Fabulously Flamboyant Friday – When World’s Collide

Welcome back my friends to the flamboyance that never ends, as Fabulously Flamboyant Friday sashays up to the crease to deliver yet another light-loafered, lubed-up googly from the gasworks-end of musical magnificence.

I’ve been far too easy on you all of late, what with all that top ten trivia and poptastic frippery, so I think it’s high time we handed out a proper punishment beating.

I did of course consider a Morrissey special (and we may yet get around to that at some point in the future), but that did seem somewhat excessive and perhaps unnecessarily cruel – and quite frankly I wasn’t overly keen to incur the wrath of Phil TTM. Therefore, this week’s missive will instead tread cautiously along the somewhat rocky and often insubstantial shoreline of pop and rock musicians tentatively dipping their toes into the turbulent waters of orchestral composition.

When the going gets tough, it can be hideously embarrassing; but when things go well, it can (occasionally, at least) deliver an interesting crossover that usually attempts to blend the energy and experimentation of rock with the sophistication and depth of classical music. When it’s bad, it can be very, very bad; but when it’s good, well…

I suppose this sort of thing probably has it’s roots in the 1960s, when pop musicians began to evolve beyond the constraints of their simple genre and started to fumble around in ever more experimental and ambitious areas. Of course, a fair amount of this experimentation was driven by new technology. Multi-track recording systems and primitive analogue sampling systems (think Mellotrons and Chamberlins) became widely available, and these developments inevitably encouraged new areas of musical exploration. Additionally, once reliable synthesizers hit the market, entirely new musical vistas and sonic landscapes were suddenly available to composers, producers and performers alike. Unsurprisingly, they seized their new sonic tool kits with great gusto and the experimentation began.

However, as we’ve already examined the musical implications of technological developments in the 1960s and beyond (in previous FFF missives – I trust you were taking notes..?) we shall take those developments as read and instead begin our musings for tonight with George Martin and his highly influential production work with The Beatles.

Martin’s work with the Beatles was genuinely innovative and showcased the recording studio as an instrument in its own right. His experiments with tape manipulation (using elements of musique concrète), multi-tracking and unconventional sound effects greatly expanded the sonic palette of pop and rock music. Martin brought a conceptual vision to the recording studio that was highly unusual for UK pop music at the time; and bands like The Nice, Yes, Genesis, ELP, Pink Floyd and King Crimson would all later embrace both studio wizardry and the idea of conceptual frameworks to create the complex, layered and of course themed compositions of both progressive and symphonic rock.

Martin’s second significant contribution was his successful integration of elements from both classical and pop music into a cohesive and satisfying whole. As a classically trained musician (with a solid background in composition and orchestration), his use of string quartets, baroque instruments and even full orchestral scores beautifully demonstrated how classical structures could, in the right hands, be used to enhance the far more simple and straightforward genres of pop and rock music.

Martin didn’t invent symphonic or progressive rock, but he undoubtedly had a significant influence on the development of both. When The Moody Blues were plotting their highly influential Days of Future Passed album (a concept album recorded with the London Festival Orchestra) George Martin was their natural first choice for producer (he declined the offer). However, his innovative production work, his willingness to experiment and his integration of classical music elements into popular music created a general environment for experimentation, a template of ambition and a desire for enhanced levels of sophistication upon which other musicians would later build. As Pete Townshend noted – “we were liberated from the four minute song”.

However, as important as these foundational elements were, they are not the subject of our missive for this evening. Neither shall we trouble ourselves with the musical monstrosities that can be found on albums such as The Hastily Assembled Orchestra Plays The Music Of Queen, The Symphonic Music Of Yes or that hideous series of Symphonic Rock compilations that were churned out by the Royal Phil with tedious regularity. No, mercifully, tonight’s missive will bypass these horrors and will instead focus on a very specific category of rock excess: rock musicians writing (or at least trying to write) orchestral pieces.

We probably need to start with Deep Purple and their classically trained keyboardist, Jon Lord. Lord first pitched his idea of a Concerto for Group and Orchestra in 1968. The BBC liked the idea and commissioned the work, Sir Malcolm Arnold signed on to conduct and the the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra jumped on board for the performance. Lord wrote the score and was pleased with it, but was apparently desperate for more rehearsal time with the orchestra (which he didn’t get). Nevertheless, the piece was performed and recorded live at the Royal Albert Hall and subsequently released as a Deep Purple live album, rather than a Jon Lord solo album.

The premiere was a great success with the audience, though critics were less kind. Some hailed it as a bold and revolutionary crossover for rock music, others saw little more than a self-indulgent gimmick and an overblown, bombastic, classical pastiche. However, the album sold well in the UK and Germany, but fared less well in other markets. Interestingly, its stock has definitely risen over time and it has now been revived several times, including a live performance in 1999 at the Royal Albert Hall and a studio version, recorded in 2012, just before Lord’s death.

Lord followed this concerto up in 1971 with his Gemini Suite (recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Sir Malcolm Arnold) and continued to explore the possibilities of blending contemporary and classical music throughout his career, producing a number of interesting works along the way. Additionally, I think Mr. Lord deserves significant credit for getting this particular rock ‘n’ roll ball a-rocking and a-rolling.

And now we simply have to tip our hats (and theatrically twirl our sparkly sequinned capes) to the P.T. Barnum of rock, the Caped Crusader himself: Rick Wakeman and his 1974 album, Journey to the Centre of the Earth. It was considered a bit of a landmark album at the time. It’s another live album, this time recorded at The Royal Festival Hall, with a full rock band (sporting the magnificently pretentious moniker of “The English Rock Ensemble” – even though they had a Taffy singer), a full orchestra (The London Symphony Orchestra) plus the English Chamber Choir.

The piece was inspired by Jules Verne’s novel of subterranean shenanigans and certainly showcased Wakeman’s flair for blending prog rock with orchestral grandeur. Wakeman, at the time, was probably best known as the ivory tinkler with prog rock’s uber-maestros, Yes. He was also a battle-hardened studio gun-for-hire with more session work under his belt than you could possibly shake a stick at. He already had one successful solo album to his name, was clearly getting bored with Yes and so crafted this ambitious piece as his second solo project.

The album was a significant gamble for Wakeman, who ploughed bucket loads of his own cash into the project. His record company were not sold on the idea and were not overly keen to fund what must have sounded like an enormous vanity project. Happily for Rick, the gamble paid off: the album reached No. 1 in the UK, No. 3 in the US, sold millions of copies worldwide and earned Rick a Grammy nomination and his first heart attack.

Critical response was mixed, to say the least, with many finding it bloated and pretentious. I popped it on while I was writing this piece as I hadn’t listened to it for years. I can certainly see the critics point. It starts off really well (at least on the original ’74 recording – please avoid the remakes) with a pretty decent overture, but it does get somewhat bogged down at times.

Wakeman has revised the project several times, but the 1974 version remains the best – a quintessential artefact of prog rock’s golden (and thoroughly bonkers) age. Wakeman followed this up with another rock/classical extravaganza: The Myths & Legends Of King Arthur & The Knights Of The Round Table – and this time the mad bugger staged it on ice! What a guy.

And so we turn to Keith Emerson’s Piano Concerto No. 1. This time there would be no rock band to act as cover. Keith went all in with this one. As it happens, I think he’d already written his first Piano Concerto when he composed the original instrumental version of his earlier work, Tarkus, but that’s another story.

Keith’s Piano Concerto No. 1 was released in 1977 as part of Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s Works Volume 1 album and it’s a striking example of a rock musician throwing caution to the wind and diving head first into classical composition. It’s a three-movement piece, performed with the London Philharmonic Orchestra and certainly showcases Keith’s ability as a pianist, but I’m afraid it does feel somewhat derivative and clichéd, to me at least. Nevertheless, whenever I play it, I really enjoy it. I think the reason it works so well is that Keith is right out there on a limb, at the very edge of his ability and yet there’s no safety net, he simply goes for it – and I think that’s all you can ask of any artist.

Time for a spot of Scouse diversion with the one-and-only Sir Paul McCartney – cherubic bass player with The Monkees and co-inventor of the Pot Noodle (along with Jonathon Agnew) – don’t believe everything A.I. tells you folks…

McCartney has had a pretty interesting journey into classical music, which began in earnest with his Liverpool Oratorio – composed in 1991 with a little help from his friend, the composer Carl Davis. The piece was commissioned to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra and is a fairly large-scale work (apparently semi-autobiographical) for orchestra, choir, and soloists, set against a backdrop inspired by McCartney’s childhood memories of growing up in Liverpool.

McCartney’s work premiered at Liverpool Cathedral and was pretty well-received at the time, though Macca’s pop sensibilities are clearly on display. Nevertheless, it was a big success, topped the classical charts and provided a solid start to this branch of his career.

McCartney followed this up in 1997 with the release of his second major classical work, Standing Stone. This piece is a symphonic poem, a tone poem, commissioned by EMI to mark its centenary. It’s certainly a more abstract piece than his Liverpool Oratorio and was apparently inspired by a poem or lyric that McCartney wrote about the origins of Celtic standing stones.

Standing Stone is an ambitious piece. Clocking in at over an hour, it’s a sprawling composition that blends orchestral and choral elements and I think demonstrates McCartney’s genuine growth as a composer. Some critics praised its lush aural landscape, while others found it somewhat directionless and meandering. Nevertheless, the public gave it a big mop-top thumbs up and it topped classical charts in the UK.

McCartney’s next outing was Working Classical (1999) – a title that pokes fun at the snobbery found in certain areas of the classical music establishment. It’s a collection of shorter pieces and felt like a significant backward step to me. If you were being kind you could probably argue (as some critics did) that Working Classical serves as a bridge between Macca’s undoubted penchant for pop melodies and his burgeoning classical ambitions, but I’m afraid it all feels a bit cheesy and recycled to me.

Then we get to Ecce Cor Meum (Behold My Heart) – a choral work that took the best part of a decade to complete. It was originally commissioned to open a new auditorium at Magdalen College in Oxford, but was sadly postponed by the untimely death of Linda McCartney in 1998. It finally premiered in 2001, but was not recorded until 2006. The album sold very well and went on to win the BRIT Award for Best Classical Album in 2007.

Although originally a commission, it was also written in memory of Linda McCartney and is at times a deeply emotional composition. For me it is easily his best classical piece. It’s still accessible in a Macca kinda way, but I think it displays a much richer harmonic palette than any of his earlier forays into classical territory.

And now we reach one of my favourite composers of the 20th century, the one-and-only Frank Zappa. His recorded output is vast, but his orchestral compositions comprise only a small corner of his eclectic catalogue, and I honestly wish he had done much, much more.

Zappa was a self-taught composer and a great admirer of Edgard Varèse, Igor Stravinsky, and Anton Webern. He wrote for orchestras throughout his career, starting in the 1960s with quirky soundtracks for low-budget films. He would often blend avant-garde structures, complex rhythms and, of course, his signature humour, irreverence and no-*****-given attitude, to produce pieces that are often dense, challenging and deliberately subversive – often with little-to-no thought given to accessibility.

200 Motels (1971) was probably the first of Zappa’s rock band/orchestral albums that I encountered. It’s the soundtrack to a film of the same name and features the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra alongside Zappa’s rock band. It’s a blend of jagged and dissonant orchestral passages alongside rock, jazz and comedy songs. Critics seemed baffled and divided in equal measure, some saw genuine talent, others saw an irredeemable mess – it’s not Zappa’s finest work, but there are some interesting sections.

Zappa had actually produced an earlier and much more cohesive and satisfying orchestral/rock album called Lumpy Gravy (1967), but sadly it very quickly vanished from the shelves of music stores due to various convoluted contractual complications. Unfortunately, when it reappeared in 1968 it was a very different beast. Lumpy Gravy had been transformed into an odd and deeply unsatisfying blend of surf music, musique concrète, and spoken word. It felt cobbled together and ungainly. To be honest, It was an album I very rarely played and seldom made it all the way through when I did. Happily, the original ’67 version of the album eventually reappeared (in 2018) and is a far more satisfying affair – an excellent album and a wonderful introduction to Zappa’s early orchestral compositions. As a result of this heavily revised (restored, to be accurate) re-release, Lumpy Gravy has moved from a seldom played and largely ignored footnote, to one of my favourite albums in Zappa’s already wonderful discography.

Next up is Orchestral Favorites (sic) from 1979 (although it was actually recorded in 1975)

This album could easily have been called Second Thoughts, as it often revisits Zappa’s earlier works and themes in a revised orchestral form. However, for much of its runtime, it still feels like a rock album with an orchestra. It’s a playful album with lots of humour and mock-grandiosity. It’s thoroughly accessible, far less avant-garde than many of his albums and an easy entry point into his orchestral writing.

The next Zappa album I wish to highlight is 1984’s The Perfect Stranger. This album, conducted by Pierre Boulez and performed by the Ensemble Intercontemporain, is my favourite of Zappa’s orchestral outings. It’s a spiky, atonal, constantly shifting beast and is quite possibly my favourite Zappa album. I have a large Zappa collection and if you told me I could only keep two of his albums, they would probably be Hot Rats and The Perfect Stranger – and I’m not sure if I could ever pick just one of the two.

The Yellow Shark (1993) was Zappa’s final major orchestral project. It’s a collection of new and reworked pieces, is probably his most polished work and is certainly his most celebrated orchestral outing. It was recorded live in Frankfurt, Berlin and Vienna, and released posthumously after his untimely death from cancer in 1993. It was Zappa’s most commercially successful orchestral album, reaching No. 2 on the U.S. Billboard Classical chart, and it served as a fitting swan song to a tremendous career.

Apart from The Yellow Shark, Zappa’s orchestral output never really troubled the chart compilers in the same way that McCartney’s, Wakeman’s, Emerson’s or Lord’s frequently did. But I would argue that Zappa managed to leave a deeper mark on modern composition than perhaps any other musician who operated primarily in the rock genre. His influence echoes still in avant-garde circles and also amongst contemporary composers such as John Adams (who has, over the years, staged several performances of Zappa compositions). Additionally, as critics begin to look past Zappa’s reputation for songs about enemas, alien orifices, blow jobs and sexual spastics, his reputation as a serious composer has, during the first quarter of this century, been on a steadily upward trajectory – and long may that continue.

Anyway, I think that’s probably quite enough of my ramblings for this week’s Fabulously Flamboyant Friday. My pineapple quiche has been scoffed, my Campari consumed and my un-lubed lederhosen are beginning to chafe.

So I think we’ll wrap things up for this evening with a spot of Frank and one of the great man’s last public performances.