Review of King Crimson's In The Court Of The Crimson King

Released 1969

"The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king"

I seem to begin so many reviews with a confession for a very simple reason: my tastes have changed, often dramatically over the years. What I find interesting is that the change is always one way: I've yet come across an album which I once adored and now abhor. Yet there are so many times when I've purchased an album with high expectations only to be crushed with disappointment, often to the point where there has then been a new addition to the local second hand record shop's bargain box within twenty four hours of the original purchase. Needless to say, King Crimson's ground-breaking debut album falls very squarely into this well populated category.

I couldn't pick up a music magazine or music book without being reminded from every quarter that In The Court Of The Crimson King was one of the most important albums of the prog rock genre, in all likelihood the very first album to be labelled as such.

Likewise, there always seemed to be a copy of Barry Godber's iconic pink and blue screaming face peering out from amongst the twenty seven copies of 10cc's Greatest Hits and 461 Ocean Boulevard in the seond hand boxes.

It was hard not to be seduced by the sleeve; the front back and gate fold all drawing any self-respecting prog fan desperate to familiarise himself with the finest proponents of the foundations of prog.

There were also a few serious prog nerds in the halls of residents at the University of Glasgow. These guys were conversant with bands like Gentle Giant, Family, Pavlovs Dog and The Mahavishnu Orchestra; bands with an almost mystical unobtainability which made me coo pathetically in admiration. Mind you, they didn't have girlfriends. However, they would nod wisely, tugging their wispy beards and roll up the sleeves of their jumpers in enthusiasm at the mention of ITCOTCK. I had to see what the fuss was all about.

After exactly thirty seconds of mostly nothing, a sax and powerful guitar screams out the instantly recognisable riff of 21st Century Schizoid Man. The heavily distorted vocals, furious drumming veers from hard rock to more jazz influenced sections with the sax given at least equal time as the discordant guitar. The guitar solo was unlike anything I had heard before and seemed far removed from any form of rock I was familiar with. I looked at the year of release and was startled by the weirdness and strength for 1969. I could see why it must have caused a stir at the time of release. The band was incredibly tight; the drumming was outrageously precise. This was very strange but oddly hypnotic. Perhaps not what I expected, but worth a second listen at least.

On my first listen, from that point on, it all fell apart. I Talk To The Wind was a soft and directionless piece of whimsy, totally at odds with the preceding song and so obviously rooted in the late sixties, that I had to wonder if the two songs were by the same band. I thought it was terrible and willed it to stop.

Again, first time around Epitaph seemed a weak and inconsequential effort. I wasn't much fonder of Moonchild. I could see similarities with The Moody Blues and perhaps Barclay James Harvest, but all seemed very weak and not at all inspirational. The title track had it's moments, but seemed to wander on forever. As the needle ran off the into the centre groove, I removed the LP and put it back on the shelf, sneering at the gulf between its reputation and my nineteen year old opinion of it. Very soon afterwards, it too joined the many copies of 461 Ocean Boulevard and 10cc's Greatest Hits in the local second hand shop.

It would be unfair to end the review there.

I have of course revisited the album and am astonished by what I now see as one of the bedrocks of my record collection. But why do I see it differently? Simply being several years older is part of the reason. I can now contextualise the album in ways I couldn't when I was nineteen. I overlooked many things then: the adorable vocal of Greg Lake, the lush mellotron; in many ways unsurpassed since, the skill of the musicians in producing something genuinely unique which paved a path followed and exploited by others and above all the beauty of the title track. When I listened to this once more after a space of almost twenty years, I couldn't understand how I had missed this gem. I can only reason that as a teenager, my ability to appreciate more the subtle nuances of music weren't fully developed.

To be able to revisit a piece of work after two decades and find it so compelling is an incredible experience and a privilege. If I Talk To The Wind was absent, this would be a strong contender for a top five album for me.

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 Barclay James Harvest's Everyone is Everybody Else

Released 1974

"I didn't ask to be born and I don't ask to die
I'm an endless dream, a gene machine
That cannot reason why".

I didn't actually purchase a copy of this album until a couple of years ago, but I have known every nuance of it for over twenty five years, as this was a favourite album of my Fathers. Why my Father, whose music collection was restricted to a handful of cassettes which were kept in the car, would have been attracted to a Barclay James Harvest album remains a mystery to me.

I had probably heard the album dozens of times before it clicked that it was by BJH. A constant musical reference point for me in the early eighties was a long lost copy of the Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll; an excellent compendium of band histories and discographies covering the period from the 1950's to the time at which it was published in 1983. I would often mentally refer back to entries in this book when thumbing through the bins in second hand record shops.

One day, whilst waiting for my Father to fill up the car, I absentmindedly dug into the passenger door recess to look at the cassette boxes contained therein. Seeing that one of the cassettes was by a band listed in the aforementioned book was a genuine surprise. I had seen the box many times, but couldn't get past the fact that it had (and has) one of the worst covers of all time, firmly rooted to its year of release: bum-fluff moustaches, stripey jumpers and orange bomber jackets rendering the band logo all but invisible in the cassette format.

When the engine was started the cassette started once more and I listened to it properly for the first time. Why had I not heard the clear and obvious similarity to Pink Floyd before? The plaintive keyboard sound and guitar in particular were very similar, as was the overall stoned melancholy that pervaded the whole album. I was stunned that this had passed me by me many, many time before.

However, I knew that my Father was a Moody Blues fan, and I had read that BJH were often referred to as a poor man's Moody Blues; indeed they embraced the label and released a song of that name. I still thought that they more closely resembled Pink Floyd.

That night I sneaked the tape into my bedroom and listened to it through my headphones.

While John Lees and Les Holroyd's lyrics were trying to be a 'deep' and 'significant' as Roger Waters, they weren't quite succeeding. However, in terms of the melancholy I mentioned earlier, they certainly gave him a run for his money. This was hardly uplifting music.

The lyrics may not have been particularly inspiring, but the musicianship was a joy to behold: the last third of the opening track, Child of The Universe has a wonderfully lush mellotron and Floydian slow dreamy doom laden guitar, equal to anything I heard up to that point.

With the benefit of the twenty something intervening years, I can now see that the production on this album is superlative, having been rarely equalled: the bridge of Paper Wings which starts 56 seconds in, is still revealing layers to me now after countless listens, and the piano at the beginning of The Great 1974 Mining Disaster is just gorgeously executed.

Huddled in a dark corner of my bedroom, with a red light bulb and the volume as loud as I could bear, I was delighted to have found another exquisite example of prog rock from the most unexpected source. Swathes of fluid guitar, throbbing keyboards, precise poised drumming and cleverly orchestrated harmonies washed though me, pulling deeper into the genre.

I listened to the final track, For No One, over and over that evening. The huge mellotron resounded around the headphones, beautifully interplayed with the joint lead vocals over the chorus, perfectly concluding with one of my favourite ever guitar solos. BJH; a guilty pleasure to this day.