Review of The Beatles 'The White Album'

Released 1968

"You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm.
You know i can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
For a little peace of mind".


Of all the albums I bought during my first year of University, no memory of the actual purchase is clearer than when I stumbled across The White Album.

There was a second hand record shop in the Dowanhill region of Glasgow which, as far as I can recall, I only visited twice. I have no idea why, as, on reflection, it had possibly the most eclectic selection of late sixties and early seventies era prog rock I've every seen in one place. I only remember buying two albums from there, the first Fat Mattress album ( whose unique fold out sleeve design was the most interesting aspect of the package) and The White Album.

I don't think I had ever seen a second hand copy before, and, come to think of it, I'm not sure I ever came across another one. In fact it was highly unusual to spy any second hand records by The Beatles; other than the 'red' and 'blue' compilations, and even then, that was also rare.

Therefore I have a very clear picture in my mind of the moment when my expert album flicking finger technique stopped at an original numbered copy of one of my most sought after prizes. I, like any serious music fan was very familiar with the infamy surrounding this release. From the influence of the Maharishi to the influence on Charles Manson and 'the Family', from the heated studio arguments (and walkout by Ringo) to the legendarily obtuse Revolution 9, I had long been in awe of it's mystique. One friend of mine in particular raved (and continues to rave) endlessly about it's greatness. Holding it in my hand, it had an almost tangible power.

I wasn't put off by the fact that a previous owner had seen fit to protect all edges of the sleeve with black insulation tape. This was the real deal. It had the posters, the lyrics, the lot. I can't remember what I paid for it, but, like the fool I was, I would have paid pretty much anything.

Although I already had Sgt Peppers... and Abbey Road, I still saw The Beatles as first and foremost a pop band. Both these albums had surprised me with their obvious prog leanings, but only so far. Still, seeing the green apple spinning on the turntable, I knew I was in the presence of a culturally important work.

Back In The USSR took me by surprise. It was one of those Beatles tracks which I'd forgotten I knew and enjoyed. An uptempo Beach Boys pastiche which rocked harder than I'd remembered, it made me smile at the undoubted knack Paul McCartney had for classic pop. I knew Dear Prudence, but had temporarily forgotten that this predated The Banshees remake. Although not a favourite track of mine, I loved the segues both in and out of the preceding and following tracks. I realised very quickly that The White Album is a masterpiece of sequencing

I know that I am not the first person to state this, but I think that it is worth repeating. Both the order in which the tracks are put together and the manner by which the transitions between them is managed is sublime. The variety of musical styles on offer make this especially important. If, for example, the slower ballads had been gathered together on one of the four sides, the effect would have been less effective than the actually finished product.

This makes tracks like Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da almost palatable. On it's own, it is easy to see it as irritating as Octopus's Garden on Abbey Road. However, sandwiched between Glass Onion and Wild Honey Pie, it indicates the unparalleled wealth of talent which these four musicians. The mucking around during last few seconds on the outro of Ob-La-Di also move the track out of the realm of mere whimsy, to something slightly different; pushing boundaries even on a simple pop track.

The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill , whilst hated by most Beatles fans, has more inventiveness in it's three minutes and fourteen seconds than the majority of their peers could muster in a whole album. Yes, it's got a guest appearance by that annoying Japanese woman, but listen again to just how much is going on. It's not the throw away track many would have you think it is.

Again the 'Ay-Up' segue into While My Guitar Gently Weeps is genius: serving to effectively connect songs which would otherwise be poles apart.

On my first listen, it was during Happiness Is A Warm Gun that I first had that shiver down the back of my neck when I realised how darn good this album was. I also shook my head in disbelief in amazement of how far these four mop tops had come in such a short period of time. This continued with I'm So Tired. By the time of The White Album, Lennon was clearly enjoying the emerging militant poet persona with which he was becoming adorned.

To this day I cannot understand what on earth Charles Manson heard in Piggies that inspired his actions. I love it's irreverence, simple bass line and harpsichord and I think again it's transition into Rocky Raccoon is superbly realised.

I'll admit that I was less enamoured by the last four tracks of the second side of vinyl. None of these are terrible songs; far from it, just not as inspired as the rest of the work.

The third side kicks off in wonderful style with Birthday, which sees McCartney really start to stretch out on his vocals. The best thing about this song for me is that one can almost hear a direct line leading back to their earlier days, shaking their heads together while hundreds of girls screamed in unison. Four or five years on though, this was more sophisticated, more knowing.

Yer Blues picks up where I'm So Tired leaves off: cutting humour, a strong blues influence, an excellent rhythm section which gets progressively more grungy. At two minutes and seven seconds in, the whole group steps up a gear and, despite popular myth, they appear to be having a good time. The guitar solo is typically underrated for a Beatles Track.

Mother Nature's Son is a partner piece to Blackbird in my mind. Both gorgeous. Many are quick to criticise McCartney for his pop sensibilities without listening to what else is going behind a seemingly innocuous lyric or simple song structure. Again, go back to Mother Nature's Son and listen to the many levels of instrumentation going on in the background.

The clever juxtapositions between tracks continues with the upbeat Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For me And My Monkey. Ringo's drumming is particularly strong. It surprises me that a band so intent on imploding can still sound as though they are a fully functioning unit.

To fully appreciate Helter Skelter, it is important to contextualise it's aggressive style and polemic approach. This was released before (just before) the MC5 and The Stooges launched their trademark radicalism on the American public. Sound effects were rarely heard and a screaming Paul McCartney was certainly not on the radar. All the above and the false ending with Ringo's 'I've got blisters on my fingers!!' were all so 'un-Beatle-like'. Of course, if you put all of this to one side, it would be easy to dismiss it as tame in light of many bands trading in a similar genre since, but this was The Beatles. This was 1968 and it was groundbreaking.

Long, Long, Long is one my favourite tracks on the album. The roots of so many other later bands can be traced back to this track. From More era Pink Floyd to Dark Star era Grateful Dead this is hugely influential. The atmospheric keyboards, manic drums and wailing is very, very prog. Lovely.

Revolution 1 threw me for a minute or two. I'd forgotten that there was a slow and fast version. Either way, this was classic pop which only Lennon could produce.

Honey Pie, Savoy Truffle and Cry Baby Cry lull the listener into a false sense of security. Three simple and variously daft and beautiful tracks which of themselves are pleasant and effective but brilliantly employed to set the stage for the centrepiece of the album, Revolution 9.

Revolution 9 on first hearing is just confusing and odd. With each subsequent listen, I become more convinced that this is one of the greatest pieces by the Beatles, or, to be fair, by John Lennon. There is beauty, menace, drama, invention present in layer upon layer of wonderfully paced staging for which he was woefully misunderstood at the time. The ripples emerging from the pebble which Lennon dropped in the pool of progressive rock are still being felt today.

There is a remarkable majesty by which the incoherence of Revolution 9 fades into the orchestrations of the cinematic Good Night. Two songs were probably never greater at odds. Side by side they produce a closing to the album which is tear-jerkingly moving.

This is my favourite album by The Beatles and a top five album any day of the week. I don't see this changing.

Review of Wishbone Ash's Argus

Released 1972

"In the fire, the king will come.
Thunder rolls, piper and drum.
Evil sons, overrun Count their sins - judgment comes.
The checkerboard of nights and days -
Man will die, man be saved
The sky will fall, the earth will pray
When judgment comes to claim its day."

I heard an interesting alleged fact recently regarding Argus. Apparently, thirty seven years after it's original release, Argus has a ubiquity in record shops worldwide on a par with mega sellers such as Thriller, Rumours and Bat Out Of Hell. However, whereas these three records and artists are known to all and sundry, regardless of musical predilections, Argus and Wishbone Ash are curiously unrecognised band, little more than a cult oddity.

I suggest this ubiquity is a combination of two things: firstly a simple, timeless sleeve, which has an undeniable undefinable presence with no obvious meaning. It has 'classic' woven through it. Secondly, this timelessness is also inherent in the music itself. In short, it is one of the most perfect marriages of sleeve and music I am aware of, thus, to my thinking, and as pretentious it sounds, elevating it's worth as a piece of art.

Argus was made at a time when the core record buying public felt the sleeve artwork which came with their long playing record was almost as important as the music it accompanied. It is no accident that some of the most commercially and artistically successful albums of this period exemplify 'packages' of superb music and iconic artwork. Would Sgt. Pepper have been as successful if it had a less memorable sleeve, for example? Or, on the flip side, would acknowledged unappreciated classics such as Godbluff or Rock Bottom have attained greater recognition if their artwork was as good as the music? Who knows.

Anyway, the point is, as a music fan, and like most other music fans, I just knew that Argus was a classic without ever having heard a note. The sleeve colouring, the typography, the mysterious Warrior and the band's name itself, shouted out ' seventies prog heaven'.

Ultimately though, I owe a great debt to man eight days younger than me, who first introduced me to the music itself. I was introduced to dozens of new bands in the common room in the halls of residence in Glasgow, the significant majority of which will appear (or have already appeared) in this blog. Yes, there were a large number of howlers played in that room, but in the main I was incredibly fortunate enough to have a group of friends whose influence on my musical taste is still evident on my shelves all these years on.

I had got used to concentrating hard to almost 'interpret' some of the more complex prog albums, often struggling for several plays or even many years before hearing the true value of an album. Therefore it was with huge relief when I first overheard Argus being played that it had an instant appeal. I remember clearly hearing the distinctive harmonies and twin guitars sharing solos and being instantly enamoured. It oozed quality. On learning it was Argus, I was delighted that it was at least as good as I had hoped it would be. I see that first airing as a form of initiation; that I had somehow graduated to a higher echelon of prog music appreciation.

I still consider Time Was as one of the greatest album tracks of the entire classic prog period. I dismiss the cynics view that it is, in fact two separate tracks sandwiched together. Even though the band have admitted since that this was the case, it is a beautifully realised device which combines a slow, largely acoustic section with a wonderful bluesy shared guitar solo and lively beat.

Throughout the entire album it is if the muse was with the band. There is rarely a wasted note, an unnecessary rhythm or out of place vocal. This is a remarkably disciplined album with an economy rarely seen in the prog genre.

One of the most remarkable aspects of the record is that it really beyond pigeonholing as purely prog. It has moments which could easily categorise alongside the Canterbury set, it is folkier enough to be a chosen album by fans of Fairport Convention et al, it is enough guitar solos to satisfy a classic rock fan, has strong blues elements and remains mainstream enough to appeal to the causal listener. This is no mean achievement.

Review of Hawkwind's Space Ritual

Released 1973

"It's no social integrator.
It's a one man isolator.
It's a back brain stimulator.
It's a cerebral vibrator.
Those energy stimulator's.
Turn your eyeballs into craters.
But an Orgone Accumulator
Is a superman creator".

I really don't feel qualified to review a Hawkwind album. In my experience, there are probably two kinds of Hawkwind fan; the curious onlooker such as myself who is aware of their reputation and is keen to find out more, but - and this is the crucial bit -is extremely wary of doing so, for fear of turning into the second kind: the gaunt, greasy-haired, perma-patchouli-oiled, deaf in one ear, unwashed refugee of no fixed abode who is intimately familiar with Stacia's vital statistics and who stares a lot. I jest of course. Whilst there are a great number of Hawkwind fans whom this cruel description is not too far from the truth, this is but a witless stereotype and one I am using as a pathetic defence mechanism against a sad confession: I've only heard three Hawkwind albums from beginning to end.

If I purposefully put time aside to delve further into Hawkwind's extensive catalogue, due to my obsessive compulsive nature, I fear that but a few months later, I would have the full set. However, my restraint has, for once, held and I am only really au-fait with the album which is the subject of this review: Space Ritual.

Before heading to University, I already had Astounding Sounds... and Doremi Fasol Latido, both picked up very cheaply. I couldn't relate to either of them. They appeared repetitive, tuneless and badly recorded. At the time, I didn't view them as prog albums; more bizarre heavy metal offshoots.

Up in Glasgow, those associates who were fans of the band were also prog fans, and usually of the more eclectic kind of prog. These sophisticated chaps were a year (or two) ahead of me at University, and clearly knew their prog onions. Their sagely rubbing of chins when referring to Hawkwind, assured me that I needed to reappraise the band. I knew that Space Ritual was thought by many to be their finest hour: a double live concept album. Clearly this had potential.

As I say, it would be misleading to call myself a Hawkwind fan. Interested certainly. Their sleeve artwork was very interesting and achieved the objective of making me want to learn more.

The first time I played Earth Calling /Born To Go, I smiled. This was exactly what I expected: what I would term 'trance music', as opposed to dance music - sonic soundscapes of guitar and keyboard effectively waning back and forth behind a relentless fast paced rhythm. This was very simple in structure, capable of pulling you in utterly; entirely hypnotic and clearly conducive to an occasional toke of a herbal roll-up. This was a soundtrack to a student bed-sit; darkened corners, suspiciously fragrant, of dubious hygiene and a dressed with a red light bulb. As simple and as 'dirty' as it was, I had doubts from the first track alone that it qualified as prog: I still saw it as breed of metal.

The opening of Down Through The Night was very similar to another band I'd just been introduced to by my shower of University friends: The Pink Fairies. Listening closely to the guitar on this track, I wondered how much it bothered the band that they were probably never revered for their musicianship. The guitar playing is extremely subtle with a restraint I wouldn't necessarily have associated with the band. It gets then becomes very prog with Michael Moorcock's suitably manic wacked out spoken passages. Admirably mad.

An obvious pattern begins to emerge, as each track is driven by essentially the same drum beat and rhythm guitar with the variances being in how the solos by all instruments steer what is essentially a series of jams interspersed with the aforementioned science fiction writer's narrative progression. Put like this, it would be too simple to state the obvious: that it's all a bit 'samey'. Well yes, of course it is, largely. But, not being a 'fan' as such, I do feel somewhat out of my depth in giving proper credit to the nuances that lend this particular sub-genre of prog the credence it deserves.

It's taken me many years to appreciate the complexities of much of Space Ritual. The brilliance of Nik Turner's sax on Orgone Accumulator, for example, passed me by almost unnoticed for many, many plays. It wasn't until I shifted my perception and somehow viewed the band as a British Gong that I started to get it. Nowhere is this more evident than with Upside Down, which could so easily have been recorded on a Gong album from the same period.

I also found myself imagining the experience of being in the crowd the night it was recorded. In an altered state, with leading edge light shows, naked dancing and disturbing sound effects, Moorcock's delivery of 10 Seconds Of Forever must have be akin to a religious ceremony. It is not difficult to imagine the heat and movement of the crowd working as one.

7 by 7 is more sedate: acoustic guitars (still accompanied by wind sound effects) building to include an excellent bass which also noticeable for particularly strong harmony vocals.

Over the last three of four tracks, there is great sense of a growing climax. Time We Left This World Today features a riff which Tony Iommi would surely have killed for. The intensity at this point really is quite unique.

Master Of The Universe is frighteningly immense; a gargantuan monster of a song with remarkable energy levels, especially given the pace throughout the live concert. The solos from players are deserving of several superlatives. The tightness of the band is also testament to their craft.

I find it easy to equate the devotion Hawkwind's fanbase has for their live shows and the legacy of their classic period to the same devotion paid to The Doors, a band I feel much more closely affiliated to. Jim Morrison had a mission to control an audience, trying to engineer deviation to the status quo, often working thousands of people to the point where revolution was imminent. With each repeated play of Space Ritual I can feel the communal focus and trance like power the band had in this, their heyday.

Review of Yes' Relayer

Released 1974

"Listen, your friends have been broken,
They tell us of your poison; now we know.
Kill them, give them as they give us.
Slay them, burn their children's laughter, on to hell".

Although I already owned four Yes albums by the time I bought Relayer, I wouldn't have classed myself as a Yes fan. My recorded to cassette versions of Close To The Edge, Going For The One, and The Yes Album in particular, were frequently played on my tape player in the Halls of Residence in Glasgow, but I was yet to be smitten. It was with Relayer than I became a bona fide Yes nut, kick-starting my drive to collect (almost) everything the band had recorded both before and afterwards.

Perhaps 90% of my record / cassette purchases while at University were second-hand, with a significant proportion coming from the £1 bin. However, being the frivolous and not to say foolish type, I was occasionally drawn to full priced albums, with HMV in Glasgow City Centre holding a particularly exciting appeal to this poor deprived country boy.

Along with Tales from Topographic Oceans, I had long seen Relayer as one of the finest examples of album sleeve art and had coveted it for several years. Now that I was building up my library of prog, I still viewed both of these albums as two of the pillars supporting the foundation of all that I held dear. Both the inner sleeve artwork on Close To The Edge and the music itself provided an insight into the mystical magnificence I felt must be contained within the vinyl grooves of Relayer. Where I felt (until then anyway) that CTTE fell short, I was sure that Relayer would deliver on my expectations.

Upon returning to the Halls with my purchase, I was delighted that a good friend, who was in possession of a complete set of classic era Yes albums, courtesy of his elder brother, imparted his view that this was indeed a worthy addition to my collection, being one of his favourites. This pleased me greatly.

Whilst, being picky, I would ultimately have preferred an original, less glossy copy, when finally alone with my own new copy, it was intensely gratifying that the actual experience of poring over the outer and inner sleeve was every bit as good as I hoped it would be. Twenty two years on, I still love this sleeve, considering it to be one of the most successfully evocative of the genre. For me it is the embodiment of prog; mythical landscapes, fantastical enough to have roots in reality but surreal enough to have a presence in another, weirder dimension.

This was my fifth Yes album and the fifth different line up the band, with the unknown quantity being hitherto unknown (to me, at least) keyboard player; Patrick Moraz.

There are a number of albums, where I've purposefully delayed the first airing to put off the possibility that my high expectation might be dashed unless I was in the right frame of mind. As anyone reading this is likely to be either a fan of prog rock, Yes or rock music in general, I can be reasonably confident that this is not a unique feeling.

Immediately, Gates of Delirium appeared to me as more stridently confident, precise and aggressive than any of the Yes albums I already owned. As with all their albums, Chris Squire's trademark bass style leaps out straight away. The track starts off with my favourite drum sound on any Yes album. The spiky angular overture quickly develops into a more uniform song structure with Jon Anderson's typically obscure lyrics delivered at a break-neck pace, much more emphatic than anything else I'd heard to date. Slowly, subtly the pace of the track picks up interspersing urgent lyrical passages with gradually intensifying instrumental passages. The delivery of the lyric quoted at the head of this review with Chris's accompaniment is both menacing and beautiful; an odd but effective achievement. There is plenty of room for the bass to stretch out and Steve Howe to impart rapid, jazz inflected solos. After about eight minutes, a series of keyboard and guitar exchanges begins, which endlessly spiral upwards, becoming seemingly more complex as the pace continues to increase. The 'battle sequence' of the song is without doubt the heaviest passage of music Yes have (yet) recorded, laying to rest - at least temporarily - any suggestion that Yes were only capable of soft melodic prog rock. There are numerous points where a climax appears imminent before building up to yet another layer of intensity.

There is a remarkable transitory three minute period where, once the climax finally arrives, the tracks morphs perfectly into the final, softer 'Soon..' section where Steve moves to pedal steel guitar accompanying the impeccable vocal. The contrast between the fast pace of the first part of the track and the lilting orchestral sublimity of the closing passage is wonderfully realised. I remember playing this to my girlfriend at the time, who wept the first time I played it to her. In my opinion, this is the greatest side long suite Yes have produced.

Like Close To The Edge, the second side also comprises just two tracks. Sound Chaser is tremendously ambitious. Full of jazz-fusion type instrumentation. Although I'd rate Bill Bruford as a greater drummer than Alan White, there is some good stuff from Alan on Relayer and on Sound Chaser in particular. Again, Steve Howe is on fire; loads of blisteringly difficult solos, including a marvellous, largely unaccompanied section in the middle of the track. Jon again is never better. Barking mad as always, but with the voice of an angel. Patrick Moraz gets to have a genuine freak-out moment at the end of the track where the enthusiasm from all concerned spills over into the daftly effective 'cha-cha-cha-cha-cha' ending.

To Be Over is arguably the most underrated song in Yes' entire canon. Much softer in tone and spirit than the preceding tracks, this provides the calm after the storm. This is a lovely song to have playing through your headphones as your fall asleep. Whilst I can't imagine Rick Wakeman playing on either of the first two tracks, this stylistically, could just as easily have been an out-take from Close To The Edge. The outro to this track is beautifully considered, gently lowering the listener down after a hectic trip.

This is an album of real contrasts. As a total package; sleeve, variety of musical types, lyrics ambition and humour, I think this is Yes' finest hour.

Review of Robert Wyatt's Rock Bottom

Released 1974

" Seaweed tangled in our home from home
reminds me of your rocky bottom.
Please don't wait for the paperweight, err on the good side.
Touch us when we collapse.
Into the water we'll go head over heel.
We'll not grow fat inside the mammary gland.
Into the water we'll go head over heel.
A head behind me, buried deep in the sand".

Any fan of seventies rock music of any flavour, whether preferring prog, psychedelic rock, MOR or straight classic rock will, at some point almost certainly own a copy of several practically ubiquitious hugely commercially successful rock albums, which 'cross over' into the mainstream. Albums such as The Dark Side Of The Moon, Rumours, Hotel California, Bat Out Of Hell, Led Zeppelin IV and their ilk, have achieved huge success and retained their rock credentials, and, in my opinion are deserving of their iconic status. There are other albums whose quality is such that they have every right to be considered in the same breath as these aforementioned classics, but which, for a variety of reasons remain so obscure as to be all but invisible to the bulk of the record buying public. Rock Bottom is a perfect example of such an album: undeniably brilliant and profoundly important to a select few, yet nowhere near the radar of your average Rumours buyer. Something is not right.

However, let me be honest. I didn't always feel the way I do now about this album. Perhaps this lack of instant appeal - for me at least - sadly explains why it has never received the credit it deserved.

I initially purchased Rock Bottom because it was produced by Nick Mason of Pink Floyd, as simple as that. At the time, I wasn't au fait with what has come to be referred to as the 'Canterbury Scene' prog rock and Robert Wyatt's role in Soft Machine was unbeknown to me. I was simply shallow enough to want to own anything touched by the Floyd, regardless of what it might reveal. Anyone who has endured Music From The Body by Roger Waters and Ron Geesin will acknowledge that completism is not all it's cut out to be.

Thus, when I first listened to Rock Bottom, I had no idea what to expect and was primarily hoping to hear Floydian motifs. As such, in the main I was disappointed. I was confronted with Robert Wyatt's unlovely vocals, strange time signatures and was first introduced to part of the prog spectrum with which I was hardly familiar. I could hear echoes of Van Der Graaf Generator, and, at a stretch Gong, with twinkling piano and scat style verbalising. So, being completely honest, whilst it was far from being a favourite of mine back in the late eighties when I first encountered it, it was ultimately a curio, which I put to one side, waiting for enlightenment.

I have given several examples elsewhere in previous postings, detailing how the passing of many years has dramatically altered my perception of an album for the better. It was as recently as about four years ago, that I heard Rock Bottom in an entirely different way, my jaw almost hanging open in disbelief, stunned that it hadn't revealed itself to me earlier, much earlier.

Largely it's the voice. Like Peter Hammill, Robert Wyatt's vocal style has the ability to make you both recoil and weep with joy. The only way I can think to describe the moment when the recoil ceases and the weeping commences, is to compare the experience to viewing one of those drawings often used in psychology text books, where what at first glance looks like an old woman, with an unexplainable shift of perception suddenly becomes an elegant younger lady. When the vocal reveals itself in this way, the accompanying instrumentation suddenly shifts and fits the frail, awkward, almost spoken tones so perfectly as to bring a lump to the throat. A paradigm shift of the senses takes place and you realise that you are in the presence of a masterpiece.

Sea Song flutters between changing time signatures on both piano and keyboard and a wonderful plaintive refrain with female background vocals as clever and as integral as The Great Gig In the Sky. Robert's much lauded 'scatting' over the end of the track, where once it just annoyed, now brought tears to my eyes; it was so emotionally charged and bare.

A Last Straw has tinges of (what would become familiar to me) more jazzy elements of the Canterbury Scene. The scatting imitation of the 'wah-wahing' guitar will annoy almost anyone for several plays until again it seems to gel. There is so much space left in this track, complex yet uncluttered: a strange combination.

Little Red Riding Hood Hit The Road starts with full jazz horns before a Santana tinged percussiveness morphs through backward vocals, indecipherable lyrics to culminate with the inevitably odd contribution of Ivor Cutler and a long 'outro'. Beguiling, certainly weird, but unique, prog and very addictive.

Alifib begins like many a Brian Eno album; ambient and seemingly directionless. A gorgeous guitar combines with the Casio and just floats for almost seven minutes of heartbreaking beauty. Obviously a companion track, Alife is almost a continuation to begin with before taking on a more sinister theme with echoes of Gong and the second Roxy Music album. The lyrics may be largely nonsensical but creates an atmosphere which is both uncomfortable and hypnotic.

Little Red Robin Hood Hit The Road features the distinctive guitar talents of Mike Oldfield, accompanied by multiple layers of keyboards, an impossibly complex drum sound, bass playing to make Chris Squire weep before changing tack completely; drifting into a hymn like trance over which Ivor Cutler spouts absolute b*llocks in a convoluted Scottish accent. It really shouldn't work, but for an unfathomable reason it is achingly brilliant.

With every listen Rock Bottom improves and moves higher up my list of favourite albums. Ridiculously good and criminally underrated.

Review of Pink Floyd's Ummagumma

Released 1969

"Lime and limpid green, a second scene
A fight between the blue you once knew.
Floating down, the sound resounds
Around the icy waters underground.
Jupiter and Saturn, Oberon, Miranda and Titania.
Neptune, Titan, Stars can frighten".

Ummagumma was my eight Pink Floyd album. Like many, I started with the well established seventies classics; The Dark Side Of The Moon, Wish You Were Here et al, before working backwards - pre- TDSOTM - through Meddle and Atom Heart Mother, until I reached Ummagumma. Thus, I was fairly confident before making this purchase, that I already owned all of their best works. Both Meddle and Atom Heart Mother had moments of genuine brilliance, charm and sufficient quality to warrant many, many repeated listens over the years, but I felt that they both paled when compared to TDSOTM, being obvious warm-ups as the band evolved to the peak.

I had heard several views regarding Ummagumma; not many of them good. Eccentric, odd, eclectic, experimental and really not very good at all were among the kindest of these views. Nevertheless, it was clear that I was destined to own the entire Pink Floyd catalogue, therefore experiencing Ummagumma was necessity, but never a duty.

I'd picked up second hand copies on numerous occasions and had loved Hipgnosis's work, the idea of the bands' tour instruments lain out on the runway and the general seventies 'vibe' as detailed by the greasy hair, loon pants and typography. Tremendous stuff which whetted my appetite greatly.

Fortunately, when it came to my first airing of Ummagumma, I choose the live record as my preferred opening option. I have since read that John Peel cited the gig where these tracks were recorded was one of his favourites. I could quickly see why.

Where I could see a common developmental thread running through Atom Heart, Meddle and The Dark Side Of The Moon, the linkage was not so immediately apparent with this more obviously psychedelic jamming.

It hadn't occurred to me that Syd Barrett's influence would cast such a substantial shadow across this work. In addition, the keyboard sound was fundamentally different to later works, really emphasising the hugely underrated part Rick Wright's playing had as the 'glue' which made the Floyd sound work. Of course, the largest contrast between the Pink Floyd which recorded Ummagumma and say, Wish You Were Here, is the paradigm shift that took place in the lyrical content, mostly, of course, with respect to Roger Waters. Lyrics are certainly of secondary importance on Ummagummma: on Astronomy Domine they are - and I mean this respectfully - no better than sixth form noodlings, which work within the context of the meandering space rock instrumentation, while on Careful With That Axe Eugene - other than the whispered words of the title - lyrics have no presence at all. I had heard and seen this latter track on the Pompeii video a year or two previously, but was still startled when I noticed the hair standing up on my arms as Roger's terrifyingly primal shrieking cut through my headphones. It came as no surprise to me to learn that they were greatly in demand for film scores around this time; incredible atmospherics.

I would loved to have witnessed a live performance of Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun, due to it's poetry and majesty; a perfect exercise in restraint and simplicity. The fourth and last live track, A Saucerful Of Secrets similarly is a model example of space rock at it's best. The careers of both Hawkwind and Nektar can surely be traced to this track: otherworldly and heavily influenced by narcotics and nonsensical repetitive rhythms wandering through the outer reaches.

So far, so good. Very different to later albums, but with some obvious strengths and demonstrating very clear prog credentials.

But then, to the studio album. What a strange, beguiling frustrating beast this is.

I was surprised to read quite recently that Ummagumma is the favourite album of Porcupine Tree's Steven Wilson. Perhaps my tastes are less cultured than Mr Wilsons: I can, from the very first listen hear brilliance and beauty through the complex structures of a Van Der Graaf Generator or Dream Theatre album, but I cannot, despite repeated attempts, hear much deserving of praise in any way shape or form within the studio tracks of Ummagumma. Sysyphus starts promisingly with epic chords and magisterial twinkling of the ivories, but descends, by the third part into what sounds uncannily like a rat being strangled inside a grand piano in the depths of a cold cavern. Amidst the peculiar percussion, there are many prog rock credentials , but, for each promising interlude, there is the death throes of a rodent and the sound of far too much freedom being given to each of the musicians to indulge themselves to an unparalleled degree.

Granchester Meadows - Roger Waters effort - continues the animal noise theme with far too prominent bird song effects played over his Cat Stevens / Leonard Cohen phrased pastoral folk tinged tune. Could this dirge really be written by the same man, who, just four years later wrote lyrics which, to this day, although I have heard them a thousand times, make me weep at the beauty and profundity of his timeless lyrics? How could this be possible? I was musing on this further as Several Species... began. This is literally five minutes of the sound of animals squeaking followed by the drunken ramblings of a Scottish person. This has to be the most awful rubbish ever committed to vinyl. Sorry Rog. Beyond repproach.

David Gilmour's The Narrow Way is almost bearable after Several Species... but not quite. Again, the first two parts are self indulgent bilge with little merit. There are glimpses of hope in the final part, with the band playing as one: the sum of the parts being so much more than the individual efforts.

The Grand Vizier's Garden Party could have been brilliant. After all, there was a great deal of focus on Nick Mason at Pompeii to which this is very contemporary, where he was very effective. But here, for the most part, he falls into the same trap as his cohorts: long, repetitive and ultimately pointless.

In subsequent years, I, like many others have spent many enjoyable hours replaying the live album, while the studio album is brought out for the occasional - 'can it really be that dreadful: surely there must be something I'm missing, it's Pink Floyd for goodness sake!!' - type airing. Sadly, for me at least, my opinion has yet to be shaken. I will persevere though. Although, as a rule, I don't include ratings as part of my reviews, on this occasion, I feel compelled to give the live tracks a commendable 8/10 and the studio tracks an execrable 3/10.