Introduction

BAT CHAIN PULLER (1976; 2012)
1) Bat Chain Puller; 2) Seam Crooked Sam; 3) Harry Irene; 4) 81 Poop Hatch; 5) Flavor Bud Living; 6) Brick Bats; 7) Floppy Boot Stomp; 8) Ah Carrot Is As Close As Ah Rabbit Gets To Ah Diamond; 9) Owed T'Alex; 10) Odd Jobs; 11) Human Totem Pole; 12) Apes-Ma; 13) Bat Chain Puller (alternate mix); 14) Candle Mambo; 15) Hobo-ism.
The latest and, probably, the most arduously expected archival release from the Captain is this: the original Bat Chain Puller, recorded in 1976 but shelved due to personal and technical prob­lems before being reborn in an entirely new coating three years later. In 2012, it finally got an official stamp of release on Gail Zappa's Vaulternative label, set up to handle Frank's archives — and, as it turned out, a little bit of Don Van Vliet's as well. Of course, veteran fans had already known all of this for a long time from their bootleg copies, but now, here's the Captain sending you one more gift from the grave without having you break the law or anything.
As you already know, most of the songs from Bat Chain Puller eventually became Shiny Beast, but a couple short instrumentals (ʽCarrotʼ and ʽFlavor Bud Livingʼ) and one vocal number (ʽBrick Batsʼ) had to wait until Doc At The Radar Station, and two more (ʽ81 Poop Hatchʼ and ʽHuman Totem Poleʼ) had to wait all the way until Ice Cream For Crow. Considering that ʽOdd Jobsʼ was already available on Grow Fins (albeit in demo form and very poor sound quality), the only song I do not recognize at all is ʽSeam Crooked Samʼ, another of Beefheart's beatnik recitations set to a background of gently noodling avant-jazz guitars. Additionally, the album is expanded with a few bonuses, such as an alternate mix of the title track and a lengthy improvised piece, ʽHobo-ismʼ — eight minutes of acoustic blues guitar, harmonica, and the Captain in Son House / John Lee Hooker mode, mumbling, growling, and howling out strings of neo-blues lyrics to an «authentic» dark country blues backing. Admittedly, it's fun for a couple minutes, but gets tedious very quickly if you're not too deeply into that kind of thing.
So what's the deal, anyway? Does this old recording still deserve its own place under the sun, or has it been rendered completely superfluous by Shiny Beast? From one point of view — given that the Captain was always very specific about preserving the compositional structure and arrangement details of his songs, and never really favored improvised variations on any of his songs once they were finished — it is superfluous: although the new recordings, considering both the complexity of the songs and the fact that everything had to be redone from scratch under new studio conditions, could not help but sound somewhat different, they are still exceptionally close, enough to make the comparison more interesting for the Beefheart historian than the average fan. On the other hand, the two albums were recorded by significantly different lineups of The Magic Band — for instance, Bat Chain Puller did not have Bruce Fowler on trombone, whereas Shiny Beast did not feature John French — and this makes the original version sound a bit more raw and less cluttered with extra instrumentation than Shiny Beast. So it's not like you aren't really offered a choice: some people did complain about a slight overproduction problem on Shiny Beast, and this gives them a chance to rejoice and pick a new intimate favorite.
I do have at least this to say: although I am still largely indifferent to ʽHuman Totem Poleʼ, this version of it here sounds far more tight and energetic than the one on Ice Cream For Crow, largely because John French is a better drummer (or, at least, a better Beefheart-style drummer) than Cliff R. Martinez, and is able to lock himself in a better coordinated groove with the two surrounding guitar players. Also, the track works better without the Captain's ugly sax blowing all over it (sorry, all you best friends of the Beefheart-'n'-saxophone alliance). The rest, well — I frankly don't care all that much, but since I like Shiny Beast, it's nice to be able to hear a few highlights in slightly edgier, though not necessarily better, versions. Anyway, no enlightening revelations here, but a pleasant souvenir for the fans and a useful piece of the Beefheart puzzle to put together with the rest.
CARAVAN



CARAVAN (1968)
1) Place Of My Own; 2) Ride; 3) Policeman; 4) Love Song With Flute; 5) Cecil Rons; 6) Magic Man; 7) Grandma's Lawn; 9) Where But For Caravan Would I; 10*) Hello Hello.
The earliest history of Caravan is inextricably linked to the earliest history of Soft Machine: both bands were formed out of the ashes of the legendary Canterbury band Wilde Flowers, which made no recordings yet served as a building pad for two of the most famous outfits of the «Can­terbury scene». That said, from the very start Caravan and Soft Machine followed two very dif­ferent paths — apart from the fact that both teams were progressive-minded, Soft Machine quickly adopted modern jazz and avantgarde as their prime sources of inspiration, whereas for Caravan, even in their «wildest» days, jazz was just one of the building blocks, and hardly the principal one. Above everything else, Caravan wanted sorely to be an English band, so that the word "Canterbury" could actually redeem that Chaucer association; and that Englishness already permeates and dominates their self-titled debut so thoroughly that, perhaps, it is no wonder that it did not sell all too well — in the same year when the same fate also befell the Kinks' Village Green Preservation Society, for instance.
Then again, maybe it was just because it was not such a great record. Recorded in London and released on Decca in the UK and on Verve in the US, Caravan was a collection of relatively quiet, friendly, introspective progressive pop songs whose closest stylistic predecessors would probably be The Moody Blues and Procol Harum (to a lesser degree, also Traffic) — and it might have been just a wee bit hard to understand what it was that made them special. The primary lead vocalist, Pye Hastings, sounded pretty, but clearly less gorgeous than Justin Hayward, and he wasn't much of a guitar player, either, certainly not when compared to Robin Trower. Richard Sinclair, on bass and occasional vocals, did not exactly lay on a ton of dazzling lines, taking more of a McCartney-style «concealed melodic approach» to the instrument. The most visible musician on the album is Richard's cousin, Dave Sinclair, whose organ is almost always the single loudest instrument of all, but even he ends up sounding like a slightly inferior partner of Rod Argent.
So what is the saving grace, then? Nothing but the simple fact that in between all of them, they form a pleasant mix, and that the lack of flash comes across as a sign of friendly humble­ness. The entire album has a bit of an echoey, cavernous sound to it, further emphasized with the loudness of Sinclair's organ, so that when Pye sings, "I've got this place of my own / Where I can go when I feel I'm coming down", the automatic question in my mind is, "What place? Canterbury Cathed­ral?", and Pye does sound like a preacher on that song, except that the sermon is non-canon ("Why don't you live a bit today? / For tomorrow you may find that you are dead"). A friendly, non-intimidating preacher, though, one that won't piss you off even if you disagree.
Most of the short songs are catchy in their little ways. ʽRideʼ, propelled with a funny little cavalry trot from drummer Richard Coughlan, is a cute folksy ditty, gradually transforming into a vigo­rous drum / organ extravaganza. ʽPolicemanʼ is a wannabe-Traffic art-blues song, with Richard Sinclair throwing in a bit of a political angle, but in such a mildly pleading manner that no true revolutionary would accept this bunch of pussies as his trusted friends. ("Take the time to change our minds / We will pay our parking fines", Sinclair promises like he means it). And ʽGrandma's Lawnʼ, speeding up the tempo and harshening up the organ tone, kind of sounds like early (pre-Gillan) Deep Purple, only without the distorted guitar, mixed with a ʽDead End Streetʼ-like atti­tude of misery ("lost my plec, bloody heck, who's got my plec, break his neck" is a particularly precious line that even Ray Davies wouldn't have come up with at the time).
There are also some psycho experiments that are questionable — ʽMagic Manʼ is a lazy waltz where Pye seems to be trying a little too hard to convince us of the pleasures of a life of floating around in your own pot-enhanced imagination ("Soft Machines, Heart Club Bands and all, are welcome here with me" is a particularly cringeworthy line, too), and ʽCecil Ronsʼ might be their most embarrassing stab at psych-folk ever, since the song never seems to decide if it wants to be intimidating or enchanting, let alone the lyrics that deal with urinating under somebody's tree, if I'm not mistaken. It is well worth a listen just to learn how absurd things can get at times, but don't expect Monty Python quality or anything.
That said, «classic» Caravan is only previewed here by two tracks — ʽLove Song With Fluteʼ, a jazzy ballad with unpredictable time / tempo changes and, indeed, a lengthy flute solo delivered by Pye's brother Jimmy in properly pastoral mode (with more fluency than Ray Thomas, but far less aggression than Ian Anderson); and the lengthy ʽWhere But For Caravan Would Iʼ, book­marked with more folksy preaching from Pye but essentially given over to proggy jamming in non-standard time, Pye holding things together with simple, but powerful guitar riffage and Dave pulling a Rod Argent / Keith Emerson on the organ as long and hard as he can (which isn't really that long, or that hard). Both tracks are passable exercises, but do not really answer the question of whether we need to have yet another young aspiring progressive act to add to the already existing diversity.
Despite that, Caravan still works as an atmospheric, melodic, friendly collection of art-pop songs: for what it lacks here in originality, it makes up in terms of hooks, good taste (other than "so we all go to wee in the garden"), and humility. I mean, with this kind of equipment and these parti­cular musical goals, Caravan's debut could have easily been like Uriah Heep's debut — except that it wasn't, because nobody is trying to compensate for lack of musical virtuosity with annoy­ing bombast and trumped-up epicness. So, even if this is just a brief taste of better things to come, I've always had the same kind of soft spot in my heart for it as for From Genesis To Reve­lation, and here it is reflected in a thumbs up rating.
IF I COULD DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN, I'D DO IT ALL OVER YOU (1970)
1) If I Could Do It All Over Again, I'd Do It All Over You; 2) And I Wish I Were Stoned / Don't Worry; 3) As I Feel I Die; 4) With An Ear To The Ground You Can Make It / Martinian / Only Cox / Reprise; 5) Hello Hello; 6) Asforteri 25; 7) Can't Be Long Now / Françoise / For Richard / Warlock; 8) Limits; 9*) A Day In The Life Of Maurice Haylett.
I would say this: Caravan's second album helps them pass, with flying colors and all, all the necessary qualifi­cations for a legitimate prog-rock outfit — however, it does not do an excellent job in establishing them as, you know, Caravan, a band with its own unique and unmistakeable brand of prog-rock. All the technical requirements are there, as they place severe restrictions on their pop instincts (only ʽHello Helloʼ, specially recorded to capture a small share of the singles' market and landing them a spot on Top of the Pops, qualifies as a bona fide pop song), stretch out song length by gluing together separate parts, Abbey Road-style, and combine folk, classical, and jazz influences like the good King Crimson textbook taught us. The result is an intelligent, perfectly enjoyable and energetic album that, nevertheless, still shows the band in the process of searching for a vibe that best agrees with their personalities, rather than saddling and riding that vibe like there was no tomorrow.
One thing that I sense very acutely is the major influence of Caravan's closest competition — The Soft Machine. It shows up not only in such minor things as the twisted, enigmatic song titles (ʽWith An Ear To The Ground You Can Make Itʼ almost sounds like a response to ʽDedicated To You But You Weren't Listeningʼ), but also in the band's frequent excursions into psychedelic-tinged jazz (title track; ʽAs I Feel I Dieʼ), and in the overall feel of (intentional) chaos and confu­sion that permeates the album. In some ways, If I Could Do It All Over Again is the most expe­rimental and risk-taking record that Caravan would ever produce — which would certainly make it the best Caravan album, period, in the eyes of those who think that taking risks and failing is always pre­ferable to not taking risks and succeeding. But on the other hand, for a risk-taking album If I Could Do It All Over Again is not very risk-taking: they never really go all the way, like the Wyatt-led Soft Machine, and the result is an album that does not quite understand itself if it wants to present an experimental challenge or an emotional experience.
That said, what could one expect from a record that begins with the mantraic chant of "Who do you think you are, do you think you are?" and answers "I really don't know"? It might indeed be all about a search for one's identity in a world with rapidly changing values, so that Pye Hastings' pleading request "gimme that stuff, enough to slow me down..." can be understood almost lite­rally (and agrees perfectly well with Pye's musical conservatism in the upcoming decades). The band has neither the chops nor the desire to go completely wild with their music-making, yet at the same time "slowing down" is really not an option, either — so most of the tracks are caught between two extremes, a slow, dreamy, balladeering section with Pye's vocals as the center of focus, and an energetic, often aggressive jam section where the lead is usually taken by Dave Sinclair and his frenetic organ work.
The best example is the suite ʽFor Richardʼ, which would go on to become a quintessential staple of the band's live repertoire — beginning as a slow, chilly, introspective mood piece, where Pye sings in tune with Dave's organ to produce the effect of a slightly ominous lullaby, and then crashing into a lengthy jam, where said organ begins to sound like Jon Lord at times (distortion ruling over all), but aggressive parts still alternate with relatively quiet moments, particularly when Pye's brother Jimmy takes over the saxophone and then the flute. The problem is that I do not feel much of an internal logic here — and although the same could be said about the Abbey Road medley, the individual constituents of ʽFor Richardʼ are not all that great on their own: a few good hard rock riffs here and there, a lot of pleasant, but unexceptional jazz-folk noodling in between, and a vicious finale that makes it seem as if we've just been on some cathartic Odyssey of sorts... but we haven't, really.
So I'm a bit torn about this, and the same feeling applies to everything else on the album, because mood-wise, everything is based on the same contrasts. Everything, that is, except for the Soft Machinian tracks and the ʽHello Helloʼ single — the latter, with its slightly childish and nonsen­sical lyrics, is a catchy folksy ditty that actually defines the general spirit of Caravan better than most of the long tracks (and could be qualified as a spiritual predecessor to ʽGolf Girlʼ). Oh, ac­tually, there's also ʽDon't Worryʼ, the second part of the second track, an optimistic-melancholic pop song that would be right at home on In The Land Of Grey And Pink — the problem is that the messy structure of the album makes me feel disoriented and get lost in these intricate multi-part mazes without a set plan or a good sharp system of contrasts.
In the end, it is still a thumbs up, and I can perfectly understand those who would see it not only as a tremendous musical leap from the level of the self-titled debut, but even as the band's finest hour in general. Personally, though, I do not think Caravan had really hit their stride until they learned properly how to put that «Canterbury» essence in their music — which wouldn't really occur until the next album.
IN THE LAND OF GREY AND PINK (1971)
1) Golf Girl; 2) Winter Wine; 3) Love To Love You (And Tonight Pigs Will Fly); 4) In The Land Of Grey And Pink; 5) Nine Feet Underground.
Almost universally acknowledged as Caravan's masterpiece — and I concur. However, if you are a big fan of the intricacies and sonic risks of classic progressive rock, be warned: In The Land Of Grey And Pink is not about that at all. Yes, it does feature a 22-minute multi-part suite and long stretches of instrumental jamming with classical, jazz, and blues influences, but the album also marks a decisive break with the avantgarde-minded section of the Canterbury scene, opting for a melodic, sentimental, and quintessentially English atmosphere instead. Ironically, the bulk of the material here was written by Richard Sinclair, who would very soon leave the band to form Hatfield and The North — one of the most avantgarde-minded bands of the Canterbury scene, so go figure what it's all about with these damn musicians.
Anyway, In The Land Of Grey And Pink is really a mix of melodic, not-too-sophisticated prog with an early Brit-pop attitude: throw in the high, sweet, gentle voices of both Sinclair (who, nautrally, also takes most of the lead parts here) and Hastings (who only sings lead on his own ʽLove To Love Youʼ and on one section of the closing suite), and it is little wonder that most of the record sounds pretty much like what, say, the Kinks would have sounded like, had they ever deci­ded to join the «progressive club» in the early Seventies. Consequently, the album suffers from the usual problem: pop music fans avoid it because it has been labeled as «prog», and prog fans leave it somewhat disappointed because they were hoping for Gentle Giant and Van Der Graaf Generator, and got ʽLouie Louieʼ instead.
That last remark is not a complete joke, by the way: Pye's ʽLove To Love Youʼ, released as the second single from the album, is based on a chord sequence that is eerily similar to ʽLouie Louieʼ, and only a tiny bit more complicated — a deliberately simplistic, both musically and lyrically, pop tune that still manages to sound disarmingly cute and romantically optimistic (which does not prevent Pye, the hooligan troubadour, from sneaking a dirty reference into the second verse: too bad they didn't get the chance to do it on Top of the Pops). It should be as much of an insult to the average prog rock fan as Phil Collins' ʽMore Fool Meʼ on Selling England By The Pound — but to those who like to lighten up every once in a while, it might be taken as a sign that the band, unlike many of its competitors, did not take itself too seriously.
The first single was ʽGolf Girlʼ, which, I guess, went on to become the quintessential Caravan tune just for being so... straightforward? We get references to golf balls, cups of tea, going for walks in fine weather, and just fancying each other (written about Richard's actual girlfriend), all set to a rock-steady acoustic-and-bass pattern that is at once simple, unassuming, and completely self-assured. Even more than ʽLove To Love Youʼ, this is Caravan's way of filling the world with silly love songs, and what's wrong with that, especially if you give the whole thing such a taste­fully gallant English vibe? There's a subtle key change in the coda, where David Sinclair and Jimmy Hastings trade Mellotron and flute solos and the atmosphere becomes slightly more som­ber — like a patch of thin rainclouds darkening the golf course — but that does not really spoil the mood, just makes things a bit more intriguing, with a tiny hint of never-know-what-the-future-may-bring. Come to think of it, there's a tiny bit of surrealism mixed here, maybe with an echo or two of Alice In Wonderland rather than P. G. Wodehouse; and that atmosphere is even more acutely felt in the title track with its utopian escapist vision and strangely eccentric over­dubbed sound effects (what's up with all that bubbling and blubbering?).
Escapism, imaginary nostalgia, and yearning for visions of transcendental beauty also constitute the fuel for the two long tracks — Sinclair's ʽWinter Wineʼ on the first side and the collective ʽNine Feet Undergroundʼ suite that occupies the entire second side. ʽWinter Wineʼ weaves a strange trance as the song's five verses cling to each other like a lengthy visionary monologue, with an odd mix of medieval, fantasy, and sexual imagery, until the final verse brushes it all away with a decisive "Life's too short to be sad / Wishing things you'll never have" and "Funny how it's clearer now, you're close to me / We'll be together all the time" — although the last lines are still delivered in the same tired, melancholic, given-up voice, implying that it may be easier to reject dreaming in theory than accomplishing this in practice. David picks up that same dejected tone in his lengthy keyboard solo, and the result is like taking a seven-minute ride along an arrow-straight highway of broken hearts. The song never rips, never flashes, never tries to break out of its lonesome shell; you have to knock on its door, but once it finally opens, it's a beautiful whiff of soothing balm for all you broken-hearted sentimentalists out there.
The worst thing that can be said about the epic ʽNine Feet Undergroundʼ is that it offers few new elements compared to what we'd already just heard on Side A. Like ʽFor Richardʼ, it is a collec­tion of different, but similar segments, with few vocals and lots and lots and lots of keyboard soloing from David — an excellent player, for sure, but do it for too long and your quiet, fluent modesty might gradually slip into boredom. I do really like Pye's ʽDisassociationʼ part, where he shows himself just as capable of evoking moody, bitter nostalgia for I-don't-know-what as Sin­clair was on ʽWinter Wineʼ; and the last section, after the band rocking you to sleep for so long, suddenly brings it all home with a vengeance, regurgitating a thick, monstrous guitar/organ riff from the ʽSunshine Of Your Loveʼ school of thought and leading our airplane to a fairly hard landing after all. Toto, we're not in the land of grey and pink any more. Oh well, I guess we needed a good shaking up after such a rosey dream after all.
How the record ended up not hitting any charts at all, right in the middle of the prog-is-cool era, is objectively beyond me, but I'd guess it might have to do with the fact that the record lacks flash and glam — Pye Hastings is no Steve Howe or Robert Fripp, and David Sinclair is no Jon Lord or Keith Emerson when it comes to glorifying your instrument of choice; and who knows, per­haps this brand of gentlemanly, five-o'-clock-tea progressive rock was simply not what the five-o'clock-tea gentlemen wanted in 1971 (much like what happened to the Kinks a few years earlier). In the long run, though, these speculations are meaningless and useless: what is important is that In The Land Of Grey And Pink seems to have stood the test of time well enough, and that it can be just as enchanting and entrancing to those who have absolutely no first-hand knowledge of English bourgeois culture — actually, even more enchanting. A definitive thumbs up.
WATERLOO LILY (1972)
1) Waterloo Lily; 2) Nothing At All; 3) Songs And Signs; 4) Aristocracy; 5) The Love In Your Eye; 6) The World Is Yours.
For some reason, this album tends to receive a colder welcome than its neighbors on both sides of the chronology, and I still can't quite figure out why. I can certainly see where a pop lover would dismiss it — what with the album taking such an odd turn for jazz-rockish jamming and all — but surely prog fans should be overjoyed seeing the group, if not exactly return to the style of If I Could Do It All Over Again..., then at least capitalize on the more challenging aspects of In The Land Of Grey And Pink. But apparently, no, Waterloo Lily finds relatively few defenders on both sides of the fence, so go figure.
The first of the major lineup changes happens here, as Dave Sinclair (temporarily) leaves the band and is replaced by Steve Miller, a former session player with a good taste for jazz, blues, and folk. Occasionally, one might encounter the opinion that it was Miller who steered the band in a jazzier direction, but the only pieces on the album that are explicitly credited to him are the folksy-bluesy ʽIt's Coming Soonʼ movement within the ʽNothing At Allʼ suite and the sentimental ballad ʽSongs And Signsʼ, delivered by Pye in his sweetest falsetto — it does feature some jazz chords in its base melody, but does not really feel like a significant departure from the band's overall sound of the past. Nevertheless, it is true that he has a bluesier side to his piano playing than Sinclair had — in fact, his extended solo passages on the electric piano are often eerily similar to Ray Manzarek: I have no idea if he was a fan or not, but there's a dark, murky passage in the middle of ʽWaterloo Lilyʼ that seriously reminds me of the "Mr. Mojo Rising" part of ʽL. A. Womanʼ, while the solo on ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ is reminiscent of ʽRiders On The Stormʼ.
Still, the significant shift in style must have been a collective undertaking of the band, and one for which they really should be praised — refusing to repeat the formula of Grey And Pink, they tried their hand at something slightly grittier and darker, in all respects. Where the previous album began with the soft, simple innocence of ʽGolf Girlʼ, here the title track apparently begins with an invitation to a friendly brothel, and the music, a mid-tempo blues-rocker with some magnificent bass work from Richard, is suitably bawdy and menacing, with both Pye and Miller choosing some thick-heavy tones for their instruments — before turning down the shades, bringing down the volume, and feeding us a bunch of sleazy wah-wah insinuations. Sinclair takes the vocals, too, and it's almost as if he is atoning for the angelic exuberance of ʽGolf Girlʼ, playing the devil's advocate here instead. With relative success, if you really put your mind to it.
Most of the rest of the album is given over, once again, to two extended suites, one of which (ʽNothing At Allʼ) is completely instrumental, and the other (ʽLove In Your Eyeʼ) went on to become a stage favorite and arguably the only track from here to survive for a long time in the repertoire. It is not difficult to see why the former was forgotten and the latter became revered: ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ is pure Pye Hastings, all friendly humility and sweet melancholy, whereas ʽNothing At Allʼ, theoretically at least, is a jazz-rock jam the likes of which could be produced by dozens of British and American bands at the time. But issues of originality aside, it is a fine jazz-rock jam — Sinclair gives an unusual variation on the boogie bass line, Hastings gets a chance to show how versatile he can be with the wah-wah (or, perhaps, that is guest player Phil Miller, Steve's brother and a future member of Hatfield & The North, too), and there's a fine soprano sax solo by another guest player, Lol Coxhill, to complete the picture. On the whole, it might seem less challenging than the more avantgarde jazz experiments in 1970, but it works better: they concoct a thicker, darker, sicker mood with this approach, which also contrasts nicely with the unexpected break into Steve Miller's melancholic piano interlude.
As for ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ, it is essentially a lush pop song (replete with an extremely clumsy set of lyrics — "drink it down and do yourself"?, "mind in hand you'll find a way"?, "in dreams of you I wish a song on everyone"?, you'd think these weren't really written by a native speaker; if this was on purpose, I cannot for the life of me figure out what that purpose was), eventually turning into another lengthy blues-rock jam. The first section is great; the second one might seem superfluous after an already similar passage on the first suite, but yes, that's Caravan for you — the same accusation is valid for their masterpiece as well. Here, though, the benevolent and loving spirit of the «pop» part is in sharp contrast with the darker instrumental movements, and the composition fades out on an aggressive, turbulent jamming part, as if to suggest that Pye's post-Lennon "all you need is love in your eye" advice is not really working. Or, more likely, they just didn't have the strength to give the tune a proper finale (which is why you will probably find the best version of the tune on the live album with the New Symphonia, where it is obligatorily given a grand ending).
As usual, in between the lengthy pieces we find shorter, more «commercial» chunks that were, for some reason, not released as singles — Pye's ʽAristocracyʼ could have made a good one, with its energetic tempo, catchy chorus, and, uh, Englishness; surely just as good as any contemporary Bowie hit, even if Hastings has never been able to make himself noticeable as a vocalist, unlike David. ʽThe World Is Yoursʼ is another nice folk-pop tune, a simple and bright conclusion to the album after all the anger and darkness in the longer suites.
All in all, I don't really see how this record «interrupts» Caravan's classic run with a weaker link. It was an attempt to try something a little different, and if, in the process, it neutralized the band's identity for a little bit, all the searching and diversification more than make up for it. Unless you really hate long instrumental jams, Waterloo Lily remains totally accessible and paints the band as a highly competent outfit that could have easily competed with the heavy rock scene of the time, had it wanted to; it just didn't want to. Perhaps it is not as focused as Grey And Pink on weaving a fantasy land enchantment spell, but these guys knew how to sound earthy, too, and if they felt the need to outbalance their Golf Girls with their Waterloo Lilies — hey, I can totally understand them. Subsequently, a solid thumbs up here, and disregard the naysayers.
FOR GIRLS WHO GROW PLUMP IN THE NIGHT (1973)
1) Memory Lain, Hugh / Headloss; 2) Hoedown; 3) Surprise, Surprise; 4) C'Thlu Thlu; 5) The Dog, The Dog, He's At It Again; 6) Be All Right / Chance Of A Lifetime; 7) L'Auberge Du Sanglier / A Hunting We Shall Go / Pengola / Backwards / A Hunting We Shall Go (reprise).
Good or bad, the Waterloo Lily formula just did not stick, and the new configuration fell apart pretty quickly — with new member Steve Miller leaving for good and taking veteran member Richard Sinclair with him (or, actually, vice versa), forming Hatfield & The North, a band with its own distinct agenda, very different from the Caravan sound. This essentially left Hastings in full control over the remains of the band; however, the rule «no Caravan without a Sinclair pre­sent» still managed to work, since Dave Sinclair rejoined the group in the wake of Richard's de­parture, bringing a much-welcome return back to the organ sound instead of Steve Miller's elec­tric piano. Richard, in the meantime, was replaced by formerly unknown John G. Perry, and in order to expand and thicken the sound, Geoff Richardson was added on electric viola: an auxi­liary musician at first, he then went on to become one of the most permanent fixtures of the Caravan sound for the next four decades.
Simple logical calculations should lead us to expect that the results would suck: without Richard's songwriting and musicianship and with Pye's well-known penchant for a softer, poppier sound, Caravan could have been immediately reduced to sappy-sounding generic mush. Well, that sort of did happen later, but in 1973, Caravan hit back with a vengeance — releasing what was probably their second greatest album, and on certain auspicious days, I'd even say that Girls is more fun and consistent than In The Land Of Grey And Pink, although the latter will, of course, forever remain their most... shall we say, «programmatic» artistic statement.
With all power concentrated in his hands, Pye goes here for a little bit of everything. From basic rock'n'roll (ʽMemory Lain, Hughʼ opens the record with a looped riff groove sounding not unlike the beginning of CCR's ʽRamble Tambleʼ) to elements of Traffic-style roots-rock to bits of spooky hard rock to sentimental pop to multi-part progressive suites, For Girls Who Grow Plump In The Night is truly a wonderful gift to all them girls who grow plump in the night (and take good care of the future eclectic musical tastes of their offspring while still in the womb), no matter how many crude sexual jokes Mr. Hastings might want to introduce in the lyrical content of his creations (if you ever wondered what the title ʽThe Dog, The Dog, He's At It Againʼ might be referring to, head straight for the worst possible hypothesis and you'll be hitting it). The re­formed lineup sounds rested, refreshed, and energetic; the songs combine hooks and atmospherics in that classic British manner; and there are neither any signs of the band «selling out» to the commercial pop machine, nor any signs of their ambitions overclouding their capacities — the curse of being «too progressive for their own good», already applicable in 1973 to such bands as Jethro Tull or Yes, does not apply to this record at all.
The very first track, a merger of two heavily rhythmic, uplifting pop-prog compositions, seems to represent the wish for a new beginning — "I just want the chance to try and find me", Pye sings on the ʽMemory Lainʼ part, and although I have no idea whether he did it on this track or not, the devotion sounds sincere and powerful enough. Richardson's viola on the instrumental parts fits right in with Sinclair's returning organ and brother Jimmy's flute soloing, and on the faster ʽHeadlossʼ groove, is a good fit for Pye's own wah-wah soloing. There's no boundary breaking here, just a few good-natured vocal hooks and life-asserting, inspired jamming in between, seemingly shooing away the odd darkness of Waterloo Lily and ushering in a new wave of sunshine without too much sappiness.
The friendly atmosphere carries over to ʽHoedownʼ, a song clearly inspired by country-western stylistics (especially in terms of Richardson's fiddle-like viola solo) but essentially pop-rockish when it comes to the vocal melody; ʽSurprise, Surpriseʼ, one of Pye's best exercises in pure sen­timental pop-rock; and, of course, the already mentioned ʽThe Dog, The Dogʼ, probably the single most controversial example in history when an essentially salacious matter would be pre­sented as a sunny-sweet pop singalong, steadily moving to a vocal harmony-filled crescendo climax in ʽHey Judeʼ mode. The song clearly invites the listener to join in the angelic choir of "oh, medicine gone, it's coming on strong", experiencing a state of loving bliss over lyrics that might make even Howlin' Wolf reconsider, had he ever been offered a line like "legs and thighs, hellos and goodbyes it's all there". It's like Pye Hastings took a good look at Mick Jagger singing stuff like ʽStray Cat Bluesʼ and said, "oh, great goals, crude methods, we'll try it subtler". Of course, this didn't exactly help him gain a lot of teenage girl fans, but in the ideally comprehensive encyclopaedia of «sexuality in music», with tracks like these, Caravan have certainly deserved their own and nobody else's chapter.
In the middle of all the sunshine comes an unexpected blast of creepiness — ʽC'Thlu Thluʼ, clearly a jumbled homage to H. P. Lovecraft, is a horror-themed track, driven by a deep bass riff that sounds like Sabbath-lite and panicky lyrics that would be quite appropriate for Ozzy. Not that Caravan could really be capable of a genuine «the-Devil-is-after-me» atmosphere: the song's chorus, with a funky change of key and an excited rather than scared vocal performance, subverts the whole thing and makes it deeply ironic. But that does not mean that the track does not rule anyway — with its abundance of cool heavy riffs, Sinclair's medievalistic organ playing, and a crashing coda, this is as close to «metallic» as these guys ever got, and in the context of the re­cord, it works great in between all the sunshine-oriented songs.
The «old school Caravan» is probably best represented on the final multi-part suite. With sub­titles like ʽA Hunting We Shall Goʼ you'd probably expect to find some influences from ye olde British folk or at least court music from the Tudorian era, and, indeed, the suite begins with a medieva­listic acoustic melody, but then quickly jumps into paranoid jazz-rock mode and finally settles on a slow tempo, grand orchestration (for which purpose they spared no expense and hired master orchestrator Paul Buckmaster), Wagnerian brass, and psychedelic swirling Davolisint hums. With a reprise of the jazzy ʽHuntingʼ section at the end, the suite, for once, sounds like a thematically oriented, smoothly flowing musical journey, sensibly organized from beginning to end rather than just being mindlessly pasted from several available bits and pieces. In fact, in a certain way the entire album could be taken for such a journey — beginning on a fairly light note, then picking up elements of deeper seriousness as it goes along, and finally culminating in the grand finale.
With Caravan's ongoing low-key profile and lack of stage flashiness, there was hardly any hope for the record to become more noticed than its predecessors — but in retrospect, it stands out humble-and-proud as one of the best progressive-themed albums of 1973. If we stick to chrono­logically based comparisons, I'd go as far as to call it the «high comedy» counterpart to the «high tragedy» of Selling England By The Pound: tackling some of the same matters (including the sexual obsessions of both frontmen), but substituting Peter Gabriel's melancholy and bitterness for Pye Hastings' warm irony and optimism. And if we don't stick to chronologically based com­parisons, it is just a charming piece of British progressive rock, and Caravan's last great hurrah in an epoch that was already rapidly moving to a close. So, a big thumbs up before it's too late!
CARAVAN & THE NEW SYMPHONIA (1974)
1) Introduction; 2) Mirror For The Day; 3) The Love In Your Eye; 4) Virgin On The Ridiculous; 5) For Richard.
«Do it with an orchestra» was quite a heavy trend back in the days when symphonic rock was king, although, when you really think about it, not that many heavyweights actually went for this: Deep Purple in 1969, Procol Harum in 1972, and... well, ELP and Renaissance joined in some­what later, I guess. Essentially, though, this Caravan album repeats the formula of Procol Harum's Live With The Edmonton Symphony Orchestra: use the symphonic potential of the orchestra to enhance the effect of originally non-orchestrated material, rather than blend it with the rock group format in some particularly innovative, genre-fusing way (like Deep Purple did, albeit with questionable results). Not that this is a bad idea: Caravan's highly melodic and already classically influenced melodies seem like a natural fit with symphonic orchestration, and, in fact, the whole idea seemingly came out not out of the desire to jump on the Procol Harum bandwagon, but out of the experience of working with a full orchestra on the Plump In The Night sessions.
I have not been able to uncover any additional activities of this «New Symphonia» orchestra, but I do know that it was essentially the creation of conductor Martyn Ford, who had already specia­lized in working with contemporary non-classical musicians, and that the orchestral ʽIntroduc­tionʼ here was credited to Simon Jeffes, founder and leader of the Penguin Cafe Orchestra — meaning that, unlike Procol Harum, who could actually afford an authentic classical orchestra to work with them, Caravan went along with relative neophytes and barrier-breakers. Nevertheless, an orchestra is an orchestra, and you won't be hearing any classical musicians trying out rock riffs during this concert.
The recently released expanded edition of the album shows that the actual performance consisted of a short first set, during which the band played highlights from the Plump In The Night album on its own; a larger second set with the orchestra, all of which was released on the original LP; and an encore of ʽA Hunting We Shall Goʼ, for which the orchestra stayed on to reproduce the original arrangement (although, as the liner notes state with a whiff of reproach, not before a little blackmail-and-bluff took place backstage, since the musicians wanted their pay enlarged for the encore, and only went ahead after Pye threatened they'd do it without them anyway). The main set, apart from the already mentioned ʽIntroductionʼ, included two new compositions written specially for the concert, and two old multi-part epics, perfectly suitable for orchestration — not a lot, really, but I guess that budget concerns played a large part in this, too.
So, how well does Caravan work with an orchestra? I'd say that this is a good match on the whole, especially as far as the bombastic instrumental passages on the epic numbers are concerned, such as the martial brass fanfares in ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ and the last, hard-rocking, movement of the ʽFor Richardʼ suite, where the orchestra replaces Sinclair's distorted organ riffs. The new arrangements are not necessarily better, but the orchestra does lend extra romanticist power to the material without dumbing it down; in a way, one might even argue that The New Symphonia is really that one last crucial ingredient they'd always needed to evolve into a massively powerful music-making machine — the catch is, it's far from certain that they ever needed to evolve into a massively powerful machine, but if you thought they did, here is where they do, or at least come fairly close to doing. Pye's thin, frail, slightly effeminate voice almost feels a bit pitiful against this massive background, though — perhaps they should have hired Ian Gillan for this night... then again, perhaps not. At least his mike stayed in good shape.
Of the two new compositions I have to say that ʽMirror For The Dayʼ is a lush sentimental pop ballad in Pye's already fully-crystallized style (presaging more and more of this material on the band's next records), made somewhat more distinct by using a background vocalist choir with gospel overtones; and ʽVirgin On The Ridiculousʼ is mostly memorable for its self-explanatory title — otherwise, it is an even slower, longer, and more pompous ballad without any particularly notable musical ideas. However, in both cases the synergy between the band and the orchestra is well-balanced, and on ʽVirginʼ at least, much of the main melody is provided by strings in the first place (except for the instrumental bridge, dominated by the organ), so we can all just take this as rehearsal materials for Pye Hastings' Canterbury Oratorio.
Naturally, this is not an essential release to have in your collection, and naturally, it is atypical of the usual Caravan live sound — with which you can easily acquaint yourself on ten thousand archival releases from the BBC and various venues — but on the whole, it's an intelligent and resonant fusion, in which the power and the subtlety of the orchestra are anything but wasted. And I even like the ʽIntroductionʼ, especially the clever way in which the orchestra first intro­duces itself with an impressionist piece, then passes the baton over to the band for some blues-rock jamming, then smartly fills in the gaps around the band to become one with them: that Simon Jeffes is one darn fine fella when it comes to synthesizing rock with classical. So, overall, this is a very easy thumbs up for me, and a moderately tasteful success for Caravan in the year when clouds began seriously darkening around the pillars of the symph-rock movement.
CUNNING STUNTS (1975)
1) The Show Of Our Lives; 2) Stuck In A Hole; 3) Lover; 4) No Backstage Pass; 5) Welcome The Day; 6) The Dabsong Conshirtoe; 7) The Fear And Loathing In Tollington Park Rag.
While the band's obsessive attraction to sexual jokes and innuendos seems to have become a per­manent fixture — as witnessed by the current title — the musical direction that the Hastings-led Caravan was taking clearly took a sharp turn in between 1973 and 1975. Technically, Cunning Stunts is still a progressive rock album, what with most of the second side being given over to yet another complex, multi-part suite, and some of the other songs still showing a strong classical and/or jazz influence. But in reality, the whole thing sounds more like «art pop» now, hook-based, potentially radio-friendly and mass-accessible songs without anything particularly unpredictable, bizarre, or musically challenging about them.