King Crimson

Prog Rock is Never Dead; It’s Just Resting Until the Next Round of Reissues, or, Two from Gentle Giant

January 6, 2012 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

Reissues From An Era When Giants Roamed the Earth

For all the critical savaging Yes, ELP and Rush took in the early-to-mid ‘70s, they at least had the devotion of the masses (then, now). And no matter how much or how unjustly they were accused of mindless noodling, they could nod and wink all the way to the bank. Top Ten records can buy a lot of noodles (then, now).

So whatever else one can or should say about the front-tier progressive acts, at worst they had cache; they remain part of the conversation.

Gentle Giant has always been relegated to the second—or third—tier, worshipped by a select contingent. This of course is a phenomenon that imparts a certain aesthetic credibility; only the people who are really in the know are aware of them. Or, you have to work harder to find your way to this band. Et cetera.

So why didn’t Gentle Giant, a band with all the chops, ambition and awful cover art to co-exist with their better-known brethren, get their shot at superstardom?

Well, in some regards they tend to typify some of the worst—or least favorite—elements of prog rock: the ostensible pretense of literary allusions, the extended instrumental jams (oh, the horror!), the love it or leave it vocals, which, to be fair, are often a few shades more eccentric and inaccessible than even Trespass-era Genesis.

On the other hand, there is plenty to recommend about this band’s approach: Emersonian keyboards, Hackett-like guitar proficiency, King Crimson-esque quirkiness. But where ELP, Genesis and Crimson could balance the pyrotechnical overload and acoustic restraint (usually by relegating the pastoral numbers as shorter, more serene pieces), Gentle Giant tends to be either more ambitious or less dexterous. The medieval elements wash up, too often unsteadily, with the then-modern snythesizers, resulting in a sound that is jarring. Worse, it sounds dated in ways the better-known progressive acts do not.

Still, the musicianship is consistently top-notch, and it would be a shame if Gentle Giant did not receive another (or first) assessment, particularly for would-be fans who simply have not had the opportunity to experience their music. Fortunately for anyone who has awaited or is open to the chance, we have two reissues of early albums. 1972’s Three Friends and 1973’s Octopus are the third and fourth efforts from a band that was locking into an approach—confident and adventurous—that came as close as they ever did to establishing a “signature” sound. That the results are not easy to quickly describe or embrace is likely to make or break a first time listener’s reaction.

Three Friends is definitely the harder of the two, in many senses of the word. There is an extra edge that at times borders on abrasive, not that there’s anything wrong with that, which could make this tough going for first-time ears. It also boasts impressively complex vocal arrangements that at times border on boastful. These gents are definitely prog-rockers’ prog rockers, and in that regard the album is an unabashed success. Still, a song like “Peel the Paint” is a bit grueling to get through. It recalls Side One of Crimson’s Lizard but, for this listener, the vocals too often seem shrill where the wonderfully surreal vocals of Gordon Haskell, from Lizard are unsettling in all the right ways. In fact, the user-unfriendly singing might represent the issue that makes this material difficult to love then and now. One thing the aforementioned prog acts had going for them was across-the-board vocal brilliance. However much anyone might loathe those bands, few people could credibly claim that, say, Ian Anderson, Greg Lake or Jon Anderson were not, at worst, competent vocalists.

Octopus is not only more palatable, but ably matches the group’s lofty aspirations and their impeccable musicianship. Simply put, unlike Three Friends, it stacks up nicely with other prog masterpieces of the era, no mean feat. Typical period pieces like “The Advent of Panurge” (if you are going to get literary, don’t half-step!) and “Raconteur Troubadour” are stylistically and sonically all over the place but always in control. On this outing the band knows what it is after and is able to achieve it. On a more reflective piece like “Think of me with Kindness” we get more Gentle and less Giant.

Both albums feature re-mastered treatments and sound spectacular. More importantly, each release includes out-takes and live snippets, all of which are interesting and enjoyable. We get the original art work, liner notes and never-seen photos. This is the type of material that recommends itself for the faithful fan; it should serve as an ideal introduction for the newcomer. For anyone inclined to dip their toes in this murky but ultimately pleasant water, start with Octopus and, if you like what you hear (give it several listens before you make up your mind) you are encouraged to take a deeper dive into the catalog. Bottom line: full marks to Gentle Giant for their obvious indifference to mainstream acclaim and even accessibility. It may have damaged their commercial appeal but their integrity has never been in question. In the end, that should count for something that isn’t measured monetarily.

Three Friends Rating 6

Octopus Rating 8

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/151726-gentle-giant-three-friends-octopus/

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: ELP, Genesis, Gentle Giant, King Crimson, Octopus, Prog-Rock, Three Friends

The Michael Giles Mad Band: In the Moment

October 13, 2011 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

Let’s say you’re a drummer and you happened to play on two of the seminal progressive rock albums (King Crimson’s In The Wake of Poseidon and, along with fellow recent ex-Crimson compatriot Ian McDonald, on McDonald and Giles) as well as what some consider the quintessential prog album of all-time, In The Court of the Crimson King. Then you paid the bills and further made your mark with steady session work and a solo album here and there for the next couple of decades. Then another decade passed and you were still very much alive and well. What would you do? Continue making music, obviously.

Michael Giles, the drummer not everyone knows but everyone who everyone knows name-checks (see: Peart, Neil), continues to make music, and that is a good thing. Better still, the music he is making right now, with his Mad Band, is still progressive, even if it does not rock. Think about that for a moment, and consider how many musicians who were recording over four decades ago are still alive, much less still relevant. Consider how many acts from the grand old days are out on the oldies circuit, or releasing their umpteenth greatest hits rehash, or incapable even of going through the motions with an entourage of back-up players a third their age. Think of the very short list of names that continue to resist time and skirt the boundaries of convention and expectation. None of this is to begrudge any and all of those old time rock and rollers from extracting every last nickel from eager/gullible fans; more power to all involved.

Still, it’s cause for rejoicing to see a gentleman past retirement age who not only refuses to retire, but provides an example any of us, regardless of our age, would do well to emulate. Personal appearance, for better or worse, is often less than half the story (and the least important half) when it comes to art and the people who make it, but the fact that Giles looks about half his age speaks volumes. Checking out recent pictures or catching some videos of his band in action make it abundantly clear that this is one geezer whose body and mind are very much intact. If that sounds vaguely patronizing, once again consider the physical and mental states of most of the people who made music in the early ‘70s.

Quite appropriately, his latest release (the second by the Michael Giles Mad Band) is entitled In The Moment. This description is both literal and…literal. It’s “in the moment” in terms of what he and his bandmates are doing right now, but it’s also unrehearsed material, spontaneously created and recorded. This disc captures what Giles describes on the back cover as “an exploration of sound, silence, space and time.” (Prog rock lives!) If that sounds entirely too vague, or pretentious, it happens to be a pretty accurate depiction of what this ensemble is up to. On this set the band (Giles on drums and percussion along with Daniel Pennie on guitar and Adrian Chivers on horns and “found sounds”) is joined by ex-Crimsoner and piano playing wizard Keith Tippett. Tippett, of course, lent his considerable talents to In the Wake of Poseidon and has actively honed his craft across multiple genres in the ensuing years. It’s a wonderful occasion to see these two wise if not wizened old(er) men join forces once again.

How to describe the sounds? It’s minimalist without being subdued (a signal of extreme confidence) and deliberate without being forced. Giles and Pennie provide rhythmic framework and Chivers and Tippett splash and spray the canvass with color and light. Sometimes the roles reverse and frequently all four are increasing the energy or unwinding the agitation in unison. The result is a series of industrial, percussion-based landscapes. There is an assortment of purposeful clinging and clanging with carefully orchestrated guitar-fueled tension. It occasionally resembles a ruckus but it’s a syncopated ruckus. This, at times, is a musical equivalent of getting in the car and driving, not figuring out where you are until you get there. In the hands of indulgent or untalented hacks, this is a recipe for sonic atrocity; with experts behind the wheel the journey is enjoyable as it is unpredictable.

At times it could almost be called free jazz (the horror?) or even free rock (the horror!) but it works. Suffice it to say, this is not for people who need a beat created by computers, or vocals extolling the virtues of expensive products. In other words this is art. Possibly even art for art’s sake. Imagine that. And enter at your own peril.

Still with me? Good! This work is certainly meant to be experienced in its totality, and yet a few tracks really stay with the listener. These include “Water Colour Mystery”, which if an obligatory (and ostensibly facile) comparison is needed, would not sound at all out of place on Crimson’s Starless and Bible Black (ironically, an album neither Giles nor Tippett played on). There is an ominous edge that creeps along, undercut by Tippett’s strategic tinkling. On “Care and Attention”, the interplay between Giles and Tippett sounds like exactly what it is: two proficient veterans able to parlay an aesthetic telepathy into a beguiling—and very unique—dreamscape. If you’ve ever wondered what a player piano in a western saloon would sound like…in space, this is it. (Still with me? Good!) On album closer “And Yet (In the Fullness of Time)” Tippett once again comes to the fore while Pennie unspools a surreal ambiance that eventually envelops everything before slowly fading to black.

Listening to this music, and watching the clips available online, convinces one that catching the band live is the way to go. Seeing is believing, and watching this small band make all these sounds is a compelling proposition. Of course, hearing is believing as well, and it’s good news all around that we have this organic and very alive work for the permanent record. The thing about music, as the great Eric Dolphy remarked (lamented?) is that “after it’s over it’s gone in the air…you can never capture it again.” This is why it’s important to step back sometimes and marvel at the things we tend to take for granted: the rarest artists grow and challenge themselves (and us) and we have a means to preserve the spell that was cast in real time—in the moment—and keep as something to savor.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/148826-the-michael-giles-mad-band-in-the-moment/

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: In The Moment, Keith Tippett, King Crimson, Michael Giles, The Michael Giles Mad Band

On Worrying*

October 10, 2011 By Sean Murphy 1 Comment

Two things we all became experts in during those last five years: taking care of my mother and worrying. We were authorities; we worried all the time, about everything. The better prepared and dedicated you are, the more you are likely to worry. Because you can’t cover off on every angle or option, no matter how much contingency you’ve built into each possible scenario.

As she got progressively sicker, the opportunities for discomfort (hers) and failure (ours) expanded at a rate that fed off our fears. So we worried. I’ve since seen people who have been obliged to care for a spouse or parent by themselves and I wonder how this burden is not literally debilitating.

Perhaps not surprisingly, as things became increasingly dire toward the end, time slowed down and the options and possibilities narrowed. Eventually the only concern was making her as comfortable as possible. Let her find peace was the ceaseless recitation I repeated like a monk those last few weeks.

And myself? You don’t ask for peace, you search for it and hope for it (some people pray for it). No one is capable of giving it to you even, or especially if you are willing to pay for it. There are a lot of immutable truths we are fortunate to discover before time runs out, and this is one of them.

The one relief, once it’s finally over, is the realization that there is nothing more to worry about. Except for all the other things you have to worry about. I quickly developed an intense (irrational?) fear concerning the death of another loved one. Was this possible? (Of course it was.) Was this likely? (Of course it wasn’t.) You suddenly become intolerably (irrationally?) sensitive to the prospect –not to mention the inevitability– of the other parent dying, or your sibling dying. Or (awful, irrational) your sibling’s children. And then, even if you eventually get a handle on those apprehensions, there is still the disconcerting specter of your own inevitable death.

For a long while there is no respite, because the same things that placate and distract also remind us: friends will get ill and die, pets, friends’ pets, friends’ families, and so on down the hellish rabbit hole.

My family worried about me. In fairness, I worried about them as well. This is what families do, especially under duress.

The sister worried about her brother. He is all by himself, she thought. How can he stand it? He is his own best friend, she knew, and that is good. Mostly she marveled at the peace and perseverance he had cultivated (when, exactly, had that growth occurred? Or had it happened while she was busy building—and worrying about—her own family?). She could not help worrying about him and his resolve: where did it come from, and would it possibly last. Could it?

The daughter worried about her father. All that he had seen; what he would have to face, possibly alone, as he faced down old age. She worried about him getting sick; having to take care of him. She worried about all the husbands and sons and daughters who had no idea what to expect (they did not even know what was coming; no one does—even, or especially the ones who think they do); even the ones who were able to avoid this particular path. If it wasn’t this it was something else; nobody escaped some type of ultimate unpleasantness. She worried about herself: even though it was over it was only just beginning. And then there was her husband and her kids to think about. And worry about.

Our father may have been worried or he may have been too busy trying to put one day in front of another. You do that enough times and a week goes by, then a month, then a year. And all that time you might have spent worrying you could have been living. It’s enough, sometimes, just to live.

I worried because I knew something neither of them understood: I had by far the easiest burden to carry. I worried for all sorts of reasons about all sorts of things, but mostly I acknowledged how much easier things were for me. My sister had little kids to contend with. On days she couldn’t pull it together she had to pull it together. This is, of course, what got her through it. You make enough beds and meals and give enough baths and change enough diapers and suddenly your children are older (so are you) and your grief has abated.

I worried, above all, about my old man, because he had it hardest. Aside from nursing his pain and worrying about his children, he had the responsibility of learning how to survive. It was him, not us, who still had to live in that house. He had to walk past that room, see that bed, use that shower, open that refrigerator, pull into that garage, mow that lawn, open that mailbox, read those letters, write those checks, watch that TV, go to sleep and wake up in the middle of the night not certain, for a second that might last too long, if he was alone.

*Excerpted from a work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone

Filed Under: Myself When I'm Real Tagged With: King Crimson, Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone

So…what are you listening to?

October 4, 2011 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

Check this out:

In order to write about music you need to hear it first.

In order to hear the music you need to know about it.

Sounds simple, and very often it is: you receive recommendations, you read articles, you broaden your search by seeking out artists you have not heard who have played with artists you have. You take advantage of technology (anyone who has shopped at amazon.com or spent even a few minutes on one of the many online music sites understands how this works, and it works well). You become an active agent in the process of understanding and acquiring music from the past and present. And, in very rare instances, you get a chance to listen to the future.

No, I’m not talking science fiction or fantasy (though this scenario involves a bit of both): I’m referring to the opportunity writers who review music occasionally have to discover new sounds before they are officially available to be heard. In a world that is rapidly receding into the collective rearview mirror, this terrain was once exclusive to a select group of sanctioned arbiters: the critics. We get the goods so that an ostensibly objective narrative (e.g., the cumulative computation of reviews) can emerge, before people spend money, as to whether or not the item in question is worth that money.
Of course the calculus has been turned on its head, mostly for the better: anyone with some technological savvy can procure this music in advance without paying a penny. This hurts artists but it mostly affects the rapacious record company honchos. With them increasingly marginalized, the symbiotic relationship between musician and audience is as healthy and positive as it’s been in ages—possibly ever. For every penny the musician does not make on the sales of CDs, he or she is making up for via social media, web presence and digital downloads. You’ll still hear some musicians bitching about the inexorable, and unfair, dissolution of the old order, but it’s mostly (and tellingly) the richest—and invariably least talented—that have the most to lose. Without the hype delivered in advance by bought-off media endorsements and sketchy groupthink consensus, more people can determine for themselves, without dropping the proverbial dollar, whether or not this new material is worth a damn.

All of which is a protracted way of trying to explain why I seldom have an uncomplicated answer to the simple question I am asked all the time: So…what are you listening to? The answer is easy (everything) and more complicated. I’ve been all over the place (as usual?) lately in regards to the music I’m reviewing and that’s just the way I like it. However, a new, quite welcome wrinkle has informed my listening –and reviewing– pleasure over the last several weeks. I’ve lately found myself in the enviable position of hearing music that I may not have otherwise discovered, straight from the source. On opposite ends of the experience spectrum, I’ve been provided with new releases from a young artist I’d never heard of, and an artist who happens to have played drums on an album I feel somewhat strongly about. Listening to new music is like dating (only more so): you can’t necessarily predict what will turn you on, but you know it when you see (hear) it. It’s always exciting –and more than a little relieving– to confirm that you are able to endorse music that was sent your way unsolicited. It’s exhilarating –and humbling– to realize you feel very positive about the music and can’t imagine how you could have lived your life without hearing it.

Check it out:

I’ve received, listened and written about two new releases that deserve a wide(r) audience, and if I’ve done my job tolerably well, people who read this blog are about to discover a couple of remarkable albums (and artists).

To be continued…

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: Aram Bajakian, Kef, King Crimson, Michael Giles, Michael Giles MAD Band

The 25 Best Progressive Rock Songs of All Time: Part Five

May 26, 2011 By Sean Murphy 2 Comments

5. Genesis, “Watcher of the Skies”

The mellotron certainly had its time and place. It became overused, a crutch for bands hoping to mimic the sounds made by bands like King Crimson and late ‘60s Moody Blues, but when properly utilized, it could produce an oddly enchanting (I can’t quite bring myself to say haunting) effect that even the strings it was designed to replicate can’t quite convey. It was often employed as a layering effect, to embellish the other instruments, and the effect was surreal and murky; if it was loud or frequent enough to notice, it was probably being abused. However, on “Watcher of the Skies”, the opening song from prog-rock benchmark Foxtrot, we are treated to the first (best? only?) mellotron “solo”. It takes over 90 seconds for the other instruments to (slowly, brilliantly) enter and build, and that extended introduction might be the best wordless evidence for what we could define as the essential “prog-rock sound”: it’s all in there, whatever it is. Then there are the lyrics, with allusions to literature (Keats) and some of Phil Collins’ most satisfying accompaniment. As much as any song from the early ‘70s, “Watcher of the Skies” manages to invoke the past while commenting on the present, using new instruments and ideas to create a certain type of mood music that is crammed with feeling, intensity, and release.

4. Yes, “Close To The Edge”

Writing last year about my search for the “sublimely awful lyric”, I singled Yes out for special mention as “elevating ardent yet inane lyrics to a level of… real art.” On the other hand, I did—and do—maintain that listening to Yes is like listening to opera: the words are, or may as well be, in a different language. It’s all about the sounds: that voice, those instruments, that composition. The music Yes made between 1971 and 1973 approached a level of ecstasy that not many bands were able to approximate. So it matters less than a little that the lyrics are, supposedly, based on/inspired by Hesse’s Siddhartha (indeed, that fact is likely to get points subtracted for typical prog-rock pretension, real or imagined). What matters is that this song really does go places no other band has done; or rather, it is a gold standard that was never surpassed. Every aspect of its execution is virtually flawless, from the slow-burning build-up, to the crashing intensity of the first several minutes, to the operatic (yes I said it) majesty of the middle section, (“I get up, I get down”), to the effulgent conclusion, bringing the end right back to the beginning before fading out. On exceptional tracks, like the previously discussed “Awaken” and “Heart of the Sunrise” there are individual moments—and musicians—that stand out and shine; on “Close to the Edge” everyone assembled works in service of the song and the result is a tight, unified, utterly convincing proclamation, a truly joyful noise.

3. Jethro Tull, “A Passion Play”

Inevitably, Jethro Tull lost some of their audience (more than a handful forever) with their follow-up to Thick As a Brick, the more challenging (and, upon initial listens, less rewarding) A Passion Play. It was a shame, then, and remains regrettable, now that folks don’t have the ears or hearts for this material, as it represents much of Anderson’s finest work. His voice would never sound better, and he was possibly at the height of his instrumental prowess: the obligatory flute, the always-impressive acoustic guitar chops and, for this album, the cheeky employment of a soprano saxophone. It is a gamble (and/or a conceit, depending upon one’s perspective) that pays off in spades: a difficult, occasionally confrontational, utterly fulfilling piece of work.

The subject matter, so perplexing at first blush, is a relatively straightforward examination of what happens after death. Literary allusions abound, and one wonders if this project had been described as rock music’s version of Dante’s Inferno it may have fared a bit better. (Probably not.) In any event, there are plenty of musicians, in rock and on this list, whose lyrical merits can be ceaselessly debated. Ian Anderson is not one of them. If you find his writing oblique or impenetrable, it’s not him, it’s you. The brilliance of his wordplay and the fun he has with the English language is something to savor. Not for nothing is this considered the masterpiece of the Tull oeuvre amongst die-hard fans (an encomium that only adds fuel to the fire for the legion of Tull haters, snot running down their noses). This one tends to draw the most resistance from even prog-rock aficionados: it obliges time and attention to let it work it charms, but the return on investment is worthwhile and ever-lasting.

2. Pink Floyd, “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”

Roger Waters, understandably struggling with what to do next after Dark Side of the Moon, began to think about the man without whom he may never have become a rock musician. Syd Barrett’s mental disintegration is alluded to on the previous album’s “Brain Damage”, but all of the tracks on Wish You Were Here deal, directly and indirectly, with the man who named the band’s breakdown. The centerpiece, “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” is equal parts elegiac tribute to an old friend and assessment of loss and alienation. Gilmour and Wright both sought to play the saddest notes they could conceive, and the results are at once poignant and stunning. Even without the lyrics, it would be abundantly obvious that the band was attempting to invoke a wistful sort of melancholy that stops just short of desolation. It was inevitable, and appropriate, that Waters chose to sing these lyrics —- so personal and plaintive—and it is without question his most affecting vocal performance.

Then there is the story, confirmed by all members present at the recording, which has to be apocryphal except for the fact that it isn’t, and is enough to make you concede that forces greater than us may indeed have the controls set for the heart of the sun. The band, busy completing the final mix of the album (allegedly working on “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”), did not notice the bigger, bald stranger who had wandered into the room; only after several moments did anyone recognize their former leader. At one moment jumping up and down to brush his teeth with his fingers (a pitiful sight that reduced Waters to tears), the next Barrett was offering to add his guitar parts to completed work. Upon having his services politely declined, he walked out of the studio and no one in the band ever saw him again. As touching, and extraordinary as this stranger-than-fiction occurrence might be, it only adds to the already unqualified masterpiece that Pink Floyd created, turning loss and despair into something inexplicably moving and awe-inspiring.

1. King Crimson, “In The Court of the Crimson King”

Progressive rock’s Rosetta Stone, “In the Court of the Crimson King” is the purest and most perfect expression of everything this music was capable of being.

Sgt. Pepper popularized the then-radical notion of an entire album being an artistic statement, without singles or filler. After the summer of ‘67 there was an unprecedented turn toward less commercial, more uncompromised music. King Crimson’s debut, in ‘69, signaled the first album that was as much aesthetic statement as work or art: this was among the earliest instances of popular music forsaking even the pretense of commercial appeal. To understand, much less appreciate, what these mostly unknown Brits were doing you had to accept their sensibility completely on their terms. Importantly, this was not a pose and it was not reactionary; it was a revolution in music: it still manages to seem somehow ahead of its time as well as—it must be said—timeless. Of course it also may sound hopelessly dated, depending upon one’s perspective, and that is the whole point: anyone who hears this track (and this album) and associates it with long hair and sheets of acid are the same kind of simpletons who hear Charlie Parker and envision a strung out freak wailing away in a smoked-out nightclub. These people don’t hear the music now and, more importantly, they didn’t hear it then.

Virtually any song from this album could ably represent the whole, but the title track is an unsettling, ceaselessly astonishing track that is at once the introduction and apotheosis of what progressive rock became. It has all the important elements: impeccable musicianship from all players, rhythmic complexity, socially-conscious lyrics and an outsider’s perspective that is neither disaffected nor nihilistic. It speaks from the underground, but it is grounded in history and looking forward, not back. “In the Court of the Crimson King” is, at times, the soundtrack to an Edgar Allan Poe story and a Hieronymus Bosch painting personified: it came out of the era and the minds in which it was imagined, a dark, sensitive and psychedelic space. This song was, possibly, the first time the mellotron was utilized with such extraordinary results. Before this—and after—it was primarily used for sonic color and texture; on this song it is, improbably, the lead sound around which the drums, guitar and bass circle. Greg Lake, who would sing splendidly for most of the next decade, never sounded as urgent or vulnerable, and none of the subsequent Crimson line-ups—magnificent as they all were in their way—could conjure up such an uncanny and indescribable vibe. This work is almost unapproachable but not aloof; it is entertaining and unnerving, but its capacity to delight and astound remains inexhaustible.

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: Genesis, In The Court of the Crimson King, Jethro Tull, King Crimson, pink floyd, Progressive rock, Yes

The 25 Best Progressive Rock Songs of All Time: Part Four

May 26, 2011 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

10. The Who, “Underture”

The Who were not a prog-rock band. While both Tommy and The Who Sell Out could—and should—be considered crucial touchstones that helped pave the way, Pete Townshend’s feet were always rooted too firmly on terra firma to do anything other than what he was doing, which was quite brilliant thank you very much. Nevertheless, the all-instrumental “Underture” which, along with the album-opening “Overture”, bookends the first two sides of Tommy, is in many ways a blueprint for what other bands would build on. It is rather unlike anything else in The Who’s catalog, both in terms of length and style. Moon and Entwistle are in typically torrential form (Moon’s playing on this track managed to prompt kudos from jazz legend Elvin Jones), and Townshend employs acoustic guitar dynamics he never equaled (or needed to) again. If a slash-and-burn could conceivably be described as subtle, that is what The Who accomplish on “Underture”: it is propulsive and furious, yet dark and exquisite. It would be impossible, and pointless, to try and pick a single song from a writer as prolific and influential as Townshend, but these ten minutes might represent the most undistorted evidence of his compositional genius and infectious imagination.

9. Pink Floyd, “Time”

There is a simple reason Dark Side of the Moon is one of the most talked-about and beloved albums in rock history: it is one of the best albums in rock history. Enough said, sort of. People tend to forget, if understandably, that it’s not as though Floyd waltzed into Abbey Road Studios with the knowledge that they were about to create a masterwork. Dark Side was the natural and inevitable progression of a path the band had been on since 1968, and many of the ideas and imagery they render so perfectly had already appeared, in brief snatches and bursts, on previous work. For this album Roger Waters finally figured out how to write meaningful, penetrating lyrics with an economy of words and maximum emotional import (few, if any in rock have improved upon his style). The band was focused and each individual track received their full attention as they explored the themes of madness, money and faith in modern society.

The track that manages to incorporate all these concerns and still address, seemingly everything, is “Time”. The verses, sung with harsh authority by Gilmour, assess (and assail) the concerns and tribulations that preoccupy each of us, while the choruses (rendered as mellow counterpoint by Rick Wright) are crooned, lulling you to sleep, kind of like life will do if you are not paying attention. Special mention must be made of Gilmour’s guitar solo: perhaps it will only sound slightly hysterical to suggest that it, almost impossibly, conjures up so much of the pain and profundity that comprises the human condition; if you close your eyes you can hear the messy miracle of Guns, Germs and Steel. Or maybe it’s just the cold steel rail.

8. King Crimson, “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic”

First they borrowed Jon Anderson (to sing on Lizard); then they inherited Bill Bruford once the great drummer bowed out of Yes. But nothing Yes—or King Crimson for that matter—had done to this point could have anticipated “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic” (the title alone an eccentric ode to the creative path less traveled). Most of the work made during the prog-rock era can be described to some extent, especially when it is categorically dismissed as pretentious noodling. But this song (actually part one of two, and while part two is magnificent in its own way, that riff-laden workout is much more straightforward than the kitchen-sink sensibility of part one) is a high water mark for the ideas, artistry and inspiration that define the best music of this time. As ever, Robert Fripp’s guitar guides the journey, downshifting from proto-grunge shrieking to jangling melodicism. But it’s the exotic violin contributions from David Cross and the tumultuous percussion stylings of Jamie Muir that take this track to that other place.

The song travels from placid to ominous (the languid, building menace of Fripp’s entry manages to almost be frightening), and then, after the bird calls and an invocation of the Far East, the ultimate postmodern touch: urgent, scarcely audible voices (from a radio? movie?) are looped and spliced, becoming gibberish that somehow makes perfect sense. As the song winds down, courtesy of Muir’s ethereal glockenspiel, a gentle chime (like a grandfather clock) washes over and out, and you are left wondering what hit you.

7. Jethro Tull, “Thick As A Brick”

Jethro Tull were on top of the world (and the charts) in 1972 when Thick As A Brick became the first pop album comprised of one continuous song to reach a widespread audience. The concept may have been audacious, but the music is miraculous: this is among the handful of holy grails for prog-rock fanatics, no questions asked. Put as simply—and starkly—as possible, many beautiful babies were thrown out with the bath water by hidebound critics who were content to sniffingly dismiss the more ambitious (pretentious!) works that certain bands were putting out as a matter of course in the early-to-mid ‘70s. If Aqualung doubled down on the “concept album” concept, Thick As A Brick functioned as a New Testament of sorts, signifying what was now possible in rock music.

Even with the side-long songs that became almost obligatory during this era, nobody else had the wherewithal to dedicate a full forty-five minutes to the development and execution of one uninterrupted song (and Tull did it twice). Frontman/mastermind Ian Anderson had already proven he could write a hit and create controversial work that got radio play; now he was putting his flute in the ground and throwing his cod-piece in the ring, and there are maybe a handful of lyricists who matched his output in terms of sustained quality and variety during this decade.

6. Rush, “2112”

Just over halfway into the decade, when many of the old guard progressive rock bands were out of ideas or on hiatus, Rush delivered one of the genre’s definitive anthems. 2112 is a harder edged music combining the proficiency of their influences with an aggression that captured the actual urgency attending the sessions. This album sounded—and still sounds—at once familiar and forward-looking, putting Rush somewhere on the sonic spectrum in between Led Zeppelin’s adventurous, riff-laden workouts and Pink Floyd’s deliberate, almost chilly precision.

The rock media, which had not paid Rush much attention, now took notice and generally found the Ayn-Rand inspired storyline (the multi-track suite, filling up all of side one, updates Rand’s early novel Anthem and places the narrative in a dystopian future where music has been outlawed and long forgotten) unfashionably right-wing — an indictment the band found perplexing, and continues to be amused about. In these interviews, each member (particularly Peart, who wrote the lyrics and undoubtedly regrets his youthful shout-out, in the liner notes, to Rand’s “genius”) makes a convincing case that the inspiration had everything to do with artistic freedom and avoiding compromise, and less than a little to do with politics or social statements. Of course, plenty of pundits (then, now) find Rush –in general—and prog rock –in particular—pretentious, but the sentiment informing this particular album has more in common with the much celebrated punk rock ethos, with the added bonus that the band are actually quite capable musicians. “2112” remains the album that made possible what Rush would become, and it inspired both peers and pretenders to emulate their purpose and passion, if not their scarves and kimonos.

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: 2112, Dark Side of the Moon, Jethro Tull, King Crimson, pink floyd, Progressive rock, Rush, The Who, Thick as a Brick

The 25 Best Progressive Rock Songs of All Time: Part Three

May 25, 2011 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

15. Pink Floyd, “Dogs”

No band besides The Beatles departed (or progressed) more radically from their initial sound than Pink Floyd. After the kaleidoscopic whimsy of their early work and the meditative space rock that followed, Floyd followed up the unfollow-up-able Dark Side of the Moon with an album that may have been even better, Wish You Were Here. By the time 1977 rolled around, space rock seemed as prehistoric as hippies and Johnny Rotten summed up the prevailing mood when he insolently scribbled “I Hate” above his Pink Floyd t-shirt. Whether or not any of this had to do with Floyd’s next album, lyricist Roger Waters shared one thing in common with the punks: he was pissed off. He was also erudite and technically proficient as a musician. The result is the darkest, most literate and (arguably) timeless entry in the Pink Floyd catalog, Animals.

The album’s centerpiece, “Dogs”, might represent the zenith of the always uneasy, increasingly tenuous creative alliance between Waters and David Gilmour. Waters writes some of his most scathing (and brilliant) lyrics and Gilmour sounds like a different person altogether than the man who sung “Echoes”; his guitar playing is huge, at times oppressive and then soaring. This indictment of greed and the “dog-eat-dog” social code that is endorsed in the workplace and venerated in such vulgar fashion on reality TV will never lose its relevance, because it will always describe the con-artists and crooks who come, inexorably, to distinguish each subsequent generation.

14. Emerson, Lake and Palmer, “Tarkus”

Debate still abounds regarding the great American novel. No such discussion occurs when it comes to the terrible British prog-rock album. Fans and foes alike have aligned and rendered a verdict: Tarkus. Look at the cover for Christ’s sake. Therein lies what Colonel Kurtz called “the horror” and what recalcitrant enthusiasts (or idiots) like me call…the horror! (But in a good way.) Listen, some prog-rock bands (like Rush) had a penchant for reimagining or reinterpreting classical literary legends like Apollo and Dionysus (see #22) while others (like Rush) would create their own mythical heroes (By Tor, Snow Dog, etc.). Looking at this cover art, and seeing song titles like “Stones of Years”, “Manticore” and “Aquatarkus” (not to be confused with “Aqualung”), many music fans ask for the check, understandably. Here’s the thing, though: all the armadillo tank drawings and semi-preposterous titles—and lyrics—are just window dressing for the artistry that occurs once these well medicated, undeniably brilliant musicians throw down. And throw down they do, in ways that make myopic pinheads lament how a man with unparalleled keyboard skill— like Keith Emerson’s—might have made so much better use of his talents had he dedicated his life to playing Bach recitals in sparsely attended concert halls.

13. King Crimson, “Lizard”

The music that holds up over time does so for a reason. It is not an accident, or due to sentimental longings for a particular time or place. The music that manages to defy trends and commercial-minded fashion often is created without any of those considerations in mind. King Crimson, like all of the best-loved prog-rock bands, consistently shaped and refined a unique vision, and arguably created a whole new type of music. Take the title track from 1970’s Lizard (upping the progressive ante by featuring guest vocalist Jon Anderson, of Yes): nothing like this exists on any other record from any other genre. It is a seamless integration of jazz, classical and rock, the sum total making complete sense once you accept it on its own terms. At the same time ELP was mimicking Mussorgsky, King Crimson utilizes Ravel’s “Bolero”, employing session musicians to embellish the sound with trumpets, oboes and an English horn. The results are, by turns, tense, lush, beautiful and surreal, like a Salvador Dali painting. Led by the creatively restless and insatiable Robert Fripp, King Crimson did as much as any band to “invent” progressive rock; on this not immediately accessible but indelible track they transcend it.

12. Genesis, “The Battle of Epping Forest”

In between being the costume-wearing superfreak and the intensely worshipped solo artist he would become, Peter Gabriel did the best work of his career. By the time Genesis entered the studio to assemble what would become their masterwork, Selling England By The Pound (though some would maintain that distinction belongs to the excellent, if slightly uneven The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway), Gabriel had come fully into his own as a performer, singer and lyricist. Especially as a lyricist. His writing on the previous albums ranged from silly to sublime, but in 1973 Gabriel took things to a new level, and every song from this album spills over with wit, humor, social commentary and a poet’s eye for detail. Utilizing enough words (he could not help himself) to fill a full album, Gabriel creates a prog-rock novella with “The Battle of Epping Forest”. Featuring all the players (especially the criminally overlooked rhythm section of Phil Collins and Mike Rutherford) showcasing their dexterity and frenzied inventiveness, Gabriel pulls off an off-Broadway play of characters, voices and changes of scenery. It is an absolute tour de force, and the final, sardonic couplet about the necessity of flipping a coin to decide who “won”—since both rival gangs have killed each other out—is at once hilarious and distressingly dead-on.

11. Yes, “Awaken”

1977 was not only about clothespins and green-toothed sneers: just as punk was gaining steam, Yes, the band that represented everything everyone hated about “dinosaur rock”, returned with their best album in ages, Going For The One. “Awaken” is, along with the aforementioned “Dogs” and “Cygnus X-1, Book II: Hemispheres”, one of the last (near) side-long epics of the era. It would be difficult to deny that this track features the most compelling (and convincing) work both Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman ever did. Many people did—and do—instinctively retch at the idea of Wakeman playing a pipe organ (recorded in a cathedral) and Anderson’s sweet schizophrenia of multi-tracked exultations. Their loss; this is prog-rock as opera, and it never got better than this: a fully realized distillation of emotion and energy as only Yes could do it. There is something irrepressible and life-affirming about this music, and in a market (then, now) where cynicism and scheming are the default settings, this unabashed—and unapologetic—devotion to an unjaded vision could almost be considered revolutionary.

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: Emerson Lake and Palmer, Genesis, King Crimson, pink floyd, Progressive rock, Yes

The 25 Best Progressive Rock Songs of All Time: Part Two

May 23, 2011 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

20. King Crimson, “Red”

The progenitors of math rock on their last album of the ’70s. Red is the paradigm that every pointy-headed prog rock band worships at the altar of (even if they don’t realize it, because the bands they do worship once worshipped here). The title track is a yin yang of intellect and adrenaline, underscored with a very scientific, discernibly English sensibility. Robert Fripp, who has never been boring or unoriginal, outdoes himself while John Wetton and Bill Bruford do some of their finest work as well. It is the closest thing rock guitar ever got to its own version of “Giant Steps”.

19. Pink Floyd, “Echoes”

Most everyone would agree that Dark Side of the Moon made Pink Floyd the first (and last) band in space, but not as many people might appreciate that, if it were not for 1971’s Meddle, there would have been no Dark Side of the Moon. Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that “Echoes” is not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it is the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward with each successive effort. “Echoes” unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. The merging of Gilmour and Wright’s voices—a harbinger of good things to come, although on “Time” Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses—is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. “Echoes” also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be the aforementioned, and unavoidable, Dark Side of the Moon.

18. Rush, “Natural Science”

If 2112 is the album Rush had to make, Permanent Waves is the work that paved the way for a new decade and the next (most successful) phase of their career. The centerpiece of the album is the sixth and final song, “Natural Science”: it does not grab you by the ear the way 2112 does and it does not have the immediate, irresistible appeal of “Tom Sawyer”, but it is, quite possibly, the band’s most perfect achievement. Neil Peart’s lyrics, which tackle ecology, commercialism and artistic integrity (without being pretentious or self-righteous) are, in hindsight, not merely an end-of-decade statement of purpose but a presciently fin-de-siecle assessment that still, amazingly, functions as both indictment and appeal. “Natural Science” endures as the last document before Moving Pictures triangulated math rock, prog rock and the fertile new soil of synth-based popular music and did the inconceivable, making Rush a household name.

17. Yes, “Heart of the Sunrise”

As much as any other band, Yes epitomizes prog-rock, and as such, they are entitled to the praise as well as the disapproval that accrues from this (at times, dubious) honor. Certainly this band, with the possible exception of Rush, gets the least love from the so-called critical establishment. Nevermind that (like Rush) its musicians, pound for pound and instrument for instrument, are as capable and talented as any that have very played. Steve Howe is, like Robert Fripp, a thinking man’s guitar hero. His solos are like algebra equations, but full of emotion; his mastery of the instrument colors almost every second of every song from the fruitful era that produced their “holy trinity”, The Yes Album, Fragile and Close To The Edge. “Heart of the Sunrise”, aside from boasting some of Wakeman, Bruford and Squire’s most spirited support, features one of Jon Anderson’s signature vocal workouts. The band made longer, more intricate and segue-laden songs, but none of them pack as much emotion and intensity: there is so much going on here, all of it compelling and ingenious, that it manages to delight—and even surprise—four decades on.

16. Jethro Tull, “Heavy Horses”

Meanwhile back in the year…1978? It’s an embarrassing commentary on how close-minded so many folks are that they probably have never even heard this song. Of course, the professionals who write most often about rock music in the ’70s are not known for their fondness of multisyllabic words and material that obliges a modest understanding of world history. Back to basics? How about back to the 18th Century? That is the vibe Jethro Tull was emanating circa 1978. The band that dropped not one, but two single-song album suites had evolved into a proficient troupe of professionals that incorporated strings, lutes, fifes and harpsichords into their repertoire. To put it more plainly, the same years The Clash, The Ramones and The Sex Pistols were establishing a radically new and brazen rock aesthetic, Ian Anderson appeared on an album cover flanked by two Clydesdales. The title track is a typically literate—and unironic!—tribute to the working horses of England that, much like prog-rock, were soon to step aside, their demise having less to do with trends and tastemakers than technology.

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: Jethro Tull, King Crimson, pink floyd, Progressive rock, Robert Fripp, Rush, Yes

King Crimson: In the Wake of Poseidon (40th Anniversary Series)

May 16, 2011 By Sean Murphy Leave a Comment

Considering that the only constant within King Crimson was change, the quality of their early albums is, in hindsight, even more remarkable. Poised to conquer the world, or at least own the underground, following the release of In The Court of the Crimson King(1969)—easily one of the enduring debut records in all of rock—the band instead almost imploded. Singer/bassist Greg Lake abruptly headed off for proggier pastures, joining up with Keith Emerson and Carl Palmer to begin a decade-long quest of driving snooty critics insane. Equally distressing was the departure of multi-reedist/composer Ian McDonald, whose input was indelible on the first album.

Robert Fripp, the acknowledged mastermind and reticent leader, was now completely in control as a new decade commenced. On one hand, he had material ready to record; on the other hand, he did not have a band. Somehow, he managed to convince Lake to stick around long enough to lay down some vocal tracks along with the Giles brothers (drummer Michael and bassist Peter). Rounding out the personnel was Keith Tippett (piano) and Mel Collins (sax, flute), both of whom would figure prominently in the band’s subsequent albums.

The line-up shuffling would continue and turned out to be a considerable blessing, as each album King Crimson made sounds distinct and unconnected. This is actually a fairly unique phenomenon, particularly within the progressive rock movement. Where bands like Genesis and Yes slowly built up confidence and momentum, eventually hitting on all aesthetic cylinders (on albums like Close to the Edge and Selling England By the Pound), King Crimson released individual statements of purpose. As a result, there is no other band that, in the span of 4-5 years, made such radically different yet satisfying records.

In The Wake of Poseidon manages to be many things, most of them quite good, and in the end is greater than the sum of its puzzling pieces. Naysayers have pointed out that it could be considered a paint-by-numbers impression of the first album. There is a foundation for this critique, but it does not take into account that the follow-up remains at once more and less than the more universally worshipped debut. Even though In The Court of the Crimson King seems to exist uncannily out of time (it could only have been recorded in the hippie hangover of ’69, but it also still seems somehow ahead of its time), In The Wake of Poseidon is more of a prog-rock period piece, a distinctive document of a type of music that is not made any longer.

For haters, or people who can’t or won’t bring themselves to give the music of this era the scrutiny and approbation it deserves, progressive rock seems best remembered as a noisy splash that left its pretentious imprint (sonic dinosaur fossils, if you will) and then got sucked out to sea once the restorative tide of punk rolled in. For such folk, the notion of a 40th anniversary special edition reissue (double-disc, no less) might seem like either a waste of resources or a typically gluttonous cash grab. The former sentiment cannot be helped, but the latter should be addressed.

These albums found, and continue to find their audience because of the simple fact that they are convincing and consistently rewarding after the first dozen (or thousand) listens. That noted audiophile and/or fanatic Steven Wilson, of Porcupine Tree, was game to revisit the vaults and diligently produce a 5.1 surround sound mix tells you some of the tale. Groups like King Crimson were not just obligatory reference points for young musicians to absorb; their conceptual bent and refined aesthetic remain touchstones of influence and inspiration. Of all the prog-rock bands, Crimson might have the market cornered on innovation and integrity: there was nothing about any of their albums that gave even a modicum of attention to commercial or critical concerns. People who dislike progressive rock consider this the reason; people who endorse it find this the only evidence required in its defense.

Even for ardent Crimson fans, In The Wake of Poseidon has presented problems. For starters, it would simply be impossible to improve upon the perfection of the debut, so the second effort was invariably going to disappoint some listeners. The aforementioned structural similarities, although overblown, are difficult to overlook as well. On side one of each album, there is the frenetic, dark side of society opener followed by a gentle ballad and then an earnest (or lugubrious) statement at the end. Perhaps it’s personal preference, but I’ve always found “Pictures of a City” (which comes crashing out of the scarcely-audible tone poem “Peace—A Beginning”) more consistently awe-inspiring than “21st Century Schizoid Man”, and I consider “In The Wake of Poseidon” even better than the incredible “Epitaph” from the debut. “Cadence and Cascade” suffers unfairly when compared to Ian McDonald’s majestic “I Talk To The Wind”, but it is still sublime: the cymbal sprays and Mel Collins’ ethereal flute are as gorgeous as anything else from this era (Gordon Haskell’s vocals, weird and unsettling on the next album, Lizard, here are weird but wonderful).

The sound on the first disc is the 2010 mix, and it is a definite improvement on the (already sufficiently spectacular) previous reissue; the sound on the bonus 5.1 mix is even more of a revelation. For fans, like myself, who have heard these albums on vinyl, or cassette, or earlier digital pressings, it actually is worthwhile to hear sounds long-buried in inferior mixes. The clarity is, frankly, astonishing, and any fans that have the first edition of this disc will be delighted with the upgrade. As always with a proposition like ostensibly superfluous reissues, it’s the subtle elements that make a difference: on the title track, every single acoustic strum is crystalline but not at the expense of the other instruments; each sound, from the bass to the drums (which, on this track, function sort of like a lead guitar—out in front and pulling the song forward), to Greg Lake’s voice — never in better form than on the first two Crimson releases. The urgency of the music (and its messages) is appropriately stark, and it really does seem almost like the band is playing live in your living room.

The second side is where, stylistically, the album suffers a bit. The individual songs are excellent in their own way(s), but going from the funereal mellotron that concludes the title track into the idyllic “Peace — A Theme” (one of Fripp’s most unaffected but affecting compositions) does not exactly set the scene for what follows. “Cat Food” is obviously a lark, and even though the musicianship is typically first-rate, it is a tad jarring considering what has come before (Better the band should have gone with outtake “Groon”, an aggressive and ominous instrumental barnburner and left “Cat Food” as the non-album single — particularly since it actually charted).

Album centerpiece “The Devil’s Triangle (Parts 1-3)” is an unacknowledged riff on Holst’s classical piece “Mars” (from Planets), functioning as a descent even further into the abyss, following the title track that concludes the first album. Clearly this was the one Melody Maker had in mind when they suggested, in 1970, “If Wagner were alive, he’d work with King Crimson.” Nonsense like that makes it a little more understandable why this era was difficult for so many to stomach. Featuring more mellotron than most bands could conceivably cram into a double album, “The Devil’s Triangle” utilizes a drum and bass march, balancing dread and release with wind effects and jarring foghorn cries. Adore it or detest it, most honest listeners would concede that few bands did beauty and horror quite like King Crimson. The tension implodes on itself, segueing into the soothing “Peace — An End”, which functions like the sun coming out after a thunderstorm.

All in all, this is an album that holds up quite nicely and is dated only in the sense that it sounds like it was made in 1970, and 1970 was a very nice year indeed for the making of albums. So where does that leave us? The extra disc and assorted out-takes and remixes will gratify the die-hard contingent; this might all be a bit much for the merely curious or those unlikely to be intrigued. It is, essentially, what it is: a welcome reissue that enables anyone and everyone to hear a classic prog statement in a new light and possibly be transported to a time when albums were as serious as the musicians who made them — for better or worse.

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: Greg Lake, In The Court of the Crimson King, In The Wake of Poseidon, King Crimson, Progressive rock, Robert Fripp

Pitom’s Unique, and Uniquely Awesome, Sound

April 14, 2011 By Sean Murphy 1 Comment

I was unprepared for Pitom. As a result, my initial experience with the band’s debut album in 2008 was one of those exceedingly rare occasions when one’s astonishment is both genuine and pleasant. I remain in awe of the work. It seemed—and still seems—almost impossible that a group of young musicians could create compositions this intense, vibrant and convincing. Practically from start to finish, that first album delivers at a high level and, like the best music, provides rewards and delights with each listen.

When this happens, expectations for the next release are inevitably, if unfairly, elevated. Of course, even a mild disappointment would qualify as a success, particularly compared to so much of the music being made today. It is, then, with satisfaction and gratitude that I confirm Pitom’s Yoshie Fruchter as the type of artist you love to praise, because he makes it easy.

Pitom’s sophomore effort is entitled Blasphemy and Other Serious Crimes. If that sounds a bit heavy, consider that the album is an attempt to grapple, in musical terms, with Yom Kippur (the Jewish day of repentance). Fruchter is an observant Jew, which makes the subject matter and the tone of the proceedings easier to understand. He also has described Pitom’s music as “punkassjewjazz” which should give you an idea of how serious he is about not taking himself too seriously.

Both Pitom albums have been released by John Zorn’s Tzadik label, which features artists like Rashanim, Jamie Saft and Zorn himself, who are able to incorporate jazz and klezmer with punk energy and classical proficiency. The result is a series of recordings that span musical and cultural history, always straining past the contemporary avant-garde. In Pitom’s case, we get rock and roots with tasty smatterings of surf music, thrash and free jazz. Because the line-ups are identical (guitar, bass, drums and violin), the music inexorably recalls Starless and Bible Black-era King Crimson. Few artists, presumably, would be offended by this comparison, and while it seems accurate, Pitom has definitely established a very unique and identifiable sound of its own.

It is obvious that Fruchter is very much a student of all musical genres, so the shifting styles are never abrupt or distracting; indeed, the never-static dynamic gives the songs a restless edge. The guitar, already heavy on the first album, is heavier and a bit darker this time out. There are discernible elements that favorably recall both Mogwai’s purposeful crunch and Joe Satriani’s pyrotechnic shred-fests. Drummer Kevin Zubek and bassist Shanir Blumenkranz are at once a steadying force and the engine that keeps things moving forward and, occasionally, sideways. Violinist Jeremy Brown is much more than an accompaniment for the electric guitar; his playing is both raw and refined, sometimes on the same song. As dominant as the guitar sounds throughout, Brown is constantly embellishing and augmenting. On songs like “A Crisis Of Faith” he is out in front, while the guitar darts and weaves around the melody. Those roles are somewhat reversed on the frenetic “Head In The Ground”.

Unlike the first album, which comes out swinging and makes perfect sense on first listen, this one is more of a grower. You need to give it some time to figure out what is going on, and to appreciate how the ideas and instruments are working to establish a unified statement that reflects on faith and repentance. The first half is not quite as arresting or gratifying as the first half of the debut, but that might say more about how remarkable the other one is than it does about any shortcomings on Blasphemy and Other Serious Crimes. The second half of this album, however, is every bit as inspired and awesome as anything the band has done before. There is an almost entrancing concentration of feeling on songs like “Neilah” and “Azazel”. “Neilah” and “Vox Zogt Ir” bring the ruckus while managing to swing. All of the songs are relatively brief, yet have sufficient time to stretch and explore, and, to be certain, there is often an air of mirth lurking just beneath the surface.

By the end, Blasphemy and Other Serious Crimes is not unlike a good workout, on multiple levels. You should be exhausted by the experience but you mostly feel rejuvenated, aware that something meaningful has happened. There is emotional heft here and a vibe that engages the intellect. This is music that matters. Is it too soon to begin wondering—and anticipating—what Pitom is going to come up with next time out? Stay tuned.

Filed Under: Music Tagged With: Blasphemy and Other Serious Crimes, Jazz, john zorn, King Crimson, Pitom, Tzadik, Yoshie Fruchter