Tag Archives: 1972

6. Ege Bamyası, Can, 1972

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One more album from 1972, and while it has a lot in common with the others, it’s not something I was familiar with at the time, or for many years afterward.  I definitely wasn’t listening to experimental Krautrock along with my regular infusions of prog, and the only connection I had with any of this in the 1970s was that I knew the name Holger Czukay.

At some point in about 1976, I started buying the weekly music papers.  My paper of choice, and I’ve confessed to this before, was Sounds.  I am convinced that Sounds shaped my view of music in a not-entirely healthy way for far too many years; I know for certain that this list of 60 albums would be quite different had I been reading the NME or Melody Maker every week, and I doubt it would exist at all had I been reading Record Mirror, although my only interaction with RM at all was to occasionally look at it for chart details, I’m not really basing that on anything.

Each week, I’d read Sounds from cover to cover, starting with the news section which I only later came to realise were simply pasted in paragraphs from record label press releases, all the way through to the mysterious classified adverts at the back (ads for loon pants ran for many years after they fell out of fashion; I often wondered who was buying this stuff, although the regular ‘comedy’ t-shirts always cheered me up, whether or not I thought the Pope smoked dope).

Reading Sounds was an education  – either I was learning about new and upcoming releases by bands I liked already, or being pointed in the direction of other things I might like, or I was reading about whole areas of music which I knew nothing about and making mental notes.  My mental notes, however, often went nowhere – unless something appeared on John Peel’s radio show, it was unlikely I’d ever hear any of it – for all that I loved almost everything about 1978, as we’ll see, it’s almost inconceivable to me now that I couldn’t just press a button somewhere and listen to the latest thing to see if I would actually like it.

On top of that, I wasn’t exactly rich.  I came late to the world of work, not so much as a paper round in the years when I’d have enjoyed having some disposable income, so if I wanted to hear music, I’d have to save up for it.

So the only way to hear music by the regularly-mentioned Holger Czukay and his band of German musicians would be if someone had a copy I could borrow (as far as I know, no-one did), or if there was a copy available to borrow from the library.  I’ll be coming back to the library, but it’s safe to say they didn’t have any Can albums in stock.

Or maybe they were so popular that they were always out on loan; I know which theory I subscribe to.

Eventually, however, I came back to the 1970s and started to poke around in the areas I’d neglected.  Fate, or the Scottish education system in the 1970s, dictated that the Modern Language I would be first exposed to would be German.  I’d go on to take French further (and learn a decent amount of Italian later), but my first exposure to another language was to Hans und Lieselotte and their dog Lumpi.   This, naturally, led to an affinity with Kraftwerk and their ubiquitous single Autobahn – I actually had my way in to all this German music, but didn’t pursue it.  I was, however, hypnotised by Autobahn, and that probably coloured my view of German music; it all likely sounded like that.  I had no idea what ‘Motorik’ meant, but I’d read about it, and eventually I read enough to understand that there were all sorts of other things out there I should hear.

And then, one day, there was the internet, and shortly after that became a daily part of my life, it was possible to listen to pretty much anything you wanted – you think the internet is a Wild West of unfettered access to copyrighted music now?  You should have seen the late 1990s.

At some point, I clicked on a link which took me to that weird-looking record I remembered from my ‘browsing in record shops’ days, and discovered that my Prog-period self would have just loved this, and that my current self still does.

The first thing to point out, naturally, is the cover image.  It’s distinctive and doesn’t seek to explain itself – it’s in Turkish, for a start (Turkish is another language I poked at for a bit, but that’s a story for much later) and it’s a can of okra.  That’s it.  What does it have to do with the music?  Who knows?  It was 1972; things didn’t have to make sense.

Every time I put this on, it startles.  Even knowing that Pinch is so drum-heavy, I’m not prepared for how the relentless rhythm overpowers everything, nor am I ever quite ready for Damo Suzukis’ not-quite intelligible lyrics delivered in a spaced-out drawl over (or, more accurately, under) a scattered bassline which is pointing roughly in the direction of the drums rather then doing the traditional rhythm-section thing.  15-year-old me would have loved this, but I doubt whether he’d have understood it.  58-year-old me doesn’t understand it either, but it’s compelling.

By the time Sing Swan Song drifts into the light from behind the waterfall (echoes of Close to the Edge, of course), it’s clear that Suzuki is actually singing in English, which, on first listen, was a little disappointing – only after absorbing it for a while and doing some more reading did I properly understand that this was the least German of the German bands; Can happened to be based in Germany, but they were World Music long before that was a label.

The sound remains restless and hard to define throughout – One More Night is the sound of a Saturday night, bass and drums oozing through the walls or up through the floorboards as the band layer the sound with those fluid, seventies guitar and keyboard lines which are at once familiar and oddly alien.

The second side kicks things up a gear by stripping them back – Vitamin C is a spare, rhythmic skeleton of a hit single – if you’re looking for a way in to this album, perhaps this is it – it’s a more recognisable song with verses and a memorable chorus that what we’ve heard so far, and it’s likely to be the melody stuck in your head several days later.

Soup reminds me of late sixties psychedelia at first, but keeps veering off in random directions and speeding up or slowing down as the mood takes the band; by the end, having survived the complete breakdown of the sound into great slabs of almost indigestible noise, we appear to be somewhere in North Africa, hearing those distinctive sounds as Suzuki rambles off into his own made-up language, and the drums search in vain for some structure.

I’m so Green feels like a return to the world of normality after the apocalyptic ending of Soup, only out of context can you really appreciate how strange it actually is.  Once it shuffles off stage, Spoon wraps things up – famously (for some definition of famous, of course), its success as a single after being used in a German TV show earned the band enough money to make the album.  I can hear that soundtrack vibe in there somewhere, but I also hear the sounds which tie this to the synthesizers of Kraftwerk, and – with hindsight, of course – the soundscape which inspired so much of what came after this.

I didn’t hear this in 1972 (it would likely have terrified me), nor did I hear it at the time when I was trying to understand the likes of Public Image; if I had, a lot of things would have made a lot more sense.

Any other albums by this artist to consider?

The only one I know is Tago Mago, which is the same but completely different.  One day, I’ll get round to hearing the rest, but I feel like I’ve hardly peeled back the lid on Ege Bamyası, so there’s plenty of time yet.

Compilations to consider?

I’ve listened to Anthology all the way through, and I have a lot of mental notes of things to follow up (where the hell does She Brings the Rain fit in to everything, for example?) – I’d suggest that’s a good place to start.

 Live albums?

There is one – released originally as part of a box set, I don’t know how easily available it is, and I’ve never listened to it, so let me know what you think!

Anything else?

I have put All Gates Open: The Story of Can on my wishlist; I’ll let you know if I ever get round to reading it.  I should also point you at Julian Cope’s Krautrocksampler, although, again, it’s one of those books on my ‘I do mean to get round to it one day’ pile.

Oh, and Can appeared on Top of the Pops once, which is – odd.

5. Foxtrot, Genesis, 1972

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I make no apology for the run of three Prog albums in a row – this is the music I first properly loved, and 1972 is pretty much the peak for Prog.  I could have chosen other Prog albums from the early seventies, but these are the ones – and this one in particular – which speak to my experiences at the time, and perhaps illustrate why all of this has its hooks in me.

To understand why Foxtrot has to be the Genesis album in this list, you have to come with me back to fourth year (or fifth; they kind of merged), and the study of what I suppose we were calling ‘Modern Poetry’.  We had already been through the Romantic poets, some of which stuck, and most of which slid by to the point that I really struggle to tell Wordsworth from Keats from Browning from Byron – Coleridge I knew, though; long, narrative poems with striking imagery worked for me (I imagine you can see where this is going).

Then at some change in term (and there’s no point asking me to pin it down too precisely), our poetry textbooks became the collected works of Auden, Yeats, and Eliot.  I went from being mildly annoyed by having to learn chunks of 19th century verse to being absolutely gripped by these stories.  I know now why that was; I was mystified by it at the time.  The truth is that the music I loved (and was perhaps sheepishly disowning in favour of louder, shoutier stuff, as this must have been about 1978) had been written by people who had also read this stuff and been inspired by it.  Listening to Foxtrot now, it’s as plain as day that the lyrics are poems in the style of the mid-20th Century works we tried to pick apart in our English classes.

When we were finally let loose on The Waste Land, with warnings that we wouldn’t understand all of the allusions, and that it might be a little advanced for our teenaged brains, I know I wasn’t the only person who pored over the text, imagining how you might set it to music, and what that music might sound like.  I know that, because I had heard Foxtrot – and Supper’s Ready in particular – by then, and I understood that this was how music like this got made.

Foxtrot also encompasses other fascinations of my 15-year-old self; dystopian science fiction, warped English fantasy and a slightly mystical vision of British history. I was reading, if not always understanding, the likes of JG Ballard and Michael Moorcock, and I eventually came to understand that the resonance this album, and the ones either side of it, has for me is that it covers much of the same ground; it’s rooted in the things I was interested in, and written like the poetry I liked.  I mean, I’m not suggesting that Genesis lyrics should be on the curriculum or anything, but they worked in the same way, and it was only later that I understood that.

Listening to it now is a mix of nostalgia and feeling like I need to do more homework; unlike some of the albums on this list which work just as well as background music, Foxtrot demands my full attention; I’m trying to understand odd time signatures while parsing the lyrics for hidden meanings I’ve perhaps not noticed before.

Watcher of the Skies begins with melodramatic Mellotron chords; while the notoriously unreliable Mellotron was being supplanted by synthesized sound by 1972, this is exactly the sort of thing it was made for – kicking off the album with a disorienting, off-kilter soundscape which doesn’t quite sound like anything else.

Like many of Genesis’ more romantic impulses, I can take or leave Time Table; the melody is gorgeous, but there’s something close to pastiche about it; I know I’m being unfair to perhaps the only piece on the album which tries to reach out to the world beyond the album-oriented world of Prog.  Thinking about it now, I wonder if it was on any other Genesis album, I’d like it more.  Even back in the Seventies, I’d find myself thinking ‘hurry up and get to the satirical stories’.

Back when I used to carefully unpick songs and try to understand what made them work, I had a theory that the best songs were the ones where the words had obviously come first, and the music was forced to work around them.  I’m not so sure that’s true any more, but I know that Get ‘em out by Friday is a prime example of what I meant – Peter Gabriel had written a short story about unscrupulous landlords, and the seemingly inevitable future of profit before human dignity (thank goodness he was wrong about that, eh, readers?)  – and the rest of the band had to somehow set it to music.  Of course it sounds a little forced in places, but I think that is the charm – it feels in such a hurry to tell its story in multiple voices that the music struggles to keep up.

I don’t know how long it took me to realise that Can-Utility was a direct reference to Canute, even with the lyrics basically telling the story.  Sometimes, I think, it’s easy to look too hard at something and miss the point entirely – such are the risks of writing about music, after all. 

Only when the needle lifts at the end of side one do you look at your watch and realise with a start that nearly 25 minutes has gone by.  There’s nothing unusual about that these days, of course – albums regularly sprawl well into their second hour without anyone wondering how it’s all going to fit on 12 inches of black plastic.  In 1972, however, an album this long was something unusual – it’s only about five minutes shorter than the entire first Beatles album, for example – and it is a miracle of mastering that it sounds as good as it does.

The vinyl copy I have now is a single sleeve rather than a gatefold – it’s a second-hand copy, but not in the original packaging, and I can’t tell if it’s how the Canadian version was originally released, or if there’s something else going on.  I mention this only because I had intended to wax lyrical about the 1970s gatefold sleeve at some point, and had imagined this would be it, but, you know, Supper’s Ready…

Before we can get to the main course, however, there’s a tiny palate cleanser in the form of Horizons, a delightful piece of Steve Hackett whimsy which has reminded me since the day I first heard it of Camberwick Green, in turn reminding me to point you at Peter Jones and Tiger Moth Tales at some point.

Not now, though, because now we have to consider what actually would have happened if someone had tried to set The Waste Land to music, and how different that might have been had they also heard Supper’s Ready first.

I keep returning to this theme, knowing that I will be far from the first to have seen the parallels, but the rapid switches from the pastoral dreamscape of the opening session to the allegorical figures in the second section, through battlefields real and imaginary, via a visit with Narcissus, a quick evisceration of the post-war ideal view of Britain and its stultifying structures, to and through the images of the Book of Revelation and out the other side, where the supper is revealed to be, not the Last one, or the mundane “meat and two veg” implied by the opening, but the one promised after the Second Coming in the New Jerusalem – all of that must have been inspired in part by TS Eliot.

And that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of everything going on.  If there’s an Eliot influence, there’s also the second side of Abbey Road in here, with the way all the parts fit together, and there are lines which call back to previous Genesis albums.  It’s a mighty, almost impenetrable beast of a thing – in so many ways the quintessential Progressive Rock song; not the first to fill an entire side of vinyl, nor the most eclectic or technically difficult; it is however, the one against which all the others are measured.

And few, if any, come up to scratch, because none of them pack the emotional punch of Gabriel’s release as he ties the song back to the beginning with a heartfelt variation on the first verse, before leading us home and on into the promised New Jerusalem.

(And if you’ve ever been unlucky enough to hear my patented Phil Collins rant, you’ll understand why I can’t wholeheartedly recommend ‘Seconds Out’ when we get to the ‘live albums’ part down there – I usually make reference to him singing the ending with all the emotional investment of a man reading out his shopping list.  But that’s for another time…)

Ultimately, if you already know Foxtrot, you probably love it like I do (although I’m not certain it’s my favourite Genesis album), and if you don’t, I’m not likely to have swayed you with all that rambling.  But maybe you’ll feel the urge to try Supper’s Ready one day, and if you bear in mind that it’s a product of a time, place and education system which no longer exists, maybe you’ll hear the things in it which I do.

Any other albums by this artist to consider?

Bearing in mind my ‘Phil Collins rant’; my personal selection of Genesis albums is fairly slim; this one and the ones either side of it – Nursery Cryme and Selling England by the Pound pretty much cover it (I find The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway a bit overblown, ironically enough for a Prog album).  Post-Gabriel, I hear diminishing returns until Duke, and then I really don’t get on with the Eighties stuff (although I’m sure there are gems in there I’ve never heard).

I do have an abiding love for Follow You, Follow Me, however, as you may well already know.

Compilations to consider?

Insert stock Prog Rock answer (just listen to the whole album, slicing it up doesn’t work) here, with the added warning that Genesis compilations tend to have the words “The Hits” after the title, and are therefore vanishingly unlikely to have anything from Foxtrot – or before 1980 – on them.

Live albums?

No.

I mean, there’s Genesis Live, which was a budget-priced, too short and not particularly well recorded album which was popular only for the surreal short story on the back; Seconds Out which features a lot of things I like, unfortunately sung by you-know-who, and Three Sides Live, which actually isn’t as bad as I remember, but still doesn’t really give the whole story.  Not that anything could, really – Genesis were at least three entirely different bands, and it’s perhaps unfortunate for me that the one I really liked was the first one, which has been kind of overshadowed by everything which came after.

Anything else?

I’ve never read a Genesis biography, and I’m struggling to think if there has ever been one.  The documentary film Together and Apart is interesting – it’s not quite what it claims to be, as it focuses rather blatantly on the bits of history which sold millions of records, and rather skates over the more interesting bits – while Peter Gabriel gets fair coverage because he’s famous, Steve Hackett ends up mostly looking like some bloke they’ve asked along to fill a stool off to the side, and I think the story suffers somewhat as a result.

4. Close to the Edge, Yes, 1972

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Note: Spotify only has the ‘Deluxe Edition’ – for the correct 1972 experience, stop after track 3

The way I remember it, there were three main Progressive Rock (capitals intended; indeed, obligatory) bands in the first year or so of secondary school, and you were supposed to pick one.  My band were, naturally, ELP, which meant that Genesis and Yes got less attention from me than they should have done.  I had a friend who was as much a Genesis obsessive as I was ELP, so I heard more of them, but Yes remained something of a mystery in those impressionable days – to my mind, a band for the slightly older boys I met in the Scouts, or older brothers (I didn’t have one of those, but some of us did).

The Scout hut was definitely where I first heard Yes – Tales From Topographic Oceans was reverently passed round one evening when it must have been new.  I’m not certain that there was a record player in the Scout hut, but I know that Tales coloured my impression of Yes, and I probably thought they were a bit too advanced for one of my tender years, so I must have heard some of it at some point.

I came to Close to the Edge, then, a little later than I might have done.  I know I heard it – possibly borrowed it from the library (and I’m coming back to that) during that cacophonous late seventies period when I was listening to everything.  Almost certainly the music of Yes was dreadfully out of fashion by the time I heard it, and I probably buried the cassette of this along with all the other uncool albums under my bed if ever there was a chance that someone would be inspecting my record collection, but it got in my head anyway, so that when I came back to it in the age of CDs and digital clarity, I was comfortably familiar with it and able to conjure up the feel of 1972, with wild experimentation the order of the day, mixed with the dying embers of psychedelia and hippy philosophising.

I think what I loved in those pre-punk years (and still clung to even as my tastes changed with the tides of fashion) was cleverness; music to make you stop and go back to see if you can figure out what was going on.  Don’t get me wrong; I like a good tune as much as the next person, but I liked even more being made to work for the good tune; those music lessons had at least tried to teach me about themes and variations; development and recapitulation, and I liked to hear that in the albums I was listening to as well.

So when I did eventually settle down to listen properly to Close to the Edge, I was ready to hear all the things I never quite got round to hearing when Yes were number three on the pecking order.

Probably the most obvious thing to say about Close to the Edge is that there are only three tracks on the album, and that is just about the most 1972 thing you can think of.  In fact, before I can even start to talk about the music, I find myself pausing to think about how these are ‘tracks’, not ‘songs’.  When did that start?  Every word I write about anything even vaguely Prog struggles against the charge of pretentiousness, but standing back to look at it, calling pieces of music ‘tracks’ definitely has the air of some private members club to which the rest of the world could only be admitted if they knew the shibboleths.

Again; 1972.

So, once you get past the strangely uninformative sleeve, and plop the record with its comfortingly familiar ‘Atlantic’ tricolour label on the turntable, what does it actually sound like?

Like nothing you’ve ever heard before, naturally.  It opens with gently trickling water, but you’ve barely had time to adjust to the pastoral nature of the thing before all five band members enter, playing seemingly unrelated things in different metres and at different tempos.  On first hearing, it’s a mess, and even on what may be my hundredth or thousandth listen as I write this, I find it hard to imagine a more off-putting way to welcome the world to your latest masterpiece.  As soon as it settles down and some order and melody assert themselves, Jon Anderson is singing something about rearranging your liver…

At which point, the more sensible among you probably bail out.  It’s a shame, because you’re missing some remarkable music, but I do get it.  There’s nothing wrong with the three-minute pop song, and there are plenty of times I’m happy to bounce around in my chair to albums with only verse-chorus-verse to offer, but more often than not, I need music to overpower me and take me places I’d never think to go otherwise.

The tile track is eighteen minutes long, and if you’re still on board, returns you triumphantly to nature, having given you much to think about in the meantime.  Of course the lyrics are impenetrable, it was – and I’ll never tire of saying this – 1972.

Oh, and delightfully, my second-hand vinyl copy has a scratch in the very last groove, so it never quite ends….

Side two is a little more approachable.  Once again, it begins with studio chatter (there was some on Trilogy too, leading me to wonder if every album recorded in the wake of Revolver had to have some somewhere), but this time eases you in with gentle acoustic guitar and an actual hummable tune.  Indeed, bits of And You And I were extracted and sold as a single in some parts of the world.  Like pretty much every Yes song of the time, it works its way through several themes and builds to a redemptive climax.  The difference between this and any number of other Yes songs is that the whole band were working together on the same journey.  It’s worth remarking on, because the endless revolving door of Yes membership rarely reached such a point of literal and figurative harmony in the fifty or more years that it’s been a going concern.  Or two going concerns, as has been the case more than once.

The album is rounded off with Siberian Khatru, more hippy philosophy, but this time with a fluid, almost funky bass line.  The whole album is shot through with a kind of spiritual ‘back to nature’ worldview which was becoming a bit old hat by the time it came out, but which feels more or less timeless now – part of a tradition of English musicians exploring the outer edges of Eastern philosophy – something else which ties it back to Revolver.

I doubt I’m going to convince anyone not already sold on the idea to try this, but I hope I can convince you that this music speaks to me on a level that the Slade singles I was listening to when this came out didn’t.

But I loved the Slade singles, too.

Any other albums by this artist to consider?

Well, at last count there were 21 official Yes studio albums (and that ‘official’ is important, believe me), and one scheduled for release shortly after this is posted which will feature exactly no original members of the band.  It’s fair to say that not all of the twenty others is worth your time.  If you like this, you should probably try Fragile and The Yes Album, if you want to follow my journey with Yes, the next stop (nodding to Topographic Oceans on the way past) is Going for the One, with its hit singles, and then you should probably listen to 90125 with that so familiar eighties sound.

Everything else is a matter of personal taste.  There are Yes albums I’ve never heard, and one or two (Union comes to mind) I wish I hadn’t.

Compilations to consider?

Inevitably, there are almost as many compilations as there are albums.  Contemplating them just now, I settled on Yesstory as perhaps the most representative, but as with most Prog bands, cutting their music into small chunks doesn’t really work; you have to listen to albums as a whole.

Live albums?

Yessongs is all you’ll ever need – of course it’s a triple album; of course it only covers a short period of their career (it came out in 1973) but it has never faded in its majesty and grandeur.  These guys, it need hardly be said, could play…

Anything else? One day, some brave soul will take on the job of writing the definitive history of Yes.  It’ll likely run to several large volumes, and will only be read by obsessives like me.  In the meantime, Chris Welch’s biography, called – inevitably – Close to the Edge; the Story of Yes has its critics, but covers the main points and has been revised at least once to keep up with the band which apparently will go on forever.

3. Trilogy, Emerson, Lake and Palmer – 1972

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The first nine tracks are the original album

The first album on this list which I owned when it was still relatively recent, and the first on this list which I loved unreservedly from the moment I first heard it.  I have had something of an on-off relationship with it over the years, but it has never lost its power over me, even in the years when I though it drastically uncool, because I put more store in what others thought than I did in my own ears.  I think I’m over that now; let’s find out.

I know that I first heard ELP in a first-year music lesson in late 1974 or early 1975.  Way back in the age of enlightenment, spotty first-years had weekly lessons which alternated between trying to get us to figure out if we could get a tune out of anything at all and trying to get us to appreciate music in all of its forms.  Well, not all of them; music lessons were supposed to cover everything up until the likes of Stravinsky started frightening the horses.  We’d be exposed to some basic theory, told that our teachers liked modern music as well, honest (and have to sit through some traditional folk or modern classical featuring car horns and anvils, or something, to prove it).  Sadly, unlike in other parts of the school, the teaching was more well-meaning than enthusiastic, and even the likes of me, who were keen to learn anything about music, were left a little baffled by it all.

Until the day when Mr. McPherson (I’m pretty sure that was his name, but I’m happy to be corrected) put on three records in a row for us to compare.  First, Mussorgsky’s original piano version of Pictures at an Exhibition, then Ravel’s orchestrated version, then – “some of you might like this one” – ELP’s version.

I can effortlessly conjure up the feeling which jolted through me on hearing this third one – I can picture the room; even smell it.  I was riveted by what I was hearing, utterly spellbound.  I’m sure other things happened to me that day, but I don’t remember any of them.  All I remember is the clear sensation that I had found my music; whatever the hell Messrs. Emerson, Lake and Palmer had been doing to Mussorgsky, that was the stuff for me.  Enough of this pop music nonsense – I could take or leave that, I needed to know more; I needed to own this music.

It took a while – I was eleven and pocket money didn’t stretch to buying albums, even cut-price ones, which it turned out Pictures was.  It wasn’t even the first album I bought (we’re coming to that), but it was second or third, and if I look to my right, I can pick out the spine of it in the stack over there – when I returned to the particular pleasure of buying vinyl some years back, it was the first thing I bought for myself.

And Trilogy was the second.  While my love for Pictures has never dimmed, it was only my favourite ELP album until I heard this one.  All (almost all) the ELP albums have their charms; a couple of them are more widely regarded as classics of their kind than Trilogy, yet I genuinely feel that this is the only unequivocally successful one; the only one where every track works on its own terms, and the only one where all three of them seem to be pulling in the same direction all the way from beginning to end.

Emerson, Lake and Palmer were a supergroup – one of the first – and unlike, say, Cream, where there seemed to be a common purpose, they spent their entire career trying to go in at least two directions at once, and not always managing to reconcile those directions.  Trilogy is, I think, the only album where you can’t see the joins between Greg Lake’s earnest love songs and Keith Emerson’s classical adaptations; the only one where the inevitable ‘novelty’ song doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb.  Throughout Trilogy, from the open spaces of the beginning of The Endless Enigma to the demented drum patterns of Abbadon’s Bolero, all elements are performing a function in service to the whole.

Side 1 opens with the three parts of The Endless Enigma, setting what might seem a weary, despairing rant at the world as a mini-concerto.  Emerson’s spare keyboards in the opening always struck me as ideal mood music for a gritty late night TV show; they seem to conjure up late night neon-splashed cityscapes just after the rain has stopped.  From the Beginning, probably the best-known song from this album, is a straightforward ‘love and regret’ song raised to something with proper emotional punch by the development of the music from Lake’s acoustic opening to Emerson’s full keyboard onslaught at the climax.  Then there’s The Sherriff, which verges on parody, but works in conjunction with fan favourite Hoedown, an adaptation of Copland’s much-loved original.

The second side features two longer pieces – the title track featuring one of Lake’s most successful lyrics, and Abbadon’s Bolero, with Emerson writing his own riposte to Ravel, sandwiching the startling Living Sin, in which Greg Lake’s remarkable voice drops into his boots and conjures a real air of menace befitting the subject matter.

Look, I know they’re not fashionable, and probably never were, although they were staggeringly popular for a while.  Maybe I was at an impressionable age; maybe you can think of a thousand other excuses for why this album lives so vividly in my head fifty years on.  Me, I’m just going to go on enjoying it in all its complexity and virtuosity.  It’s of its time, to be sure, but what a time it was.

Any other albums by this artist to consider?

None as complete as this in execution, although Brain Salad Surgery and Tarkus both nearly hit the same level.  The self-titled debut is pretty good, too, although a lot of the ideas are not yet fully-formed.  Later albums, even Works, Vol. 1 which I loved in the teeth of gales of derision at the time, have not survived nearly as well, and a couple of the later ones just didn’t really work at all.  When ELP’s moment passed, it really passed.

Compilations to consider?

There’s an imaginatively entitled Best of Emerson, Lake and Palmer of which the second edition is rather more complete than the first.  There are others which I’ve never heard – mainly because I’ve heard all the albums, so why would I need to?  Not for the last time, I’m going to point out that this is an albums band, and compilations don’t do them justice.

Live albums?

All together, take a deep breath: Welcome Back, my Friends, to the Show That Never Ends.  Ladies and Gentlemen… is the essential ELP live album – all the others cower before it.  Don’t forget to pick up a copy of Pictures at an Exhibition, though – you’re allowed to skip Nutrocker at the end if you like; it doesn’t quite fit with the rest of it.

Anything else?

There’s a tremendously psychedelic live video of the Pictures show which is worth your time if you liked the album – it’s striking how different it is from the recorded version; ELP shows were somewhat improvisational affairs, and the music evolved as it was played.  I’ve seen (I have a copy somewhere) the 2010 High Voltage reunion show, and while it has its moments, Keith Emerson’s playing is not what it was – the issues with his hands which contributed to his suicide are evident, and the show never really takes off, fun though it is to see the three of them together on a stage one last time.  There are some books, although I’ve never read Emerson’s autobiography, and I’m still saving up for the forthcoming ELP Book, although the higher-end editions will likely remain outside my budget.  What would a book about ELP be, however, without some deluxe-level excess? And there’s something else about Trilogy, too.  In recent years, I have heard several of its songs reimagined and reinterpreted – faithfully reproduced by an International Collaboration featuring the remarkable Rachel Flowers, for example (Flowers has covered some of these songs solo as well, and she understands them as well as it’s possible to, I think).  However, my favourite cover of these (and one of my favourite cover versions of all) really shouldn’t work at all – the Jad & Den Quintet’s reworking of Trilogy as a late-night jazz standard is truly extraordinary, and ultimately demonstrates what I knew all along – strip away the perceived excess and these are timeless songs.