tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25986944536396498932024-03-23T11:08:00.817-07:00Progressive Rock Hall of InfamyDedicated to the very worst Progressive, Space, Zeuhl and Art rock composed, written and played from the birth of the genre until this very day. Because Bad Prog is as bad as it gets.Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-20897938280533596262010-05-24T10:10:00.000-07:002010-05-24T14:14:29.543-07:00The State of Progressive Rock, 2010: Time To Be Put Down<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiy8wYISBIoF89L9I2acsdHzErOGXd-V4_sWK3BxxXyEazqTMuH5gRJmAGDA_kfscg_RCUqFE-q_gXWsGSZqYGQ9EcOU51s-JJlsoiy0CMUmV1FdgsTZXUfcjSFMhmG2cAB6lqb3GKQ4/s1600/beale.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiy8wYISBIoF89L9I2acsdHzErOGXd-V4_sWK3BxxXyEazqTMuH5gRJmAGDA_kfscg_RCUqFE-q_gXWsGSZqYGQ9EcOU51s-JJlsoiy0CMUmV1FdgsTZXUfcjSFMhmG2cAB6lqb3GKQ4/s320/beale.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474892736747497682" /></a><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At left, a mother and daughter contemplate the misery of the latest album from Spock's Beard.</span></b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div>Perhaps you've had a member of your family who was somewhat of a "rebel", a crazy older aunt or something who always showed up at the family reunions a little bit tipsy, proffering stories of her sordid and wild past, always spurned by the conservative mass of your kin but especially appealing to you. She had been married two or three times, probably had a lesbian affair or two, was beautiful when she was younger and just as smart as she had been sexy- a clever, witty woman, with a vast erudition in popular movies made far before your time, an interest in art, and always ready to suggest to the younger people that <i>The Catcher In The Rye</i> is a book every teenager alive should read. You loved it when she came around, even though the rest of the family barely refrained from proffering their disdain, and spewed pointed, jealous commentary said in whispers behind petulant hands hiding vulgar sneers. That woman had lived more in her life than all of them put together; and for that, she could never be forgiven.</div><div><br /></div><div> Years later, time has taken its toll on that favorite aunt. She is gaunt, flatulent, febrile, scrofulous, pendulous breasts swinging above a slack belly and the reek of stale milk on her breath when she insists on kissing you "hello"- a horrifying endeavor every time it occurs. Her hair- what is left of it- is wispy, sick, flaking a blizzard of dandruff from her fetid scalp. Gone are the pattern dresses and nifty silk scarves she wore in the last flame of youth, the ones that always brightened any room she walked into; now, formless sack-like garments cover her tumour-ridden body like a sack of potatoes. Often, she shits herself and lies in the waste for days, leaving monstrous roseate ulcers on her creviced and encrusted behind. Purulence leaves a wake in her steps, she scares children with her rubescent sores and hair-sprouting moles- all of them are cancerous, and age, indeed, is a motherfucker, my friends. Her memory is failing her, and the days blend together like a fluorescing nightmare, madness behind every curtain, mayhem in the darkened hallways, the danger of a fall and fatal broken hip the constant refrain of all family conversations regarding this formerly so-vibrant soul. Like that woman from <i><a href="http://anhedoniapoetry.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/greygardens32.jpg">Grey Gardens-</a></i> a Bouvier, for Christ's sakes. Once she had class, beauty, style- oh god did that woman have style- but now she's just a batshit crazy shut-in living on cat food (all puns intended) and just refuses to die- despite the fact that everyone knows, as Uncle Frank has said many times as he plots how to spend his share of the house once it is sold, "it would be for the best". </div><div><br /></div><div> Two family members become involved in the care of this vestige of life. A niece, with all of her Christian compassion, dedicates herself to washing her feet, balming her sores, even caring for the mangy cats which roam the house like vagabonds, spectral creatures themselves who howl through the night in withered-brained derangement. The girl is determined that her "Nana" will have dignity in her final days, no matter how long they last; and these days are spent in meaningless reminiscences, dates misremembered, critical events from a long-ago life hopelessly jumbled, all the while incontinent effluvia drifting through the air between them like pestilence, a life that is dying consumes one that could yet still be vibrant, here is your Christian charity, I say to you, Cross-fetishists.</div><div><br /></div><div> The other family member is her nephew- no longer young himself, but not ready to surrender to the dessication of time and the baneful effects of such succor as he witnesses day after day. The spectacle nauseates him, sickens him; his aunt has had her life, and watching it trail away to this miserable fraud of a lingering death-spasm incites in him the the foulest anger. Above all, he cannot tolerate the vanity- yes, <i>vanity</i>- of the niece. How dare she suffer so fulsomely, so publicly, calling attention to her martyrdom like this as if she were doing anything other than prolonging what everyone secretly knows is a futile resistance to the inevitable: Death. The cold scythe that awaits us all. Some it calls quickly, mercifully; some it torments like what the old woman faces. But the niece has become hand-maiden to this vile process; alone, the nephew decides that there is only one truly gracious and forgiving thing to do. "It's time, Nana," he says to her one night as he slips into her bedroom, quietly, knowing each of his steps could betray his brief plague of mercy. "It's time?" she says in the delirium of age mixed with sleep, her eyes rheumy and vacuous. "Yes, it's time- time to go see the Baby Jesus, Nana." "Baby Jesus..." she says, trailing off, wondrously like a child, to the final confusion of her final, sad days. And then the nephew grabs a pillow from under her head and deftly places it upon her face, pushing only lightly so as not to betray his "crime", and holds it there until Nana does, at last, breathe her last and return to the infinite nothing from whence she came. It is a murder that could come from only the deepest and most abiding loves.</div><div><br /></div><div> That batshit crazy old woman is Progressive Rock. Surely, you have figured that out by now, but I wanted to be clear regarding my choice of euthanasic metaphor. When she was younger- oh those happy, blessed days- she was a Lark's Tongue in Aspic, that first great ELP record, perhaps she even had a little Magma in her bones. At the time of her merciful demise, she has become the swollen, putrescent corpse of <a href="http://edthemanicstreetpreacher.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/hitler.jpg">Spock's Beard,</a> <a href="http://media.gamerevolution.com/images/misc/image/head-up-ass.jpg">Porcupine Tree,</a> <a href="http://pointlessbanter.net/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/big1401-kl-auschwitz-work-makes-free-arbeit-macht-frei-1945.jpg">Dream Theater, </a>or- horror of all possible horrors- the unimaginable wafting aural faeces that is <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://a.abcnews.com/images/International/ht_no_face5_071206_ssh.jpg&imgrefurl=http://abcnews.go.com/widgets/mediaViewer/image%3Fid%3D3962403&usg=__ciExotuWM-R1HTnCyydr5rg_dDE=&h=411&w=531&sz=54&hl=en&start=3&itbs=1&tbnid=Iokc6L5REUuQeM:&tbnh=102&tbnw=132&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtumor%2Bface%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DG%26gbv%3D2%26tbs%3Disch:1">Phideaux. </a> Now, I realize that there are going to be some angry protests to my use of metaphor, even some shocked readers who will say to themselves- "My god, surely The Curator has gone too far this time. Mocking Jesus is one thing, but- he's not advocating euthanasia, is he?" Oh, but I am.</div><div><br /></div><div> I'm not just advocating it, I'm <b><i>demanding</i></b> it. I want Mike Portnoy to drink the Conium. I yearn to see Spock's Beard immolated. My dream for Dream Theater would be something like the craziness of <i>Logan's Run</i>, only far more violent and cruel. And I find the image of that tortured duckling Phideaux strapped to a gurney and essaying his best Edward G. Robinson ala <i>Soylent Green</i> to be a delight on par with a mountain sunrise, or a young girl's breasts. Yes, I see death put to mediocrity and I see only one thing- <i>beauty. </i> </div><div><br /></div><div> What I am saying is this: Progressive Rock had her day- man, did she have her fucking day. But- like the United States- that day has past, and the long, tortured and tortuous demise that awaits should be mitigated and spurred to final fruition with all due alacrity. And- and this is critical- as Spengler advised in <i>The Decline Of The West</i>, not only is this death <b>not</b> to be mourned- but, as an inevtibable process of life, it is not even to be ameliorated nor slowed in its march. No, rather- we who love Prog must face that <b><i>it is time to put the old lady down, </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">decency and true love demand it, this wretched walking, humming corpse cannot be saved and must be with all dispatch annihilated, before another poisonous sound can be made by that shrieking asshole James LaBrie. I am calling today in the most strident terms possible for the murder and timely burial of Progressive Rock. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> This has been building for some time. I spend most of my days listening to some kind of Prog or another- especially since the launch of Radio Anthrocide on <a href="http://radio23.org/ccr/">Radio23.org, </a> The Curator has been immensely busy sifting through over 100 gigabytes of files to present the best possible reprsentation of the type of music to be played that week. It is work, but it is not toil; it's actually the most fun I've had in years, and reminds me every time I happen upon an old Terry Riley track or something from Heldon I haven't heard in a while...yes, this is what I love, this is what brings me joy, this is something I cannot imagine living without. But I try to hear other things as well, always seeking to broaden one's horizons, as it were. And last week, I made the fateful step of downloading the newest album from Porcupine Tree, the one that actually made the fucking charts in England. And what absolute miserable dreck I did find when I opened that RAR file.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Not that I wasn't expecting just such a result- there are no pleasant surprises when you're dealing with Neo-Prog. No, as predictable as man doing evil and as inevitable as feigned shock from the sheep-like herd of proles when such evil comes to pass, modern Progressive Rock bands commit atrocity after atrocity in the best traditions of piddling, banal malignity. Theirs is the realm of Thanatos.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> What I find most annoying of all of these bands is the sheer, outstandingly unoriginal derivitiveness of every single one of their songs on every single one of their albums. The track from Porcupine Tree called "Time Flies" is a destructive case in point proving my thesis. Clearly meant to remind listeners of the kinship between this "modern" band and Progressive pioneers Pink Floyd, the opening guitar is an act of acoustic plagiarism taken directly from "Dogs" on <i>Animals.</i> Anyone who says otherwise is an apologist or a fool, period. The reason I bring this up as my main point of attack on this pitiful band is that <i>The Incident</i> is a clear and shocking example of what can best be called "Paint-By-Numbers-Prog". All the bands do it. A nod to Genesis here, a Rickenbacker bass-line there that is the band saying- "SEE? We're </span><span class="Apple-style-span">PROGRESSIVE</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">. That's just like Yes, isn't it? Remember Yes? Here's some fake Mellotron- that's just like King Crimson, isn't it? Don't you feel cool being able to get all of our references?"</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> But, like an old Dennis Miller routine gone haywire and become lost in the boccage and bramble of cluttered syntax, sometimes it is forgotten that pointless references to arcana and ephemera merely to show a culture-whore-like adulation of a range of discursive subjects is...<i>pointless. </i> It means nothing, signifies nothing; it is Wittgenstein's Nightmare (there's a name for a Neo-Prog band, don't you think?) of language which communicates nothing but the fact that it is making noise. Noise, not understanding, not beauty, not truth, not even honestly created rubbish. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Noise</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, the kind the maker of which </span><a href="http://www.mgilleland.com/asonnoise.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Schopenhauer</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> memorably observed "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">deserves there and then to stand down and receive five really good blows with a stick." Oh, and how I long to wield that judicious truncheon, to whack the bloody Jesus out of the impertinent rabble who dare disturb my dreams with their risible noodling... </span></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Times;font-size:medium;"></span> In this case, the language may be musical, but the paucity of meaning in the proffered "text" is all the same. What if an idea were so banal that it might float away- like a Kafkan death immortalized in a feather, just as heavy, just as light- would we notice this flight towards undoing, would we even care? Because, in fact, the problem is just this severe: Spock's Beard and Porcupine Tree are not merely bad bands; they are metaphysical crises the kind of which emerge every so often to challenge the basic bounds of decency in man. To the list of 20th Century monsters (Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Nixon, E.L. Doctorow) the 21st Century adds its first: Neo-Prog. A Holocaust in 15/8 time, a Gulag with nods to Jethro Tull and Yes. There </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">is so much to </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">say about the horror of these bands, and I'm not even going to pretend that all of these observations are my own. I'm sure that Dr. Micah Moses- my companion in scorn here at the PRHOI and a man incapable of tolerating shit when it is blatantly placed upon the pedestal called "Art"- has spoken to me at length about the sleeve design of these albums. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09L6Sq_lRRnXsbjSqYqHr0eqRj9b5bwVezNbiy1jvrpCgqTf7HYavOlc8FZ3KyclDxJMJ-AI00QSm1rfjwvJ-YExl96HM0gFgeSnOHojcKE-_ZO_HYojCs2JA1-ta_qV0wezod8UxoaQ/s1600/257089dream_theater_images_and_words_a.jpg"> Dream Theater's</a> are still the most comically inept- like an unusually precocious grade school student interpreting Surrealism with the help of Photoshop and too many sugary-snacks to alight his imagination- but all of them are bad, reliably so, enragingly so. What I find most amusing is how busy the designs are; you can always tell kitsch at a glance when it seeks to make reference to a school of design and throws every possible permutation of that school's "look" onto its own canvas. Take <a href="http://www.progarchives.com/progressive_rock_discography_covers/320/cover_710151582009.jpg">Spock's Beard,</a> for example, an example of which I have helpfully linked to in this essay. Behold- superficial pomposity at its most vulgar: What is this, what does it mean? The answer, of course, is nothing; this is so much nothing that it almost allows one a glimpse of what the end of the Universe will look like after the Big Crunch. It's not enough to hate shallow pretense of this sort; it must be combatted, and, yes, it must be slain. During the Second World War, one did not stop and offer therapy and a hug to Nazis, or enquire as to the pain their fathers may have caused them or other touchy-feely bullshit; one killed them. That's what you do to extreme evil and banality. That's what must be done to Neo-Progressive Rock. It must be killed.</span></b></div><br /><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> I hope this essay has offended you- to the point that you realize the scope of the disaster and do something about it. It is not enough to listen to Radio Anthrocide (although that will be a start), it is not enough to wear your favorite <a href="http://otopsivideo.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/dream_theater_japan.jpg">King Crimson T-shirt </a> like an insolent poseur declaring to all and sundry that you have "cred". Progressive Rock must be hung from the rafters and its skinned flayed and belly ripped open; the snakes must fall from its guts and the thighs rendered for meat to be thrown to wild dogs. What remains must be drawn, quartered, hacked into ever-smaller pieces, burnt, and then scattered to the winds, never to raise a peep again and never to be the sorry excuse for Heavy Metal that it truly is. Prog Must Die. Let this be our rallying cry, let this be our cause. Let terror guide our steps and murder be our guides. Let the villagers quake and the sycophants cower. Let burnt ashes and smoking ruins and salted plains be all that we leave in our wake, and let the survivors know that should they ever raise their heads anew...we shall come again. Let no two bricks stand atop each other. Let no well be un-poisoned, nor any road lay un-mined. Let them feel terror, let them feel the lash. Let them know us by three things: the knout, the whip, and the lack of our mercy. Make resistance to Neo-Prog be the most relentless horror the world has ever known, and make Phideaux cringe in fear that the Horsemen are riding...and they are coming for <i><b>him. </b></i> </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Courage, courage and- </span><i>On Les Aura!!!!!!! </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> - TKR </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-90760028840844658052010-01-12T17:52:00.000-08:002010-01-12T18:06:33.210-08:00For All Those People Looking For a Kaplan Bros. Link...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SwbA-KXG_wkBR0dfx5p02pLTRYjrCfMwDquVmrsAshJKjLMqA-3IRJ99L6NpC5E0DXkr6pc7WQz2I9sKkSQ9TN6_WygFWvHtVGNMCk-rD_X_jm4U_VWjPFtRuN_YFGBgT8tSaC4SlPw/s1600-h/KaplanBrosLP_front.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SwbA-KXG_wkBR0dfx5p02pLTRYjrCfMwDquVmrsAshJKjLMqA-3IRJ99L6NpC5E0DXkr6pc7WQz2I9sKkSQ9TN6_WygFWvHtVGNMCk-rD_X_jm4U_VWjPFtRuN_YFGBgT8tSaC4SlPw/s200/KaplanBrosLP_front.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426039499342112114" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> Without question, the most popular exhibit at the PRHOI since its opening has been that dedicated to the Kaplan Brothers 1978 <i>magnum opus, "</i>Nightbird: An Electric Symphony". I hadn't checked the comments for some time, and there has been clamoring about there not being a link to the album anywhere. Sure enough, it would appear the original link has been pulled from "Time Has Told Me" (for whatever reason- it's only the single best fucking album on that entire goddamn blog) and I am well aware that not everyone is a member of Facebook, where I have established not only a tribute group for Mrs. Kaplan's boys, but a link to the album as well. The Curator offers his most incredibly humble apologies. <a href="http://www.megaupload.com/?d=CJVMUNP1">You can get the album here </a> and I do encourage one and all to do so; I put this up myself some time back, and am only too happy to spread the joy that is, without doubt, one of the top two alternative genius Prog albums ever made- or even conceivably that <i>could</i> be made. You could try to parody this, like those idiots at Troma do with B-movies, but that stuff always sucks ass and falls flat, because magic like <i>Nightbird</i> must come from the heart. And once you hear the lead vocals of the youngest- and most Prog-savvy- Kaplan brother, you'll know why. Enjoy, and, as always, cheers. - TKR</div>Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-38160207902245704962010-01-11T08:22:00.000-08:002010-01-11T09:18:12.077-08:00Some (More) Final Thoughts on The Top 50 Prog Albums Ever<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhIb1tH7cvgeoatfekXUdAZMNwVSyRMHuKRAACYZyqnQoRqKlxr0ao_1yvk1b0GRMYxQ9mS-Zr2Z8zKYg-VN62o57CK4hj2CCLXpRE9UvEwYEIjUsU9RvA92MbQq1zq8Yc9sZ2BVSsFw/s1600-h/cover_114181152004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhIb1tH7cvgeoatfekXUdAZMNwVSyRMHuKRAACYZyqnQoRqKlxr0ao_1yvk1b0GRMYxQ9mS-Zr2Z8zKYg-VN62o57CK4hj2CCLXpRE9UvEwYEIjUsU9RvA92MbQq1zq8Yc9sZ2BVSsFw/s200/cover_114181152004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425526937238199682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rare Bird- <span style="font-style: italic;">As Your Mind Flies By, </span>1970 </span>I just happened to be listening to this album the other day, along with the self-titled 1969 debut of these gentlemen, and thought to myself- "You know, these are both pretty goddamn good albums". Outside of the incredibly lame sleeve art, "Mind" doesn't have one glaring weakness, and most of it is actually compelling and attention-keeping, no matter how many times you listen. Truly great? Maybe not; but along with bands like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Jonesy</span> and Barclay James Harvest and others who have been inexplicably forgotten and lost to the ether of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Prog</span> history, The Curator feels that an important mission of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">PRHOI</span> is <span style="font-style: italic;">education. </span>And, really, if you give this album a listen and aren't immediately blown away by the energy and forcefulness of the appropriately named "Hammerhead", then in all likelihood there is nothing that can be done to draw you from your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Coldplay</span>-listening torpor and pitifully disintegrating life with all its attendant middle-mind hash. Steve Gould provides a tremendously rich voice to the strong musicianship, and while- unfortunately- this is yet another band that should have quit before releasing their last two disastrously moribund albums, the first two are a class act and, yes, I fell pretty comfortable saying worthy of being included on a "Top 50" list- which, with this album now included, is up to 105 albums. This list has turned into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Godley</span> & Creme of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Prog</span> Canons, spiralling completely out of control and going far beyond the original scope and idea; but again, it's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Prog</span>, and it's also my list, so The Curator can live with his rampant excess.<br /><br /> That being said...I was never comfortable omitting the other two <span style="font-weight: bold;">Egg</span> albums (<span style="font-weight: bold;">S/T, 1970</span> and <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Civil Surface,</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">1974</span>) so considering the list is now so vast I'd like to correct that since Egg is, after all, one of my favorite bands. Also, there is no sense denying that <span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Univers</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Zero's</span> first record (<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1313,</span> 1977</span>) belongs, since I absolutely love them too, and that album is almost as evil as the one that made the original list. It also seems completely ridiculous that <span style="font-weight: bold;">Art </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Zoyd</span> was not represented, even though I much prefer parts of all of their albums as to proclaiming one a transcendent masterpiece; this caveat in mind, I listened to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Berlin</span> (1987) the other night when I couldn't sleep, and was so disturbed I had to go pour a glass of wine in order to calm myself down from the creeping disquiet thus engendered; this to me is a sign of a very successful album, and one deserving of mention in such a preposterously ambitious list.<br /><br /> And since we're on the subject of RIO, I'd like to put in a special word for an album I quite frankly forgot about until the other day when I was cleaning out an old hard drive- the Japanese Chamber Rock group <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Zypressen </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>and their <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">S/T 1996 release,</span> now long since out of print. I have no idea where I got this from (though as always <a href="http://mutant-sounds.blogspot.com/">Mutant Sounds</a> seems the likely culprit) but I do know it was during a "RIO-phase" I was indulging in right about the time I had driven another girl out of my life due to excessive weirdness and introversion. All part of the above-mentioned <span style="font-style: italic;">ambition </span>needed to compile a list like this. And for now...let that ambition rest. Whomever has actually stayed in there for all of this constant revising and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">revisiting</span> with me, I hope you have enjoyed yourself. In the New Year, I promise...it is back to Bad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Prog</span>, 100% full time. Enjoy the avalanche of shit. - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">TKR</span>Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-40409505386510212062010-01-03T17:34:00.000-08:002010-01-03T19:06:37.793-08:00Two Final Thoughts for the "Best Of" List<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWRZNJcxUUrx-CBCjC8X9m71kCLdXWP_D6L_Z-1KyWxX2SSOIu-rABCLC-fu1cC-QaSNeDcgNQdmn4DHNdPBylWGXGcrp91A4xGXpMpppvU57E1mvMkm8J_1p_fjVTxiIQ3Z8wX9nMqs/s1600-h/td-zeit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWRZNJcxUUrx-CBCjC8X9m71kCLdXWP_D6L_Z-1KyWxX2SSOIu-rABCLC-fu1cC-QaSNeDcgNQdmn4DHNdPBylWGXGcrp91A4xGXpMpppvU57E1mvMkm8J_1p_fjVTxiIQ3Z8wX9nMqs/s200/td-zeit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422713011429577378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tangerine Dream- <span style="font-style: italic;">Zeit,</span> 1972</span> Guest Review by Special PRHOI Correspondent <a href="http://mitkadem3.homestead.com/files/Robert_Fripp_pic.jpg">Sean Kelly</a><br /><br /><br />It was obvious from the beginning that Tangerine Dream would be unlike any other group from Germany placed in the broad category of "musik kosmische" (cosmic music- a label Edgar Froese claims to have invented, and liberally used by the Ohr and Brain labels).<br />The original lineup of guitarist/synth Froese, bass/cello/synth of Conrad Schnitzler, and drummer/synth master Klaus Schulze produced one of the most disturbingly heady and glorious psychedelic lps of all time in "Electronic Meditation," and their 2nd offering, the vastly underrated "Alpha Centuari," reinforced the notion of the group as a cosmic juggernaut.<br /><br />In reality, Froese was moving beyond those labels. His fascination with synthesizers (Moogs, Mellotrons and VCS3's) was beginning to dominate his musical modes of thinking, and the personnel changes within the band reflected this. Schulze and Schnitzler were long gone by this point, and Christophe Franke and Hans-Peter Baumann were in. These men would be the core of T. Dream for many years to come and raise the group to UNFATHOMABLE heights of popularity with "Phaedra" and beyond...<br /><br />"Zeit" is the German word for time, and this proves misleading for this lp, for time is an irrlelvant bystander from the word go. Indeed, the nebulous flow on this lp could be likened to the unpredictable flow of a lava lamp, with pulsating flows- such as Steve Schroyder's glorious organ coda on "Birth of Liquid Plejades"... (Schroyder's contributions to TD are more readily heard on "Alpha Centauri") and remarkable ebbs, such as Froese's barely audible guitar opening on "Origin of Supernatural Probabilities". In total, the lp may come across to many as a boring experimentation, but in my view, to think that way is limiting.<br /><br />What makes this lp work is the wonderful use of SPACE (in the musical text, not a cosmic text). Space, with silence, are the 2 most important and overlooked modes in music. Both open up amazing avenues of possibility, and that is why "Zeit" works- the possibilities that it presents to the listener.<br /><br />The music is a perfect score to it- controlled, reserved, spacious, largo. Even the most "busy" of solos (Florian Fricke from Popol Vuh's eeire moog solo in "Birth.." could well qualify) is spacious and well calculated, allowing for the illusion of space (in the cosmic text).<br /><br />Fans of ambient or illbient music will find "Zeit" to be an eye-opener, as "Zeit" could be argued as one of the 1st true ambient excursions (along with the aforementioned Fricke's masterpiece debut lp for Popol Vuh- "Affenstunde", which I also feel should be in the all time greatest list).<br /><br />Fans of synth music will marvel in the expert use of the Moog, Mellotrons, and synths (all 3 of which were still somewhat primitive and sparingly used in 1972, the Moog in particular). Most fans of the Tangs' recent output (no less Froese's son, Jerome, who calls it his least favorite TD lp.. Jerome, shut up- the buffet table is over there somewhere, you fat fuck.) will likely not understand "Zeit" off the top, but fear not! Take on "Zeit" and all of its amazing possibilities, and bask in its astounding glory.<br /><br />One of the most important lps of German synth music, "Zeit" still stands the test of time well in 2009, and is a cornerstone for ambient music. How much do I love this lp? simple. In a collection that spans over 30 thousand albums, cd's, 45's, 78's, reel to reels, acetates, etc-<br />"Zeit" is the ONLY ONE I own on lp, and also have CD copies of right now at home, in my car, at work, and at my dad's home in North Carolina.<br /><br />Nuff said.<br /><br />Musik Kosmische!<br /><br /><br />(<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">ED. Note-</span> The following is NOT by Sean Kelly, as he may be highly upset if he thinks The Curator is trying to pass this one off on him. Nope; this is from TKR...with stoic courage in anticipation of all the shit-storm of threats and denunciations sure to follow)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjszHC8pzJLWWn6pxywMz27aDcjcKPdjd6qVGdAIiz4AMbqkyPX5hUDjlMLA5cb9NJNpfIRrmzEQ45m4_FB531MLjeCjjZqfzLNNYpH703QpH36SjUkzhc7244MMUWULbpOtMgqByIPuY/s1600-h/elp-elp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjszHC8pzJLWWn6pxywMz27aDcjcKPdjd6qVGdAIiz4AMbqkyPX5hUDjlMLA5cb9NJNpfIRrmzEQ45m4_FB531MLjeCjjZqfzLNNYpH703QpH36SjUkzhc7244MMUWULbpOtMgqByIPuY/s200/elp-elp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422713205800947954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emerson Lake & Palmer- S/T, 1970</span><br /><br /> After extensive thought- and several listens on long, lugubrious and solemn walks with the IPod realizing what this will do to The Curator's legacy- I have decided, nonetheless, to acknowledge that, yes, the first ELP album is pretty fucking great and largely devoid of the preposterous level of bombast and annoyance which makes ELP, with great ease mind you, the greatest waste of talent in the history of music, and quite possibly rivaling uber-pompous and wildly unreadable James Joyce for the all-time championship of said wasted talent sweepstakes. This isn't like Schoenberg abandoning high Romanticism to wallow and indulge in the inscrutable obscurantism of his twelve-tone fixation; ELP continued to make rock music, of a kind, only they did so in a way that takes tepid boredom and crushing ennui to unfathomable levels of insipidity and rage-inducing torpor. Make no mistake: no collection of recordings short of the mass of filth vomited upon the Progressive Rock world by Dream Theater is more likely to render one a bug-eating derelict if listened to in its entirety than the preposterous load of navel-gazing <span style="font-style: italic;">scheisse </span>committed in the name of "Art" by Msrs. Emerson, Lake and Palmer.<br /><br /> But we're not talking about <span style="font-style: italic;">Tarkus</span> or- ha ha- <span style="font-style: italic;">In The Hot Seat</span> here. ELP displayed all of their most brazen indulgences, all right- "The Three Fates" starts with a Bach-style <span style="font-style: italic;">toccata</span> and later embraces nothing less than a full-on grand piano <span style="font-style: italic;">rondo</span> in the style of (of course) Tchaikovsky- but for some reason all of this works quite well for them here. The reason, I think, is that there must have been at least <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> controls placed on these three massive egos, and so in the numerous parts of the album where Emerson is clearly the dominant voice, there isn't any of the messy mix-jockeying that plagued the band, much like Yes, for the remainder of their career. Indeed, the only sour note hit on the entire album- an ominous one, however, for all of the futile masturbatory shenanigans to follow throughout the 70's, culminating in the wretched circus of Keith Emerson strapped into a flying grand piano like a particularly quarrelsome and diminutive chimpanzee flinging its poo with shouts of "Look at Me!" to the assembled concert goers- is the band's most famous number, the album closer "Lucky Man". It's actually quite a nice song, to be honest; but at the very end, and for seemingly absolutely no reason, a synthesized Moog solo breaks out totally at odds with everything the listener had just heard. Why all this sudden urge to muck up a perfectly good melancholy ballad? The story I've always heard (and I believe it) is that there just happened to be an early Moog lying about in a studio, and Keith was so smitten by the thing he insisted on tacking on the world's first synthesizer solo to the aforementioned track- and thereby paving the way for such madness as Van Halen's slide to infamy, the "bad" era of Genesis where Tony Banks similarly noodled about in a cloying fashion on the ersatz-sounding keys, and the ultimate horror of a band even as great as Kraftwerk stooping to such dreck as <span style="font-style: italic;">The Mix</span> album. All of this because Keith Emerson is short and his daddy didn't love him; or whatever it was. Either way, he had to be first, and this pointless addenda to the one "single" on the entire album let the discernible listener know where this band was headed: along with Symphonic Prog denizens Yes- how fitting- to "The Gates of Delirium". And to this day Prog remains the most misunderstood and hated music genre in musical history, more reviled than Zydeco and less acknowledged than traditional West Virginian mountain-dancing prattle.<br /><br /> Still, <span style="font-style: italic;">ELP</span> is a great album, and there's no sense denying it simply due to a silly grudge on the part of The Curator. For everything else? Nah, fuck those guys; some things are not forgivable, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Love Beach</span> is one of them. - TKRTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-51497274999828715352009-12-22T03:39:00.000-08:002009-12-26T02:54:00.450-08:00Fifty Greatest Prog Albums Ever Made- Part II<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfi5crOXTRsvSE19RqpSOw57pMAPcULmtSjlaFLvJIKh5oglCU_qsx_il-Gbj77TIeAutXCvIUX22xWoTDrZ15arfvdsdO8TMhTUfOCM_II06SYpIyiB8-Iky_BHZs7AiKED8S6wuRpk/s1600-h/cover_6571322102008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfi5crOXTRsvSE19RqpSOw57pMAPcULmtSjlaFLvJIKh5oglCU_qsx_il-Gbj77TIeAutXCvIUX22xWoTDrZ15arfvdsdO8TMhTUfOCM_II06SYpIyiB8-Iky_BHZs7AiKED8S6wuRpk/s200/cover_6571322102008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418024592336513970" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh495sUGwPcse477A-bVIXTVVWUsSBDjzCQAC_O5ewt1YaCVWJ3-CuF7l47cjUO0zYqj-9NAAi3ZFnWk4VJ__BgPleJdjm2h68X2TAi3TWMlAdUUi-kn8AMiFntV90pfsIJjoi8uQdsUY/s1600-h/pawn_hearts_cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh495sUGwPcse477A-bVIXTVVWUsSBDjzCQAC_O5ewt1YaCVWJ3-CuF7l47cjUO0zYqj-9NAAi3ZFnWk4VJ__BgPleJdjm2h68X2TAi3TWMlAdUUi-kn8AMiFntV90pfsIJjoi8uQdsUY/s200/pawn_hearts_cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418024527810907570" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJnTEcgqzlDpgoZ8MlFUkumvRXlt88udW1-UbGdMxWPspcv2dsp_uG6AuEoIHble09Gm6tscndB4yUa0BXQtOxcsQ1pP_1kKB-bLXKV24Adq-lS0xX6fgs_twWblBU-W8UXCv_qdF7yjE/s1600-h/cover_4120131072009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJnTEcgqzlDpgoZ8MlFUkumvRXlt88udW1-UbGdMxWPspcv2dsp_uG6AuEoIHble09Gm6tscndB4yUa0BXQtOxcsQ1pP_1kKB-bLXKV24Adq-lS0xX6fgs_twWblBU-W8UXCv_qdF7yjE/s200/cover_4120131072009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418024438815934322" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qrEjPyzI5F_H82_oMH8FMzB_rYi7DTO_L1BmQlC1UACITZomFtCsy53ssHZMHnZTqc9xXHRInNzosHVsdwhLDX10AJW7g5wmcFgG038fAdgPnR-FwUYaTzh5R4Z7GRXgAdh03RqExj8/s1600-h/quiet_sun.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qrEjPyzI5F_H82_oMH8FMzB_rYi7DTO_L1BmQlC1UACITZomFtCsy53ssHZMHnZTqc9xXHRInNzosHVsdwhLDX10AJW7g5wmcFgG038fAdgPnR-FwUYaTzh5R4Z7GRXgAdh03RqExj8/s200/quiet_sun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418024335674506642" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>4523</o:Words> <o:characters>25783</o:Characters> <o:lines>214</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>51</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>31663</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; 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line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Part II- </b>For your argumentation and delectation, see Part I (below) for any and all explanatory notes needed for methodology and apologies (none, in both cases). - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">TKR</span></span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Weidorje</span></span></span>-<span style=""> </span>S/T<span style=""> </span>1978</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>The ultimate one-and-done; one of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Vander</span></span></span>’s mercilessly indoctrinated <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Zeuhl</span></span></span>-school cultists, taught by the master and then turned loose on a world both unfit for such genius but deserving all the punishing mayhem therein all the same. The most pure-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Zeuhl</span></span></span> of any non-Magma I’m aware of (and I am a serious student of the school), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Weidorje</span></span></span> produced an album of such severity and lack of compromise that it must be at least considered that this is the very greatest <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Zeuhl</span></span></span> album of all.<span style=""> </span>Certainly, it is a legend; the musicianship of “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Booldemug</span></span></span>”, the original vinyl’s closer, is so frenetic, outlandish and completely remorseless that listening to the track becomes a physically exhausting event; starting innocently enough with a lovely fugue from genius keyboardist Patrick Gauthier, absolute madness soon breaks out as Bernard <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Pagnotti</span></span></span>’s bass and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Kirt</span></span></span> Rust’s drums seem to be in competition for driving their listeners to acts of grievous self-mutilation and abuse.<span style=""> </span>Oh, and the album’s story line is about a giant UFO arriving to take away all good <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Zeuhl</span></span></span>-heads to a new world with new values and complete safety; man, if that’s not <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Prog</span></span></span>, I’ll kiss your ass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Soft Machine- <i>One (1968), Volume Two (1969) and Third (1970)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Right then, I’m just supposed to pick </span><i>one</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> of these albums for a putative list of the greatest <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Prog</span></span></span> albums ever made.<span style=""> </span>What absolute silliness; I’m not a tireless defender of the Machine, in that even with my love for these records I freely admit that missteps were taken along the way and the idea of this band without Robert Wyatt is pretty much like the idea of Hell without the Devil; </span><i>like, where’s the guy in charge, man?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>But the first two records are of such pure Psychedelic perfection that the third really does end all debate about Wyatt’s importance to Canterbury, and his overall remorseless genius.<span style=""> </span>“Out-Bloody-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Rageous</span></span></span>” is the best long-form Canterbury track ever recorded, and let me go on record now as proclaiming <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Ratledge</span></span></span>’s organ sound as the best and most pure of an era that was ankle-deep in genius Hammond and electric piano players.<span style=""> </span>These are three of my absolute favorite records ever, and if the Soft Machine <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">isn</span></span></span>’t in the “real” rock n’ roll Hall of Fame then it’s nothing but a sick fucking joke, and I think we should just ignore the new “Mistake by the Lake” and make the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">PRHOI</span></span></span> the PEOPLE’S <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">HOF</span></span></span>!!!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Igra</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Staklenih</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Perli</span></span></span>- <i>S/T (1979), Soft Explosion Live (1991) and Drives (1993)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> We talked about Croatia yesterday, now let’s acknowledge the contributions of Serbia’s best <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Prog</span></span></span> band, the startlingly sinister Psych sounds of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">ISP</span></span></span> (“The Glass Bead” game, in English, from Hesse’s novel). Let me first start by saying this: this is one of my favorite bands ever.<span style=""> </span>Thanks to the genius who runs the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Orexis</span></span></span> of Death blog, I found these records a while ago and decided, “What the hell- Yugo Drug music. Who knew.” I then downloaded the records and left my body for a while. Heavily in debt to </span><i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Saucerful</span></span></span></i><span style="font-style: normal;">-era Floyd, but also KC circa </span><i>Red </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Pecurka</span></span></span>” which means- are you ready for this?- “mushroom”, ha ha ha) <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">ISP</span></span></span> goes trance-deep into grooves dense as super-massive black holes and especially on the last named album, above, segues into near-nodding-head Psychedelic prostration; this is some fucking groovy shit, man. This music is so fucking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">trippy</span></span></span> that if you’re making sweet love to your lady while listening to one of these albums, you will ejaculate pixie dust and she’ll give birth to Pan; which is fine by me, as if you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">ve</span></span></span> seen “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Alucarda</span></span></span>” (one of my favorite movies) you know Pan is fucking BAD-ASS and gets all the just-past-juvenile Latina convent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">hotties</span></span></span> to sell him their soul and...</span><i>other things.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>So now I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">ve</span></span></span> just got to find a girl who can tolerate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">ISP</span></span></span> for more than five minutes and I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">ve</span></span></span> got all my problems licked; not bloody likely, as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">ISP</span></span></span> is not only drug-crazed, but quite clearly lecherous in intent as well.<span style=""> </span>Absolutely fucking mandatory for Space Freaks of all kinds everywhere, and an excellent addition to any Timothy Leary “starter kit” for young people interested in becoming heavily involved with drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Buon</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Vecchio</span></span></span> Charlie- S/T<span style=""> </span>1972</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>If somebody ever drew up a list of every <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Prog</span></span></span> band that made use of Grieg’s “Hall of the Mountain King” at some point in their work, the list would, like a line of all the Chinese marched into the sea, never end.<span style=""> </span>I don’t think any of them ever made better use of the motif, however, than this Jazzy-Psychedelic bunch from Italy who made one album and split- I don’t even know what ever became of the group members once this ephemeral, but brilliant, outfit decided they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">weren</span></span></span>’t going anywhere with the concept.<span style=""> </span>Excellent guitar-heavy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Jazzrock</span></span></span> that might remind you at times of Ian Carr’s Nucleus, except with a virtuoso flautist.<span style=""> </span>Which reminds me...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Nucleus, <i>We’ll Talk About It Later,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><span style=""> </span>1970</b></span><span style=""> </span>More a Jazz record than a “rock” one, Ian Carr collected some startlingly talented musicians and then proceeded to confound everyone by changing the name of his band on virtually every record they made.<span style=""> </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Jazzrock</span></span></span> is- sometimes with justification- viciously reviled by otherwise calm and orderly people who would never think of eating meat or swatting a fly, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">wouldn</span></span></span>’t hesitate to put a knife in the back of someone who dared play a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Spyro</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Gyra</span></span></span> record or start a conversation with “Hey, don’t you think Herbie Hancock’s <i>Headhunters </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is great?”<span style=""> </span>The Curator tries not to defend open manifestations of violence, but can allow that sometimes, as Donald <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Rumsfeld</span></span></span> would say, “Stuff happens”.<span style=""> </span>He only asks that, before you go burying that blade in your neighbor’s lower lumbar, consider than not all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Jazzrock</span></span></span> is the same, and that in the case of Nucleus, it is actually some pretty heavy shit.<span style=""> </span>There is no excuse for the vast majority of their sleeve art, however; Alley Cat may be the most scintillating record ever made, but I’ll never know, because the cover is so fucking cornball I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">wouldn</span></span>’t even consider listening to it.<span style=""> </span>The Curator has a “rep”, baby, and guards it like the key to his enigmatic and misanthropic heart.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Pulsar- <i>The Strands of the Future (1976) and Halloween (1977)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>France was overrun with genius in the 70’s, and in every conceivable direction Progressive Rock could take: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Zeuhl</span></span> (Magma), RIO (Art <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Zoyd</span></span>), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Avant</span></span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Garde</span></span> nuttiness (Mosaic, Igor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Wakhevitch</span></span>) Jazz Fusion (Ange, Atoll) and then this bunch, with their ghostly, haunting, restrained and perfectly on-pitch Space Psych.<span style=""> </span>These were outstanding productions; </span><i>Strands</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is simply a gorgeous album, and while the CD can’t get every nuance of the vinyl (RE-MASTER, PLEASE!!!) this is still some of the greatest headphones-music ever made.<span style=""> </span>It’s also nice to know that there were drugs in France too, as these two brilliant albums were clearly fueled by copious amounts of magician’s elixirs; and an extra note of praise for Gilbert <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Gandil</span></span>’s absolutely gorgeous white double-neck <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">SG</span></span> (and matching white suit!), used to such great effect on his very subtle and classy guitar work.<span style=""> </span>Two of my absolute most favorite albums of all time; epic and beautiful Space Rock.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Gnidrolog</span>- <i>...in Spite of Harry’s Toenail (1971) and Lady Lake (1972)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Exhibit “A” as to why the demise of the record label age should not me mourned for even so much as a second.<span style=""> </span>From what I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">ve</span> read, this band was so hopelessly mismanaged and ill-marketed that even after critics were going bonkers over this completely original brand of totally unclassifiable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Prog</span>, there were still not any albums being shipped to help the band actually get bought, played and paid.<span style=""> </span>A horrible waste of what are two tremendous- and I cannot stress this enough- </span><b><i>unique</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> albums; you know who sounded like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Gnidrolog</span>?<span style=""> </span></span><i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Gnidrolog</span>.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> That’s it. Like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Comus</span>, all attempts to compare the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Goldring</span> brothers to anything else going on in this remarkably fruitful time are pointless without actually sitting down and listening to the records; which The Curator strongly encourages you to do.<span style=""> </span></span><i>Lake</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is generally considered their definitive artistic statement, but I still think </span><i>Toenail </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is the better album, mainly because “Snails” is one of the most pensive and morbidly discordant uses of the normally-way-too-happy instrument known as the flute I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">ve</span> ever heard; deserves to be remembered as one of the truly great albums of the Progressive Rock era.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Jannick</span> Top-<span style=""> </span><i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">Soleil</span> D’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">Ork</span>,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 2001</b></span><span style=""> </span>God I love <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Zeuhl</span>.<span style=""> </span>You know why?<span style=""> </span>It keeps people away from you.<span style=""> </span>“Music of the Spheres” is one of the greatest pieces of music I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">ve</span> ever heard in my life; terrifyingly austere, numbingly repetitive, Top’s vision of the Universe and what might be in it is decidedly darker than <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">Paganotti</span>’s happy little UFO coming to take us to a blissful rendezvous beyond the stars.<span style=""> </span>M. Top seemed more obsessed with the “repetition” aspect of Master <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">Vander</span>’s teachings, and if you’re waiting for a “hook” or a catchy chorus of some kind in this misanthropic masterwork, you might as well pitch a tent and wait for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">Weidorje</span>’s spaceship to arrive.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, for all its genius, “Spheres” is the kind of thing that keeps the middle-mind away, makes cats hide under tables, and ensures isolation and purity of thought far, far removed from the obnoxious masses who let a little thing like outright Fascist inter-stellar <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">nihil</span>-jazz upset them; it’s only an album, right?<span style=""> </span>And Top’s space aliens probably <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">aren</span>’t real...though if they are, ha ha, man are we fucked...<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Algarnas Tradgard-<span style=""> </span><i>Framtiden ar ett Svavande Skepp, Forankrat I Forntiden,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><span style=""> </span>1972</b></span><span style=""> </span>Let’s talk about weird music for a second, friends.<span style=""> </span>We all like a little weirdness every now and then and I’m sure we all agree sometimes certain people try a little too hard to be weird and end up sounding...well, like poseurs.<span style=""> </span>I can’t imagine anyone saying this about Algarnas Tradgard, one of the strangest and most defiantly individualistic bands of the classic era.<span style=""> </span>This is really their only “proper” album, since the title of the follow-up- <i>Delayed</i><span style="font-style: normal;">- says it all: the album was shelved for almost 30 years due to a variety of brilliant business decisions by the Philistines who had control over this iconoclastic Swedish outfit’s work.<span style=""> </span>But the reputation AT gained with </span><i>Framtiden</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is one well-deserved; kind of a cross between Norse Folk music, Odin Prog with a tendency to Krautrock and- believe it or not- Medieval polyphony and something akin to Chaucer Jazz, and you get a very rough idea of what the album sounds like.<span style=""> </span>An even better way is to find it yourself and give a listen; this is what The Curator will, again, highly recommend, as this is a truly unique and fan-fucking-tastically </span><i>different </i><span style="font-style: normal;">album.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Grobschnitt- <i>Solar Music Live,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1978</b></span><span style=""> </span>The spirit of parody and good humor- along with some very, very German-specific jokes- turns a lot of people off to this record.<span style=""> </span>That is too bad, because this is without a doubt the greatest live album ever recorded, and probably the best sustained guitar solo ever attempted.<span style=""> </span>I mean, essentially, that’s all the album is; a 57-minute guitar solo which amounts to a meta-fake book for the instrument and allows Kuhn and Danielak to indulge every hook, groove, chord or masturbatory impulse they had ever had since picking the instrument up.<span style=""> </span>An exhausting and exhilarating space trip to the limits of improvisation and hard rock.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Arbete Och Fritid-<span style=""> </span>S/T, 1973</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Another obscure gem liberated from the Prog potash-pile by the good folks at Mutant Sounds, this is one of the strangest and most hallucinatory Prog Folk albums ever recorded.<span style=""> </span>There is something very special about the Swedish language when sung; it might not appeal to everyone, but it is uniquely melancholy and fount of a thousand sorrows in each syllable; surely this has never been more the case than on this uncanny, beautiful Baroque-and-Roll record filled with dirges, strange instruments, curious phrasing and Druid-like clarion calls to the ingestion of massive amounts of drugs.<span style=""> </span>The closing track (“Ostpusten-Vastpusten”, which I believe are types of psilocybin mushrooms which grow in Swedish forests) is an epic of Psych-Folk and will make you burn all of those silly Bob Dylan records you own once and the fuck for all. A spectacular ur-RIO record unlike anything else I’ve ever heard.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Nya Ljudbolaget-<span style=""> </span>S/T<span style=""> </span>1980</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>The Curator doesn’t know much about this record because it’s sung in Swedish and is very, very weird- and the band did this one-shot and then vanished.<span style=""> </span>Like the album named above, it is largely a futile operation to “adjective” an album like this into comprehensibility, much better to listen to the thing and decide for yourself if obscure Norse instruments and dialects and Medieval-sounding polyrhythms are your thing.<span style=""> </span>They are for me, and this album makes a marvelous Nordic counterpoint to the more bucolic and Arcadian Prog Folks sounds of Latin Civilization descendents, like Malicorne <i>(q.v.)</i></span><span style=""> </span>A real treat of avant-Prog experimentation.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style=""> </span>Jonesy-<span style=""> </span><i>Growing,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>Gains a nod from The Curator because of the relentless energy of the opening number (“Can You Get Than Together”, an anthem of loose-living, Priest-cursing, distemperate aestheticism and libidinal womanizing- surely written in anticipation of your current writer’s ideal state of affairs in life) and the fact that the synthesized trumpet is an idea sadly unexplored in Prog, or Jazz for that matter- except here.<span style=""> </span>Alan Brown can really blow, and while it is a bit of a stretch to say this is one of the “best” Prog albums ever recorded, you will enjoy this album if you’ve never heard it, and part of the mission here at the PRHOI is, of course, to educate.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Wishbone Ash-<span style=""> </span><i>Argus,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1972<span style=""> </span></b></span>Absolutely some of the sweetest harmonies and acoustic fretting you’ll ever hear (yes, The Curator is capable of “kicking back”, as the young people say, every so often) which then seamlessly flow into superb dual-guitar work of perfect syncopation and rhythm.<span style=""> </span>A really, really enjoyable album for anyone who admires the beauty of open-channel guitar and dense, hook-friendly craftsmanship in songwriting.<span style=""> </span>And Steve Upton is a wonderfully inventive drummer, if you give <i>Argus</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a closer listen.<span style=""> </span>One of my favorite albums ever that doesn’t involve space aliens, deliberately provocative time signatures or explicit calls to drug use; a true classic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Van der Graaf Generator-<span style=""> </span><i>H to He, Who Am The Only One (1970) </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>and</b></span><b><i> Pawn Hearts (1971)<span style=""> </span></i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;">Well, now we’re getting down to brass tacks as they say, aren’t we?<span style=""> </span>I must say first off that while I love the VdGG to distraction, the promise of these first two albums is so absolutely overwhelming that later efforts may make this band one of the great disappointments in the history of Prog.<span style=""> </span>I mean, ELP will forever hold the crown for squandered talent, but for Christ’s sakes sitting thru </span><i>Pawn Hearts</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in one continuous listen is one of the most overwhelming musical experiences a person can have.<span style=""> </span>As my collaborator here at the PRHOI has observed, “A Plague of Lighthouse Keepers” is “as dense as any Nietzschean text”, and as a longtime worshipper of the last Western thinker who truly mattered before me, I understand completely what MM means.<span style=""> </span>Go ahead, listen to either of these records and find a weak spot; it’s like probing Hell for Sympathy or Heaven for Thought.<span style=""> </span>A complete waste of time and thieving you away from the crushing sensual immersion things like “Man Erg” supply in deft severity. So overwhelming are both albums- although for me the latter is clearly one of the great events in the cultural life of Europe- that those later efforts everyone seems to love so much (All Music has </span><i>Pleasure Dome</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> as- by far- the band’s highest-rated album, which is so ridiculous as to not even be worth the spittle of my sneer) really make one risible in moments of unsentimental reflection.<span style=""> </span>It’s only that I’ve been so soul-deep in Prog for the last few days that now, as I begin to unravel from so much beauty and so much pain, that I even shudder to consider where certain bands could have gone had they only kept that spark of perfect creation alive in them for just a blessed and uninterrupted decade; this is all I ask.<span style=""> </span></span><i>H to He</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Pawn</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> are perfect records, both of them, but goddammit Peter Hammil...there was no excuse for </span><i>Godbluff</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, now was there???<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Malicorne- <i>Almanach,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1976</b></span><span style=""> </span>Beautiful Medieval Folk crossed with modern song structures, all sung in a haunting Provencal French by one of the most skillful acoustic guitarists of an era that reveled in traditional sounds and unplugged virtuosos.<span style=""> </span>Marie Yacoub’s vocals are serene, clear and powerful, a perfect compliment to her husband’s leads and creating an effect that is almost capable of calming The Curator; no mean feat, friends.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Gentle Giant- <i>Acquiring The Taste (1971), Octopus (1972) and In A Glass House (1973)<span style=""> </span></i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;">Three perfect and well-known albums that emphasize voice in a way that can only be called revelatory; GG actually cracked the charts with </span><i>Octopus,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> according to my co-curator Mr. Moses, which tells us a lot about where this civilization has descended to in the last 35 years of “rap”, pap and irredeemable shite.<span style=""> </span>Ferociously complex music that only becomes accessible on the third or fourth listen, all three of these records are mandatory documents for serious students of the Classic Prog era.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Mike Oldfield- <i>Tubular Bells,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>The one man gang himself, Oldfield’s masterpiece of engineering, production and sound is perhaps unfairly maligned due to its association with “The Exorcist”, though it would be profoundly foolish to dismiss this as “movie music”.<span style=""> </span>Epic, moody, heavy and restrained, <i>Bells</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is one of the few “mainstream” Prog albums that actually deserves its legend and superlatives.<span style=""> </span>A startling work of art that is completely hypnotic, and completely removed from the Oldfield’s later, disastrously gay “New Age” flotsam.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Quiet Sun- <i>Mainstream,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1975<span style=""> </span></b></span>Another album that is brilliant from its sleeve art and all throughout the production, this somewhat-obscure Canterbury gem fields an all-star team of English jazz-rock musicians and allows them to just let it all hang out.<span style=""> </span>Apparently this was supposed to be an ongoing project; sadly, Quiet Sun packed it in after one record, and the members (particularly Phil Manzanera) went on to some rather spotty work in the years that followed.<span style=""> </span>This, however, is a masterpiece and I would say required listening for Prog-o-files of any inclination.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Elektriktus- <i>Electronic Mind Waves,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><span style=""> </span>1976</b></span><span style=""> </span>Goodness, I wonder if this is one of those awful “drug” records?<span style=""> </span>You would be correct in assuming this, reader; a one-off of exceptional rarity (so obscure not even Spacefreak seems to know much about these guys), this is also a superbly hypnotic Electronic composition that is about as Kosmiche as you can get; my version was ripped straight from vinyl, and has 30+ years of awesome bacon-frying static that only makes the proceedings more trippy and dark.<span style=""> </span>Why nobody makes music like this anymore baffles me, but thanks to the Internets there is plenty of the vintage stuff available, and this Italian rarity is one of the best examples of the type you will find.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Ralph Lundsten-<span style=""> </span><i>Inspiration Sweden,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1972</b></span><span style=""> </span>The insane Swede- most famous for writing the music for the greatest of all rape-revenge movies, “Thriller”, and for living in a massive pink Victorian mansion in his homeland- here with his most abstract and hypnotic work, about as far as I can go with “music” that is almost not music anymore.<span style=""> </span>Definitely for late nights home alone (not that I would know much about those) and surely not in any way to be confused with “dance” music, this is Lundsten’s best series of compositions and <i>de rigueur</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> for those wanting to truly explore the abstract paradise that was the early 70’s in Scandinavia.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Genesis- <i>Nursery Cryme (1971), Foxtrot (1972), Selling England By The Pound (1973) </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>and</b></span><b><i> The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway (1974)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Anybody conceivably reading this will know plenty about these four records; if you don’t, then you’re probably one of those Marillion-Dream Theater type “Prog” fans and I don’t want you reading this blog anyway, because I don’t want your fucking Neo-Prog AIDS getting all over my page.<span style=""> </span>So scram, you insalubrious pissants.<span style=""> </span>Now, for the rest of you, I merely ask: has any band, in any genre, during any age, EVER had a more fantastically productive four year run than the Gabriel-fronted Genesis in the early 70’s?<span style=""> </span>An absolutely staggering body of work; Prog’s most endearing number (“I Know What I Like”), the best song ever written about a malevolent (and quite horny) jack-in-the-box (“The Musical Box”), a complete novel (</span><i>Lamb</i><span style="font-style: normal;">) and a fucking <b>APOCALYPSE</b></span> (“Supper’s Ready”, the greatest moment in the history of Prog coming in at “9/8”) thrown in for good measure.<span style=""> </span>Who was the greatest?<span style=""> </span>Gabriel or Hammil?<span style=""> </span>Does it matter?<span style=""> </span>As my co-curator has observed elsewhere, one was Dionysus, the other Apollo; both are gods, and both were part of something that we’ll never, ever see the likes of again.<span style=""> </span>The early 70’s in England were rock n’ roll’s finest hour, and these four amazing records form a central part of that genius.<span style=""> </span>Absolutely, unquestionably essential.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Scott Walker- <i>Tilt,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1995</b></span><span style=""> </span>But is it Prog, you ask?<span style=""> </span>Probably not; this is more of an “avant-garde” record, whatever that means these days, but it’s also so perfect and moving that I just absolutely had to find a way to get it on the list.<span style=""> </span>Oh, The Curator had a heart at one point, friends; before several run-ins with Kali-like goddesses of pure destruction who rendered me incapable of sympathy for anything outside of domestic animals and alcohol, I lived, I laughed, and- yes- <i>The Curator loved.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Those days are blessedly behind, and that is why listening to Scott Walker is such a very personal experience for me.<span style=""> </span>Featuring one of the finest vocal performances ever captured (“Farmer In the City”) and many other appallingly painful moments, this is one of my favorite albums and you are heartily encouraged to listen to it and wallow in pain and loss for everything you ever loved that dare not love you.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Kraftwerk- <i>Radio-Aktivitat (1975), Trans-Europa Express (1977) </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>and</b></span><b><i> Die Mensch-Maschine (1978)</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><span style=""> </span></b></span>There’s nothing even my unmitigated genius is going to be able to say about these records that hasn’t been said a million times by the kind of blowhards who write for middle-mind entertainment magazines and buy famous directors slices of pizza (and then brag about it for years in between bellowing bouts of alcoholic stupor and falling off of barstools with a thud reminiscent of a wooly mammoth in its death-throes).<span style=""> </span>So I really can only do one thing, and that is defend my inclusion of the first album on the list; everybody else gets to be all artsy and avant-garde, but when Kraftwerk does it it’s not ok?<span style=""> </span>Fuck that shit; RA is a radical record of noise, metronomic hallucination and claustrophobic deep-chill distance.<span style=""> </span>The only really misanthropic record “The Robots” ever made, and an album I’ve been listening to for many years; plus, I have great memories of pissing people off in coffee shops back in the days of cheap headphones that let half of the sound out to the general public.<span style=""> </span>The “tweeting” part of RA, especially, has had people ready to throw punches my way, and, for me, it’s not been a complete day unless I’ve made at least one person hate me.<span style=""> </span>Good times.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Ash Ra Tempel- <i>First,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1971</b></span><span style=""> </span>A little different for Kosmische-Kraut, this is a guitar-heavy <i>magnum opus</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> of pure lysergic frenzy.<span style=""> </span>Ash Ra here demands to be listened to on a beanbag chair in total darkness with something of an opiate or opiate-derivative on hand for cosmic “guidance”;<span style=""> </span>as seriously spaced out and feedback-laced as anything Zeppelin did, this puts to bed any lingering notion that Germans can only mellow-out when they’re stoned.<span style=""> </span>A fucking wall-to-wall trip of a record and highly, highly recommended by The Curator.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Gracious- <i>!,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1970</b></span><span style=""> </span>If you know these guys at all it is probably due to Andy Votel’s rather impressive “Vertigo Mixed”, which he put together in 2005 in order to show off that he had an amazing record collection, and also that he was a complete asshole who was ashamed to be English and a bit too “world” friendly, if you ask me.<span style=""> </span>Prog is, and always has been, the white man’s burden, and while I appreciate Votel’s efforts to (ha ha) remove it from the nerd-ghetto the music has wallowed in for 40 years, let’s not kid ourselves here- Barris Manco and some of those bands from South America were interesting, and there were a handful of Japanese bands who got the “formula” down pretty well, but...England, France, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, a couple bands from behind the Iron Curtain and (if you insist) Italy are all you really need to know about Prog and anyone who says otherwise is probably just afraid of being called a “racist” for not listening to something really fucking boring and lame from the second stage on the WARPED tour- but “diverse”, which is all that really matters.<span style=""> </span>The Curator does not value “diversity” in the Arts; he values <i>talent.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>All other considerations are extraneous and born of a pusillanimous demeanor fit for slaves.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">That being said, this is a good record.<span style=""> </span>Like Jonesy, it is a bit of stretch to put them on this list, but the high moments of Gracious are so enjoyable that if you miss out on them then I’m not doing my job to keep the glorious “Prog Rainbow” flying in its multitude of colors.<span style=""> </span>Keep the dream alive and listen to some Gracious this week, you’ll enjoy them.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Cluster- <i>Zuckerzeit,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1974</b></span><span style=""> </span>Along with Neu!, authors of some of the best metronomic Electro-Kraut of the era.<span style=""> </span>More precise and closer in spirit to Kraftwerk than the free-ranging smelly hippies of the Faust/Can scene, this is an awesome record to listen to while reading Heidegger or gliding on people-movers through the impersonal<span style=""> </span>and anodyne domed-enclaves in the coming dystopia that will be the Corporate States of America, Lld.<span style=""> </span>Cold, clinical and without a doubt brilliant nihil-Kraut negative-excess.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Achim Reichel & Machines-<span style=""> </span><i>Die Grune Reise,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1971</b></span><span style=""> </span>Hello my German hippie friends!<span style=""> </span>One of the best pure-guitar expeditions to the center of the brain from the incredibly hashish-smoked Kraut scene of the early 70’s, this entire album is essentially Herr Reichel, some dude to drive into town and get more drugs (the “Machines”), a wall of primitive echo effects and an amazingly competent sound engineer who blends it all together seamlessly and with perfect insouciance.<span style=""> </span>One of the greatest achievements in the history of Psych guitar and an album that never loses its charm.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Aunt Mary- <i>Janus,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>More Scandinavian excellence from a band that moved effortlessly between super-heavy Odin Prog and the Beatles-influenced Psych-Pop that appears on this tremendously enjoyable record.<span style=""> </span>I’m not sure I can say that <i>Janus </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is one of my “absolute most favorite records ever”, but it certainly is </span><i>exactly</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> what I want to hear every time I play it.<span style=""> </span>I will say this- “Stumblin’ Stone” is one of my favorite songs of the entire era, and you should check it out just for that. Great harmonies reminiscent of Day Of Phoenix and other Copenhagen-scene bands, this is one of the best records to ever come out of Sweden.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>November-<span style=""> </span><i>2: a November</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;">, </span><b>1971 </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>More Swedes and another record I’m sure some will insist doesn’t belong on a list of “Prog” records; too bad, it’s my list and these guys are clever enough to qualify as “Progressive” with their songwriting and superb melancholy vocals.<span style=""> </span>Outstanding hard rock and the best album from a band who quietly carved out a remarkable catalogue of albums without ever raising a peep in the States.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Neu!-<span style=""> </span>S/T, 1972</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Stupefyingly dense Krautrock which goes from a happy excursion with the <i>wandervogel</i></span> (“Hallogallo”) to the pure mechanical terror of the <i>panzerwaffe</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> driving an iron-tipped lance into the heat of the Ardennes (“Negativland”).<span style=""> </span>A near-perfect record and one I have still never managed to successfully talk a girl into having sex while listening to; a pity, as my panzer could use some waffing right about now.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Caravan-<span style=""> </span><i>If I Could Do It All Again, I’d Do It Over You (1970) </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>and</b></span><b><i> In The Land of Grey And Pink (1971)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>A lot of these bands fell apart in rather sad ways later, but in the classic Canterbury years of 1968 to 1973, there were more good albums made by more clever bands using more whimsical notions and more ironically-tinged lyrics than in the entire rest of musical history up ‘till that point.<span style=""> </span>Caravan made two of those records, and to be honest all five of their first records could have made this list if I wasn’t deeply anxious of the fact that my original project of collecting the Top 25 Prog albums has since become the Top 50 and those Top 50 are soon to be goddamn near 100.<span style=""> </span>The madness has to stop!<span style=""> </span>The Curator spent 10 hours behind this Mac yesterday, and about 12 today; and long, long, </span><i>long</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> ago ran out of adjectives and superlatives from his absolutely vast store of pompous verbiage.<span style=""> </span>I thought it was tough finding new and ever more inventive ways of saying that something “sucked”; finding ways to say something is “brilliant” is perhaps even tougher.<span style=""> </span>Oh well, Caravan is brilliant, and as far as the mellower sound of Canterbury goes, they are probably tops.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Hatfield And The North-<span style=""> </span><i>S/T (1973) </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>and</b></span><b><i> The Rotter’s Club (1975)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>How shitty is Camel, friends of Prog?<span style=""> </span>Even Richard Sinclair couldn’t help them.<span style=""> </span>This is saying something, because one of Canterbury’s MVP’s made his mark first with Caravan and then this short-lived outfit, who made two albums that were both essentially perfect and then went back to the other 100 projects each of them were involved in at the time.<span style=""> </span>The Curator has said before that Canterbury may be his favorite variant of Prog, and while this may shock those readers who had him pegged as a closet-Fascist Zeuhl demon, just consider how many fucking GREAT records this incestuous gaggle of British musicians managed to make in just about five years.<span style=""> </span>It’s fucking incredible; this list alone is clogged with Jazzrock, which may annoy some people, but if you actually sit down and relax and listen to this stuff I can’t understand how if you think the Beatles were complex and rewarded “deep” listens, then how could you not immediately become obsessed with the stunning genius that aggregated around the Canterbury Scene in the years 1968-73, plus or minus a year or two if you count the Wilde Flowers and allow for records like </span><i>The Rotter’s Club</i><span style="font-style: normal;">- which The Curator thinks you should at least consider.<span style=""> </span>Very contemplative and sometimes melancholy music from an incredibly talented group of performers who produced some of the most complex vocal harmonies of the rock era.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Atoll- <i>L’Araignee-Mal,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1975<span style=""> </span></b></span>I put a track from this record on a compilation I had prepared for a girl I was trying to impress once- the utterly demonic “Le Photographe Exorciste”- and she responded by saying that this was clearly an attempt at<span style=""> </span>“dipping my pigtails in the inkwell”, which, while a colorful illustration, makes clear the insuperable hazards of trying to “date” while “loving Prog”.<span style=""> </span>Oh well, I’ll always have France; and let’s close this list with a final entry from the Hexagon, and what is probably the best Fusion album to come from that maniacally creative scene.<span style=""> </span>A total classic, and, yes- totally pigtail-dippin’ fun.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Addenda (12/25-12/26): </b>No list of this kind can ever be perfect. Or truly complete. That being said, there were some, uhmmm...rather glaring omissions commited by your Curator in compiling what he wanted to be the definitive "serious" classic Progressive Rock album list. So, having had a few days to field complaints and think things over, here are a few more gems that I think need to be on any list of truly great Prog records. - TKR</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%; font-weight: bold;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Spirogyra- <span style="font-style: italic;">St. Radigunds, </span>1971</span> The omission that started a torment of soul-searching for The Curator. Not only one of the best Prog Folk albums of the era, but one of the great albums recorded in England between the years 1967 and 1974 <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">period. </span>(Note: Those years were not just pulled out of my ass, either; those are the prime years of the greatest explosion of creativity and talent in the history of the Rock era, and specifically in, about, and around the United Kingdom. Please, someone inform Andy Votel of this iron-clad fucking <span style="font-weight: bold;">FACT</span> of history. Thank you.) An amazing record of violent imagery and equally belligerent lyrical stylizing; Martin Cockerham had a growl and a sneer in his voice so menacing that the only thing I could think to compare him to is Roger Wootton; and of course, his band has been compared to Spirogyra in many, many ways- though it's important to note that both of these groups were pretty much out there on their own, and determined to prove that you don't need a wall of synthesizers to be "different". I have no way of knowing anything about this, but I can't help but think of the novels and stories of the Welshman James Hanley (see esp. "The Last Voyage" and "Greaser Anderson") when listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">St. Radigands;</span> there is a torrent of working-class silent desperation pouring through Cockerham's brutal tongue- and more than a little preview of John Lydon's histrionics of near-a-decade later. The lyrics of "Captain's Log" are some of the most bitter ever commited to vinyl, and if the production sometimes swells a bit much and tends to distract from the purity of the acoustic musicianship, remember, this is what makes the proceedings truly <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Progressive;</span> an epic of Impressionistic Prog Folk, a style virtually all to the own of Spirogyra's three studio albums, this is a total fucking classic moody and melancholy trip, and perfect for nights at home alone with wine, thoughts of regret and a gun.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Mittelwinternacht '71- S/T, 1971</b> A real Kosmiche Mystery Record!!! Suppsoedly recorded in one long Winter night somewhere in Germany by the mysterious "Edward Fraser" and "Christopher French", a suspicious German-speaking reader over at the magnificent <a href="http://mutant-sounds.blogspot.com/search?q=mittelwinternacht">Mutant Sounds</a> blog noted a certain Angli-cizing of the names "Edgar Froese" and "Christopher Franke" and declared the record a "Kraut-Hoax"! Well, authentic or not, this is one of the best bouts of pure Space noise you will ever hear, though newcomers to Electronic music should really perhaps refrain from this monstrously vague and labyrinthine work; to call this "music" in a conventional sense is very misleading, and it's really best to remember that sometimes Prog entreats the serious listener to leave their bodies for a while and simply embrace the grand drugged ether that is the Kosmiche; this is one of those records. But for serious Tangerine Dream or Popol Vuh heads, you have here a masterpiece, and one of the more genuinely spooky albums ever made. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Moving Gelatine Plates- <i>The World of Genius Hans,</i> 1972</b> PRHOI reader Mike Hargis wrote in with some very complimentary remarks about the scale and scope of this list, and a gentle chiding for somehow forgetting to include this excellent French Canterbury record. Indeed, there is no defense for such an omission; I was investigating the French RIO scene a while back, and somehow these guys were worked into that madness. Certainyl there may be moments of RIO-ish mayhem on this excellent record, but this sounds like pure Canterbury to me, with lots of over-fuzzed bass and crazy wah guitar and all those Jazz-like time signature shifts that make 4/4 time Rock fans despise this and other kinds of intelligent and well-crafted music. I'd say this is almost mandatory, expecially considering how the non-English Canterbury groups get overlooked, even by specialists in the field. A horrible mistake on my part now thankfully corrected; this is a really charming record, and I am sure you will enjoy it. Thank you to the reader for his reminder.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Supersister- <i>Present From Nancy (1970)</i> and <i>To The Highest Bidder (1971)</i></b> Sure, the charges of being "derivative" can be applied with force and justice to this Dutch Canterbury Scene group, but they did such a great job of getting the motifs down and grooving things out ("Energy") the fact that the singer sounds just like Richard Sinclair doesn't really bother me that much. "No Tree Will Grow" sounds like the cradle of every Radiohead ballad every written and is genuinely beautiful; lots of people hate this band, but I've also heard there are those cruel and hopelessly-marooned-from-humanity kind-of souls who hate susnshine, kittens and beautiful young girls; so it's up to you to decide where you want to go with this recommendation. Later records to be strictly avoided, but Supersister's first two efforts are whimsical, bright, superbly played and I think a great addition to any Prog head's catalogue.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Area- <span style="font-style: italic;">Arbeit Macht Frei,</span> 1973</span> The most insane of the Italian Fusion bands of the 70's, I thought of these guys the other day after some lovely pranksters stole the grimly ironic prisoner-made sign bearing the legend of this album's title from above the main gate to Auschwitz- proof, yet again, that pure rotteness and evil has not been even remotely eradicated from this sick world. (Another way to have this proven to yourself in stomach-churning detail is to enter the word "Holocaust" on The Pirate Bay search engine and see how many of the top titles are from my friends in the "Holocaust Revision" (deniers) camp. I'd say these pricks need a lump of coal in their stockings for Christmas, but since they obviously don't believe in ovens it wouldn't do them much good.) Another band, like Moving Gelatine Plates, that seems to be somewhere in the ill-defined Fusion camp between Canterbury and RIO, DJ Micah at <a href="http://es-es.facebook.com/group.php?gid=65252376082&v=wall">Public Sensory Radio</a> has been a tireless advocate for these and other worthy Italian Fusion acts, and you can learn a lot more about the subject by tuning into his show.<br /></p><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Lucifer's Friend- S/T, 1970</b> I absolutely can't stand their later records and have no idea why the "cult" of LF has gravitated around these putrid jazz-rock releases; but this first record is almost definitive when it comes to the overlooked Heavy Prog ghetto, and to be blunt this record just kicks fucking ass from start to finish. Almost a way to trick Hard Rock fans into appreciating Prog, it's a little bit of Sabbath and a lotta bit of Uriah Heep and a French horn blast for the ages taken straight from "Immigrant Song". You will be rocked, Prog snobs.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Ache- <i>De Homine Urbano (1970)</i> and <i>Green Man (1971)</i></b><i> </i> I've made my thoughts known on Denmark elsewhere in this blog; but to encapsulate, for a nation of approximately 4 million people to have produced the amount of great music the Copenhagen scene is responsible for is incredible. This doesn't even take into account all the Icelandic Hard Rock bands (for some reason they really liked to kick ass in Reykjavik) who came over at some point and only added to the trippiness and fuzz. Ache, however, is one of the best; both of these records are excellent, and have enough native quality to make the Copenhagen scene its own thing, decidedly different from elsewhere (e.g., Culpeper's Orchard and Day Of Phoenix, two bands I would encourage you to check out but not having made the one definitive record quite deserving of this list). Epic arrangements and long-form Spacyness, this is a true bridge between the Psychedelic and Progressive Rock eras. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Dennis- <i>Hyperthalamus,</i> 1975</b> PRHOI co-curator <a href="http://www2.pjstar.com/images/uploads/franzkafka.JPG">Micah Moses</a> sent this along a few months ago proclaiming it his favorte jazzrock record ever; heady praise from a man who hates sunshine, kittens and beautiful young girls (see above), but praise that must be adumbrated to the strictest scrutiny; sure enough, this is a masterpiece. Jazzy for long periods of time and then dangeorusly abstract, this little known quartet of Germans created a work featuring beautifully sedate and minimalist sleeve art with some fantasitcally complex and byzantine arrangements of the music. Yes, it is also one of my favorite Fusion records, too.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Atomic Rooster- <i>Death Walks Behind You, </i>1970</b> Perhaps part of my aversion to this very, very hard rocking English band is due to the uniquely disgusting cover art (tits on a chicken, fag snuffed in an over-easy egg) that bedeviled these lads over their career. However, as PRHOI reader and serious Prog scholar <a href="http://mos.totalfilm.com/images/9/90-second-expert-blaxploitation-05-429-75.jpg">Eric Colin Reidelberger</a> noted after the release of this list, "how you forgot this one is beyond me". Right; it was a true fuck-up on my part, and while this is really the only AR record I like, I like it quite a bit. Just an avalanche of guitar from John DuCann, from the moody opening track and certainly on one of the better instrumentals of the era ("VUG"). The Progressive pedigree is on full display in the latter, and the excellent organ work from the guy responsible for Arthur Brown's absolute monster Psych smash of two years' previous (Vincent Crane; and you can hear a lot of that "Fire"-redolent madness here) is all over the Hammond and makes this one of the more energetic and boisterous albums of the era. Definitely belongs here; thanks to ECR.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Gaa- <i>Auf Der Bahn Zum Uranus,</i> 1974</b> Another suggestion from a noted Prog Scholar (<a href="http://spiderdiaries.richmond.edu/grant11/files/2007/11/450px-ambrose_everett_burnside.jpg">Sean Kelly</a>, of the Portland Institute of Progressive and Psychedelic Studies) that I simply had never heard of until about five months ago. The workload of getting through the entirety of the Prog era is daunting; if you've never checked out the <a href="http://www.progarchives.com/">Prog Archives</a>, do yourself a favor sometime and just see how many bands they have collected as being Prog or in some way Prog-ish or Prog-Related; and I'll probably never hear all, or even close to most, of the albums. No matter; thanks to friends like SK, if I've missed something that they know about, it will make its way to the MacBook Pro Prog Lab at some point, I'm sure of it. And Gaa is one you shouldn't miss, if deeply Kosmische Krautrock is your idea of a good time. Trippy, trippy, trippy- and in parts strenuously funky. Stare at the ceiling and groove, <span style="font-style: italic;">mein Herr. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Osanna- <i>Palepoli,</i> 1972</b> I've struggled with <span style="font-style: italic;">Rock Progressivo Italiano</span> for years. The most well-known bands (PFM, Museo Rosenbach, Le Orme) I just can't get into; whether it's the sometimes-cloyingly refulgent sleeve art or the fact that most of the singers sound like they are hurting their testicles at some point in their overly-operatic performances, I do not know. But both Mr. Moses and the aforementioned Eric Colin Reidelberger insisted I listen to these guys a few months ago, and sure enough I must say this is a superb album. Hard-rocking flute and less of the painful vocalizing I dislike so much from the typical Italian Proggers, this album is essentially two very-long and fiendishly complicated suites of music; a good way of looking at it might be an Italian version of "Supper's Ready", down to the Medieval and Baroque sounds this very patient band coaxes from their production. Terrific album, I guess it doesn't matter if I put it on here so long as I acknowledge it's something I knew nothing about until less than a year ago. Cite your sources, folks; it's not to much to ask.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Jericho- S/T, 1972</b> Too many name changes probably doomed this band; because, quite frankly, their music- whether as The Churchills back home in Israel or as first Jericho Jones and then simply Jericho (after an oft-reported but never confirmed stint in a London nightclub playing as "The Originals" and later "The New Originals") is some of the best Psychedelic and then Hard Rock music of the era. I mean seriously; this album is so fucking great I decided it was Progressive "enough" whether anybody likes it or not. Great proto-Metal and a truly beautiful Space Psych track ("Justin and Nova") pave the way for the kick-fucking-ass moment of the album, the insanely hard rocking "Kill Me With Your Love", featuring one of the top 10 guitar solos of all time and lyrics so preposterously suggestive ("Shoot me with your gun is what she told me/ Shoot me with your gun is what she told me"- I mean, are you <i><b>fucking kidding me???</b></i>) that you wonder why they just didn't come right out and say "She wanted me to fuck her in the ass but these shiksa goyim pigs just make my balls dry", or something similarly nuanced and restrained. Of course, that doesn't really rhyme all that well so maybe that explains it. Regardless: <span style="font-style: italic;">Jericho </span>is almost overwhelming, really; I like lots of albums from lots of genres, but this is definitely in my crate on that apocryphal island where all good music listeners dream of going and just grooving 'till they die. <b>ESSENTIAL. </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Goblin- Soundtrack to <i>Suspiria,</i> 1977</b> In my humble, the greatest sondtrack to arguably the greatest Horror movie of the 70's- Dario Argento's super-sick masterpiece <span style="font-style: italic;">Suspiria. </span> An Italian Symphonic band who seemed to only make music for Horror films, they did it better than anyone with the possible exception of Popol Vuh, and never better than here. A truly, truly frigtening and disturbing album that is hypnotic and astoundingly precise in the moods it is trying to convey.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Eider Stellaire- <i>I,</i> 1981</b> Again, absolutely no excuse for not including this Zeuhl masterpiece on the original list; I must have just been subconsciously anti-Vander that day (please forgive me, Master). More jazzy than some Zeuhl releases, this contains without question some of the best playing in the school, absolutely on par with both Weidorje and Eskaton. Essential for transgressive jazz fiends, a near-perfect record.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Teddy Lasry- <i>E=MC2,</i> 1976</b> Bach-obsessed Zeuhl from a founding member of Magma who knew his way around virtually every woodwind instrument ever conceived; much, much lighter fair than Top or Paganotti projects, this is still highly satisfying and strange music from one of the more unsung heroes of French jazz. Perhaps a good stepping stone for people interested in Zeuhl, but terrfied of its forbidding and monolithic reputation.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Bobby Beausoleil- Soundtrack to <i>Lucifer Rising,</i> 1972</b> One final omission for now to be rectified, this is a fittingly austere and disturbing suite of music recorded by Manson-family associate Beausoleil, who clearly had a tremendous amount of talent and provided a pitch-perfect score to Kenneth Anger's celebrated underground Satanic art film. It's rare that I can sit down and listen to a soundtrack, much less incidental music, which I think is a good way to describe this solemn Electronic suite; but the very sinister patina that clings to virtually every aspect of this cursed production makes for a troubling, but satisfying listen. Also, you might want to check out Jimmy Page's music for this same film; presumed lost for 30 years, it turned up not long ago and is remarkable for how close his vision was for what Beausoleil actually produced. Page was fired in mid-production by the ever bitchy Anger, and he was indeed very, very lucky that Beausoleil emerged with talent enough to replace someone of the stature of Jimmy Page, for Christ's sakes. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-40264216800646975152009-12-21T00:35:00.000-08:002009-12-21T01:05:09.358-08:00Fifty Greatest Prog Records Ever- Part I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfYeh4xfWjIUuGvESY7NoxtlBaEsk74wvEIOpm5sHy30KLUWTGEavoC7EQguxMojKf14tnlxD0WamxBTkX1jnT5cRgV8Yli4Gu1JkS2U3VXkLrprlSrRHJcyFWGeuExTSYlPMSH9VCpKs/s1600-h/b00c3c4f90c3ed38b49c3a9733a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfYeh4xfWjIUuGvESY7NoxtlBaEsk74wvEIOpm5sHy30KLUWTGEavoC7EQguxMojKf14tnlxD0WamxBTkX1jnT5cRgV8Yli4Gu1JkS2U3VXkLrprlSrRHJcyFWGeuExTSYlPMSH9VCpKs/s200/b00c3c4f90c3ed38b49c3a9733a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417610310062610722" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0B1IROupk91j8nyGGgUP0s0_zASaexYxfOkiUBV6AbWT-kUIEx-inO9BfktMytwqJEi2BhjNXM_eHMU7GcRnD6O1CIacbVTkR3hABGuf700Hsk8nMR7TZsYKVyPMSQT8hSsO2VGzeafk/s1600-h/cover_3631132272009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0B1IROupk91j8nyGGgUP0s0_zASaexYxfOkiUBV6AbWT-kUIEx-inO9BfktMytwqJEi2BhjNXM_eHMU7GcRnD6O1CIacbVTkR3hABGuf700Hsk8nMR7TZsYKVyPMSQT8hSsO2VGzeafk/s200/cover_3631132272009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417610231016907122" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaPGkRXCON_lAj2SqZETUWzF3MoA4bji5IjAFuqjl-fZQIj8nwhlRKBKmAmQhIi2g_NhvX8P1fG3HgG9PMOsin0BXH_BaMLwexzaNOcdv_4dNFRWSLgDHMp6sqWyN1U-K5K-0fMJmn9s/s1600-h/cd01big.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaPGkRXCON_lAj2SqZETUWzF3MoA4bji5IjAFuqjl-fZQIj8nwhlRKBKmAmQhIi2g_NhvX8P1fG3HgG9PMOsin0BXH_BaMLwexzaNOcdv_4dNFRWSLgDHMp6sqWyN1U-K5K-0fMJmn9s/s200/cd01big.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417610143956178898" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglV7H0_Zr_ONsAzm7vQdqLk1qL96PD9YK-OcaK9R9eLOKygir8FBWXK5ZxGeBEX6IeImawHl21IskwakRgVkhWKHPS2tRvfxR9dVbdvYJm3edYWAu84aXsl3bViPThHwjhHVYkxTZJfM/s1600-h/1243805933444_f-jpg.jpeg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglV7H0_Zr_ONsAzm7vQdqLk1qL96PD9YK-OcaK9R9eLOKygir8FBWXK5ZxGeBEX6IeImawHl21IskwakRgVkhWKHPS2tRvfxR9dVbdvYJm3edYWAu84aXsl3bViPThHwjhHVYkxTZJfM/s200/1243805933444_f-jpg.jpeg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417610034443761714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">Ok, due to an increasing demand that I actually say what it is I <span style="font-style: italic;">like, </span>I have decided to do a list of 50 albums chosen for their pleasing of the most important audience in the world- me. This has nothing to do with album sales, or obscurity, or critical standing (as if...) or any political bullshit or anything else than what albums I really, really think are amazing and spectacular and that everyone here needs to at least listen to once. Some may find this to be a conservative list; there are many records here that are pretty well known, and I make no apologies for liking things because I like them, and not because I bought some record at a yard sale in Skokie, Illinois in 1977 right when the Nazis were marching through town or whatever else. Also...what is below is in no particular order. I thought about doing that, but to put any of these records above the others is just an exercise in futility- if an album is particularly dear to me, you'll know it from the capsule description provided, trust me. But all of these albums are amazing, and I encourage you to kick the Bad Prog habit for just a little while and...dig on the best Rock music ever made, my brothers. - TKR</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>4404</o:Words> <o:characters>25107</o:Characters> <o:lines>209</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>50</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>30833</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoHeader, li.MsoHeader, div.MsoHeader {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; tab-stops:center 3.0in right 6.0in; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoFooter, li.MsoFooter, div.MsoFooter {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; tab-stops:center 3.0in right 6.0in; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Aphrodite’s Child-<span style=""> </span><i>666,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1972</b></span><span style=""> </span>Absolutely overwhelming musical masterpiece from soon-to-be-pussy New Age loser Vangelis, who, at this point, was still a musical genius and clearly on many, many drugs.<span style=""> </span>I don’t even know where to start with the superlatives for this album; epic in scope, pop-friendly and psychedelic at the same time (“The Four Horseman”) while also capable of a madness-wassail euphoric avant-garde (“Infinity”), this could be the single most ambitious and perfect achievement of the classic Prog age. Oh yeah, it’s also all about the Book of Revelation, and features a glimpse of Armageddon so convincing you can only hope the real thing turns out to be this gorgeously poetic- <i>The sun was black/ the moon was </i><i>red/ the stars were falling/ the Earth was trembling/ And then a crowd impossible to number/ Dressed in white/ carrying palms shouted amid the hotless sun/ the lightless moon/ the windless earth/ the colourless sky..</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>They'll no more suffer from hunger/ they'll no more suffer from thirst.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Oh, bliss...god destroy this putrid, people-virused world now if only for a moment of pure poetry like that to be made real...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">If you’ve never heard this record, seriously- put the rest of your life on hold before you do ANYTHING other than listen to it.<span style=""> </span>With headphones.<span style=""> </span>And drugs.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Comus-<span style=""> </span><i>First Utterance,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1971</b></span><span style=""> </span>Undoubtedly the strangest non-Zeuhl album to make this list, these ultra-obscure British Folk Proggers have enjoyed a bit of a resurgence in recent years, as the Internets have made this bizarre album more available to people willing to entertain the idea of listening to a man deliberately sing in a way meant to sound like one of a series of forest animals.<span style=""> </span>No, seriously.<span style=""> </span>The ethereal female vocals and intricate acoustic musicianship make this more approachable, but there is no question that Comus will scare your girlfriend, and perhaps make her leave you for that douche bag at the coffee shop who spins “lounge” music on the weekends at that bar with all the blue drinks and “Asian Fusion”<span style=""> </span>noodle appetizers on the menu.<span style=""> </span>Good riddance.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Tangerine Dream- <i>Atem,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>Before they turned into complete fucking faggots with all of that “New Age” shit they cranked out for aging hippies to gum wheat grass to and have lots of icky old-hippie Tantric sex with grey pubic hair and tie-dyed cockrings flying all over the place, it is a fact of history that TD was the single most important Electronic music band ever. People made Electronic music before, sure; but these were serious compositions designed for one purpose: the massive ingestion of every conceivable pill, potion, powder, plant, root and elixir that was available in the free-form pharmacopeia that was the Krautrock scene of the early 1970’s.<span style=""> </span>And the trip was never more perfect, in The Curator’s opine, than this moody and severe masterpiece that has as many bongos on it as synthesizers.<span style=""> </span>This is a feast for Mellotron fans, and Edgar Froese puts that beloved and benighted instrument to astonishingly imaginative use on the epic (20 minute) title track and elsewhere on the album as well.<span style=""> </span>Sparse and unnerving, this is the best of the “Kosmische” albums that I know of, with one possible exception (see below).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style=""> </span>Popol Vu</b><b>h- <i>In Den Garten Pharaos,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1971</b></span><span style=""> </span>Not only one of the most gorgeous album sleeves of all times, but a feast of Acid Psych as well; so sparse that at times it’s almost not there, then back with a ghostly, sepulchral quivering organ sound from somewhere between here and wherever spirits go when they die- the music of Florian Fricke on this album is a near-perfect evocation of German Expressionism from a lifetime before, a canvas of Kokoschka’s or a set design from Murnau, spectral, ambient, other-worldly...<i>gorgeous.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> This album makes me want to make love, baby. The second track- “Vuh”- is truly surreal, the plangent tones of the cymbals heralding the longest, purest and most luxuriant organ drone you’ll ever hear.<span style=""> </span>The Curator loves this album very dearly, and suggests that even if you don’t like things Germans might listen to before they smoke opium and fall into huge, languorous piles of co-mingling bodies, irrespective of sex and embracing decadence in all</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> its many glorious forms, you might like this album just fine.<span style=""> </span>If nothing else...the 40-minute feast of cunnilingus “Vuh” will inspire you to engage upon will at last satisfy a Proggist’s girlfriend, and she might even stop complaining when you play your Magma from now on.<span style=""> </span>Especially if you’re a </span><b><i>real </i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;">man about things, and take a trip ‘round the sumptuous corner of flesh and hips for the true connoisseur’s repast...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>The Can- <i>Monster Movie (1969),</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> </span><b><i>Tago Mago (1971)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> and </span><b><i>Ege Bamyasi (1972)</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Why would you ever speak to anyone who doesn’t like The Can? Why suffer the presence and stench of someone so hopelessly marooned from all sense of artistic beauty and the gloriously liberated mind that they would pull that Hipster shit of being too “cool” for a band that doesn’t wear skinny jeans and rip off Joy Division? The kind of superfluous </span><i>untermenschen </i><span style="font-style: normal;">who think rock “came back” with The Strokes aren’t going to “get” The Can, and that’s why I spit on their shadows and curse their names to Satan when they pass me on the street and wait for the day when total anarchy breaks out in an abruptly </span><i>Mad Max</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> society so that I can feed my wolves with</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> sausages made from their intestines. (You better fucking believe I’m gonna have wolves in this bitch, motherfucker. Go on- come try and get my canned food stockpile and water reserves </span><b><i>when I’ve got fucking WOLVES guarding the shit,</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> you Indie Rock listening pack of starving pricks!) Seriously, what could you possibly have against these Titans of Krautrock who made- count ‘em- </span><b>THREE</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> fucking absolute masterpieces of Krautrock in a three-year span with two different singers, never really missing a beat, and then moving on to make an album many fans think is their absolute best- though I still think <i>Future Days</i></span> is a tad overrated.<span style=""> </span>But whatever. The point it this: young people might be reading this blog, and perhaps you’ve never heard The Can.<span style=""> </span>Well, now you know who they are, so put away the bullshit and give a listen to what seriously might be the best band of the entire Prog era.<span style=""> </span><i>Just maybe.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Groove.<span style=""> </span>Chill.<span style=""> </span>Listen to Jaki lay down those drum beats with the precision of a German funk machine. <b>GET YOUR FUCKING FREAK ON, GODDAMMIT!</b></span> Rock out and have violent sex with older men- especially in their late 30’s, especially who know a lot about really good music and know what to fucking do when a Popol Vuh album comes on (see above). All that stuff.<span style=""> </span>Yeah, especially that last part...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Magma-<span style=""> </span><i>Mekanik </i></b><b><i>Destruktiw Kommandoh,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>When it was released, MDK was, quite possibly, the most original and unique album ever made in the history of rock until that point.<span style=""> </span>Surely, the serious music press must have been startled to insensate blathering trying to explain this sinister triumph of one crazed genius and his vision of planetary extinction in the same year that utterly contemptible shit like 10cc and Little Feat dominated the charts. Nothing before it- not even Magma’s first two records- could have even remotely prepared the listener for the full flowering of Christian Vander’s insane Science Fiction genius, with its staggering repetition, brutally rebarbative vocals sung in a made-up language choked with umlauts and guttural phrasing, punishing, growling bass from the great Jannick Top and a brass section so oppressive and Fascistic that even Wagner and Holst must bow to the mighty cruelty that is Magma’s magnum opus.<span style=""> </span>It is pointless to try to “describe” Zeuhl music, especially a work of pure Satanic genius like this; but if you can deal with this mesmerizingly grueling and lacerating music, your life will never be the same after Magma, and most of what you had heretofore listened to will fade to utter insignificance; MDK is an act of pure musical aggression, and completely eradicates all other inferior life forms and genres it encounters.<span style=""> </span>One of the greatest pieces of music of the 20<sup>th</sup> Century.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Magma- <i>Kohntarkosz,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1974</b></span><span style=""> </span>More melodic and less purely an act of aural terrorism as <i>MDK</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was, </span><i>Kohntarkosz</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is, still, not for the faint of heart and another album that will scare children, dogs and women in equal measure. The keyboard work here of Gerard Bikialo is astonishing; listen to the first part of the suite a few times, and you will hear a series of minor chords driving the entirety of the piece forward and </span><b><i>downward</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> at the same time, and then everything gradually recovering as the organ switches to very powerful and decisive </span><i>major</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> chords; this is serious music from incredible musicians, and our Kobaian-singing Prog-cultist lads are so much more interesting than most of the pap on the radio from that era that any band that dare not honor Magma deserves nothing but death- immediate, unremitting and with no hope of appeal or succor. In many ways a more satisfying listen than the former masterpiece, Vander’s repetitive drone reaches new and more terrifying heights, and Top’s bass is, again, innovative and cruel; completely invalidates most artists’ inconsequential and utterly trivial work.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Black Widow- <i>Sacrifice,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1970</b></span><span style=""> </span>Long-time readers of The Curator’s work will realize his deep affinity for the Dark Prince of The Underworld, Lord Satan, and in general his love of anything Occult, Black Magickal, or made by Hammer film studios.<span style=""> </span>And there’s lots of quality Satanic product out there, surely, but none of it is as flat-out <b><i>fun</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> as Black Widow’s near-perfect 1970 release, containing what might be the most infectiously evil fun-time-doom-bye-ah sing along ever, the ludicrously catchy “Come to the Sabbat” (“SATAN’S THERE!!!”).<span style=""> </span>That may be their most </span><i>famous</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> song, but there is one catchy track on this album after another, and everything- </span><i>everything</i><span style="font-style: normal;">- from the gorgeous sleeve art to the incredibly deft and deep production to the standard of all the musicianship on the album- there’s not one bad performer here- is flat-out fucking spot-on perfect and tremendously enjoyable.<span style=""> </span>A great record by a band with a legendary stage show, featuring fire, demon heads, more fire, big-ass English swords and cups of blood, again more fire, full-frontal nudity and a </span><b><i>fucking sacrifice to the fucking Devil</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> of said super-hot naked English chick- man, if you can honestly say you could ever want more from a rock n’ roll show, you are one impossible to please motherfucker, is all I’m going to say.<span style=""> </span>Absolutely required for any serious Prog and Psych music head.<span style=""> </span>One of my favorite albums of all-time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Hawkwind- <i>Space Ritual,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>There has always been a controversy as to whether live albums “count”, and should be included on lists like this.<span style=""> </span>Well, it’s my list, and I’ll put whatever the hell I want on it, and to ignore what is, without question, the greatest fucking head trip in the history of Prog just because it’s “live” is fucking stupid.<span style=""> </span>An enormous record- almost two hours long on the full-feature CD release- I simply <i>defy </i><span style="font-style: normal;">you to not want to do drugs at some point while listening to the endless spacey grooves these guys lay down, replete with bad space poetry and epic track lengths that seem like they don’t care how long it takes to get to the cold corner of the Universe where we’re all headed- although there are no doubt plenty of friendly space drugs waiting at that place, which everyone will no doubt see the wisdom of inhaling in meta-globulous, insanely vast space quantities.<span style=""> </span>If Aleister Crowley and Carl Sagan somehow managed to fuck and procreate a Star Child of an album, </span><i>Space Ritual</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> would be that cosmic trip demon.<span style=""> </span>Absolutely mandatory in opium dens, coolie pits and languorous hippie brothels bursting with silk-skinned teenage girls with flower-painted bosoms and angelic and lustfully-scented adolescent pudenda...and of course in your ITunes collection as well, space cadet.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Gunter Schikert- <i>Uberfallig,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1979</b></span><span style=""> </span>Fans of Pinhas or Achim Reichel should be aware that there was another echoplex-crazed Euro-guitarist in the 70’s, and he made an album that was the single greatest challenge I’ve had in tracking down music since I lost the majority of my life to the endless study of Progressive Rock some time ago.<span style=""> </span>I mean, seriously- this is one fucking elusive album, man. The genius record collector Spacefreak (who I am proud to say reads this blog- one of the greatest achievements in my life, I must admit)<span style=""> </span>posted it a couple of years ago at the absolutely indispensable <a href="http://mutant-sounds.blogspot.com/">Mutant Sounds</a>, but the link was down for a while and I honestly don’t know if it’s still there of not.<span style=""> </span>Schikert made several albums of Electro-weirdness and all of his work is interesting, even the curiously reviled <i>Somnambul</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> from 1995 (too “modern” for the uber-pissy Prog Snobs of PRIC, I wonder?).<span style=""> </span>But this is the only one I’d say you really must listen to before you die, though I’d also say once you go down this road and start listening to music that is as difficult, polarizing and hated as Electro-Prog, you should maybe consider how much “happiness” means to you (or pussy, for that matter) and whether you are willing to trade it for a more perfect knowledge of the Universe and the own undiscovered country sitting unexplored behind your eyes.<span style=""> </span>Trip, flip and meditate, baby.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>King Crimson- <i>Lark’s Tongues in Aspic,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>I’ve been listening to this album- and all it’s many live permutations collected on live concert recordings of variations of the material- for over 30 years and have never grown tired of it.<span style=""> </span>Definitive statements are largely pointless, and I try to stay away from them consequently, but this is more than likely the single greatest Progressive Rock album ever recorded and I really don’t trust or like people who don’t “get it”.<span style=""> </span>A perfect achievement, and without question a masterpiece of engineering and production; every little sound is there for a reason, and adds to the overwhelming experience of listening to this album while smoking a huge amount of opium (which I’ve already made arrangements for as my preferred method of demise, when that time comes).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>King Crimson- <i>In The Court Of The Crimson King,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1969<span style=""> </span></b></span>What can you possibly say about what many consider to be the very first “Progressive” rock record?<span style=""> </span>Heavy, trippy, terrifying, musically astonishing and visually arresting; every band in the world wishes they could say this was one of their album sleeves, and that’s why when I see that dickhead drummer from Dream Theater wearing a T-shirt with the sleeve art on it, I get violent fantasies and prostitutes have to die.<span style=""> </span>Go get your “cred” somewhere else, you fucking Neo-Prog uber-poseur cocksuckers.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>King Crimson- <i>Red,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1974</b></span><span style=""> </span>Fripp’s unabashed “guitar” record, featuring the greatest solo in the history of the instrument, the endlessly patient and tormenting “Starless”.<span style=""> </span>Having said all they needed to say, the original Crimson finally split for good, leaving this document as a full refutation of the overwrought histrionics of Yes, and the preposterous bombast of ELP.<span style=""> </span>A sad but necessary demise.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>King Crimson- <i>Discipline,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1981<span style=""> </span></b></span>By far the best of the “new” KC’s output, Belew and Fripp are completely simpatico on dreamy guitar excursions like “The Sheltering Sky” and Msrs. Bruford and Levin comprise a beautifully melancholy and contemplative rhythm section.<span style=""> </span>This version of the band polarizes the room of KC denizens, but there is no question this is a near-perfect record and has some of Fripp’s most introspective material.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Heldon- <i>VI: Interface,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1978</b></span><span style=""> </span>There’s really not a bad Heldon record, but this one rises above the others for the pure inhuman coldness of the title track- some of the most forbidding and terrifying music ever recorded.<span style=""> </span>A schizophrenic fugue and a wall of noise, I’ve counted layers of electronic vertigo at least eight deep on this album, and have had more neighbors pound on more walls to hector me into turning the volume down on <i>Interface</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> than any other record I’ve ever owned.<span style=""> </span>Philistine neighbor hatred being as sure a sign as possible of a transgressive triumph, this is absolutely one of my favorite albums of all time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Heldon- <i>VII: Stand By,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1979</b></span><span style=""> </span>The other undeniable masterpiece of Pinhas’ Heldon project, the musicianship here is as always almost unbelievable and precise, but where <i>Stand By </i><span style="font-style: normal;">really goes overboard is in the absolutely fucking <b>EPIC</b></span> guitar jam of the title track, where every Fripp-trick in the great Pinhas’ arsenal is on full display for fourteen fucking minutes of pure fucking <b>ROCK.</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>This man could play fucking guitar, there is no question about it; essential, and probably a good place for Heldon-virgins to start, before trying to untangle the labyrinthine coldness and inhumanity of <i>Interface.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Richard Pinhas- <i>Iceland,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1980</b></span><span style=""> </span>Almost as if he feared Heldon was becoming a tad too “human” with the warmth and fuzziness of <i>Stand By</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Richard Pinhas decided to fly solo for his next record and produced an album of such clinical cruelty as to almost qualify as an inducement to mass suicide.<span style=""> </span>I love this fucking record.<span style=""> </span>Distant, lugubrious, forbidding, austere, cruel- if </span><i>Iceland</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> were a woman, I would worship her as a goddess and die at her command.<span style=""> </span>For I would have finally found the creature who best knows my heart; and could shred that black dead thing with a thin, cold smile on her ice-white face.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> <o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Nekropolis- <i>Musik aus dem Schattenreich,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1981</b></span><span style=""> </span>Ever wonder what the music scene is like in Hell?<span style=""> </span>Well, the very gifted German Electronic composer Peter Frohmayer apparently made a trip there at some point, took notes, and then came back from across the River Styx and made this uplifting and deeply optimistic record as a result.<span style=""> </span>Seriously, folks- your Curator is not often accused of being a very jejune and joyously serene kind of person, but this fucking album is enough to make <i>me</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> put the sharp objects away and behind a lock for the night.<span style=""> </span>“Ghul” and “Pagan” are about as close to pure desolation those fun-loving German horror-rockers have ever actually succeeded in capturing, but the entire record is one long and disturbingly morbid trip into the mind of someone who clearly was in need of help.<span style=""> </span>Thankfully, Frohmeyer didn’t get it before he recorded this album, and what we have is something of a lurid and beauteous evil as result.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Igor Wakhevitch- <i>Hathor,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973<span style=""> </span></b></span>All of M. Wakhevitch’s albums are amazing, and they are also something else- unique.<span style=""> </span>There are a ton of Electronic composers who made music of vary degrees of intensity and intelligence in the 70’s, but Wakhevitch stands out because he would appear to be, clearly, flat-out fucking <b><i>evil.</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>And </span><i>Hathor</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is Wakhevitch at his assuredly most Occult and Old Scratch-lovin’ best.<span style=""> </span>A bizarre, relentless and terrifying album, with abstract Electronic sections punctuated with a stentorian-voiced narrator making guttural observations voiced in a menacing French, </span><i>Hathor</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is the kind of album you will either listen to and flee in terror from or...if like me, become obsessed with for days on end, hunkering down in a darkened apartment with sorrow, longing and cigarettes, ghosts of every failed romance and lost hope battering your brain and making you wish you could see just one of your enemies die in fits of awe-inspiring pain, hoping against hope that the next time you listen to it Satan himself will finally appear in a veil of malevolence with a smile and a contract dripping blood and merely say- “You rang?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Egg- <i>The Polite Force, </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>1971</b></span><span style=""> </span>All three Egg albums are brilliant, but this one rises above the others on the strength of the opening track (“A Visit to Newport Hospital”, which Prog-o-file Eric Colin Reidelberger claims is an account of the aftermath of an attack by skinheads!) and is probably the best Canterbury Scene record not made by The Soft Machine.<span style=""> </span>Jazzy and whimsical, the Canterbury good humour is there in force, but the darker edge of some of the music makes this a much more complicated Canterbury, and also an album that never fails to open more intriguing avenues of appreciation for the listener.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Univers Zero- <i>Heresie,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1979</b></span><span style=""> </span>A few years ago I had a job tending bar at a place where I had control of what music was played for the clientele on certain nights.<span style=""> </span>One of the other bartenders, who usually had that responsibility, just happened to have a floor shift that night, and he always played this despicable and cowardly Indie pop music, shit so bad it literally made my job a fucking drag to go to if him and his goddamn Arcade Fire and Neutral Milk Hotel (what a bunch of assholes, to name yourself that) were on the CD player that night.<span style=""> </span>So I got him back one night and played this- what surely is the most evil record ever recorded, music so dark and desolate that it makes your vindictive Curator smile just thinking what it must have been like for this asshole and his loser friends to have to sit there and listen to the sound of the pits of Hell opened and suppurating like a sonic tumor, greyly metastasizing right in your ears and stealing your soul.<span style=""> </span>Ha ha ha, indeed.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">I was written up the next shift for playing such a bit of deliberately provocative terror, which didn’t bother me at all as that place was filled with losers with no taste and I was looking for an excuse to walk out, and Univers Zero and what I maintain is the best RIO record ever recorded gave me that joyous escape.<span style=""> </span>And by the way- this really is a seriously scary album.<span style=""> </span>Seriously.<span style=""> </span>It also takes Chamber Rock in directions unknown and unimaginable up to that point, and is the pinnacle in the career of a man- Daniel Denis- whom I truly believe to be, along with Christian Vander and Richard Pinhas, one of the truly great visionaries of Avant-Garde music in the past 30 years.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Alrune Rod- <i>Alrunes Rod,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1969<span style=""> </span></b></span>Spectacular Danish Psych-Space freakout that starts moody and lurches to true punk anarchy in fits of inspired Hammond-laced fury.<span style=""> </span>From an incredibly fecund Copenhagen scene absolutely soaked in acid and free-ranging hippies, these guys were the class of the lot.<span style=""> </span>Brilliant vocals and pitch-perfect Psych production make this an archetype segue from Psychedelia longing to emerge as true Progressive Rock. One of my favorite albums of all time.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Faust- <i>The Wumme Years,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1970-73</b></span> <span style=""> </span>Yes, it’s a box set, and that means it shouldn’t count, but I’m including this because it’s unthinkable to make up a Top 50 list and not include Faust, but the actual fact is that the band’s recorded output is incredibly spotty, none of their studio albums rising above moments of genius interspersed with nutty avant garde-iness that often just sounds like a bunch of Germans making noise in a room.<span style=""> </span>This cacophonous comeuppance is happily rectified with this excellent box, which allows you to have the single best thing the band ever did- the <b><i>BBC+ Sessions</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> disc, the first track featuring a bizarre acid-jazz trip-out that lurches into a keyboard drone guaranteed to induce mesmeric bliss.<span style=""> </span>Out-fucking-standing weirdness and quintessential Krautrock.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Barclay James Harvest- S/T,<span style=""> </span>1970</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>No band has probably fallen apart more completely and with such disastrous results as BJH (simply everything after 1977- a pitiful and wretched collapse matched perhaps only by Gentle Giant’s slow and sad demise) but their first half dozen records are among the best Symphonic Prog ever made.<span style=""> </span>This is for your more mellow afternoons, Prog-o-nauts; excellent and tasteful use of the Mellotron and one of the single best songs of the era (“Taking Some Time On”) make this a mandatory listen for anyone interested in classic Brit Prog.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Eskaton- <i>4 Visions,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1979</b></span><span style=""> </span>France in the 1970’s was an extremely productive and exceptionally experimental place. While the rest of the world was making cringe-inducing Fusion jazz so lame it made Barry Manilow sound energetic by comparison, the French jazz scene was overrun with insane bands making insane music none of which can be hummed and most of which will earn you stares of complete hatred if people overhear you listening to it in public.<span style=""> </span>Zeuhl is the most extreme example of that kind of Foucault-esque “Limit Experience Jazz”, and Eskaton’s first record is one of the most extreme examples of this already extreme example.<span style=""> </span>Soaring and ethereal female vocals make an incongruous pairing with some of the most frenetically-paced musicianship of the era, driven by a Jannick Top-inspired bass and Fender piano taken right from <i>Kohntarkosz-</i><span style="font-style: normal;">era Magma.<span style=""> </span>One of the absolute best of the Zeuhl-school records, and as extreme today as it was 30 years ago.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Colosseum- <i>Valentyne Suite,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1969</b></span><span style=""> </span>This album would make it just on the strength of the first song, the fuzz-and-wah Psychedelic excess of “The Kettle”.<span style=""> </span>But the album just keeps on going, and is probably second only to the Soft Machine for taking jazz rock to since-unequalled heights of heavyness; everything about this album works, though I’m especially fond of Heckstall-Smith’s sax work, which almost makes <i>Valentyne Suite</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a straight-up jazz record at times.<span style=""> </span>Pretty soulful for a bunch of British guys.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Cosmos Factory- <i>An Old Castle of Transylvania, </i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>If ever an album has completely succeeded in creating the atmosphere the band set out to create, this impressionist masterpiece from Japan’s masters of protean re-invention would be it.<span style=""> </span>With section titles like “Forest of the Death” and a crushingly severe crash of piano to open the 20-minute title track, <i>Old Castle</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is a perfect gothic horror and perhaps the most satisfying orgy of Hammond organ ever etched to vinyl.<span style=""> </span>This is a great album, and a tremendous lot of fun to listen to as well.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Picchio dal Pozzo- S/T, 1976</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>From Italy, but not Rock Progressivo Italiano; Canterbury, but not English.<span style=""> </span>These two contradictions don’t make a lot of sense, but fortunately in Prog not making any sense can often lead to wonderful creativity and counter-intuitively brilliant results.<span style=""> </span>“Seppia” is simply one of the best things ever recorded, and the rest of the album lives up to this dark and droning dirge with lots of reverb, children performing menacing chants and flutes and arpeggios trilling and floating across a wondrously Promethean palette of sound; a wonderful dark fantasy from a band that sadly went nowhere commercially and made only a handful of records.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Centipede- <i>Septober Energy,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><span style=""> </span>1971</b></span><span style=""> </span>Another one your girlfriend is not going to like very much, and it’s records like these that make my continued enforced chastity a sure bet for the foreseeable future.<span style=""> </span>Fine with me, since otherwise I might have to “branch out” or “stop being so pig-headed” as they say and listen to, oh I don’t know...things that fucking suck.<span style=""> </span>No thanks.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, about the record, well...pretty much everybody in the world played on it, the idea being one Keith Tippett came up with while on sabbatical from one of his many projects and which ended up having no less than 50 musicians involved (or one-hundred legs- “centipede”, get it????).<span style=""> </span>Riotous Free Jazz and a buttload of brass merge with Serialist-like floating passages where the notes fade away like planks from a rope bridge falling into an abyss; bleak and stertorous, then vibrant and opaque, this is a one-of-a-kind Canterbury album that features some of the best musicians in the world all putting their egos aside to be part of something that could never, ever conceivably happen again.<span style=""> </span>Absolutely highly recommended, especially since it’s so little known outside of truly disturbed shut-in Prog fans like me and my co-curator.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Collegium Musicum- <i>Konvergencie,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1971<span style=""> </span></b></span>Marian Varga’s absolutely massive musical statement from Czechoslovakia, where playing rock music was a counter-revolutionary act and took real balls.<span style=""> </span>Endlessly harassed by the authorities (who forced them to remove the cigarette from the young man’s mouth on the sleeve photograph, among other inane hassles and trivialities), CM missed out on the worldwide stardom that should have been theirs, especially as Varga is one of the greatest Hammond organ players of all time and his compositions are much, much more focused than the ELP tracks they are constantly (and unfairly) compared to.<span style=""> </span>Varga’s pitch bending theatrics and rampaging solos alone make this a classic; the whole of the album may be a bit overwhelming, but it rewards patience with each listen, and makes it okay to enjoy flat-out ostentatious rondos and coruscating showmanship without having to put up with Keith Emerson’s appalling smugness.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Time- S/T, 1972</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span>A great Croatian band that was a kind of “Super Group” for Yugoslavia at the time, these guys made very, very heavy Progressive Rock that is reminiscent of Jethro Tull, if Jethro Tull wasn’t so boring and sucked so much.<span style=""> </span>First two tracks are as good as anything you’ll ever hear in the “Heavy Prog” sub-ghetto, and this is another bunch that should have been far better known in the West, had it not been for the trouble even bands in the relatively relaxed Titoist state had to put up with.<span style=""> </span>Worth searching out and adding to your collection, a real gem of heavyness and mature song writing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Pink Floyd- <i>Dark Side Of The Moon,</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> 1973</b></span><span style=""> </span>Yep, it’s on the list, and it’s fucking staying there and don’t even bother to send complaints or try to vandalize the site by posting “clever” comments about how this selection clearly indicates my fondness for sucking cock or wanting to own a Hummer and live in LA or whatever else, as I have an automatic screening device installed for this blog which removes any occurrences of a personal insult in proximity to the search term “DSOM”, or “Dark”, “Side”, or “Moon” for that matter. So don’t fucking bother and fucking get over yourself; it’s an absolutely brilliant record. Why this album is so detested by the “serious” Prog community is a complete mystery leaving me totally baffled; it’s also an irrelevancy, as I consider DSOM to be a near perfect trip, and an album ideally suited to taking a Percocette, drinking a glass of red wine, and getting under the covers on a cold rainy day and <i>fucking staying there,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in a complete and happily desolate oblivion.<span style=""> </span>Bonus Fact: girls actually will </span><b><i>listen</i></b><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> to DSOM, making it virtually unique on this list of boys and their “stuff”.<span style=""> </span>So you do what you want, but I’ve still got erections that need attending to and life is more than collecting B-sides of Indonesian chamber jazz ensembles and selling your car to buy a new turntable.<span style=""> </span>You fucking freaks, anyway.</span></p>Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-37417926853571464152009-12-18T09:35:00.000-08:002009-12-18T09:35:43.631-08:00Manikin @ Jerry Lewis Telethon<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bu2SkBK1mR4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bu2SkBK1mR4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Tag words: Gay!<br />
I don't know anything about these guys but this is taken from the Jerry Lewis Telethon in 1978. Truly one of the most awe inspiring acts out there!micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-81134893816395563012009-11-26T13:25:00.000-08:002009-11-26T15:00:04.812-08:00The Prog Hall Permanent Display is OPEN!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlHXUMhcQNyZRMRF9zEdB9TgRUucYoWSRGp4qf8vCVyoQHtkeFoiD5tN966XJz7kDuDSbIQ5mDL7hVMWAoDNlEGNVf_4Ago7gV2G0TVSm3FAXIt5iEXh9QKVmCOVMzeiSq6xdt6nSgGQ/s1600/n1014804307_347096_7361838.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlHXUMhcQNyZRMRF9zEdB9TgRUucYoWSRGp4qf8vCVyoQHtkeFoiD5tN966XJz7kDuDSbIQ5mDL7hVMWAoDNlEGNVf_4Ago7gV2G0TVSm3FAXIt5iEXh9QKVmCOVMzeiSq6xdt6nSgGQ/s320/n1014804307_347096_7361838.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408550942953729906" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> After months of legal wrangling and endless court challenges, the votes have been tallied and the people have SPOKEN! The Prog community has had its say on who the initial entrants to the Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy (Groups Division) should be and...let's just say it's a worthy bunch of overblown, pretentious and altogether shitty bands who are to be enshrined on this Thanksgiving. A real bunch of turkeys, I guess you could say lolololol11111!!!!!<br /><br />A few late ballots came in, and it certainly made the final tallying easier; 60 people took precious time out of their lives to castigate and defame the five absolute worst Progressive Rock bands they could think of, and, incredibly, it was a tight vote that was limited to just a handful of the original nominees. At the extreme end, one band received an incredible 49 votes; I'm not going to say who, but what I will say is that this is something I've had a suspicion about for a long, long time. The second place tally was 46; again, it's pretty obvious that the big name Prog bands are what people associate with the music, and that's why Prog remains, easily, the most reviled form of music in the rock n' roll era. A certain justice has been arrived at today, with the final counting of the votes. Now, enshrined in Infamy, these fuckers with their massive egos, bloated productions, flying pianos and all other kind of infamous bullshit, will at last have to face the wrath of an irate Prog public who have had it with them and their kind.<br /><br /> Without further ado, then, and in no particular order, the initial Faecal Five of the Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy, Permanent Exhibit:<br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Emerson, Lake and Palmer: </span>While I knew, deep in my gut, that this was a largely disgraced and secretly loathed supergroup whose reputation was almost solely the work of legend and public relations run amok, I was simply not prepared for the level of vitriol and hatred directed at good old ELP. I mean, wow- even by my standards some of the comments The Curator received were harsh. "I hate them like I hate the AIDS" was by no means the most cruel; "Like <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">listening</span> to paint dry" (a goddamn good line, I must say), "Ruined the best acid trip I ever had going to see them play live in Santa Monica", "Fuck these bloated pieces of shit" and "Keith Emerson could die tomorrow and I wouldn't bat an eye" are just the very best of an incredibly vicious lot. ELP made it in with plenty of room to spare; indeed, it could be said that they are perhaps the most hated band in Prog history. Welcome back, my friends...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> YES:</span> Another no brainer as far as I'm concerned, but again, it was the volume and vitriol of the rancor directed at this band that blew me away. Now, perhaps it's because your Curator has established an unusually high level of violent rhetoric to show his displeasure at certain bands, and folks feel they need to "live down" the obloquy and scorn I dispense like cyanide at a cult picnic. But still, Steve Howe was referred to as a "faggot", "wretched old woman", "prickly little cunt" and- my favorite- "a wizened, toothless little cocksucker". And Jon Anderson was mocked by correspondents for everything from his New Age beliefs to the fact that his liver is failing and he's in the process of dying- which, almost as if on cue, one voter chalked up to the fact that "obviously the shit has AIDS". Yes produced, easily, the most homophobic of tirades ever seen at the PRHOI, and while The Curator is normally staunchly opposed to such shenanigans and hate, in the case of Yes he will allow it makes a certain degree of sense. any band that is responsible for <span style="font-style: italic;">Tormato </span>has coming to it whatever the Prog listening public decides to send their way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">RUSH:</span> Folks seem to not want to hate Rush, but can't stop themselves all the same. Allowances were made for the exceptional musicianship displayed by the Canadian power trio, but the combination of Geddy Lee's banshee-like vocals and the absolute utter gobshite Neil Peart had him singing combined to make enjoyment of Rush's music impossible. A few writers wished death upon the boys, but most just seem to want them to go away; after 30 years and an incredible run of boring, mundane and bad albums starting with the Rupert Hine-produced <span style="font-style: italic;">Presto </span>in 1989, all agree that Rush has absolutely nothing left to say. Yet they keep saying it, and- incredibly- the insanely loyal fan base they have developed keeps buying it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">STYX:</span> I admit, if Styx hadn't made the cut, I might have had to have jumped in and used The Curator's veto, which is much like invoking papal infallibility for important issues like whether Jesus' mommy went straight to Heaven or had to languish in Purgatory with a bunch of Samaritan blasphemers and Babylonian holy pimps. But no fear here; what The Curator considers to be, easily, the most enjoyable of Bad Prog titans, Styx punched their ticket the moment Dennis DeYoung put on a robot mask and dared tell a dystopic future tale of a world where rock music is outlawed and only Tommy Shaw can save the day. Still my favorite video ever made, The Curator urges you to not only watch "Mr. Roboto" for old times sakes, but download the entire concert video <span style="font-style: italic;">Caught in the Act, </span>thoughtfully uploaded for your viewing pleasure by my co-curator, DJ Micah. There's nothing like it in the history of music; hysteria and pretense from start to finish, and every last second of it sung in a shrill, trilling falsetto fashioned by the worst singer in the history of Prog, Mr. DeYoung himself. Come sail away, friends...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dream Theater:</span> The one "Neo-Prog" outfit who made this ultra-elite initial class at the PRHOI, Dream Theater is a band so dreadful that even their defenders go out of their way to explain why they can understand why other people hate them. I can honestly say that if there was ever a PRHOI convention, it would be wise for James LaBrie to stay away from it, because he almost certainly would be raped, dismembered and eaten by the participants. How can I say this? Well, because one voter devoted an entire paragraph of their ballot to denouncing the band members one by one, and saving LaBrie for last, finish with the observation that "I'm not gay, but I'd rape LaBrie anyway just for sucking so much and really there's no excuse for that band, and his singing, and he needs to be chopped up and fed to starving lepers if you really want to know the truth." Well, The Curator loves him a good run-on sentence, and that one, loaded as it is with just primal violence and hatred, is a real winner. Welcome to the Hall, Mr. LaBrie and...keep your pants up, boy.<br /><br />Okay, there it is, the "Turkey Day Massacre" at the PRHOI. I'll do a new round of inductions sometime around the New Year, so keep tuned and, as always, if you have suggestions, comments, rants, raves, hates- even death threats, I love them the most- please, don't be shy, and send them to me courtesy of tready@gmail.com Until next time, keep on Proggin', and try not to listen to anything that sucks. Cheers, - TR<br /><br /> PS- Special Bonus: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BKmnlvO47E"> Here's </a>James LaBrie doing the "Canadian Rap" while performing with an MC who seems to think saying "suck on my ass and balls" constitutes a "rap". A real cheeseball suckfest straight from the asshole of Prog, LaBrie really proves why Dream Theater is the absolute worst band in the world, at least a "real" band still putting out records and stuff. Happy Turkey Day, and again, enjoy.Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-74959167775739371612009-09-08T07:51:00.000-07:002009-09-08T09:15:24.440-07:00Second Ten Nominess Announced for Prog Hall Infamy!<br />Here are the second ten bands for you to consider for membership in the inaugural class of the Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy's Permanent Display. First ten bands appear in the list below, with mocking pic and capsule summary/denunciation included. Remember, you can only pick FIVE bands for inclusion in this very first and most ignoble induction, so choose wisely and contact The Curator at his permanenet Email address...<br /><br />TReady@gmail.com<br /><br />...with your five most loathed Progressive Rock bands from this formidable list. Anouncements to be made soon, when it is clear voting has run its course. Cheers, - The Curator<br /><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnlyR0PMqjagdxx2wNx-lerbWKguMfzxWRGIFpZ4Z9FkMv1y8jjsApUB1G51ZrL-GQ-xbpqqZS9l1vSQl9LcUfG5yB1t7bg6rooq0rnZxoKoSKX8PhdhjoD2RSmG6U7Rwp4J1PFRyUKnA/s1600-h/Rush2a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnlyR0PMqjagdxx2wNx-lerbWKguMfzxWRGIFpZ4Z9FkMv1y8jjsApUB1G51ZrL-GQ-xbpqqZS9l1vSQl9LcUfG5yB1t7bg6rooq0rnZxoKoSKX8PhdhjoD2RSmG6U7Rwp4J1PFRyUKnA/s200/Rush2a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379110176770440882" border="0"></a></font> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link style="font-family: times new roman;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>233</o:Words> <o:characters>1331</o:Characters> <o:lines>11</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1634</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><font style="" face=""" size="3"><b><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Rush</span>:<font style=""> </font></b></font><font style="" face=""" size="12pt"><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">Even though they haven’t put out a “progressive” album in almost 30 years, Rush continues to define the pointless meandering and excess that make so many educated people recoil in horror at the very mention of the word “Prog”.</font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3"> </font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">Forget the blistering rock of the first five minutes of “2112”; go back and listen to “Hemispheres” and tell me you can stay awake through all of that pseudo-mystical bullshit noodling of Peart, the shrieking of Geddy Lee and the competent-if-befuddled guitar work of poor Alex Lifeson.</font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3"> </font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">Or consider every fucking album put out since Rupert Hine got his radio-friendly claws into the band; the very notion of Rush thinking they could crack the singles charts with dreck like you’ll find on “Hold Your Fire” or “Roll the Bones”- an absolutely incredibly bad album- is almost poignant in its comic impossibility.</font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3"> </font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">By all accounts, these are decent and kind men who truly care for their fans and put on a game show every time they get on stage; but is continuing to tour and making the pathetic cadre of humanity known as the Rush faithful trot out to Jones Beach twice a year truly what one might call “kind”?</font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3"> </font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">Or would a final cyanide Kool-Aid cocktail and a toast to Ayn Rand from their guru Mr. Peart be a more fitting and final send-off to these woeful specimens who still listen to music about the perils of anomie and adolescence...performed by men</font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3"> </font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">in their 50’s with yachts and dimpled ass-cheeks? </font><font style="" face="times new roman" size="3">There is no sadder and profligate spending of bathos than the peripatetic Rush parade of shame, and for that reason I ask you to consider allowing them to represent Canadian Prog in all its infamy in the PRHOI.</font><br /></font><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>142</o:Words> <o:characters>813</o:Characters> <o:lines>6</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>998</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hhs_jquewYaxvsA0MH77WO6-pi-1ExHtlrFB1fkNUcOgoa5RHdMk8zRUHL3184aeGIlCn-6CG78WCoRiuydtql1I3cH4JPZcu2iNLZcAJgTOP0cB8FECpaJRjnGx4W8awcRCBIwe_KA/s1600-h/84140.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hhs_jquewYaxvsA0MH77WO6-pi-1ExHtlrFB1fkNUcOgoa5RHdMk8zRUHL3184aeGIlCn-6CG78WCoRiuydtql1I3cH4JPZcu2iNLZcAJgTOP0cB8FECpaJRjnGx4W8awcRCBIwe_KA/s200/84140.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379113431125707746" border="0"></a><b>Machiavel<font style="">: </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">Another one of those Belgian bands that just absolutely stun me with their worthlessness.<font style=""> </font>Truly annoying vocals, horrible arrangements, mindless cacophony and kvetching on the keyboards and absolutely no depth, nor breadth, in the ideas they explore; this band is the near perfect opposite of Pulsar, almost as if Belgium sets out to say “Well, France is classy and tasteful, let’s see if we can just take a huge steaming shit on vinyl and then just wallow in it for years and years and years.”<font style=""> </font>And wallow they did; “Mechanical Moonbeams” is one of the low moments of Symphonic Prog, but “Jester” is not far behind.<font style=""> </font>And their attempt at a “pop” album- 1981’s “Break Out” is just comical.<font style=""> </font>Right up there with “Ala Carte”, Belgium reaches it’s lowest moment since surrendering to the Nazis in just five days and exposing the French army’s flank to destruction; Machiavel is just one of those annoying bands that I cannot possibly conceive of what people find “entertaining” about them.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>377</o:Words> <o:characters>2154</o:Characters> <o:lines>17</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2645</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SYV_kXbZgCMpq-W3FB7-GSZ3W-0vRRWbSMY2_muTxuUMniTgJJNRJrvs9BgsTXs0L5uFdtb7UjamLUcf5wAccIPnyLAc4Q2sZ-O7Z4GofkHZTh09dqkcMG8erhpQtwZ-TJMtEBUUs8I/s1600-h/love-beach-10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SYV_kXbZgCMpq-W3FB7-GSZ3W-0vRRWbSMY2_muTxuUMniTgJJNRJrvs9BgsTXs0L5uFdtb7UjamLUcf5wAccIPnyLAc4Q2sZ-O7Z4GofkHZTh09dqkcMG8erhpQtwZ-TJMtEBUUs8I/s200/love-beach-10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379114398078884402" border="0"></a><b>Emerson, Lake and Palmer:<font style=""> </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">A moment from pure rock n’ roll glory: the Isle of Wight Festival, 1970, a band in existence for only a few months, the nascent ELP, takes the stage and kicks bloody ass through their entire, brutal and nuanced set.<font style=""> </font>At the end, one Mr. Lake stands on one side of the stage, in front of perhaps 250,000 spectators, and one Mr. Emerson stands on the other; at a signal, they touch off complimenting cannon, which really do fire a charge of black-powder, and an announcement has been made to the world: Franz Liszt is returned, and has brought Wagner and Rachmaninoff for back-up; ELP is here, and virtuoso performance and classically-inspired rock has arrived.<font style=""> </font></font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">And yet today, looking back on the career of the band, all The Curator can see is one thing: the most colossal waste of talent in the history of music, as if Schubert had written First Empire jingles or Coltrane tooted for a minstrel show. <font style=""> </font>If there is one word which sums this tragedy up, it is, of course, <font style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">ego;</font> massive, insurmountable, pulverizing and degrading integuments of ego, an obstacle course of self, an impregnable Stalingrad of “look at me”.<font style=""> </font>Almost never after their first, very promising, record did these three play as a band; the low point was reached with the atrocious live album recorded in Montreal in 1978, wherein, essentially, a double album was fabricated from poor-quality whole cloth which consisted of three sides of solos.<font style=""> </font>Bad enough, except to further note that Greg Lake’s Persian Carpeted masturbation session was essentially a bunch of acoustic ballads sung in an unseemly syrupy voice.<font style=""> </font>Sad, wasteful, sub-literate and- above all- intensely boring, the worst of middle brow culture trying to pass for something richer and less finite, ELP’s record catalogue is a total disaster, with two of the entrants- “Love Beach” and the much later “In the Hot Seat” being two of the most vulgar and insulting records ever thrust down the throat of a public all too willing to eat whatever festering cancer corporate rock said was good for them.<font style=""> </font>If the definition of a crime is how far from the acceptable a competent actor has strayed, then Emerson, Lake and Palmer are guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors so vast as to warrant nothing less than the guillotine.<font style=""> </font>Alas, we cannot kill the malicious dwarf Keith Emerson, but we can induct he and his mates in the very first batch of convicts sent to the New South Wales of the Internet, this Gulag myself and DJ Micah like to call the Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy.<font style=""> </font>Choose wisely, but I ask you- at least <font style="font-style: italic;">consider</font> them fit for a spell in this virtual pillory.<o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>119</o:Words> <o:characters>681</o:Characters> <o:lines>5</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>836</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhT657hePnpFHhh0v8BDIgN_-mgqCxXXHvFCJMXj12FYvvxtAF2CxrLCr0di78LdEXOjPFcmd9g6UodUPaKkWqu38NWxmNSonc-N7AUL1KVfL2IMi3QYhI4qay4TLB8DAH7aX4a-7gmE/s1600-h/KaplanBrosLP_front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhT657hePnpFHhh0v8BDIgN_-mgqCxXXHvFCJMXj12FYvvxtAF2CxrLCr0di78LdEXOjPFcmd9g6UodUPaKkWqu38NWxmNSonc-N7AUL1KVfL2IMi3QYhI4qay4TLB8DAH7aX4a-7gmE/s200/KaplanBrosLP_front.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379114880663074034" border="0"></a><b>The Kaplan Brothers</b><font style="font-weight: normal;"><font style="">: </font>There is not much more to say here about the Kaplan Brothers, considering that I have devoted a lengthy essay to their brilliance already, and have made sure the almost-surreally inappropriate lounge-Prog of “Nightbird” will forever be known to all those who appreciate music so awful that it is, in fact, compellingly absurd.<font style=""> </font>Mrs. Kaplan’s boys sought to do nothing less than make an album about the entirety of life itself, and succeeded brilliantly; like life, this record is pointless, dispiriting, grossly sentimental and bereft of sincerity, devoid of any true beauty and wretchedly lonely.<font style=""> </font>But, unlike life, you can just go back to your ITunes and play it all over again; to wallow in their beauteous catastrophe over and over again, forever stunned by the maudlin treacle that is “Nightbird”.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><font style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></font></p> <!--EndFragment--><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>498</o:Words> <o:characters>2841</o:Characters> <o:lines>23</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3488</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLIZFIg22tLYn5-NflpBMFHYfnuQdzt08DRNj1HkKEHivQ9tDElhVZ0-uAaNNxSKNR-iM8fsqDp6KkTMvsxIV4NAaroF1nlGq3Rf8zoR760b59w-lTg5hcY6_j1CYL01Zz4g0XKDvmgY/s1600-h/kansas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLIZFIg22tLYn5-NflpBMFHYfnuQdzt08DRNj1HkKEHivQ9tDElhVZ0-uAaNNxSKNR-iM8fsqDp6KkTMvsxIV4NAaroF1nlGq3Rf8zoR760b59w-lTg5hcY6_j1CYL01Zz4g0XKDvmgY/s200/kansas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379115919520578978" border="0"></a><b>Kansas<font style="">: </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">For career-spanning mediocrity and decades-long drivel, it is tough to beat American grain-belt Progsters Kansas, appropriately named for a flat and boring state filled with cornpone fascists and plain-featured women with unfortunately wide birthing hips, so equipped that the next generation of Westboro Baptist Church members can </font><b><i>whoooosh</i></b><font style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"> right into the world and hit the ground ready to bash them some queers and deny Evolution. Not strictly Yes-derivative- a unique concept in Ameri-Prog when these clods put out their first record- Kansas instead showed that good old Yankee ingenuity could make a style of Prog fully original and American, and suck the black cock of death all the same with a voraciousness matched by only the most gifted deep-throat uvular contortionist.<font style=""> </font>Low point was probably their comeback, and specifically a cover of Eleanor Rigby so bad that DJ Micah refused to play it on the last Bad Prog radio broadcast.<font style=""> </font>Some bands deserve to die and be left to rot in the era they most sucked in, and it would have been better for all concerned if Kansas had simply gone away now thirty years ago; a pathetic commentary that makes this band more than worthy of your consideration for permanent ignominy in the PRHOI’s inaugural class of the truly wretched. (<font style="font-weight: bold;">ADDENDA: </font>Will you just look at the fucking haircuts on these idiots in the photo, above? Mullets, Jerri Curl and a bad perm- and then some dude with sunglasses looking...<font style="font-style: italic;">at what</font>, precisely? You can tell a lot about a band by their promo photos, and this one tells you that Kansas is fucking <font style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">lame.</font>)<br /></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><font style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeAAhl0y_Lmq8plz2i44NaLZAeDCgQEGGafbHueFIWEjz9mM7aS0g32mZ7Dd3ZyIbWmnYEJ0jRO6lgay6GqV__WiOfFgf0tZQ5IlyK2EptE-iGvGdR4DhY_lu1Rr8C3ySJSxetNy8_pNw/s1600-h/Albatross.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeAAhl0y_Lmq8plz2i44NaLZAeDCgQEGGafbHueFIWEjz9mM7aS0g32mZ7Dd3ZyIbWmnYEJ0jRO6lgay6GqV__WiOfFgf0tZQ5IlyK2EptE-iGvGdR4DhY_lu1Rr8C3ySJSxetNy8_pNw/s200/Albatross.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379118747886320130" border="0"></a><b>Albatross:<font style=""> </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">Of all the Yes rip-offs to emerge in the 70’s (Starcastle, Cathedral, etc.) this is the one that I found most blatant and that I despised the most.<font style=""> </font>A one-and-done outfit that came out of Rockford, IL and vanished back unto the ether with their Mellotrons and Rickenbackers<font style=""> </font>(they didn’t even try to be original, is what galls me the most), these guys have made the initial induction list on the “strength” of perhaps the most annoying song in the history of Prog- the absolutely insanely bad “Humpback Whales”, which made the cut for one of the Bad Prog radio broadcasts a few months back and celebrates the slaughter of great sea beasts for their blubber and oil.<font style=""> </font>The epitome of symphonic Prog pointlessness, derivative, unjustifiable even as a vanity project, and with vocals so appalling that even Jon Anderson does not suffer in comparison, Albatross is proof that not every song need be sung, and not every dream deserves to live- indeed, most creation is tasteless and jejune, and deserves to mercilessly murdered in its crib. Hear, hear in fucking <font style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">SPADES</font> for Albatross, and their one record which I defy <font style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">anyone</font> to say they actually enjoyed.<font style=""> </font>All of this atrociousness makes these guys a strong contender for enshrinement as the honorary Yes stand-in at the PRHOI in this initial round of slander and butchery.<font style=""> </font><o:p></o:p></font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeb3hsoqZjvebtkeIbwLdC7Gq9DPx_UR6oeJrCm-aMxg1ifhOde4LF9JcAHWXVsWMC1mLYXQVD2yXeyJ0U8Fk002Ca_GFICEQWm7hr65EqvTXdfTMCMl3hYT5Aindug94X6k39Nn0x3DY/s1600-h/cover_5652013122005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeb3hsoqZjvebtkeIbwLdC7Gq9DPx_UR6oeJrCm-aMxg1ifhOde4LF9JcAHWXVsWMC1mLYXQVD2yXeyJ0U8Fk002Ca_GFICEQWm7hr65EqvTXdfTMCMl3hYT5Aindug94X6k39Nn0x3DY/s200/cover_5652013122005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379118279437536466" border="0"></a><b>Nessie:<font style=""> </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">The only serious challenge to David Surkamp for the title “Most Miserably Horrible Vocalist in the Entire History of Man” is whoever it is that did the singing on “The Tree”, a mind-numbingly atrocious 1977 symphonic Prog release from- you fucking guessed it- Belgium, home of more bad Prog bands than any other country in the world.<font style=""> </font>It’s not entirely clear who this is singing on the record, since all four band members are given vocals "credit," but perhaps it was simply the typical diffusion of responsibility theory of blame-deflecting, or that no one member of the group had balls enough to stand up and say, “Yeah, that was me responsible for that ghastly, appalling and utterly asinine singing on our shitty record.<font style=""> </font>I’m really proud of filling the world with such evil.”<font style=""> </font>Whomever it was bleating and warbling like a stuck pig makes this faerie-laden trip to the symphonic forest an unforgettable romp of outrage and rapine, the music only slightly more tolerable than the singing, which is- and I stress this- unique in all the world for its ululating gyrations. Surely Belgium must be represented in the first class of inductees here at the Prog Hall; for your consideration, I offer that Nessie makes a fitting representative from that dreadful little country.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><font style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></font></p> <!--EndFragment--><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>167</o:Words> <o:characters>955</o:Characters> <o:lines>7</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1172</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5oRKyxGiqy-bWNHsHjeeTIfENXl-7NzZkuVx7Ws3UMgKmPyCL6Ld8ExLQ-COt7VLv7Tbc3wItMkwqaAwIa9weP7QYjJ5InhkKiRgPwX7T3vW0LFUG_1GKrp_-Djq1kmah5MSgdSo-C-c/s1600-h/UK-Cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5oRKyxGiqy-bWNHsHjeeTIfENXl-7NzZkuVx7Ws3UMgKmPyCL6Ld8ExLQ-COt7VLv7Tbc3wItMkwqaAwIa9weP7QYjJ5InhkKiRgPwX7T3vW0LFUG_1GKrp_-Djq1kmah5MSgdSo-C-c/s200/UK-Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379119403623173074" border="0"></a><b>U.K.<font style=""> </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">Am I trying to be crafty and sly by including this short-lived supergroup of the late 70’s in this list of potential initial infamous initiates?<font style=""> </font>Maybe, but I would ask any detractors of my methodology to simply go back and give this first album of theirs another listen and tell me this isn’t the most banal of<font style=""> </font>Progish-fusion patter.<font style=""> </font>There is just nothing memorable about this record, despite the fact that we’re talking about Wetton, Bruford, Allan Holdsworth and I can’t remember who else in the band.<font style=""> </font>But it was an all-star line-up, no doubt.<font style=""> </font>And that, really, is why I ask you to consider putting U.K. into the first wave of Prog Hall members.<font style=""> </font>Because I blame them for the whole concept of Prog “supergroups” in the first place; essentially vanity projects, big empty nothings like Asia and GTR and Gordian Knot (<font style="font-weight: bold;">HORRIBLE!!!</font>) and you-fucking-name-it all came from the realization that Prog fans will flock to anything their heroes are involved with, and buy it, and then rave for years about what a “classic” it was.<font style=""> </font>Well, U.K. was simply boring, if you ask me, and for all that they allowed to happen in their all-star wake, I say fuck ‘em and ask you to put ‘em in the Hall. <o:p></o:p></font></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>143</o:Words> <o:characters>817</o:Characters> <o:lines>6</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1003</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgXF9Eip2zYPxmi69lZX-DvMtecDdM-NaxmraOijjHIVVlp4QPfJXa3TChmMo0WBYM6cfpDdr7Ta_nJ9PsZJeuDkAKrvavNsCF8DXwdu8mrfLoswnqLvotuYeFlxXh-TDTuW6DeWDPZ8/s1600-h/Ian_Anderson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgXF9Eip2zYPxmi69lZX-DvMtecDdM-NaxmraOijjHIVVlp4QPfJXa3TChmMo0WBYM6cfpDdr7Ta_nJ9PsZJeuDkAKrvavNsCF8DXwdu8mrfLoswnqLvotuYeFlxXh-TDTuW6DeWDPZ8/s200/Ian_Anderson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379120259702589698" border="0"></a><b>Jethro Tull<font style="">: </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">Yawwwwnnnnn...oh, excuse me- did somebody say something? What was that, The Tull? Sorry, I was just busy doing something more important than contemplating Ian Anderson- there was some lint in my belly-button that has been bothering me for days, and now I have to go wash my pen-cap. Anyway, Jethro Fucking Tull: Forty years, and <font style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">one</font> decent album; get your mind around that for a second and tell me how it is Jethro Tull has never been put down by an act of bloody Parliament.<font style=""> </font>A consistent loser since the appallingly over-rated “Thick as a Brick”, (rhymes with something I’d like to tell Ian Anderson when he’s prancing around with that goddamn flute), Tull is boring, trite, repetitive, annoying, maudlin, and cloying, all at once; like Camel, I can honestly say I’ve never woken up and said- “Hey, you know what would make this a perfect day?<font style=""> </font>'A Crest of a Knave'!<font style=""> </font>I still wake up with an erection, and so long as I’ve got my Tull, I’m too young to die!!!”<font style=""> </font>A band I just can’t tolerate, not even to be polite; you play this shit around me at your peril, because I <font style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">will</font> say something I will later regret, but that <font style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">you</font> will never get over.<font style=""> </font>The Tull takes my already blistering rancor and drives it up a notch to pure pathological hate.<font style=""> </font>Fuck these guys, forever, in the bloody heart.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><font style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></font></p> <!--EndFragment--><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>214</o:Words> <o:characters>1225</o:Characters> <o:lines>10</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1504</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jzLuSdzmVqf78IJ812X88ZMUQQDSGf-z6f8ZHEFrPBKa3kyxscHtbJ2PJYBOh_HP4vVygOd17C2uzQhLhVKk5KfuO2grPikCQ1DUyqNfOlTRFkQasEDnXaTPZhpHpfN32cXhORbD4l4/s1600-h/21760_image0_20081216_auto.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jzLuSdzmVqf78IJ812X88ZMUQQDSGf-z6f8ZHEFrPBKa3kyxscHtbJ2PJYBOh_HP4vVygOd17C2uzQhLhVKk5KfuO2grPikCQ1DUyqNfOlTRFkQasEDnXaTPZhpHpfN32cXhORbD4l4/s200/21760_image0_20081216_auto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379121521517510610" border="0"></a><b>Zodiac:<font style=""> </font></b><font style="font-weight: normal;">Unknown outside of the former Soviet Union until the groundbreaking work of the PRHOI and its determination to bring every cockroach into the light from pole to pole in the name of purging Prog, The Curator can say with utmost confidence that you didn’t hear about Zodiac until you tuned in to one of the Bad Prog broadcasts on DJ Micah’s inimitable Public Sensory Radio.<font style=""> </font>And while it often feels somewhat cruel picking on Soviet-era bands- after all, these people didn’t even have toilet paper, much less access to exotic Western recording techniques and synthesizer technology- there is only so much room you can yield to pity before the inner Prussian cruelty lurking in every sardonic critic asserts itself and lambastes in great joy the insuperable obstacle called “Lost in Translation”.<font style=""> </font>Something just doesn’t work here, and no manner of cultural exchange could fix it; delightfully goofy electronic songs blur one into the next, and everything is just one beat off, one Looking Glass crystal removed from an identifiable Western Prog context.<font style=""> </font>Yes, it might be akin to picking on the retarded kid in class, but when that subject insists on eating the paste in full view of others, the occasional giggle is going to be the result, and that is what Zodiac has given The Curator- and many others- since they first premiered here months ago.<font style=""> </font>Consider them an initial International entrant, never to be replicated now that the Bolshevik dream lies in rubble and failure. (And dig that craaaazy sleeve art, above, huh? Prog brings out the would-be Roger Deans, and if you can vomit some color onto a canvas and call it "Sci-Fi", you've got a career in Iron Curtain Prog, is my guess.)</font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">So there you have it! No complaints! It's these twenty, and you pick five- that's democracy if I've ever heard it! Send your votes to The Curator, and I'll have the results up in a week or two. - TR<br /><font style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></font></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><font style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></font><p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>233</o:Words> <o:characters>1331</o:Characters> <o:lines>11</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1634</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><font style="" face=""" size="12pt"></font><!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-80755799024618375572009-09-07T18:00:00.000-07:002009-09-08T09:15:24.453-07:00First Twenty Nominees Announced for Permanent Enshrinement to PRHOI!<br /><br /> All right- here are the first ten nominees for band membership in The Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy! Ten more will be posted in the next day or two, but it's important to remember that when you vote, you can only pick <span style="font-weight: bold;">FIVE </span>of the twenty for permanent inclusion in the Hall's Rogues Gallery Supreme. Send your picks to The Curator, via his permanent Email address at TReady@gmail.com. Over the next week or so, once it's clear that all the votes that are coming have already arrived, I will tally the results, consult with DJ Micah on the legalities of all voting procedures, and announce the Inaugural Five Members of perhaps the least-coveted award in all of Progressive Rock. As always, thanks for visiting and remember that only you can save Prog from the likes of the idiots below...and consign those fools to the refuse pit where they belong. Cheers, - The Curator<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_hX3S8SuprEy73yPZOPqCedviCSl2JafLaE08m5fJK_0hj6K_DntKsEj0LcBKvn-vVkp-ix7ijm7pssQfaaKouB7gkQGAgaaiadHyMYKf9eCYadaV68t2nwjszWxareADrd1DIb772c/s1600-h/dream_theater_japan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_hX3S8SuprEy73yPZOPqCedviCSl2JafLaE08m5fJK_0hj6K_DntKsEj0LcBKvn-vVkp-ix7ijm7pssQfaaKouB7gkQGAgaaiadHyMYKf9eCYadaV68t2nwjszWxareADrd1DIb772c/s200/dream_theater_japan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378902799826795090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>320</o:Words> <o:characters>1827</o:Characters> <o:lines>15</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2243</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><b>Dream Theater<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">It’s a lot to say “These guys are the worst Neo-Prog band ever”- since the style is one so suffused with overwrought instrumental masturbation and hideously shrieking hyena lead singers that, really, in a shit-stye so generously stocked to the rafters with faeces, how can one band truly stand out in all of this orgy of brown?<span style=""> </span>But DT manages, and the reasons are legion: James LaBrie sings like every song has a moment where a midget walks into the recording studio </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">and kicks him in the testicles, the guitarist and keyboard player are technically perfect to the point that there is absolutely no life in a single note they play, and of course, the great Mike Portnoy with his three-snare, two-stool (how fitting) drum kit manages to overplay on every song and be completely uninspired at the same time- an awesome feat of prodigious uselessness.<span style=""> </span>I can admit to hearing a lot of talent in Yes, ELP or even Rush- even if I can’t listen to their music- but I hear nothing of value in DT’s oeuvre, not one moment where I wanted to do anything but track this band down one member at a time and eviscerate their individual talentless carcasses and string their guts across the entrance to the Berklee school of music as a warning to others what will happen to anybody who thinks it will be a good idea to do a 25 minute drum solo on a kit so large it has to be transported <span style="font-style: italic;">by</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">it’s own fucking semi-trailer while on tour.</span><span style=""> </span>What utter and completely maddening fucking trash; how anybody could not vote for D</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">T as an initial entrant and say they know their Bad Prog is beyond me.<span style=""> </span>It’s up to you, as this is a democratic process, but DT comes very close to the coveted (and hotly contested, let me assure you) title <span style="font-weight: bold;">“Curator’s Absolute Most Hated Band of All Fucking Times”</span>.<span style=""> </span>If you do decide not to pick them, I sure as fuck would be curious as to what more you could want from a band to make you hate them.<span style=""> </span>I absolutely loathe this band, and all of their defenders, in my opinion, are borderline psychotics who should be incarcerated, de-programmed with massive doses of Fripp and Van der Graaf, and then castrated- just to be safe, so that the gene pool will be rid of at least one deviant element.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>341</o:Words> <o:characters>1945</o:Characters> <o:lines>16</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2388</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQW5GoiyYf3WyonNRkj1QLsyn-Qj0jyCSnlsvkIQ6F-WX1e_8byM4m_96CUOHUTDm1MgVdgVebqamGcnGkkPdB6tg6HeLLEMTLzyoJ4sMqXHjClKBX7RGKJYeYnKt_N1y4Ql_3kNm4yOw/s1600-h/2813556860044137978kvdmQs_ph.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQW5GoiyYf3WyonNRkj1QLsyn-Qj0jyCSnlsvkIQ6F-WX1e_8byM4m_96CUOHUTDm1MgVdgVebqamGcnGkkPdB6tg6HeLLEMTLzyoJ4sMqXHjClKBX7RGKJYeYnKt_N1y4Ql_3kNm4yOw/s200/2813556860044137978kvdmQs_ph.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378903370421691714" border="0" /></a><b>Yes<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Surely there is nothing more to say about Yes on these pages.<span style=""> </span>“Relayer” remains the single most un-focused and chaotic record by a major Prog act that I’ve ever heard; all of that talent, all of that energy, and the complete lack of discipline and restraint produces an unlistenable monstrosity that I can’t even believe reflexive Yes-heads can defend.<span style=""> </span>And, of course, Jon Anderson- endlessly imitated, never-quite duplicated, the Prince of the strained bowel-movement school of vocals.<span style=""> </span>He literally makes it impossible for me to listen to Yes, even songs where I can appreciate the music. This doesn't even address the later "Rabin Years", when the band- in imitation of so many of their contemporaries- went and got a new producer and tried to write some "hits" to pass their way into a respectable middle age. The results include "Big Generator", a wretched mess and high on any list of <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Most Embarrassing Prog Albums by a Major Act"</span>. Strong contenders for first round induction, Yes seem to be, at merciful last, retired from the touring circuit now that Jon Anderson's liver is falling out. One can only pray it can't be put back to the point that anyone ever has to hear that damnable voice, ever again; JA ruins Prog for a lot of people, I can assure you, and it's time his terror <span style="font-style: italic;">stops. </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s3-mqcIiZV9eNi3EApAq7imtGRU0PEahHHGwGa5uNYmW4jfEmAcMoJR_1LeERZXpkVP-MLwf1_E95ymkYz7gTKYfV_oXZQasewddrAvLP2judo-qnLwUt5lcJrHD5jYssCiYGBkUDCk/s1600-h/SteveHowe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s3-mqcIiZV9eNi3EApAq7imtGRU0PEahHHGwGa5uNYmW4jfEmAcMoJR_1LeERZXpkVP-MLwf1_E95ymkYz7gTKYfV_oXZQasewddrAvLP2judo-qnLwUt5lcJrHD5jYssCiYGBkUDCk/s200/SteveHowe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378903883320854226" border="0" /></a><b>Steve Howe<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now wait a minute- if Yes already has an entry, how can Steve Howe merit his very own plaque in the PRHOI?<span style=""> </span>Well, hear me out.<span style=""> </span>Howe’s <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span> work was with Yes, where he very often was the only thing going in the band’s later unfocused ego-trips disguised as records, i.e. the “Going for the One” era, which I can’t even listen to as a joke.<span style=""> </span>But Howe- and this I just can’t understand, because the guy really can play guitar- wasn’t even begun making his way to the infamy I believe he so richly deserves.<span style=""> </span>When Yes split following the catastrophic "Tormato"- maybe the worst album ever made by a major Prog act- Howe took the opportunity of his new found freedom to find fellow original generation Progsters like John Wetton and Carl Palmer and form Asia, an unrelievedly frothy and conspicuously banal arena-Prog act that, almost incredibly, have made something like a dozen albums over the last 25 years, each more insipid and lacking in vitality than the last.<span style=""> </span>But wait, Howe hadn’t finished with his graceless segue to middle-aged Prog popster hucksterism; after Asia’s follow-up record bombed, he dragged poor Steve Hackett into a project called GTR, which I listened to for the first time in 20 years just a few weeks ago.<span style=""> </span>If Asia is a Triscuit, then GTR is a dead, chowder-worthy soda biscuit: white, dry, lifeless and boring, with the kind of inept lyrics that are only possible when someone is trying to say something “deep”, in the manner of a vintage T-shirt or some metaphysical horseshit from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.<span style=""> </span>I actually have GTR’s second, unreleased album as well- and there is a goddamn good reason they didn’t release it.<span style=""> </span>Mike + The Mechanics look down their nose at this Santorum-like frothy excrescence.<span style=""> </span>For shame, Mr. Howe- for bloody shame.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>294</o:Words> <o:characters>1678</o:Characters> <o:lines>13</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2060</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuMaeYmBNohMjRWXOnmie676SDmZ_fp0NVWXfXrKCRhBgUmAHPi7PoZEspTpKyZZtXvpTFzxzh6VqGNaXdkatw6NtK4as51RSqQsMMtJHHYLekkdcbgTXJ5cLB0POk_sHXwxhJXtLY6U/s1600-h/camel7981_schelhass_kit_watkins_latimer_ward_colinbass.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuMaeYmBNohMjRWXOnmie676SDmZ_fp0NVWXfXrKCRhBgUmAHPi7PoZEspTpKyZZtXvpTFzxzh6VqGNaXdkatw6NtK4as51RSqQsMMtJHHYLekkdcbgTXJ5cLB0POk_sHXwxhJXtLY6U/s200/camel7981_schelhass_kit_watkins_latimer_ward_colinbass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378904817587897746" border="0" /></a><b>Camel:<span style=""> </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Andy Latimer is a very highly regarded guitarist in Prog circles; I’m mystified by that, completely, but having meditated on this imponderable recently, think I have found a parallel from my own life which might better explain it.<span style=""> </span>I know this girl- she’s very beautiful and elegant and is also unusually kind to me. Rumor has it she used to date a guy with his own plane, then dumped him for a guy with his own <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">airport.</span><span style=""> </span>So we’re talking <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">that level</span> of beautiful and elegant. But still kind to me. Not <span style="font-style: italic;">nice</span>, but truly <span style="font-style: italic;">kind</span>; like one would treat a blind dog about to be gassed or a terminally-ill child<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> I’m almost certain that it’s because she’s afraid I’ll kill myself if she’s not nice to me anymore, which, in its own way, is very touching, while at the same time confronting me with the maddening pointlessness of my life.<span style=""> </span>Well, whatever; it doesn’t really matter, as at least I’m not Andy Latimer, and I’ve never made an album like “Nude” that I have to answer for to the Prog gods. Or any of their other boring shit, like the impossibly highly rated “Mirage” or- my pick for most lackluster album of the 70’s- “The Snow Goose”.<span style=""> </span>I’ve<span style=""> </span>literally never listened to Camel and thought afterwards “Gosh, I’m really glad I just listened to Camel.”<span style=""> </span>There is just something so lifeless and- well, what’s the word, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">pussified</span>- about Camel that they don’t even rise to the level of a useful soporific; they’re just irritating, in an egregiously grating way, like the way Yukio Mishima once described having a grain of sand lodged under his foreskin and him being completely unable to remove the tiny pebble of exquisite discomfort.<span style=""> </span>If that’s not clear enough how much I hate Camel, then I don’t know what to say to you, folks; easily one of my least favorite bands, and of such complete lack of worth that not even the great Richard Sinclair could salvage them when he- for whatever reason- joined up for one sadly ill-advised effort in the late 70’s.<span style=""> </span>Maybe he was just worried Andy Latimer would kill himself if he didn’t.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>375</o:Words> <o:characters>2138</o:Characters> <o:lines>17</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2625</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9AJ4Fb7HHPRxoPCEmJlf_WKn_QKjIWBXs20g0opadojd0LVwT-fOJ65dztdsw2mlVacts6Grl2k4lBDz4l6ez9kbJ30ptRJODb0pSaGz-sjF-Gwq7pdFp7Qv4VORi2d8df6n1c7cLgY/s1600-h/Triumvirat+-+Pompeii+-+Front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9AJ4Fb7HHPRxoPCEmJlf_WKn_QKjIWBXs20g0opadojd0LVwT-fOJ65dztdsw2mlVacts6Grl2k4lBDz4l6ez9kbJ30ptRJODb0pSaGz-sjF-Gwq7pdFp7Qv4VORi2d8df6n1c7cLgY/s200/Triumvirat+-+Pompeii+-+Front.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378905653786797938" border="0" /></a><b>Triumvirat<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hopefully I have made clear that this is a truly democratic process for initial induction that I have established here; I really am going to count any and all votes that I receive, and abide by the wishes of the masses.<span style=""> </span>So I’m not trying to influence you in any way while you read this but, seriously, this is the worst band in the history of Prog.<span style=""> </span>There, I’ve said it- sure, in the short term, idiots like Chakra or Larry Oliver and the New Age seemingly bent space-time to make an album like “Neptuned” that through any worm hole and in any conceivable Universe would be the absolute most comically inept record imaginable; but that’s only for one short burst of incompetence.<span style=""> </span>Triumvirat sucked for years and years and years, releasing one bloated concept album after another, a dizzying string of failure that must be listened to in one sitting to really understand how ill-advised is every single decision made by this derivative pack of Krauts who did more to undermine Prog that any comparable band from the fabulous 70’s.<span style=""> </span>One after another the turgid and festering concepts crawled from the megalomaniacal brains of Triumvirat, leaving a shameful slime trail in their wake: “Mediterranean Tales”, “Spartacus”, and the preposterous “Pompeii”, featuring cover art so bad (“New Triumvirat Presents: Pompeii!!!!”) that the first time I saw the record I thought it was some kind of joke.<span style=""> </span>But all this was mere overture to the crowning glories of this ineffably horrible band: the back-to-back “sell out” records “Ala Carte” and “Russian Roulette”, the former featuring the single worst song in the history of Prog: “For You”, and whoever this song was for, let us hope they realized what a dubious gift was in the offering.<span style=""> </span>I mean these guys are completely unlistenable and what’s worse is this unconscionable reputation they have as “musician’s musicians”; I despise Emerson, Lake and Palmer, but I’ll be the first to admit what excellent players they are.<span style=""> </span>Often compared to ELP, Triumvirat has never impressed me with any quality save their languid turgidity; boring, bloated arrangements and the strangely irritating vocals of Barry Palmer have made re-visiting these albums some of the most trying work of your humble Curator.<span style=""> </span>There is nothing else to say other than that I hate them, utterly, find nothing positive in any way to say about them other than that they seem to have stopped making music, and that of all the horrible bands on this proposed ballot, none so richly deserves a damned-good whacking than Triumvirat.<span style=""> </span>So you have been advised, Prog seeker.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>489</o:Words> <o:characters>2792</o:Characters> <o:lines>23</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3428</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VK3_ZwWSz0xRFx4upHZ-3-5LfZis0q01UOazognWmXwijcik74MWmGGo9YAqzKZ573uJwLN-us4bHKKHO64yP_hoFE7al-m5F00mfc6XYadWhdSDKVUQ6fNAV0kWCtWmvnfgBMcrxyM/s1600-h/michael_1982_koblenz.sized.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VK3_ZwWSz0xRFx4upHZ-3-5LfZis0q01UOazognWmXwijcik74MWmGGo9YAqzKZ573uJwLN-us4bHKKHO64yP_hoFE7al-m5F00mfc6XYadWhdSDKVUQ6fNAV0kWCtWmvnfgBMcrxyM/s200/michael_1982_koblenz.sized.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378907125167029202" border="0" /></a><b>Saga: </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Wallowing in the excrement of Bad Prog lo these many months has produced the occasional outburst of true shock amidst this E. Coli-laden sea; for me, that was the moment when DJ Micah reported that he had analyzed the lyrics of Generation 13 and concluded that Saga had, in fact, done nothing less than attempt to “re-make” <i>The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway</i></span>, Peter Gabriel’s near-perfect triumph of storytelling when Genesis was just beginning to disintegrate in 1975.<span style=""> </span>I got pretty angry when I thought about that, and realized that DJ Micah doesn’t say something unless he’s rather certain it is so; contemplating the full horror of this presumption on the part of this truly miserable and unlistenable Canadian band, I have pledged what remains of my own bleak life to assail this abortion and baleful simulacrum of true genius at every conceivable opportunity, going so far as to join the Saga international fan website (just imagine the futility and waste of the lives of its contributors- <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">just fucking imagine...</span>) and try to get close to the administrator, perhaps to someday be within striking distance of Michael Sadler and...and let the ellipsis tell in plangent lacunae the full ghastly story of the fate that jack-ass faces a thousand times a day in the torture-garden charnel-house that is my merciless soul.<span style=""> </span>Sadler, I want your liver- <span style="font-style: italic;">and I want it on a stick.</span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">But Saga is so much more, and their failure a veritable encomium to the winsome muse whom draws the pretense from the shadows and beckons on the wistful creator, ever still further to the rocks, all of the half-understood legends and myopically gleamed fables, all of the notions and ideas and philosophies that end up so mangled in the maw of the half-educated being the tombstone cove upon which the flotsam of posturing finally rests, dead.<span style=""> </span>A torrent of albums released over twenty-five ill-spent years is the mighty pile shat from the Saga colon of creation; but to truly reek, must not something actually have to be <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">noticed?</span><span style=""> </span>I’d never heard of any of these later albums when I decided to investigate yet another catastrophically awful Canadian Prog outfit.<span style=""> </span>Sad, of course, is one word which comes to mind that so much waste has been this band’s creative life; but fitting is a far more accurate summation, as there has probably never been a more lackluster and pointless output than Saga’s for this last <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">quarter century,</span> like an old man’s rancid ejaculate meekly spouting from a tired and wrinkled prepuce and dripping down the ulcerous shaft like clotted urine.<span style=""> </span>Not even their mothers could tell these albums apart, save that there may be an extra treacly ballad or two on one or the other, and not a spark of enthusiasm or sad pip of genius rising above the risible muck that is their late “oeuvre”.<span style=""> </span>Saga may be irrelevant, magically so, to some, but to me they are something else- an epitome, an apex cresting upon a nadir, the absolute best of the absolute worst, a Holocaust of pointless creation and a hecatomb of utterly ignored failure.<span style=""> </span>There are worse bands, I suppose, than Saga; but none more fitting than to be one of the very first enshrined in the hell they so richly deserve, a place where nonsense like “Generation 13” can go and rot; my blessed on-line morgue for failure, the Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy.<span style=""> </span>I beseech you: make them a first ballot loser, for no one deserves it more.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/cyrusvance/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>431</o:Words> <o:characters>2459</o:Characters> <o:lines>20</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3019</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.773</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3A3OfX2vvh39Qe2EZSRNjOQUo76pP5-Koeg9OIu17SPyc1bl0spbNFCH44YSfdXXiUjcFmIXKHviRYvXEx1CiUr0OY8ozLrjKgLRyvMH0z7Q3KZH9tcQ84Mji6XJah8-KlURPKq9aQYA/s1600-h/24.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3A3OfX2vvh39Qe2EZSRNjOQUo76pP5-Koeg9OIu17SPyc1bl0spbNFCH44YSfdXXiUjcFmIXKHviRYvXEx1CiUr0OY8ozLrjKgLRyvMH0z7Q3KZH9tcQ84Mji6XJah8-KlURPKq9aQYA/s200/24.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378907879515622354" border="0" /></a><b>Styx<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Impossible to imagine that any list of failed Progressive bands would be complete without the magically incompetent and tuneless stylings of Styx, a wretched band who commands inconceivably fierce devotion from what must be the most deluded and stupefyingly fanatical fan base in all of Prog.<span style=""> </span>Wearing a Styx tour shirt out in public says many things about a person, and none of them are good; wherever a “Paradise Theater” long-sleeved tee lurks, a monster truck rally, under-aged pregnant paramour and a crate of Skoal can’t be far behind.<span style=""> </span>What VFW-hosted trailer park wedding would be complete without an airing of “Babe”, what furtive, under-the-hood I’m-not-really-gay-but-my-asshole-sure-is genital fondling between high school buddies without “Snowblind”?<span style=""> </span>It’s easy to mock “Kilroy Was Here”, because it’s the most unintentionally hilarious Prog album ever made by a man not named Paul Gaffey (<span style="font-style: italic;">q.v.</span>); but the entire career of Styx is one long tuneless overture to pretense, a fugue of grasp exceeded by contrapuntal reach, an insufferable reminder that “good time rock-n-roll” is still to this day three words and three lies;<span style=""> </span>Styx is pathetic, artless, blissfully easy to mock and impossibly difficult to tolerate.<span style=""> </span>In fact, it’s hard to believe they’re not Canadian, as the gaffes committed with such effortless aplomb by these mid-West Proggers rise to a positively Maple Leaf Level of kitsch, ala Triumph, or Saga, or of course the punishingly dumb Aldo Nova.<span style=""> </span>You have to make decisions, I realize, but if Styx doesn’t make it in on the first ballot, I may have to revamp this entire project to remind people of just how lame they are.<span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXOg18FWenjyepH0ppjQYve8xUMJqV76475CjhcQxxvGiYpbvyLdKHhDRB3CER44-sInOsyrUBodUxdKHXWTGdntwC8aqUDYKfHoca-I7Qz4mt-6sn0bQPu5s28izZzjKBKsipzpHccA/s1600-h/Mephistopheles+-+front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXOg18FWenjyepH0ppjQYve8xUMJqV76475CjhcQxxvGiYpbvyLdKHhDRB3CER44-sInOsyrUBodUxdKHXWTGdntwC8aqUDYKfHoca-I7Qz4mt-6sn0bQPu5s28izZzjKBKsipzpHccA/s200/Mephistopheles+-+front.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378908360247555730" border="0" /></a><b>Paul Gaffey<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">A one-and-doner of impossible heft, Australia’s Paul Gaffey made only one Prog record, but what a fucking TITAN of alternative genius Mephistopheles is!<span style=""> </span>A true paragon of the “reality” school of parodic incompetence, Gaffey blows the fucking doors off of “clever” bands who tried to accomplish with guile what he did with the utmost sincerity.<span style=""> </span>Because this one is from the heart, you bastards; Gaffey’s Mephisto is not only the gayest demon to ever bring his tight little buns up from Hell, he is one randy, swinging cat to boot!<span style=""> </span>“Paradise” is a song of such deranged brilliance as to completely invalidate mainstream hacks like Beck or Lily Allen, “clever” piffle which can only hint at the ribald flamboyance that drives Gaffey’s out-and-proud Satanic manifesto like a smooth Thai lad piloting a rickshaw through the molten steam of the open air brothel that is Bangkok, where each boy is merely a pittance of a pound away from buggering by the sly Westerner who just knows the right “contact”.<span style=""> </span>I love this record, and swear by all that is camp that when my time draws near, I will be playing it as I go to wherever it is wicked men like me go, though I can only hope the Devil who greets me will be half the saucy, bitchy queen that Gaffey’s is, because, honey, let me tell you that will be one HELL of a party!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <!--EndFragment--><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; 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panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhYHYWZ-de7UQpbIZsb8SsxlbKtkTaYy-AeH3eiSWtakEq384GEkBK2F4tnYNa_O7auSROu4j7iz0hMghSIIueHfRsgBVVDYi732fqMCems_MXfqbloTgZtNgcTNf0qfrqkLnmvnTaYls/s1600-h/Pavlov_27s_20Dog_20_2D_20Live_20in_20Detroit_201_small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhYHYWZ-de7UQpbIZsb8SsxlbKtkTaYy-AeH3eiSWtakEq384GEkBK2F4tnYNa_O7auSROu4j7iz0hMghSIIueHfRsgBVVDYi732fqMCems_MXfqbloTgZtNgcTNf0qfrqkLnmvnTaYls/s200/Pavlov_27s_20Dog_20_2D_20Live_20in_20Detroit_201_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378908982810741794" border="0" /></a><b>Pavlov’s Dog<span style="">: </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">I’m not sure if I’ve told this story before, but it’s important so I’ll tell it again.<span style=""> </span>Pavlov’s Dog is what started all of this for me, months and months ago on a cold January night here in Seattle, during one of my endless bouts of insomnia, when I was up late and desperate for something new to listen to.<span style=""> </span>I found a torrent on The Pirate Bay, wherein the helpful uploader talked up the two-Mellotron attack of these St. Louis Progsters, and said- get this- “fans of King Crimson will enjoy this melodic band.”<span style=""> </span>Well, to put it mildly <span style="font-style: italic;">I am a fan</span> of King Crimson; so I downloaded the thing and as luck would have it, someone was seeding very strongly that night.<span style=""> </span>Two hours later, I finished listening to the atrocity that is “Pampered Menial”, convinced I had just heard not only the worst, but the absolute most ridiculous record ever recorded, no matter the genre.<span style=""> </span>I became obsessed, and remembered how when I bartended at a flea-bag joint in Brooklyn many years ago, a strange young man named Micah used to come in, drink a few Heinekens and brood at my bar, and we’d talk about Prog and how absolutely awful most of it was, and how we really hated the vast majority of the music.<span style=""> </span>I got back in touch with Micah, largely because of this record and the ululating madness that is David Surkamp’s completely inimitable vocal delivery, and I’ve pissed away hundreds of hours since tracking down obscure bands from all over the world, trying to find something that can match the ear-splitting horror that is Pavlov’s Dog.<span style=""> </span>I’ve heard a lot- 750 records at last count, all maintained here on my trusty external hard drive- but have yet to find something quite as infuriatingly horrible as the Dog.<span style=""> </span>They really deserve your consideration as an initial entrant to the PRHOI, as without them none of this would ever have happened.<span style=""> </span>Make of that what you will.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Kp7tBGcOJS-fgLcpx0-4iBAM50o7mXv3SYw-CXUXhigj2IODYcKkuLbaeEg7mCqDZgvtzaQu1FBP24ie7L9hUBDXhwoilL-Bny07LSTA2KHpYKHtnN6TN_Uo04RyhAvxGvi5w8jh2uE/s1600-h/Jimmy_HotzBox_StartArticle01A.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Kp7tBGcOJS-fgLcpx0-4iBAM50o7mXv3SYw-CXUXhigj2IODYcKkuLbaeEg7mCqDZgvtzaQu1FBP24ie7L9hUBDXhwoilL-Bny07LSTA2KHpYKHtnN6TN_Uo04RyhAvxGvi5w8jh2uE/s200/Jimmy_HotzBox_StartArticle01A.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378909537932113938" border="0" /></a><b>Jimmy Hotz</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="">: </span>I can’t even think of this chubby sonofabitch without smiling. Jimmy Hotz, as long-time fans of the PRHOI will know, is not merely the king of bad Christian Prog; he is an inventor of a gadget luridly named the “Hotz Box”, which allows the owner to make an entire bad symphonic Prog album all by himself, without even having to go find a bunch of recovering drunks at your local church to praise Jesus with boring, overly-orchestrated drivel like “Beyond the Crystal Sea”.<span style=""> </span>Pudgy, soft as a veal calf and with a voice so shrill and epicene Jimmy Sommerville would call him a faggot, Jimmy Hotz deserves special consideration as the very first Christian entrant to the Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment--><br />All for today, see you soon with the next batch of ten shitty Prog bands for your consideration! - TR<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <!--EndFragment--><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <!--EndFragment--> Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-44340562646268927382009-07-12T06:37:00.000-07:002009-07-12T06:42:16.443-07:00BAD PROG IV: APROGALYPSE NOW podcastBAD PROG IV: APROGALYPSE NOW can be heard <a href =" http://radio23.hosting.boxpopuli.com/episodes/p/pu/publicsensoryradio/425/psR_no22_Bad_Prog_4_w_T_Ready__425.mp3">here</a>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-15057242327453197252009-07-09T06:04:00.000-07:002009-07-09T06:08:32.118-07:00BAD PROG IV: APROGALYPSE NOW<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVKklLFHYGfEyh0jQ70shvjly2LkoJUtkZVtVJYtTYCXrqraaHpvTbyt-n_v2DMaY15sPMwZbRg23sUce-slBOvsWoiUG1MskHJwyhlENQxFEWJLAOp7RB99vwPxpNrBwqRs7ysr9fADn/s1600-h/4773_108634934523_642034523_2891268_2013026_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVKklLFHYGfEyh0jQ70shvjly2LkoJUtkZVtVJYtTYCXrqraaHpvTbyt-n_v2DMaY15sPMwZbRg23sUce-slBOvsWoiUG1MskHJwyhlENQxFEWJLAOp7RB99vwPxpNrBwqRs7ysr9fADn/s320/4773_108634934523_642034523_2891268_2013026_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356446535307147298" border="0" /></a><br /><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span class="UIIntentionalStory_Names"></span>BAD PROG IV: APROGALYPSE NOW comes to the air this Saturday July 11 from 5-7 EST on Public Sensory Radio w/ host DJ Micah and The Curator. Absolutely no excuse for any of the music to be played this week, w/ wretchedness from big name stars and the worst Homebrew Prog you will ever hear, direct from Canada. NOT TO BE MISSED, A SLEW OF MISERY AND DEBACLES FOR THE AGES!!!</h3>Public Sensory Radio is a weekly internet radio broadcast dedicated to strange and unpopular music, most notably in the realm of electronic, kozmische, noise, beard rock, ambient, electroacoustic, psychedelic, progadelic, krautrock, mutant weirdness. Curated and hosted by Micah Moses<br />PSR can be heard Saturday 5-7 pm EST on www.radio23.org or as a podcast at <span>feed://feeds2.feedburner.c</span><div class="datawrap"><wbr><span class="word_break"></span>om/publicsensoryradio</div>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-15550887171906855012009-06-30T09:39:00.000-07:002009-06-30T09:50:45.695-07:00Panta Rhei - Worst Music Video Ever?Romania has given us much in the way of Bad Prog. Panta Rhei is probably the more notorious addition. This video is a complete guide in how to produce the worst music video of all time. Horrible use of bluescreen compositing, the most arbitrary execution of the dreaded "Hall of Time" After Effects filter, inconceivably abrupt time signatures, awkward editing and closeups that looks like it was done by a team of severely autistic children. Only from Eastern Europe can something be so naive yet mangled beyond hope of correction. From 1996, here is Eye of the Snake.<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/iPLLUtQO8xs&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/iPLLUtQO8xs&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-59312901554230838972009-06-29T09:23:00.000-07:002009-06-29T09:43:17.227-07:00Otis--Then and Now (Still Hamtaahk After All These Years)Here's a favorite of ours. Magma's "Otis"--performed in 1981 and 2007. Christian Vander's ultimate scat ballad...a bittersweet limit experience in sound...No holds barred insanity in the name of avant garde free jazz interpretation. Vander may have gotten older and beefier and bad hair-ier...but his mania has only purified like a fine wine. Merci Boucoup!<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/trEUcbABzBQ&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/trEUcbABzBQ&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/RS0pKRBdHFA&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/RS0pKRBdHFA&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="340" width="560"></embed></object>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-11150172275469735872009-06-29T03:34:00.001-07:002009-06-29T03:35:23.143-07:00Welcome Back My Friends...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0B-wSQfnikez0Yj77MqLC-BHv14fJ7HjGrVeHB5-wz5FWagAmr5xNFhxzMDt8yn4Tgj5oBQNCj8B4748OP0OgVtmF2IFWmPxPWJ9AGE64iuS9zmI5g1c808j2_EcEzPoZQ_Ss8z3oopE/s1600-h/Daddy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0B-wSQfnikez0Yj77MqLC-BHv14fJ7HjGrVeHB5-wz5FWagAmr5xNFhxzMDt8yn4Tgj5oBQNCj8B4748OP0OgVtmF2IFWmPxPWJ9AGE64iuS9zmI5g1c808j2_EcEzPoZQ_Ss8z3oopE/s400/Daddy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352696224720314482" border="0" /></a>Timothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-14060425227310456962009-06-18T23:34:00.001-07:002009-06-19T13:11:18.134-07:00Dissimilar Cousins: Yes, King Crimson, and Why Some Prog Sucks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-tSsC-NkywZ4CaGqPSVinpKFz9FtH_EqHqFks0PLeztR99dAIvjmwZJyr77GjT-xpoSOnCOk7Rwx8nRx619rWXC3HKb7Rj0e2Pme3fi3quiwcw6-vLxH7dfqPHVLNlAmZ_n7_Jirnrw/s1600-h/Relayer_front_cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-tSsC-NkywZ4CaGqPSVinpKFz9FtH_EqHqFks0PLeztR99dAIvjmwZJyr77GjT-xpoSOnCOk7Rwx8nRx619rWXC3HKb7Rj0e2Pme3fi3quiwcw6-vLxH7dfqPHVLNlAmZ_n7_Jirnrw/s200/Relayer_front_cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348923745484904914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The eminent French post-structuralist critic Jean <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Baudrillard</span> has observed “Perhaps the world's second worst crime is boredom. The first is being a bore.” This is not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">apropos</span> of very much at all, save the fact that there is a certain intention announced by the writer of any essay that begins with a quote from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Baudrillard</span>: the intent to stultify the reader with unremitting arrogance. Old Jean has a certain point, however, though I do wonder how this played out in the original French; it should be noted that “boor” is what I think he was really going for, and who knows how much was lost across the linguistic <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hedgerows</span> along the way. Regardless, I’m laying down the gauntlet early, and this promises to be the most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">overwhelmingly</span> sententious essay yet presented for your delectation here within the none-too-humble halls of The Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy.<br /><br />Why? Very simple. After repeated demands from visitors to the Hall that I actually explain what “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Prog</span>” <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">is</span>, a working definition from The Curator is going to be entwined into this essay to provide much needed context on why some bands are <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Prog</span> and some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">aren</span>’t; far, far more importantly, by analysing the two albums I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> chosen to represent the triumph and catastrophe of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Prog</span>, I will at last have an opportunity to explain why I think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Prog</span> is, above all other forms of rock, open to catastrophic <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">depredations</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">eschatological</span> foul-ups because of the very nature of the music. What allows it to triumph, in short, can also render it asunder in the hands of over-ambitious dolts who really don’t know where their ideas are heading. This essay also will allow me to elevate my personal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Prog</span> Hero- Robert <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Fripp</span>- while dealing what will hopefully be a death-blow to the incomprehensibly overrated and beloved 70’s Arena <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Prog</span> staple, Yes. Not that I set out for such things, but I must say: if this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">doesn</span>’t warrant a few death threats, then I’m really getting off of my game here at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">PRHOI</span>.<br /><br />Because I hate Yes. Just absolutely fucking despise them. I blame them for allowing Jon Anderson to sing, I blame them for Rick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Wakeman</span>’s rampant ego and late-career preening sentimentality (some curmudgeon- he plays like Richard <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Clayderman</span> plugged into a wall of amplifiers, only more treacly and GAY!) , I blame them for bands like Albatross who made a memorable mess of things during the first <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Prog</span>-O-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Caust</span> broadcast several weeks ago, I blame them for Jimmy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Hotz</span> and men wearing brooches and concerts performed in horrible pants and bad <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">bouffant</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Prog</span>-dos and repetitive solos and inspiring Dream Theater to live their miserable fantasies and any other excess that killed Classic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Prog</span> which can not be directly attributed to pipsqueak Keith Emerson and his gargantuan ego. This is a love-fest of hatred, a deep yearning to despise and loathe what other men adore, to set me apart by sheer vitriol and vengeance from the mass of suckers who have taken this crass hokum down to the vein-laden root. Eat that "Roundabout", you curs, and while you're down there wallowing on knee-pads of indignity, here it comes- A Taste of My Hate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlobgwMqGQTMbDIxZDUdcz1aOERC-lpS1on2VKsIg7wFgicXF84vgd4F425MUL6mNCqK26NrograiAIP8qKj9hCJRHEd1I9muQENig6bTPeSKceksIgoa6HIUbZ5idn3tfI-94oMczH0/s1600-h/119083.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlobgwMqGQTMbDIxZDUdcz1aOERC-lpS1on2VKsIg7wFgicXF84vgd4F425MUL6mNCqK26NrograiAIP8qKj9hCJRHEd1I9muQENig6bTPeSKceksIgoa6HIUbZ5idn3tfI-94oMczH0/s200/119083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348928328929264802" border="0" /></a><br />I hate Anderson’s bitchy-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">ness</span>, Squire's 25-pound bass, Howe’s increasingly-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">epicene</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">appearance</span> whilst singing about wizards, that dude from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Buggles</span> with his big glasses and their boy-toy guitarist Trevor Rabin who made them go pop, and I’d like to hang Rick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Wakeman</span> upside down over hot coals and put a bag of rats on his head. I hate the song "Wondrous Stories" like I hate people who recruit child soldiers in Africa, and I’d rather listen to audio from the Great Guyana <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">kool</span>-aid acid test of Jim Jones for eternity than hear "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Starship</span> Trooper" even one more time before I die. I hate their fans, their cult, their standing in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Prog</span> world, all of their albums and their goddamn families, too- down to the last little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Wakeman</span> from any of his four perversely fecund unions. Yes is more despicable than AIDS and more annoying than the entire Osmond clan; I literally cannot listen to them without wanting to go out and hurt baby animals.<br /><br />And of all their records, the one I find most <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">unlistenable</span> is the one I just was listening to for the purposes of this essay. <span style="font-style: italic;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Relayer</span>.</span> 1974, modest-sized hit, a just-before-Christmas release after the monstrosity of <span style="font-style: italic;">Tales from Topographic Oceans</span> was sprung upon the world like a zombie plague in January; Yes literally bookended the year with heaping piles of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">faeces</span> thrown into their fans’ faces, doing god knows what in the months between, other than loading up their bowels with more platinum <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">scheisse</span>,</span> that is. A year of overwhelming excess and ego perhaps not seen since <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Napoleon</span> crowning himself Emperor, a scabrous and indefensible assault by a band who had something approaching rabid contempt for their public. The murder of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Prog</span> began with these two albums, completely out of control, tuneless, meandering like a wet-brained derelict and as bloated as a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Gabor</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">sister</span> loosed upon a Vegas prime rib buffet. <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">TFTO</span></span> is justifiably loathed by most sensible music fans, but <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Relayer</span></span> has somehow got a pass; I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">ve</span> reviewed it elsewhere (and that should have ended it), but my point today is to compare this mess to the near-perfection of an album with similar artistic designs and made by musicians of a similar caliber, and within one year of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Relayer</span>’s</span> release. I’m talking about King Crimson’s stunning 1973 release <span style="font-style: italic;">Lark’s Tongues in Aspic,</span> an album I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">ve</span> been listening to for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">thirty</span> years and what I still consider to be the definitive statement of ambitious and arty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Prog</span>, both abstract and concrete.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXXYQY-sglGGLgFjX5WwehweYg_U5bL080CIU3N-u1K5eNXHihtNXprkuhL3Dbk78xi30lsHefOlyC5TBnaohj4GfrqZto7JKoaSquOtgZ-AqaMeJy_cf8YC8ohSRxMXWppvQcdhLkB8/s1600-h/Larks_Tongues_in_Aspic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXXYQY-sglGGLgFjX5WwehweYg_U5bL080CIU3N-u1K5eNXHihtNXprkuhL3Dbk78xi30lsHefOlyC5TBnaohj4GfrqZto7JKoaSquOtgZ-AqaMeJy_cf8YC8ohSRxMXWppvQcdhLkB8/s200/Larks_Tongues_in_Aspic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348923649082288114" border="0" /></a>So much in common, as I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">ve</span> just said above; nobody denies that Steve Howe can play guitar (he’s <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">easily </span>the best thing going on <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Relayer</span></span>) and there is a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">veritable</span> Rickenbacker cult that has sprung up around Chris Squire, and while I don’t like his style Patrick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">Moraz</span> is more than capable, and blah blah blah. All the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">accommodations</span> and apologies made, no one can deny the Yes-men learned to play, and play (<span style="font-style: italic;">technically</span>) very well. Yet the Yes effort is a catastrophe, totally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">unlistenable</span>, and Crimson’s is probably the greatest <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Prog</span> album of all time. It’s not like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Fripp</span> and Co. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">weren</span>’t letting fly with whatever they felt like: the opening cut is almost fourteen minutes long, and other than the surprisingly tender ballad which follows, every other track clocks in at over seven. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Mellotron</span> is still part of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Crim</span>’s arsenal, but it is relegated to a far smaller role; this album is rife with Jamie Muir’s frantic percussion giving a slightly Eastern feel to the proceedings, and David Cross all over the production with an at-times flat-out-evil-sounding violin. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Wetton</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Bruford</span> do what that pair does, which is keep themselves under control but drop in the occasional tasteful notion reminding you that there are multiple ways to listen to a King Crimson composition, a multiplicity of experience virtually unheard of outside of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">Prog</span> and only very rarely attained within. Each composition is full, unique, and perfectly realized; and it is that key word <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">composition</span> which defines why the over-the-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">topness</span> of <span style="font-style: italic;">Larks’</span> succeeds brilliantly and <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Relayer</span></span> makes me want to steal a car and go on a cross-country killing spree. Of baby animals in petting zoos.<br /><br />There’s a lot going on in both <span style="font-style: italic;">Larks’</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">Relayer</span></span>, but the latter just seems like a mess. The reason is that there is absolutely no focus to the most ambitious tracks. Album opener "The Gates of Delirium" is noisy, obstreperous, disjointed, slapdash and sounds like it was cobbled together from a thousand takes with the band never actually ever in the same room for any of them. The second track is so worthless I’m not even going to name it, the only reason for it existing seemingly Howe’s fucking Grade-A solo that is delightfully sloppy, rough-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">hewn</span>, with nasty tube distortion and modulated perfectly in the true style of a classical rondo. But, no matter how good the solo, the rest of the production is, again, utter chaos and heading <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">nowhere</span> at breakneck speed. It’s pointless to even mention the last track, which is more of the same, or the unconscionable gall of the record company to include several “bonus” tracks on the CD release, as if having more bamboo shoved under your fingernails is some kind of treat once you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">ve</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">accommodated</span> yourself to the sensation of utter agony that makes up this majestically incompetent bit of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">narcissistic</span> effluvium.<br /><br />Now, back to the pure joy and beauty of <span style="font-style: italic;">Larks’. </span> A real psychedelic-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">prog</span> experience, there’s a host of sound effects and production virtuosity going on throughout the record, but not one track on this masterpiece ever drifts away from the central idea guiding it: these are <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">compositions,</span> not puerile excuses for solos wrapped around studio-bound noodling, and wherever <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">Fripp</span> as bandleader wants the songs to eventually go, they get there with dignity and fervor, tremendous introspection and punctuations of fantastic noise. The superb solo on "Easy Money", for instance, is an organic part of the song, not something thrown in for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">Fripp</span> to masturbate with, and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">Mellotron</span>, percussion, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">Bruford</span>’s drumming and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_77">Wetton</span>’s wonderfully tasteful bass line move things along as much as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_78">Fripp</span>’s pensive, frankly melancholy guitar work. I dislike trying to describe in words what something “sounds” like- for god’s sakes go get this album and a decent pair of headphones and prepare for a real fucking <span style="font-style: italic;">experience</span>- but in order to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_79">separate</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Larks’</span> humility and mastery from the farrago of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_80">Relayer</span>’s</span> vulgarity and entropy, this one time I have decided to forgo my reticence and do what I can to point out how much effort went into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_81">Crim</span>’s masterpiece, and how little thought went into the latest entry in the Yes <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_82">junkpile</span>. Pretentious, precious, orotund, distasteful, garish, incredibly noisy and ultimately silly, albums like <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_83">Relayer</span></span> are why the average music listener hates <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_84">Prog</span> and why the mere mention of the word in public usually earns one a series of sneers. And never- and let me repeat <span style="font-weight: bold;">NEVER</span>- an offer of a phone number or a quickie make-out session with the girl just <span style="font-style: italic;">having</span> to know what this band was Peter Gabriel was in when he was younger. And with good and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_85">goddamned</span> clear reason. I honestly think it would be easier to explain things to a girl if she was poking around my computer and found child pornography than if she investigated the dread "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_86">PROG</span>" folder on my Docs and found all eleven versions of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_87">Kohntarkosz</span></span> I have. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Eleven,</span> man- can you dig it? There's therapy for pedophiles, but Magma fans are in it for the long haul.<br /><br />So, why does <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_88">Prog</span> end up failing so often and in such a disastrous fashion when it does? The reason, I think, begins with the problem most people have in even <span style="font-style: italic;">defining what the music is. </span>Everything from Black Widow to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_89">Queensryche</span> is called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_90">Prog</span>, and there is an unending debate in the halls of the respectable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_91">Prog</span> establishment about whether a band is symphonic or crossover, true folk <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_92">prog</span> or merely Harry Potter music. In short, there are an endless list of influences that can make up something “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_93">Prog</span>”; fusion, noise, metal, psych-style guitar-driven rock or keyboard-dense electronics, the classical influences of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_94">ELP</span>-wing of the genre or the outrageous eclecticism of the wholly unclassifiable Van <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_95">der</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_96">Graaf</span> Generator. It would be very difficult to do a series of “Bad Punk” shows, since for one thing the entire idea is a bit of a redundancy, and for two these bands have at their disposal a mere three chords and two time signatures and you can be boring and repetitive but it’s very difficult to make bricks without straw and build a gas chamber, if you follow me. But I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_97">ve</span> had absolutely no problem rounding up three entire shows worth of Bad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_98">Prog</span>, with a fourth on the way and this one perhaps the most shocking and horrifying of all. And anyone who has listened to the shows, I would hope, would have to acknowledge the true diversity of the monsters put together in The Curator’s infernal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_99">Prog</span> lab, DJ Micah and I playing music from many different bands, countries, and from across even differing social systems. And yet still Bad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_100">Prog</span> reigns. It’s a tough beast, this Bad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_101">Prog</span>, and to be honest, looking at my notes and tracks I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_102">ve</span> meant to play but haven’t got to, there’s enough material here already for at least six more shows, and keeping to the fantastic standard of incompetence established early on with the playing of the Albatross and Paul <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_103">Gaffey</span> records; you just fucking wait ‘till you hear what we’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_104">ve</span> found from the amateur and home-brew <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_105">Prog</span> community, for you have heard nothing yet.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_106">Prog</span> is of such vast inclusiveness that it is probably best to limit the word to describing the almost-wholly-British group of bands who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_107">emerged</span> from the Psychedelic scene of the late 60’s and listened to <span style="font-style: italic;">Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band</span> and decided to really just freak out and make music that would get on <span style="font-style: italic;">Top of the Pops </span>only by blessed accident. Literary, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_108">musically</span> vast, containing more than a little of the Canterbury scene’s whimsy and humor, this “real” <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_109">Prog</span> also had a far darker side; Genesis records were about little girls being molested by disembodied Jack-in-the-Boxes and Armageddon taking place in a quiet London living room, and Peter <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_110">Hammill</span>’s vocals were so histrionic and disturbing that there was no way to hear them and not understand that this was a tortured man writing very, very personal songs of loss. But the moment you go that route, all of a sudden French bands like Atoll and Magma <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_111">aren</span>’t <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_112">Prog</span>- which is just fucking ridiculous, as Magma may be the most “progressive” and best <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_113">Prog</span> band of them all- and of course the entire Scandinavian scene has to go since Day of Phoenix, though sounding very British, were from Copenhagen and not Manchester. So I really don’t know what to tell you, to be quite honest.<br /><br />All I can say is that if there is one word which sums up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_114">Prog</span>, it is <span style="font-style: italic;">ambitious;</span> bands producing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_115">Prog</span> seemed always to be doing anything but worrying about making the pop charts, which explains why the fall of Collins-era Genesis and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_116">Wetton</span> projects like Asia are such miserable, unequivocal failures. The moment the money was more important than the music, even great bands and players could turn to shit.<br /><br />Of course, bands like Yes- who always were shit- went this road too, and at least very little was lost to the world in that Anderson confined his Eastern blathering to one track on the monumentally execrable <span style="font-style: italic;">Big Generator</span>, hosting the stupidest song ever written, “Holy Lamb (Song for the Harmonic Convergence)”. The full torments of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_117">Tormato</span></span> (I can’t believe I’m writing that every time I write it, no matter how many times I do it) are legion, but the end of Yes, and therefore of the last classic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_118">Prog</span> band making “hit” records, came only with an album so insufferably lame that no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_119">Yessie</span> I know will publicly defend it. Why they defend utter garbage like <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_120">Relayer</span></span> is another question, one I hope I have offered an answer to here. But as for what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_121">Prog</span> is, what it isn't- it's one of the most subjective questions I've ever investigated; one of such personal taste and definition that, like sexuality or one's opinion of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_122">Baudrillard</span>, it's best kept to oneself and only allowed vent amongst friends. - TR<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MAJOR ADDENDUM:</span> Having had time to think about it, I have note of a much-more-than-glaring omission that is terribly common when discussing the amorphous transition from Psych to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_123">Prog</span>. I mentioned <span style="font-style: italic;">Sgt. Pepper's</span> in the above text because it is the most obvious and oft-cited example of the wholly British attempt to make drug music more "serious", and the fact that none other than Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_124">Bruford</span> mentions it as the most important album as far as "where <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_125">Prog</span> came from". I would like to add an extremely important second to that list, hardly my own idea of course, but to leave Pink Floyd's <span style="font-style: italic;">Piper at the Gates of Dawn</span> out of this discussion is beyond criminal. Listening to it as I type, this is clearly a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_126">proto</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_127">Prog</span> album, at the same time as it exists as probably the best British Psychedelic album ever made. Sometimes you really have to go back to the classics and be humbled- what an amazing album.<br /><br />As far as I can tell, the loss of Syd Barrett is a rock <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_128">casualty</span> matched only by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_129">Jimi</span> Hendrix and far, far more devastating to the future of the music than relatively inconsequential deaths like Janis Joplin or Kurt Cobain. "Interstellar Overdrive", while being also a triumph of production, is more importantly a kick-ass freak-out of epic proportions, leaning far more in the direction of where Crimson would eventually go than the rather straight-up blues rock of contemporaries Pink Fairies or The Deviants. This is not a knock on those two hugely important bands, or Edgar <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_130">Broughton's</span> trip blues, either; it's simply an acknowledgment that the Floyd was very, very special, transitional and evolutionary, and that Syd Barrett was a fucking genius. I welcome comments on this, as I'd like to know more about the subject myself as to the "birth" of Prog, and of course am very open about the lacunae in my own knowledge. I still think <span style="font-style: italic;">Piper</span> is every bit as important as<span style="font-style: italic;"> Pepper's</span> though, and absolutely its equal in terms of music and transcendental genius. - TRTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-88483986691793707462009-06-13T10:26:00.000-07:002009-06-13T10:41:00.364-07:00Bad Yid Prog-- Menachem Herman Orchestra<object height="344" width="425">This is a montage of clips from a concert given in London by the Menachem Herman Orchestra. The sound isnt so great, the editing is incompetent, but the power of Bad Prog shines through. "Weaving Authentic Tradition, & Classic Rock; a One of a Kind Spice for Your Special Event!"...It's definitely proggy and it's most certainly awful. Watch Menachem rocking out with the "guitar on the back of his head" trick. Look, Ma! I' m a rock and rolleh! Oy! Who's Your Bubby!<br />Proof that prog has become a tool for abrahamic religions to impose their agenda on the oblivious sheeple (also exemplified two entries below with the PL Projekt post). This is so bad it makes The Kaplan Brothers look like Led Zeppelin. I'm posting this on the Sabbath so its either a mitzvah or a het.<br /><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/faWCxVCSiOk&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/faWCxVCSiOk&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-1096032117610508612009-06-12T14:03:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:11:52.319-07:00Rick Wakeman - Worst Standup Comic Ever!<object height="344" width="425">What would the Prog Hall be without the ostentatious stylings of one Mr. Wakeman? No keyboard antics here...instead we present his latest venture in the world of entertainment... standup comedy. This is a trailer for his "Grumpy Old Picture Show" DVD, where he tries to do a borscht-belt type act with the curmudgeonly snippets and geriatric humor. Alert to aging proggers: Shut up and Die with whatever dignity you have left. You're not funny! <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/3IHVdG3rKqE&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/3IHVdG3rKqE&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-18841871102244426632009-06-12T12:23:00.000-07:002009-06-12T12:34:44.641-07:00PL Projekt - Scary Xian Prog<span class="description">"PL Projeckt" a group composed of israels and philipinos living in israel, tel aviv/jaffa, presenting an arrangement of psalm 86. Patrick leads the group and the composition is his own work.</span><object height="285" width="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/-CpnwyykgnI&hl=en&fs=1&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/-CpnwyykgnI&hl=en&fs=1&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="285" width="340"></embed></object>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-75892297896611805352009-06-11T10:17:00.001-07:002009-06-19T21:17:42.523-07:00Saga- Generation 13<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiRC9IDyRrkLwEWRMPQZ_0wU37z1ekAnkTUSDj__aUVCz9u9tA2yKNH5TDijEOIf3GamSuHXlvwE4ct5SOyJezVCvt2FArsPevUmmCmdBuCvO74AE8J1bbT5X_5DugJZ2o3yvFfN8IGcU/s1600-h/1180611929_ge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiRC9IDyRrkLwEWRMPQZ_0wU37z1ekAnkTUSDj__aUVCz9u9tA2yKNH5TDijEOIf3GamSuHXlvwE4ct5SOyJezVCvt2FArsPevUmmCmdBuCvO74AE8J1bbT5X_5DugJZ2o3yvFfN8IGcU/s200/1180611929_ge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346120555029973186" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Saga- Generation 13</span><br /><br />My recent attempts to find positive things to say- even in the midst of unmitigated Prog catastrophes and artistic debacles the equivalent of France’s collapse at Sedan in 1870- are coming to an end. Yes, there were things that deserved a nod of approbation this past week- the Christian band can play, Rush are fine musicians, even the Kaplan Brothers are at least sincere in their monumental ineptitude. Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah- the meanest critic alive, who hates with the perfect beauty of a Sicilian blood feud, looked in Prog’s toilet and found that at least the shit had been flushed. But then yesterday, while writing about Rush, I investigated more fully what some have called their “little brother”- Canadian power-pop progsters Saga, who, many years after their obsolescence had been reached, decided to record their first flat-out “concept” album in their entire career. And let me tell you, it is an effort of such stunning horror and unrelieved incompetence that preparing to review this wretch made me think of none other than that miserable French general himself surrounded at Sedan- <span style="font-style: italic;">“Nous sommes dans un pot de ch</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ambre, et nous y serons emmerdés.”</span><br /><br />I feel sorry for fans of Saga. I really, truly do. As said yesterday, while I do not concur and feel it is somewhat juvenile for otherwise competent adults to still listen to Rush, I “get it”, and what purpose they serve- for those of taste decidedly <span style="font-style: italic;">louche</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">2112</span> or<span style="font-style: italic;"> Hemispheres</span> is a guilty pleasure, a secret indulgence in a tacky bedizenment which, nonetheless, rocks. And for all those “Analog Kids” out there suffering the tortures of adolescent reindeer games, I certainly understand why they respond which such felicity to Peart’s platitudinous musings- he’s speaking for every teenaged chronic-masturbator who has ever lived! Rush fans have suffered enough, I'm getting off their back.<br /><br />But what the <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">fuck</span> with Saga, man? I never liked these guys- even in my musically impoverished youth, Saga belonged to a grouping of pseudo-pop-progsters like Aldo Nova or Triumph whose music I just found annoying. And there were other things as well- like Michael Sadler’s knee- pads for his acrobatic traipsing about on stage. Clearly visible in the attached screen shot from my Mac (see below, the only way I could present evidence for their existing on this blog- <span style="font-weight: bold;">PLEASE CLICK IMAGE FOR GREATER RESOLUTION!</span>), the knee pads are a very personal irritant to me. This guy is so frenzied in his frontman calisthenics that he has to have special body armor attached to his white jeans? Oh for fuck’s sakes, what a jackass. But personally those ridiculous knee-pads evoke still more powerful disgust- because of a childhood friend whom I <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkquZ8VjyACZzH-VT92JMlwWtn8_h7yTg2KulTH1okynebk-xpk7HkGK_zGXnZ_3OOics7zQNS2eNY08sCpmOBO-u_pYib0jjtNguXeHZ7k2u0ni4fvFM0a_BLabIhu0mR9YqdMvRa2fw/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkquZ8VjyACZzH-VT92JMlwWtn8_h7yTg2KulTH1okynebk-xpk7HkGK_zGXnZ_3OOics7zQNS2eNY08sCpmOBO-u_pYib0jjtNguXeHZ7k2u0ni4fvFM0a_BLabIhu0mR9YqdMvRa2fw/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349258253433461522" border="0" /></a>will refer to here as “Tazz Razzberri”, which was, in fact, the name given to him by the promoter who hired him for work as a male stripper many years later (this is, sadly, all very true). Before he was a stripper working for a man who obviously despised him, “Tazz Razzberri” was a teenaged loser and lover of really bad music- and my best friend- and he had a special yen for Saga, and wanted to buy protective pads for his body so he could “just take off running into the woods with wild abandon”, as I seem to remember him saying. We grew up in a horrible little town, and life was hard on both of us- many nights were spent listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">Grace Under Pressure</span> in Tazz’s bedroom, if that helps you understand the misery of our shared youths in a town where the only blacks who ever lived there were literally burned out of town when I was about eight. Still, the misery suffered at the hands of gearhead Klansmen and the like does not justify wanting to be more like Michael Sadler with his ridiculous knee-pads, and I no longer speak to Tazz Razzberri, off as he is somewhere with a very large wife and probably still listening to “Dreamline”-era Rush in his convertible Miata. What a dumbass.<br /><br />But enough about Tazz, let’s return to the even more stultifying issue of Saga. These guys had a nice run for about eighteen months in the very early 80’s, producing jazz-tinged Arena Prog of tepid musicianship and overly-pristine production. Sounding smoother than whale shit and having less substance than a Paul Auster novel, Saga should have segued gracefully to retirement after their bright-dancing-star moment of an era of power pop so insignificant that Disco seems positively reverential by comparison. But they didn’t. Like an athlete who just doesn’t know when to walk away, Saga has Favre-d it up for the next twenty years, releasing a horde of albums that not even their mothers can tell apart, with one incredible and significant exception: 1995’s mesmerizingly obnoxious copro-fesitval of pure shittiness, <span style="font-style: italic;">Generation 13</span>. This, dear friends, is a very, <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> special album, and you must be aware the language is about to get very, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">very </span>rough in describing it.<br /><br />For starters: this fucking album flat-out fucking sucks. I mean it <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> fucking sucks. It sucks like a trailerpark granny desperate for one more bag of meth. It sucks like a Steven Soderbergh film festival emceed by Brett Ratner. Of all the miserable, execrable, intolerable and unlistenable fucking experiences I’ve had in my goddamn life- and I’ve had plenty of late, that is for good and goddamned sure- <span style="font-style: italic;">Generation 13</span> is such an insufferable exercise in tuneless futility that if this album were an ethnic minority, I would urge a campaign of genocide against it. We’re talking Hutu-on-Tutsis level of annihilation here- unmitigated tastelessness demands unmitigated slaughter. For all of the pretentious and loathsome attempts at creation that Prog has ever inspired, this boorish monstrosity is devoid of virtue and replete with excreta to such an extent that I’d rather listen to Queensryche songs sung in an eerie falsetto by David Surkamp in a sauna with Emerson, Lake and Palmer, all of whom forgot to bring their towels and are going “commando” for the day. Wimpy, whiny, saccharine-tinged like a crate of Diet Dr. Pepper and so poorly executed that I’m convinced the record company released it out of pure sadism, <span style="font-style: italic;">Generation 13</span> is to concept albums what Mark Kostabi was to painting: insincere, derivative, fraudulent, piss-poor and likely to evoke violence in any poor sap likely to hear it who doesn’t think “On the Loose” was the greatest rock song ever written. This is an absolutely Stygian experience of hellish invention, of Satanic maladroitness bordering on criminal, mindless as a Mormon and perverse as a Templar. In short, I really don’t want to think about an album possibly being worse than this, because if it exists, surely it is now being used in cruel laboratory experiments designed to make chimpanzees into perfect and remorseless killers, soon to be unleashed upon man by some diabolical corporation after having completely gone insane listening to the worst piece of shit ever conjured by a faulty human mind. Someone needs to pay for this fucking shit.<br /><br />For one thing, how can you make a concept album where the concept is <span style="font-style: italic;">almost impossible to discern? </span> I spent almost an hour yesterday searching the Internets for some kind of explanation that made <span style="font-weight: bold;">ANY</span> sense as to what possible story line these Canadian fucks had in mind with this garbage. An hour of my life, gone forever! And <span style="font-weight: bold;">STILL</span> I’m not entirely sure what all of this crap is supposed to mean. To be as succinct as possible, apparently there was a “cultural studies” book released in the early 90’s about “Generation X” (yep, that’s me and mine!) who were the 13th generation born in the United States. Oooh, spooky! ‘Cos, like, “13” is cursed and stuff, right? Star-crossed from our inception, no wonder we all voted for Obama- we’re fucking EVIL, after all, we’re number 13!!! Oh what unmitigated bullshit- for starters, what the hell is a <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Canadian</span> band doing worrying about what generation is doing what in America? Excuse me, you judgmental bastards, but you killed your share of Indians too, and I’m getting sick of having this “healthcare” shit lorded over me by a nation that has given the world Loverboy, Snow, Nickelback (!) and...SAGA!!!!!!<br /><br />And what a gift! Generation 13 purports to tell the story of “Jeremy” (oh fuck you and your Pearl Jam reference- how LAME!) who is, I guess, really upset about growing up to be like his father. Yep, more tortured-adolescence fairy tales from pompous Canucks, and this one the most inscrutable of all- because Jeremy apparently has a split personality, and the other side is “Sam”, who speaks like Tony from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shining</span> and directs Jeremy to self-destructive behavior. This goes on through<span style="font-style: italic;"> twenty-five tracks</span>, some of them spoken and the lyrics of the sung ones almost impossible to discern through all the noise and histrionic emotion of Michael Sadler’s voice. And the only thing I can tell you for sure is that Jeremy fucking <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">vows,</span> goddammit, that “I’ll never be like you”. And people wonder why infanticide is so popular in cultures that have any sense.<br /><br />The music is pure symphonic-rock, that dreadful synthesizer sound of the 90’s that bands who’d been listening to too much Enya on the tour bus affected with such galling regularity. There seems to be a criticism of media culture somewhere in the bowels of this beast, but frankly I don’t care to discuss it because the writing is on the level of a high schooler who dismisses everything he doesn’t like in terms of “this is fucking bullshit, dude”. Of course there is an anthem that erupts in the middle of the story, and it is rife with horrible rhymes and soaring vocals and power chords of such earnestness that The Scorpions would blush. About the only thing that can be said positive about this “work” is that, like rape, it will inevitably end. Though at the end of the assault, I can honestly say I wish it was just my ass that was hurting. I Spit on Your Grave, Saga.<br /><br />I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. This all started for me several months ago when, one sleepless and unemployed night, I stumbled onto Pavlov’s Dog on The Pirate Bay, having been assured by the torrent creator that “if you like King Crimson, you’ll love this!” I was so blown away by the Dog- a band so insanely bad that I’m shocked that they’re not Canadian- that I had to tell the whole world, and in the process decided to deal with a long-cherished hatred of Yes in the process. Thus, the original Facebook Progressive Rock Hall of Infamy group was born. With the incredible and invaluable help of my partner, DJ Micah, a little republic was founded on principles of slaying those groups who have had such a reaming coming for many, many years. Over the months, there have been three radio shows, two stalkers, a death threat, and the identification of the International Cabal (PRIC) who conspire to see to it that Prog remains the most hated form of music ever invented by man. It’s been fun, and appalling in the way only a philosophical Masochist can appreciate. I feel the joy of the flagellant, and hope you've enjoyed your whipping, too.<br /><br />But Saga has taken me to a dark place, friends. That murder, mayhem, torture and rapine occur in the world is a given- man is a cruel animal, after all. But you can usually chalk all of that up to a “lone nut”, or a good man who ignored the warning signs so as not to cause trouble. Saga, however, are a group of men who have committed a crime so foul (<span style="font-style: italic;">Generation 13</span>) that it demands swift and severe punishment, yet...still they walk this Earth. People own this album, <span style="font-style: italic;">and like it</span>, as one can see by a visit to the Saga discussion forum maintained by some German guy as a virtual shrine (the main Pavlov’s Dog fan site is German, too- curious, isn’t it?). Instead of being about as loved as small-pox and as avoided as a hypodermic needle sitting on a toilet seat, Saga has a wildly loyal fan base who bemoan only that Michael Sadler has left the band and moved on with his “art”. And I just don’t know how I can continue in a jocular vein dealing with these wretched records, trying to pretend that they’re just a small part of an overall mosaic called Prog that is wonderfully creative and uniquely fulfilling. I feel like Saga is just as capable of sucking beauty out of the world as Peter Hammill is of putting beauty into it; and there is no question whose output has been more vast of recent years. Malignant and fecund, Bad Prog is a galloping tumor of mediocrity birthed from inferior minds with superior ambitions; just because they fail and suck doesn’t mean bands like Saga aren’t trying. And I can’t stop them. I have finally decided...I just can’t stop them.<br /><br />If this is the last review at the PRHOI, thank you for visiting. I’ve enjoyed the correspondence, the approbation, the hate mail perhaps even more. But this may be the limit, and could be, alas, a Saga come to end. Bad Prog doesn’t sleep; and this Curator is very, <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> tired today. - TRTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-41124522855959570782009-06-10T09:16:00.001-07:002009-06-10T09:42:17.955-07:00Rush- Hemispheres<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFs0zCNJJKXVUTGePMxhNPRY3iiOb4CZ6oTPQc7b5zNLYrQ4rpIxpx6UU0uG-kU9nXwI9XJnB81DId2fKZfLx9tlBuDMN01zYHYUZ47mdYjFiatSkyk5p8ZHXFxuylB-OA7ln0_awnBrU/s1600-h/hemispheres.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFs0zCNJJKXVUTGePMxhNPRY3iiOb4CZ6oTPQc7b5zNLYrQ4rpIxpx6UU0uG-kU9nXwI9XJnB81DId2fKZfLx9tlBuDMN01zYHYUZ47mdYjFiatSkyk5p8ZHXFxuylB-OA7ln0_awnBrU/s200/hemispheres.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345740155372605394" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br />Rush- <span style="font-style: italic;">Hemispheres</span></span><br /><br />Oh god...<span style="font-style: italic;">Rush.</span> Why even bother to work up a dudgeon, whether high or low, about such a preposterous cultural relic as the meretricious Canadian Power Trio who have been making <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">exuberantly</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">musicianed</span> hokum for thirty-five years now? This is kid’s stuff, surely, and I should know because my mother probably still maintains a box of cassettes at home with copies of every record up ‘till <span style="font-style: italic;">Hold Your Fire</span>; and why pick on kids, when anyone who knows anything about Rush realizes that the kind of youth who gravitates towards this pastiche philosophizing is troubled, lonely, introverted and...<span style="font-style: italic;">different.</span> And more than likely abused or marginalized to some extent in whatever Subdivision he’s growing up in. Don’t these kids need their own music? Surely, they do, and I’ll go one better: Rush fills an important need for these lonely boys and one I find to be decidedly positive. When the outcasts and misfits started listening to utter garbage like Slipknot that urged mindless rage instead of, say, <span style="font-style: italic;">Permanent Waves</span> that at least had “intelligent” lyrics and cautioned a kind of principled stoicism in response- well, this culture has been nursing psychopaths for many years now, and, yes, I blame the record industry for Columbine and I could give a fuck who thinks this makes me sound like Dan Quayle.<br /><br />So why bother, then, to heap scorn and abuse on three talented musicians who <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">unfortunately</span> have chosen to live a permanent adolescence and make music that is the endless equivalent of <span style="font-style: italic;">Catcher in the Rye</span> (because let’s face it, it’s a pretty tiresome book after a while)? The reason is simple, and summed up graphically in the slatternly mien and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">rebarbative</span>, puerile philosophy of the group’s <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">un</span>-official guru: Ayn Rand. For no one in history has been more insidiously successful in popularizing that wizened cunt’s loathsome solipsistic ravings- and thereby <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ensuring</span> the continued madness of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Libertarianism</span> and the resultant destruction of the world’s economic system- than that Plato of the skins, Mr. Neil <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Peart</span>. In the history of the world, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Peart</span> ranks right up there with Alfred Rosenberg and Andrei Zhdanov for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">popularizing</span> a disastrous philosophy that swamped the world in its baleful fog and choked out reason from the brains of many an inquisitive young person; Nazism, Stalinist Dialectics and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Objectivism</span> are the three pearls of metaphysical pretense to The Curator’s sorrowing mind, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Peart</span>’s poetic grasping of Rand’s insipid Nietzsche-for-dummies rhapsodizing means he’s going to answer for his crimes, at least on my fucking blog he is.<br /><br />The problem is apparent from the start: who would ever listen to a <span style="font-style: italic;">drummer</span> when it comes to what books to read? For Christ’s sakes, drummers have a well-earned reputation for being dim as dorm-fridge bulbs and about as comfortable with abstract thought as the Bush Twins in a semiotics lab. I’m not sure I’d let the typical drummer clean my pool (those filters can cause a world of hurt) let alone proffer insight on the mysteries of the brain, and the complicated interplay between the Dionysian and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Apollonian</span> in the aesthetic struggle raging in the supplicant and seeker’s mind. Which brings us, neatly, to the subject of this review, an album even most Rush enthusiasts would allow is a near-total fiasco due to the overwhelming failed ambition of the title track: <span style="font-style: italic;">Hemispheres.</span><br /><br />Behold, the God of Pretense has arrived! A concept album about...The Birth of Tragedy! Oh, the drugs must have been very good in 1978, Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Peart</span>, very good indeed...<br /><br />Any analysis of the album is, essentially, redundant and extraneous; it’s the same old Rush story, you know it very well if you know the band at all: superb musical passages suddenly interrupted by cheese-ball <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">synth</span> work, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Lifeson</span>’s classic-rock-monster riffs making you wonder “what if”, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Geddy</span> Lee’s vigorous and tasteful bass work and, yes, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Peart</span>’s outstanding drumming undone by some of the most preposterously overwrought and insensate lyrics ever written. And I don’t care that they’re “Canadian”, that’s no excuse; I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">ve</span> known plenty of Canadians who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">aren</span>’t this lame, or this...<span style="font-style: italic;">befuddled.</span> Lee has never been at higher, testicle-cringing altitude than the “singing” done on this album, indeed, it almost sounds like he’d heard this dude named "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Surkamp</span>" was out there and he really needed to ratchet things up to keep his title of Falsetto Rex the Shrill. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">ve</span> always felt Lee was somewhat unfairly maligned for his vocal work; this is rock n’ roll, after all, and Robert Plant got away with some serious helium-sucking excess on <span style="font-style: italic;">Houses of the Holy</span> and is worshipped like a god. But there are times on <span style="font-style: italic;">Hemispheres</span> that Mr. Lee sounds like the air horn the Germans used to put on the nose of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Stuka</span> dive-bomber to scare the hell out of hapless refugees. Volume is one thing, but a gaggle of rioting macaques can’t match the sheer insanity of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Geddy</span>’s nefarious ululating, done to a pitch that is generally only heard in music when a tube-amp has exploded or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">serialist</span> composer has gone mad. Fortunately, what he’s singing about is even more ridiculous, so some of the pressure is taken off of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Geddy</span>’s shoulders and returned to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Randian</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">epigone</span> who is personally responsible for half the political arguments I get into when I go to bars.<br /><br />Again, what is there to say? If Allen Greenspan were a rock band, he would be Rush and <span style="font-style: italic;">Hemispheres</span> is the band’s sub-prime loan. Superlatives are in mean supply when the fantastic catastrophe of <span style="font-style: italic;">Atlas Shrugged</span> comes up, but I must admit, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Peart</span> matches that vicious old crone pomposity for pomposity, and brings back in 5/4 time all of the festering rage I nurse for that fascist slut with the loving care of a murderer – for Ayn Rand is the single greatest argument that I know of that Lenin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">didn</span>’t kill <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">enough. </span><br /><br />Which leads us to the meat of this essay: are Rush fascist, and if so, should children be protected from them? Well, I find it significant that in the All Music Guide review of <span style="font-style: italic;">Hemispheres</span> (which the dazzlingly obsequious reviewer feels is a “masterpiece”; who wrote this crap, Mrs. Maury <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Weintraub</span> of Toronto, ON?) mentions that "The Trees", quote, “deals with” racism. Okay, this is a bit of a stretch, but let’s say it does; if so, a cursory perusal of the lyrics would seem to indicate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Peart</span> would be <span style="font-style: italic;">in favor</span> of keeping the lesser elms in their place. This is one of the most violently anti-egalitarian songs ever written, and while it is fine to tout the superiority of the individual and the pressing need of the tallest tree to preen most keenly and take the most light, this kind of anthropomorphism is fantastically deterministic; for trees are <span style="font-style: italic;">only </span>a product of their genes, can neither learn nor think, and only man himself can even prune them for their own more- efficient survival. A Freudian analysis of the lyrics unveils a host of priapic demons rife in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Peart</span>’s flowering metaphor, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Lacanian</span> one more menacing eugenic fantasies that betray a perhaps more closely-cropped moustache than the Rollie Fingers look he sported <span style="font-style: italic;">ca. 2112.</span> But all of this posturing misses a central point: the lyrics are, of course, strictly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Randian</span>, a woodsy re-telling of the John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Galt</span> fantasy and the struggles of a man used to practicing “situational ethics”, and, therefore, preposterous, laughable, essentially fraudulent and pure Romanov-diaspora kitsch. I return to a point made much earlier in this essay: kids <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">didn</span>’t kill each other when they listened to Rush (though some of us sure as hell thought about it) and that, after all, is the final proof that Ayn Rand is just a phase like acne, parachute pants and premature ejaculation during furtive sexual experiences (not that I would know anything about that, mind you) that some overly-Romantic dreamers pass through on the way to an adulthood of massive conformity and literary fantasies lingering in sobering desuetude. And The Curator finished his paragraph, and yea, did he weep...<br /><br />Thus, what is there to say about Rush, in conclusion? A youthful trifle, a bagatelle of adolescence, perhaps if all goes well a gateway drug to more challenging and beauteous <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Prog</span>; and I must admit, while the album version falls short, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Lifeson</span>’s magnificently emotional live solo on "La Villa <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Strangiato</span>" (from 1981’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Exit: Stage Left</span>) still can produce a frisson of envy that I could never make music like that. But when one transitions from pimply-conjecture to wrinkle-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">browed</span> wisdom...perhaps it is time to put Rush in the toy box along with many other discarded pastimes, segue gracefully to books somewhat-less-horrific than <span style="font-style: italic;">The Fountainhead</span>, and realize that paying your taxes is a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">downpayment</span> on civilization. Because, as said, I still blame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Peart</span> for this plague of buffoons who look at Somalia and see the happy fate they wish upon my poor United States of America. You pack of tea-bagging cocksuckers, anyway.<br /><br />And if you think I’m being typical in my bludgeoning exaggerations...below, perfect <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Randian</span> wisdom from those ideological scalawags at the Cato Institute. Enjoy. (Skip down to the part about Somalia with the “Find” feature in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Firefox</span>; simply, absolutely must be read to be believed) - TR<br /><br />http://tiny.cc/NTUUUTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-21465278538641881372009-06-09T13:22:00.000-07:002009-06-10T06:41:25.613-07:00My Curious Correspondence with a Christian<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-v8G37FHHCSkHgriemEEvCAJusAS7j3iULzHDB5WTBMNC7ZbYued7ftd4k07tT85uc6KqwhqFLrfDQmbj7f6Ceeeg3kZb5AL0B_XhM8qmgOeWbJP4zoTgqs3gcYsPvMN7x2-x_3sQMeE/s1600-h/divineinsight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-v8G37FHHCSkHgriemEEvCAJusAS7j3iULzHDB5WTBMNC7ZbYued7ftd4k07tT85uc6KqwhqFLrfDQmbj7f6Ceeeg3kZb5AL0B_XhM8qmgOeWbJP4zoTgqs3gcYsPvMN7x2-x_3sQMeE/s320/divineinsight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345431608242785906" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Fans of the PRHOI may be aware of an ongoing dialogue I’ve had with one Mr. Batholemew Boge, head genius behind the neo-Classic Xian-Prog outfit Divine In Sight, and largely responsible for their 2001 magnum opus <span style="font-style: italic;">Sorrow and Promise</span>. Mr. Boge, with great courage- for he was well aware of my loathing for certain strains of Prog, as well as my writing style which manages to match in virulence the vituperation of my hatreds- offered a <span style="font-style: italic;">gratis</span> copy of his record with a direct challenge to review the thing and do my damnedest. True to his word, a package arrived last week, delivered by my landlord and opened with heart-a-palpitating by your humble Curator; upon opening the package, there it was, lovingly wrapped in a protective layer of toilet paper (and I am not kidding) and me barely able to get the thing open for my excitement of the Sorrow and Purulence I felt lurked within.<br /><br />There was just one problem; this may not be to my exact taste musically, but Boge’s outfit is not that bad, other than his singing, which is so awful that if I was his wife I would leave him. (To his credit, Bart has fired himself and hired what sounds to be a rather large closested homosexual (nobody can sing that high and be straight) to practice his own brand of Mercury-poisoning, and who will be able to handle those insane Xian mosh pits that break out when the spirit doth move them.) Other than that- and an unfortunate penchant for a very dated Scholz Rockman distortion-in-a-box guitar sound (which Bart has assured me is a thing of the past as well)- there are moments on this album which actually flat-out rock; the first track takes eight minutes to get there, but the break (superbly introduced by a frenzied two-fingered assault on his Rickenbacker by the extremely talented bassist- sounding far more like Steve Harris than Chris Squire, BTW) allows Bart plenty of room to lay down an intricate arpeggiated guitar lead with his drummer showing it is possible to play very aggressively while not acting like a Portnoy and mucking everything up with unnecessary pyrotechnics when a clever fill will do. Incredibly, and almost unheard of for a contemporary Christian rock band, Boge also seems to know the value of a minor chord, instead of basing all of his emotion on the ecstatic power chords which these other bands utilize with the punishing insincerity of a used car salesman with a roll of quarters shoved in his polyester slacks. These guys have virtually nothing in common with other “Prog” Xian acts, which will probably doom them to curiosity status amongst the cognoscenti of such rubbish, but allows even the perpetually hate-addled Curator a moment of complimentary indulgence, as the sheer audacity of not sounding like these other <span style="font-style: italic;">horrible</span> fucking bands demands at least a nod from this insomnia-plagued Palinurus.<br /><br />For, as must be clear, this review is not really about Divine In Sight; I wanted to say a few things about this record because Mr. Boge has been a tireless correspondent and commenter here, but this blog isn’t going to turn into some kind of cheerleading section for followers of the single most destructive narcissist and plagiarist the world has ever seen- Paul of Tarsus, fabricator of the Nazarene legends and, like Mr. Boge, tireless letter-writer to indifferent pagans quite frankly dumbfounded by the intensity of their touching attachment to somebody who is, after all, dead. Between Paul’s bizarre emphasis on the cross and Mr. Boge’s obsession with Rush, I’m not sure who comes out more to be pitied but, regardless, these insensate <span style="font-style: italic;">idee fixes</span> are not going to ruin my reputation as the nastiest and most defiant anti-Christian this side of H.L. Mencken; for, to borrow from Dennis Miller back when he was funny and not insane, when it comes to being “born again”, you’ll have to pardon me for getting it right the first time.<br /><br />So Divine in Sight is talented and knows how to rock out; I’d prefer to talk about some other bands, like Young Earth, who are- <span style="font-style: italic;">are you even <span style="font-weight: bold;">remotely</span> ready for this?</span>- an Xian Prog band devoted to making music about the literal interpretation of Genesis, to the point that they denounce Darwin on the homepage of their website and really, truly seem to believe the Earth is 6,000 years old. I’m sorry, but- <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Mother of fucking Christ, are you fucking kidding me?</span> The dazzling stupidity of Fundamentalists is so awe-inspiring as to invite pure whimsy and fantasy; surely, if their savior is as gullible as his flock, should Jesus actually come back my first impulse would be to approach the returned Semite and play “got your nose” with Him. The image of a cruelly disoriented Christ, undone by the same credulousness that has made him such a superstar lo these last 2,000 years, grasping hither and yon for a snout robbed as if from a Gogol story, gives your Curator silent, yet bountiful, heaving fits of mirth; the idea of his joyless epigones being allowed to inflict their “creation science” (<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>) on impressionable children gives me anything but. Like the struggle of the Workers against the Bosses, there is no middle ground in the burgeoning war of the clusterfuck boob-boisie against the oppression they face from a rational world which has no place for fairy tales in biology texts; indeed, in this war, no one has the luxury of “going to Canada” to avoid the draught coming from between the ears of this baying rabble who long only to be siphoned off to Heaven in a fanciful mid-air naked jamboree that<span style="font-style: italic;"> isn’t even in </span>the goddamn Bible. And they’ll cut your throat, infidel, if they think it will bring Junior back one day sooner. Which side are you on, then- <span style="font-style: italic;">which side are you on? </span><br /><br />What, then, could be the alternative for an Xian band trying to spread the message of their Lord, but without resorting to the criminal idiocy which plagues modern Fundamentalism like the rampant stench of putrefaction in a slaughterhouse? I’m glad you asked, because Mr. Boge also directed me- in one of his earliest letters- to offer any “advice” I might have for his next music project, which (surprise) will be some kind of epic about some kind of Christian thing. What Bart may not be aware of- for how could he, dealing with such an obviously evil man?- is that The Curator has a very deep knowledge of Scripture and can navigate the OT and NT with all the shoe-horning peregrinations of a preacher; for you didn’t think I came to my atheism by mere cussedness, did you? No, I learned disbelief the old fashioned way- I moved away from home, did some drugs and slept with some girls, decided this was better than betting the farm on an itinerant sky spook to come back and give me a transcendental hand-job, thought some things through and then the Nietzsche got hold of me and that was pretty much all she wrote. (And by the way, I’d like to make an offer to all proponents of “creation science” (<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>): you can teach your young Earth nonsense to my (non-existent) kids if I can lecture your happy brood on Zarathustra and the Anti-Christ; we’ll see whose Idol is Master and whose is Slave, and with the inherent urge to belief of the typical fundy-youth, I will soon have the cult I have always wanted and unleash these reformed believers upon the world with bile, frenzy and dynamite; and yea, I shall be acclaimed a god.)<br /><br />So, getting back to my point, let’s address the Christian Prog concept album that I guarantee will never be made, though it has quite a defensible basis in the scripture I know. For one, let’s imagine a savior tormented by his burden (LK 4:1-4) and only gradually realizing what must happen for his father’s plan to be fulfilled (MT 16:21) He is familiar with the OT prophecies, and sets out to fulfill them (JN 12:14- see Isaiah and Micah for all of these various prophecies, sometimes amusingly misinterpreted by the Gospel writers- “an ass, and yea, a foal of an ass” (MT 21:5). Sorry, Christian humor.) But when he arrives in the holy city- perhaps the very first victim in history of the “Jerusalem Syndrome”- he is so overcome by the surroundings, especially the magnificent Temple (2CHR 3:3) , that he loses sight of what is supposed to be his father’s plan...and remembers the Beatitudes (MT 5: 3-12) so recently uttered now that he is so close to the corruption of Annas and Caiaphas, quisling vassals of the ruthless Pilate. The trade in fowl for filthy lucre upon the very grounds of God’s house enrages him; having already made clear his ability to tear the place down to the last brick (JN 2:19) and with the fire of righteousness only a man convinced of his own destiny can posses, he makes the fatal mistake of kicking over the money changer’s tables (JN 2: 12-25) and thereby inviting the whole of authority in Jerusalem down upon his merely-human back. It is during Passover, after all; and the Romans know the full political implications of this festival honoring another time the Chosen had been released from a cruel bondage.<br /><br />Thus: a caring, passionate, truly human liberator, a nationalist, a Rabbi who respects and honors the traditions of his people...but also a revolutionary, a communist (or at least a socialist!), an early crusader for the rights of women, one who slummed with the lowest orders of the society in which he lived- oh, it’s a hell of a story, Christian. Could be straight out of Weil and Brecht to be honest- but we’ll never see it, because instead of proffering guidance for man to liberate himself, the current moribund Christianity offers only a dire choice between living on one’s knees or burning for all eternity in a lake of fire that didn’t exist until Dante imagined it- 1,500 years after the life of Christ. It demands fealty, acceptance, copious public displays of smug propriety, endless denunciations of “the world” while prospering in a society that has benefited like no other in history of the wonders of science and technology, is paranoid, militant, conspiracy-minded, hidebound, insular, intolerant, insulting, meticulous in its prejudices and slovenly in its curiosities; in short, the Fundamentalist is the perfect dupe for a cadre of Caligari’s so perfect in their manipulation that their sleepwalkers are blessed with life and revere only death, waiting for that magic day when they can be done with the troubles of the flesh and get massive amounts of revenge on the likes of The Curator, who so delight in pointing out the criminal failings of a philosophy that rises just above a suicide cult. My disbelief alone is worthy of a summary burning; in the name of Baal himself if they only knew what went on when I conned a lovely bird into nesting in my bed for an evening! But the obsession with any sex that doesn’t involve an immediate apology to Jesus upon ejaculation has always intrigued me; for a group that seems to think gays and lesbians want to get married just to piss them off, their leaders sure do seem to know where to get a blow-job in Kansas City at three in the morning; Christ, I don’t even know where to buy head in a strange town, and I’m obviously a degenerate of near-mythical proportions! And as for homosexuality...it astonishes me that a group of people who <span style="font-style: italic;">literally</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">worship</span> a guy who ran around the desert for two years with twelve “disciples” all wearing dresses and Birkenstocks are so worked up about a couple of queers who want to play house in Iowa. One look at Ted Haggard told me who was the “bottom” during his little soirees with American hero Mike Jones, and that the good Pastor had felched more of Onan’s seed (GE 38:9) than Elton John at a Theater District karaoke bar. This kind of murky hypocrisy isn’t exactly what I’d call living “in the light”. How much worse can I do going to Vietnam with my buddy Mike and buying a 12 year-old for a carton of cigarettes and some “Lime-taste” Jell-O (apparently, they’re nuts about it over there)? Saved, you want me to be? Christian, if this titanic fraud is what you call being “saved”, then damned I shall remain, proudly, even if the Man himself floated down from the Seattle heavens and had Mel Gibson with a crate of Zyklon-B for back up. I’ll not bow to madmen, no matter how much cache they register with my more credulous neighbors.<br /><br />Thus, once again I have managed to “review” an album while really using it as an excuse to attack a segment of society that has had it way too fucking easy for way too fucking long; Bart, you’re a good guy and a talented musician, but I can’t let up for even a minute on the true purpose of my life: the destruction of all known values and the endless tyranny of tradition, eradication of all age-of-consent laws and the establishment of an enlightened dictatorship consisting of me and guided by my intimate knowledge of the folly of man and the desirability of the principle of <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Anthrocide</span>, which is the one truly original contribution to Western philosophy that I have been able to make in my 37 years.<br /><br />But that is for another time. For now, keep on rockin’ in the free world, and maybe sit down this week and try to write a song about a car. Jesus can be in the car, man- it’s cool. Think <span style="font-style: italic;">Red</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Barchetta</span>, only less lame. You and Junior, out for a drive, kickin’ it Old Testament style- you gun the engine too hard, and break down in the desert and Jesus gets out, pops the hood, and smoke is flying everywhere and he says “The one thing I can’t save is this engine”. And everybody has a nice, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">life-affirming</span>, laugh. But the car has to be the focus, and it’s gotta be fast and there has to be metaphors and stuff about getting the hell out of somewhere. Just my two cents. Cheers, Belial. - TRTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-9998902325655993242009-06-07T22:04:00.001-07:002009-06-07T22:18:52.898-07:00New Link for Fans of Bad Prog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSXXJkA-u90xO3ZGUG7uHApqtJbvwHSUjCCvC9T7j-deQyCWnfZR2yDc0l0G8hjRO113gzA_nryGluGjA469iSUxmv73NYN3HLLaCP1H-SehVeBxFkg5P_TpomOlhEu5Reto4mpqiTDQ/s1600-h/rumsfeld.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSXXJkA-u90xO3ZGUG7uHApqtJbvwHSUjCCvC9T7j-deQyCWnfZR2yDc0l0G8hjRO113gzA_nryGluGjA469iSUxmv73NYN3HLLaCP1H-SehVeBxFkg5P_TpomOlhEu5Reto4mpqiTDQ/s320/rumsfeld.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344821878500107842" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /> The Curator is pleased to announce his linking to a splendid novel available on-line, here:<br /><br /> http://oldmanmisery.blogspot.com/<br /><br /> It is called<span style="font-style: italic;"> Old Man Misery</span> and deserves a wide audience. Link is also available in the "Our Friends" section of this page, to the right.<br /><br /> "Anonymous" has written a fierce denunciation of the moral nothingness that was the Bush years by addressing the forced retirement of Donald Rumsfeld, told from the perspective of his final minutes in office and then off to an uneasy obsolescence at his estate upon "Mount Misery". All is not as seems upon said woeful plantation, once the propoerty of a notorious "slave breaker" who claimed a particularly gifted orator among his many "breakings". A fine and gripping dark comedy with a Gothic ghost story lurking in the margins, <span style="font-style: italic;">Old Man Misery</span> is offered by The Curator for your pleasure, thanks to his dear friendship with the author. Enjoy. - TRTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-6864885438655737292009-06-07T07:33:00.001-07:002009-06-07T07:36:51.999-07:00Prog-O-Caust 2009! Part TwoTimothy and Micah continue their investigations into bad prog. Kaplans cover Crimson. Leonard Bernstein by way of Kieth Emerson by way of Chakra. Insane hungarian oompa loompa prog. Greg Lake ejaculates in a groupies mouth...and more!<br />Listen <a href = http://radio23.hosting.boxpopuli.com/episodes/p/pu/publicsensoryradio/295/ProgoCaust_2009_Part_2_with_Tim_R__295.mp3>here</a>micah moseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07533446178617099801noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2598694453639649893.post-8895987946428914382009-06-07T03:08:00.000-07:002009-06-07T04:24:53.000-07:00The Kaplan Brothers: Nightbird, An Electric Symphony<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnSogZD08dGJT7Uk2DnB0gKeiyK_ImYOeO_k39X1Gg7dwQLZi4zHhn3g9YM6REequU_MBOfEsyppL-c6329iQQF4X_-dai1X2M9whtGdk-gu7nOgl6_SfMGDN2D75Aeb43bNO6zNchqE/s1600-h/KaplanBrosLP_front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnSogZD08dGJT7Uk2DnB0gKeiyK_ImYOeO_k39X1Gg7dwQLZi4zHhn3g9YM6REequU_MBOfEsyppL-c6329iQQF4X_-dai1X2M9whtGdk-gu7nOgl6_SfMGDN2D75Aeb43bNO6zNchqE/s320/KaplanBrosLP_front.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344526159780768258" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kaplan</span> Brothers- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Nightbird</span>, An Electric Symphony</span><br /><br />Rarely has an album struck me with the force of this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Proustian</span> epic conjured- perhaps with assistance from Mephistopheles himself- by Mrs. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Kaplan</span>’s three boys, somewhere in suburban Chicago during the blistering Summer of 1978. So much heart- and so much Bar Mitzvah money- went into this project that all one can do, as a reviewer, is honor the epic scope and vision of a lounge act that dared dream of nothing less than the summing up of all of life’s mystery, woe, joy, tragedy, sorrow, glee and death itself in one stupefyingly grandiose record, such that words like “pompous” and “ambitious” simply fail so miserably to encapsulate the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">strivings</span> herein as to render them and all language itself extraneous and pathetically shallow. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ve</span> seen a lot in my life and come face to face with many failures, but none of them has ever arose, fell, burned and died in such a fantastic and joyously ridiculous manner as these genius <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Mellotron</span>-wielders who came from what surely must be the most wonderful womb in the history of the world. For facts are facts: the sad and wandering Jewish race has given the world more artistic greatness than it deserves considering the treatment meted out to this Chosen people, but not just epic genius but also something else- <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">kitsch</span>- has been the West’s reward for its intimate relationship with the displaced Khazar hordes chased from the Pale and into the barbed-wire and libelling-ire embrace of Christian civilization. Responding by both suborned attempts at assimilation and defiant keeping of traditions dating to a time when Europeans were living in caves and howling at the moon, Jews have kept their identity whether they wanted to or not, and with that has come a voice so sorrowing and unique that you hardly need to see the artist in profile to tell if he descends from the tribe of Shem.<br /><br />For make no mistake about it: <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Nightbird</span></span> is a <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Jewish</span> record. In fact, I have never heard one more poignantly Jewish, and I mean that to be read as an endorsement of the remarkable contemplation of life in all its variations that seems to be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">inseparable</span> from the Talmudic and Rabbinical tradition. While we have played most of the album the last two weeks during <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Prog</span>-O-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Caust</span> 2009, if you have missed these shows or simply have no idea what I am talking about regarding the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Kaplans</span>, I urge you to get a copy of the album via <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Rapidshare</span>, and listen to the whole thing (I have included a link in the title, above). I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ve</span> laughed my ass off at the insuperable earnestness and insufferable melancholy that waxes and wanes through this record like an ongoing tide of tacky flotsam and dolorous jetsam, but I do not doubt for a moment the rank sincerity of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Kaplan</span>’s as they plow through material so sentimental that Isaac <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Bashevis</span> Singer would have screamed “<span style="font-weight: bold;">Enough!</span>”, thrown up his arms in despair and downed a pint of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Manischewitz</span> at a go. Because for sheer chutzpah of mawkish overload, this is a Jerry Lewis Telethon multiplied by a Barbara Streisand concert and raised exponentially by a factor of Billy Crystal roasting Don <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Rickles</span>. Every Hallmark card ever printed for every Mother’s Day since the dawn of time is a postage stamp of nothingness compared to the registered letter of maudlin <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">phantasmagoria</span> that is <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Nightbird</span>.</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Oy</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">vey</span>, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Kaplan</span> Brothers know their <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">tsuris</span>...</span><br /><br />Why is this <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Nightbird</span></span> unlike any other? Because listening to every track is the equivalent of hearing Zero <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Mostel</span> read the <span style="font-style: italic;">Kaddish</span> and weep and wail through the misery and travails of every orphan; it's like the subtle, charming hypocrisy of every knocked-up <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">yenta</span></span> wearing white to her nuptials while her father drinks a toast to the son-in-law he'd secretly like to murder; it’s like having Rabbi <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Loew</span> come over and bring Maimonides for back-up to have a <span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">klatsch</span> about the mysteries of the <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Kabbalah</span></span> and why Abraham’s pact is not a burden, but a<span style="font-style: italic;"> blessing.</span> This album is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Yom</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Kippur</span> and Purim <span style="font-style: italic;">combined</span>, in one mega-dose of cheese, atonement and revelry served like Kosher and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Parve</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">separate</span> but equal, and if you listen closely, you can hear the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Kaplan</span> boys building their open-roofed huts in time for the <span style="font-style: italic;">Sukkot</span>; all the joys and energies and the true blessings that must come from that tradition are heard in every lilting whistle which suffuses <span style="font-style: italic;">Listen to the Falling Rain,</span> or the unfathomable depth of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">joie</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">vivre</span></span> in <span style="font-style: italic;">Vodka and</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Caviare</span>.</span> This is more than an atrociously bad album; the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Kaplan</span> Brother’s opus is an epitaph for an entire world (pay attention to my usage). Taken as such, their insensate cover of King Crimson’s most tender ballad seems not nearly as appalling in this context of tradition-in-decay.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Nightbird</span></span> is the inevitable 20<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">th</span> Century product of a society-within-a-society that used to be referred to as <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Krawattenjuden</span></span> before the language that gave birth to that title turned murderous, insane, pathological, and spoke instead of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">untermenschen</span></span> and <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">vernichten</span>.</span> About as far from Zionist as you could get, this was a cultural representation of ancient religious neuroses born of Ezra’s return from the Captivity and finding the people practicing “abominations”; the ancient dread of assimilation goes far deeper in the books the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Kaplan</span> Brothers were forced to read as children than, say, the pitiful concern the Christian feels for the “ways of the world” (1<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">JN</span> 2:15). Without a nation of their own, Jews sought to fit into the Christian society while keeping a cultural connection to what was purported to be “their” ancient history; <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Nightbird</span> </span>is thus a product of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">les</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">juif</span></span>, as opposed to the <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">meteque</span></span>. The inevitable result of such a cultural balancing act is miscommunication, mistranslation, and copious amounts of kitsch; the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Kaplans</span> are merely the optimistic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">flipside</span> of the same dark coin on whose obverse is the work of Kafka.<br /><br />This is no endorsement of the record on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">aesthetic</span> grounds; I think it might very well be the most tasteless and horrible record ever made. But like everyone else to whom I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">ve</span> spoken regarding the enervating sincerity that went into this masterpiece, I, too, rejoice in the full folly of this hugely entertaining record, and find it to be such a perfect counterpoint to the relentless misery and injustice of Christian music as to finish off any doubt in my mind as to the relative merits of the two religions.<br /><br />For the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Kaplan</span>’s, there is no bloody savior striped for our benefit, no cross fetish, no threats of people <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">disappearing</span> by Rapture-whim and planes crashing as a result, no good-hearted men burning forever in the Lake of Fire because they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">didn</span>’t take a dip in the prescribed way within some church’s scum-encrusted magic pool, no cloud-dwelling Santa Claus taking notes in his Big Book of Doom about every time somebody curses or jerks-off...there is none of this torpor of resignation, this maelstrom of injustice the Christian god hands down to his flock like maggot-ridden manna. For the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Kaplans</span>- for Jews- there may be kitsch and tackiness not seen since Hugh Hefner’s “Grotto Parties”, but there is also love, true blessed joy at simply being ALIVE, hope, contemplation, dancing and song and...friendship. Yes, the final track "He" is one of the most preposterous things I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">ve</span> ever heard; but I wonder if, when I die, any man will stand over my grave and say to himself “We never had much but...he truly was my friend”. For all my misanthropy, I betray my suspect commitment to the philosophy by the simple act of getting out of bed every morning; if I truly hated man to the extent I wanted to, it would have been check out time long, long ago. There is joy in life, and there are friends you have (if you are lucky) who will be there to toss that dirt upon you when all is finally for nought. This horrible, indefensibly bad record captures the longing all men have for the comfort of knowing that they will not die alone and unloved. I have never heard a Christian sing with anything approximating the feeling these three brothers have for the truth that, truly, no man is an island.<br /><br />In comparison, lift your voices on high, Christian! All the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">redux</span>-born-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">capitulators</span> with their weak and preposterous mewing can do is make the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">solipsistic</span> point <span style="font-style: italic;">ad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">infinitum</span></span> that all you need is Jesus...and even if you have everything else, without him, you shall burn for all ages and there is no hope of overcoming said damnation. No fucking thanks, you batch of Pauline hucksters and Revelation-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">mandragore</span>-root-tripping charlatans; if you’re looking for me, I’ll be off with my horrible music, comforted fully by the knowledge that I’ll never have to confront your slovenly sky spook when I breathe my last and slip the coil. Because if I did...man, what an <span style="font-weight: bold;">EPIC</span> ass-kicking I’d give to this “loving” absentee landlord you believe has so much power to kill but almost none to spare. When I think of Christians imagining persecutions and stockpiling weapons for when President Obama finally comes to usher in the “New World Order” and ban their precious and pernicious book of fables and ill-tempered guidance, I realize, finally, what is the endless fascination with the Chosen by these second-rate Law Keepers; <span style="font-style: italic;">they’re jealous.</span> Only someone who truly hates life could look at the remnants of a people freed from the insanity of the Lager and think “lucky them; the Lord has blessed them more for His chastisement is <span style="font-style: italic;">True Love.</span>” What absolute and insane sickness! Perhaps if the typical Christian knew what it was like to have half of your family a pile of ashes in an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">anonymous</span> pit somewhere in Poland, they would stop worshipping death so much and sing every so often about the joys of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Life</span>.<br /><br />I’ll not hold my breath for that anymore than I hope for any other reckoning with rationality in the blinkered transom of the thought-addled <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">religionist</span>; I register merely my protest, so that when society finally does collapse in the ruins of “Dominion Theology” and the hail of gunfire from those so psychotic they refused to be Left Behind...well, if the Internets are still working, evidence will exist that ***I TOLD YOU SO*** and there will even be a little soundtrack for my warnings, which you may imbibe in full pleasure, at your leisure, in that blessed link, above.<br /><br />Now, Believers, if you’ll excuse me...I have some thinking to do. An alien concept, I’m sure, but one you might look into before the Big Heavenly Payback comes down from above. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">Nightbird</span> nests on <span style="font-style: italic;">knowledge</span>, as well as sentiment... - TRTimothy Readyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18330489391127893662noreply@blogger.com18