Welcome back, my friends to the show that never ends. It's the 100 best classic progressive rock songs.
20 - 1
(from Selling England by the Pound)
Peter Gabriel was the Alpha and Omega, and while Phil Collins had the fortune (or karma) to become more successful than would have seemed reasonable, Genesis wouldn't have been Genesis without those other guys. That's obvious, but it also requires persistent reminding. Michael Rutherford must, unfortunately, endure as perhaps the most overlooked bassist (and 12-string guitar player!) of the prog era, and while there's considerable love for both keyboardist Tony Banks and guitarist Steve Hackett, perhaps it's impossible to overpraise them.
"Firth of Fifth" is an unqualified stunner from start to finish, and Banks, who sketched out the initial composition and whose piano / organ dominates it, makes perhaps his decisive contribution to the progressive canon. But it's the extended soloing from Hackett, mid-song, that places this one in rarefied air: with swirling notes from Banks (and furious, locked-in interplay from Collins and Rutherford), Banks states a theme (established nicely by Gabriel's flute), then restates it, then states it again, ratcheting up the emotion in the service of a feeling that's seldom been equaled, in prog rock or any rock. At times it sounds like a guitar god broke into a Bach recital, at others like Hackett is exploring a theme like a jazz soloist, but mostly it's a strange and wonderful achievement, a rare instance where popular music attains an "otherness" only the best art, in any medium, even aspires to.
(from The Dark Side of the Moon)
There's a simple reason The Dark Side of the Moon is one of the most talked-about and beloved albums in rock history: it's one of the best albums in rock history. Enough said, sort of. People tend to forget, if understandably, that it's not as though Floyd waltzed into Abbey Road Studios with the knowledge that they were about to create a masterwork. The Dark Side of the Moon was the natural and inevitable progression of a path the band had been on since 1968, and many of the ideas and imagery they render so perfectly had already appeared, in brief snatches and bursts, on previous work. For this album Roger Waters finally figured out how to write meaningful, penetrating lyrics with an economy of words and maximum emotional import (few, if any in rock have improved upon his style). The band was focused and each individual track received their full attention as they explored the themes of madness, money and faith in modern society.
The track that manages to incorporate all these concerns and still address, seemingly everything, is "Time". The verses, sung with harsh authority by Gilmour, assess (and assail) the concerns and tribulations that preoccupy each of us, while the choruses (rendered as mellow counterpoint by Rick Wright) are crooned, lulling you to sleep, kind of like life will do if you're not paying attention. Special mention must be made of Gilmour's guitar solo: perhaps it will only sound slightly hysterical to suggest that it, almost impossibly, conjures up so much of the pain and profundity that comprises the human condition; if you close your eyes you can hear the messy and mixed blessing of Guns, Germs and Steel. Or maybe it's just the cold steel rail.
Debate still abounds regarding the great American novel. No such discussion occurs when it comes to the terrible British prog rock album. Fans and foes alike have aligned and rendered a verdict: Tarkus. Look at the cover. Therein lies what Colonel Kurtz called "the horror" and what recalcitrant enthusiasts (or idiots) like me call The horror! (But in a good way.) Listen, some prog rock bands (like Rush) had a penchant for reimagining or reinterpreting classical literary legends like Apollo and Dionysus (see #14) while others (like Rush) would create their own mythical heroes (By Tor, Snow Dog, etc.).
Looking at this cover art, and seeing song titles like "Stones of Years", "Manticore" and "Aquatarkus" (not to be confused with "Aqualung"), many music fans ask for the check, understandably. Here's the thing, though: all the armadillo tank drawings and semi-preposterous titles and lyrics are just window dressing for the artistry that occurs once these well medicated, undeniably brilliant musicians throw down. And throw down they do, in ways that make myopic pinheads lament how a man with unrivaled keyboard skill like Keith Emerson's might have made so much better use of his talents had he dedicated his life to playing Bach recitals in sparsely attended concert halls.
You want an epic? "Starless" is epic in every sense of the word; one of the all-time prog masterworks. Brooding and heavy, fraught with feeling and foreboding, it's an exercise in precision (even at 12minutes), and the final word on mellotron as MVP of prog mood enhancers. Even from a band that made a career perfecting closing tracks, "Starless" is possibly unsurpassed in terms of its depth and darkness; it could only be the last song from the last album King Crimson made in the ‘70s. Robert Fripp, of course, could do fury and he could do calm, and he often balanced everything in between; on no other song does he quite establish trepidation, crank it up to consternation, and then release it like the motherfucking Kraken. "Starless" builds an almost unbearable tension, breaking at last through the (bible) black; less like the tide retreating and more like an ocean disintegrating into air.
If prog dipped into the murky waters of jazz and classical music, King Crimson, never content with half-measures, went full free-jazz (think Ornette Coleman, with Mel Collins and a fortuitous cameo by Ian McDonald, as well as Bill Bruford hitting the skins like a wrecking ball) and Wagner, not as a cheesy invocation from a lazy critic, but all out Götterdämmerung: Twilight of the Progs. Rock music was never, with the possible exception of In the Court of the Crimson King, at once this frightening and exquisite: "Starless" is ugly beauty of the first order. The band was never the same, nor could they be, after this swan song of sorts, and that's only natural. The listener, no matter how intimate they might be with this material, is never the same after each and every listen, and that's something of a miracle.
Just over halfway into the decade, when many of the old guard progressive rock bands were out of ideas or on hiatus, Rush delivered one of the genre's definitive anthems. 2112 is a harder edged music combining the proficiency of their influences with an aggression that captured the actual urgency attending the sessions. This album still sounds at once familiar and forward-looking, putting Rush somewhere on the sonic spectrum in between Led Zeppelin's adventurous, riff-laden workouts and Pink Floyd's deliberate, almost chilly precision.
The rock media, which had not paid Rush much attention, now took notice and generally found the Ayn Rand-inspired storyline (the multi-track suite, filling up all of side one, updates Rand's early novel Anthem and places the narrative in a dystopian future where music has been outlawed and long forgotten) unfashionably right-wing -- an indictment the band found perplexing, and continues to be amused about. In these interviews, each member (particularly Peart, who wrote the lyrics and undoubtedly regrets his youthful shout-out, in the liner notes, to Rand's "genius") makes a convincing case that the inspiration had everything to do with artistic freedom and avoiding compromise, and less than a little to do with politics or social statements.
Of course, plenty of pundits (then, now) find Rush in general and prog rock in particular pretentious, but the sentiment informing this particular album has more in common with the much-celebrated punk rock ethos, with the added bonus that the band are actually quite capable musicians. "2112" remains the album that made possible what Rush would become, and it inspired both peers and pretenders to emulate their purpose and passion, if not their scarves and kimonos.
(from Thick as a Brick)
Jethro Tull were on top of the world (and the charts) in 1972 when Thick as a Brick became the first pop album comprised of one continuous song to reach a widespread audience. The concept may have been audacious, but the music is miraculous: this is among the handful of holy grails for prog rock fanatics, no questions asked. Put as simply and starkly as possible, many beautiful babies were thrown out with the bath water by hidebound critics who were content to sniffingly dismiss the more ambitious (pretentious!) works that certain bands were putting out as a matter of course in the early-to-mid-‘70s. If Aqualung doubled down on the "concept album" concept, Thick As a Brick functioned as a New Testament of sorts, signifying what was now possible in rock music.
Even with the side-long songs that became almost obligatory during this era, nobody else had the wherewithal to dedicate a full 45 minutes to the development and execution of one uninterrupted song (and Tull did it twice). Frontman/mastermind Ian Anderson had already proven he could write a hit and create controversial work that got radio play; now he was putting his flute in the ground and throwing his cod-piece in the ring, and there are maybe a handful of lyricists who matched his output in terms of sustained quality and variety during this decade.
Most fans' choice as the consummate Genesis song (if not the apotheosis of progressive rock), it is a schizophrenic history of England, through the glass prog-ly: there are theatrics, there is pomposity, there's musical brilliance (obviously), sudden shifts and stopped time, invocations of bucolic pasts, intimations of imminent apocalypse, etc. Everything and the kitchen sink? They even throw in some shit from the neighbor's house for good measure. An exhausting, extravagant experience, every time: this is music that demands an opened mind and full attention. It is by its nature abhorrent of half-measures, and that is why certain people love it and others will always loathe it.
Peter Gabriel was amongst the most theatrical of performers, and during his tenure with Genesis he created innumerable characters he (and we) live vicariously through. The creative schizophrenia of the "Willow Farm" section alone could ensure Gabriel was remembered fondly amongst prog fans, and it's a godsend of sorts that we have live footage of this material being presented in a live setting. Incidentally, although this is, in many ways, Gabriel's piece de resistance, it's a complete band effort, and each musician makes some of their most significant and cherished contributions.
This is prog rock's Ulysses: a superhuman effort that can confound and enthrall you, often at the same time. The question is not what "Supper's Ready" is about, it's what isn't it about (tentative answer: Everything?). Peter Gabriel's own two cents? "(It's) a personal journey which ends up walking through scenes from Revelation in the Bible... I'll leave it at that." That succinct description, like the song itself, is satisfactory while still begging for more, much more.
One of the reasons this particular track ranks so highly (indeed, there will likely be folks furious it's not given the top slot on this list) is that, like all successful art, it works in spite or because of an inability to easily explain it, and it leaves itself open to interpretations, any of which may be unassailable in the eyes of beholder. "How Dare I Be So Beautiful?", the fourth section of the song inquires. It's a rhetorical question. It's also the question and answer of this song, this band, and, at its best, this genre.
(from Wish You Were)
Roger Waters, understandably struggling with what to do next after The Dark Side of the Moon, began to think about the man without whom he may never have become a rock musician. Syd Barrett's mental disintegration is alluded to on the previous album's "Brain Damage", but all of the tracks on Wish You Were Here deal, directly and indirectly, with the man who named the band's breakdown.
The centerpiece, "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" is equal parts elegiac tribute to an old friend and assessment of loss and alienation. Gilmour and Wright both sought to play the saddest notes they could conceive, and the results are at once poignant and stunning. Even without the lyrics, it would be abundantly obvious that the band was attempting to invoke a wistful sort of melancholy that stops just short of desolation. It was inevitable, and appropriate, that Waters chose to sing these lyrics, so personal and plaintive, and it is without question his most affecting vocal performance.
Then there's the story, confirmed by all members present at the recording, which has to be apocryphal except for the fact that it isn't, and is enough to make you concede that forces greater than us may indeed have the controls set for the heart of the sun. The band, busy completing the final mix of the album (allegedly working on "Shine on You Crazy Diamond"), did not notice the bigger, bald stranger who had wandered into the room; only after several moments did anyone recognize their former leader. At one moment jumping up and down to brush his teeth with his fingers (a pitiful sight that reduced Waters to tears), the next Barrett was offering to add his guitar parts to completed work. Upon having his services politely declined, he walked out of the studio and no one in the band ever saw him again.
As touching, and extraordinary as this stranger-than-fiction occurrence might be, it only adds to the already unqualified masterpiece that Pink Floyd created, turning loss and despair into something inexplicably moving and awe-inspiring.
(from Close to the Edge)
In a feature written several years ago wherein I searched for the "sublimely awful lyric", I singled Yes out for special mention as "elevating ardent yet inane lyrics to a level of… real art." On the other hand, I did maintain that listening to Yes is like listening to opera: the words are, or may as well be, in a different language. It's all about the sounds: that voice, those instruments, that composition. Indeed, the music Yes made between 1971 and 1973 approached a level of elation that not many bands were able to approximate.
So it matters less than a little that the lyrics are, supposedly, based on/inspired by Hesse's Siddhartha (that fact is likely to get points subtracted for typical prog rock pretension, real or imagined). What matters is that this song really does go places no other band has done; or rather, it's a gold standard that was never surpassed.
Every aspect of this, the consummate Yes song, in terms of conception and delivery, is virtually flawless: from the slow-burning build-up, to the crashing intensity of the first several minutes, to the operatic (yes I said it) majesty of the middle section, ("I get up, I get down"), to the effulgent conclusion, bringing the end right back to the beginning before fading out. On albums before and after, there were many individual moments that can be isolated and treasured, and more than a handful where the entire outfit outdoes themselves; "Close to the Edge" maintains an unprecedented (and unparalleled) force of conviction that never flags: it's just under 19 minutes of ceaselessly renewed ecstasy.
(from In the Court of the Crimson King)
Progressive rock's Rosetta Stone, "The Court of the Crimson King" remains the purest and most perfect expression of everything this music was capable of being. Sgt. Pepper popularized the then-radical notion of an entire album being an artistic statement, without singles or filler. After the summer of '67 there was an unprecedented turn toward less commercial, more uncompromised music. King Crimson’s debut, in ‘69, signaled the first album that was as much aesthetic statement as work or art: this was among the earliest instances of popular music forsaking even the pretense of commercial appeal.
To understand, much less appreciate, what these mostly unknown Brits were doing you had to accept their sensibility completely on their terms. Importantly, this was not a pose and it was not reactionary; it was a revolution in music: it still manages to seem somehow ahead of its time as well as -- it must be said -- timeless. Of course it also may sound hopelessly dated, depending upon one’s perspective, and that is the whole point: anyone who hears this track (and this album) and associates it with long hair and sheets of acid are the same kind of simpletons who hear Charlie Parker and envision a strung out freak wailing away in a smoked-out nightclub. These people don’t hear the music now and, more importantly, they didn’t hear it then.
Virtually any song from this album could ably represent the whole, but the title track is an unsettling, ceaselessly astonishing track that is at once the introduction and apotheosis of what progressive rock became. It has all the important elements: impeccable musicianship from all players, rhythmic complexity, socially-conscious lyrics and an outsider’s perspective that is neither disaffected nor nihilistic. It speaks from the underground, but it is grounded in history and looking forward, not back.
"The Court of the Crimson King"” is, at times, the soundtrack to an Edgar Allan Poe story and a Hieronymus Bosch painting personified: it came out of the era and the minds in which it was imagined, a dark, sensitive and psychedelic space. This song was, possibly, the first time the mellotron was utilized with such extraordinary results. Before this—and after—it was primarily used for sonic color and texture; on this song it is, improbably, the lead sound around which the drums, guitar and bass circle. Greg Lake, who would sing splendidly for most of the next decade, never sounded as urgent or vulnerable, and none of the subsequent Crimson line-ups -- magnificent as they all were in their way -- could conjure up such an uncanny and indescribable vibe. This work is almost unapproachable but not aloof; it is entertaining and unnerving, but its capacity to delight and astound remains inexhaustible.