Lizard

King Crimson/1970

It’s usually referred to as a “career killer.” You know, that album. The one an artist would release – the wacky, incomprehensible and (most importantly) unlistenable album. Leaving even the most hardcore fans scratching their heads in utter confusion, while fair-weather fans simply said “Heard enough” and moved on, never to return. Which brings us to Lizard, the third album by King Crimson. But first, some background. King Crimson burst onto the scene in 1969 with a debut album considered the iconic template for progressive rock at the time. With doom-and-gloom sci-fi/fantasy lyrics about 21st Century Schizoid Men, sung amidst a darkly orchestral, spooky atmosphere thanks to an instrument called the Mellotron, In the Court of the Crimson King became an instant classic. Sadly, the original lineup suffered a meltdown after the first U.S. tour and by 1970 guitarist Robert Fripp was pretty much on his own. However, this also provided the opportunity to mold King Crimson into his own vision. Now, he could hand-pick the personnel and lead them into uncharted musical territory, deep into a murky concoction of rock, classical and most predominantly on Lizard, jazz. Thus, Fripp assembled a horny jazz section (or would that be a jazzy horn section?); probably the first oboe player ever to get credited on a rock album; a mad avante-jazz piano pounder named Keith Tippett; and a core lineup consisting of Gordon Haskell (bass, lead vocals, laughing) and Andy McCulloch (drums). The lead-off track “Cirkus” sets the stage for Lizard’s oddly detached strangeness, a musical journey through a circus from hell – based around an ominous Mellotron riff, sung with Haskell’s deep, ghoulish voice and featuring some of lyricist Peter Sinfield’s most mind-pummeling lyrics:

“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.”

Try singin’ that one to yourself whilst strolling in the sunshine. Things continue with “Indoor Games” and “Happy Family,” two quirky, meandering, and strangely entertaining tracks, and the serene and pretty “Lady of the Dancing Water,” until we get to the epic, sidelong “Lizard” song suite. The first section, “Prince Rupert Awakes” is sung by guest vocalist Jon Anderson (Yes) and his angelic, choirboy voice belies the usual perversity of Sinfield’s warped lyrics:

“Wake your reasons’ hollow vote
Wear your blizzard season coat
Burn a bridge and burn a boat
Stake a Lizard by the throat.”

Hmmmmm. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Lizards might have a problem with that. What follows is a long, jazzy bolero section where the horn players get to “do their thing” and blow their brains out (bookended by Robin Miller’s pretty oboe melody) which segues into “The Battle of Glass Tears.” Here, all heck breaks loose and the album succumbs to a cacophony of musical warfare and dissonant chaos (not unlike “The Devil’s Triangle,” the epic from their previous album In the Wake of Poseidon) where mighty Mellotrons moan, horns blare and bleat in a free-form jazz orgy, while the listener…just wants it all to mercifully end. Which it does, eventually. The battle is over, the smoke has cleared, leaving us with Fripp’s solitary, eerily sustained guitar lines played over a somber drum beat…almost as if his guitar is the vulture, slowly circling the dead on the battlefield. Not a pretty thought, but then Lizard is not a pretty album (though it does have its moments of dark beauty). And things got even uglier after it was recorded. Haskell refused to go on tour because he hated the lyrics. Both he and McCulloch bolted, and Fripp was once again a King without a Crimson. He would regroup (excuse the pun) and form yet another lineup for the next album, Islands, hopefully undoing the damage to his kingdom inflicted by the evil Lizard.

Essential tracks: “Cirkus” “Indoor Games” “Prince Rupert Awakes” “Bolero – The Peacock’s Tale” “The Battle of Glass Tears”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KmPPv4x1V8&feature=related

Time And A Word

Yes/1970

There was a time, the late ‘60s and early ‘70s specifically, when rock bands routinely hooked up with orchestras. Think of it as a rather high-brow jam session. The bands (made up of many classically trained, artsy-fartsy British musicians) figured it was a good way to pump up their artistic street cred. Thus, bands like The Moody Blues, Deep Purple, The Nice and others pursued this risky musical experimentation at least for one album. And not always with a great deal of success. Another such band was Yes. After their somewhat tentative yet brimming-with-potential debut album, the self-titled Yes, it was time to ratchet things up in the “serious” and “deep” departments. In other words, time to call the guys in tuxedos. Now, in the case of previously mentioned Deep Purple and their Concerto for Group and Orchestra album, rock band and orchestra simply fought each other like two extremely loud pugilists duking it out in the ring. With Time and a Word, the orchestra tends to just get in the way. And, as with things that get in the way, there’s a possibility you’ll stumble over them. The album gets off to a promising start with opening track “No Opportunity Necessary, No Experience Needed,” as frantic strings and bombastic horns immediately propel the music forward. But once we get to the Big Valley-ish western theme music in the middle section, the orchestra becomes more of a drag (as in a drag on the forward motion of the track). This sense of drag is indicative of the entire album. Although the band/orchestra combination is slightly more seamless in subsequent epics like “Then,” “Everydays” or “The Prophet,” you’re still left with the feeling that if the band could just get that orchestra off its back, things would really heat up. And, as evidenced by bonus tracks minus the orchestra on the recently remastered CD, that feeling is probably accurate. There’s a noticeable energy and vibrancy to the tracks sans orchestra and one can only wonder what the entire album would have sounded like. Oh, well. It was a valiant experiment in its day. However, regardless of the orchestra issue, Yes had come a long way from their debut in terms of songwriting and performing. The classic Yes template was starting to seriously gel, with ingeniously arranged multi-section tracks, recurring musical themes, indecipherable lyrics and those choirboy vocals/harmonies of Jon Anderson. Chris Squire’s dominating Rickenbacker bass is right were it belongs – up front and in your face – while guitarist Peter Banks (this would be his final appearance on a Yes album) plays some of his most explosive fret work. Evidently it was his dismay over the orchestra drowning out his guitar in the album’s final mix that caused Banks to ultimately leave the band. Organist Tony Kaye and drummer Bill Bruford would also be gone within a year or so. But Yes rebounded nicely from the misstep that many believe Time and a Word to be. By late ’71, they would release their masterpiece Fragile, the album that catapulted them to the upper echelons of rock star fame and fortune. By then, Yes would no longer need the heavy-handed orchestration that hampered Time and a Word. New keyboard man Rick Wakeman – with his Mellotrons and synthesizers – would be able to handle the orchestration just fine by himself.

Recommended tracks: “No Opportunity Necessary, No Experience Needed” “Then” “Sweet Dreams” “The Prophet” “Astral Traveler”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ep5_HL9A_PA

Love Beach

Emerson, Lake & Palmer/1979

Let’s cut right to the chase: the album cover. Here we have Keith Emerson, Greg Lake and Carl Palmer. Three progressive rock gods. The first progressive rock super group. They stand amidst the tropical fauna, the sun romantically setting on the horizon. Dressed in shirts right out of the Saturday Night Fever wardrobe department, unbuttoned in front to show their manly, woolly chests. It’s as if the photographer said “Dudes, before you head out to the disco to pick up some chicks, let’s get a cover shot for the next album.” This one definitely belongs right up there in the What the Hell Were They Thinking Hall of Fame. Might as well nominate the album title, too, while we're at it. Love Beach? Really? Love Beach?? Let’s move on to the music. The first half of the album contains a selection of mostly short, radio-friendly (at least in their minds) tracks with such awe-inspiring song titles as “All I Want Is You,” “Taste of My Love” and “The Gambler.” Heard enough? These insipid little ditties – from the band that brought you prog masterpieces like “Take a Pebble,” “Tarkus” and “The Endless Enigma” – well, this stuff is just embarrassing and not really worth discussing. The second half of Love Beach at least makes a somewhat valiant attempt at respectability. A four-part song suite entitled “Memoirs of an Officer and a Gentleman” tells the story of a young English lad enlisting in the army to fight for crown and country. Granted, the concept is a bit over the top in its stuffy air of Victorian gallantry, but there are echoes of ELP greatness past: the melodic bombast of “Prologue: The Education of a Gentleman,” the classic Emerson grand piano flourishes in “Love at First Sight,” and the punchy synth riffs punctuating “Letters from the Front.” The final section, “Honourable Company (A March)” recalls previous ELP instrumentals “Aquatarkus” or “Abaddon’s Bolero” with Emerson building the arrangement around a catchy, repetitive main synth melody. One can almost visualize our honorable soldiers marching off into the sunset to this track…when, in reality, it was ELP marching into musical infamy. Love Beach received deservedly scathing reviews all around, got zero radio airplay (not surprisingly) and further fueled the argument of late-‘70s punks and new wavers that prog was a dead dinosaur. Also not surprising was the fact (to come out later) that Love Beach was merely a contractual obligation to Atlantic Records. ELP owed the label one more album, even though they were planning to call it quits. Which explains the “Let’s just go into the studio and get it over with so we can put an end to this fiasco” vibe of the entire project. Once the album was completed, the three band members then went their separate ways, slinking off into the island wilderness and signaling an end to a classic era…while leaving us with a musical document (and hilarious album cover) that would haunt them forever.

Essential tracks: “Memoirs of an Officer and a Gentleman”

A Salty Dog

Procol Harum/1969

Admit it. You could probably live without ever hearing “A Whiter Shade of Pale” again. It’s not like you haven’t already heard it a zillion times, played to death on “Oldies” radio stations. Which is really a shame, because it truly is a great song. Secondly, it painted an awesome band – Procol Harum – into the dreaded “one-hit wonder” category. And that is totally inaccurate. They released ten strong albums between 1967 and 1977. With their second album, Shine On Brightly (see my previous review) Procol avoided the “sophomore jinx” altogether with a masterpiece that was leaps and bounds ahead of their debut in terms of songwriting, arranging and production. A tough act to follow, indeed, but A Salty Dog was surely up to the task. You knew you were living through a progressive era when, after dropping needle to vinyl on a rock album, the first thing you heard was an orchestral string section gently playing somber, mournful staccato notes, as pianist/vocalist Gary Brooker sings:

“All hands on deck
We’ve run afloat
I heard the captain cry
Explore the ship; replace the cook
Let no one leave alive”

A clarion call to the crew or to the listener? Either way, this nautically themed title track (a theme that carries through the entire album as well as the cover) with its lush orchestration was about as far from standard rock ‘n roll as you could get. Nothing new, really, for Procol – a band that mixed heavy blues with heavy Bach about as easily as most bands mixed their rock with roll. Not that this band couldn’t rock. How could they not, with Robin Trower on guitar? His nasty licks go full tilt in heavier tracks like “The Devil Came From Kansas” or the bluesy grunge of “Juicy John Pink.” But in more esoteric numbers like the epic, orchestrated “Wreck of the Hesperus” his guitar is used in a much more decisive way, as if just another instrument in the orchestra (he would tire of this approach and ultimately leave the band for a successful solo career where he could play without such constraints.) The sad, mournful vibe that permeates the album is perfectly reflected in organist Mathew Fisher’s almost hymn-like “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the album’s closing track. Its stately organ chords create a thick, soft cushion for Fisher’s haunting vocals:

“I sat me down to write a simple story
Which maybe in the end became a song
The words have all been writ by one before me
We're taking turns in trying to pass them on
Oh, we're taking turns in trying to pass them on”

With A Salty Dog, Procol had indeed passed their “simple story” on with a timeless, unforgettable album…one that many would argue would be their finest hour. Unfortunately, Fisher left the band after the tour for this album – taking with him a part of Procol’s soul that would be difficult (if not impossible) to replace.

Essential tracks: “A Salty Dog” “The Devil Came From Kansas” “Wreck of the Hesperus” “Pilgrim’s Promise”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vbIvXYeNUw&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fw-btrdpOG0&feature=related

Fragile

Yes/1971

Yes indeed, by late-1971 the world was certainly ready for these guys. The smoke had begun to clear from the cultural explosion of the 1960s and it was now time to move full speed ahead into the shiny new decade. And Yes was just the band to lead the charge. Having gradually evolved their sound with the first two Yes albums, they ultimately established the classic Yes template on their third album, The Yes Album. The formula went something like this: Extended, multi-section songs with mind-jarring twists and turns; played with the dexterous expertise of musicians like nimble-fingered guitarist Steve Howe, fingers flying all over the place; firmly anchored by Chris Squire’s Rickenbacker bass thump, offset by drummer Bill Bruford’s busy tapping; all cushioned by Tony Kaye’s thick Hammond organ and the ever-chirping high-pitched vocals of Jon Anderson. Yet, something still wasn’t quite right. The expansive new music being prepared for Fragile demanded a broader multi-colored sound palette, one that organist Kaye just wasn’t providing. So, out with Kaye and in with keyboard maestro Rick Wakeman, complete with organ, piano, synthesizer and mellotron among other sundry ivories to tickle. Now, for those who can’t quite stomach hearing lead-off track “Roundabout” played yet again on classic rock radio, put it into proper perspective. At the time, “Roundabout” was totally unique, a breath of fresh air featuring all that was good about Yes. The strong melody gallops along on the back of Squire’s rollicking bass riff, with Howe’s guitar piercing in and out while rookie member Wakeman let’s loose with a couple scorching organ solos – all decorated with those choir-boy vocals and harmonies. Played to death on FM radio? Sadly, yes. But still an amazing, timeless track when heard in the right frame of mind. Sprinkled throughout Fragile are little solo snippets featuring individual members doing their own thing. But it is the two other Yes epics that ensure this album's iconic status. “South Side of the Sky” is probably as heavy as Yes ever got, with its churning verses and soaring choruses interrupted by Wakeman’s stately grand piano interlude and those ethereal Yes harmonies, before chugging back into the ominous, ice-cold main riff. Then there is “Heart of the Sunrise,” the first true Yes epic, setting the stage for many epics to come. The massive King Crimson-ish opening guitar/bass line grabs your attention much like getting hit in the head with a baseball bat might. This shock gives way to the first of appearance of Wakeman’s ghostly and gorgeous mellotron on a Yes album, as the spooky string-section-from-another-planet floats and drifts for a brief yet beautiful pause in the intensity – before the crazy riff kicks back in and delivers your ears to Anderson’s angelic, gentle first verse:

“Love comes to you
And you follow
Lose one
On to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp, distance
How can the wind
With its arms all around me”

Not sure what it all means (a common reaction to Jon Anderson’s lyrics) but it sounds nice. The arrangement meanders from verses to chorus, before segueing through Wakeman’s quirky synthesizer and piano sections and the recurring head-banger of an opening riff, before a grand climax in which Anderson is literally singing his heart out. If the word “masterpiece” could be applied to anything in the entire Yes cannon, it should be tagged onto this near-perfect 11-minute slice of prog sweetness. And a fitting finale it is. Fragile was a huge artistic, commercial and critical success, an album at the right time (1971, though released here in early ’72) and in the right place (the USA, with an audience enthusiastically willing to jump on the prog bandwagon). According to some sources, Fragile spent an astonishing 46 weeks on the Billboard album charts, peaking at #4. The first Yes album to feature the fantasy artwork of Roger Dean (he would create the next five Yes album covers), Fragile got everything right and propelled the band into the upper stratosphere of early-‘70s rock stardom and stadium-sized gigs. But, much like the planet exploding into pieces on the back of the album cover, Yes would soon face a splintering of its own personnel – not to mention a rapidly changing musical landscape, with attitudes soon to become highly critical of anything remotely connected with Progressive Rock.

Essential Tracks: “Roundabout” “South Side of the Sky” “Long Distance Runaround” “Heart of the Sunrise”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJn_4grTKlA

Ars Longa Vita Brevis

The Nice/1968

In 1968, livin’ in the USA was getting a little crazy. Protests against the Vietnam War were raging. Rock music was evolving into a heavy, political mouthpiece of the counter culture. The original Pepsi generation was thumbing its nose at the straight-laced “establishment” of their parents. Long-haired musicians were smoking pot and getting high. It was a little different over in England. There, the musicians were getting high brow. Since there was no war to protest, things were a bit more mellow and sedate. While their American counterparts cranked up the amps to 11 for maximum distortion levels, the Brits were playing concertos and pleasantly mingling with orchestras. This musical dichotomy was perfectly symbolized by The Nice and their second album Ars Longa Vita Brevis. For starters, you could assume an album with an artsy fartsy title like that wouldn’t be one you’d hear at the next antiwar rally. The British philosophy was that rock music had now come of age, all grown up and perfectly capable of reinterpreting and reinvigorating the classics. And if any band was up to the task, it was The Nice. Based around the classical/jazz keyboard work of a young and extremely talented Keith Emerson, the album kicks off with the scorching instrumental tour de force “America” from West Side Story. Here, they ignite Leonard Bernstein’s score with Emerson’s purcussive Hammond organ playing the main theme, wrapped around guitarist Davy O’List’s propulsive power chords (O’List would depart the band after recording this one track.) To bolster their classical street cred, Emerson drops in snatches of Debussy’s "New World Symphony" for good measure. Evidently Bernstein himself was not amused by these young British upstarts messing with his tune. He was also annoyed after learning Emerson had set fire to an American flag during a recent performance of the piece. Legend has it that the boys ran into Bernstein at a New York recording studio, where one of the smart-alecky band members yelled out “Hey, Lenny, how’s it hangin’?” which probably did nothing to further endear them to Maestro Bernstein. Following this kick-Ars album opener, subsequent tracks like “Daddy, Where Did I Come From?” and “Happy Freuds” settle into a quirky, whimsical British psychedelia more reminiscent of the band’s debut album, The Thoughts of Emerlist Davjack, and definitely way out of step with the ’68 Zeitgeist of the USA. Things settle down and get more serious with a rather staid, low-key interpretation of Sibelius’ “Intermezzo from the Karelia Suite” based around Emerson’s lone keyboard, but lacking the fire and intensity of “America” (a killer live rendition of “Karelia” can be heard on the later album Five Bridges.) Which brings us to the main course of this album, the title track/concerto. Broken up into several sections with intimidating titles like “Prelude/First Movement – Awakening,” “Second Movement – Realisation” and “Coda – Extension to the Big Note” – and now complete with an actual orchestra – the extended piece doesn’t quite live up to the challenge. One major problem is the lack of a memorable main melody that weaves it all together, a recurring theme to guide the listener through these meandering movements of keyboard noodlings, orchestral climaxes and drum solos. Things perk up a bit with “Third Movement – Acceptance/Brandenburger,” where they borrow from Bach and bounce the jaunty melody off the orchestra. It’s one of the few moments where the rock band/orchestra partnership actually works well. But overall, this concerto inspires mostly droopy-eyed yawning. Though pointing the way to the progressive rock era yet to come, Ars Longa Vita Brevis was too over the top for restless American audiences of 1968. They wanted revolution, and not necessarily the musical kind. Not surprisingly, the album (with its distinctive neon-color X-ray album cover) sunk like a stone. The Nice would record several more albums, but it wouldn’t be until Emerson left the band and teamed up with Greg Lake and Carl Palmer that progressive rock (and Emerson’s career) would truly explode. On the original album sleeve, Emerson summed up the album and its title: “Tomorrow is yesterday's history and art will still be there, even if life terminates.” Ars Longa Vita Brevis is still here, but whether or not it’s truly art will long be debated.

Essential Tracks: “America” “Intermezzo from the Karelia Suite” “Third Movement – Brandenburger”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_X9YqWu4pU&feature=related

Thick As A Brick

Jethro Tull/1972

When is a concept album not really a concept album? Well, you’d think if the artist who created it says it’s not a concept album, then that should pretty much resolve the issue. Yet, to this very day, there are critics and fans alike who still maintain the 1971 Jethro Tull album Aqualung is a concept album. Even after head maestro Ian Anderson set the record straight, referring to it as simply “a collection of songs.” So it was, when embarking upon the follow-up album, that a mischievous gleam appeared in they eye of merry prankster Anderson. “It’s a concept album you want? I GOT YOUR CONCEPT ALBUM!” Thus, Jethro Tull hunkered down in the studio, stitching together a few song fragments here, some chord progressions there, another motif or two in the middle for good measure, etc. The grand result? Thick as a Brick, consisting of two album-side epics with the minimalistic titles “Part I” and “Part II.” The concept and lyrics, deliberately vague with tongue firmly planted in cheek, revolved around the absurd adventures of fictitious little tyke “Gerald Bostock” and were strongly inspired by the then-exploding popularity of TV British comedy troupe Monty Python’s Flying Circus. In other words, it was all in good fun. If the concept itself was unfathomable and over the top, the music was unlike anything heard on a previous Tull album. For starters, the familiar bluesy, guitar-dominated riffs of Martin Barre were now replaced by the churning Hammond organ of John Evan. Now, Barre’s searing guitar lines would be used to simply orchestrate and punctuate the ever-twiddling keyboard parts. Things start out innocently enough with a quaint acoustic guitar and flute passage, creating a pleasant folky English vibe – although Anderson’s opening lyrics immediately throw down the gauntlet:

“Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper -- your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter -- your love's in the sink.”

Okay. This could get interesting. The folky atmosphere soon gives way to a typically heavy Tull guitar line, which is quickly jettisoned in favor of the now dominate, ever-present organ (sometimes doubled with piano). Musical passages segue and morph from one stately organ march to another – all topped off with Andersons jaunty, mad Pied Piper flute lines expertly laid over the top. If anything, this stuff sounded more like the prog chamber-rock workouts of early Genesis than it did a proper Jethro Tull album – complete with difficult time signatures and the melody shuffling of a typical prog piece. “Part II” tends to stumble out of the gate a bit, with a succession of herky-jerky, stop-and-start passages that don’t quite to catch on or establish any solid footing. These inconsistent meanderings are followed by an uncharacteristically (for this album) somber, minor-key dirge that tends to overstay its welcome. But fear not, for keyboard man Evan soon kick-starts it back up with the return of his growling Hammond, now churning and galloping its way to this epic album’s climactic conclusion – with many of the previous motifs from “Part I” briefly and frantically reappearing, before all this madness finally settles back down to the acoustic guitar picking that began the album, as Anderson sings:

“So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.”

How does it feel to be thick as a brick? Don’t even try to decipher these lyrics or apply any logic. It’s best to just go along with the joke – which was reinforced with an insanely creative album cover that unfolded into “Gerald Bostock’s” imaginary hometown newspaper, complete with fully written articles, photos, puzzles, horoscopes, etc. Legend has it that it took the group longer to create the newspaper than it did the music. Thick as a Brick was a huge hit in its day, even as it alienated part of the band’s fan base that preferred the less cluttered, blues-rock/guitar-oriented music of earlier outings. It’s considered a Progressive Rock masterpiece, even as it skewers (albeit good-naturedly) the prog concept albums of the era. Jethro Tull/Ian Anderson would soon unleash yet another “concept album” in 1973 with the follow-up, A Passion Play. Unfortunately, nobody got the joke that time around. (For a lively discussion on the pros and cons of the much loved/much despised concept album, see my previous post.)

Essential tracks: This album should be heard in its entirety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dO-YHPiMWf4

Close To The Edge

Yes/1972

Just how close can one safely crawl out to the edge…before falling over and plunging headlong into the dark abyss? Such was the precarious perch on which Yes found themselves when it came time to record their fifth album in the spring of ‘72. Having finally achieved high artistic and commercial success with their previous breakthrough album, Fragile – the one that cemented the classic Yes sound of mind-tripping time changes, extended multi-part arrangements, maestro-like musicianship and chirping, high-pitched vocal harmonies – it was now time to flex their newfound creative muscles and take it to another level altogether. Mind you, this was an era when the root of the word “progressive” (progress) actually meant something, inspiring bands to ignore commercial considerations, push the musical envelope to the max and milk the refreshing lack of creative restraints that had previously existed in rock music. So, what the hell, for starters let’s make the title track 20-minutes long, taking up an entire side of the (vinyl) album! Kicking off with a gradually fading-in trickle of burbling, tweeting synthesizer arpeggios, “Close to the Edge” explodes into a harsh, almost freeform dissonant attack, before settling down and morphing into a classic Yes pattern of segueing movements (many recorded separately and connected via tape splicing in the studio) and beautiful melodies. It’s all held together by soaring, recurring musical themes and Jon Anderson’s journey-up-the-spiritual-creek lyrics that generally made no sense to anyone but himself:

“A seasoned witch could call you from the depths of your disgrace,
And rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace,
And achieve it all with music that came quickly from afar,
Then taste the fruit of man recorded losing all against the hour.”

Got that? Good. Now, in Anderson’s defense, it couldn’t have been easy to write lyrics for this high level of intelligent, sophisticated, head-scratchingly arranged music. Or even sing the lyrics, for that matter, at times being forced to spit out some real tongue-twisters at light speed:

“My eyes convinced, eclipsed with the younger moon attained with love.
It changed as almost strained amidst clear manna from above.
I crucified my hate and held the word within my hand.
There's you, the time, the logic, or the reasons we don't understand.“

Try saying that three times fast. Yet, surrounded by Steve Howe’s mind-bending fret work, Chris Squire’s metallic Rickenbacker bass thumping, Rick Wakeman’s organ/synth/mellotron arsenal and Bill Bruford’s busy-bee drumming…it all made perfect sense. Easing up on the intensity a bit for what was Side 2 of the vinyl album, Yes would devote this space to a whopping two tracks – the lush, shimmering “And You And I” with it’s sweet, crystalline vocal melody and the gorgeously symphonic-orgasmic mellotron-laden middle section; followed by the intensely aggressive, weirdest-song-title-on-the-planet “Siberian Khatru” based around Howe’s stuttering, woodpecker-on-acid guitar riffs and Wakeman’s galloping mellotron lines. In a sense, the heady Close to the Edge could be considered the first “green” album. Its Roger Dean-designed cover is, after all, literally green. And the water-world graphics inside its gatefold sleeve visually imply an environment of naturally flowing beauty while augmenting Anderson’s river-of-life lyrical/spiritual meanderings. The album has assumed legendary status over the years, topping many polls as The Best Progressive Rock Album of All Time. That would be a tough one to prove, but there’s no denying Close to the Edge remains an iconic testament to an era when rock musicians truly thought anything was possible (although it didn’t hurt to sell a few million albums while you were at it, just to keep those record label masters happy). There is an amazing freshness that continues to emanate from this music, almost as if it was still 1972 – if only you close your eyes, crank up the headphones, and put the last 38 years right out of your head. For this one, brief shining moment, though, Yes had taken their musical and philosophical pilgrimage to brave new heights, to the very edge of limitless possibilities – blissfully unaware of the murky Topographic waters in which they’d soon find themselves adrift.

Essential Tracks: “Close to the Edge” “And You And I” “Siberian Khatru”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RNKGcY35Qw

Voyage Of The Acolyte

Steve Hackett/1975

It’s commonly referred to as “an embarrassment of riches.” In the case of Genesis, it was an overabundance of talent. Not only were these guys great players, but also great songwriters/composers. Problem was, there's only so much space on an album. So somebody's material had to be sacrificed. This great wealth fueled the five albums leading up to their magnum opus in 1974, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, before the wheels abruptly came off. Lead singer Peter Gabriel quit immediately after The Lamb tour for an ultimately successful (but maddeningly slow) solo career. Genesis was now left to wander in the wilderness sans that one crucial element: a lead singer. Having lost their eccentric, much-talked-about vocalist and media focus (Gabriel was getting all the buzz, the guy on stage wearing bizarre costumes and scary masks, acting out the characters in the songs, etc.) some fans felt the band had lost its soul. If not its soul, then at least its bat-winged figurehead. So it was, during this tumultuous downtime when people were unsure if Genesis would even continue to exist, that guitarist Steve Hackett decided to take a break from the madness and record a solo album – using all the music floating around in his head that would probably not make it onto a Genesis album, especially with material from keyboardist Tony Banks and bassist Mike Rutherford crowding him out. Thus, Voyage of the Acolyte was released and – in the absence of a proper Genesis album – was looked upon as a legitimate Genesis album in its own right. And why not? Reinforcing this perception was the fact that both Rutherford and Genesis drummer/vocalist Phil Collins contributed mightily to Acolyte. Not surprisingly, the album sounded very much like a Genesis album…minus Gabriel, of course. The familiar lush mellotrons were present and accounted for, wafting across moody-scary-symphonic landscapes like “Hands of the Priestess” and “Shadow of the Hierophant,” both tracks resembling long-lost instrumental sections from some alternate-universe Genesis epic. Add to that Collins’ familiar voice on "Star of Sirius" (having sung harmonies and the occasional lead vocal on previous Genesis albums) plus his drum playing throughout the album, and things are sounding more and more like Genesis all the time. Add one final and recognizable Genesis ingredient – Hackett’s wailing, sighing, bobbing and weaving guitar lines – and who needs Genesis when you’ve got all this? What keeps Acolyte from actually becoming a Genesis album clone (aside from the fact that Banks didn’t participate) is a pervading atmosphere of longing, melancholy and menace. Whereas a Genesis album would lean a bit toward the ominously quaint and quirky, this one is more ominously solemn and spooky. When not sounding like the mournful music one might hear at a church memorial service for a lost friend, it pummels you with martial riffs like an aural army of darkness marching through your living room. Genesis, as it turned out, would survive just fine and reach even greater success (with Collins eventually taking on the front-man/lead vocalist role) than ever attained in the Gabriel/Hackett years. And Hackett, after thoroughly enjoying his first taste of a musical dictatorship (where he, most importantly, was the dictator) would stay with Genesis for only two more albums before embarking on his own full-time solo career, thus eliminating any limitations on his contributions to an album. In a sense, it was this “phantom” Genesis album that inspired another crucial loss for the real Genesis – and a fateful new voyage for Hackett.

Essential Tracks: “Ace of Wands” “Hands of the Priestess/A Tower Struck Down” “Shadow of the Hierophant”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4M_9085G-hM&feature=related

Tarkus

Emerson, Lake & Palmer/1971

Here’s a great idea for a Prog concept: the zany adventures of a creature called Tarkus – a cuddly little guy who’s part armadillo/part Panzer tank. We follow the mayhem that ensues, as our thickly armored mechanized mammal frolics along, flashing his two huge canons while engaging in fierce battle with a host of dastardly, nasty creatures. It’s all illustrated in sci-fi comic book fashion inside the gatefold album cover. Yes, Virginia, there really was a time when people would write rock music and lyrics around such wild and wacky stories. To the uninitiated, it would all seem rather geeky and…well, Trekkie-like, if not for one important aspect: the music. Based around a military-industrial-complex-strength keyboard riff by maestro/Hammond organ abuser Keith Emerson, “Tarkus” (the sidelong song suite) opens with a churning, grindingly unmelodic and impossible-to-whistle main theme that perfectly reflects the once-upon-a-blitzkrieg fairytale. Deviously skittering and scampering up and down the musical scale in god-knows-what time signature, this ominous, recurring keyboard theme (pummeled along by drummer Carl Palmer) is punctuated throughout by interludes of Greg Lake’s lovely, choirboy vocals on sections like the King Crimson-ish “Stones of Years,” and in the dark, ominous anti-war vibe that hangs over “Battlefield.” But it is Emerson’s keyboard gymnastics on organ, piano and Moog synthesizer that dominate “Tarkus” and exhilarate like no other keyboard player of the era could – punching, slapping, whacking, jabbing, fondling, hell, even stabbing his Hammond with knives (as he did when ELP performed live). If their 1970 debut album made people sit up from their late-‘60s stupor and take notice – with it’s popular “Lucky Man” single and Emerson’s manhandling of the Moog – then Tarkus (the album) would further cement the band’s reputation as one of the emerging Prog Rock leaders of the pack. Unfortunately, the tough-act-to-follow masterpiece that took up an entire side of vinyl consigned much of the material on Side 2 squarely in the let-down category. Aside from “Bitches Crystal” and “A Time and a Place,” both of which sound like they could have been outtakes from the first album, the remaining material tends to lack the electrifying intensity and focus of the “Tarkus” suite. It would be several more albums before ELP would achieve what many consider to be their ultimate masterwork, Brain Salad Surgery. Despite critical accusations of over-the-top bombast and in-your-face artistic indulgence (what some would argue ultimately brought down the band in the late ‘70s), it was ELP and their strange pet – an armed-to-the-teeth armadillo on tank treads – that initially made the world safe for the newly hatched musical genre called Prog Rock.

Essential Tracks: “Tarkus” “Bitches Crystal” “A Time and a Place”

In The Court Of The Crimson King

King Crimson/1969

First, I’d like to apologize to my neighbor Joanne. The little sister of one of my pals at the time, she made the mistake of innocently strolling into my house and gazing upon a certain album cover leaning against the couch. Letting out a blood-curdling scream, the youngster tearfully turned and ran like hell out the front door. Oh, the contorted, fearful, agonized grimace…no, not on Joanne’s face. I’m talking about the face on the album cover. If ever there was an album cover that perfectly reflected the menacing musical vision tucked therein, it was In the Court of the Crimson King by King Crimson. Catching the hippie-dippy, peace ‘n love crowd with their proverbial bell bottoms down, this debut album (subtitled “An Observation by King Crimson”) mysteriously appeared on the record racks with no warning in late ’69. It was almost as if the frightfully grimacing face on the cover was beckoning you, “Come…buy this album…if you dare.” While peaceniks and pinkos were still strumming and singing about social injustice, all the King’s men were busily creating this darkly disturbing, surrealistic fantasy world – resplendent with 21st Century schizoid men, solemn and spooky epitaphs and a warped royal court of dancing puppets, fire witches and funeral marches. If the Beatles proved that rock music could be art on Sgt. Peppers, King Crimson took the ball and ran with it, straight down into their own cozy little netherworld. This is an album of subtle shadings and mind-bending contrasts, set amidst distinctive jazz and classical overtones – perfectly balancing the extreme sonic violence and chaos of lead-off track “21st Century Schizoid Man” (which could be construed as an anti-war song, albeit one from hell) with the flute-fluttering, pastoral beauty of “I Talk to the Wind” – slyly casting its spell, drawing you into its enchanting yet unnerving depths. Contributing to the album’s atmospherics is the mighty mellotron, played expertly by Ian McDonald. A keyboard instrument that replicates the sound of violins, brass and choirs via pre-recorded tapes, the mellotron adds a ghostly, unhinged spookiness to the music – yes, it sounds like an orchestral string section, but one with an alien-like other-worldliness. During your next out-of-body experience, the mellotron will most likely be what you hear in the background. It’s used most effectively on the album’s two epic tracks, “Epitaph” and the album closer, “The Court of the Crimson King.” Based around a majestic mellotron riff, the music on this track slowly weaves through lyricist Peter Sinfield’s Brothers-Grimm-on-acid fantasy poetics:

“On soft grey mornings widows cry,

The wise men share a joke;

I run to grasp divining signs

To satisfy the hoax.

The yellow jester does not play

But gently pulls the strings

And smiles as the puppets dance

In the court of the crimson king.”

What does it all mean? That’s not the point. It’s not so much what the lyrics mean, but more the creepy, nightmarish vision they create. The track culminates in a false crescendo, fooling you into thinking this bad trip is over, followed by several moments of silence and the stark tapping of a cymbal, before the main mellotron riff re-emerges more massive and menacing than ever – finally ascending into a dizzying, dissonant “swooshing” sound, like what you might hear at the very point of waking up from a really bad dream. Or, in this case a beautiful nightmare. The dark, somewhat twisted vibe on this album is appropriate, as King Crimson seemed to be cursed from the start. Cover artist Barry Godber died of a heart attack shortly after the album was released. The band suffered its own coronary after its initial U.S. tour, with McDonald exiting (followed later by singer/bassist Greg Lake and drummer Michael Giles). This particular lineup of King Crimson, stillborn as it were, would take on legendary status while the band morphed and mutated with constantly changing personnel on subsequent albums – all under the watchful eye of lone original member, guitarist Robert Fripp (who continues to manage all things King Crimson to this very day). Though probably not the first Progressive Rock album, In the Court of the Crimson King was certainly the harbinger of things to come at the dawning of a new decade. Rock music would become more impressionistic, more artistic, more risk-taking…to its own detriment, some would argue (those who preferred their music to be exclusively of the sex, drugs & rock ‘n roll variety). But even now, 40 years later, this iconic album continues to transcend time and haunt all who have (or will) come in contact with it – still exerting a strangely disturbing, yet irresistible spell.

Essential Tracks: “21st Century Schizoid Man” “I Talk to the Wind” “Epitaph” “In the Court of the Crimson King”

Pyramid

Alan Parsons Project/1978

How many Pet Rocks does it take to build a pyramid? Such were the heavy philosophical questions being contemplated by those with expanded consciousness back in the 1970s – a time when pyramids, Pet Rocks, Rubik's Cubes and healing crystals were all the rage. While Steve Martin sang about King Tut, the Alan Parsons Project delved into the intrigue and mystery of ancient Egypt on their third concept album, Pyramid. Basically more of a partnership than a project, APP was built around the songwriting/production duo of Alan Parsons and Eric Woolfson. The twosome would enlist an ever-changing lineup of guest vocalists and musicians to execute their progressive-leaning musical visions. Parsons was no stranger to success, having cut his teeth as an engineer on several albums you may be vaguely familiar with – Abbey Road and The Dark Side of the Moon – graduating to full-blown producer on a few others. Scotsman Woolfson on the other hand, introduced the world to that iconic generational anthem, “Kung Fu Fighting,” by Carl Douglas. However, it would soon become clear that Woolfson was no slouch in the songwriting/arranging/orchestrating department. After securing a huge hit with previous album I Robot, APP set their musical sights on I Mummy. Not really progressive in the grand style of, say, a Genesis or a Yes album, tracks on an APP album tended to be shorter, with ample pop hooks surrounded by smart, sophisticated arrangements and orchestrations. Pyramid is, not surprisingly, heavily influenced by the Beatles ­– it’s not hard to imagine Paul McCartney singing lead vocals on melodic tracks like "What Goes Up" or the gorgeous closing ballad "Shadow of a Lonely Man." John Lennon's more acerbic vocal take would fit quite nicely (and ironically) on "Can't Take It With You." Unfortunately, at that particular time Paul was flying high with Wings and John was preoccupied with baking bread. So, APP drafted a different cast of supporting characters, including Colin Blunestone (whose sweet voice you’ll recall singing “She’s Not There” and “Tell Her No” by the Zombies in the previous decade). His soft, spooky vocal performance on "The Eagle Will Rise Again," is one of the highlights of the album. Sprinkled throughout this elegantly produced prog/pop landscape are several keyboard-based instrumentals to help round out the “progressive” side of things (the MO of most APP albums). Not quite the commercial (or some might argue artistic) success of I Robot or subsequent hit-laden albums like Eye in the Sky and Turn of a Friendly Card, Pyramid lacked the heavy radio airplay of those albums and might well be considered the “lost” APP album. But for inquiring minds seeking to excavate ancient ‘70s musical artifacts, this particular Pyramid is well worth exploring. (Ed. Note: Review dedicated to the memory of Eric Woolfson, 1945-2009.)

Essential Tracks: “What Goes Up” “The Eagle Will Rise Again” “Can’t Take It With You” “Shadow of a Lonely Man”

Relayer

Yes/1974

War. What is it good for? Absolutely nuthin’ (say it again). Or, in the case of Yes and Relayer, a good topic for their special brand of conceptual epic. Not to mention a relevant topic in 1974 (as the Vietnam war still raged, albeit with a dwindling U.S. presence) compared to, say, the ancient Indian spiritual scriptures Yes explored on their previous album, Tales from Topographic Oceans. On that particular outing, the boys suffered an all-out assault from critics who accused Yes of over-indulgent musical dithering. So, with new keyboardist Patrick Moraz recruited for his pyrotechnic, music-as-sound-effect technique, Yes threw subtlety right out the window and ratcheted up the intensity level. Think of it as Yes on steroids. Take the epic side-long track, “The Gates of Delirium.” It’s basically the soundtrack to the World War of your choice. Bombs exploding. Bullets flying. People dying. Fun stuff. Kicking off with a flittering, skittering instrumental section similar to the opening sequence of earlier Yes epic “Close to the Edge,” we’re soon inspired by lead vocalist Jon Anderson’s clarion call to service:

“Stand and fight, we do consider
Reminded of an inner pact between us
That’s seen as we go
And ride there
In motion
To fields in debts of honor defending”

With forces sufficiently marshalled by Anderson, Yes leads us into the horrors of battle – a nightmarish musical landscape of squealing, squawking, screaming, searing guitars and synthesizers feverishly strafing the eardrums. It amounts to a blitzkrieg of atonal sonic fury, all to drive home the point that war is a nasty business indeed. This section is not an easy listen, but it definitely gets your attention. When the fighting finally stops, the smoke gradually clears and peace prevails, the music slowly segues into a soft symphonic minor-key finale, as Anderson’s angel-from-on-high voice reappears amidst the carnage:

“Soon oh soon the light

Pass within and soothe this endless night

And wait here for you

Our reason to be here”

This sweet, sad, mellotron-drenched section ends on a lone ascending note, suggesting mankind must reach high for the light (which always seems just beyond reach). Things don’t exactly let up with the following track, “Sound Chaser.” If the critics didn’t like the slow, methodical tide of Topographic Oceans, then Yes would take a more in-your-face approach here – a chaotic explosion of keyboards, pumped up with intensive, speed-of-light riffing by guitarist Steve Howe and bassist Chris Squire, dripping with King Crimson-meets-Mahavishnu Orchestra influences. This jazzy/fusionistic workout (punctuated by Howe’s mad electric flamenco guitar interlude) is unlike anything Yes had done previously – or would ever do again. Relayer concludes with the kinder, gentler “To Be Over,” slowly fading in like gently cascading waves as Howe’s simple guitar lines evolve into layers of lush keyboards and choir-like vocals. It’s almost as if Yes is saying “Sorry we blew your brains out with those other two tracks, please allow us put your head back together with this tune…” It’s actually one of the more gorgeous and melodic pieces in the Yes canon. Housed in yet another fantasy art cover by Roger Dean, Relayer has assumed legendary status over the decades – considered by some as the final masterpiece of the classic ‘70s-era Yes. And, sadly, Relayer is still very relevant in 2009. After all, we’re still hearing a lot about war these days, aren’t we.

Essential Tracks: Best to hear Relayer as a complete musical statement.

Leftoverture

Kansas/1976

Kansas: A progressive state of mind or band of wooly hayseeds? More about that later, but first a little musical history. When Progressive Rock initially reached our fair shores from its birthplace in England, this strange new sound confused and frightened the untamed (and badly dressed) natives, as they scratched their heads (among other parts of their bodies) in bewilderment. Songs that went on longer than three minutes? Time signatures going every which way but straight ahead in 4/4? Lyrics about crimson kings, giant hogweeds and total mass retain? Fancy-shmancy classical overtones?? Dude, pass me another GIQ and crank up some Grand Funk! After all, even in 1976 when Prog giants like Yes and Genesis had already established a strong foothold in the New World, most bands in middle America just wanted to boogie down and tie one on. Yet, the Prog muse mysteriously seeped into the very heartland, and took root in – of all places – Kansas. You know, the place where Dorothy and Toto (the dog, not the band) lived. Also residing in the state of Kansas was the band Kansas. With an excess of beards, mustaches and long, frizzy manes, one could easily mistake these guys for wooly mammoths in overalls. However, our furry farm boys could really play their instruments. And when not indulging their Grand Funk Railroad-wannabe tendencies, Kansas could throw down with the best of any snobby British Prog rockers. If the lads in Genesis had been born hauling hay bales and milking cows in the Midwest, they probably would have sounded like much of Leftoverture. Epics “Miracles out of Nowhere” and “Cheyenne Anthem” chug along in their unique, chamber-music-meets-cow-pasture classicism – complete with fiddly-twiddly organ/synthesizer workouts from Steve Walsh and beautiful violin playing from Robbie Steinhardt, whose flights of bowmanship meander in and out of these sophisticated arrangements like a honey-soaked bumblebee. The overplayed “Carry on My Wayward Son” all but consigned Kansas to AOR oldies purgatory, but nothing could prepare the mainstream rock audience weaned on that track for the monster closer “Magnum Opus.” Let’s just say you won’t be hearing this slightly over-the-top, nearly ten-minute-long multi-part symphony at your next barn dance. Looked upon derisively by critics, Kansas nonetheless reached high and went far, harvesting their bounty with several more successful albums through the end of the ‘70s – until a New Wave came crashing down on all things Prog. At their peak, several members of the band were even asked to appear on former Genesis guitarist Steve Hackett’s second solo album, Please Don’t Touch. Further evidence that these American farm boys could definitely hack it with the big boys.

Essential Tracks: “The Wall” “Miracles out of Nowhere” “Cheyenne Anthem” “Magnum Opus”

Octopus

Gentle Giant/1972

Once upon a time, kiddies, massive giants strode o’er the planet. These giants sang songs with strange and indecipherable lyrics that nobody could understand. They played exotic instruments like mellotrons, synthesizers, alto recorders and mandolins – making mysterious sounds that echoed across oceans and continents. One such giant was called, appropriately, Gentle Giant. Hailing from that land of the giants, England, the band’s music – at least to the ears of your basic let’s-boogie-down-and-get-hammered rock n’ roll audience – was an acquired taste (symbolically referenced in the title of their second album, Acquiring the Taste). Yet, to the burgeoning Progressive Rock crowd, seeking all things un-danceable, un-commercial and un-American, this British band was huge. If Gentle Giant was to maintain its cult status, it would be with this proud cult of obsessives. Although you probably won’t hear an album like Octopus at a wild party anytime soon (especially with a lead-off track titled “The Advent of Panurge”), the album is more streamlined and direct than their previous outings. Yet, it continues the standard Gentle Giant musical approach: insanely innovative and intricate (some would say hard to follow) arrangements, top-notch playing and vocal gymnastics that sound like a medieval men’s chorus. Tracks like “Panurge” and “A Cry for Everyone” come off almost as straight-ahead rockers – albeit uniquely warped Gentle Giant rockers. These tracks are punctuated with quirky interludes like the chamber orchestra violin arrangement on “Raconteur Troubadour” or the aforementioned vocal leapfrogging on “Knots.” A special note about the vocals…this is pretty much where the “acquired taste” part comes in. If a giant were actually straining to reach a high note, he might very well sound like vocalist Derek Shulman. His somewhat harsh, strident vocal approach is tempered, though, with keyboardist Kerry Minnear’s softer, more velvety voice on ballads like the pretty “Think of Me with Kindness.” Adorned in the UK with a cover by fantasy artist Roger Dean (the U.S. cover featured alternate art depicting an octopus in a jar) Octopus has assumed its rightful place as one of the genre’s classic albums, if not one of the strongest albums in the Gentle Giant canon. But even after 11 studio albums through 1980, the band was never able to scale the successful heights that fellow English Prog giants like Yes, Genesis, ELP and Pink Floyd reached – consigned to a destiny of musical obscurity, although this particular serving of Octopus is exceptionally flavorful once you've acquired the taste.

Essential Tracks: “Advent of Panurge” “Raconteur Troubadour” “A Cry for Everyone” “Think of Me with Kindness”

Turn Of The Cards

Renaissance/1974

How to describe the sound of Renaissance lead vocalist Annie Haslam’s voice? Hmmm, let’s see…remember that girl in the high school glee club who sang all the solos (not to mention leading the church choir on Sundays)? Perfectly hitting those high notes dead-nuts on, while mere mortals struggled, voices cracking in agony? You know, the girl who got straight A’s in every class. The one who always reminded the teacher to give the quiz that the teacher forgot about. Basically, you loved to hear her sing, but sometimes you just wanted to strangle the goodie-two-shoes (figuratively, of course). Now, take that crystal-clear, triple-octave voice, add a band with classical overtones (including classically trained pianist and band bedrock John Tout), what the hell, throw in a 30-piece orchestra or two. And there you have it: Renaissance. Launching this highbrow vibe with their third album, Turn of the Cards, Renaissance created what would be their musical MO – wrapping songs around long, orchestra-adorned arrangements that not only mirrored multi-movement classical pieces, but actually borrowed melody lines from a couple. While bands like Led Zeppelin paid homage to their blues hero Willie Dixon, Renaissance sounded like they’d been hanging out with Claude Debussy. However, with a player like John Tout in the band, we’re talking indisputable artistic legitimacy. This guy wasn’t just aping a classical player, he was the real deal. From the first notes of opening track “Running Hard,” Tout pounds the Steinway ivories like a mad maestro. No organs or synthesizers here. No electric guitars, either – that would be wrong for this tiny little orchestra. Tout is supported by bass guitar, acoustic guitar and drums. And of course, there’s Annie. Her crystalline voice shimmers throughout, performing tasteful vocal aeronautics that would make today’s overwrought “divas” cringe with shame and embarrassment. Epics like the opening track and the band’s signature piece, “Mother Russia,” swell and surge like good little classical pieces should, all the while showcasing that angel-on-high voice of Annie’s. No surprise that several years later, Renaissance played Carnegie Hall with the New York Philharmonic. Believe it or not, bands performing with orchestras were quite the rage back then – moving millions of albums, selling out prestigious concert halls. A time when golden-haired, flowing-gowned damsels warbled with heavenly voices, soaring over rolling piano arpeggios and melodic classical phrases. Was it rock n' roll? Not quite. A golden era? Perhaps…but without a doubt a true Renaissance period. (Ed. note: Review dedicated to Wayne!)

Essential Tracks: “Running Hard” “Things I Don’t Understand” “So Cold Is Being” “Mother Russia”

Nursery Cryme

Genesis/1971

No, your eyes are not deceiving you. That is, indeed, a young girl dressed in Victorian garb, playing croquet with the recently lopped-off heads of her playmates on the album cover. Such is the strange and enchanted world of Genesis, circa 1971. Think of it as a pleasant cup of English tea, spiked with just a dash of LSD. Nursery Cryme refers to the subject matter of the opening track, “The Musical Box,” where Cynthia lops off little Henry’s noggin, Henry later comes back as a ghost, then begins to age rapidly, but still wants to get laid. Okay, I guess you had to be there. But back in ’71, with Progressive Rock just starting to flex its creative muscle (or rear its ugly head, depending on your perspective), why not? With its classic lineup now firmly in place, thanks to the addition of Phil Collins on drums and Steve Hackett on guitar, Genesis was ready to unleash its warped, uniquely skewed take on all things English. Thus, we have the aforementioned lopping off of heads; giant hogweeds invading the English countryside; and nymphs from Greek mythology fluttering hither and yonder around the fountain of Salmacis. These flights of fantasy are all adorned with very intense music, performed by intelligent players who studied their instruments well, practicing in their bedrooms while all the other English kids were outside playing soccer. Not your typical rock band, the members of Genesis all seemed very smart, very polite, and would most likely prefer sipping a cup of tea by the fire over chugging a few pints at the pub. However, don’t mistake our gentle lads for wusses. When Hackett’s staccato, knife-piercing lead guitar lines aren’t shredding your brain in “The Return of the Giant Hogweed,” his crying, wailing-widow solos in “The Fountain of Salmacis” will bring you to tears. Collins plays like an over-caffeinated maniac (tea does contain caffeine, after all) throughout the album, although his drums are poorly recorded and buried in the mix (the bad production of this album is still a sore spot among fans ). With a foundation of lush, classically inspired orchestral keyboard shadings from Tony Banks, lead vocalist/eccentric Englishman Peter Gabriel puts these sordid tales of hogweeds and harlequins to vocal melody – using his best angel-with-a-2-pack-a-day-habit rasp. Actually their third album, Nursery Cryme was really the opening salvo in what would become the classic Genesis trilogy: Nursery Cryme, Foxtrot and Selling England by the Pound. Yet, even after committing these serious musical crymes in '71, it would take several more years before fans in the U.S. caught onto the act.

Essential Tracks: “The Musical Box” “The Return of the Giant Hogweed” “Seven Stones” “The Fountain of Salmacis”

Tales From Topographic Oceans

Yes/1974

Since we’re on the subject of concept albums…might as well haul out the mother of ‘em all, Tales from Topographic Oceans by Yes. First, let’s dispense with the usual puns associated with this album: they were in over their heads, adrift in a sea of pomposity, a band drowning in their own self-indulgence, etc., etc. A stunning artistic achievement or an orgiastic example of Prog excess? You be the judge. After a string of popular, pushing-the-musical-envelope albums including The Yes Album, Fragile and Close to the Edge, the band was on a roll and in peak form – the newly crowned kings of a fresh new genre that, believe it or not, was actually looked upon with approval by most rock critics at the time (even those notoriously anti-British writers at Rolling Stone). Upon completing their Close to the Edge tour in 1973, Yes hunkered down in the studio and embarked on a project to let it all hang out – immersing themselves in a concept based on the Shastric scriptures, from the book Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. Not exactly a hip topic amongst your typically stoned, drunk-out-of-their-minds rock audiences back then. You can almost hear the collective “Huh??” This was heavy stuff, indeed, set to four album-side musical epics stretched over two pieces of vinyl (a double album), each slowly unfolding (some would say aimlessly meandering) like a long, lazy river of oblique lyrics, occasional mellotron passages, helped along by some killer guitar riffs from Steve Howe to prevent anyone from nodding off. Missing here were Bill Bruford’s laser-like, jazzy drum patterns (he left the previous year to join King Crimson), replaced by pounder Alan White’s more basic hammer-time style. These four massive pieces, with snappy titles like “The Revealing Science of God,” started off slowly, took their good ol’ time getting up to cruising speed, before finally (some would say mercifully) coming to an end. The usual Yes penchant for pristine harmonies, strong melodies, ingenious arrangements and expert musicianship was still there in full glory…provided you were extremely patient and had some time to kill. But when you make it to Side 3 and 4, there’s the uncomfortable feeling that ideas are running dry, with a little too much instrumental noodling here and tribal drum beating there – all, it seemed, just to fill up the obvious spare time and space. Monumental mistake or masterpiece? Then as now, opinions were intensely divided. Hardcore Yes fans launched their crusade to defend Topographic Oceans while fair-weather fans abandoned ship (and most likely never bought another Yes album). It’s hard to believe there was once an era in popular music when an album of this depth (sorry, couldn’t resist) and artistic audacity would actually be released by a major record company (Atlantic Records). Ah, the early '70s. What heady times they were – even though such risky musical expeditions could quite often become a voyage of the damned.

Essential Tracks: “The Revealing Science of God,” “The Remembering (High the Memory)”

The Concept Album

Good, Bad or Ugly?

A long time ago, in a musical universe far, far away, there lumbered a dinosaur (band) that strove to achieve artistic greatness and immortality. One way to attempt this glorious feat was to create a “concept album.” Basically, this meant wrapping the music and lyrics around an overall theme, connecting the various parts and movements within a whole framework consisting of a beginning, a middle and an ending. Back in the heady days of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, it all made perfect sense. Whether you consider the very first concept album S. F. Sorrow by the Pretty Things, Tommy by the Who or Days of Future Passed by the Moody Blues, this lofty endeavor ultimately fell upon the earnest and enthusiastic Progressive Rock bands to pull off. Let’s face it, some concept albums worked and some didn't. A concept is merely a technique and doesn’t necessarily ensure artistic or commercial success. Some bands buckled under the heavy conceptual strain (Yes with Tales from Topographic Oceans; Genesis with The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway) while others reaped huge rewards and acclaim (the Who with Quadrophenia; Pink Floyd with The Wall). But whether or not you like the concept of a concept album, it still all comes down to the music. Great music can (and definitely has) existed within a bad concept (see Yes and Genesis above). Unfortunately, this grand approach opened up certain bands to the accusation of being “pompous” and “snooty” – words commonly leveled at Progressive Rock bands by their critics. Never mind that most of the musicians never considered themselves superior to the rest of humanity. Nor that their music was inherently better or smarter or deeper. In their minds, they were simply being creative and playing at their peak. The Prog guys just wanna have fun! And to be realistic, no specific musical genre has ever had exclusive rights to pomposity. Unless you're one of the few who have never experienced a pompous pop star, punk rocker, jazz musician, folk singer, etc. This misperception was created in large part by those who labeled the bands "progressive" in the first place. The word implies a superior attitude that was never really there. Unfortunately, once it became a label (and a genre), many misguided bands figured all they had to do was adopt a certain sound, use certain instruments, arrange music in a certain way, wear glittery capes...and voila! They would magically be transformed into a "progressive rock" band. Thus, many hacks came along and resorted to out-and-out mimicry. Which, in and of itself, is very unprogressive. Looking back, the glory days of the concept album now seem a quaint and distant echo of a time long passed. As does the very concept of an album itself – soon to be relegated to extinction in today’s iTunes digital download reality.

U. K.

U. K./1978

The winds of change howled back in the late ‘70s. A major paradigm shift was slamming the glittery, glammy universe that was rock music. Younger and much poorer musicians were now looking upon the era’s wealthy celebrity rock stars (along with their “dinosaur” bands that came of age in the late ‘60s) with extreme disdain. Okay, hatred. These young musical revolutionaries – many of whom couldn’t even play an instrument, but had dead-on aim when spitting on members of their audience – would teach those old codgers a thing or two, and bring back the fire and passion they believed was lacking in rock music. Not exactly the best time to form a Progressive Rock super group, is it. Enter U.K., four battle-tested veterans from previous Prog giants: drummer Bill Bruford (King Crimson, Yes), bassist/vocalist John Wetton (Family, King Crimson), guitarist Alan Holdsworth (Soft Machine) and keyboardist/violinist Eddie Jobson (Curved Air, Roxy Music, Frank Zappa). Inhabiting an alternate universe that ignored the changing musical landscape, U. K. (the album) was a Prog lover’s wet dream, a final brief shining moment of ingeniously arranged, multi-part epics like “In the Dead of Night,” the sneaky, meandering instrumental “Alaska” and the jazz-meets-pomp of “Nevermore.” All played with extreme precision and dazzling instrumental interplay – stuff only guys who had been around the block a few times with their instruments could pull off. All four were obviously expert players in their own right. Problem was Bruford’s jazzy, scittering drum patterns and Holdsworth’s fluid fret work drifted further into jazz fusion territory, while Jobson’s twiddly, classical keyboard style and Wetton’s massive, distorted bass thud landed firmly in the heavy-duty Prog camp. In other words, it was all too good to last. After their debut album, U. K. split in two, with expatriates Bruford and Holdsworth forming another band (called Bruford) to more freely exercise their jazzier tendencies. Jobson and Wetton soldiered on with a new drummer, and U. K. was now a keyboard power trio – carrying the cross for a couple more albums before laying it down for good and moving on. The late ‘70s became the early ‘80s, MTV emerged on everyone’s 19-inch sets, and rock music evolved into big hair bands, synth-pop purveyors and futuristic new wavers. But, much like the title of the closing track on U. K., “Mental Medication,” these four musicians were the perfect prescription for an era on life support…before the plug was finally pulled on '70s Prog.

Essential Tracks: “In the Dead of Night” “Alaska” “Time to Kill” “Mental Medication”