soft, after all, and in an age when compressors and limiters have squashed the dynamic range of recorded popular music down to the point where a delicately plucked acoustic guitar note or sensitively crooned vocal phrase comes out of your speakers at the same actual volume level as the whole damned synthesized band when it’s blowing away at top intensity, listening to Larks’ Tongues’ startling contrasts of dynamics is a tonic for the ears. It’s more real, it’s more true.”
King Crimson’s music had always displayed an unusual deftness for contrast between moods of different songs. This has been a characteristic of much of progressive rock, but few progressive rock bands achieved such diversity on a single album as the early incarnations of King Crimson, and Larks’ Tongues in Aspic is one of the most diverse King Crimson albums ever. The very fact that the simple ballad “Book of Saturdays,” adorned with little more than its beautifully tender backward guitar solo, could coexist so successfully on the same album with the roaring math-rock manifesto that is “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, Part Two” is stunning. How about the dynamics between the seething, almost atonally distorted guitar riff near the beginning of the opening track and the frail, melancholy violin cadenza in the middle of it? This kind of dynamism in rock music was rare in 1972. Thirty years later it’s a totally foreign concept.
Larks’ Tongues in Aspic benefited greatly from the musicians who played on it. King Crimson has always included excellent musicians but Larks’ Tongues in Aspic represented a leap forward in this respect. Fripp’s exceptional guitar work had earned notoriety since almost day one, but Larks’ Tongues marks the beginning of King Crimson’s transformation from a symphonic band to a guitar band. “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic Part One” unveils what would become Fripp’s trademark propensity for ultra-fast, snake-like melodies. “Larks’ Tongues” parts one and two also contain the heaviest chord riffs of any Crimson album up to that time. True to Fripp’s multifaceted guitar personality, however, he also brings some of his most touching and beautiful solos to the table as well. Over the years, Frip’s black Les Paul has burned, wailed, sawed the sky and shredded wallpaper at thirty paces, but rarely has it ever wept so gently as it does at the end of “Exiles.”
Of course, Fripp’s bandmates on this album were all excellent in their own ways too. John Wetton’s voice is legendary among prog circles, but perhaps nowhere among all the UK, Asia and King Crimson releases on which he worked does he sing more beautifully than on “Exiles.” And where else does he sound as exasperated as on “Easy Money”?
The contribution of David Cross also should not be underestimated. In the beginning of this lineup’s lifetime, Cross’ violin balanced out the band’s increasing tendencies toward heaviness and virtuosity (the band eventually won). Cross was a classically trained player, but he was not a virtuoso by classical standards. Technically speaking, his violin playing may have seemed weak in comparison to that of someone like Jean-Luc Ponty (Mahavishnu Orchestra) or Didier Lockwood (Magma), but his presence on Larks’ Tongues in Aspic provides an important organic, acoustic and often melancholy tone to the proceedings. Just listen to the very last chord he plays at the very end of “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic Part Two.” (You’ll have to turn it up loud.) After all the seething, macho, heavy riffing – and right in the middle of the dissonance of John Wetton’s bent bass strings relaxing into feedback – we have Cross’ violin sweetly playing a single chord at the end of it all. It sounds so innocent and sweet, as if it represents the achievement of catharsis by the previous seven minutes of aggression. Brilliant!
Jamie Muir, (credited with percussion and “allsorts”) lends rich imagination and innovation to the album. If not for him, Larks’ Tongues in Aspic would have a much more sterile sound and would not be nearly the headphone album it is. This is an album that reveals things one has never heard before years after the first listen, largely due to Muir and his bag of tricks – aluminum pie pans, bowed cymbals, strange noises, etc. What a pity he did not stay with Crimson longer.
Bill Bruford, as we all know, was already an accomplished drummer with Yes when he joined King Crimson, shortly before Larks’ Tongues in Aspic was recorded. His inclusion in Crimson helped him become one of the most respected and unique drummers of his generation. At this point, however, he was just beginning his transformation into a more experimental, well-rounded percussionist.
Without Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, there could have been no Starless & Bible Black and no Red. Without it, later progressive bands like Present, Bi Kyo Ran, Philharmonie and Anekdoten would have sounded very different – or maybe they would not have existed at all. Thirty years after its release, Larks’ Tongues in Aspic remains not only one of King Crimson’s most important albums, but also one of the most imaginative and groundbreaking rock albums in history. – SH
Tangerine Dream
Zeit
1972
Sequel
Zeit is one of those albums that always seems to provoke a fierce reaction from its listeners. On this, their third album, Tangerine Dream managed to produce something that was totally unique, never really heard before or since. To some, this album is a masterpiece of minimalism, a deeply moving album that requires nothing less than the total attention and patience of whoever dares to put it in the stereo. To others, it is simply a horrendously long album in which "nothing ever happens." To be fair, both of these assessments are truthful, to one degree or another. Zeit is considered by many to be one of the quintessential pieces of ambient music, taking what was as the time a burgeoning form of musical expression and showing just to what extremes it could be stretched. At the same time, true to the ideals of ambient, nothing much ever really happens. Ever. This is one of those albums designed to blend into its surroundings, not filling up space, so much as just being. What is important to remember, though, is that the action of this music is not what makes it a timeless work. Rather, it's the lack of action, and the reaction of the audience that make Zeit stand apart from the rest.
"Timeless" is very much an apt word to describe Zeit, for "Zeit" is the German word meaning "time." It's been said before "Time" is also accurate because this album takes up so much of it. The four songs span a full 80 minutes, and while that is not the most lengthy album ever recorded, 80 minutes of Zeit can well feel like 160 minutes of anything else. The subtitle to this album is Largo in Four Movements. Those with a musical knowledge will know that "Largo" is a music term meaning "slow." A more accurate description has never been spoken. In these four movements, "slow" is without a doubt the most accurate description possible. For eighty minutes, there is virtually no rhythm, melody, clang, whack, hit, thud, beat, or structure of any kind. Zeit moves like a river of molasses, a liquid blob of sounds that ever so slowly ooze together to form more or less an amorphous whole.
Take the first song, "Birth of Liquid Pleiades." This twenty-minute piece is basically comprised of three main sections, all of which are equally slow and plodding. It starts out with a string quartet fading in on a long, low drone note. This fade-in itself takes a good bit of time, and all the while the instruments rarely change pitch. The music gets louder and more intense, the vibrations of the differing strings sending deep waves through your whole body. The strings eventually are replaced with keyboards, and the tone of this one note progressively becomes weirder and more synthesized. The note finally begins to fade until we can hear almost nothing. A soft, muffled organ can be heard in the background, playing low-pitched chords. The organ slowly – always slowly – begins to fill the silence. This beautiful section is equally slow, but much less intense. Instead, it is mainly comprised of the organ, muted and subdued, playing a handful of closely positioned chords, the transition between these chords itself being very minimal and without action. We are soon treated to another droning note, this time a high-pitched one, and for the next long space of time we have just this one note being played over the soft organ. Occasionally, the one note jumps for a second – not a note change, but a musical hiccup that soon settles back to the original note. Imagine a heart monitor reading an incredibly slow and erratic pulse. The last bit is made up of yet another organ playing even more chords. These chords are slightly more involved, and the organ this time has a much brighter, tinny sound to it. As the organ cycles through its chords, it begins to pulse, fading in and out in probably one of the few examples of anything even remotely approaching a rhythm. This eventually fades to quiet.
While this may sound incredibly uninvolved, it is by no means boring or simple. The mood created here – and of course this piece is all about mood – is one of deep submersion, like listening to music far below the surface of the ocean. Imagine low-pitched whale songs vibrating through your body. Imagine echoes under the water, your ears hearing the sounds but never being able to focus directly on them. The noise surrounds you like water itself, immersing you in that river of molasses and forcing you to change your own shape to match the music.
Zeit remains as one of the pinnacles of ambient music. The subtle movements (and outright intensity of some of the sections) provide a different kind of power that most music today never seems to reach. It's a power not of noise and speed but of ideas and voiceless emotions. Keep in mind this slowness was intentional, and it's not on purpose that Zeit comes across as eighty minutes of nothing. When you can finally work yourself up to listening to all of this in one sitting – the way Zeit was meant to be experienced – you can be assured of being taken on a journey to a landscape you could never have imagined before. – CH
Tangerine Dream
Phaedra
1974
Virgin
Whether you call their music space rock, kraut rock, ambient, electronica or even new age, Tangerine Dream is one of the all-time granddaddies of all of these musical niches. They didn’t invent electronic music, but they sure did play a massive part in making it a popular, commercially viable musical form. And perhaps no album in their massive catalog played a bigger part than Phaedra in transforming electronic music from arcane experimentation to a popular form of art.
Phaedra was released in 1974 on the then brand-new and progressive-minded Virgin Records. Phaedra was also among the first Tangerine Dream albums that sounded more like music than haphazard sound sculpture, but just barely. It featured something of a regular rhythm in most of the tracks and saw a slight movement toward recognizable melody (trends the band would continue for years – well beyond the point of being interesting anymore). These two factors helped bring Phaedra to a much wider audience in England – where Phaedra quickly went gold – and eventually in the USA. By this time, Tangerine Dream were over their frightening experiments with totally free improv, as on Electronic Meditation, and they had already created the ultimate “barely there” ambient album in 1972’s massive Zeit. Phaedra shows the band finally finding their niche and getting serious about utilizing the ever-expanding possibilities that existed with the burgeoning technology of electronic music synthesizers.
Phaedra’s charm lies in its exquisite combination of the beautiful and the mysterious. What is so great about Phaedra is that it couldn’t be used as cheesy background music for some sort of subliminal self-help tape. This isn’t new age music. This was before all that. This is freaky music, but it’s still beautiful. With Phaedra, there is always the feeling that one is encountering something strange and beautiful – something never before seen by man. It’s music for spelunking! And yet, the music can be very relaxing if one allows it to be so. It’s not soporific, but contemplative. Listening to Phaedra, it seems almost certain that it must have been a huge influence on albums like Vangelis’ Albedo 0.39 and Jean Michel Jarre’s acclaimed Oxygene. While those albums can offer similar joys at times, Phaedra sounds so much more authentic and so much less commercial. Oxygene in particular sounds almost like a novelty album in comparison.
Phaedra’s sidelong title track is the most energetic and suspenseful of the album. Its driving sequencer rhythms and ascending melodies create a palpable forward momentum that eventually leads to some sort of passage into another, more peaceful realm where lonely bird-like synth calls echo and fade into the Mellotronic night.
Side two begins with what may be the best piece on the album, “Mysterious Semblance at the strand of Nightmares.” This is ten minutes of unabashed Mellotron bliss combined with cosmic synth swooshes and some of the most velvety “velvet phasing” (if I may rip off a Klaus Schulze title) ever heard. The chord progressions used here create a remarkable sense of wonder mixed with sadness. It certainly lives up to its title and it is easily one of the classic must-hear tracks for Mellotron fanatics.
“Movements of a Visionary” and “Sequent C” are shorter tracks that find the band dabbling again with sequencing and Mellotron respectively.
At less than 38 minutes in length, Phaedra is a too-short journey through the inner realms of the mind. Its peaceful, mysterious strains should be essential listening to anyone interested in any kind of electronic music, and it is one of the original and best chill-out albums of all time. – SH
Yes
Relayer
1974
Atlantic
In the great halls of classic Yes albums, Relayer is something of a black sheep. Released in 1974, it came at a crossroads in the career of one of progressive rock’s greatest bands. By the time of the release of Relayer, Yes had achieved their peak in the minds of many – fans and detractors alike. Many Yes fans regard the 1973 double album Tales from Topographic Oceans as the band’s creative high point. Naysayers looked (and continue to look) at it as one of the worst cases of prog rock pretentiousness. It seems likely that fans might have found Relayer a little too hard to swallow and too anti-climactic after Tales. It also seems likely that critics had completely written off the band by that time. Prog rock had already peaked in popularity by December 1974 and it was a quick and slippery ride downhill after that. Punk was right around the corner. King Crimson had broken up and Robert Fripp was already preaching that the big-name prog bands were becoming dinosaurs. Once one considers that this was the environment into which Relayer was born, it becomes somewhat more understandable why this album is so under-rated and overshadowed even today.
It would behoove today’s prog rock enthusiast to look at Relayer from a different angle, however. Judge it by the music itself. See it as a refocusing of Yes’ skills and talents after the meandering, uneven (though ambitious) opus that was Tales from Topographic Oceans. While Tales from Topographic Oceans sounds earthy and is steeped in symbolism of the ancient and atavistic, Relayer sounds like rock music from the future. By comparison, it often sounds shiny, metallic and at times, just a little bit scary. The cover even looks like a colonized moonscape with its monochromatic gray canyons whose walls contain labyrinthine fortresses. It’s true, however, that Relayer returns to the form of Close to the Edge, the 1972 studio album that preceded Tales and one of Yes’ most unquestioned artistic successes. Like Close to the Edge, there are three songs on Relayer (one side-long and two in the nine-minute range), but this is no attempt at rehashing past successes. Relayer is a very groundbreaking and successful album in its own right. Its Close to the Edge-like form simply helps it serve as a perfect bookend to the three most ambitious Yes albums ever.
A matter of seconds into side one of Relayer, it is obvious that this is no ordinary rock album. It’s not even an ordinary Yes album. A friend of mine once bought an old used copy of Relayer on LP. He told me he thought the record was damaged, so he never really listened to it. I put it on the see what was wrong with it. After a few moments of hearing nothing wrong, I asked him what the problem was. He said something to the effect of “Just listen to it. Do you hear how weird it sounds?” I laughed and had to tell him that was the way it was supposed to sound. Relayer is full of bizarre sounding guitars, light-speed tinkling keyboards and taped noises and sound effects. To one degree or another, these were departures for the band. By this time, Steve Howe’s famous guitar collection was really beginning to grow and enabling him to branch further out into new directions. On Relayer he favors a customized Fender Telecaster instead of his usual Gibson ES 175 or some other trusty, mellow Gibson jazz box. The Telecaster, especially in Howe’s hands, ushers in a brighter, noisier guitar tone that is all over the album. In fact, Howe’s guitar is more in front on this album than on any previous Yes album. This may have been due to the fact that there was a new keyboardist in the band, who himself had a profound effect on the band’s sound. Patrick Moraz brought to the band a larger array of synths and keyboards than it had previously known, and he added a jazzier, more avant-garde playing style than Rick Wakeman’s studied classicism had provided.
The three songs on Relayer are all excellent, but there’s little question that the “The Gates of Delirium” is the main attraction. While Yes has done more side-long tracks than just about any prog band, this 22-minute magnum opus is almost unmatched in Yes’ catalog in terms of length, complexity and ambition. Only “Close to the Edge” rivals it in this writer’s opinion. This piece is fittingly inspired by Leo Tolstoy’s epic novel War & Peace and it captures the sound of both war and peace magnificently.
“The Gates of Delirium” begins with swirling, tinkling keyboard melodies, miniature guitar solos and some group phrasing that hints at powerful things to come. It takes over two minutes for the song to start in earnest. Jon Anderson sings fetchingly as usual, but with a greater sense of urgency than normal. This sense of urgency grows as the song continues. Anderson’s typically impressionistic lyrics are more focused this time, but they are still very fragmented in terms of syntax and grammar. The images of hatred, anger and aggression are impossible to misunderstand. After only six minutes of vocals, the instruments take over and paint the rest of the picture of war. This is done using a series of melodic themes, each more frantic and powerful than the last. The group lunges deftly in different directions, often turning together on a dime. Synth noises, tape effects and percussion blend the sounds of metallic crashes and people screaming to enhance the feeling of discord. This culminates near the 13-minute mark with a powerful, emotional crescendo that leads to the last section of the song. This last section represents the new realization that man should strive for peace, not war. It offers hope, however, that “soon” (the name of the single this section of the song became) peace will be achieved. “Soon” is, almost without a doubt, some of the most beautiful eight minutes in Yes’ entire catalog. Coming directly after the chaos and power of the previous several minutes makes it even more effective. This juxtaposition is pure genius, but the music in “Soon” is good enough to stand on its own. Steve Howe’s weeping volume swells performed on pedal steel guitar are to die for. Anderson also turns in one of his most memorable performances ever, and the Mellotron in the background is icing on a beautiful musical cake.
It’s often tempting to simply stop the album playing at the end of such magnificence. How could anything possibly follow such a powerful, emotional performance? It’s hard, even for Yes, but they managed to do it.
The second track on Relayer, “Sound Chaser,” begins similarly to “The Gates of Delirium.” Lighting fast electric piano runs and a serious drum workout usher in some blindingly fast and complex guitar work and some wonderfully unique group vocals. The middle section of the song is a virtual guitar cadenza extravaganza. Howe gives his Telecaster a strenuous workout as he explores the outer realms of the rock guitar solo for a couple of minutes almost all by himself. To hear Eddie Van Halen-esque technique and speed (four years before Eddie Van Halen) played in what is essentially a country music tone is a unique experience, but that is part of what makes Howe – and this album – so unique. After some more really unique group vocals – “Cha-cha-cha, cha-cha” (?), Patrick Moraz gets to test the limits of the rock keyboard solo. He coaxes pitch bends and double-stops (presumably with overdubs) out of what sounds like the nasal toned Micromoog. Howe lays down some suitably jazzy and distorted chords underneath. Very cool, but pretty strange. The whole track is truly a tour-de-force and is one of Yes’ most daring recordings ever.
“To Be Over” is a lovely piece that brings the energy level down a bit before dropping the listener off on planet earth. Howe again gets a long instrumental section in the middle of the song to show off his wonderfully unique and diverse guitar technique, but the main attraction on this piece is the beautiful melodies. This is not one of Yes’ strongest or most memorable songs, but it is a very fitting and beautiful end to a breathtaking album.
Relayer marks an end of sorts in the Yesstory. All the band members took some time off to record solo albums after Relayer and it would be a couple of years before the reformed classic line up of Yes (which would again include Wakeman) released Going for the One in 1977. While there would still be some good things left to come from Yes in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, the band would never again scale the heights of creativity and instrumental virtuosity to the same extent it did on Relayer and its predecessors. – SH
