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 Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells

Released 1973

"Two slightly distorted guitars."

My original copy of Tubular Bells was purchased unknowingly along with a small job lot of second hand vinyl, via a student from the art block adjacent to our sixth form college. I was attracted by the very low price being offered for a 'mixed bag of seventies gold'. Hmmm. In reality, other than The Eagles 'The Long Run', Tubular Bells was the only item of note; not least of all as it was a pristine picture disc edition. That it had cost me in the region of 50p was a further bonus.

Like any music fan, I was aware of Tubular Bells in advance, but other than knowing that it was an instrumental work which had effectively launched Virgin Records (and in turn the Virgin Empire) and that a short extract was included in The Exorcist (which I always thought was horribly incongruous), I really didn't know what to expect. Amongst my peers at college, adding Tubular Bells to my record collection was greeted with nods as appreciative as those I received when The Dark Side of The Moon preceded it. It is one of those albums, like 'Bat Out of Hell' or 'Rumours' that might as well be handed out on prescription to any self respecting person interested in music in their teens. Because it lived in such a public space, I had trouble reconciling it as a 'prog' album. TDSOMT may have sold more copies and still be resolutely considered to be 'prog', probably due to the anonymity of the band, but Mike Oldfield was known to anyone (of a certain age) that had watched Blue Peter. That said, there were only two tracks of twenty five and twenty three minutes respectively.

Although I was pleased to add Tubular Bells to my shelves, I didn't rush at it; I was concerned that I might not enjoy a completely instrumental record. The prog section of my collection was still in its infancy and I still had a sustained interest in more mainstream rock music: Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Jimi Hendrix and Cream et al could all be described as musically adventurous, but only bordered on the fringes of prog. While all of the above had instrumental tracks on their albums, these were the exception and not the rule. All were therefore arguably more accessible. I was worried that my musical tastes, although they were broadening all the time, were not yet sophisticated enough to assimilate nearly forty nine minutes of music without lyrics.

On paper, the concept for Tubular Bells shouldn't work; a brief uncomplicated musical pattern repeatedly played by a wide variety of different instruments, either in isolation or multi-tracked in unison with others, sometimes at different tempos, all played by Mike Oldfield.

I loved side one immediately, being hypnotised by the seamless morphing from one instrument to the next, effortlessly imprinting itself from the outset. I was delighted that I was so instantly engaged. A sense of anticipation formed as I wondered how the motif would be next formed, by which instrument/s and how the piece would conclude. Although this was a simple concept, I marvelled at the epic task of transforming the finished complex whole from an idea to a fully constructed suite in the studio, by one man.

After side one, side two was (and remains) a poor relation. Whilst of itself it follows similar themes to it's predecessor and is pleasant and well formed , I felt that it suffered beyond measure by falling within it's shadow.

The album was placed back on my shelf with a degree of smugness, both that I wasn't let down and that my level of musical appreciation was perhaps more refined than I gave myself credit for.

Years later, Tubular Bells is responsible for opening several other musical doors for me: from Tangerine Dream to (mostly instrumental) Italian prog. For that, I will be eternally grateful for that 'mixed bag of seventies gold'.