Wading through the countless Prog Rivers and endless streams of England’s Progressive tide however magical, cannot be described as a wondrous Tolkienistic endurance of Dr Robert Moog’s resurrection and eventual demise. The causeway has valleys of unreachable dimension and between those undulating plains, hidden crevices and jagged cliffs lies a beast of enigmatic proportion called King Crimson that will grind your senses to a pulp. What I am saying is that the barbed wire crescendo of King Crimson is incomparable to say the Latimer’ guitar (B Marvin) riffs of Camel , the Anglo Saxon tales of the synth Genesis or Canterbury mellotron delights of viola flavoured Caravan.
Fripp's Crimson was delusional and bizarre throwing you into turmoil and over the precipice in once instant and then soothing you in the next with Lake’s pastoral vox and mellotron manicured soundscapes.
But don’t get comfortable in the courts of that Crimson magician because Fripp reinvents himself with each album as in the anguishing ‘Wake Of The Poseidon’ or jazz abstract ‘Lizard’, I mean Tippet’s input was far from accessible compared to say Yes vocalist Jon Anderson's lengthy contribution, adding sanity to the ‘Lizard’s’ shape shifting metamorphosis. Fripp was continually churning out bizarre landscapes, often rancid with jazz invocations and off beat structures, while Camel pursued a more consistent plain of synth conceptual creations wonderfully augmented by Bardens’ characteristic keys, yet it was primarily Latimer’s guitar that always took frontal. Only in the latter seventies did those Camel ridden trails enter a saxophonist drone, although notably never sliding into a jazz incline. The revolving door of keyboardists and Mel Collins’ soaring escapades may have distanced some Camel riders, albeit in flow with the changing tide of the seventies. Even Caravan, a Canterbury marvel who could whip up astounding live synth battles had moments of morose gesticulation, (John Peel nodded off to some of the more wavering BBC mellotron trials)
Genesis was consistently the most original Brit Prog band with its determined lyrical richness, ultimately their mainline strength even if Gabriel claimed he walked out the ‘Broadway’ machine, what a fucking machine, superbly oiled and far from the endless striving of Yes’ Topographical dimensions.
Genesis’ ‘Lamb’ offered short tasteful morsels of mellotron coupled with astounding drum scales, Hackett was so in the crease that one hardly noticed that it was guitar and not keyboards. Crimson went from bizarre to bludgeoning vibrato after Wetton made his glorious entry, but not the quite the finesse of the Crimson courts. Caravan trails dismembered sadly at Waterloo and some blundering bulldog with no more water at any oasis, but refilled graciously with the jazzy Hatfield & the North and National Health, the latter nothing to do with Thatcher but more the enlightened slant of Mr Robert Wyatt, six guns fully drawn for the ‘shipbuilding’ Falklands. Possibly the closet relative ‘bastard’ to Fripp’s inventive prognosis would be Hammill’s Van der Graaf Generator , a more Gothic somber splendor, but far more refined as time goes by than the relentless ravaging of Crimson’s saber warriors.
Van Der Graaf was wonderfully ugly, sensationally awkward and as real as rough gravel, a far cry from the adult contemporary pleasurable Renaissance fronted by a blonde beauty called Annie Haslam.
Hammill’s lyrical magnum force, arguably the best in Britain, moreover globally was a force to be reckoned with that even Gabriel stood in awe of. Yet beyond the brightness and lightness of the chosen few the likes of Julien J Saverin, Gravy Train, Audience, Beggars opera and Curved Air were busy carving an indelible stamp on the more discerning mass of Prog lovers. Across the channel Germany was logistically at the forefront of the Prog revolution, sadly deemed ‘Krautrock’ an inherent stab at historical enemies that even vented at the soccer stadium. In sheer numbers their Prog bands outnumbered Britain, 10 to 1 but that’s another story?
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