Fabulously Flamboyant Friday: When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth Pt. 1

Greeting, pop pickers, and please be welcome to this week’s fabulously flamboyant Friday.

Ah, the 1970s… A splendid decade. But they weren’t just about Ford Cortinas, Vesta curries, platform shoes, ludicrous flares, questionable facial hair, kipper ties, glam rock and dodgy BBC presenters, you know. Au contraire – the sensational ’70s were also the golden era of sparkly capes, triple-necked guitars, inflatable dinosaurs and keyboards stacked so high, you couldn’t be entirely sure if anyone was actually playing them. So be afraid, dear reader; be very afraid indeed – for tonight we examine the genesis (no pun intended) of the most derided and ridiculed musical genre of all time: oh, yes indeedy – it’s progressive rock time! Yay!!

Conventional wisdom tells us that punk rock was the cataclysmic impact that swept away the lumbering dinosaurs of prog rock with a mid-70’s tsunami of safety pins and spittle. But in truth, prog rock survived – just about – and is still doing quite nicely, thank you very much. Of course, only those who could adapt would manage to survive. But even during prog rock’s glorious heyday – the first half of the 1970s – it was always a deeply divisive genre.

You see my friends, prog rock is much like Marmite or buggery – if you didn’t enjoy it as a child, you’re unlikely to enjoy it as an adult. And there’s no middle ground here, no lukewarm feelings. It’s the musical equivalent of a flammenwerfer: some might admire its satisfyingly warm and cheery glow, while others – with a somewhat different perspective – will run, screaming, in entirely understandable terror.

But what on earth caused this Giant Hogweed to sprout and run rampant? Well, let us rewind to the mid ’60s; to a time when bell-bottoms were wide, pupils were wider, and the air was rich with the suspiciously heady aroma of, um… patchouli. Because that, dear friends, is where prog was born. Where rock music was, as Pete Townshend shrewdly noted, “liberated from the four minute song”.

Musicians, fed up with the shackles of predictable time signatures, formulaic structures and the time limits imposed by pop radio and 45rpm singles, decided to break free. They tore up the rulebook and set sail on the good ship prog for new and very much wider musical horizons. Almost overnight, rock compositions began to expand like the spandex on an Essex burd at a Gregg’s lock-in. Vinyl records groaned under the sheer weight of their sprawling epics: one side, two sides – sometimes an entire box set of vinyl was needed just to contain the mercurial madness of their self-indulgent sprawl.

But size, dear reader, isn’t everything, and prog wasn’t simply about length and girth. Oh, no. These prog wizards raided every musical genre in existence: classical music, symphonic rock, jazz, folk, psychedelia – not even the music of medieval minstrels was safe from the gimlet gaze of these musical magpies. They threw it all into their cacophonous cauldrons, whipped it with their wizardly wands, and the results..? Well, they could fly like an eagle or plunge into dark and foetid waters of obscurity, to flounder feebly before sinking without trace: think of Yes going from the soaring triumph of Close To The Edge to the musically soggy depths of Tales From Topographic Oceans in less than 18 months.

The origins of progressive rock are, of course, inextricably bound up with the seismic changes that took place in the British music and social scenes of the mid to late 1960s, when British and European bands – bands with reputations forged largely by playing music based on American rock’n’roll, R&B, blues and soul – began looking to their own musical heritage and started to incorporate elements of western classical music into their writing.

Just as important were the significant advances in musical technology (in particular, multi-track recording equipment, synthesisers, keyboards and early analogue samplers) that hugely expanded the sonic palate and compositional possibilities available to contemporary musicians. However, as we have already covered these technological developments in some considerable detail during previous Friday night missives (I trust you were taking notes?), we shall take these matters as read and move on.

Inevitably, we need to start with the Beatles, and, in particular, with their producer, George Martin. By the middle of 1966 the Beatles had pretty much given up on the idea of treading the boards and playing live concerts (no bugger could hear them over the screaming girls, anyway). Instead, under the wise and watchful guidance of Mr. Martin, they began to focus their activities and experimentation on the recording studio and on all the shiny newfangled possibilities contained therein. Martin really is a key figure here. However, once again, as we have already discussed his influence and musical legacy in previous Friday night missives (I trust you were taking notes?), we shall confine ourselves here to a brief outline of his importance to the development of progressive rock.

Martin was a genuinely innovative producer and was particularly adept at manipulating the recording studio and the recording process, almost as if the studio were an instrument in its own right. His experiments with tape manipulation, multi-tracking and unconventional sound effects greatly expanded the sonic palette of pop and rock music. Additionally, as a classically trained musician with a solid background in composition and orchestration, Martin brought a conceptual vision and an attention to detail to the recording process that was highly unusual for UK pop music at the time. And where Martin lead, others followed. Bands like Procol Harum, The Moody Blues, The Nice, Yes, Genesis, ELP, Caravan, Pink Floyd, King Crimson and many more would follow his example, embracing 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. 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 rock or progressive rock, however – not least because his work was closely associated with the most high profile pop stars on the planet – 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 symphonic rock concept album recorded with the London Festival Orchestra) George Martin was their natural first choice for producer. He politely declined their kind offer. However, his innovative production work, his willingness to experiment and his successful integration of classical and popular music had succeeded in creating a general environment for experimentation, a template of ambition and a desire for enhanced levels of sophistication upon which other musicians were eager to build.

And so we reach 1967, which would prove to be a pivotal year in the development of progressive rock: the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Pink Floyd released The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, The Moody Blues released the aforementioned Days Of Future Passed and Procol Harum released their eponymous debut album. None of these albums were progressive rock per se: conceptual, symphonic, psychedelic, certainly – but not quite prog. However, all the proggy bits ‘n’ pieces were now very firmly in place. All that was needed was someone to fuse them into a satisfyingly cohesive musical whole. Cue Robert Fripp and King Crimson.

However, before we get to the Uncle Bob & Mighty Krims, we need to consider another factor; another important influence on the music and social structures of the mid to late 1960s: drugs – and in particular – psychedelic drugs.

Many, over the years, have argued that a key ingredient in the rapid change that overtook popular music during the late 1960s was the widespread availability of psychedelic drugs such as Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (aka LSD or, quite simply, acid). It certainly seemed to have a big influence on the psychedelic rock scene, which, along with the burgeoning symphonic rock scene, was a major step along the road to the development of progressive rock.

Ringo Starr has long argued the UK’s 1963 abolition of national service was a significant contributory factor in the rapid social change of the mid to late 1960s: “we were allowed, as teenagers, not to be regimented and so turned into musicians”, he commented. These new freedoms, of course, also included the opportunity to experiment with an assortment of temptingly available recreational pharmaceuticals.

Amphetamines and cannabis had long been lubricating the wheels of the music industry, but LSD was new (at least in terms of its widespread availability) and it had a big impact on the industry. LSD wasn’t actually a new drug. It had been discovered by a Swiss chemist in the late 1930s and had been used, somewhat controversially, on a range of psychiatric patients. Lord knows what those poor souls made of it. However, fast forward to New York in the mid-60s and an old Etonian named Michael Hollingshead was (allegedly) getting stuck in to copious quantities of some seriously good acid. He and the infamous Timothy Leary enjoyed it so much they subsequently hatched a cunning plan: to preach the psychedelic gospel to the world, turn civilisation on to LSD, usher in a golden age of global enlightenment and bring peace and harmony to all corners of the planet. Blimey!

Hollingshead clearly decided this global revolution needed to start in London, because in 1965 he returned to Blighty with a mayonnaise jar (allegedly) containing enough LSD for several thousand trips. With the help of some old school chums he established the rather pompously titled “World Psychedelic Centre” in a Chelsea apartment and it soon became a rendezvous for pop stars, actors, poets and aristocrats, all wanting – in the parlance of the day – to like totally free their minds, man.

Over in Way-ells, we really couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The Taffia had been cheerfully scoffing psychedelic mushrooms for generations, so this newfangled LSD malarkey really didn’t seem like much to write home about. Nevertheless, London’s glitterati certainly seemed to be dead keen. The core of London’s hip-to-the-scene in-crowd probably numbered no more than a couple of hundred musicians, artists, film makers and other layabouts and ne’er-do-wells, but they had a lot of social influence, and, as far as acid was concerned, they were soon re-shaping the cultural agenda. Then the Beatles released Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds and LSD very quickly entered the mainstream of public discourse. Before long, even musicians who had never touched acid started to believe they needed to make music that sounded as if they did.

A similar scene seemed to develop on America’s West Coast, with groups such as the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane developing a new sound that was partly inspired (allegedly) by their drug use. Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit encapsulated the so-called ‘summer of love’ as perfectly as Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, but the US acid scene was destined to head down a very different pathway.

There was one crucial difference between the UK and the US: America was at war. British teenagers might get busted or have a bad trip, but conscription was gone and they didn’t have to fight in Vietnam. America’s youth did, and, as a result, US psychedelia did not lead to the gentle English whimsy of ’70s prog. Instead, it turned into the spiky cynicism of Zappa, the glorious chaos of Captain Beefheart and the stoner escapism of the Grateful Dead.

And as I’ve mentioned the Grateful Dead, I should probably also mention the many conspiracy theories around a number of American musicians, the infamous Laurel Canyon scene and an uneasy suspicion that the sudden widespread availability of acid (just like the sudden widespread availability of super skunk in the early 1990s) was in fact an intelligence agency project. Soma, anyone? Anyway, that’s not our topic for today, but it is a fascinating subject and one we might very well return to it in a future #FF missive.

However, in stark contrast to their American cousins, British (actually, mostly English) musicians began to look to their European musical heritage, and indeed some looked much further east. The Moody Blues began to channel Dvorák and Strauss, Procol Harum channelled Bach – and The Nice appeared to be raiding everyone!

New psychedelic groups seemed to pop up out of nowhere, nurtured by venues such as London’s infamous UFO nightclub. Pink Floyd and (the very jazz-focused) Soft Machine both emerged from this burgeoning scene and quickly gained a devoted following. Floyd’s August ’67 debut album, The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, was a genuine shock to the system and would go on to become a psychedelic classic and a cornerstone of the UK’s progressive rock scene. Unlike Pink Floyd, Soft Machine would never really have a big hit. But both groups offered that quintessentially English and often whimsical sensibility that would later define so much of 70s prog rock.

It couldn’t last of course: UFO was raided and forced to close, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were busted for drugs, the World Psychedelic Centre was raided and shut down, and LSD was soon covered and controlled under the Dangerous Drugs Act.

It should also be pointed out that not everyone escaped their LSD experiments unscathed. Syd Barrett’s rapid mental decline has been attributed to his use of LSD (he left Pink Floyd in early ’68) and Peter Green (who left Fleetwood Mac in 1970) had a similarly sad tale to tell.

But the acid genie was out of the bottle and the late 1960s subsequently saw some very rapid changes in the UK’s musical landscape (with, of course, the notable exception of Freddie & The Dreamers, who had always performed as if they were on acid). Freddie aside, a substantial portion of the UK’s music scene now began to move rapidly away from mimicking north American artists and suddenly started to sound very British indeed. The Kinks serenaded a bygone England of Lyon’s Tea Rooms, cucumber sandwiches and warm beer; Pete Townshend took his deaf, dumb and blind kid on a dodgy adventure in a Butlins-style holiday camp, Soft Machine startled everyone, Caravan cranked up the whimsy and Pink Floyd shot off into interstellar overdrive.

As a further example of this rapid change of musical direction, I present Exhibit A: The Small Faces. Within 18 months or less, the Small Faces pivoted from sharp-suited, US-inspired, soul-drenched, Motown wannabes, to the hippy-drippy madness of Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake, with a suite of songs based on a fairy tale about a boy called Happiness Stan and his psychedelic quest (on the back of a giant fly, no less) to seek the cave of Mad John The Hermit and track down the missing half of the moon. And as if that wasn’t trippy enough, the entire suite was narrated by none other than Professor Stanley Unwin in his uniquely nonsensical gobbledygook language of “Unwinese”. One track in particular, The Song of a Baker, was inspired by a book of Sufi wisdom and a Balearic bread oven. The prosecution rests, m’lud.

These shenanigans were all well and good, but a genuine line in the musical sand was about to be drawn. Because in November 1969, just three months after their debut performance at Hyde Park, King Crimson released their debut album, In The Court Of The Crimson King, and the musical monster that would forever be known as progressive rock was officially unleashed upon a surprised and unsuspecting planet.

Anyway, I think that’s probably quite enough of my prattling for one evening. We’ll pick this tale up again in part two, when we’ll take a plank spankingly long look at prog’s golden period of the early 1970s. But, for now, I think we’ll wrap thing up with a performance by… Wait… What’s that you say..? How can we possibly have a progtastic Friday without a substantial portion of The Blessed Phil? At least twenty minutes, you say? Well, now that you mention it, that’s a very good point; a very good point indeed. And after all, I can always claim that Croxj or GQ made me do it…