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 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 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 Asia

Released 1982

"And now you find yourself in '82. The disco hot spots hold no charm for you. You can concern yourself with bigger things. You catch a pearl and ride the dragon's wings"

When I picked up my second hand copy of Asia's eponymous first album, for one (Scottish) pound, I was unaware that this was a prog 'supergroup'. Although this is my fifty-first prog album, in as-close-as-I-can-manage-it chronological order of purchase, when money changed hands over the counter at Lost In Music in DeCourcey's arcade in Glasgow in 1985, I hadn't heard of John Wetton or Yes' Drama, had yet to hear a full album by Emerson, Lake and Palmer and was unaware of the connection with The Buggles.

I had, of course, heard Heat Of The Moment, a huge single from three years previously. One of my favourite albums of my late teens - long misplaced, I'm sad to say - was an AOR compilation called American Heartbeat. Most of the classic expected usual suspects were there, from Journey to Styx, Kansas to Quarterflash, Boston to Foreigner etc, and it also contained Heat Of The Moment. Therefore, I associated Asia with laid back American driving music rather than with the prog rock scene.

If truth be told, for some time, I actually listened to the album as an AOR album, seeing it as light relief from the existential angst of Van Der Graaf Generator or the complex signatures of Rush, not realising that Asia's band members had been responsible from some of the defining tracks, side long suites and triple live albums of the classic prog era.

Of course, I should have known better. Roger Dean's artwork for Asia is arguably amongst his most well known, due in no small part to it's huge commercial success.

The title track is one of the most ubiquitous AOR songs from the eighties. Wonderful big fuzzy riffing, stadium sized drumming, an echo laden vocal with remarkably catchy lyrics all combine to make a song which is very difficult not to sing along too and be impressed by. When I finally made the connection and noted that Steve Howe was on this record, I was stunned. I couldn't reconcile this aggressive, commercial style with the intricate playing I was so familiar with from Yes. Was there another great guitarist called Steve Howe?

Only Time Will Tell turns the commercial pop sensibility up to eleven. The keyboard intro (and repeated motif) could so easily have been from a track by Europe or Bon Jovi a few years later. It softens to a very Journey-esque, verse-chorus-verse structure, interspersed with another stunning thick powerful guitar and wave after wave of several different keyboard effects. At the time, I pictured John Wetton as a Jon Bon Jovi or David Lee Roth type poseur rather than an elder statesman of prog, with a track record in Family, King Crimson, UK et al.

Given that I had a tremendous dislike for Yes' broadly contemporary foray into commercial success with 90125, I can only put my enjoyment of this similarly styled effort down to my ignorance about Asia's pedigree. Sole Survivor would have been equally at home on 90125, which is amusing given Steve Howe's obvious displeasure in later years, when pressured into playing Trevor Rabin's 'licks' live.

The lack of variation on Asia is a bit wearing. Where there are a (very) few obvious prog moments on 90125, for example, hearing tracks such as One Step Closer in isolation, one would be mistaken for it being anything other than a straight forward pop song. An obviously well played pop song for sure, but not much more.

The intro to Time Again however, sounds like it could have been an outtake from Yes' Drama. It then veers oddly from by-the-books AOR to leaping between time signatures, never quite sure with it is pop or prog.

I think it is the eighties drum style employed by Carl Palmer which grates and frustrates: it is so formulaic and incredibly pedestrian when compared to his past performances. This is certainly true of Widest Dreams. It is clearly catchy. Catchy and horribly dull.

Without You has the same effect. It is intoxicating in its commercial sensibility, has stunning playing by Steve Howe, stupidly infectious lyrics and a keyboard accompaniment designed to get the zippos waving in the dark of an enormodome. It is impeccably done, but it still is prostituted by the nasty, nasty drumming, which, whether you like it or not, it is impossible not to tap your feet or thrum your fingers to. Before you know it, you are playing air guitar and swaying from side to side, singing along to the closing versus and chorus, thinking; "Stop it! This is silly! Where's my copy of Foxtrot?"

In short, it is an album of great contradiction: impeccable pop played by prog maestros, creating songs with hooks that you'll be singing the next day against your will.

Review of The Moody Blues' In Search Of The Lost Chord

Released 1968

"Timothy Leary's dead. No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in. Timothy Leary's dead. No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in. He'll fly his astral plane, Takes you trips around the bay, Brings you back the same day, Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary".

This is another album which, although I first encountered it a couple of years before, I didn't fully appreciate until it it was on one side of a C90, (I think the flip side was On The Threshold Of A Dream) and playing in the background whilst studying in Glasgow.

Before fully falling under the spell of The Moodies, I was hooked on their sleeve designs. I've mentioned in previous postings that I was long term caretaker to a friends box of vinyl. This contained an almost complete set of the 'classic' era ie: prior to Patrick Moraz joining them, fresh from Yes. There were very few of their contemporaries who could out prog The Moody Blues during this period. On many levels, they were in a league of their own when it came to full-blown concept albums; terrific artwork, lyrics that rivalled Jon Anderson's in terms of outright unintelligibility, scope of ambition and in terms of progression in its truest form. Although often scoffed at by many, The Moody Blues did a huge amount to actually 'progress' the pop/rock music form between 1967 and 1972/3 in particular. Certainly more than they are usually given credit for.

I consider the artwork for this record to be one of the defining icons of the classic psychedelic prog era. Anyone dabbling in Eastern Philosophies or transcendental meditation for it's own sake - and that accounts for a significant number of students, especially in the late sixties and early seventies will have been drawn both by the artwork and the sentiment expressed by the album's cunning title. It may all be seriously daft and utterly up itself, but why not? If it's accomplished, which I believe it is, then ultimately it will stand the test of time and gain respect, at least amongst us sad prog rock musos.

Like several of The Moodies albums of this era, it kicks off with a manic spoken passage. In this case, there is the brief strumming of a harp, a sustained mellotron chord growing more aggressive as the narrator speech descends into diabolical laughter. Ride My See Saw is played by the band in concert to this day, 200 years later. Taken by itself, it could be mistaken for a classic single by any of their contemporaries. I personally hear a lot of The Yardbirds in this. As with the rest of the album - and many from The Moodies collection - the production on the vocal is horribly dated and takes some getting used to.

This morphs into Dr Livingstone, I Presume. The esteemed Doctor-explorer is used figuratively: after all the album is about searching in all its manifest ways. Grand harmonies, very Ringo-like drumming (that's a compliment, by the why). The guitar solo is very Roger McGuinn; again another compliment. So far, largely pop orientated.

House Of Four Doors, Part 1, is the album's first real high point with the mellotron taking a more important role. The tapping tambourine ties it back firmly to the sixties, while the use of sound effects, the flute passages, the numerous changes in tempo and the lush harpsichord, all lean firmly towards a very progressive new decade. The emphatic orchestral break at around three minutes in, is as effective a progressive interlude as anything Yes or early King Crimson achieved a year or two later.

Legend Of A Mind 'borrows' very heavily from George Harrison eastern influence on The Beatles. Justin Hayward plays the sitar, mimics Lennon's vocal delivery whilst espousing the virtues of every one's favourite pharmacist, Timothy Leary.

The gorgeous second part of the last but one track, remains bewitchingly beautiful. As a quick aside, listening to an album whilst reviewing it is not to be recommended. I am an unashamed sentimentalist who often wells up when confronted with much of the masterful moments I am proud to listen to.

Voices In The Sky may be a (relatively) well known pop single, but both as part of the album and as a stand alone track, it is one of the earliest examples of The Moodies excellent knack for a simple timeless classic.

Again, The Best Way To Travel owes a large debt to The Beatles, although, and this may be somewhat contentious, it succeeds for me as pure prog, where John, Paul, George and Ringo, in my humble opinion held back in this regard.

The last four tracks of the album up the prog anti further, with more flute, layer upon layer of mellotron, harps, sitars and more sound effects. It would be very difficult for Barclay James Harvest - the eternally tagged 'Poor Man's Moody Blues' - to defend their protestations that they weren't blatantly copying harmonic structures and mellotron motifs wholesale from TMB on the basis of this side of vinyl.

The Word (unsurprisingly, perhaps) is another spoken word passage is straight out of the book of pretentious album structures. Not a track you'd listen to in the company of anyone who owns anything by Dido, Coldplay or Travis, for sure.

Om is pretty much what you'd expect from a late sixties album by The Moody Blues. It does fall apart in the middle and it is the only part of the record where you'd be forgiven for looking at your watch or peering over your shoulder in shame. Bless them.

As a whole, it is a really very good record. I am willing to forgive them the odd indulgence. Or three.

Review of Spirit's First Album

Released 1968

"Look beneath your lid some morning, See those things you didn't quite consume— The world's a can for Your fresh garbage . . . Look beneath your lid some morning, See those things you didn't quite consume— Your fresh garbage . . ."

I have a surreal form of Alzheimer's surrounding the purchase of my first copy of Spirit's debut album.

Firstly, the artwork for my copy was entirely different to the one pictured above; a head shot split between the five members of the band. I have absolutely no recall regarding what the artwork actually depicted. None whatsoever, other than to say with (almost) complete certainty that it was different.

Secondly, when I first played the album, I noted that although the track listing on the sleeve matched the tracks on the vinyl, both labels were from a different Spirit album. I think it was from Clear Spirit. Rather than content myself with the fact that I was possibly in the possession of something which could be reasonably valuable, I returned to the shop and brought it to their attention, probably expecting a refund or discount. Fool.

Thirdly, although I passed it pretty much every day for four years on my way to University and / or the pub a few hundred yards away, and then actually lived within spitting distance of it for another couple of years, I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the record store. With the following brief note, I'm sure one of my reprehensible associates from that time will be able to fill in the blanks.

The shop was run by two physically very similar brothers of a very dour disposition. Long, lank and dark hair, dark jackets and ne'er a smile betwixt them. I purchased Spirit's first album on my first visit there. One of my most prized possessions was a second hand copy of The Twelve Dreams Of Dr Sardonicus. Given that in West Cornwall, I had to rely very much on what other people discarded to broaden my musical knowledge, coming across a shop in Glasgow with a new copy of a Spirit album was nothing short of a revelation. One of the miserable brothers took my money with a disgruntled snort, handed over the record and practically willed me out of the shop.

I didn't have high expectations as I had previously read that TTDODS was a career highpoint. I was curious just how similar to it's more prominent cousin their first effort would be, especially as it was made way back in 1968. I was only two when it was released, for goodness sake. I suspected and worried that it may be a poppier effort and doubted that it would have any prog rock credentials.

Fresh Garbage then brought some relief. It was reassuringly similar to TTDODS: stoner rhythms, excellent production values, mad and decidedly the work of the same genius - Randy California. Mechanical World and Uncle Jack had a definitive pop sensibility: short, catchy, memorable hummable tunes with strong vocals from the underrated Jay Ferguson.

So far, so very Spirit. Strong tunes with enough weirdness and proficient musicianship to make me smile smugly that this was indeed of a similar quality to TTDODS.

Taurus was the first stand out track for me. As well it's otherworldly keyboard and guitar, I sat up straight, astonished that the opening guitar motif from Led Zeppelin's Stairway To Heaven was replicated, practicality note for note. I checked the release date once more and then scurried back to a trusty biography of Percy and Co. On this occasion my memory hadn't deserted me: I found a passage referring to Jimmy and Robert attending a Spirit gig in the late sixties. The thieving beggars then blatantly lifted the refrain from Taurus wholesale. Praise indeed for the magnificently inventive Mr California. Of itself Taurus is worth the price of the album alone. Other highlights on the album were the sprawling, jazzy and distinctly prog Elijah and the catchy Gramophone Man.

I still don't understand why Spirit are not more highly regarded both in the prog community but also in the rock music community in general. The playing is faultless, the songwriting well above average with an inventiveness which, while it doesn't always work, especially on some later albums, is never less than fascinating.

To coin a cliche: a worthy addition to any prog music fan's collection.

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 The Beatles' Abbey Road

Released 1969

"He roller coaster, He got early warning,
He got Muddy Water, He one Mojo filter,
He say one and one and one is three.
Got to be good looking, 'Cause he so hard to see"

Having groaned and grimaced my way through the review of 90125, I can say with genuine delight that I have been looking forward to recounting my initial experience of Abbey Road ever since it saw it peering over the horizon.

Abbey Road was one of the albums in a big black LP case which was entrusted to me by a Helicopter Pilot from RNAS Culdrose whilst he was on manoeuvres. ( I realise how dubious that sounds, although I can proudly and honestly state in a deep manly voice that he only opened my eyes through the delights of his record collection). Moving on.

There is only a small handfulof albums where the first time I placed the stylus on the vinyl, pressed play on the cassette player or the CD player, where I can now, many years later fully recreate the entire sense of that moment, such was the immediacy and intensity of the experience. That day in the summer of 1985, when I first played Abbey Road is one of those precious moments.

I've possibly got this a bit wrong, but I think I'm correct in saying the original pressings of Abbey Road were the only ones to list Her Majesty on the sleeve and that it was omitted in later years. Either way, I'm fairly certain that the copy I was entrusted with was an original.

Obviously the sleeve is iconic, perhaps more so even than Sgt. Pepper. A simple concept but engendered with so much significance simply because it was the last true recording of the world's most influential pop group. Having visited the spot where the famous photograph was taken, it is astonishing how culturally significant it still feels all these years on.

I came to Abbey Road a tad weary from over exposure to Sgt. Pepper and unenthusiastic at the prospect of having to endure Octopus's Garden; which I still consider the second most irritating track recorded by The Beatles, after Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da. Mind you, as it was The Beatles it was still invested with a certain charm. Before hearing the album in it's entirety I would never have considered it a prog rock album.

As I say, the moment the rolling drum and bass emerge from the hiss of the stylus moving into the first track will stay with me forever. It was instantly and emphatically hypnotising, entirely captivating and jaw-droppingly 'right'. It oozed quality from the first note. I was stunned. Although I knew The Beatles were capable of more than just proficient pop, I had no idea they had produced anything so far removed from pop as this. This was a rock record.

Or was it. I'd forgotten about Something; George Harrision's finest moment, which was, for many the definitive pop song. Whilst Something itself was a million miles from prog, the contrast in styles in the first two songs was a very prog like technique.

Or so I thought. It would be a real stretch to categorise Maxwell's Silver Hammer as prog like. Typical for McCartney it was twee, largely daft and considered odious by his estranged writing partner. Oh! Darling again was very McCartney, although with an excellent lead and harmony vocals, it (just) rises above ordinariness.

Four songs in, and awaiting the shudderingly terrible Octopus's Garden, I was extremely sceptical about the formidable reputation of the album. With the exception of Come Together, it was never too far away from mainstream pop: proficient, but pop nontheless.

I almost certainly skipped past most of, or all of Octopus's Garden and was then pleasantly surprised by the massive leap forward in quality with I Want You (She's so heavy). From the sublime lead guitar, the many changes in tempo, the simple but brilliant bass guitar theme, the sterling drum working to the wonderful hammond, I was utterly impressed and knew in an instant that this was a classic track. It, for me, lays to rest the nonsensical argument that Ringo couldn't drum. The sudden, unexpected ending lends it a grand menace. I like to think that this was a the result of a particularly fruitful and enjoyable jam session, where the four of them actually got on.

That it moves with a very short break into the hugely different Here Comes The Sun can only make you smile and appreciate the ultimate genius of The Beatles: capable of such a wide variety of styles, often in the same album.

I'm glad that I was unprepared for the suite on the second side. If I had known it was coming it may have lessened the impact. I would never have associated The Beatles with a twenty minute suite of music. I find it very hard to listen to the second side of Abbey Road without a tear or two in my eyes. This is for several reasons. First and foremost it is one of the most beautifully accomplished suites of music I am aware of: it all appears so effortless. Secondly this was the swansong for the band: although relations between them were all but over, the manner in which their various contributions mould together to produce an incredible whole, reveals just how desperately sad it was that the world would never again hear the result of the their collaboration.

That they could barely look at each other in the studio, but could bring together the separately conceived basic tracks for Mean Mr Mustard, Polythene Pam, She Came in Through The Bathroom Window, and run them together so expertly makes me wonder what they could have been capable of if they enjoyed being in each other's company more.

I defy anyone not to well up during Golden Slumbers; invested with added significance due to its role as the epitaph to The Beatles career. McCartney's has never delivered a better vocal.

The final guitar solo, shared between Harrison, Lennon and McCartney is achingly poignant. If they could find the space for each other in this way, why did it have it to end?

An odd album; from the sublime to the ridiculous, from godawful pop to raucous psychedelic prog worthy wig-outs, it has moments of unsurpassed brilliance as well as moments that make me cringe. The end result, with the iconic sleeve, side long suite and its inherent historical significance cannot fail to leave all but the most cynical of prog rock fans reverent and respectful of its value.

For me, it's The Beatles greatest hour. Had they stuck together, I would love to know what the next album would have produced; I think it could have been a prog epic.

Review of Genesis' The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway

Released 1974

"The porcelain mannekin with shattered skin fears attack. The eager pack lift up their pitchers- the carry all they lack. The liquid has congealed, which has seeped out through the crack, And the tickler takes his stickleback. The carpet crawlers heed their callers: 'We've got to get in to get out We've got to get in to get out'."

Hmmm.

Oh, how I wanted to love this album.

I have to preface this review with reference to my review of Foxtrot. Having nodded favourably at both Trepass and Nursery Cryme, I was downhearted by Genesis' third album. Buying Foxtrot for the first time as a seventeen year old, I was frustrated by what I saw as a self-indulgent and unnecessarily self-indulgent piece of nonsense. I was so disappointed by Foxtrot that I ignored it, along with the first two albums for over twenty years. Inexplicably, desperately and expensively I relented a few months later and splashed out a not inconsiderable sum on a brand new copy of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway.

I suppose, at the time, I hoped that I had misjudged Foxtrot as a momentary aberration, and that Lamb would restore my faith in the band.

Oh dear.

What a difficult album. Difficult in every sense: difficult to listen to, difficult to rationalise, difficult to understand just what on earth the band were trying to achieve, and unfortunately, difficult for me to like.

There are very few albums that I'll admit to not being able to listen to all the way through. But Lamb is very close to the top of that very small list of albums. To this day, I think I'm correct in saying that I haven't persevered for all four sides. To be honest, the prospect of sitting down to listen to the album to prepare this review is not one which I have approached with much enthusiasm. I'm sure many prog purists would reel back in horror that I would consider reviewing an album which I haven't yet sat all the way through. However this blog is intended to be as much about the experience of listening to the album (especially the first listen) as it is about the music itself.

It all starts off promisingly enough, with a lovely tinkling piano intro from Tony Banks. There are some genuinely wonderful moments easily on a par with any of the previous albums I had been exposed to. The key difference between TLLDOB and those other albums was very quickly apparent. Lamb had a concept, a very bizarre and not entirely convincing concept penned by Peter Gabriel, underlying it which bewildered everyone, including the remaining members of the band. My feeling is that the oddness of this may have made sense to Mr Gabriel but removed any focus or sense of purpose for the music. This may be an argument with a dodgy foundation as lyrically the previous albums were always eccentric and 'out there'. Because the concept is given so much emphasis on the sleeve, the listener (or at least this listener) feels compelled to concentrate on the alleged story rather than be caught up in the isolated islands of weirdness of separate tracks on their other albums.

To date, once I get beyond The Cage, it is this concentration which is the problem as I invariably lose interest. Usually it happens around Back In NYC which doesn't work for at all.

Of course there is an argument to say that this is the ultimate prog fest. From the sleeve design and the nutty concept to one of the most extensive collections of forever changing time signatures, to paraphrase Spinal Tap's David St Hubbins; there is possibly no other album which is 'none more prog.' If this is case, why am I complaining? This is a prog rock blog after all.

As I have mentioned before in other reviews, it can take years and years for some albums to click. I also stated that I had to buy three copies of Foxtrot and wait for twenty five years to pass before I moved from an initial not inconsiderable dislike of the album to its present status as one of my top ten albums. I really hope that Lamb one day reveals a magnificence to me in the same way that Foxtrot did.

Two final points.

Firstly, I am currently listening to the intro to Carpet Crawlers which is utterly wonderful. This gives me great hope that more greatness will follow.

Secondly, I mentioned earlier that following my first listen to Lamb, I put it, Trepass, Nursery Cryme and Foxtrot away for a quarter of a century. When I rebuilt my Genesis collection, I redressed my original omission of Selling England By The Pound, having skipped right past it from Foxtrot to Lamb first time around. Had I not made that omission, I have no doubt that my appreciation of all of these albums would have changed overnight. Selling England By The Pound is the album I would now urge any aspiring Genesis fan to start with, so effectively has it intoxicated me. But, more of that later.

Review of Led Zeppelin IV

Released 1971

"All last night sat on the levee and moaned, All last night sat on the levee and moaned, Thinkin' 'bout me baby and my happy home. Going, go'n' to Chicago, Go'n' to Chicago, Sorry but I can't take you. Going down, going down now, going down."

Were I in the unfortunate position that my home was in flames, and I'd managed to save all my family and the cats, the next CD I'm grab, after The Dark Side Of The Moon, would be Led Zeppelin IV.

I've had to think quite hard about whether this record warrants inclusion in a blog about prog rock albums, but ultimately I think it is such an important album, not just for me personally, but in terms of cultural iconography, that it would be petty to omit it because it may not tick all of the archetypal prog boxes. Plus, it's my blog!

I'm actually on (at least) my sixth copy of Led Zeppelin IV, having owned it on vinyl, pink vinyl, cassette and at least three CDs. My first copy was actually procured when I was fifteen or so, before TDSOTM and therefore before my prog odyssey proper began. So yes, I am screwing up my chronology, but as I've just about reached that pivotal moment in my life when I went away to 'study' at University, it seems wrong to proceed without at first looking back.

I first became aware of Led Zeppelin when a classmate in my last year of school remarked when he saw me reading a review of an AC/DC concert; "if you like Angus, you'll love Jimmy Page". After some swotting up, I noticed when handed the book list from which we had to select our school leaving present, that there was a biography about the band. The romance and glamour of the band's history had me hooked immediately. Shortly afterwards, on a holiday in France with about fifteen other contemporaries from Cornwall, there were two huge Led Zeppelin fans who further piqued my interest, largely on the back of some rather frenetic head-banging to Whole Lotta Love in the interestingly fragranced fug of a French village disco.

On my return, with my remaining holiday money I bought Highway to Hell and Led Zeppelin IV. For some odd reason, the afternoon I played both those albums for the first time is one of my clearest memories of that time. I cannot possibly justify a review of an ACDC album in a prog blog, but the exuberance and energy of that album in particular was a perfect scene setter for the wonder that is Led Zeppelin IV.

The scratchy slidey intro followed by "Hey, hey momma.." has to be the best possible start to an album. For someone reared on the NWOBHM bands whose careers relied in a not inconsiderable way to Led Zeppelin's legacy, hearing the 'real deal' caused instant goose-bumps and a literal turning of the head. The impact was absolutely instant; it was like unleashing a wild animal through the speakers. I had never heard a band play so tightly and so emotionally with astonishing fluidity. Until that point I had thought that David Coverdale and Freddie Mercury were gods, but the massiveness of Robert Plant's presence was overpowering.

Before I could recover, Rock And Roll continued the assault with drumming which made every other band I'd heard up until that point seem positively pedestrian.

While The Battle Of Evermore played I referred to the sleeve to find out who was providing the female vocal. I remembered that apparently, if you were to hold the picture from inside the gate fold sleeve length ways up against a mirror, the 'black dog' would reveal itself. The sleeve itself was very prog: no title, runes accompanying each players name and an impenetrable meaning behind the juxtaposition of the painting of the stick bearing country man and the tower blocks of Dudley.

Stairway Heaven was already known to me, of course, but when heard in context, as the band intended it to be heard against the varying styles of the other songs on the album, it seemed all the more sophisticated and not just the albatross which bestrode their career.

Misty Mountain Hop had an intoxicating hippy refrain which contributed directly to my subsequent immersion in the whole late sixties and early seventies music and cultural movement. Both Four Sticks and Going To California continued to amaze and delight me in their depth and maturity, all the time making me reconsider much of the more ridiculous aspects of my heavy metal collection.

I didn't know it at the time, but When The Levee breaks was to become one of my favourite tracks by anyone, ever. From the mouth organ intro to the gorgeous spiralling guitar, the stunning drumming and the genre defining vocal performance, it really is a phenomenal tour de force, which only gets better with each fresh hearing.

Even as a teenager, I knew that I had stumbled across one of the most important albums I would ever own.

There are very few perfect albums. Even TDSOTM has flaws; On The Run never quite worked for me, being a very mild interruption to a perfectly paced album. Looking at my music collection now, I am struggling to spot any flawless albums, other than Led Zeppelin IV. There isn't a single note, moan or drum beat I'd change. Perfect and practically prog.

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.