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

The Watcher Observes From A Distance

Gabriel Bows Out of RRHOF Genesis Induction

To be snubbed or not to be snubbed. This is the conundrum facing the former members of Genesis, as they ponder the band’s upcoming induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame – assuming their rightful position amongst recent or upcoming inductees/rock ‘n roll legends Abba, Madonna and The Dave Clark Five. Prog fans worldwide have groused over the years, complaining about the obvious lack of a progressive rock presence, as if bands like Genesis, King Crimson, Yes, ELP, etc., had never existed or didn’t really sell all those millions of albums and influence millions of musicians back in the glory days of 1969 through 1975. The Hall of Fame snub wasn’t really surprising, considering the American rock ‘n roll “intelligentsia” (if such a thing is even possible) led by Rolling Stone magazine founder Jann Wenner never really got Progressive Rock in the first place – thus, consigning it to illegitimate bastard/stepchild status among musical genres through predominantly negative reviews in his magazine. Until now. As Prog fanatics rejoice, merrily donning capes and prancing around their mellotrons in a fit of celebratory intoxication, there is still one snub yet to be snubbed. Seems former Genesis lead vocalist Peter Gabriel, lead singer – now a portly, white-haired and goateed gent – has decided to skip the induction ceremony, claiming he’s too busy planning his upcoming tour. For those not familiar with the history of Genesis, Gabriel left the band in 1975…a time when many claim the band had reached an artistic peak with their immense concept masterwork The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. Gabriel then jumped ship, embarking on a long (and extremely slow-moving) yet highly respected solo career. This forced the band to morph, mutate and eventually become the polar opposite of its earlier quirky, groundbreaking, Gabriel-led incarnation – a slick, MTV-friendly ‘80s hit-making machine. Ironically, Gabriel himself scored a huge hit right around the same time with So…an album that itself contained several chart-topping hits. But along the way, Gabriel seems to have distanced himself from his old band mates. It's as if he’s protecting his artistic “street cred” by disassociating himself with the band he once fronted whilst donning bat wings, old man masks, and red dresses among other dramatic special effects – all to reinforce the unique fractured fairy tales put to classical rock music that Genesis had created in the early-‘70s. Now, nothing pisses of Prog fanatics more than an artist becoming an apologist for his former work…as if admitting, “Yeah, the critics were right and it was all just a bunch of crap back then…” Not that this is necessarily Gabriel’s intent with his Hall of Fame snub. When all is said and done, he was only with the band for about seven of its 20-something years of existence. And let’s face it – the casual fan on the street probably remembers Genesis more for Invisible Touch than for Nursery Cryme anyway. So, come time for the big induction ceremony, band mainstays Phil Collins, Tony Banks and Mike Rutherford will most likely be joined by former members/guitarists Anthony Phillips and Steve Hackett for the big bash. Prog will finally be represented in these hallowed halls, gaining at least some critical respect, albeit a bit late in the game…but respect nonetheless. Yet, the guy who really helped lead Genesis to its historic progressive heights – the singer whom most fans fondly remember as fronting Genesis at its legendary creative peak – is passing on the party. The 800-pound gorilla in the room, conspicuous by his absence. Seems the Watcher would prefer to observe these festivities from the sidelines.

2010 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductees: ABBA, Genesis, Jimmy Cliff, The Hollies and The Stooges. Also being inducted this year as individual recipients of the Ahmet Ertegun Award will be David Geffen and songwriters Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil, Ellie Greenwich, Jeff Barry, Jesse Stone, Mort Shuman and Otis Blackwell. The ceremony will take place on March 15, 2010 at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City.

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”

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”

In The Wake Of Poseidon

King Crimson/1970

If at first you do succeed, then try, try again. As was the case with King Crimson when contemplating their second album, In the Wake of Poseidon. Because in late 1969, their iconic first album, In the Court of the Crimson King, came barreling out of nowhere – a dark, beautiful, spooky symphony that caught the unprepared music world totally off guard. So, how do you follow that tough act? The royal challenge fell to guitarist Robert Fripp – struggling to keep his young band together whilst others abandoned court, unable to handle the incredible rookie success of their debut (the most notable abandonee being woodwinds/mellotron player Ian McDonald, with lead singer Greg Lake and drummer Michael Giles soon to follow). Fripp seemed to heed that age-old advice: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Returning to the high-contrast aural shadings of the first album, vinyl Side 1 of Poseidon repeated the previous album’s Side 1 template in an almost clone-like way: “Pictures of a City,” heavy, jazzy/bluesy sax-driven head banger (complete with let’s-see-how-fast-we-can-play-it instrumental interlude) ala "Schizoid Man"; “Cadence and Cascade,” pretty acoustic guitar ballad, with lots of flute a’ fluttering ala "I Talk to the Wind"; “In the Wake of Poseidon,” epic mellotron-drenched track to close out the side ala "Epitaph." So far, so good. Definitely starting to sound like the lost little brother of In the Court of the Crimson King. But after a brief acoustic guitar piece that opens vinyl Side 2, things get schizoid. “Cat Food” is neither rock, nor pop, nor jazz, nor…hell, I’m not exactly sure what it is other than totally insane – thanks to Keith Tippett’s freeform piano riffs flying all over the place, and lyricist Pete Sinfield’s bizarro-world take on a day in the life of a grocery store:

“Lady Supermarket with an apple in her basket

Knocks in the manager's door;

Grooning to the muzak from a speaker in shoe rack

Lays out her goods on the floor;

Everything she's chosen is conveniently frozen.

Eat it and come back for more!”

Uh, okay. To give you some idea of what heady times these were, that track was actually released as a single. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any weirder, along comes “The Devil’s Triangle,” an extended, multi-section instrumental loosely based around Gustav Holst’s “Mars: The Bringer of War.” Ominously fading in with an unnervingly simple bolero-like beat and menacing mellotron chords, the track gradually morphs into a boiling cauldron of dying mellotrons, alien noises, beeps, blurts, burbles and floating voices. If there was a guided tour of Hades, this is the muzak you’d most likely hear piped through the public address system. The atonal concoction finally reaches its violent, swirling, clattering climax, then fades into Lake’s plaintive voice singing “Peace – An End." Joined by Fripp's melancholy acoustic guitar, it's a haunting finale to the chaos that preceded it. Though lacking the audacity, the intensity, the shear sonic shock-and-awe of the debut, Poseidon nevertheless holds its own. It's an album with a dual personality – one side gazing longingly back at what might have been, while the flip side turns its eyes (and our ears) towards the warped and wild experiments yet to come on Lizard.

Essential Tracks: "Pictures of a City" "In the Wake of Poseidon" "Cat Food"