PROG NOSIS MAR-APRIL 2009

MARCO ROSSI travels back to a time when prog rock bands roamed the earth and grown men in floppy hats squabbled over mellotron settings while spotting connections between Bach and The Hobbit.

What kind of a teenager were you? I only ask because the act of constructing this column for each issue routinely brings me back into contact with bands that I loved, loathed, feared or missed out on altogether when I was in my early teens, so I often find myself contemplating how it felt to be that age.
I have concluded that I was a silly sod for the most part, but I had an unfortunate tendency towards introspective gloominess from time to time. I daresay I fancied that this was indicative of a deeply poetic sensibility; but I’d give anything to go back, grab myself by the hood of my steenking duffle coat, tweak my drippy nose and compel myself to lighten up already.

That being said, there were some bands out there in the brown 1970s that seemed too gloomy even for me, BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST among them. I remember a mate of mine sitting me down with due ceremony and solemnity to play me the song ‘Suicide?’ from the ’76 BJH album Octoberon: “You hear the air rushing past as he plummets to earth and hits the ground,” he informed me with a comically straight face. He wasn’t wrong either. I duly heard it, thought “woah… heavy” then doubtless scampered home to comfort myself with the first Ramones album, as I was undergoing my punk epiphany around the same time.
The re-release of BJH’s BBC In Concert 1972 (Harvest) reveals that, to be fair, Barclay James Harvest weren’t gloomy so much as painfully earnest – to a degree that made The Moody Blues sound as though they were capering about on unicycles wearing polka dot baggy pants and revolving bow ties, brandishing soda syphons and those air bulb-powered vintage car horns favoured by performing seals.
I very much enjoyed BJH keyboardist Woolly Wolstenholme’s chapter in Nick Awde’s excellent Mellotron book, which was punchy, unflinchingly candid and salted with brusque Oldham wit. Their music, however, still sounds terribly furrowed of brow to me, without the giddy euphoria and high-wire bravura which excused Yes, or indeed the terrifying whiff of genuine brimstone which qualified Van Der Graaf Generator to out-gloom simply everyone at that time. (And where were VDGG on Prog Rock Britannia, now that I come to think of it?)
BJH fans will nevertheless be in clover with BBC In Concert 1972. It includes committed versions of several of the band’s best-loved early songs (‘Galadriel’, ‘Mocking Bird’, ‘Dark Now My Sky’), draws upon the support of the Barclay James Harvest Symphony Orchestra with conductor Martyn Ford, fair sparkles in the upper-mid range courtesy of a fresh digital remastering and boasts a beautifully archaic introduction from Alan Black. I fear it has made me want to listen to The Ramones all over again though, confirming my unspoken dread that I have learned absolutely nothing in 33 years or so.
A nifty example of the careful sequencing for which this page is not particularly renowned brings me on to RARE BIRD, who not only supported Barclay James Harvest on a UK tour but also briefly included in their number occasional VDGG bassist Nic Potter. Nic indeed steps into the bassist’s voluminous trousers on the first of the two Rare Bird reissues in front of me, ’73’s Somebody’s Watching (Esoteric), but by the time of this album and its ’74 follow-up, Born Again (Esoteric), pretty much all vestiges of prog pomp had flown the coop, along with original members Graham Field and Mark Ashton.
In the absence of cape-swishing song cycles then, what remains is a not wildly distinguished but by no means unpleasant blend of electric piano-driven rock/pop, heard to best effect on the former album’s winningly daft arrangement of Ennio Morricone’s Dollars theme, and the latter album’s melodic, Todd Rundgrenesque ‘Reaching You’. I won’t hear a word against Rare Bird after keyboardist Dave Kaffinetti’s priceless turn in This Is Spinal Tap as Viv Savage. Remember? “Have a good time all the time… That’s my philosophy, Marty.” Mine too, as it happens.

And so to WEST BRUCE & LAING, who grunt and snort like rutting minotaurs throughout Whatever Turns You On and Live ’N’ Kickin’ (both Esoteric) to a frightful extent. Jack Bruce commendably admits in the sleeve notes that reverting to a power trio format offered him the chance to make some serious moolah in the mid-70s, but you can’t help wondering what went through his mind. After those unimpeachable solo albums and that envelope-pushing stint with jazz-rock avatars Lifetime, WB&L must have felt like following up the painting of the Sistine Chapel ceiling frescoes by drawing a cat in chubby crayon on to a sheet of Izal.

The live album duly finds Bruce and Mountain alumni Leslie West and Corky Laing performing to what sounds like a wrestling crowd baying like lycanthropes and feasting on barbecued ribs – or each other’s ribs. Cream staple ‘Politician’ is dusted off and duffed up, ‘Play With Fire’ by the Stones is torched and ‘Powerhouse Sod’ is a brutalist bass solo which Bruce must have hoped would literally bring the house down so he could go home and listen to Charles Mingus instead. The ensemble playing is of a consistently high standard, mark you, if generally as unsubtle as the Carry On franchise. Seek out the wonderful Jack Bruce/Pete Brown compositions ‘Like A Plate’ and ‘November Song’ on the studio album for reassurance that Bruce hadn’t entirely turned his back on his own brain.

The revelation of the month for me has to be the self-titled debut album by MARSUPILAMI (Esoteric), originally released by Transatlantic in ’70. Who knew that Taunton was so happening back then? This exhilaratingly peculiar organ and flute-led sextet evidently grew restless if they maintained the same tempo for longer than four bars, but generally favoured a bustling, aye-aye cap’n, full-steam-ahead approach which reportedly slew all comers on stage, not least when they legendarily showed Deep Purple a clean pair of stack heels at Barnstaple Town Hall in ’69. Proper progsters as well. How wilfully abstruse were they? Two of the five track titles are in Latin: that’s mah boys (and girl).

Two anomalies to finish with then, starting with ZOLDAR & CLARK (Erebus) – whose anomalous status derives from the fact that they were American chappies, and their album was released way late in prog terms, ’77. Originally known (or not) as Jasper Wrath, their bright and dextrous sound falls somewhere between Flash (remember them?) and After The Fire (remember them?), with some heinous synth sounds, characteristic of the era, nevertheless ameliorated by lovely Mellotron passages, blazing guitar and memorable, two-fisted choruses. Be sure to read about the album’s hair-raising provenance in the sleeve notes.

Finally, FANTASYY FACTORYY hail from Germany and are doing their not-inconsiderable thing right now. Formed in ’94 by guitarist/ singer/composer Alan Tepper, they specialise in a kind of churning, spacey, Hendrixy psych/prog that calls to mind Hawkwind, May Blitz and Man by turns. It’s the lovingly appropriate detail that delights on This Is The Future Of Tomorrow (Ohrwaschl), not just musically but also in terms of presentation: 180g vinyl no less, and sleeve paintings by Helmut Wenske, who did the business for Nektar, Steel Mill and Orange Peel back in the day.

www.esotericrecords.co.uk
www.erebusrecords.com
www.ohrwaschl.de