Tag Archives: progrock

54. In Absentia, Porcupine Tree, 2002

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Looking at the list of albums still to come, I notice there’s about to be a ten year gap in release dates, which does in a way reflect what was going on in my life, although – thanks to my insistence on sticking to release dates – the gap in me listening to new music actually covers a different ten year span, so that this one and, to a degree, the next one, are out of place in my personal chronology.

Still, there was a ten year gap in my listening habits, and I should probably explore that a bit.

Otherwise, I’ll just suddenly say something like “so, after several years living in Canada…”

The gap comes, pretty much, in the first decade of the 21st century.  Not, as I later discovered, that it was a quiet decade for new music, but it was a chaotic and turbulent time in my life – in all our lives – and if I bought new music, it was by artists I already knew and loved (and are therefore already on this list), or classical recordings.

Or downloads, which became a thing in those ten years.  I’ll be coming to streaming and downloads, I think.

So, in the last six years of my time at Ferrero, I not only became a properly qualified IT person, but became responsible for a number of significant projects, the details of which need not detain us.  Over those six years, my working life evolved from the occasional trip around the UK, to the occasional trip around Europe (mainly to Luxembourg or Italy), to – in the last 18 months – regular and somewhat draining trips to Italy (or Germany, or Poland, but mainly Italy) as I worked on the UK part of a genuinely global and transformative IT project.

It’s a curious part of my life, that 18 months.  From a work perspective, I wouldn’t change a minute of it; I learned so much which has served me well in later years, and was exposed to a vast amount of experiences (and food) which I’ll never forget, but it was tough on a fledgling parent, to be away as much as I was.  Even on the weeks when all I did was drive in to work in the morning and home again at night, I was often out of the house for 12 hours at a time.  The boys were young, and I felt I only saw them at weekends.

Eventually, with the UK part of the project complete, and focus turning to the Canadian rollout (and the Russian one, and the Mexican one), the prospect of my travel becoming more global or my responsibilities in the UK becoming more onerous, we upped sticks and moved to Canada.

That is, of course, a long and complicated story, and one I’ve told on here before.  We moved to northern BC in April 2006, roughly in the middle of my decade of not hearing new music, and my life changed utterly – from full-time and then some IT and Project Manager, to primary parent and part-time (when I could fit it in) IT technician.

Our parenting roles reversed, and I became the one doing the school run, making the meals, filling the endless days of Spring Break or summer holiday, and – I may have mentioned this a bit – coaching soccer.  It’s tempting to be a little blasé about the whole thing now, but it was a big upheaval, and looking back, I was taking refuge in familiar music, and not seeking out the new.

So, I missed this (and a great many other things) when it first came out, and I might never have encountered Porcupine Tree, or Steven Wilson, or all the associated side-projects, were it not for my love of Prog, and Glasgow Airport.

Over the first years in Canada, we went back to the UK (to Scotland, mainly) several times.  Sometimes we all went, flying from Vancouver to Glasgow and back, and sometimes Zoe or I would go alone, for various reasons.  On one of our trips back (I covered some of the detail of this in the last set of memories, ten years ago; I’m not going to elaborate here for now), I was perusing WH Smith in Glasgow Airport and spotted an early copy of what would eventually become Prog magazine.

I think it’s fair to say that the magazine market was in an uncertain phase, one it may well still be in, and it seemed that one of the ways the industry was addressing this was by spinning niche interest publications off more established titles – I think this was a spinoff of the more widely-read Classic Rock magazine – but it intrigued me.

It intrigued me because in all of the revisiting and ‘comfort listening’ I had been doing, I has been gradually reintroducing myself to some of my mid-seventies favourites.  I went through a significant ‘rediscovering Rush’ period around this time, and plundered iTunes for digital copies of, firstly, all the albums I’d owned and loved back then, and then all the other ones I’d not paid enough attention to, hearing many of them in clear digital sound, often as if for the first time.

I also had come to realise that my thinking about music had changed – I think that while the British music scene (if such a thing even exists) is keen to label and classify things, while there didn’t seem to be any of that going on in Canada.  Aside from the clear (and mandatory) bias towards Canadian music, all kinds of music sat cheek by jowl with things which to my ear sounded incongruous.  The landscape was different, and the conversations I’d have with people were also different.  Being a fan of Rush was a given – I think you get a Rush fan club membership with your Canadian passport – but owning up to those early ELP albums would prompt earnest discussion rather than sniggering.

The reason I bought that copy of Prog magazine was that it promised a countdown of the top 50 (or top 100; I really should have figured this out by now) Prog albums ‘of all time’.  As I’ve said before, nine of the top ten were familiar to me, although I disagreed with the order, naturally.

I read the thing cover to cover on the flight back; I made notes in the margin of things I’d like to explore a little more, and – mainly, I think, because I didn’t know anything about it – I went and downloaded myself a copy of In Absentia, which was the one exception in that top ten.

I think it and the next album in this list were what brought me firmly back to ‘new music’ as a concept; everything which follows from here is music I heard for the first time more or less as it came out – in my fifties, I rediscovered the joy of new sounds which had faded out of my life when all the other supposedly more important things crowded in.

It’s not a coincidence that this later flourishing of new things coincides with the rise of streaming services and downloads, and more recently, and to my endless joy, with the revival of the record store (record shop, the teenaged me would have insisted).  I can overlook the way the current generation seem to mangle the terminology (what on earth is a ‘vinyl’?) because the sheer joy of being able to go into a shop and flick through the new releases, and be transported back to The Other Record Shop as I decide whether or not I can afford this new album I’ve only vaguely heard about, but which looks like it would be right up my street.

I first heard In Absentia after flying back form Glasgow that day in 2009, but I first properly heard it when I bought my own vinyl copy.  Even though it wasn’t recorded with the intention of being played on vinyl, that’s how it sounds best.  To me, at least.

But is it Prog?  Let’s find out.

I had no idea what to expect on first listen, so the spacey guitar line with sound effects shifting between speakers in no way prepared me for the kind of aural assault I hadn‘t heard since the days of listening to Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath albums.  Blackest Eyes, of course, quickly settles into a more gentle, almost acoustic melody with a ridiculously catchy chorus about…

Well, it seems to be about a stalker or serial killer, or something.  The lyric certainly reflects the duality of the musical approach; at once melodic and soothing before exploding with the sort of riff in weird time signatures which suddenly made me realise what I’d been missing all these years.  Honestly, one track in, I was on board.

Which is, of course, appropriate, as the second track is Trains, which pulls off the same trick of being calm and melodic before opening out into a much wider and expansive soundscape, with some of the same riffs going, but there’s so much more to hear in this – there’s a plangent guitar solo, which seems to somehow migrate from electric to acoustic as it goes, and then some dense but gorgeous vocal harmonies and a second instrumental section with syncopated handclaps and what definitely sounds like a banjo before the chorus comes back in, heralding the return of the full band and the maddeningly catchy riff.  Again, it’s not entirely clear what it’s about – it’s vaguely disturbing, but not something you can out your finger on, then the handclaps are buried under a fair approximation of a peal of church bells, and…

And we’re off into Lips of Ashes, which had a spaced-out guitar sound and a doubled vocal surrounded by reverberating effects which make the whole thing eerie and hard to pin down.  It’s not the pop-inflected sound of the opening two tracks; it’s more of a soundscape with disturbing imagery than a verse-chorus-verse kind of song, but it also boasts a terrific guitar solo, and – look, let’s just get this out of the way, shall we – it’s most definitely Prog, although not in the way I remember it, which was much more about showing off and cramming as many instruments as possible in there.

Side two (sides are shorter these days, as everything is spread over two discs but only lasts about an hour) starts with The Sound of Muzak, which has a remarkable lopsided rhythm going on under a lush melody and a vocal about the cheapening and corporatizing of music.  Right about here is when I thought “yup, they’re playing my tune”.

The song is deceptively straightforward in its blunt message, but in absolutely nothing else – Gavin Harrison’s drum track is impossible to air-drum along with, in the way that the best of Neil Peart’s were, and every time you think you’ve got a handle on this song, it shifts gear subtly, and dares you to follow along.  If you want to know what’s wrong with the pre-packaged and soulless music of today at the same time as hearing what could be done about it, this is the song for you.

Gravity Eyelids is produced to sound lie it’s playing in a nearby room with the door shut, although the vocal is right there with you, almost sitting on your shoulder.  Steven Wilson (of whom more later) has developed as a vocalist over the twenty years or so since this was recorded, but there’s something to be said for the way his voice here is pushing against the limits, almost falsetto in places – it lends a tension to the song which is entirely in keeping with its – again – unsettling lyrics.  The scratchy aesthetic of the sound lasts until the instrumental break, when the guitars emerge into the same space as the voice and tear through the kind of break where the riff (and the laser gun sound effects) are more important than the actual solo, which seems to be happening quietly in the background.

Once out the other side, all the instruments start pulling together, and it’s now the voice which appears to be treated and less distinct.  It’s a superb transition, and lends the song that most Prog of traits, an actual progression.  It, of course, all fades back into the underground from whence it came, giving the impression that the band had been plugging away in that locked room this whole time.

Wedding Nails is the kind of instrumental wig-out which is hard to pull off unless you’re as talented as these four.  Again, I find myself thinking of the later-period Rush instrumentals, which mined much the same seam, just for the joy of playing together and making as much noise as possible in shifting time signatures.

Since I don’t have lyrics to worry about, I’ll just take the opportunity of observing that I’m reviewing this only a couple of weeks after OK computer, and the inner sleeve design, with the reversed typewritten words, complete with crossing out are, well – unlike everything else on this album – a little derivative.

Or maybe it’s an homage.

Flipping over again, it’s another of those catchy melodies.  This time, Prodigal hooks you with a narrative verse pulled along with two separate guitar lines – one which works as a kind of drone, and the other breaking in from time to time with a gentle riff illustrating as much as it is accompanying.  There’s a chorus of sorts with more of those lush harmonies, an instrumental sort-of-middle-eight which threatens to break into a bridge section then unfurls a distorted solo before dropping us back into a verse section which has a single line designed to make you re-eveluate everything you’ve heard so far, and cast the narrator in a totally different light, befgore bursting out into the actual solo which had only been threatened before.

Sometimes in Porcupine Tree music, you get the feeling there are two songs going on at once.  The end of Prodigal is one of those times for me.

Immediately we’re into .3 which is all about Colin Edwin’s sinuous and muscular bass line.  It introduces us to the broken rhythm of the song and then refuses to settle back down into being part of the accompaniment; it stays there throughout, insistent and purposeful.  It’s almost an instrumental, this, with sweeping strings (arranged by Dave Gregory, who we’ll be meeting again soon) and assorted noises off before it drops into a very distinctive Porcupine Tree acoustic guitar riff under the kind of lyric last heard in the early eighties nuclear paranoia.  Never fear, though, here comes that bass again to return us to the feeling of being…

Well, of being unsettled and off-balance, to be honest.  .3 is not a cheery singalong kind of track, to be honest, but that’s nothing compared to the industrial barrage of The Creator Has a Mastertape which bleeps and yowls over a treated, half-spoken kind of lyric which makes you think of strange, half-remembered experimental European movies you used to watch at one in the morning when you were a student.

Well, it does that to me, anyway.  It’s absolutely riveting, but not for the faint of heart.  It’s Prog, but it’s not exactly the way I remember it being.  I can also report that it is the kind of song which makes you take corners too fast, and is not recommended for when you’re driving down narrow country lanes.

Heartattack in a Layby is a song about – well, have a guess.  Appropriately reflective and mournful, it’s an existential crisis of a song, which is quite an achievement for something which namechecks Baldock.

Is there another song anywhere which mentions Baldock?  It’s the kind of place which only Steven Wilson would think to set to music, I think, but if he’s referring to a specific lay-by (rest area for those non-Brits among you), then I’ve probably driven past it several times.  It eventually turns into a kind of round, with the lyrics interweaving in a way designed to invoke a kind of out-of-body experience.  It might also provoke one, under the right circumstances.  Not to be listened ot in a lay-by east of Baldock, I’d suggest.

More muscular bass introduces Strip the Soul, which – look, if this is an album about anything, it’s about the sociopath and the serial killer, and while that’s not exactly the first thing you think of when dreaming up a concept, it gives the whole album a kind of ominous sense, which perhaps reaches its apogee in this song.  Not for the first time, the protagonist hints at his ‘faulty wiring’, and there’s definitely a through line to a number of these songs which the music illustrates, being appropriately dark and menacing when needed, which in Strip the Soul is pretty much the whole time.  It’s dense and dark, and thank goodness it’s not the last track on the album.

We do need to have something more hopeful to end on, and while I’m not convinced that Collapse the Light into Earth provides it lyrically, it certainly does the job musically.  Starting from a simple piano line, it gradually fills in the spaces around the voice as it pleads for a little understanding and human company.  I don’t think you can stretch the concept of this album to the point here each song is delivered by the same protagonist, and in fact, I’d go so far as to hope not, as the previous narrators have confessed to some things which can’t just be forgiven by a sumptuous melody and a full-figured string accompaniment.

But it’s a magnificent way to go out – this most remarkable album ending on an emotional and musical hope for redemption and acceptance which becomes almost spiritual in the end, as everyone seems to ascend out of sight, borne aloft on strings and harmonies, leaving only the dogged pianist behind to provide an anchor.

I’ve already alluded to the visual similarity between this and OK Computer; I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to suggest that the two albums had a similar effect on me – in both cases, I was fully immersed in the world of the band’s imagination, and in both cases, challenged to think again about music I thought I knew and understood.  I may not have heard it until it was several years old, and established as perhaps the pinnacle (perhaps; see below), but it shook me out of my musical complacency, and everything which follows in this list is here because I took a punt on In Absentia.

I’m going to miss music magazines if they eventually go.

Any other albums by this artist to consider?

Several.  I think, other than this, Deadwing is my favourite, but you should definitely also listen ot Fear of a Blank Planet.  Delightfully, and somewhat surprisingly, there’s actually a new Porcupine Tree album, Closure / Continuation, which I recommend wholeheartedly.  A hiatus of more than ten years doesn’t seemed to have done them any harm at all, and it’s a spectacular return to form.

Compilations to consider?

Now this is tricky.  Porcupine Tree compilations emerge from time to time, but they are almost exclusively offcuts, b-sides and rarities.  There isn’t any such thing as a full PT retrospective.  As with most Prog bands, it’s probably best to dive in to the albums anyway.

Live albums?

All sorts of DVDs, and strange limited edition things exist.  See below for the DVD recommendation, but there’s a live download-only album called Atlanta which behaves the way traditional live albums used to, and an actual album called Octane Twisted which is basically a live version of the The Incident album, but some versions of which include other tracks.  I have a suspicion that there will be a live album following the Closure/Continuation  tour later this year, though…

Anything else?

Well, if you wait a couple of weeks, I’ll have all sorts of Steven Wilson stuff to recommend, but in the meantime, I do recommend the Anesthetize live DVD, which is broadly a live rendition of the Fear of a Blank Planet album.  There will be more in a couple of weeks, though – watch this space…

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.