Review of Rick Wakeman's Journey To The Centre Of The Earth

Released 1974

"Memories of a life on earth go flashing past, of home, of Grauben, friends of whom he's seen his last. Contemplating what his life's been worth, while trapped beneath the earth, an embryo at birth. Pain and fear destroy the beauty I have seen, of caverns, where no other man has been Silurian epoch hosts me as my grave, My final blow I wave."

I have reached the point in my chronological cataloguing of my first encounters with my the classic prog albums where I begin to get genuinely confused about what, where and when I bought specific albums. This is largely due to the transition from living at home in Cornwall to moving away to Glasgow to attend University. Switching and back forth between the two locations makes this part of my historical recollection difficult enough, but when I add in the drastic increase in alcoholic and chemical intake, it becomes extraordinarily challenging.

As such, I'll hold my hands up now and admit that several of the following reviews will be out of sequence. Any of the reprobates who I know me, and who are following this will no doubt delight in correcting me.

Journey To The Centre Of The Earth then falls squarely into this category. My fuzzy memory is further confused in this instance by the fact that I have purchased at least three copies. I should briefly add that this was not the first Rick Wakeman album I purchased. However, I only remember 1984 as being terrible and therefore not resident for too long on my shelves.

I do remember JTTCOTE being roundly ridiculed amongst friends at University, primarily for what is undoubtedly one of the most hilarious vocals on any record ever. Referring to the album sleeve now, I see that vocal duties were shared between Gary Pickford-Hopkins and Ashley Holt. Exactly. Who? Whichever one of them is responsible for the buttock-clenchingly awful warbling when delivering the vocal in The Battle, probably shudders in shame whenever he is reminded of his association with the record. Then again, it was recorded live in one take.

Despite being largely deserving of ridicule due to the laughable vocal and a bonkers concept, it actually holds together pretty well as a whole. In fact, I have grown to appreciate it more in recent years.

It is well known that Rick Wakeman mortgaged his granny in order to get the album made. Imagine his pitch to A&M: "it's a concept album with two tracks, based on a novel by Jules Verne, with subterranean monsters, seas and forests, performed live with a full orchestra, choir and narrator, with me wearing a cape and using unknown musicians". Well, he must be extremely persuasive.

Rick certainly is prog to the core.

From the outset with orchestra and choir in full flow, it sets out it's stall as a work of grand ambition, is very well paced and with the exception of the terribly judged vocal delivery, is very well delivered. There is a real sense of drama and it is clear that as a live event it would have been a tremendous spectacle.

Against the backdrop of classically trained musicians and the theatrical staging, Rick's playing is very effective. Obviously he skirts closer than most to self-parody, but, to be fair, his flair, humour and individuality should win over all but his harshest critics.

As an ensemble piece it is well realised, and in terms of achieving what it set out to achieve, it is a remarkable effort. Yes, it wasn't until the third copy that I saw it's true quality, but it was worth the perseverance.

Review of Yes' Going For The One

Released 1977

"Master of soul. Master of time. Set to touch. Setting sail. All impenetrable youth. Over all our lands. Ask away. And as we look. That thought be contact. Forever closer. With all that's clear. Shall we now bid. Be honest with yourself. Farewell. Farewell. There's no doubt, no doubt."

My girlfriend and I took a trip to Plymouth from West Cornwall by bus, ostensibly because it was her birthday treat, but I'll admit now to an ulterior motive. There was such a paucity of choice for the discerning prog lover in the depths of Cornwall, that entering the hallowed halls of a city centre HMV was enough to bring tears to of joy to my eighteen year old eyes.

Before setting out, I had intended to splurge on a copy of Tales of Topographic Oceans. Holding my breath, and approaching the 'Y' racks of the Rock section, I was delighted to see a copy awaiting me. Turning it over in my hands, I was aware of a presence to my right. An oddly smelling older gentleman looked at me cautiously and said: " You might want to thing twice about that". "Why's that then?" I replied. "Have you heard any Yes before?", he queried. "Yes, I've got The Yes Album and Close To The Edge", I stated proudly. "Hmm, both good, but you need a bit more preparation before you tackle Tales". He reached forward and pulled out copies of Going For The One and Fragile. "I'd go for one of these first. Listen; you don't have to take my advice, but Yes are right up there man, and you've gotta do them in the right order or it'll bum you out. Four tracks based on shastric scriptures is a bit heavy. I'm not, like trying to patronise you man, but both of these are top dollar. Trust me".

Despite the mysterious odour, I was warming to the chap. He appeared to be genuine and I couldn't see what motivation he would have for misleading me. "Okay, thanks", I muttered.

Once he and the accompanying fragrance departed, I considered the cost difference as well as his advice. Tales was very pricey. On a whim, I took his advice and went for Going For The One.

On the bus back, my girlfriend, who had very good taste in music in the main it has to be said, glossed over the fact that I'd purchased an album adorned with the rear view of a naked man and looked over my shoulder at the lyrics inside the gate fold sleeve. "What on earth...?" I had to agree, Jon Anderson's lyrics were, as always, meaningfully meaningless. I noted that each of my three Yes albums had a different line up of musicians and wondered what impact this would have why they couldn't get on.

The first few seconds of the title track bought forth an involuntary grimace. What was this? Chet Atkins? Country? Luckily, it very quickly settled into a very respectable song which, while markedly different to both The Yes Album and Close To The Edge, was no worse off for it. The production was superb, with both Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman's parts in particular brought to the fore with outstanding clarity. With each new Yes album, I appreciated Jon Anderson's vocal talent more and more. I know that he is quite bonkers and lives in a different mental place to most people, but his vocal talent on this album was, for me the pinnacle of his career.

Turn of The Century was a slower paced effort largely driven by the distinctive acoustic guitar of Steve Howe accompanied by grand piano and another scrotum defying vocal from Jon. Lush and lovely. Parallels showed further dexterity from yet another bank of keyboards and a sterling performance from Chris Squire.

So far, so good. Certainly more accessible than the other two Yes albums I already owned without sacrificing any prog-ness whatsoever. I was impressed.

I was surprised to learn that I recognised Wonderous Stories. I was unaware when I first heard it as a single that it was Yes. Although it was undeniably the most commercial track on the album, the quality of the playing, especially the vocal interplay between Jon and Chris was hard to fault, so I could forgive their dalliance with the charts.

The highlight of the album was of course Awaken. I have to admit though that it didn't grab me fully the first time around. I'm sure that I viewed it as the 'serious' track for the hard core fans. Whilst I could see that it was obviously accomplished, I thought that the middle section meandered a bit and subsequently lost my attention. Overall then, first time around, I was respectful of the album as a whole and chalked it up as a strong but not career defining platter.

It wasn't until many years later when I saw Yes live for the first time, that I fully appreciated the unfettered gorgeousness of Awaken. I get goosebumps on my arms now reliving the moment when my head tilted to one side, shocked, thinking; "how could I have missed this? It's stunning". Instead of being bored by the middle section, I, along with the rest of the audience (I guess) were transfixed by the harp, the delicate bass lines and building keyboard parts. The climax of the song; church organ, steel guitar and vocal meeting in perfect harmony, was transcendentally magnificent, leaving me breathless and with tears in my eyes.

Not surprisingly, I have since reappraised Going For The One as an album, with it rising higher in my estimation. I've never recaptured that magical moment when I first heard Awaken live, but, in the right frame of mind, with a decent sound system to capitalise on the excellent production, I've got close.

Review of Marillion's Misplaced Childhood

Released 1985

"And a ring of violet bruises, they were pinned upon her arm. Two hundred francs for sanctuary and she led me by the hand to a room of dancing shadows where all the heartache disappears And from glowing tongues of candles, I heard her whisper in my ear "'J'entend ton coeur", I can hear your heart".

I have a confession to make. In the summer of 1985, I had Marillion's logo embroidered into my denim jacket. I know, I know. I was young and I was foolish, I had big hair, smelt of patchouli oil and could be found, in my private moments, throwing Fish-like poses and no doubt pouting in a meaningful way. If my youngest brother is reading this, he will testify to the acute embarrassment of having a Marillion fan in the family.

In the rock music press in the eighties, Marillion were feted as the champions of contemporary prog rock with countless column inches given over to their colourful career progression. As a fan who had followed them closely it was a rare treat to have such exposure to the trials and tribulations of a prog rock band in the here and now.

Although the fans still loved Marillion, the critics weren't fond of Fugazi and their were rumours of drink and drug problems within the band and a definitive feeling that their next album had to be good or the honeymoon period would be over.

Marillion then did something almost unheard of amongst prog circles; they released one of the most successful singles of the 1980's - Kayleigh - and swiftly followed it up with another - Lavender - and thereby secured themselves a successful, albeit very brief residence in the upper echelons of the pop charts. As undeniably catchy as both singles were, I along with many other Marillion fans raised a quizzical eyebrow at this distinctly non-prog direction, and feared that the follow up to Fugazi would spell the end of the prog renaissance. To see the splendidly mulleted Fish dancing his way through the video for Kayleigh was enough for any self respecting prog fan to consider unpicking their logo from their denim jacket.

The album packaging was reassuring. Mark Wilkinson produced one of the finest sleeve designs of the eighties which was very, very prog with themes from the last two albums such as the jester, the magpie making appearances. It was a bit glossy overall, but then again it was the eighties.

I was prepared to expect two side long 'suites' of continuous music which was markedly more ambitious than their previous efforts. I therefore had mixed expectations based just how effectively these commercial singles could reside within prog-like suites.

Pseudo Silk Kimono provides a very prog like prelude to the two singles which ran back to back and, although I was loathe to admit it, worked very well as part of the concept. These ran in turn into possibly the strongest part of the album, the five part Bitter Suite. Fish's lyrics were much more accessible and becoming more accomplished with each album. Yes, the first part was particularly silly and perhaps unnecessarily theatrical, but it certainly worked. It wasn't difficult to imagine it being 'acted out' on stage. The feel of this first side was undeniably prog, but it was also extremely listenable and flowed very well indeed.

My problem with it then and so some extent now, was that it was too straightforward and not complex enough. Now, if you have read my last review - of Genesis' Foxtrot - you'll no doubt wonder what it would take to satisfy this fussy seventeen year old: I saw Foxtrot as impenetrably complex and Misplaced Childhood as too simple. Obviously there is a conundrum here. I put it down to my tender years. Twenty five years on though, I now acknowledge Foxtrot as a masterpiece and view Misplaced Childhood as 'interesting' but not great.

The second side is, to be fair, much more complex and probably better for it. This side touches more emphatically on Fish's chemical diversions and subsequent psychological issues and is more edgy, denser and has more soul and substance.

I couldn't fault the playing or the writing especially. It was just less challenging than their previous albums. For these reasons, it has been far and away their most commercially successful album. However, for me it ranks as the weakest of the four Fish era albums.

Review of Genesis' Foxtrot

Released 1972

"MARK HALL OF STYX ENTERPRISES (OTHERWISE KNOWN AS 'THE WINKLER')
"I represent a firm of gentlemen who recently purchased this
house and all the others in the road. In the interest of humanity we've found a better place for you to go, go-woh, go-woh"

It wasn't until I purchased my third copy of Foxtrot that I saw any merit in it whatsoever. It now sits safely within my top ten albums. I can't think of any other album in my collection which has bewildered me as much as Genesis' third album proper.

There was a notable raising of the bar between Trepass and Nursery Cryme; a growing confidence and ambition, which dared to venture into realms of lyrical eccentricity that could only be carried off against a backdrop of highly proficient musicianship. As Foxtrot was their next album chronologically, and it contained the infamous side long Supper's Ready of which I aware of by reputation only, I was keen to see if the upwards trend had continued.

Paul Whitehead had again been employed to produce an inexplicably appropriate sleeve design, which, while it appeared to have little logic of itself or any obvious connection to the music, somehow it gelled perfectly. There was also a clever reference to the artwork of the previous album on the rear sleeve with the croquet hammer again being readied to propel a human head. Aliens dressed in full fox-hunting regalia, on horseback, on a beach, gazing out to sea (past a shark/dolphin hybrid) at a woman wearing a red dress, but with a foxes' head, who is standing on an iceberg with a submarine in the background. Utterly nuts.

For reasons I cannot explain, I absolutely hated the entire album first time around, finding nothing of merit in any way. Supper's Ready in particular left me totally cold; I saw it as a poorly connected series of shorter songs which were trying to be too clever and were failing badly. I put the album away and ultimately sold it a few years later having played it only once. Consequently, I found myself listening to the first two albums less and less, to the point where I gave up on Genesis altogether. Oddly, I did buy my first copy of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway about six months later - only because I found a second hand copy in perfect condition for £1 - but then gave up on that in exactly the same way, reasoning that it's mint condition was due it's previous owner having had the same opinion.

Out of the blue about ten years later, when I was in my mid-twenties, I read once more about the supposed brilliance of Foxtrot and it's universal long lasting acclaim (amongst prog rock fans at least) as one of the very best examples of the prog genre. On a whim, I decided to give it another go and bought my second copy; a cassette version. Again, I found it completely unlistenable and traded it in the next day.

Thus up until about three years ago, I hadn't listened to Trepass, Nursery Cryme of any of the Peter Gabriel era Genesis for the best part of twenty five years.

In the meantime, my prog rock collection had diversified and veered off in many other directions. At every turn though I was confronted with the resounding knowledge that I must be one of the few fans of old school prog who didn't like Genesis. However this didn't make sense to me, as there had been a time when the first two albums were regular visitors to my turntable.

I bit the bullet and started again, first with Trepass and then with Nursery Cryme. To my delight, I probably enjoyed Trepass more a quarter of a century on, and still had a fondness for Nursery Cryme.

Third time around, Foxtrot was a revelation. I could have wept at the brilliance of Watcher Of The Skies; clearly one of the archetypal prog songs: to this day I have yet to hear more emotive use of the mellotron. This was Tony Banks' album; his DNA was stamped indelibly across a large proportion of the album, with a strength of character and control that most other keyboard players would have killed for. Peter Gabriel took the obtuseness of lyric displayed on the previous album into a realm which no one else could touch. Phil Collins' underrated drumming was never better.

I was stunned, with the exception of the horribly twee Time Table, the whole of the first side was a masterclass in prog. What had I heard twenty five years previously that repelled me to abandon the band in the way I did? I'll never know. My enjoyment of the album was immeasurably enhanced by the contrast between my experiences as a fifteen year old and a 39 year old.

I still held my breath for Supper's Ready. As a twenty five year old I saw it as pretentious smart-arsedness at it's very worst.

It did take a few plays to be honest, but little by little, the merits of Supper's Ready have unfolded for me, layer by layer, revealing itself as an accomplished epic worthy of it's plaudits. I still think it is overtly and unnecessarily complex, but, three years on, I am still picking up snatches of brilliance which, with each new play, build on the undoubted foundation of the first side. Of all my Genesis albums, only Selling England By The Pound is played more often.

A classic. Eventually.

Review of Santana's Abraxas

Released1970

"Is that you, your eyes slowly fading? Is that you, your mind full of tears? Is that you, searching for a good time? Is that you, waitin' for all these years?"

One of the real pleasures in undertaking this blog is that when I sit down to write a review, I invariably put the album on in the background and for reasons which I can't quite explain, I somehow listen to it with a slightly different disposition and, more often than not find that my musical appreciation is deepened in the process. That's very true of Abraxas. Whilst I've had a fondness from day one, it is highly pleasurable to be newly surprised and excited by an album I've had for many years and heard many, many times.

One night not long before I left home for University, I hired two VHS videos: Woodstock and The Song Remains The Same. Call me a sad old hippy, but I remember that night with great fondness and developed a deeper affiliation for the late sixties / early seventies period. If truth be told, I fast forwarded through much of the non-musical segments of the Woodstock film, but, amongst the many highlights, I was significantly struck by the performance of the very young and fresh faced Santana's Soul Sacrifice. I now know that their exhilarating performance on Max Yasgur's farm shot them to instant fame and fortune and deservedly so.

I came across copies of both their debut album and Abraxas on the same day, but picked the latter on the basis of the cover art - still one of my favourite all time covers - even though the former had Soul Sacrifice amongst it's listings. Looking back, this was probably also due to the fact that, at the time, my Fleetwood Mac collection was growing and I was certainly familiar with Santana's cover of Black Magic Woman.

The opening track - Singing Winds, Crying Beasts - superbly set the scene with it's genre mashing mix of Latino rhythms, howling guitar, jazz inflected piano and extraterrestrial percussion. The lead guitar was possibly the least deployed instrument on this track, washing from ear to ear with wonderful restraint.

The aforementioned Black Magic Woman, for my money, falls into the very small category were the cover improves on the original. Along with Jimi Hendrix's version of All Along The Watch Tower and Joe Cocker's Woodstock version of With A Little Help From My Friends, Santana 's version of this track takes an already excellent song and takes it to another level entirely. I'm not sure if a term has been coined to describe the resulting musical form for Santana's interpretation of this blues track. As such, this for me immediately earns it prog rock status.

Incident At Neshabur is another track which may easily have been overlooked by prog fans; under the Latino percussiveness which one would expect from a Mexican rock band, I've always suspected that the interplay between the keyboards and guitar was largely improvised, veering from Hammond to piano, from jazz drum brushes to feedback laden guitar; always exciting and unpredictable.

Whilst most other predominantly instrumental albums were, at lease to start with, a challenging listen, the sparseness of the vocals on Abraxas went almost unnoticed, such was the energy and variety on show.

At the risk of repeating myself, I always felt that my habitual wearing of headphones went a long way to enhancing my love for much of the music I listened to at this time. I don't mean the terrible things you stick in your ears today when plugged into an ipod, but the large ungainly objects that completely surrounded each ear. Try listening to the intro of Hope Your Feeling Better With headphones of this time and tell me that you are not stunned by the difference: a participant in the experience rather than a bystander.

The debate over how to define prog will never be settled. However, I find it invigorating that the genre encapsulates the existential gloom that is Van Der Graaf Generator, the mellow stoner rock of Pink Floyd as well as the uplifting and buoyant Santana.

Review of Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow

Released 1967

"When logic and proportion, have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said; "FEED YOUR HEAD""

Having enjoyed The Doors first album, I started to read about other proponents of West Coast psychedelia. A whole new new branch of progressive music revealed itself. The names of groups such as The Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger Service and Love seemed perfectly in keeping with the tales of free love, free spirits and the counter culture which was developing at the time.

I was then fortunate enough to catch an airing of 1967 The Monterey Jazz Festival which featured - amongst others - Janis Joplin, The Who, Jimi Hendrix, The Byrds and Moby Grape. I was in my element. Incidentally, back in the 1980's when there were just four TV channels to choose from here in the UK, it seemed that there was a cornucopia of classic music documentaries or films on show: from the Monterey Jazz Festival to the Big Sur trip, with CSN and friends, the original Woodstock festival, along with many others. Now, with hundreds of channels to choose from, it is very rare to find anything from this era. A terrible shame for anyone wanting to discover this special era in music.

Also on the bill at Monterey in 1967 were Jefferson Airplane. Again, the shallowness of my teenage years has to be admitted. My initial attraction to the band was the bare footed and frankly gorgeous Grace Slick. I was besotted by her voice, her performance and her underrated voice. On the back of that late night drooling I ventured out to purchase the fantastically titled Surrealistic Pillow.

Not the most imaginative of covers obviously, but it clearly showed that they were contemporaries of The Doors.

I'll admit that I was largely disappointed the first time I played the album in full. I felt that it was distinctly unadventurous, un-prog like and more akin to fans of The Mamas and Papas than anything I had been adding to my record collection in recent months. Plus Grace Slick was mixed too far back and more often than not shared the vocal. I felt cheated. Of course I thought that White Rabbit was outstanding and that Somebody to Love showed potential, but overall I was not impressed that only two of the eleven songs held my attention.

Several plays later I was still of the same mind. I put the album back in it's plastic sleeve and put in back on my shelf with the intent of selling it on

Then, a few months later I was a party where alcohol was not the only stimulant on offer. Sinking into a bean bag in a darkened room heavy with fragrant smoke and my drink of choice at the time (Canadian Club of all things) I was vaguely aware of a recognisable strumming and a lyric I was surprised I had memorised. I couldn't immediately place my finger on exactly what it was until the next track started. Ah, Grace Slick! The previous track had been Comin'Back To Me. Looking around me I noticed others were nodding along to the guitar solos and that I myself was actually enjoying it for the first time.

I hadn't previously noticed the flute at the beginning of How Do You Feel or the strength of the harmonies. It was also much folkier than I remembered. With each new song I heard new layers and discovered hidden depths which made me ashamed of my short sightedness before.

Listening to White Rabbit in an ahem, elevated state in a room light by a red light bulb was one of the defining moments of my teenage years and of my musical appreciation.

All these years later I don't place it in the same bracket as The Doors or other albums of that era but it does have a few grand inspirational moments and the ability to make me smile inwardly.

Review of Pink Floyd's The Wall

Released1979

"Alright, I'll take care of them part of the time, but there's somebody else that needs taking care of in Washington"
"Who's that?"
"Rose Pilchitt!"
"Rose Pilchitt? Who's that?"
[Kid screams in background. Foreground: "Shut Up!"]
"36-24-36 [laughter] does that answer your question?"
[foreground: "Oi! I've got a little black book with me poems in!"]
"Who's she?"
"She was 'Miss Armoured Division' in 1961 ... "

I was thirteen when Another Brick In The Wall Part II was Christmas No.1. Like many others, I bought the album on the back of that song. This was my introduction to Pink Floyd and unfortunately, due to my tender years, I just couldn't fathom the album at all. The cassette quickly became 'accidentally' broken and I exchanged it for something else; Queen's A Day At The Races, I think.

Five years later and with The Dark Side Of The Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Final Cut all occupying my turntable on a very regular basis, I felt brave enough to spend £20+ on a new vinyl copy of The Wall. Having immersed myself to quite an obsessive degree in all things Floyd, I had a more informed view of what to expect from the album, especially in light of my particular fondness for The Final Cut. I think it's safe to say that most Floyd fans will have purchased The Wall before The Final Cut and, as a consequence, view the later as a poor relation of the former. Thus I reasoned that there was a good chance that coming to The Wall second, it should be that I would also see it as the superior of the two.

The niw iconic packaging does a sterling job of setting the scene; Gerald Scarfe's angular scrawl signifying a strong sense of mental dislocation against a stark cold background.

Whilst the mood of The Final Cut is predominantly funereal with minimal guitar, the prologue to The Wall surprised me greatly by kicking off much more aggressively with guitar riffing and drums to the fore. It was difficult to see any connection at the outset with The Final Cut in terms of either mood or subject matter.

Like each of the Pink Floyd albums already in my possession, the production values for The Wall were again in a class of their own, making this an absolutely superb headphone experience; a World War II fighter plane swoops through the left ear and crashes in the right, excerpts from TV channels, bird song, are just some of the huge library of sound effects employed in a way only Roger Waters can achieve. The whole first side was a superbly realised concept which greatly exceeded my expectations albeit that it was entirely different to style to The Final Cut.

I felt somewhat let down by the second side, which, with the exception of two highlights; the clever contrast between the humour and aggression of Young Lust and the astonishing four note guitar solo of Don't Leave Me Now - David Gilmour holds each note with superhuman sustain which is just achingly wonderful; put on the headphones and turn the volume to as high as you can bear. Gorgeous - just doesn't have the focus of the first side.

The third side has become, in time, one of my favourite most perfectly complete sides of vinyl in my whole collection. I don't think Pink Floyd ever understood and fully exploited the contrast between Waters and Gilmour's voices. On Hey You and Comfortably Numb both voices are employed to to achieve contrasting emotions in different passages within each song; in a band so renowned for it's in-fighting (especially around this album) the switches between voices within the same song is a highly successful technique which sadly was never seen again. The lyrical brilliance of The Final Cut is equalled in Nobody Home, with Waters bitter and twisted humour again on top form. Go back and listen to the range of instrumentation on this side of vinyl: along with the usual array of (electric) guitar, bass guitar, drum and keyboards, violin, acoustic guitar, a grand piano, a full orchestra, a choir and a northern brass band are engaged to create a highly cohesive side of vinyl.

As an eighteen year old hearing the album for the first time in detail, I really struggled with the fourth side, especially The Trial. Oddly, watching the film a year later actually enhanced my appreciation of what Roger Waters was trying to achieve and it became a highlight of the whole concept.

While both The Wall and it's cousin, The Final Cut, are undoubtedly Roger Waters' children, there is still a great sense of collaboration on The Wall that lends it a greater musical depth. If this collaboration could have continued on The Final Cut, I truly think that it would have been Pink Floyd's greatest achievement.

I don't listen to The Wall as much as other Floyd albums, but when I do, it's invariably through my headphones, and despite the fact that I've heard it hundreds of times, I still, all these years later, hear new things each and every time.

Review of The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Released 1967

"When you've seen beyond yourself, then you may find, peace of mind is waiting there.
And the time will come when you will see we're all one, and life flows on within you and without you".


I have a very strange relationship with this album. I had had a summer job working behind the bar, where for the course of the entire summer season, only three cassettes were played in constant rotation: Sade's first album, Paul McCartney's second album and Sgt. Pepper. Although all three albums have much going for them, having heard each of them an estimated 150 times in quick succession that summer, each time I hear a snatch from any of them, I have a Proustian moment where instantly the smell of an ashtray mixed with Fairy Liquid makes me want to gag: not the reaction the Fab Four intended when they composed what is frequently seen as the most influential album of the twentieth century.

On the plus side, a couple of years later, I recall a major documentary about The Beatles being screened in the JCR of our University Halls. It was twenty years since the making of their seminal album and many of rock and pop's main alumni were interviewed, along with the surviving Beatles themselves, talking about the whole summer of love experience. Incidentally, I pretty sure that this was the first time the fabled quote - " If you can remember the sixties, you weren't really there" was aired by a member of Jefferson Airplane. Anyhow, an awful lot of students gathered to watch that documentary and were enraptured by the scope of their achievement and the mystic of the time. It was clear from the diverse range of students watching the programme that The Beatles were still revered two decades on.

I don't think there is any debate at all that Sgt. Pepper qualifies as a prog album. From the iconic sleeve to the costumes of the band, from the clever segues to the massive range of musical styles, from the (I think) the very first gate fold sleeve to the introduction of instruments from the Far East, the invention and ambition is astonishing.

This may have not been the first concept album but, at the time at least, it was certainly the most slickly executed. The movement from song to song is so professional that it seems to work on a theatrical staged level. Take the segue from the opening title track to With A Little Help From My Friends; both songs work well alone, but the effort and effectiveness of how the two meet is pure prog rock. It's slickness doesn't however distract from the indescribable awfulness that is Ringo Starr's vocal on this song.

There are times though when I listen to the album where I can only view it as simple collection of catchy pop songs with little depth. This is because there are very few songs by The Beatles that are not ingrained on the psyche like no other group before or since. Take Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds; it works both as an innovative and brilliant pop song when viewed entirely separately to the album, but it does also flow impeccably with the natural character of the rest of the songs collectively. Songs such as Getting Better and Fixing A Hole are undeniably pop songs but pop songs which were deliberately framed to exist within a rock album.

Of course because they were The Beatles, they could get away with the braveness of George Harrison's Within You Without You. As bizarre as it must have been at the time of release, the boldness of this gesture directly lead to budding prog musicians realising that it was okay to experiment.

Enough words have already been written about the impact of A Day Of A Life on popular culture. The point which I always dwell on when listening to this track is to marvel at the thought process and creative collaboration which could even conceive of the song structure in the first place. The ingestion of drugs no doubt had a lot to do with it, but I feel that this is a lazy explanation. To be able to harness a vision and then execute it using technology and techniques never yet employed could have resulted in a catastrophic failure. Just being The Beatles wasn't enough to make it a success. A willingness to push boundaries in this way is pure prog.

Ultimately Sgt. Pepper is probably only my third favourite album by The Beatles. That said, I am warming to it more and more with each passing year.

Review of Barclay James Harvest's Octoberon

Released 1976

"I stepped out on the guard rail, saw the crowds slowly part Heard a voice shouting 'don't jump, please for god's sake let me move my car!'
Felt a hand on my shoulder, heard a voice cry 'just in time!'
Felt the quick push, felt the air rush Felt the sidewalk, fell in line."

I professed in my review of Everyone Is Everybody Else that I was introduced to Barclay James Harvest through my Father's extraordinary moderate interest in prog; essentially, other than BJH, his only other prog interest that I was aware of was (later period) The Moody Blues.

Although I knew EIEE almost subliminally for years, I didn't buy a copy until years later. Octoberon then became my first Barclay James Harvest purchase. I'm sure that it was a requested present for either a birthday or Christmas. I would have chosen Octoberon specifically for no other reason than it's wonderful cover. I've said before that while Genesis are usually seen as the most forthright quintessentially English prog rock band and are credited with the successful evocation of a bygone pastoral age, I feel that there are a few other bands who easily parallel this sentiment; Traffic being one and Barclay James Harvest being another. The cover depicts a fabulously ornate portrayal of a May Queen; undeniably pastorally English and the subject matter of one of the songs contained herein. I also loved the lettering. I liked to imagine that on original pressings of the album, the the lettering was embossed or even stitched in place.

The World Goes on begun with the extremely mellow acoustically lead, quite folk like theme I would have hoped for. The vocal was, and I've said this before, very Floyd-like; specifically akin I think to Rick Wright. With a gorgeous Floydian guitar solo and the expected liberal use of mellotron, this picked up where EIEE leaves off and therefore doesn't disappoint.

The pace remains sedate and stately for Mayday and indeed the whole album, hardly raising the pulse but extremely effective. Any review of either a BJH album or of their career as a whole cannot resist describing the band as nearly men, forever living in the shadow of their more successful multi0platinum selling peers, usually Pink Floyd and / or The Moody Blues. Indeed, I've done it here myself. However, I think that this view undervalues the their contribution to the prog canon. Yes, of course there are similarities between these bands, but this should be celebrated rather than derided. It may be easy to compare the closing choral section of May Day with parts of Pink Floyd's Atom Heart Mother, but that is unfair as it works in both contexts. I don't believe that critics of the band can have it both ways: if the BJH guitar style is so similar to David Gilmour, why are the skills of the Pink Floyd guitarist placed on a pedestal whilst BJH' s close approximation is seen as less valuable?

Perhaps it is Barclay James Harvest's lack of a 'message' or large theme underpinning their work which leaves them often categorised as second rate. That said, there can be few bands who have so effectively specialised in doom laden motifs and songs to slit your wrists to, and whilst perhaps they may not therefore be a band who can get a party moving along, as purveyors of this particular niche, I, for one think that they are very accomplished. I'd certainly rather spend my time listening to BJH as opposed to The Cure, for example.

The pinnacle of Barclay James Harvest's career, I believe is the song 'Suicide?'. If you are unfamiliar with it, I would urge you to acquire a copy at your earliest convenience, sit in a darkened room, remove all sharp objects and enjoy. I remember clearly as if it were yesterday (as opposed to twenty five years ago) the hairs standing up on the back of neck the first time I played this track. Why these four boys from Oldham were so obsessed with all things maudlin is unknown to me and how none of them went the way of Kurt Cobain, such is their apparent affiliation with self-induced death, is a miracle. At the climax of the song, the protagonist walks slowly to the roof of a building where, in the end, he jumps, accompanied by the most heart stoppingly effective sound effect that I've yet heard committed to record. It is genuinely disturbing but a staggeringly effect piece of music.

The oddest thing of all with BJH, is that they so skillfully combined themes of depression and death with some of the most beautiful orchestrations of the period. In a perverse sort of way, I like the fact that BJH are seen as nearly men. That way, all of their many fans, amonsgt whom I count myself, can grin smugly in the knowledge that we are members of a relatively exclusive club.

Review of Roger Waters' The Pros and Cons Of Hitch Hiking

Released 1984

"I nailed ducks to the wall; kept my heart in dark ruins. I built bungalows all over the hills. Dunroamin, duncarin, dunlivin Took my girl to the country, to sleep out under the moon Next thing she's going crazy".

I had owned The Final Cut for no more than three or four months before The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking was released. Compelled by the prospect of another chapter of tortured brilliance, I bought his first solo album proper (his Music from The Body with Ron Geesin, as I later learned, was made for the bargain bucket) on the day of release.

I have since seen this album listed close to the top of worst album covers of all time type polls. It really is irredeemably awful and quite surprising given the care and attention afforded to Pink Floyd album art. The other big negative is the dreadful song titles. Admittedly, the concept - a real time recounting of a dream or sequence of dreams - almost justifies it, but titles such as 4.37am (Arabs with Knives and West German Skies) all presented parenthetically struck me as unnecessarily daft.

As I was staying with my girlfriend the night I purchased the album from (another sadly defunct record shop in) Redruth, and she was of the Greenham Common, knitting her own yogurt brigade, she took umbrage at the 'degrading' photograph of the naked 'lady' hitch hiker on the cover, meaning I was not allowed to use her turntable that evening without incurring the risk of a serious strop, and the almost certain subsequent denial of certain privileges.

I crept downstairs in the early hours the following day, set on committing the cardinal sin of using her mothers ancient turntable. Spotting a set of headphones, I gleefully rejoiced that I could indulge my selfishness without disrupting the rest of the household.

As the gap between the releases of The Final Cut and this album was relatively short, and as the former album was, at the end of the day, a Roger Waters solo album in all but name, it seemed not unreasonable to expect more of the same. This time, Eric Clapton was in accompaniment along with a robust set of supporting players. I was never a big fan of Eric Clapton post Blind Faith, although as an undoubted master of his art whose style was markedly different to David Gilmour, this was an intriguing prospect.

There were several obvious parallels between this album and The Final Cut; each album had, in effect, an prologue, the main 'story', a commercial penultimate track which was issued as a single and an epilogue, the song structure of both of these epilogues was remarkably similar; both are vehicles first and foremost for the vocal, and both use sound-effects as integrally as any of the instruments. However, one feature which was wholly absent from The Final Cut, was a sense of humour, which I was surprised to find here. Admittedly it's application was usually of the warped schadenfreude affected variety, but it was there.

The album starts with a ticking clock, an explosion and the anguished cry from Roger, (no change there then) a female voice telling him that he's been dreaming, before Mr Clapton begins the slide guitar motif which varies very little for the rest of the album. Roger commences to provide a commentary of his dream about picking up female hitch hikers. The tone is hushed, liberally spiced with sexual innuendo and deliberately makes about as much sense as a dream. Female background vocals (including Cherry Vanilla?) serve to take the edge off of the pained Waters lead. It's all impeccably played, masterfully executed, and, as I'd already come to expect, magnificently produced; another perfect headphones album, but as it passed quite seamlessly from track to track, I couldn't see where it was going. Tales about nightmares are a long way removed from the themes of the three Pink Floyd albums I already owned. This was trivial and pointless as opposed to deep and meaningful, I suppose. This puzzled me.

Being dream-like, it leapt from scene to scene apparently at random, which was understandable, but because of this it had little focus.

The thinness of the music on The Final Cut reflected the funereal tone of the concept as a whole; lush orchestration wouldn't have worked. Here again, whilst often lyrically brilliant, the music itself has little imagination and, to use a non-technical term, was just too 'samey' throughout.

This was such a conundrum. My eighteen year old self was completely in awe of Roger Waters articulation and ability to conceptualise so effectively. but was frustrated by the lack of 'oomph' in the instrumentation.

Side two, for the most part, was a large improvement. The slide guitar motif continues, but there is a bit more depth in evidence. The entire arrangement for Go Fishing was beautifully realised; humour, tortured vocals, social comment, a liberal dosing of woman hating, a lilting keyboard theme, AA Milne's Winnie The Pooh being read to children whilst inhaling pot, and a great saxophone solo. What more could you want? The same can said of the title track; very well realised, ticking most of the necessary boxes.

Although throughout most of the second side I found myself enjoying the wordsmithing, admiring the cleverness of the segues between songs and the astonishing bitterness exuded by Roger, there are large meandering holes where a tune should reside.

A perplexing album this; flashes of sublime greatness interspersed with moments of utter uninspired drab ordinariness. I really wanted to love this as much The Final Cut. Unfortunately it ultimately left me wanting a great deal more.

Review of The Moody Blues' On The Threshold Of A Dream

Released 1969

"Now you know how nice it feels,
Scatter good seed in the fields.
Life's ours for the making,
Eternity's waiting, waiting, for you and me".

As a teenager, I lived in close proximity to the largest RNAS Helicopter Station in Europe. Most of the pilots who visited the local pub where I had a summer job conformed to type; upper-class misogynist robots usually with the personality of a pot plant. However, one chap only a year or two older than me, whose name eludes me, was a walking contradiction; he had the naval haircut and uniform but was a hippy at heart, regularly smoking non-naval issue doobies just beyond the olfactory reach of his peers. Whilst on duty he entrusted me with a box of his beloved vinyl. Thus I was exposed to several bands for the first time, most of them with some merit. Central to this collection was the first six albums by The Moody Blues.

These were all original editions with some of the most elaborate prog rock sleeves ever produced. I will scatter reviews of the remaining five albums as this blog progresses, choosing though to start not chronologically, but with the one, which at the time struck me as the most eccentric and endearing, and this was against some very stiff competition.

What a bizarre bunch The Moody Blues were; transmogrifying from a mainstream sixties pop band into one of the first purveyors of experimental prog almost overnight. I knew that The Days Of Future Passed was often cited as one of the leading contenders for the very first prog album. Whether or not that is true is redundant, as over the course of their next five albums in particular they pushed the envelope of convention more than most and for which they are given surprisingly little credit, being accused without too much fear of contradiction as being the most pretentious band of their ilk. Even when it didn't work - which could be quite often - they had to be applauded for their bravery.

Like all of their earlier work, On The Threshold Of A Dream suffers from claustrophobic production especially around the vocals. A terrible shame this, as both Justin Hayward's lead vocal and their harmonies are, in my humble opinion, woefully underrated. In The Beginning, which opens the album, is very much of it's time; featuring Justin Hayward's whacked-out stoner cod philosophical musings interrupted by a, gasp, computer. No way, man! Far out!

Even in the midst of a concept album, The Moody Blues could be relied upon for their ear for a good tune enabling them to cross over and gain frequent success in the singles charts. Dear Diary works both as a strong single and as an integral part of the central characters main journey. The spoken diary entry at the end is deliciously daft. In fact, most of the tracks, unusually for a concept album, stand up surprisingly well on their own.

Flicking through the gate fold sleeve's inner booklet, there is a vague story; something about space travel and the dawning of consciousness weaved through beautifully obtuse artwork portraying goodness only knows what. The hysterically hirsute band photography must be eternally embarrassing to them now.

There is a real sense that this is an album of the sixties and, whilst it is indisputably a prog record, it is a world away from say Genesis' Trepass made within the next twelve months but which is an album of the seventies. For example, the gorgeous Never Comes A Day is underpinned with a harmonica which tends to harken back to their days as a beat band, whilst the use of the mellotron on the other hand pulls it forward into the seventies. I am certainly generalising, but I found it fascinating that this sits so neatly on the cusp of the decade change.

Acoustic guitars and flutes are the order of the day, with electric guitars taking a secondary role. Are You Sitting Comfortably? is as accomplished a piece of pastoral English-ness as anything Genesis are so often revered for.

The spoken words of The Dream introduce the final four track suite of the album. Such a feature must have been a revelation at the time. Hardly exciting or likely to get the pulse racing, but decidedly different. The Voyage on the other hand, is awash with vast orchestral mellotron which leaps above the sub-standard production as a beacon of brilliance, stupendously clever and outrageously daring in it's day.

Invariably I listen to the album I am reviewing, doing my utmost to try to capture the feeling of playing it for the first time, at present, this is approximately a quarter of a century ago. Almost always it is exceedingly difficult, as the process forces a simultaneous contemporary reappraisal, and separating the two can be challenging. Regardless, the experience of replaying On The Threshold Of A Dream twenty odd years on today has just reaffirmed it's status as a marvellous, marvellous record which I'd encourage anyone unfamiliar with their work to acquaint themselves with.