Aphrodite's Child: 666

666 (1972)

1) The System; 2) Babylon; 3) Loud, Loud, Loud; 4) The Four Horsemen; 5) The Lamb; 6) The Seventh Seal; 7) Aegean Sea; 8) Seven Bowls; 9) The Wakening Beast; 10) Lament; 11) The Marching Beast; 12) The Battle Of The Locusts; 13) Do It; 14) Tribulation; 15) The Beast; 16) Ofis; 17) Seven Trumpets; 18) Altamont; 19) The Wedding Of The Lamb; 20) The Capture Of The Beast; 21) ∞; 22) Hic And Nunc; 23) All The Seats Were Occupied; 24) Break.

Of all the albums recorded by Aphrodite's Child before it grew up and underwent ternary fission, 666 is clearly the most dated — but also the most tempting, because only a disillusioned Sa­tanist, way past his prime, would nonchalantly bypass a record that has the number of the Beast staring at the world so defiantly from its album sleeve. Of course, skepticism is not merely allowed, it is very welcome: «What can these guys tell us about the Apocalypse? Sure they're Greeks and all, but it's not as if they wrote The Book of Revelation!» But take away the superficial trappings, the way too overtly insistent references to the text of the New Testament, and the result is an ambiti­ous, extremely curious project that succeeds at least as often as it fails. Considering that what we have here is a double album, that makes up for at least fourty minutes of good music.

Conceptualism was the way to go in 1970, when Vangelis decided that the band had to grow up of its «three minute art-pop song» phase and join the army of progressive musical thinkers. I am not quite sure of how Demis Roussos, with his crooner aspirations, reacted to the idea, but, at the very least, he honestly participated in the project, doing his bass duties and singing where requi­red (many of the individual tracks are completely instrumental). In addition, work on the album saw the return of Silver Koulouris, fresh from the army and ready to do guitar battles now.

The flow of 666 is fairly straightforward: it takes relatively few liberties with The Revelation, for the most part just offering vivid musical images that accompany its happy tales of seven seals, lambs, beasts, trumpets, horsemen, and whores of Babylon. (One curious exception is a track na­med ʽAltamontʼ — apparently, Vangelis took the «apocalyptization» of the 1969 Altamont trage­dy by the rock press seriously, interpreting ʽAltamontʼ as a modern projection of the «mountain» in The Book: "This is the sight we had one day on The High Mountain"... etc.). Whether it works or does not work as a soundtrack to the book probably depends on everyone's pre-set ideas of how such a soundtrack should sound in the first place. Creepy? Scary? Overwhelming? Distur­bing? Loud/bombastic or quiet/subtle? Could we trust Miles Davis with playing the seventh trum­pet, etc., etc.? Another possibility is to simply forget about the Biblical connection and form your own idea of what the heck it is all supposed to mean.

Regardless of the choice, most people will probably agree that 666 is quite heavily «padded». Ap­parently, Vangelis insisted on a double album, because nothing less than a double album would have been appropriate for the subject. (Besides, double albums were all the rage by 1970). How­ever, he did not have enough original musical ideas to fill up four sides — hence, comes the spra­wling, 20-minute-long suite ʽAll The Seats Were Occupiedʼ, featuring a bit of loose jamming and then working as an «underture», rehashing and revolving all of the themes, sometimes more than once. Already upon the second listen, it becomes eminently skippable, except for the last minute of wild avant-jazz noise that follows the haughty enunciation of the title.

Another highly controversial bit, then and now, has been ʽ∞ʼ (ʽInfinityʼ). The basic premise is crudely funny — a sexual pun on the line "I am to come", which we are supposed to interpret in both of its meanings at the same time. The realization of the pun is a five-minute piece of percus­sion havoc, against whose background the guest-starring Greek actress Irene Papas is donated the line "I was, I am to come!" and instructed to pronounce it in a million different ways, as long as each of the ways is reminiscent of an orgasmic experience. That Vangelis actually won the long, hard battle against studio executives, who tried to keep this porno-scented stuff off the album, is a pleasant page in the history of the war for artistic and personal freedom. It would have been far nicer, though, if, upon finally gaining the studio executives' consent, he had immediately deleted the tapes. That way, freedom of art would be vindicated, and so would our ears, because having to listen to this crap for five minutes in a row is simply ridiculous. One would have been more than enough (it is rumored that the full take lasted for thirty-nine minutes).

That said, once all the padding and questionable sonic experimentation have been removed as dated filler, the musical parts of 666 are just as strong as anything Aphrodite's Child had ever done, and in some ways, stronger. Genre diversity, in particular, continues to be held in high esteem. We have bombastic «arena-folk» (ʽBabylonʼ), moody art-pop dreamscapes crossed with hard-rocking guitar frenzy (ʽFour Horsemenʼ), dark Floydian panoramas (ʽAegean Seaʼ), jazz-fu­sion-style jamming (ʽDo Itʼ), honky piano-led blues-rock (ʽThe Beastʼ), and, of course, plenty of Eastern motives, sometimes with sitars (ʽThe Seventh Sealʼ), but more often with a closer-to-home Greek underbelly, I think (ʽThe Lambʼ, ʽThe Wedding Of The Lambʼ). And, for the most part, it all works. The hooks and moods are there.

ʽThe Four Horsemenʼ were loosed on the poor horrified little world as the lead single, and, al­though the piece itself hardly had any hit potential on its own, the decision is understandable — the track is a clear standout, with the catchiest, most sing-along style chorus on the album ("The leading horse is white..."), and then, several minutes into the song, followed with a brilliantly constructed wah-wah solo from Koulouris, which has not just the finest guitar playing on the al­bum, but simply happens to be one of the greatest guitar solos ever played — and I am not joking: no one would ever suspect Koulouris of being an unsurpassed technical virtuoso, but somehow he managed to properly pick up all the «epic» chords and come out with a flying monster that could easily stand its ground next to Dave Gilmour in terms of emotional impact.

Other personal favorites include ʽAegean Seaʼ, which not only has some more of that fantastic guitar work, but also introduces electronic textures that predict solo Vangelis, to a large extent; ʽThe Lambʼ, with its odd mix of baritone guitars, winds, and electronics — a fast-paced Greek dance beset with mystical vibes; and the final piano-led number ʽBreakʼ, the closest thing we have here to a «normal» Demis Roussos ballad, which is probably why it was the only number from 666 to remain in his solo stage repertoire. (Not that he kept the echo effects on the voice, the organ flourishes, and Kouloris' last wah-wah guitar solo, I believe — all the things that elevate the song above the state of a generic ballad).

Overall, it is clear that 666 never had a chance: not only did the world market care rather little about fearless prog-rockers that did not have permanent residence in the UK, but Vangelis and his temporarily obedient friends also made plenty of false moves, both during the planning of the al­bum and upon completion of the recording. In the end, 666 only came out as late as 1972, by which time Aphrodite's Child were effectively over as a band, and it never received the proper promotion, partly because there was no one left to promote, partly because the promoters must have still felt uneasy about promoting an album with such a title.

But in retrospect, despite all the flaws, 666 deserves proper recognition — let alone the high qua­lity of the melodic content, it is a bit more than simply «derivative second-generation prog». In fact, it is not only «first generation prog», but its synthesis of Western and Mediterranean stuff is, in a way, completely unique for the whole movement: if the guitar solo on ʽFour Horsemenʼ, no matter how overwhelming it is, essentially just follows the Hendrix/Clapton standards of guitar playing, tracks like ʽThe Lambʼ and ʽLamentʼ are in a class of their own — you won't hear any­thing like that from a Robert Fripp or an Ian Anderson, because on this sort of turf, they were at a heavy disadvantage next to Vangelis, a native Greek who had enough time and opportunity to as­similate the Western tradition as well. This is the only time, really, when «Greek progressive rock» came out loud and proud on the international market, and it is fully deserving of everyone's ears — and an impressive final twist to Aphrodite's Child's prematurely deceased career... out of the ruins of which came Vangelis, «The Electronic Guru», and Demis Roussos, «The Singing Kaftan» (feel the difference). Thumbs up — here's hoping for an eventual proper revival.

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Aphrodite's Child: It's Five O'Clock

APHRODITE'S CHILD: IT'S FIVE O'CLOCK (1969)

1) It's Five O'Clock; 2) Wake Up; 3) Take Your Time; 4) Annabella; 5) Let Me Love, Let Me Live; 6) Funky Mary; 7) Good Times So Fine; 8) Marie Jolie; 9) Such A Funny Night.

With End Of The World turning into a modest commercial success, the band wasted little time to follow it up with a sequel rehashing the same formula. The good news is, the formula was so wild and utterly «permissive» in the first place, It's Five O'Clock somehow manages to come out just as strong as, and maybe even more strong, than its predecessor. And even though the band is noticeably straying even farther away from their East European roots, the resulting sound seems more credible and less prone to ridiculing than whatever preceded it.

The title track, another impressive hit single on the continent, is a loyal successor to ʽRain And Tearsʼ and ʽEnd Of The Worldʼ: for this one, Vangelis attaches Roussos' pop vocals to a baroque organ melody, then throws in a bunch of extra keyboards (including an early Moog synth part, I'd guess) to build up tension — another good example of how it is always possible to turn schmaltz into epic, psycho-hip romanticism when you choose your sounds carefully. It does not work quite as well on the record's two other ballads, ʽAnnabellaʼ and ʽMarie Jolieʼ, on both of which Demis' weeping vocals win over the instrumentation, so that both songs really only work well if you are prepared to weep along with the weeper (not an option for me). But even there, Vangelis' creden­tials as a «soundscaper» are growing impressively, with guitars, Mellotrons, nature sound effects, and other tiny bits combining into evocative pictures.

Elsewhere, the band tries its hand at various forms of folk-rock and country-rock: clearly, Vange­lis and friends did not lose sight of the «roots-rock revolution» of 1968-69, and so ʽWake Upʼ and ʽTake Your Timeʼ take their cues from The Lovin' Spoonful and The Mamas & Papas rather than Italian pop or psychedelia. There is no pretense here, and both tunes, want it or not, are insanely catchy: had they been placed on albums by the abovementioned artists, they would have been praised as good-to-great tunes without raising any controversy. (For experiment's sake, you might want to play them to an unsuspecting friend and ask for a clean-slate opinion).

The R'n'B-pop hybrid of ʽGood Times So Fineʼ (whose bridge section almost sounds like a Mon­kees tune, with Roussos' vocals raised in a Micky Dolenz-kind-of nasal whine) and the friendly, carnivalesque acoustic guitar figures of ʽSuch A Funny Nightʼ are cutesy as well. But the album's most ambitious, risky, and future-predicting cuts are probably ʽLet Me Love, Let Me Liveʼ and ʽFunky Maryʼ: the former embraces noisy psychedelia in its instrumental passages, while the lat­ter is a noisy, jarring psychedelic jam all by itself, with an almost «tribal» set of percussion over­dubs, beneath which Vangelis is running from free-jazz chimes to barroom tack piano and back again. It is wild, weird, unasked for, and fairly challenging for a regular art-pop band aiming at commercial success, even back in 1969.

If there is any real «progression» here, it just means correctly following the times: End Of The World went heavy on psychedelic techniques that were en vogue in 1967 (sitars, drones, etc.), whereas It's Five O'Clock seems less dependent on momentary trends, and takes a small step for­ward in helping Vangelis find his personal vision. But none of that matters as much as simply admitting that there is a bunch of excellent art-pop songs written here, and that they do not at all sound nearly as dated today as the total oblivion, in which this album has sunk, would have you be­lieve. In fact, with retro-oriented art-pop being one of the leading styles of «intellectual music» today, they are probably less dated now than they were two decades ago. So, with a little help from my thumbs up, just go look for it if it isn't in your collection already.

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Aphrodite's Child: End Of The World

APHRODITE'S CHILD: END OF THE WORLD (1968)

1) End Of The World; 2) Don't Try To Catch A River; 3) Mister Thomas; 4) Rain & Tears; 5) The Grass Is No Green; 6) Valley Of Sadness; 7) You Always Stand In My Way; 8) The Shepherd And The Moon; 9) Day Of The Fool.

What do you get when you take an experimental composer, specializing in atmospheric electro­nics, and a cheesy East-Europop crooner, and stick the two of them together? Feed this question to an advanced AI system, and it will probably answer: «Something that sounds awesomely crazy and unbearably sentimental at the same time». And, more or less, that is exactly what Aphrodite's Child were about. Except that the chronology is reversed: Vangelis would go on to become one of the most revered electronic wizards of his generation, and Demis Roussos to become the epitome of feta cheese already after the band had broken up.

When the band had just formed, though, it was all different. They were young, ambitious, and, of all things, they were all a bunch of Greek journeymen stranded in Paris in May 1968 — someone should give Martin Scorsese an idea for a script. And, of course, since most of them were musici­ans anyway, having already served time in various Greek bands, what a better time and place to try out a bit of mad genre synthesis than Paris in the spring?

Now here is the curious catch. Apparently, Demis Roussos, at heart, was a balladeer from the very beginning, and he was never all that interested in pushing forward musical boundaries as long as he could score one with the ladies. But the healthy climate of a shifting musical era, and the fortunate advantage of having the ambitious and daring Vangelis Papathanassiou at his side, made sure that his croonery was not backed with generic syrupy strings or whatever the croonery «norm» was in the old pre-disco days, but rather with a refreshingly romantic, and sometimes even downright «gritty», art-rock sound.

Put it all together — the will to experiment and innovate, the sentimentalism, the spirit of the ti­mes, the Mediterranean flavor, the talent, the youth, the energy, and Aphrodite's Child (quite an apt name for the band, as a matter of fact) emerge as a fairly unique curio in an age that had its fair share of unique curios. Most of these songs are befuddling, so much so that I cannot decide if I should laugh or cry. But as long as you do not make a definitive choice, End Of The World re­mains a fascinating puzzle.

The band's original direction was indicated by the debut single, ʽRain And Tearsʼ, musically ba­sed on Pachelbel's Canon — following in the vein of Procol Harum, but in a wimpier manner, since the band did not have a guitarist at that time (their regular player, Anargyros Kolouris, was on military duty in Greece, so Demis Roussos, in addition to playing bass, also has to supply all of the guitarwork). Vangelis' arrangement, with authentic harpsichord and baroque strings, is quite masterful, so it all depends on whether you are able to swallow Roussos' plaintive, operatic intonations without getting sick to the stomach. It's hard, but it may be worth the while.

Personally, I find it easier to succumb to the artsy charms of Aphrodite's Child when they switch from purely romantic mood to a little apocalypse — primarily on the title track, which begins de­ceptively, as just another organ-and-piano-led ballad, but then, with a mighty "HEYYYEAH!" from Demis, enters a Romantic (with a capital R) world of solemn drum-and-keyboard fury. It sounds a bit silly when you stop and think about it, but don't make the mistake of stopping.

Actually, the band's repertoire is quite diverse. They fiddle about with fast-paced R'n'B (ʽDon't Try To Catch A Riverʼ — with its spirited tempos, the song seems like an answer to ʽRiver Deep, Mountain Highʼ; at any rate, the Spector production must have been the chief inspiration); Kinks-flavored character-assassinating Brit-pop (ʽMister Thomasʼ); totally drugged out, dragged out, mantra-style psychedelia (ʽThe Grass Is No Greenʼ); gritty, soulful blues-rock (ʽYou Always Stand In My Wayʼ, probably the angriest, rock'n'rolliest performance Roussos ever gave in his life — and one track on which his ever-present whiny notes actually work to perfection, giving the whole song a frenzied, paranoid atmosphere); avantgarde sonic landscapes (ʽDay Of The Foolʼ, sung from the point of view of a madman and eventually «degenerating» into bits and pie­ces of his fragmented conscience); and, of course, something that they brought over with them from faraway lands — ʽThe Shepherd Of The Moonʼ is the only song here to properly incor­po­rate the Near Eastern vibe, both in the sung harmonies and the accompanying melody.

These tunes may sound comical, and, if you are well acquainted with the context, somewhat of a naïve, crude attempt to «fit in» with every bit of popular/trendy Western music they could lay their hands on. But the truth is, they all work to some extent. Perhaps the band rarely succeeds in making it seem like they were born and reared to perform this kind of stuff, but they certainly un­derstand all the small details that make this stuff great — the vocal hooks and the arrangement de­tails are formally impeccable, so that on a purely technical level, ʽThe Grass Is No Greenʼ has no problem holding its own against the flood of «authentic» drone-flavored psychedelia of the times, and that Tina Turner might not have refused a duet with Demis on ʽCatch A Riverʼ, had she even been aware of this band's existence.

In short, it is best to view End Of The World as a heartfelt tribute, coming from a bunch of en­thusiastic, adoring, and not untalented fans, to the whole wide world of «popular musical art», than as an individual «meaningful statement». But I'd rather take a chameleonic tribute like that, masterminded by a guy like Vangelis, over an «individualistic» statement by somebody with no musical gift at all — so, clearly, a thumbs up here.

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