Welcome back, my friends to the show that never ends. It's the 100 best classic progressive rock songs.
20. Yes: "Awaken"
(from Going for the One)
The year 1977 was not only about clothespins and green-toothed sneers: punk was gaining steam, Yes, the band that represented everything everyone hated about "dinosaur rock", returned with their best album in ages, Going for the One. "Awaken" is, along with Pink Floyd's "Dogs" and "Cygnus X-1, Book II: Hemispheres" by Rush, one of the last (near) side-long epics of the era. It would be difficult to deny that this track features the most compelling (and convincing) work both Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman ever did. Many people did -- and do -- instinctively retch at the idea of Wakeman playing a pipe organ (recorded in a cathedral) and Anderson's sweet schizophrenia of multi-tracked exultations. Their loss; this is prog rock as opera, and it never got better than this: a fully realized distillation of emotion and energy as only Yes could do it.
There's something irrepressible and life-affirming about this music, and in a market (then, now) where cynicism and scheming are the default settings, this unabashed and unapologetic devotion to an unjaded vision could almost be considered revolutionary.
The music that holds up over time does so for a reason. It is not an accident, or due to sentimental longings for a particular time or place. The music that manages to defy trends and commercial-minded fashion often is created without any of those considerations in mind. King Crimson, like all of the best-loved prog rock bands, consistently shaped and revised variations of a unique conception, and arguably created a whole new type of music. Take the title track from 1970's Lizard (upping the progressive ante by featuring guest vocalist Jon Anderson, of Yes): nothing like this exists on any other record from any other genre. It's a seamless integration of jazz, classical and rock, the sum total making complete sense once you accept it on its own terms.
At the same time ELP was mimicking Mussorgsky, King Crimson utilizes Ravel's "Bolero", employing session musicians to embellish the sound with trumpets, oboes and an English horn. The results are, by turns, tense, lush, beautiful and surreal, like a Salvador Dali painting. Led by the creatively restless and insatiable Robert Fripp, King Crimson did as much as any band to "invent" progressive rock; on this not immediately accessible but indelible track they transcend it.
Most everyone would agree that The Dark Side of the Moon made Pink Floyd the first (and last) band in space, but not as many people might appreciate that without 1971's Meddle, there would have been no The Dark Side of the Moon. Gilmour's guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that "Echoes" is not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it is the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward with each successive effort.
"Echoes" unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. The merging of Gilmour and Wright's voices -- a harbinger of good things to come, although on "Time" Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses -- is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. "Echoes" also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be the aforementioned, and unavoidable, The Dark Side of the Moon.
(from The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway)
Genesis invoked an older Britain with both whimsy and resolution, culminating in their masterpiece Selling England by the Pound. While it's true that for their next effort, they (take your pick) took things a tad too far even for their own ambitions and abilities, took prog rock to another, unprecedented level, made an album that was ostensibly more straightforward and yet more out there than anything they, or anyone, ever did, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway takes place, of all places, in previously unexplored territory: America. Except when it doesn't, including the myriad left-field excursions that occur somewhere outside time and space. Or something.
The album is "about" the split personality of a homeless kid named Rael, adrift in New York City, like Moby Dick is about a whale. Whether the convoluting and extremely challenging narrative lends clarity or increases confusion, one thing is certain: it's a hell of a ride and boasts some of the band's best work. Any number of songs could compete as representative of the whole, but "The Carpet Crawlers" seems to synthesize everything that is so weird and wonderful about this collective, and also an apotheosis of sorts in terms of where they had been headed and could (and, ultimately, couldn't) go. (Seriously: one almost fears contemplating where a mind has gone to envision such images, yet remains forever indebted that they are part of our permanent record: "A salamander scurries into flame to be destroyed / Imaginary creatures are trapped in birth on celluloid / The fleas cling to the golden fleece / Hoping they'll find peace." Wow.)
It would be impossible, not to mention pointless, to try to isolate Peter Gabriel's most incomparable performance (with Genesis or afterwards), but "The Carpet Crawlers" helps bolster a compelling case that he has few, if any, rivals as a frontman.
(from Pictures at an Exhibition)
That ELP had the audacity to not only invoke classical music (as King Crimson had done with Holst on "The Devil's Triangle" from In the Wake of Poseidon) but to actually "cover" a celebrated masterwork was not surprising. This band had the ego and indifference necessary to conceive such sacrilege; importantly, they also had the ability and vision to pull it off. A band like ELP not only invited critical venom, they practically begged for it (when they titled a later album Works it signified, possibly, the shark-jumping moment of the decade).
On the other hand, they didn't pander and they could not be pigeonholed: none of their early albums sound especially alike, and they were really interested in satisfying nothing else but their own curiosity. It is debatable that the only thing that pissed off the purists and prigs in the "critical establishment" more than their homage to Mussorgsky was how wonderful they made it sound.
(from Larks' Tongues in Aspic)
First they borrowed Jon Anderson (to sing on Lizard); then they inherited Bill Bruford once the great drummer bowed out of Yes. But nothing Yes -- or King Crimson for that matter -- had done to this point could have anticipated "Larks' Tongues in Aspic" (the title alone an eccentric ode to the creative path less traveled). Most of the work made during the prog rock era can be described to some extent, especially when it is categorically dismissed as pretentious noodling. But this song (actually part one of two, and while part two is magnificent in its own way, that riff-laden workout is much more straightforward than the kitchen-sink sensibility of part one) is a high water mark for the ideas, artistry and inspiration that define the best music of this time.
As ever, Robert Fripp's guitar guides the journey, downshifting from proto-grunge shrieking to jangling melodicism. But it's the exotic violin contributions from David Cross and the tumultuous percussion stylings of Jamie Muir that take this track to that other place. The song travels from placid to ominous (the languid, building menace of Fripp's entry manages to almost be terrifying), and then, after the bird calls and an incantation to the Far East, the ultimate postmodern touch: urgent, scarcely audible voices (from a radio? movie?) are looped and spliced, becoming gibberish that somehow makes perfect sense. As the song winds down, courtesy of Muir's ethereal glockenspiel, a gentle chime (like a grandfather clock) washes over and out, and you are left wondering what hit you.
This was the last side-long "suite" Rush attempted, and it remains the last necessary one any prog rock group ever did. Not as incendiary or influential as 1976's 2112, it will have to settle for merely being flawless, and the pinnacle of the band's output to this point. By 1978 the trio was truly clicking, musically: arguably the most ambitious of all the progressive bands (which is really saying something), Rush had spent the better part of the decade trying to make a cohesive statement where all elements came together.
Interestingly, if not ironically (since irony is anathema to prog rock) this album/song that studies, and then celebrates the separate hemispheres (of our left / right brains, of our organized / emancipated natures) matches the smarts and technical proficiency with the ingredient that would play an increasingly obvious and vital role in the band's subsequent work: soul.
No band besides the Beatles departed (or progressed) more radically from their initial sound than Pink Floyd. After the kaleidoscopic whimsy of their early work and the meditative space rock that followed, Floyd followed up the unfollow-up-able The Dark Side of the Moon with an album that may have been even better, Wish You Were Here. By the time 1977 rolled around, space rock seemed as prehistoric as hippies and Johnny Rotten summed up the prevailing mood when he insolently scribbled "I Hate" above his Pink Floyd t-shirt.
Whether or not any of this had to do with Floyd's next album, lyricist Roger Waters shared one thing in common with the punks: he was pissed off. He was also erudite and technically proficient as a musician. The result is the darkest, most literate and (arguably) timeless entry in the Pink Floyd catalog, Animals.
The album's centerpiece, "Dogs", might represent the zenith of the always uneasy, increasingly tenuous creative alliance between Waters and David Gilmour. Waters writes some of his most scathing (and brilliant) lyrics and Gilmour sounds like a different person altogether than the man who sung "Echoes"; his guitar playing is huge, at times oppressive and then soaring. This indictment of greed and the "dog-eat-dog" social code that is endorsed in the workplace and venerated in such vulgar fashion on reality TV will never lose its relevance, because it will always describe the con-artists and crooks who come, inexorably, to distinguish each subsequent generation.
(from Close to the Edge)
Let us now praise famous men. As it pertains to all-things-prog, Yes, to invoke A Few Good Men, is the band we want on that wall; the band we need on that wall. Easy to mock, not as easy to dismiss as some might wish, they are also, perhaps more so than any band, the genre's best citizens. Yes, during their glory years, were arguably the most compelling ambassadors for this genre, which confused, exasperated and electrified listeners like no other. Like many of their peers, they made what might lazily be described as "music for music's sake", but while it sacrificed nothing in terms of integrity for the pursuit of filthy lucre, it managed to attract millions of listeners for the simplest (and most pure) of reasons: it was too exceptional to be ignored.
As a cast study, "And You and I" is a song where one can study every sound, every single second, and find something to savor (even after so many decades, and to the most familiar ears, it somehow manages to surprise and delight). It might be suggested Yes never sounds better, more purposeful, and more locked-in than they do on this number. Suffice it to say, both Steve Howe and the indefatigable Jon Anderson do career-best work, as though their confidence and purpose could not be contained. Throughout the proceedings there are no pauses, wasted moments or miscues: everyone assembled works in service of the songs, resulting in a unified, utterly convincing proclamation, a truly joyful noise.
(from A Passion Play)
Inevitably, Jethro Tull lost some of their audience (more than a handful forever) with their follow-up to Thick as a Brick, the more challenging (and, upon initial listens, less rewarding) A Passion Play. It was a shame, then, and remains regrettable, now that folks don't have the ears or hearts for this material, as it represents much of Anderson's finest work. His voice would never sound better, and he was possibly at the height of his instrumental prowess: the requisite flute, the always-impressive acoustic guitar chops and, for this album, the cheeky employment of a soprano saxophone. It's a gamble (and/or a conceit, depending upon one's perspective) that pays off in spades: a difficult, occasionally confrontational, utterly fulfilling piece of work.
The subject matter, so perplexing at first blush, is a relatively straightforward examination of what happens after death. Literary allusions abound, and one wonders if this project had been described as rock music's version of Dante's Inferno it may have fared a bit better. (Probably not.) In any event, there are plenty of musicians, in rock and on this list, whose lyrical merits can be ceaselessly debated. Ian Anderson is not one of them. If you find his writing oblique or impenetrable, it's not him, it's you. The brilliance of his wordplay and the fun he has with the English language is something to savor.
Not for nothing is this considered the masterpiece of the Tull oeuvre amongst die-hard fans (an encomium that only adds fuel to the fire for the legion of Tull haters, snot running down their noses). This one tends to draw the most resistance from even prog rock aficionados: it obliges time and attention to let it work it charms, but the return on investment is worthwhile and ever-lasting.