Cat Stevens - Tea For The Tillerman

Released - November 1970

Genre - Folk

Producer - Paul Samwell-Smith

Selected Personnel - Cat Stevens (Vocals/Guitar/Keyboards); Alun Davies (Guitar); John Ryan (Bass); Harvey Burns (Drums); Del Newman (String Arrangements)

Standout Track - Father & Son

Cat Stevens's decision in 1969 to negotiate his way out of his contract with former label Deram had been a big gamble - with them he had achieved notable success as a pop act, but was feeling increasingly frustrated with his lack of freedom to flex his creative muscles. At the time, the notion of the singer-songwriter was still a fairly new one, and there wasn't necessarily any real precedent for his belief that he would be more successful going for a simpler, more folk-oriented sound rather than simple pop. But 1970's Mona Bone Jakon had seen that gamble pay off - "Lady D'Arbanville" had been a successful single (rather bizarrely, given that it's by far one of the worst songs on the album), and the album as a whole saw Stevens receive critical appreciation as an artist for the first time. So it was that for his next album he decided to continue down the same folk-rock, singer-songwriter vein.

The song that catapulted Tea For The Tillerman into global success was "Wild World," another song to deal with his breakup from longterm girlfriend Patti D'Arbanville, and one of the album's most memorable and catchy tunes, despite its lyrics of uncertainty and self-doubt as relationships fall apart and people are left facing the vagueness of an open future. Overall, this album is all about looking ahead at the future, from the trembling sense of unease in "Wild World" to the rebellious recklessness of the young protagonist in "Father & Son," or the jubilant celebration of a journey towards fulfilment in "Miles From Nowhere" or "On The Road To Find Out," following on from the first suggestion of Stevens's yearning for spirituality first glimpsed in "Fill My Eyes" earlier the same year. But despite his youth and being only at the start of a promising career, Stevens is very different from the headstrong young man sketched in "Father & Son," and knows better than to make an album that does nothing but celebrate or explore the beginning of a journey. In "Father & Son" alone, the balanced, more experienced voice of the boy's father (distinguished by Stevens by the brilliantly simple device of singing the father's part in a baritone voice and the son in tenor) is there to temper the young boy's recklessness, to counsel him to take time and take more pleasure in the simple aspects of life. Similarly, songs like the beautiful "Where Do The Children Play?" look backwards rather than forwards, reflecting on the enormous changes in society - the onset of war, overcrowding and environmental pollution, simply questioning where the children can play in the new modern world that mankind is building.

There's a wonderful spirit of childhood innocence that abounds throughout Tea For The Tillerman, with the notion of children's play being at the very heart of that opening track. The artwork, painted by Stevens himself, is gloriously childlike in its composition, while a number of the songs use effortlessly simple, hummable melodies almost akin to children's song (the "Hey" sections of "Where Do The Children Play?" is particularly sing-along). But it's by no means childish or simple music. Having forged a successful partnership with producer Paul Samwell-Smith on Mona Bone Jakon, Stevens kept the same musical team around him a second time around, particularly second guitarist Alun Davies, who would go on to become his closest collaborator in ensuing years. Davies had initially been brought in as a session musician for one album, but had been such an integral part of crafting that album's sound, and had shown such professionalism and dedication to the project, that Stevens had quickly recruited him again. The guitar styles of the two complement each other perfectly, and there's a real richness to the sound here that serves the pair of them well, tastefully augmented by John Ryan's subtle bass lines and Del Newman's simple string arrangements, which steer clear of the overbearing nature that made them so intrusive on Stevens's early work.

Tea For The Tillerman became an enormous global success, and the track listing reads like a Best Of compilation, containing a huge amount of Stevens's best-loved songs. "Father & Son" is effortlessly beautiful, and the final strains of "Tea For The Tillerman" serve as a wonderfully simple final prayer for equality and provision for all people. Its simple innocence and purity of spirit also keeps it all just on the right side of straying into being corny - these songs of childhood innocence and social observation never tip too far into feeling forced or contrived, but merely serve to conjure up one of the most gloriously heart-warming folk albums of all time. It would serve to be a formula that would continue to serve Stevens well for several years before again feeling the need for a change in direction.

Track Listing:

All songs written by Cat Stevens.

1. Where Do The Children Play?

2. Hard Headed Woman

3. Wild World

4. Sad Lisa

5. Miles From Nowhere

6. But I Might Die Tonight

7. Longer Boats

8. Into White

9. On The Road To Find Out

10. Father & Son

11. Tea For The Tillerman

Cat Stevens - Mona Bone Jakon

Released - July 1970

Genre - Folk

Producer - Paul Samwell-Smith

Selected Personnel - Cat Stevens (Vocals/Guitar/Piano/Keyboards/Drums); Alun Davies (Guitar); John Ryan (Bass); Nicky Hopkins (Keyboards); Harvey Burns (Drums/Percussion); Peter Gabriel (Flute); Del Newman (String Arrangements)

Standout Track - Maybe You're Right

My obsessional immersion in the music of Cat Stevens occurred in the summer of 2009 as another personal Odyssey in a similar vein to my rediscovery of Peter Sarstedt later that same year, albeit one that was much easier to resolve given the significantly greater popularity of Stevens vs. Sarstedt. Both searches also stemmed, coincidentally enough, from the same source, but for very different reasons. The same friend who had inadvertently first played Peter Sarstedt and CocoRosie to me in 2007 without my realising I would one day pursue a bloody-minded agenda to track down all their work, had a very tragic loss in the family in May 2009, and a number of her friends, myself included, drove down to Salisbury for the funeral a few weeks later. On the way down, as a means of raising everybody's spirits and keeping things jovial on the journey, The Very Best Of Cat Stevens was blasted out of the speakers and, as "Father & Son" played, I felt I had discovered my next obsession. (As it happens, that journey also ultimately gave me Antony & the Johnsons, but more on them when we get to them). I'd been aware of Cat Stevens before as a name only, but for some reason had always assumed he was a late-70s disco star (possibly getting confused with Shakin' Stevens, I think). What I discovered instead was Britain's greatest folk singer, one of the richest voices in the genre and one of the best songwriting talents too.

While Stevens's initial arrival on the musical scene had granted him success, it took him time to develop the artistic pedigree to be considered a genuinely great singer-songwriter in his own right, an image he begins to cultivate for the first time on Mona Bone Jakon. Prior to this, Stevens had been signed to the Deram label, the same label that represented David Bowie for the first few years of his career, and, like Bowie at that time, had been urged to churn out novelty pop hits, usually fleshed out with a full orchestral backing and generally rather simple, novelty numbers about working in a factory all one's life ("Matthew & Son") or the imaginatively-titled "I Love My Dog." While these songs had garnered him some chart success (at the same time writing songs for other artists that would become big hits, such as "The First Cut Is The Deepest" for P.P. Arnold, though Stevens's own version on his second album New Masters will always be the definitive version for me). But none of these songs really channelled any depth or musical maturity. In 1969, however, Stevens contracted tuberculosis and suffered from a collapsed lung, and was prompted to rethink his career as he convalesced for a whole year. One gets the sense that the sudden realisation of his own mortality perhaps spurred Stevens to write the music he really wanted to write rather than being distracted into writing novelty pop hits to make money.

So the figure that emerges on this album, his first since having to retreat from the music scene in order to recover from his illness, is a very different one. Gone are the over-the-top brass fanfares or overbearing string arrangements (there are still string parts, but unobtrusive and tastefully arranged). Chiefly, this is a man wanting to be taken seriously as an artist in his own right, largely limiting the musical palette to just his own voice, his guitar and his piano, rounded out by a small band of suppot musicians (including, strangely enough, Genesis frontman Peter Gabriel on flute for "Katmandu"). Stevens's voice itself is notably different as well, as it would be after such an ordeal - it's lower, with a greater hint of gravel and rawness in it in places, while at other places being more mellow, rounded and assured than ever before. How much of this is purely down to the biological changes in his voice and how much is due to his own sense of satisfaction at singing what he really wanted to sing can't be said, but he had made the switch from another nondescript pop singer to a rich, mature folk singer.

There are still novelty pop songs here, of course - "Pop Star," a great vehicle for the new nuances in Stevens's voice, is a satirical swipe at the pop music machine, while "I Think I See The Light" is a fairly silly romp built around pounding piano and involving a few silly little trills and whistles from Stevens and his backing band. But what this album really excels at is delivering really beautiful acoustic folk songs unlike anything he'd released on the Deram label. "Maybe You're Right" is a brilliant account of a friendship or relationship reaching its tentative and downbeat end, and "Trouble" is a heartfelt plea for a longer life and for death to keep away, no doubt sprung from the very personal and troubled recesses of Stevens's mind during his battle with tuberculosis. The album closes with a double whammy of really profoundly affecting ballads in "Fill My Eyes" and "Lilywhite," the former feeling like the first of a series of songs charting for Stevens's search for spiritual fulfilment, hinting at an attempt to fill a hole within him and his difficulty in progressing down a road ahead of him, a road which would ultimately lead to his prominent conversion to Islam and his withdrawal from the music industry for several years.

Not everything here is brilliant - "Lady D'Arbanville," a melancholy paean to a former girlfriend, is a fairly tedious thing, while the title track is mercifully short given how close it comes to being actively irritating. But for people who had been following Stevens's career up to this point, this album must have been an immense surprise, announcing his sudden conversion into an artist to really be reckoned with, who would ultimately be able to stand up against a whole host of other great folk singers and emerge triumphant.

Track Listing:

All songs written by Cat Stevens.

1. Lady D'Arbanville

2. Maybe You're Right

3. Pop Star

4. I Think I See The Light

5. Trouble

6. Mona Bone Jakon

7. I Wish, I Wish

8. Katmandu

9. Time

10. Fill My Eyes

11. Lilywhite

Yes - Yes

Released - July 1969

Genre - Progressive Rock

Producer - Paul Clay

Selected Personnel - Jon Anderson (Vocals); Peter Banks (Guitar); Chris Squire (Bass); Tony Kaye (Organ/Piano); Bill Bruford (Drums)

Standout Track - Yesterday And Today

For reasons that I now couldn't begin to put my finger on, I resisted Yes for a very long time. During my three years at uni I used to proclaim myself as a "fan of all prog except Yes and Genesis," though quite why I decided to draw such arbitrary lines is beyond me now. At the time, the only Yes I had listened to was "Owner Of A Lonely Heart" (which, perversely, I absolutely loved, but I defended myself by claiming that "it's totally different to everything else they ever did") and the first three minutes of "Close To The Edge," which I gave up on before it got to the bit where it actually becomes good. So, truthfully, I had no idea what I was talking about, but perhaps I liked the idea of giving out the image of being some kind of discerning prog conoisseur. I think I initially claimed that Yes represented the indulgent, pompous, meandering side of prog that I found tedious, but the truth is, that of all the big early 70s prog bands, Yes were perhaps the band with the keenest ear for a memorable tune, certainly when compared to the nightmare sounds of King Crimson or the improvised fusion jams of Focus, both of which I was hugely enamoured with at the time. After I moved to London, however, a friend of mine who had carefully nurtured my love of prog during my time at uni, went away to India for three months and left me with a copy of The Yes Album (different to this, their self-titled debut) and instructions to get into Yes while he was away. By the time he came back, I was a full convert and wouldn't hesitate to rank them now as one of my favourite bands.

So they're a band with a reputation that precedes them, who are often written off as pompous and indulgent, and certainly their whole host of twenty-minute songs from the peak of their popularity would seem superficially to support that reputation, but no band has been able to pull off pompous self-indulgence quite as tunefully and memorably and with as much incredible musical talent as Yes. Their debut album, however, was a considerable distance from the prog excess they would come to be remembered for. Vocalist Jon Anderson and bassist Chris Squire had initially befriended one another through a mutual love of close harmony singing and the folk music of Simon & Garfunkel, and there is a sense here that this is the result of a band that sprang from folk rock and then sprang in a radical new direction. For the first few months of their existence, Yes played covers of songs by the Beatles and the Byrds (hence the inclusion of the Beatles' "Every Little Thing" and the Byrds' "I See You" here), until they saw King Crimson live in 1969, at which point they suddenly realised what was happening in music around them and realised what they needed to do to keep up with the competition.

So it is that the songs on their debut album are close to being psychedelic folk rock songs, but then, almost as an afterthought, reinvented and radicalised by injecting a lurid, jaw-dropping hard-rock makeover to them. That blistering opening one-note guitar riff to "Beyond And Before" sets the tone, with Chris Squire's thundering bass anchoring the song, while the frenzied psychedelic guitar twangs and keyboard swirls ornamenting the Byrds' fairly straightforward folk song "I See You" serve as further examples of just where this band was headed. It's nowhere near as distinctively progressive as Crimson's debut a few months later, but it has a stronger hold on melody and catchy musicality, even if that means it never delivers something quite as jaw-droppingly phenomenal as "21st Century Schizoid Man." What it does deliver, however, is an enchanting little gem of a song that ranks among the most beautiful songs ever written, entitled "Yesterday And Today." That something so incredibly lovely could have sprung from the minds of Yes is an eternal surprise, and it's the song's admirable restraint that really makes it stand out. Jon Anderson's fragile voice sings plaintively over the soft, milky piano of Tony Kaye and the lightly strummed guitar of Peter Banks. It's a remarkable breath of fresh air that takes you completely unawares before reverting to business as usual with the frenetic keyboard arpeggios and thudding bass of "Looking Around."

The second half of the album contains less memorable material, with the likes of "Harold Land" beginning to feel like a repetition of the same successful formula, but the album is short enough that nothing really outstays its welcome, and it just about manages to remain fresh and exciting right to the last notes of "Survival." As for the band themselves, there's a real sense listening to this that here is a group of people who really know how to play off each other and have total control over their own contributions. Jon Anderson has one of the most memorable voices in prog, able to be both sweetly vulnerable and shrilly declamatory, and Peter Banks is so bold and colourful a guitarist that one almost wishes he'd lasted longer with the band, though at least his replacement was the brilliant Steve Howe. But what really defines this band's sound, and would go on to continue defining it throughout their career given his status as the only constant member, is the earth-shuddering bass of Chris Squire, who is simply among the very best bassists in the history of rock. His assured tone keeps everything here anchored with a surety and a rhythmic groove that would go on to be one of the band's key features.

Yes's debut wasn't the seismic event that King Crimson's debut ended up being, but it garnered enough positive reception and turned enough curious heads that the band felt encouraged to continue down the path they'd set for themselves, which would soon see them crowned one of the foremost bands in this new musical territory. Their immediate next move would see them attempting to augment their sound with a full orchestra, with mixed results, but it did move them that one step closer towards creating their first true masterpiece soon after.

Track Listing:

1. Beyond And Before (Chris Squire & Clive Bailey)

2. I See You (Jim McGuinn & David Crosby)

3. Yesterday And Today (Jon Anderson)

4. Looking Around (Jon Anderson & Chris Squire)

5. Harold Land (Jon Anderson; Bill Bruford & Chris Squire)

6. Every Little Thing (John Lennon & Paul McCartney)

7. Sweetness (Jon Anderson; Clive Bailey & Chris Squire)

8. Survival (Jon Anderson)

The Who - Tommy

Released - May 1969

Genre - Rock

Producer - Kit Lambert

Selected Personnel - Roger Daltrey (Vocals/Harmonica/Percussion); Pete Townshend (Guitar/Keyboards/Vocals); John Entwistle (Bass/French Horn/Trumpet/Keyboards); Keith Moon (Drums/Percussion)

Standout Track - Pinball Wizard

It seems odd these days that the concept of the "rock opera" was heralded as so alien and revolutionary and unprecedented as it was in the late 60s. After all, the idea of applying a narrative to music had existed for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years - since mankind first started dabbling in musical performance, they had used it to tell stories, and by 1969 Broadway had become a thriving business making money out of telling a story onstage that was set to music. The idea of applying the same specific narrative approach to popular rock music seems a no-brainer these days, and the rave response to the sheer idea of the Who's Tommy seems from a modern perspective to be a bit of an impenetrable puzzle. Nevertheless, when it was released it immediately became a global sensation, setting the precedent for every rock opera and concept album in the future and cementing the Who as one of the most significant rock bands in the world, joining the Beatles and the Rolling Stones as the "holy trinity" of British rock. Of course, music had been moving in this direction for a while - from the first conceptual whispers around the edges of Pet Sounds to the fictional framing of Sgt. Pepper's..., artists were becoming increasingly interested in the idea that an album was capable of being something more than just a collection of potential singles surrounded by a few items of filler. Pete Townshend, who had quickly become the creative centre of the Who, had expressed frustration prior to the recording of Tommy at the artistic limitations imposed by writing songs to be radio hits, despite the band's success as a singles band up to this point, and had begun dabbling with more conceptual frameworks on their 1967 album The Who Sell Out, presented in the style of a fake pirate radio broadcast. This album represents the next logical step, and it's just a surprise nobody beat them to the idea first.

Tommy and the Who's later rock opera masterpiece, Quadrophenia, are real showcases for Townshend's skill as a symphonic writer. While he'd already written hit songs such as "My Generation" and "I Can See For Miles," here he began to demonstrate his ability at wrestling with huge musical ideas. Songs segue into reprises of earlier themes, melodies are echoed and woven into the pattern of the complete work to recur throughout. Musically, it's probably the most complex and artfully constructed album yet to be presented to the mainstream market at this time. In general, this masterful "album as grand canvas" approach has negative as well as positive effects on the finished product - it means that a number of songs become little more than narrative bridges to get from Plot Point A to Plot Point B, feebly reprising an earlier melody or inventing a new one that barely even registers on our consciousness merely to tell a new bit of the story, and for me this is where Tommy falls down ever so slightly, in its slavish devotion to narrative above musicality. Songs like "Do You Think It's Alright?" or "There's A Doctor" serve no purpose other than to advance the story. Clearly as a live spectacle, in the band's early live performances of the show in full, they would have had their place. But today, as a listening experience, they rob the music of its momentum and cheapen the overall experience. In general, the best concept albums are those that aren't too slavish to the idea of narrative, that perhaps leave gaps in the actual story of what we're listening to, but allow the listener ample room to fill in those gaps imaginatively, and consequently never lose any sense of their own coherence or forward momentum - Ziggy Stardust, for instance, never bothers to actually stop and explain what its characters are actually doing at any given moment, instead opting to sketch the major beats and movements of the idea, and is all the stronger for it.

The story itself in fact acts as a prototype for pretty much every rock opera and concept album to come, which generally always concern themselves with some sort of messianic cult-leader figure coming to hold sway over a huge body of people. It's a story retold in David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and Pink Floyd's The Wall, and even in less well-known fare like Spock's Beard's Snow. Tommy is a young man who, after seeing his father kill another man, develops a psychosomatic blindness, deafness and dumbness and is only able to find any means of expression in his life through playing pinball. Ultimately, after being cured of his symptoms, he becomes hailed as a miracle all over the world, but ultimately retreats back into himself when his followers reject him. Ultimately, as narratives go, it doesn't quite justify the amount of time Townshend and co. invest in it - this is an album which could have a number of its lesser cuts trimmed off without really affecting the story negatively too significantly. The irrelevant subplot of "Sally Simpson" is certainly a supernumerary, failing to compel either musically or narratively. There are other songs, too, which have their place in the story but really haven't been given the musical development they perhaps warranted - the story of "Cousin Kevin" is a fairly tedious affair, while Tommy's ordeal at the hands of his neglectful uncle in "Fiddle About" is just inane.

But, ultimately, where this album fails is a direct result of its own vaulting ambition, which by itself is no good reason to dismiss it. It's true that it goes on too long and there's plenty of stuff thrown in for the sake of it, but it's such a vast and sprawling work that it also finds time to deliver the best music the Who had delivered so far. The first half's "Overture" and "Underture" are setpieces for Townshend's virtuoso guitar playing, as well as bassist John Entwistle's addition of diverse other instrumental parts, from trumpet to French horn, to lend a more orchestral and symphonic quality to the music, and also showcase that brilliantly woven control Townshend has over a wide range of different melodies and musical motifs. "1921" is a surprisingly touching ballad that turns into a menacing threat with Tommy's father's insistence that the boy saw and heard nothing. "Pinball Wizard" is the album's barnstorming standout, the best example of Townshend's crunching power chords yet in the band's discography, and later memorably covered by Elton John for the 1975 film of the album.

The individual band members also really begin to come into their own on this album - I came to the Who's early work after already being familiar with their later stuff such as the brilliant Quadrophenia and their career peak Who's Next. As such, I was surprised to find how weak and undistinguished Roger Daltrey's voice sounded on earlier albums such as My Generation and The Who Sell Out. On Tommy, Daltrey begins to really develop his own individual sound, with some of the gravel and sawdust barks and bellows that would lend his voice such incredible power in later years beginning to creep in. His recurring plaintive yelps of "See me, feel me" on songs like "Go To The Mirror!" and "We're Not Gonna Take It" begin to show the emotive strength of his voice when he really connects with something at the heart of the song. I've also always felt with the Who's early work that the incendiary power of their live performances rarely translates well to record - this was a band whose signature gimmick was the destruction of their own instruments and equipment onstage, but it's rare in those early years to find a song of theirs that really conveys that raw power. It's not until 1971's Who's Next that that sheer fire really blasts out from the music, but here there's a sense that the band were trying to channel more of their live essence onto the record. Something like "Sparks" or the band's cover of Sonny Boy Williamson's "Eyesight To The Blind" (retitled "The Hawker" to fit in with Townshend's story) feel like they have an animalistic strength to them that suit the band much better than the more tame R&B of their early work.

Overall, I've perhaps been more critical of this album than I should be, but for my money it never quite succeeds in being the out-and-out classic it could be. The performances are largely still a little on the safe side, and the album includes a whole host of filler material that doesn't manage to engage the listener. But it's also the most musically complex and ambitious thing that had entered the world of pop music at the time, and it deserves being included on the list merely for that ambition and that achievement. Not only that, it does succeed in some genuinely exciting musical moments, and gives the band enough sense of creative freedom that they would be ready to go on and really achieve their full potential on their next record.

Track Listing:

All songs written by Pete Townshend except where noted.

1. Overture

2. It's A Boy!

3. 1921

4. Amazing Journey

5. Sparks

6. The Hawker (Sonny Boy Williamson II)

7. Christmas

8. Cousin Kevin (John Entwistle)

9. The Acid Queen

10. Underture

11. Do You Think It's Alright?

12. Fiddle About (John Entwistle)

13. Pinball Wizard

14. There's A Doctor

15. Go To The Mirror!

16. Tommy Can You Hear Me?

17. Smash The Mirror

18. Sensation

19. Miracle Cure

20. Sally Simpson

21. I'm Free

22. Welcome

23. Tommy's Holiday Camp (Keith Moon)

24. We're Not Gonna Take It

The Velvet Underground - The Velvet Underground

Released - March 1969

Genre - Art Rock

Producer - The Velvet Underground

Selected Personnel - Lou Reed (Vocals/Guitar/Piano); Sterling Morrison (Guitar/Vocals); Maureen Tucker (Drums/Percussion/Vocals); Doug Yule (Bass/Organ/Vocals)

Standout Track - Candy Says

The Velvet Underground's self-titled third album marked their first after the departure of founding member John Cale, and from its radical change of direction it's easy to perhaps assume that Cale was the driving force behind the noisy, discordant, self-consciously lo-fi quality of the band's work, the principal figure crafting their image as arty poseurs. VU frontman Lou Reed claimed otherwise, saying the change of style on The Velvet Underground was a conscious decision to do something different rather than fence themselves into a corner, and ultimately it's probably impossible to know whether this album was more a result of Reed's feelings of artistic stagnation or a direct result of Cale's departure. What's certain is that it's a huge step forward musically and, in many ways, their most consistent album. Their follow-up to the cult success of The Velvet Underground And Nico had been the brutal, punishing, thrashing noise of White Light/White Heat, an album which, try as I might, I just can't bring myself to love, largely due to the fact that the song "Lady Godiva's Operation" has actually induced a migraine twice while I listened to it.

This self-titled album couldn't be more different, with the band consciously going down a softer, more reflective avenue to create some of the most beautiful songs of their career, while the more uptempo rock songs rarely approached the discordant weirdness and challenging nature of the equivalent songs from their debut album, being fairly straightforward in their composition, arrangements and structure, though there's still room for the odd bout of weirdness such as the fuzzy, tortured guitar solo on "What Goes On." Even Reed's more challenging lyrical preoccupations are largely absent, with the underground culture of drugs and sexual deviancy that had been his principal obsession over the last two albums nowhere near as prevalent here, though Warhol Superstar Candy Darling was the inspiration behind the serene "Candy Says."

Whether the apparent abandonment of their earlier defining features alienated fans at the time can't be ascertained these days, as this album has gone on to achieve classic status largely through its ability to distil everything that made this band great without having to resort to self-conscious posing or noise experiments to make their point. Lou Reed's vocals are on top form, his sardonic drawl really bringing the band's slow grooves to life, and his guitar jams with Morrison enliven even the most simple songs, their playful interactions with one another making the one-chord groove of "Some Kinda Love" highly entertaining. "Candy Says" is the most profoundly beautiful the band would ever get, with newcomer Doug Yule singing lead vocals at Reed's insistence. Yule's cleaner, purer vocals render the song with an emotional sincerity that Reed's sneer might perhaps have failed to achieve. It's a truly moving account of somebody who's come to the decision to change their body and their identity in order to feel happier with themselves, and is by far the greatest musical exploration of transsexualism until Antony Hegarty arrived in the late 90s.

"Beginning To See The Light" is an enormously fun upbeat rocker in the vein of "I'm Waiting For The Man" from The Velvet Underground And Nico, and is the album's heady, delirious peak, the entire band storming through it with an infectious delight difficult to find elsewhere in their discography, and the closer "After Hours" is a brilliant childlike refrain sung in the simple, unaffected tones of drummer Maureen Tucker, who, if this is anything to go by, really should have been allowed to sing more often, so profoundly endearing is her voice. It's also worth mentioning "The Murder Mystery," which is this album's only concession to the weirdness of their earlier work, being a lengthy, tuneless, almost stream-of-consciousness piece of surreal reportage. It's significantly less aggressive than any of the weirdness on display on White Light/White Heat, but its arch surrealism feels out-of-place on this more straightforward art rock album, and it jars somewhat as the album reaches its close.

After The Velvet Underground, the band struggled to ever again achieve the artistic credibility and simply great musical heights they'd reached over the last few years. They would soon be signed by Atlantic and ordered to make an album that would achieve radio airplay by being full of pop hits, after which point Reed left the band in Doug Yule's hands and they quietly faded into obscurity. Lou Reed would go on to achieve acclaim in his own right as a solo artist, but already he'd given a huge amount to the world of music, standing as he did at the forefront of music's artistic underbelly, already having given enormous inspiration to David Bowie, the man who would go on to define the sound of the early 70s, and to shepherd Reed's solo career to global success.

Track Listing:

All songs written by Lou Reed.

1. Candy Says

2. What Goes On

3. Some Kinda Love

4. Pale Blue Eyes

5. Jesus

6. Beginning To See The Light

7. I'm Set Free

8. That's The Story Of My Life

9. The Murder Mystery

10. After Hours

Pink Floyd - More

Released - June 1969

Genre - Psychedelic Rock

Producer - Pink Floyd

Selected Personnel - Roger Waters (Bass/Guitar/Percussion); David Gilmour (Guitar/Vocals/Percussion); Richard Wright (Keyboards/Percussion); Nick Mason (Drums/Percussion)

Standout Track - Green Is The Colour

The lengthy and hugely influential history of prog rock legends Pink Floyd has instigated a number of raging debates among fans that continue to divide them to this day, most along the lines of "Waters vs. Gilmour." But one of the most divisive issues at the heart of the band lies in the enormous shift between what they set out to be and what they became or, put in equally simple terms, "Barrett vs. Gilmour." I don't know anybody who enjoys the early psychedelic noodling of the band under the stewardship of Syd Barrett as much as they enjoy their later, critically acclaimed prog work, or vice versa. I know people who have a vague appreciation for both, but everybody seems to come down on one side or the other, either claiming that when guitarist and lead vocalist David Gilmour replaced Barrett in 1968 it moved the band towards the greatness they were destined to achieve, or that it sullied everything the band stood for in their early days and that they would never be as good again. Personally, I've always been in the former camp. Barrett's early psychedelic weirdness is interesting but rarely particularly memorable or tuneful, and occasionally genuinely quite inane and irritating. The band's hugely influential debut, The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, was a huge influence on the psychedelic scene, but contained little of real value beyond the space rock odysseys of "Astronomy Domine" and "Interstellar Overdrive." Tragically, Barrett's grip on his own sanity became progressively more fragile to the point where the band simply couldn't rely on him onstage and had to draft in Gilmour as a replacement, with bassist Roger Waters taking over the principal songwriting duties. Barrett hung around for one song of their second album, A Saucerful Of Secrets, that song being the bittersweet "Jugband Blues" which, despite its childlike music, expresses Barrett's feelings of isolation and resentment at being forced out of the band due to his deteriorating mind. After that album, Barrett would never be directly involved in Floyd's work again, though his shadow would hang large over a lot of their subsequent work.

So the band's soundtrack to the film More is their first complete work made without Barrett's involvement, and it begins to show them moving forward from the more spaced-out, tuneless nonsense of their earlier work. That said, it's not a sudden seismic leap forward into full-blown prog grandiloquence and still treads fairly similar psychedelic ground to Barrett's earlier forays with the band, though there is a general trend in a new direction. But without Barrett's tentative grip on reality steering things, there's a much greater sense of coherence and consistency here, of a band that can rely on each other and really pull together to create a complete product that's not constantly in danger of veering off into obscurity. The first side of the album contains some of the most straightforward and direct songs the band had recorded yet, though that's not to say that they were simple or in any way predictable - the lazy, dreamlike opening strains of "Cirrus Minor" conjure up some sort of vaguely threatening dreamscape that's echoed in other quiet, woozy songs such as "Crying Song." It's a restrained and acoustic approach the band would rarely attempt again after this point, but succeeds in channelling their talents into creating a much more relaxed and mellow atmosphere than they would come to be known for. The highlight of these quieter, more folk-inflected songs is the lovely "Green Is The Colour," a charming little song enlivened by the trilling of a tin whistle over the pleasant whimsy of its simple tune.

But the album is far from a collection of acoustic, psychedelia-inflected ballads, and still finds room to showcase Floyd's heavier side as well as their now-familiar avant-garde experimentalism. "The Nile Song" is one of the most directly heavy powerhouses the band would record, with Gilmour really acquitting himself as a truly great guitarist to be reckoned with for the first time, his bellowing vocals driving the song over the distorted attack of his guitar. In fact, this album more than any other in the band's discography up until the departure of Roger Waters in the 80s, really does feel like Gilmour's playground. While most of the songs were written by Waters, Gilmour sings all the lead vocal parts himself, and most of the songs are really driven by his lead guitar parts. Keyboardist Richard Wright gets very little occasion to really show off except for the more experimental instrumental tracks, while a number of the best songs are those acoustic tracks which more or less don't involve drummer Nick Mason at all.

As for those instrumentals, sadly they're the chief reason that this album doesn't hold a stronger position in my affections, as for a while it looks set to be a really great collection of alternately heavy rock and reflective psychedelia which should be hugely enjoyable. The rot starts to set in with "Up The Khyber," the first of several discordant and directionless instrumental jams that serve only to create a few minutes of noise rather than to actually entertain. To be fair, perhaps judging this album because of that is fairly harsh considering that it was written and recorded as the soundtrack to a film by Barbet Schroeder - I've not seen the film, and presumably these directionless instrumental passages work well in context, but listened to as an album they just serve as annoying distractions in between the better songs, and it can't help but slightly sour your appreciation of the album. Some are far better than others - "Main Theme" is a brilliant song, with Gilmour's guitar snaking and twisting around Mason's dramatic cymbal rolls and Wright's simple repeating keyboard riff, but it's in the minority in terms of genuinely good instrumentals here.

But there's no doubt in listening to it that a very new, and very impressive, kind of band was on its way - while they were still indulging their experimental streak and struggling to always refine it into something genuinely compelling, they also delivered some of the best, most memorable and striking songs they'd yet recorded, and were clearly paying attention to the innovations of the prog scene around them to move their music into more rewarding territory. They would soon follow More up with their next full studio offering, which still ranks as one of the most tediously self-indulgent albums ever recorded. It wasn't until the following year that they would resurface with something genuinely fresh and exciting and accomplished, but it would be worth the wait.

Track Listing:

1. Cirrus Minor (Roger Waters)

2. The Nile Song (Roger Waters)

3. Crying Song (Roger Waters)

4. Up The Khyber (Nick Mason & Richard Wright)

5. Green Is The Colour (Roger Waters)

6. Cymbaline (Roger Waters)

7. Party Sequence (Roger Waters; David Gilmour; Richard Wright & Nick Mason)

8. Main Theme (Roger Waters; David Gilmour; Richard Wright & Nick Mason)

9. Ibiza Bar (Roger Waters; David Gilmour; Richard Wright & Nick Mason)

10. More Blues (Roger Waters; David Gilmour; Richard Wright & Nick Mason)

11. Quicksilver (Roger Waters; David Gilmour; Richard Wright & Nick Mason)

12. A Spanish Piece (David Gilmour)

13. Dramatic Theme (Roger Waters; David Gilmour; Richard Wright & Nick Mason)

Peter Sarstedt - As Though It Were A Movie

Released - 1969

Genre - Folk

Producer - Unknown

Selected Personnel - Peter Sarstedt (Vocals/Guitar)

Standout Track - As Though It Were A Movie

As I said, I went to a lot of trouble trying to track down Peter Sarstedt's back catalogue. His self-titled debut is difficult enough to get hold of, even with the presence of his only successful song, "Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?", but his sophomore effort As Though It Were A Movie has more or less vanished without trace. Of course, these days a fair amount of his stuff can be tracked down online, but even then it takes time and diligence. Sarstedt's second album holds a similar place of fondness in my affections due to the particular circumstances that surrounded my discovery of it, and the memories it evokes, but it's also actually a step forward in terms of Sarstedt's songwriting and level of accomplishment as an artist.

Sadly, he still struggles to include anything anywhere near as brilliant as "Where Do You Go To...", although the grandiose pomp of the title track comes close. Elsewhere, it struggles to achieve anything as memorable, but overall it's a work of far greater consistency and maturity. The tone in general is fairly similar - being released later the same year as the self-titled album, there had hardly been enough time for there to be a huge leap forward in Sarstedt's musical style. These are more simple folk-inflected pop songs, most set to orchestral flourishes and accompaniments to flesh out and diversify the sound. But there's a sense that the Sarstedt we glimpse on this record is more serious, more reflective and thoughtful and less childlike and naive than the man behind the earlier album. That's not to say that the silly, frivolous fun of that album has entirely been left behind - "Take Off Your Clothes" is a joyous novelty number with Sarstedt having a ball delivering the cheeky, giggling vocal part, and "The Sunshine Is Expensive" mines a similar humourous vein to the earlier "My Daddy Is A Millionaire." But most of the other songs seem to deal with more serious themes, and strike a more pensive tone - "Step Into The Candlelight" is about a woman who struggles to come to terms with her own ageing, "Letter To A Friend" deals with the breakdown of the relationship between two friends, and the masterful title track is essentially a study in loneliness, the story of a man who fails to connect with the world around him in any meaningful or sincere way.

This album seems more ambitious in terms of its arrangements, as well - the title track's bombastic orchestral backing is appropriately cinematic, while "The Friendship Song (Hey Nena)" incorporates Latin rhythms and an extended percussive outro, as well as a prominent steel drum part. There's also the sense that Sarstedt has been paying attention to the more artistic and conceptual approaches to folk music being implemented by other artists at the time, as this album is given a vague conceptual slant by framing it as some sort of theatrical performance, including two overtures, an "Intermission," and a brief closing outro suggesting an audience leaving a theatre. The songs themselves are a million miles away from actually gelling seamlessly with this concept, but there's definitely a sense that Sarstedt was trying to inject more unusual ideas into his music than on the more straightforward pop of his first album.

Sadly, my search for Sarstedt's old work never succeeded in being totally exhaustive and, though I found a couple of other records of his, it was the charming innocence and simplicity of these two early albums that really caught my attention, and he never again really managed to captivate me after this. Still, these are two hugely enjoyable and endearing albums and, while they might not be masterpieces, they will always hold an important place in my heart, and both of them feature enough truly great songs that they're well worth a listen.

Track Listing:

All songs written by Peter Sarstedt.

1. Overture I

2. As Though It Were A Movie

3. Open A Tin

4. Step Into The Candlelight

5. Take Off Your Clothes

6. Letter To A Friend/Intermission

7. Overture II

8. Boulevard

9. The Sunshine Is Expensive

10. The Artist

11. The Friendship Song (Hey, Nena)

12. Juan

13. I'm A Good Boy

14. National Anthem/Doors Close At 10:45 PM

Peter Sarstedt - Peter Sarstedt

Released - 1969

Genre - Folk

Producer - Unknown

Selected Personnel - Peter Sarstedt (Vocals/Guitar)

Standout Track - Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?

In late 2007, during my first year at uni, I was sat in the student halls bedroom of a good friend of mine who, over the following years, would go on to be one of my major emotional guides and spirit levels. As such, every book, song or film recommendation she gave me was one I always took very seriously. We sat there, shuffling our way through her iTunes library, and two particular songs came on that lodged themselves in my head and that I forgot to get the names of. Over the next two years or so, I repeatedly forgot to ask her about the songs until eventually they slipped from my memory altogether, only for me to rediscover them both purely by accident within a few weeks of each other in 2009, at which point they leaped fully-formed back into my memory along with every emotion they first stirred in me, and I dedicated a good deal of time into tracking down as much of the artists' work as possible. The first song was "Good Friday" by CocoRosie, which we won't be able to get to until much later. But the second was "Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?" by Peter Sarstedt. Such was the profound effect that song had on me when I first heard it, and such was my joy at rediscovering it two years later, that I made it an ongoing project over the next few months to try and find out as much as I could about the singer which, for a figure as peripheral and minor as Sarstedt, is no easy feat.

The Indian-born Sarstedt was the brother of the minor early 60s pop sensation Eden Kane (real name Richard Sarstedt), and had begun his interest in music by playing guitar in Kane's backing band. By the late 60s, Sarstedt had begun to develop an ambition to be a singer-songwriter in his own right, though his songs exhibited a much more folk-influenced style than the more overt pop of his brother, though simple pop songs still abound here. The style, overall, is something akin to Cat Stevens's earliest albums, with the focus on folk-tinged simple, almost childlike pop song arrangements ornamenting acoustic guitar with brass flares and flute trills. But, "The First Cut Is The Deepest" aside, Stevens's first two albums lacked anything as wonderful as this album's big hit.

We may as well start with "Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?", seeing as it's the only reason anybody (myself included) has ever heard this album. A fairly significant hit in its own time (it won the Ivor Novello Award in 1969 along with David Bowie's "Space Oddity"), it had a resurgence of popularity in recent years due to its use in the soundtrack to Wes Anderson's The Darjeeling Limited, which also saw a resurgence of interest in the music of Sarstedt in general. It manages to be both a heartbreakingly emotional ballad and at the same time, one of the most charmingly silly and innocent songs of all time, with Sarstedt's airy and non-committal vocal performance, plus his almost ad-libbed injections of laughter and the occasional spoken "Yes you do" to reinforce every other point he makes, renders it gloriously light-hearted and silly, but beyond the charming, child-like surface of the song is a masterfully painted love story. Set to a European waltz-style tune, it tells the story of a girl who has become a superficial member of the European jet-set and has forgotten both her poverty-stricken childhood and the boy who grew up with her, loved her and never succeeded in throwing off his "lowly-born tags" as she did. The final reveal of the song's true meaning is a hugely bittersweet sting in the tail, and makes for a song that's every bit as emotionally profound as it is endearingly sweet.

It's fair to say that this album never matches up to its masterful example and nor indeed does any of Sarstedt's other recorded output. But too often is this album written off as a waste of time due to this imbalance, which does a terrible disservice to a lot of other great material. Sarstedt's songs here do include some fairly innocuous and saccharine pop songs, with the inane banality of "No More Lollipops," with its ludicrous sped-up ending, being a particular nadir. But in general he shows himself here to have a keen talent for sweet, simple songs, from the endearing declaration of love that is "You Are My Life" to the more reflective and philosophical "Time, Love, Hope, Life." There are also good things to be found among the album's more upbeat pop songs, such as the happy sunburst of "Stay Within Myself" or the novelty silliness of "Many-Coloured, Semi-Precious Plastic Easter Eggs."

Sarstedt himself isn't a great singer, but these songs don't require a great singer, they just require someone with a great deal of sincerity. His breathy vocals have an innocent, wide-eyed wonder about them that suits these charming songs perfectly, and though what you're listening to is rarely incendiary or breathtaking, it's never anything less than a pleasure to spend time with Sarstedt in the world he's carefully sculpted, with its cheery brass fanfares along his nimble guitar-playing. Furthermore, this album signifies two terribly important things to me - firstly, the enormous rewards that can come from single-mindedly dedicating oneself to the pursuit of a particular artist, no matter how much trawling through charity shops that might necessitate. Going out of your way to learn more about an artist who nothing is known about makes the final product feel infinitely more precious and personal and intimate than it ever could if the search had been easy. Secondly, this album always makes me think of that friend of mine who first inadvertently introduced it to me, and subsequently had to put up with all my tireless updates on things I'd learned about Sarstedt despite the fact that she only ever really liked that one song. This album is as important to me as that friendship is, and for that reason alone it's an essential addition to this list.

Track Listing:

All songs written by Peter Sarstedt.

1. I Am A Cathedral

2. Sons Of Cain Are Abel

3. No More Lollipops

4. Stay Within Myself

5. You Are My Life

6. Sayonara

7. Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?

8. Blagged!

9. My Daddy Is A Millionaire

10. Once Upon An Everyday

11. Time Was Leading Us Home

12. Many-Coloured, Semi-Precious Plastic Easter Eggs

13. Time, Love, Hope, Life

The Pentangle - Basket Of Light

Released - October 1969

Genre - Psychedelic Folk

Producer - Shel Talmy

Selected Personnel - Bert Jansch (Guitar/Vocals/Banjo); Jacqui McShee (Vocals); John Renbourn (Vocals/Guitar/Sitar); Danny Thompson (Double Bass); Terry Cox (Drums/Percussion)

Standout Track - Light Flight

On America's West Coast, the likes of Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills and Nash were busy turning folk music into a particular entity, largely indebted to country music. But back in Britain, it's important to remember that several figures were keeping the spirit of traditional English folk music alive, none more so than the Pentangle, who not only managed to keep that spirit alive but even managed to make it sound new and full of vitality. I've come to this album very recently, and so it hasn't yet had much time to really get under my skin and take on a huge degree of significance for me, but it serves as a masterful example of the late 60s English folk scene and has a sunny pastoral quality to it that makes it an absolute delight to listen to at this time of year.

The Pentangle had first materialised in 1967 out of the partnership between guitarists Bert Jansch and John Renbourn who had collaborated on an album together that year. With the addition of lead vocalist Jacqui McShee, double bassist Danny Thompson and drummer Terry Cox, they became the Pentangle and set about indulging their love of traditional folk music while also incorporating the band members' interests in jazz, blues and early music. For me, listening to the Pentangle is an unusual experience as it's very rare that my affection for folk music leads me into listening to a full band. Most of the folk music I listen to tends to be solo singer-songwriter fare, from Mitchell to Cat Stevens, with the principal focus on the lyrics and the vocals. It's less common for me to end up listening to folk music where the full band sound and the intricacy of the music is as central a feature as the voice and lyrics, as in most rock music (no, I've never listened to Fairport Convention. I'll make time to give them a try some day), but Basket Of Light ably proves that the full band approach to folk music is just as successful.

Thompson's double bass keeps things finely anchored, while Terry Cox's use of glockenspiels and smaller handheld drums in addition to a conventional drumkit keeps the percussive side of these songs rich and unpredictable, but the main focus is on the interplay between Jansch and Renbourn, whose ability to play off one another has clearly been honed by their previous work together. The baroque style of their interactions keeps things firmly grounded in a pastoral, Medieval vein, with McShee's vocals suitably light and airy. "Light Flight" was the surprise hit after being used as the theme music for a BBC documentary, and is one of the catchiest and most memorable songs here, although its use of complex and constantly shifting time signatures betrayed the band's more eclectic influences and showed them to be much more than a collection of folk musicians rewriting traditional tunes. "Train Song" is another highlight, with McShee's scatting vocals tripping playfully over Jansch and Renbourn's twin guitar parts, and closer "House Carpenter" makes good use of Renbourn's sitar to keep the musical palette diverse and engaging. "Sally Go Round The Roses" is a reinterpretation of an early 60s pop song, and it's impossible to imagine it in any other format, it sounds so at home in these baroque folk stylings.

After the unprecedented success of "Light Flight" and, with it, Basket Of Light as a whole, the Pentangle followed it up with more of the same and quickly lost their brief acceptance from the mainstream audience before fading into obscurity. I've yet to really decide whether I enjoy Basket Of Light enough to delve into their back catalogue and find out more about them, and it's yet to really find a true place in my affections beyond my superficial enjoyment of pretty much every song here, but it's a terrific carefree listen, and serves as a key reminder of what was going on in the folk scene away from the West Coast. It needs a few more listens and perhaps it'll become a true favourite.

Track Listing:

1. Light Flight (Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

2. Once I Had A Sweetheart (Traditional, Arranged by Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

3. Springtime Promises (Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

4. Lyke Wake Dirge (Traditional, Arranged by Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

5. Train Song (Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

6. Hunting Song (Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

7. Sally Go Round The Roses (Lona Stephens & Zell Sanders)

8. The Cuckoo (Traditional, Arranged by Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

9. House Carpenter (Traditional, Arranged by Bert Jansch; John Renbourn; Danny Thompson; Terry Cox & Jacqui McShee)

King Crimson - In The Court Of The Crimson King

Released - October 1969

Genre - Progressive Rock

Producer - King Crimson

Selected Personnel - Robert Fripp (Guitar); Ian McDonald (Keyboards/Mellotron/Flute/Saxophone); Greg Lake (Bass/Vocals); Michael Giles (Drums/Percussion); Peter Sinfield (Lyrics)

Standout Track - 21st Century Schizoid Man

And so we come to prog, which has been a lingering presence in a number of my posts so far but has yet to take centre-stage. It's appropriate that In The Court Of The Crimson King should be the first true prog album I focus on, given that it was possibly the first time I truly understood what prog actually was, and certainly was incendiary and exciting enough to fan the flames of my obsession with the genre. I should perhaps clarify a bit about what prog is/was for those who are unaware before I go too much further. After the development of psychedelic rock in the wake of albums such as the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band or Pink Floyd's messy space rock debut The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, the tendency seemed to be for music to become increasingly complex and pioneering in its structures and influences, and to increasingly be moving away from the simple R&B and blues-based formulas of the 1950s and early 60s. In Britain, as the 60s drew to a close, a cabal of bands began to turn elsewhere for influences, utilising more complicated jazz or classical influences to inform the composition of rock music. They were no longer concerned with the idea of writing a three-minute pop single, but instead, they attempted to craft lengthy suites that defied categorisation or radio play. The focus shifted away from simple catchy melodies to virtuoso solos or complex layers of musical texture. In general, it's remembered highly unfavourably, particularly by people who saw punk and post-punk as the coming of some kind of musical epiphany. It's dismissed as pompous and self-involved, and of course that's entirely true, but its ambition and its scope and its incredible diversity maintains it as one of the most enduringly rewarding genres in musical history, as far as I'm concerned. The revolutionary recording experiments by the likes of Brian Wilson or Lennon and McCartney sound tame and unsurprising today given how quickly they were absorbed by popular culture, but the innovationso of prog, considering how briefly they were genuinely popular and how quickly they were dismissed by the mainstream audience, still sound strange and exciting and shocking today, and I think one of the greatest virtues of music is its ability to take the listener by surprise.

In 1969, when prog was still incubating and on the point of receiving widespread attention and, for a short while at least, acclaim, King Crimson were one of the bands that really shook things up and astounded people. Several members of notable prog bands of the era, such as genre giants Yes, have recalled seeing Crimson for the first time at the free Rolling Stones concert in Hyde Park in April and being astounded by just how shocking and daring their music was. One listen to the psychotic opener "21st Century Schizoid Man" (since updated by being sampled on Kanye West's "Power" in 2010) and you can understand where they were coming from - no music had sounded so unhinged, so complicated and so bizarre before. From Greg Lake's heavily distorted screams to Crimson mainstay Robert Fripp's tortured and discordant guitar solo, this is a true nightmare of a song, and one of the greatest prog anthems ever. Its hellish soundscapes are mirrored perfectly in the iconic cover art, one of the great classics of the prog era and the perfect summation of the frighteningly weird music contained within. But Crimson's manifesto was not just to create nightmarish music but generally just to try and strive for artistic credibility in rock music on the same level as was applied to jazz and classical music at the time. So it is that we also have the ethereal beauty of "I Talk To The Wind," chiefly defined by Ian McDonald's playful flute lines, and the slow, imperious majesty of "Epitaph," which acts as the the first true great showcase of the Mellotron. Crimson were the band to really push the instrument into the public consciousness, demonstrating its ability to create layers of ghostly sound without the need to resort to a full orchestra or a band of session musicians. It lends a richness and a grandeur to the sound of the band here that had never really been achieved before by a four-piece band with no other musicians.

The big misstep is "Moonchild," which starts out as a rather pretty little ballad but soon devolves into ten minutes of the self-indulgent noodling which ultimately gave prog a bad name. Taking their cue from the improvisatory compositions of the likes of Miles Davis, Crimson, along with so many other prog bands, felt the need to spend a lengthy amount of time ambling between chords and ideas with no melody or rhythm to see if anything good emerges. It doesn't, and it's a song I skip on more or less every listen. Thankfully, things are pulled back by the bombastic ridiculousness of "The Court Of The Crimson King," again powered by the Mellotron and by several showcases for individual solos or instrumental passages. The album as a whole serves as one of the most succinct and to-the-letter examples of the spirit of progressive rock, by turns beguiling, hard-rocking, beautiful and ridiculous, and even occasionally irritating, much like all the best stuff the genre had to offer.

It's a shame, given the incredible template the band set out with this debut, that no stable version of the group ever managed to sustain itself. Ultimately, guitarist Robert Fripp has remained the only mainstay as he guided the band through countless lineup changes and shifts of gear over the last forty years, and even by the time of their second album, the inferior In The Wake Of Poseidon, things would be very different. Here, though, it's not Fripp who dominates but McDonald, who acts as chief songwriter and who also dominates the instrumentation with his keyboard and woodwind parts. After his departure later the same year, it would take the band a little while to regain their impetus to make up for the gap he left behind him, but when they did they would continue to churn out top-quality material from time to time, although covering a hugely eclectic range of styles and influences. As for McDonald himself, he went on, bizarrely enough, to be one of the principal founding figures behind the late-70s soft rock arena giants Foreigner, a move that seems totally at odds with the iconoclastic, hugely inventive mind glimpsed on this classic album, while bassist and lead vocalist Greg Lake was soon to defect to the first great prog supergroup as part of the overblown self-indulgence that was Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

Track Listing:

1. 21st Century Schizoid Man (Robert Fripp; Ian McDonald; Greg Lake; Michael Giles & Peter Sinfield)

2. I Talk To The Wind (Ian McDonald & Peter Sinfield)

3. Epitaph (Robert Fripp; Ian McDonald; Greg Lake; Michael Giles & Peter Sinfield)

4. Moonchild (Robert Fripp; Ian Mcdonald; Greg Lake; Michael Giles & Peter Sinfield)

5. The Court Of The Crimson King (Ian McDonald & Peter Sinfield)