Introduction

PASSAGE (1977)
1) B'wana She No Home; 2) All You Get From Love Is A Love Song; 3) I Just Fall In Love Again; 4) On The Balcony Of The Casa Rosada / Don't Cry For Me Argentina; 5) Sweet, Sweet Smile; 6) Two Sides; 7) Man Smart, Woman Smarter; 8) Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft.
Even if the Carpenters' «punk/disco year» album is no masterpiece, there is no denying that it was at least much more curious than anything they'd done in the previous three years (or more, if you do not think their gorging on the retro-teen vibe in 1973 was curious at all). As you push play and the first sounds that greet you include a thick, gritty, funky bassline rather than the predictable heavenly atmospherics, it immediately becomes clear that Richard's sleeping pills have worn off, at least temporarily, and that the siblings are trying to profit from that by undergoing a serious (well, relatively serious) image change. Of course, the cover of jazz-pop hero Michael Franks' ʽB'wana He No Homeʼ (reasonably amended to she for the Karen overtake) is not exactly a sign of trying to become «relevant» — it is just different, a mix of self-irony, self-confidence, and a number of «cool» bass, piano, and sax lines, all ridden by Karen in a mantle of quiet intelligent decadence. The lyrics are silly enough, for sure (and would probably be machine-gunned by to­day's social justice warriors), but the song manages to establish a commanding presence for Karen, making her sound stern and decisive for the first time in... ever?
Not that there is some kind of Karen-empowering manifesto on Passage; rather, it is just a con­solidated effort to take several new paths and try them out, one by one. Ironically, it is also the first Carpenters album without a single Richard composition on it — which might lead us to sug­gest that, perhaps, he had admitted to himself that he was incapable of moving beyond traditional and conformist patterns, and that if the duo were to move on somehow, this could only be done through interpretation. Hence the unlikely mix of jazz-pop, contemporary musicals (as Karen gets into character with Evita), calypso (ʽMan Smart, Woman Smarterʼ), and even art-rock — al­though for the latter purpose they still selected Klaatu, the latest sensation, over anything more sophisticated. (Then again, since Klaatu were suspected of really being The Beatles at the time, the meeting of the two was probably inevitable).
The Evita piece is the most puzzling inclusion, but not because they decided to test Karen with ʽDon't Cry For Me Argentinaʼ (although her range and relative lack of vocal power might not make her the best candidate indeed) — rather because they also decided to include the lengthy introduction (ʽOn The Balcony Of The Casa Rosadaʼ), inviting a real philharmonic orchestra and opera singers for no apparent reason other than putting Karen's aria «in the proper context». Be­cause, you know, otherwise we would not have been able to guess why an American girl from New Haven, Connecticut, should implore a country as far away as Argentina not to cry for her. Still, as far as convincing performances of overblown Andrew Lloyd Webber arias go, I'd at least take Karen over Madonna — Karen had an inborn knack for sounding deeper and wiser than her actual years, while Madonna will probably still sound like a nervous teenager when she's 80.
That deep and wise voice is pretty much wasted on humorous numbers like ʽMan Smart, Woman Smarterʼ, but definitely not on the Klaatu cover, which is every bit as good as the Klaatu original in terms of arrangement and better than the Klaatu original in terms of vocals: it is too bad that the world will no longer have a Karen Carpenter by the time that occupants of interplanetary, most extraordinary craft finally reach us — the aura of kindness and intelligence that she creates around her vocals is far thicker than John Woloschuk's. Also, they get Tony Peluso to play a beau­tiful dis­torted electric guitar solo, rather than Klaatu's original non-descript synthesizers. Perhaps the 160-piece symphonic orchestra was a bit of an exaggeration (Klaatu's Mellotron was sufficient enough, and gave the song a suitably astral feel), but other than that and the stupid «DJ» introduction ("we'd like to make contact with you... baby"), I have no complaints, and it is regrettable that in the few remaining years of Karen's life, Richard showed no intentions to ex­plore that direction further. Heck, even Electric Light Orchestra or Supertramp covers would have been better than... but we'll get to it, eventually.
The more expectable and traditional numbers on the record are still a tad more exciting than the completely sterile songs and arrangements on A Kind Of Hush. ʽAll You Get From Love Is A Love Songʼ at least has a bouncy rhythm and a catchy chorus; ʽSweet, Sweet Smileʼ is a ʽTop Of The Worldʼ-style return to jiggly country-pop; and ultimately, only ʽI Just Fall In Love Againʼ can be accused of being little more than an over-orchestrated mushy glop — and with Karen still at the top of his powers, one mushy glop per album is not much of a problem. Given the duo's general timidity, the steps they took on Passage were almost like a revolution for them: a failed revolution, for sure, since the album only heralded a rebirth that never came to pass, but enough to extend the longevity of the siblings' artistic reputation for a couple of years. (Retrospective reputation, that is: Passage neither improved their commercial status nor gained them any critical recognition at the time — but today it is very easily seen as a brief and powerful upward surge of the creativity curve). Thumbs up at least for the mild bravery, and even more so for the sheer surprise of seeing some of that bravery actually work.
CHRISTMAS PORTRAIT (1978)
1) O Come, O Come Emmanuel!; 2) Overture; 3) Christmas Waltz; 4) Sleigh Ride; 5) It's Christmas Time / Sleep Well, Little Children; 6) Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas; 7) Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town; 8) Christmas Song; 9) Silent Night; 10) Jingle Bells; 11) First Snowfall / Let It Snow; 12) Carol Of The Bells; 13) Merry Christ­mas, Darling; 14) I'll Be Home For Christmas; 15) Christ Is Born; 16) Winter Wonderland / Silver Bells / White Christmas; 17) Ave Maria.
If you happen to like your Christmas albums and prefer that the artist respect the source material rather than deconstruct it, reinterpret it, enslave it to his twisted will and sinister purposes, then Christmas Portrait, probably not coincidentally released by Richard and Karen Carpenter on the exact same day as AC/DC's If You Want Blood You've Got It, has a good chance of becoming your favorite Christmas album of all time. They could have expanded upon the cautious experi­mentation of Passage — but given its lackluster chart performance, probably decided that this road was not for them, after all, and decided to apply their musical talents elsewhere. Somehow, they remembered, they hadn't done a Christmas album yet; and since a Christmas album for Carpenters seems as natural as a live album for The Who, or an album about death and decay for The Doors, or an album about merry gay sailors for Elton John, they went ahead with the idea. (Particularly since they'd already written one Christmas song, ʽMerry Christmas Darlingʼ, as early as 1970 — it is also included here, but with a new vocal recorded by Karen).
The specific nature of the duo's approach to Christmas is in the sheer grandness of the project. This is the first Carpenters LP to run over 45 minutes, and the first one to start out with a proper overture — five minutes of orchestral snippets for both performed and unperformed songs. Actu­ally, they recorded enough material for a double album, but wisely decided to hold off, because, you know, people also need some time to eat their turkey. (The rest of it was shelved for six years, only appearing after Karen's death). Even so, what with all the introductions, codas, links and transitions, Christmas Portrait feels more like a coherent «folk mass» of sorts than just a dis­jointed series of Christmas carols, a single lengthy ritual performed conquering-style by Good Christmas Fairy Karen and her loyal band of dwarf and elf henchmen, molded into the shape of a sugary-suave symphonic orchestra.
That said, do not hold high hopes: Richard is a professional and inspired arranger, but his inspi­ration in such matters rarely hovers above Disney levels, and every bit of this music, be it purely instrumental (ʽCarol Of The Bellsʼ, etc.) or vocal-based, is designed for nothing more and nothing less than sentimental family entertainment. Unfortunately, Karen is also helpless to add any extra dimensions in this situation: she is serving here as a conductor of the old-fashioned Christmas spirit and is consciously leaving all of her «dark strains» on the shelf (not that she could be blamed for that — it is awesome when performers try to identify the darker sides of Christmas mate­rial, but expecting non-trivial activities like that from Carpenters is like expecting modesty and humility from The Donald). At least her vocal frequencies and intonations help avoid extra sappiness; but I cannot single out even one song that would strike a particularly vulnerable / sen­sitive string in my own soul. It's all just nice, tolerable Christmas fare.
It is good, however, that most of the songs are short or, if long, actually constitute medleys: this creates a fast-rotating kaleidoscope of sub-moods (giggly, joyful, pensive, solemn, whatever) that, if anything, brings the Christmas ritual to life, so that the whole thing does not come across as too rigid or square. Still, it also pretty much kills off any hopes anybody could have about Passage opening some new stage in the duo's history — and with Karen's rapidly deteriorating condition (not to mention Richard's ongoing addiction to Quaaludes), that history, alas, was already coming to an end.
CELESTE



CELESTE (1976)
1) Principe Di Un Giorno; 2) Favole Antiche; 3) Eftus; 4) Giochi Nella Notte; 5) La Grande Isola; 6) La Danza Del Fato; 7) L'Imbroglio.
This band is so close to totally unknown, it does not even seem to have its own Wikipedia page as of the time of my writing this — despite the fact that the only album they'd officially released while staying alive has now turned into a bit of a cult classic in various prog rock-centered sub-communities. Considering that classic Italian prog, such as Premiata Forneria Marconi or Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso, is usually taken seriously on the international level, it is only fair that this short-lived band with its somewhat idiosyncratic sound get at least a brief mention, too.
According to various sources (that mostly repeat each other anyway), Celeste were born out of the ruins of the locally-legendary Sanremo band Il Sistema, with two of their members — drum­mer Ciro Perrino (who also plays the flute and Mellotron), and keyboard / sax player Leonardo Lagorio — joining up with bass player Giorgio Battaglia and guitarist Mariano Schiavolini and deciding to take progressive rock in a... progressive direction. Well, frankly speaking, there is not much «rock» on here at all: even compared to their abovementioned Italian peers like PFM and Banco (both of whom were already heavily and inevitably influenced by the Italian pop scene), Celeste make sure that their music suits their name: all of this is very soft, relaxed, celestial-beauty-oriented stuff with no space allocated at all for distorted electric guitars.
The band's lack of popularity is technically explainable by the fact that the album was seriously delayed: although recorded in 1974, it did not see release until 1976, by which time the golden age of progressive rock had already expired, and new bands experimenting with the genre could only, at best, hope for a small level of underground appreciation. On the other hand, I will not pretend that Celeste is, by any means, some sort of unique lost Holy Grail of Italian prog, either. It does not have enough internal dynamics for that: a happy, mellow, easy-going listening expe­rience that does not so much suck you in or overwhelm you as it simply gives you a pleasant aural massage. But a very pleasant one, well worth the price of admission.
Celeste's influences are barely ever concealed — a mix of Genesis (who, not coincidentally, were one of the most popular prog bands in Italy), Yes (you will very quickly discern echoes of the theme of ʽAnd You And Iʼ at the beginning of ʽFavole Anticheʼ), early King Crimson, and, naturally, the Italian pop scene; the latter manifests itself most openly in the vocal parts, which, to my ears, seem like the weakest part of the experience and, frankly, I would vastly prefer it if the record were completely instrumental. Fortunately, there is not a lot of singing on the whole (most of the vocals are courtesy of drummer Ciro Perrino, and the best that can be said about them is that he mostly manages to stay on key), and it is perfectly easy to concentrate on the instrumental mix... well, as long as the word «concentrate» is applicable to aural massage.
Because I do not count a whole lot of memorable or emotionally stunning musical themes here, and that is not what matters. What matters is purely the soundscape — a lush meadow of sound created through a very careful mix of acoustic guitars, flutes, saxes, pianos, Mellotrons, and analog synths. You cannot get around a proper review of this album without using the word «pastoral» at least once, and it really only takes getting acquainted with the very first track, ʽPrincipe Di Un Giornoʼ, to get the general gist of these guys — gently submerge you in a soft, smoothly moving atmosphere created by the simultaneous, well-coordinated flow of all the ins­truments involved. At times, an ever so slightly dissonant sax solo, revealing a Coltrane influence or something like that, will cut across the horizon, but without jarring you out of the generally tranquil, meditative state of mind.
Only the first large track on Side 2, ʽGiochi Nella Notteʼ, is slightly rougher than the rest, with at least one section where several discordant overdubbed sax parts crash and bump into each other (ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ influence at work?), but even that goes away fairly quickly, making way for the usual classy-pretty sonic jello. Also, ʽLa Danza Del Fatoʼ opens with a long prelude of sleigh bells and electronic blasts (alien invaders targeting Santa Claus?), but even that bit of weird experimentation cannot last long, and quickly gives away to the same acoustic gui­tars, flutes, and annoying Sanremo vocals.
In other words, the record simply begs for you to shoot it down because of monotonousness, but I just can't do it — there is something about the sound that is (a) individually intriguing and (b) so totally harmless, friendly, and stylish at the same time that I cannot help recommending Celeste for any fans of soft folk-pop with progressive ambitions with a satisfactory thumbs up. Just do not set your expectations unreasonably high, and remember that this is not really a «rock» band in any possible sense of the word, and you'll do fine.
II (1977; 1991)
1) Il Giradino Armonico; 2) Bassa Marea; 3) Un Mazzo Di Ortiche; 4) Settottavi; 5) All'Ombra Di Un Fungo; 6) La Danza Del Mare; 7) Slancio Dell'Immaginazione; 8) Un'Anima Nell'Universo; 9) Nodissea; 10) Ala Del Pensiero; 11) Lontano Profondo; 12) Il Giardino Armonico (ripresa).
The unfortunate luck of poor Celeste seems to have been running out exponentially: where only two years had separated the recording of their first album from its commercial release (1974 to 1976), the second album had to wait on the shelf for fourteen years — recorded in 1977, it did not see the light of day until 1991, by which time the band had, of course, long ceased to exist. On a technical note, the original CD issue from 1991, consisting of but four tracks that actually consti­tuted the originally planned album, was quickly replaced by a much-expanded set that frames these recordings with a bunch of shorter tracks (1-2 and 7-12) that, if I get this correctly, are not even properly Celeste, but should rather be credited to Ciro Perrino solo, with a bunch of additi­onal backing players that may or may not overlap with the classic lineup of Celeste... not that it really matters, does it?
What really matters is to observe that the band, despite being so derivative and so «niche-oriented», had undergone a radical transformation in the years separating 1974 from 1977 — and not in the kind of direction that most progressive rock bands were taking (towards a more pop-friendly or arena-ready sound). The key word to describe Celeste was «pastoral», but only faint echoes of that sound persist in small corners of the four tracks that constitute the album; actually, the bonus tracks are far more «Celestian» (Celestial?) in that respect. All of a sudden, the band now puts its trust in jazzy bass grooves, smooth sax solos, cosmic synth melodies, and a near-complete lack of vocals (the latter change, in particular, is much welcome). It's as if somebody told them, «hey guys, you're cool and all, but too many people just fall asleep at your concerts», and they took it way too seriously.
The results are not altogether bad, and repeated listens make me realize that, just as the first album had a certain unique flavor with its injection of Italian serenity into progressive rock turbulence, so is their second record also hard to precisely categorize and pigeonhole. You could call it a jazz-fusion album, but it is not generic: there is still plenty of folk influence and a lot of «childish» elements, like the omnipresent vibraphones that make the music far cuddlier than your average Brand X could ever sound — check out the beginning of ʽSetteottaviʼ for proof; I doubt I have ever heard that sort of tinkly-innocent vibraphone melody on any fusion album. And the first part of ʽLa Danza Del Mareʼ is more like free-form smooth jazz than true fusion, anyway.
The down side is that, unfortunately, this kind of music requires tons of energy if it really wants to make an impression — and Celeste already made us suspect that this band is about anything but energy. So every time they seem to have their minds set on establishing a tight, fast, complex groove (the bass player is probably the most dedicated participant here), it ends up disintegrating into an atmospheric puddle, out of which wobbles a boring sax or flute or keyboard solo. Add to this the less than perfect production values (ʽAll'Ombra Di Un Fungoʼ, in particular, sounds like a bootleg quality track — I honestly hope that this was not the actual version they'd submitted to the record company, or I would have shelved the results as well), and you can easily understand why Celeste II does not share the «cult» reputation of its predecessor.
Each of the tracks has its cute, quirky moments and overall potential, but the way they do go on, there was hardly any need to extend all of them to mammoth lengths — most of the time is simply given over to unfocused jamming rather than proper development of the established themes; and these guys do not have much of a seasoned jazz pro pedigree to genuinely hope that this unfocused jamming may result in spontaneous magic. Particularly tedious is the quasi-free-form space jamming in the first part of ʽLa Danza Del Mareʼ, next to which even early Grateful Dead (far from a favorite of mine) will seem to possess exemplary inspiration. (The second part, tougher and funkier, is more listenable in general, but even that one comes and goes without any particular purpose that I could nail, fading out before it even begins to make sense).
As for the shorter bonus tracks that are closer in spirit to the original Celeste, I did not perceive much memorability there, either; at least they are reasonably short, either as soft jazzy waltzes with prominent flute parts or as folk-poppy ditties that are still more about atmosphere than hooks. Not that much to get excited about, either; all in all, the entire package, at best, qualifies as tasteful background muzak, and I can see very well why no record company was in any rush to see it on the market. It does seem funny, though, how this is all extremely accessible and thoroughly «anti-commercial» at the same time.
I SUONI IN UNA SFERA (1974; 1992)
1) Hymn To The Spheres; 2) The Dance Of The Sounds; 3) The Gates To Consciousness; 4) In The Darkside; 5) Last Flight Of The Mind; 6) To Embark On A Love Affair; 7) The Rediscover Of The Traditions; 8) A Vision; 9) The Thought Flies High Again; 10) Eftus; 11) Favole Antiche; 12) Nadissea.
Once the floodgates are open, they usually stay open. Unfortunately for Celeste, it is not like they spent enough time together to be able to rival Zappa. It turns out, however, that they did manage one extra feat during their brief common tenure — namely, record a complete soundtrack for an Italian movie called I Suoni In Una Sfera, allegedly directed by Enry Fiorini (at least, so the Italian Wikipedia tells me). Nobody ever saw the movie, and there are reasons to suppose that it was never finished; the soundtrack, however, is quite physically real, with most of the individual tracks credited to Ciro Perrino, and judging both by the title and by the nature of music, it was intended to convey a cosmic-psychedelic atmosphere.
Which, by the way, it does — so, technically, Celeste are now the proud owners of three different albums in three different genres: pastoral symph-pop, lite jazz-fusion, and psychedelic-ambient. No mean feat for somebody as totally unknown as these guys, right? Except, of course, the music here is, as usual, so smooth and suave that it is unlikely you will ever remember anything other than a general feel of being wrapped in sweetness a-plenty. The record goes very heavy on organ-imitating synthesizers, with already the title track establishing a Cosmic Gospel feel (all that is lacking is a choir of little castrated angels to duplicate the melody); but there is plenty of pastoral flute, romantic piano, gentle folksy acoustic guitars, and echoey smooth-jazz saxes to diversify the mood as well. And in a way, this might just be the single best Celeste album of 'em all be­cause... you guessed it... there are no vocals anywhere in sight. Just the way the doctor ordered before silly ambitious people overrode the prescription.
Actually, sweetness aside, the boys did some serious work here, writing (or ripping off from clas­sical sources) plenty of different themes — including an Albinoni-stylized funeral march (ʽLast Flight Of The Mindʼ), a slightly Morricone-influenced bluesy piece with Jethro Tull-like flute (ʽThe Thought Flies High Againʼ), and a long medieval ballad, heavy on classical guitar but adding flute, synth fanfares, and what-not (ʽFavole Anticheʼ). If only the main themes of all this stuff were a little more memorable... but it would be unreasonable to expect from a movie sound­track that which turned out to be unachievable on a proper studio album. The best I can say is that every single track here sounds tasteful and pleasant — although the production and mixing leave a lot to be desired. (Apparently, moving to Abbey Road Studios was not an option.) Consequently, I give the record a modest thumbs up, and with this, we say a final farewell to Celeste.

Part 5. From Punk To Hair Metal (1976-1989)

CABARET VOLTAIRE



MIX-UP (1979)
1) Kirlian Photograph; 2) No Escape; 3) Fourth Shot; 4) Heaven And Hell; 5) Eyeless Sight; 6) Photophobia; 7) On Every Other Street; 8) Expect Nothing; 9) Capsules.
It doesn't take much more than Cabaret Voltaire's debut album to understand why they are a band that is mentioned in every single account of the history of New Wave — and, at the same time, a band that people very, very rarely actually listen to. Like many of their contemporaries, they have fallen victim to the «why should I listen to this if it's not 1979 any more?» curse; unlike most of these contemporaries, they suffer from the curse even more strongly because at least other people would come up with melodies, and then clothe them in gimmicky electronic arrangements that sounded fascinating upon first listen, irritating upon second listen, and ridiculous upon the third one. Cabaret Voltaire did not bother coming up with melodies. I mean, you don't call yourself Cabaret Voltaire just to go on being a pop band, right?
On the other hand, Cabaret Voltaire weren't about making experimental chaotic noise, either. From the very beginning, they respected the groove, so much so that, no matter how strange, all of Mix-Up is eminently danceable, and the best way to approach this material is to look at it as a sort of electronic-shamanistic ritual — exorcism muzak for the new age. It is no coincidence that the first track refers to the art of «Kirlian photography», a widespread practice in parapsychology and freak pseudoscience: had they formed in 1969, the band would probably worship Aleister Crowley, but in the post-Star Wars era, who'd want spiritual elevation without futurism, techno­philia, and hissing tape loops?
Ideologically, they take their cues from The Velvet Underground: rhythm is treated as merely a compromising measure that helps you ease into the repetitive, evil weirdness of the sound, even if guitars, pianos, and violins are largely replaced with even more cold, gray, and merciless electro­nic devices (although Richard H. Kirk's rough, droning guitar sound is usually an integral compo­nent). One important element of that ideology that is almost missing, though, is improvisation: most of these tracks are produced with a lot of overdubbing, and the atmosphere of spontaneity that was so important for classic VU is nowhere to be found.
Another thing is «depersonalisation» — the entire album is completely faceless, dehumanized; again, this approach may have been all the rage in 1979, but today, when you turn towards the past in search of impressive faces, this seems to have a disheartening effect. Vocalist Stephen Mallinder does not have to resort to the antiquated practice of singing — he intones at best, and usually lays so much reverb and echo on his vocals that he ends up sounding like a semi-organic alien over a real bad radio transmission. Chris Watson's synthesizers hiss, hum, and rattle rather than vibrate in a musical fashion, and the guitars, as I already mentioned, are usually just there for a droning effect. At the same time, I would hesitate to call this «industrial» music, like many people do: it is certainly very different from the likes of both Einstürzende Neubauten and Throbbing Gristle, if only because relatively little importance is being attached to percussive ef­fects (most of the drumming here is represented by fairly simplistic drum machine patterns), and also because the band's worship of the groove is stronger than their worship of the «factory hum» principle. But who cares about the words? Let's call this «industrial dance music», like a distant ancestor to Björk's ʽCvaldaʼ.
Individual tracks are not worth commenting upon — other than, perhaps, the band's sci-fi cover of The Seeds' ʽNo Escapeʼ, on which the original garage rock guitar part is substituted for a «sci-fi garage» duet of hoarsely distorted guitar and synth. Again, though, its importance is more of a symbolic nature — with this song, they proclaim themselves as inheritors of the entire «caveman rock» tradition of the previous decade, except now they have more advanced technology to deve­lop it (ironically, in 2015 that advanced technology sounds even more antiquated than The Seeds' crappily played/recorded electric guitars). Other than that, it is just one shrill, somber, nasty, dull-gray musical landscape after another, curious to look upon but not all that enchanting. Or scary, for that matter — Joy Division, with their suicidal vibe, were scary; Kraftwerk's ʽRobotsʼ, so vivid and complete in their technofascistic imagery, were scary; these guys, however, did not have a complete vision, they were just actively searching for one.
Nevertheless, Mix-Up is not nearly as boring as this review would seem to picture it. Due to the band's relentless experimentation, there is a wide variety of tempos; the same groove never repeats itself twice; Kirk likes to drift from one guitar tone to another, and sometimes makes fairly amusing guitar noises (on ʽCapsulesʼ, for instance, his guitar tries to croak its way through the same frequencies as Mallinder's vocal «melody»); and even during the worst moments you can still toe-tap to the rhythms (only ʽPhotophobiaʼ loses it for a while). Repeated listens will bring out many subtle nuances as well. The biggest problem, in fact, is that the record really is much less experimental and innovative than it seems to proclaim itself — even in 1979, the only way people in Sheffield could be really stunned would be if they never previously heard Can's Tago Mago or anything by Faust. Which, I'm guessing, admittedly comprises the majority of the population of Sheffield — but then again, Cabaret Voltaire never really played for majorities, did they?