Arthur Brown: Zim Zam Zim

ARTHUR BROWN: ZIM ZAM ZIM (2014)

1) Zim Zam Zim; 2) Want To Love; 3) Jungle Fever; 4) The Unknown; 5) Assun; 6) Muscle Of Love; 7) Junkyard King; 8) Light Your Light; 9) Touched By All; 10) The Formless Depths.

One thing at least we know: as of the 2010s, Arthur Brown remains remembered and admired enough to successfully conduct a crowdfunding pledge campaign in order to raise the money for his next album. A very nice thing to know — especially considering that the album itself, despite having been recorded and issued as promised, has probably received 1,000,000th share of atten­tion compared to any recent release by any of the day's moronic «superstars». Yes, Arthur Brown has been relegated to the top back shelves of the musical world, but as long as he has a small bunch of people offering support, this will not prevent him from putting out good art.

Once again credited to The Crazy (rather than The Amazing) World of Arthur Brown, Zim Zam Zim continues Arthur's surprisingly consistent streak of records that nobody ever listens to. In fact, it might even be his most consistent set of tunes in the 21st century — no mean feat for a 72-year old guy. The fact that he's been so crazy and isolated all these years actually helps, because the songs, once again, are timeless, paying no heed whatsoever to any modern developments (he does mention his iPod in one song, but then even Steve Jobs invented the iPod so that he could put himself some Bob Dylan and some Bach on it), and all for the better.

The title of the album already suggests a phantasmagoric circus experience (the normal way of life for Arthur Brown, that is), as does the eerie album cover, as does the opening track with its grumbly brass fanfares, deep harmonies, and booming message by the maniacal herald himself. Apparently, Zim Zam Zim is a state of being that preceded even The Big Bang, to which we are being invited or, at the very least, of which we are going to be informed. Big news for most people, table talk for Mr. Brown.

However, if you think that the album is going to be wildly psychedelic and ultra-other-worldly-dimensional, that is not the case. All the songs are a little whacky as far as Arthur's singing is concerned, and many of the tracks feature unconventional arrangements, but the chief point here, I think, was on integrating a wide variety of different styles — to put it philosophically, explore the amazing diversity of forms postdating the solitary state of Zim Zam Zim. "In my heart all forms of life are joined", quoth Mr. Brown, and that includes such forms of musical life as ska, rumba, blues, folk, rock, jazz, and noise. Above all of that, his voice still rings out loud and clear, and it can be sentimental, aggressive, or just plain crazy whenever he wants — and he sure as hell don't sound like a 72-year old. Must be all these mystical mushrooms.

Melodically, most of the tunes are fairly traditional, but it helps makes them more memorable, and then there are all the different angles. ʽWant To Loveʼ has a basic ska bounce to it, bu the percussion sounds like the Nibelung anvils, and the brass, strings, and accordeon cobwebs in the background are quite a wond'rous combination. ʽJungle Feverʼ is a minimalistic boogie-blues piece that echoes back to John Lee Hooker, but the guitar is processed in a way that makes it sound closer to a Jew's harp, and the accompanying wildlife sounds truly give the impression of a crazy old man lost in the jungle, strumming his instrument and going more and more ga-ga with each passing moment. ʽThe Unknownʼ sounds like a long-lost outtake from Tom Waits' Rain Dogs (Brown even gets a credible rasp-and-gurgle going for the chorus, although he probably has to live for 72 more years to catch up with Mr. Tom), but far more densely arranged (background vocals, whistles, very busy and melodic piano line, etc.).

If you are on the lookout for a good strong punch, ʽMuscle Of Loveʼ offers an opportunity — nothing to do with the Alice Cooper song or album of the same name, in particulars, but just as dark, sarcastic, and glammy as Alice at his most theatrical. The chorus ("don't wear no hat, don't wear no gloves, all you wear is your muscle of love") should probably have a sexual interpreta­tion (Brown's Tantric practices are never obsolete), but it is the song's nagging brass riff that offers the most sexual imagery of it all — and the track's complex, sense-thrashing, somewhat jungle-like percussion arrangement heats things up even further.

There are occasional moments of heartwarming beauty (ʽLight Your Lightʼ), occasional moments of surprising musical complexity, hearkening back to the old Journey days (ʽTouched By Allʼ), and a chaotic, percussion-wild conclusion (ʽThe Formless Depthsʼ) that might, perhaps, have been more formally impressive with a larger budget, but even so, it is curious to learn how one may paint the be-all-end-all state of the universe with nothing but tribal percussion, a little elec­tronic grunting, and some primeval yodeling. I probably wouldn't have imagined it like that myself, but I do tip my hat to the effort — and to the album in general, which really gets the easi­est thumbs up I remember giving to Brown since Requiem. Highly recommended if you can find it, and reason enough, I guess, to keep sending in those pledges as long as the old «muscle of love» still retains a modicum of potential energy.

Arthur Brown: Strangelands

ARTHUR BROWN: STRANGELANDS (1969; 1988)

1) The Country; 2) The City; 3) The Cosmos; 4) The Cosmos (cont.); 5) Endless Sleep.

There are quite a few «from-the-vaults» releases from different stages of Arthur Brown's long and diverse career, judging by the discographies. Most of these, however, are quite hard to get, some have only semi-official or bootleg status, and, most importantly, it is not exactly clear if any of them are worth hunting down for anything other than historical purposes.

I have managed to locate one of them — Strangelands, recorded in late 1969 and originally supposed to be the second official LP by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, although this world was crazy in a different way already: Vince Crane was out of the band, and the songwri­ting was dominated by Brown and his drummer pal Drachen Theaker, even more advanced in the ways of progressive avantgarde than Arthur. Different, but not any less crazy: how could an album re­corded at the Jabberwocky Studios in the merry land of Puddletown be anything less than compe­tely and utterly bonkers?

It seems hard to deny the decisive influence that Trout Mask Replica must have had on this re­cord, next to which The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown sounds like a bunch of innocent teen-pop singles. No more verses, choruses, hooks, or anything targeted at instantaneous memorability and seduction. Instead, we have several lengthy, multi-part suites, performed in semi-improvisa­tory style over a mesh of blues-rock and jazz-rock patterns that occasionally descend into free-form chaos. Whee!

How is this different from early Kingdom Come? Well, much of the musical philosophy is the same (and a few of the melodies and vocal passages actually made their way over to Galactic Zoo Dossier, eventually). But compared to this, even Kingdom Come was more «commercial» — the sound was tighter and tougher, the riffs were better fleshed out, and there were sometimes even perfectly «normal» tracks like ʽSunriseʼ. Strangelands has no masterplan, other than some vague, constantly fluctuating ideas on how to fuck your brains in the most effective way. Or, put it differently, in the most boring way?

The reason why this second album never even found a proper distributor is that it never had any real meaning. Trout Mask Replica, at the very least, was a diligently planned, carefully crafted experiment in creating a new face for music. It took lots of inspiration from progressive jazz mas­ters and transplanted it into a pop / blues-rock setting with the utmost care. This here stuff, how­ever, has fairly little to add to what was already quite normal ever since Frank Zappa's Absolute­ly Free came out in 1967, except for Brown's «now I'm Dr. Evil, and now I'm the little goat in your backyard, and now I'm actually being serious but you won't be able to tell anyway» routine that gets annoying in about five minutes.

Decidedly, this is one of the most «far out» recordings of 1969, but individually, every single in­gredient here will be done better by either Pink Floyd, Can, Captain Beefheart, or Amon Düül II, and collectively they do not amount to a singular vision — the whole thing is very much transiti­onal, before the whole plan became realized in a slightly more accessible and coherent way on Galactic Zoo Dossier. Recommended only for completists and serious historiographers of weird brain cell movements; thumbs down otherwise. PS: Apparently, there is something called Jam, credited to Kingdom Come this time, another archival release that is also mostly bent on im­pro­visational ravings and stuff. There is an infinitesimally small chance that it will ever manage to cross your path unless you make it your destiny, but beware all the same.

Arthur Brown: The Voice Of Love

ARTHUR BROWN: THE VOICE OF LOVE (2007)

1) Love Is The Spirit; 2) Gypsies; 3) Kites; 4) I Believe In You; 5) That's How Strong My Love Is; 6) The Voice Of Love; 7) All The Bells; 8) Shining Bright; 9) Birds Of A Feather; 10) Devil's Grip; 11) Safe Now &... .

First thing to be noticed about Brown's latest studio venture is that it is now credited not to the crazy, but to «The Amazing World Of Arthur Brown». Sure enough, modesty and humility were never an integral part of this guy's artistic image, but there is still an even bigger contradiction here, because The Voice Of Love is, in fact, arguably the most modest and humble album ever released by the God of H.F.

On here, Arthur returns back to the acoustic environment of Tantric Lover: he is accompanied by much-talented, little-known multi-instrumentalist Nick Pynn, proclaimed by Brown to «play every string instrument on the planet» or something to that effect — however, the choice of ins­trumentation is generally quite simple: about 70% guitars, and the rest divided between violins, mandolins,  harps, whatever... nothing too exotic as far as my ear can tell. Furthermore, about a half of the songs are recycled from the past — be it very recent past, such as ʽAll The Bellsʼ and ʽVoice Of Loveʼ from Tantric Lover, much older past, such as yet another rearrangement of ʽLove Is The Spiritʼ, or pre-deluvial past, such as ʽDevil's Gripʼ, which was the very first single put out by Crazy World in 1967. In addition, there is a cover of Hal Hackady's ʽKitesʼ, a song first turned into a hit by Simon Dupree and the Big Sound (the original Shulman brothers band before the emergence of the most awesome Gentle Giant) also around 1967. Sweet, sentimental, a bit tangoish compared to the original, and — nostalgic, of course.

Yes, the whole album is drowned in nostalgia this time. Most of the tracks, formally, are ballads: Arthur pouring his soul out to tasteful arrangements of romantic-natured songs, all firmly rooted in mid-1960s and early-1970s R&B (yet another cover is the old Otis Redding chestnut ʽThat's How Strong My Love Isʼ, which Arthur approaches here like a master archaeologist would ap­proach a freshly unearthed relics — almost literally dusting off and professionally polishing each syllable, with such great love and respect for the object that the care shown in his singing ends up more lovable than the cover itself). True enough, there is very little «craziness» here, at least not until ʽDevil's Gripʼ comes along at the end of the album and shakes us up a little bit with some of the old maniacal frenzy (yet there is only so much maniacal frenzy one can conjure with just a couple acoustic guitar tracks and some screeching violin passages. Say what you will, electricity does matter when it comes to these matters). But still, it would have been more honest to call themselves «The Shadow World Of Arthur Brown» at this juncture.

Of the new stuff, meticulously mixed with the oldies and thoughtfully levelled with them in style, ʽGypsiesʼ is probably the standout track — make sure you neither confound it with ʽGypsy Es­capeʼ off Galactic Zoo Dossier or with ʽGypsyʼ off Journey; yes, Arthur doth love the word — if only because it deviates from the general «love is the spirit» standard and digs into a darker, Mid-Easternish, violin-dominated pattern, before picking up speed, fury, and frenzy and leading us to a climactic conclusion (by the way, Arthur's screampower has not decreased in awesome­ness one small bit — at this time in his life, he can probably do better than Ian Gillan, which just goes to show that you never really know your luck until you hit sixty).

Generally, though, there are no standouts. For you and your grandmother, this is a wonderful pre­text to simply lower some barriers and bask in the excellence of Brown's intonations, modulations and manifestations. This is still theater, replete with exaggerations and mannerisms, but a very stripped down, life-like, and meaningful sort of theater — and maybe quite a turn-off for the adventurous fans of Kingdom Come and the Requiem era, or even those who got a minor kick from the ab­surdist minor extravagance of Vampire Suite. Personally, I tend to favor Arthur Brown, the evil clown, not the paternalist-sentimental one — but at this time in his life, he might actually be doing better as the latter rather than the former. A pleased, if not too excited thumbs up — and [obligatory old fart addendum] needless to say, Voice Of Love still shows more genuine soul than any given starry-eyed indie market record from 2007.

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Arthur Brown: Vampire Suite

ARTHUR BROWN: VAMPIRE SUITE (2003)

1) Introduction; 2) Vampire Club; 3) SAS; 4) Africa; 5) Maybe My Soul; 6) In This Love; 7) Confession; 8) Vam­pire Love; 9) Completion; 10) Divers; 11) Re-Vamp Your Soul; 12) Isness Is My Business; 13) Stay.

Arthur's fascination with vampires comes as a surprise, and perhaps a disappointing one. He'd ne­ver expressed tremendous interest in the subject before — or have I missed something? — yet there he is now, once again crediting «The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown», this time, for a com­plex, relatively plotless story of the fates, characters, and habits of vampires in the modern world: the story itself comes as a fifty-minute «audiobook» reading on the bonus CD (which I, honestly, had no will or patience to sit through), while the first and main CD acts as a «rock musical» loosely ba­sed on the story.

But I mean, vampires? Isn't a concept album about vampires a bit too kitschy even for the likes of Mr. Brown? Shouldn't it be relegated to the likes of Alice Cooper? (And, speaking of Alice, the Vegasy glitz of the opening number, ʽVampire Clubʼ, quickly brings on memories of ʽWelcome To My Nightmareʼ). Moving away from all those concept albums about space travel and huma­nity's post-apo­calyptic fate into the realm of bloodsucking, garlic strings, and silver bullets?

I must admit it is a little anticlimactic, what with the vampire subject beaten so firmly into the ground and all. But at this point in his career — come to think of it, at any point in his career — Arthur couldn't really care less about the particular referential topic of his creativity. His meager sales and near-negative recognizability (how many people in the world would know or remem­ber that he was still alive in 2003, let alone making records?) would not increase or decrease depen­ding on whether he was writing and singing about vampires or about superstring theory. And if the guy likes vampires, well, why not garner a bit of inspiration from vampires if it helps make some decent music?

The project is no longer acoustic — a serious musical needs more than an acoustic guitar and some aboriginal Australian woodwinds, after all — but neither is it «rock'n'rollish»: pianos, elec­tronics, and a heavy brass section matter much more on this album than distorted electric guitars. It does, indeed, in many respects recall different stages of Alice Cooper's career (be it from the Welcome To My Nightmare period, the DaDa period, or some of his recent records), but the bluesy and R'n'B-ish shades are all unmistakably Brownian.

Curiously, the best stuff here are the soulful numbers — songs that make me forget all about the context and just freely enjoy the music. ʽMaybe My Soulʼ, for instance, is one of the most up­lifting R&B anthems in the man's career — with a glorious buildup from verse to chorus, excel­lent «old-school» brass parts, and a totally triumphant vocal delivery for a sixty-year old eccentric white male with a complicated medical history. And then, immediately after the exuberant op­ti­mism of ʽMaybe My Soulʼ, on comes the cold shower of the desperate soul-blues ʽIn This Loveʼ, an equally impressive stunner. Vampires? Maybe if you tune in to the lyrics very closely, but all I hear is exuberance in number one and desperation in number two.

The «kitschy» numbers do not work quite as well, but ʽVampire Clubʼ is still a nice and catchy Vegasy romp; ʽVampire Loveʼ is supposed to tele-transport you to 1997, the age of "those syn­thesizers and drum machines", Arthur gleefully ironizes in the introduction to the song (but why 1997, I wonder? the track does sound somewhat 1997-ish, but wouldn't 1987 be a better bet for such a «nostalgic» trip?) — and it is a cool mix of rhythmic catchiness and absurd theatricality, not to mention Arthur's old penchant for combining the uncombinable, such as modernistic synthesizer loops and very old-school organ solos. And the retro-funk of ʽAfricaʼ is quite hard to get out of your head once it gets around to the "Africa, the cradle of civilization" chorus (even if "Afr-EEH-ca", with the accent on the second syllable, gets a bit annoying after a while).

The only true misstep comes at the end: Arthur has a long and dubious tradition of recycling his old (or not so old) material, and ʽStayʼ here is a remake of ʽGabrielʼ from the last album, with the precise acoustic rhythms replaced by mushy keyboard atmospherics, the steady drums replaced with machines and «tribal percussion» scattered all over the place, and the grinning, sarcastic vo­cals of the original forgotten in favor of a sterner, less humorous delivery. Not a very good ending for an album that does have its fair share of strong moments.

The whole thing never sounds as «unusual» as Tantric Lover, and does not look nearly as con­vincing — a half-labour of love at best, compared to its predecessor. But the well-balanced mix of humor and seriousness, the stylistic diversity, the never-ending freshness of the vocals, the re­fusal to bow to modern terms and conditions, all of this means one thing: The Crazy World of Arthur Brown is still alive and well, and you do not need to be a loyal follower of this guy for thirty-five years in order to enjoy it. Yes, a thumbs up by all means — I am glad, though, that the record never had a werewolf sequel (although, come to think of it, the idea of Arthur Brown howling at the moon should be quite natural).

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Arthur Brown: Tantric Lover

ARTHUR BROWN: TANTRIC LOVER (2000)

1) Paradise; 2) Tantric Lover; 3) The Bridge; 4) Circle Dance; 5) Swimfish; 6) Voice Of Love From A Magic Hat; 7) Gabriel; 8) Love Is The Spirit; 9) Heartaches From The Music Theatre Piece ʽAirʼ; 10) All The Bells; 11) Healing Sound; 12) Welcome.

If you have nothing better to do these days, hunt down Mr. Arthur Brown in one of his asylums and ask him the question: «Mr. Brown! How come Tantric Lover, your first recording of ori­ginal music in the 21st century, is credited to ʽThe Crazy World Of Arthur Brownʼ, even though that band was officially proclaimed dead thirty years ago, and you are the only remaining mem­ber?» Wait for the answer, and if it is anything like «why, man, many an Arthur Brown has roa­med through this world, but there has been only one Crazy World of Arthur Brown so far, and maybe some people will be careless enough to mistake my new album for the old one — and I do need the money, I'm all out of fuel for my helmet», feel free to add +100 to Mr. Brown's artistic karma. However, if it is anything like «well, see here, man, we just had all these groovy cats to jam with, and I thought, it's like the spirit of the old Crazy World was coming back, and I know we're all crazy but some are crazier than most...», please do the reverse.

Because, clearly, Tantric Lover does not sound anything like the old «Crazy World». And not only does it not try to sound like Crazy World, on the contrary, it does everything in its power to present Arthur in an entirely new light. For one thing, it is completely acoustic, with elements of world music represented by the extensive use of the kora (a West African harp) and the didgeri­doo, an Australian woodwind (and Arthur has a separate band member for each, although «Phil Brown» does not sound much like a good name for an Australian aborigine, if you ask me). For another thing... it is not all that crazy, to tell the truth.

What it is is simply a good album of inventive art-pop compositions in a range of styles and moods. Some R&B, some reggae, some folk, some blues-rock, a little of this, a little of that, all of it sort of connected with thin psychedelic vibes and a general peace-and-love sentiment. Very well recorded at that — praise the 21st century for something, at least — and the quiet acoustic arrangements allow Brown's voice to come through bright and expressive; actually, I think this is the first time ever that he gives it to us from so many different angles. Crooning, pleading, whis­pering, muttering, screaming, talking, goofing off, it's all here. You might hate the songs and the spirit, but the man couldn't care less — he must have had so much fun doing this.

Since this is still «rock theater», or, rather «unplugged theater» this time, Tantric Lover gets by on the strength of its humor and eccentricity, not on any kind of cathartic vibes — and its quiet, low-key nature will never allow us to recognize it as a lost masterpiece on the same level with Requiem. But, on the other hand, it also lacks those of Brown's trademarks that are the most prone to becoming annoying — the reckless, «anything-goes» experimentation, the permanent tone and signature shifts of Kingdom Come, even the general «look at me, have you ever seen anyone crazier?» attitude. And the kora / didgeridoo duets may be a novelty trick, but in our mo­dern potpourri of ethnic traditions, it can hardly look as surprising as, say, the drum machines on Kingdom Come's third album, or even Arthur's decision to take a red-hot synthesizer bath on Speak No Tech.

No, this is just a «nice little album» here. And the songs are surprisingly well written and per­formed. ʽParadiseʼ steals the opening riff from the Beatles' ʽI'll Be Backʼ and puts it back where it came from — into a Latin setting, that is — and works out a half-menacing, half-magical mood punctuated by occasional flourishes from the kora. ʽCircle Danceʼ is a catchy art-pop / blues-rock hybrid, irresistible when it comes to toe-tapping, tasteful when it comes to little bits of out-of-nowhere electric guitar soloing (yes, we can!), and goofy when Arthur begins to yodel (yodeling is bad, but Arthur is good). ʽSwimfishʼ is set to a Celtic waltz; ʽGabrielʼ (no relation to the ʽGab­rielʼ of Requiem) is slightly funky, spits out broken bits of slide guitar, and has Arthur doing his best Horned King impression (or was that Horny King?). He even delivers a convincing musical aria on ʽHeartachesʼ — with a fairly complex vocal part to be sung by a 60-year old.

This is definitely not ʽThe Crazy World Of Arthur Brownʼ — more like ʽThe Cozy World Of Arthur Brownʼ if you ask me. But first, he is wrong who would assert that Arthur Brown has no right to have himself a cozy world at this time in his life. And second, the more I listen to it, the more unsure I am about which one of the two worlds I like more. Of course, in 1969, Crazy World was on the cutting edge, whereas Tantric Lover did not make as much as the tiniest ripple when it appeared, and remains steadily confined to Arthur's microscopic hardcore fan base. But, just like Requiem, it is an album that could have a greater appeal — it is ten times as auth­entic, memorable, and pleasant as the majority of indie favorites from the same year. Yes, the title and the album cover are a bit stupid — they could make you suspect that an old dirty has-been is lurking inside — but do not let it get you off the track: Tantric Lover deserves its thumbs up full well, and I'd personally nominate at least ʽCircle Danceʼ for the average 2000s playlist (par­ticularly if this would mean kicking out one more Bright Eyes tune from said playlist).

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Arthur Brown: Order From Chaos - Live 1993

ARTHUR BROWN: ORDER FROM CHAOS: LIVE 1993 (1993)

1) When You Open The Door; 2) When You Open The Door Pt. 2; 3) King Of England; 4) Juices Of Love; 5) Night­mare; 6) Fire Poem; 7) Fire; 8) Come And Buy; 9) Pick It Up; 10) Mandela; 11) Time Captives; 12) I Put A Spell On You.

Mr. Brown hit fifty in 1991, not a particularly bad year for music — and I have no idea if his de­cision to reactivate his motor was due to the fact that he sensed fashions changing and maybe even a renewed demand for his kind of music in the air, or if he just woke up one morning with a nagging sense of having wasted a decade of his life on «Nothing Much». Whatever be, the early 1990s saw the man returning, if not to creating new music, then at least to reliving the old one — obviously, he was not much of a stadium seller, but all the small elitist clubs could have him, par­ticularly if he came with a guarantee of craziness.

This live album, released on the small Voiceprint label, captures Arthur during one of these shows, at the Marquee Club in London, June 25, 1993 — apparently, one day after his fifty-se­cond anniversary, since birthday announcements are made several times and ʽHappy Birthdayʼ rips out of the blue at one point during an instrumental jam section. Judging by the atmosphere, it was a pretty fun birthday, considering that he hadn't played live in England for something like a decade and a half — and certainly more fun than one year later, when he passed out on stage in the middle of a brain haemorrhage, which led to a six-month hospital stay and brought the whole «live revival» thing to an abrupt stop. A temporary one, of course: «The God Of Hellfire» would never let himself be brought down by such a trivial thing as a cerebrovascular accident.

Brown's touring band consists mainly of unknowns here: the playing is fine enough (Jeff Danford does a particularly respectable job of filling in for the late Vincent Crane on all the classic numbers), but the chief emphasis is on the show (either the whole thing or parts of it were supposedly filmed as well, and available on Youtube for all those who like seeing aging glam-art-rock stars doing crazy stuff on stage) and Arthur's persona — predictably enough. The setlist, as can be easily seen, is heavily tilted towards Crazy World, since, by 1993, if anybody vaguely remembered anything about Arthur Brown, it all had to be tied to the 1969 album, and the God of Hellfire obliged — coming up with solid recreations of ʽNightmareʼ, ʽFireʼ, ʽCome And Buyʼ, and, of course, ʽI Put A Spell On Youʼ.

But he does go further than that, and in a much less predictable fashion. Kingdom Come is paid tribute with ʽTime Captivesʼ (actually a medley here, with ʽSpirit Of Joyʼ thrown in the middle as well), and Arthur's early 1980s synthesizer experiments are honored with bits from ʽThe Fire Antʼ (incorporated inside ʽMandelaʼ), while ʽKing Of Englandʼ gets a more guitar-oriented re­arrangement than it had on Speak No Tech (not necessarily becoming more interesting in the process). And then there is some new material, including the opening two-part suite ʽWhen You Open The Doorʼ, also written and performed much in the style of Kingdom Come. Was it a shelved outtake or something?

Overall, the impression is positive. The worst possible impression from such things is that of a desperate old wreck, cashing in on fossilized bits and pieces of former success, out of time, out of mind, and very transparently out of money. But here, even without the video, it is clear that the man is nimble, agile, and still feeling quite cozy in his «Supernatural Shoes»: neither the voice nor the spirit have aged a bit (actually, Arthur has got quite an advantage here: like Ian Anderson, he was intentionally downplaying his youthfulness in his prime, looking and sounding about twenty years older than he actually was, and this paid off handsomely in the long run — he ne­ver had the Mick Jagger problem weighing on his shoulders).

The new numbers on their own may not give enough of an incentive to rush out and grab the al­bum: ʽWhen You Open The Doorʼ is strictly for major fans of Kingdom Come; ʽJuices Of Loveʼ is an artsified R'n'B number that is neither too stupendous nor too memorable; and ʽPick It Upʼ is a somewhat formulaic blues-rock shuffle that is a bit too heavy on synthesizers for my taste. But they fit in well with the golden oldies, and the resulting mix is quite a faithful and sympathetic portrait of Arthur Brown at fifty-two. Too bad that Requiem is underrepresented, of course, but honoring the short memories and limited knowledge of Marquee Club audiences was an under­standable priority, I guess, so thumbs up all the same.

Arthur Brown: Brown, Black & Blue

ARTHUR BROWN: BROWN, BLACK & BLUE (1991)

1) Fever; 2) Monkey Walk; 3) Unchain My Heart; 4) Got My Mojo Working; 5) Smokestack Lightnin'; 6) Hound Dog; 7) Help Me; 8) The Right Time; 9) Stand By Me; 10) The Lord Is My Friend.

After the release of Requiem, Arthur Brown disappeared from the public eye — figuratively speaking, of course, since, for the most part of his career, he was about the size of an elementary particle relative to the public eye — for about a whole decade. Maybe he was unable to find even the tiniest, God-forsaken record label to take care of him, or perhaps he thought he'd said it all with Requiem and finally earned the right to retire (and I'd certainly understand that).

However, in the late 1980s, bitten by the nostalgia bug, perhaps, he started making occasional TV appearances and hanging out with Jimmy Carl Black, the original drummer, vocalist, and Zappa's part-time creative partner in The Mothers of Invention. One thing led to another, and one of these «anothers» ended up as a joint recording by the two — a limited-issue album of ten R&B com­positions, mostly golden oldies, but also featuring a re-recording of ʽMonkey Walkʼ from Chis­holm In My Bosom, just to break up the predictability.

Unfortunately, at best the record is little more than just a souvenir of two old pals having a friend­ly get-together. The arrangements are tasteful, especially in the context of the late Eighties / early Nineties — real live playing, guitars, old-fashioned key­boards, brass section, harmonicas, the works — but never interesting, and Jimmy's input could just as well be replicated by any seasoned pro on the drums: he may be explicitly mentioned as an equal partner and have his name as part of the pun in the album title, but he is never really in the spotlight. And Brown — certainly Brown is not qualified to pull this off alone, particularly after his ten-year layoff.

He does seem to understand that merely covering the classics makes little sense, but the only «im­provement» on his mind is changing the songs' lyrics seemingly at random, and, occasionally, supplementing the regular vocal melodies with long tangential rants of either a humorous (ʽGot My Mojo Workingʼ) or metaphysical-intellectual (ʽThe Lord Is My Friendʼ) nature. Sort of a piti­ful decision — I, for one, do not generally need being told about how all the great religious figu­res of the past are really one by a guy who has just wasted thirty minutes of my time.

All I can say is that Brown's vocal skills are still there, and that ten years have done little to quell his theatrical manners or arrogance. So if you think that his classic cover of ʽI Put A Spell On Youʼ is one of the greatest wonders of the universe, you will want to have these ten tracks as res­pectable shadows of the past. But I've always thought that song was just an excellent example of the Brown/Crane collaboration. Unfortunately, Crane was not involved in the making of this al­bum for the valid excuse of being dead, and nobody of the same caliber replaced him — none of the musicians here seem to give much of a damn about «expressivity».

Strictly for hardcore fans, historians, or big admirers of classic R&B and electric blues who just love these songs so much, they have to try to appreciate them in as many incarnations as possible. Of course, these are all good songs, and they are all done justice, but writing about them in more detail would only make sense if Brown, Black & Blue had been a conscious attempt to steal them away from Ray, Muddy, Elvis, and Howlin' Wolf. It wasn't; in fact, it couldn't. From that point of view, it's all strictly thumbs down, and no amount of inventive ad-libbing is going to affect that judgement. Like I said, only for completists or those with nothing else to do.

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Arthur Brown: Requiem

ARTHUR BROWN: REQUIEM (1982)

1) Chant / Shades; 2) Animal People; 3) Spirits Take Flight; 4) Gabriel; 5) Requiem; 6) Machanicla Masseur; 7) Busha-Busha; 8) The Fire Ant And The Cockroaches.

Second time around, though, he got it right. I remember falling in love with this record years ago, and it still sounds just as awesome as the first day I heard it. Arthur Brown's Requiem, a concept album about the nuclear end of the world, released at exactly the right moment — the height of Cold War tension in the early 1980s — might, indeed, be his masterpiece, arguably bested only by Crazy World, and is definitely near the top positions on the list of «most underrated albums ever», considering that the total number of people who even know about its existence, let alone actually listened to it from start to finish, must still be somewhere in the two-digit range.

What makes Requiem so awesome? One and one thing only — a sense of purpose. For the first time in his life, perhaps, Brown seems at least as interested in conveying an atmospheric message as he is in cavorting around for crazy experimentation's sake. And this immediately translates in­to a quantum leap from Speak No Tech — an album whose main purpose was to answer the ques­tion of whether it is possible to record an art-rock experience with the sole aid of synthesizers. It was. But the results weren't tremendously exciting. So now here is an upgrade of that task: is it possible to record an art-rock experience with the sole aid of synthesizers, and see to it that it be­comes tremendously exciting?

Yes, it is. Requiem is not as densely packed with synth overdubs as Speak No Tech — it pre­fers to thrive on packages of simple, «brutal» synth riffs and aggressive electronic percussion rather than colorful, but digitally incompetent sonic paintings. It has more of a stern, industrial, claust­rophobic flavor to it as well — fully appropriate for an album about the consequences of a nucle­ar Holocaust. I am not sure as to which of the two records pumps out the larger number of raw «hooks», but the ones on Requiem definitely pack more punch and make more sense than the ones on Speak No Tech.

Odd enough, it is not a «scary» album, as could be thought of any piece of art that aims to deal with the issue of humanity destroying itself. «Arthur Brown» has always rhymed with «eccentric clown», and Requiem is no exception: most of its numbers are garish and overwrought, if not downright comic (ʽMachanicla Masseurʼ). But it is not the alleged «terror» of Requiem that makes it so treasurable — on the contrary, it is its satire, glitz, buffoonery, and, at times, traces of deep humanity. It is, in some ways, much more difficult to write a funny and exciting album on the end of the world than a scary and depressing one.

Robotic synth-rockers, such as ʽAnimal Peopleʼ and ʽMasseurʼ, discard with the «coldness» of Kraftwerk and tackle their subjects with intelligence and irony. ʽBusha-Bushaʼ, subtitled ʽThe Last Man On Earthʼ, is a great thematic vehicle for one of Arthur's trademark «nervous break­down» simulations, with ideally matching paranoid synth chords to boot. On the other side, ʽSpi­rits Take Flightʼ is populated with light, playful loops and solos, generating a cute psychedelic breeze that would be completely out of place on a «serious» end-of-the-world record, but here feels quite at home.

Because Arthur Brown's post-apocalyptic world, believe it or not, is quite a fun place to be. It is populated with merry ghosts and friendly robots, and even the cockroaches and the fire ants, at the end of the day, are cool enough to join in an uplifting pop chorus. Even Brown's solemn pray­er of salvation (the title track) somehow emits optimism rather than despair (well, the main man­tra does go "the missile is dead, the missile is dead", after all).

Some might find the idea disturbing — who let a reckless clown like that deal with such a touchy subject? — but it's not as if Brown's purpose here was to convince people that it is OK to de­to­nate the bomb just because life will be more fun in the aftermath. It's more like: «let's try and cre­ate the everyday living atmosphere of the post-nuclear world» — where the remaining old and the emerging new forms of life are competing for survival. To that end, it's a unique perspective: with most people bent on painting the horrors of it all, Brown is going for «fantasy realism» — the horrors are really only there in the moments of death and destruction, and then it's business, er, life as usual again. In between all the AIs and the cockroaches and the fire ants and Archangel Gab­riel, that is.

Obviously, all the endless synthesizers can technically get annoying at a certain point, but, un­like Speak No Tech, Requiem does not sound dated for one moment — quite the opposite, it pre­sages and previews a lot of later developments in the electronic business, exactly because, despite having been recorded in the first years of the Electronic Age, it does not care one bit for follow­ing old or new trends: this is just crazy Arthur Brown, given an exciting artistic idea and a bunch of digital mechanisms to carry it out, and he does not have to memorize the latest Ultravox album to carry it out.

Emotionally intriguing, intellectually stimulating, Requiem continues to get its well-deserved thumbs up, and I strongly urge everyone to check it out — at the very least, «bore­dom» is a reaction that cannot be associated with this record objectively. One might question whether it real­ly achieves its set goals, or whether those goals deserve being achieved in the first place, but definitely not whether the artist himself had a lot of fun or was driven by inspiration while trying to achieve them. Personally, I just think Requiem is cool — certainly one of the least predictable and typical requiems ever made.

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Arthur Brown: Speak No Tech

ARTHUR BROWN: SPEAK NO TECH (1981)

1) King Of England; 2) Conversations; 3) Strange Romance; 4) Not Fade Away; 5) The Morning Was Cold; 6) Speak No Tech; 7) Names Are Names; 8) Love Lady; 9) Big Guns Don't Lie; 10) Take A Picture; 11*) You Don't Know; 12*) Old Friends My Colleague; 13*) Lost My Soul In London; 14*) Joined Forever; 15*) Mandala; 16*) Desert Floor.

Very little information is available on this and the next album: minimally distributed upon origi­nal release, out of print for years, we are nearing the bottom end of Brown's «scale of recogniza­bility» out here. The original date does seem to be 1981,  and the only other thing I think I know is that the producer was Craig Leon, for whom this must have been quite a curious stop in betwe­en working with the Ramones and Blondie on their self-titled debuts and then working with the likes of Joshua Bell since his late-1990s «conversion» to the world of classical.

And there was quite a lot to produce: Speak No Tech, contrary to its self-ironic title, is com­pletely electronic — and we know that when Arthur Brown goes all the way in any direction, the man may overdo it, but he certainly does not underdo anything. So here, there is a transparent at­tempt to show us all... or, at least, just to check up on the idea that electronic music does rule the day. Not in the Kraftwerk sense («robotic-flavored minimalism for elite audiences»), not in the early period Depeche Mode sense («trivial, but catchy dance music for the masses») — simply as an answer to the question: «What will music sound like once live instruments and analog equip­ment are gone for good?»

Silly-sounding question, for sure, but not that silly when answered by somebody like Arthur Brown — a guy who, no matter how obnoxious or pretentious he might get at times, has always meant business. Speak No Tech is not an example of «electronica» as such; rather, it is an ex­perimental art-rock album made with exclusively electronic means. With dramatically recited theatrical pieces, lyrical ballads, «rockers», and only a few numbers that bear a strong «New Wave» stamp, it manages to be surprisingly diverse and inventive for a record that seems to have been born out of a simple «oh, I got me a brand new Yamaha, I wonder what I can do with it now?» type of idea.

As with all of Brown's albums where «experiment» takes precedence over «artistic expression», Speak No Tech is a little baffling, and is more likely to pique one's curiosity than the soul. The best example is probably Arthur's daring deconstruction of Buddy Holly's ʽNot Fade Awayʼ — what used to be a prime example of Diddley-beat-based dance-pop has been transformed in a sea of electronic waves, lapping against the aural shore with perfect clock regularity. It's quite a puzz­ling piece of work, particularly so if you are familiar with the original — or, at least, the Stones cover. But who knows, maybe that is exactly the way that the little green aliens who made their camp in the back of Ar­thur's mind dance to Buddy Holly in their parallel universe.

Odd enough, some of the numbers are quite catchy: the New Wave synth riff in ʽConversationsʼ, for instance, might owe its existence to a period of heavy listening to Gary Numan, but is quite self-contained nevertheless. The repetitive mantra «speak no tech, speak no tech» in the title track is annoying and hypnotic at the same time; so is the melancholic dirge melody of ʽNames Are Namesʼ and the amusing «romantic techno» of ʽLove Ladyʼ. In fact, most of the songs here have something at least to draw our attention — and the something can well be anything, including, for instance, an artificially prolonged scream at the end of ʽBig Guns Don't Lieʼ.

If only there had been some clearer sense of purpose to the album — its least comfortable aspect is that it seems to be so totally committed to electronics just for commitment's sake. Usually, ele­ctronica artists are «sonic painters», plunging us into sci-fi environments, or «atmospheric pro­phets», using the coldness and detachedness of their instruments to express cool subtle irony on the dehumanization of humanity, or something like that. Speak No Tech, however, is neither complex and multi-layered enough to create such an environment, nor does it present any good reason as to why synthesizers are the only musical means on it. Okay, so if this is the music of to­morrow, then why does the first song divert us with a monolog on the fate of the ʽKing Of Eng­landʼ? What's up with the modernist poetry recital on ʽThe Morning Was Coldʼ? Neither these nor most of the other tracks seem to actively require an electronic coating.

Consequently, Speak No Tech still gets a thumbs up for curiosity's sake — it is certainly a dif­ferent album from most, and a «different» album from Arthur Brown that stands out in his own catalog is different indeed. But do not despair if you are not able to lay your hands on it: it is any­thing but a «lost masterpiece» — an attractive period curio, for sure, but reflecting much too blur­ry a vision to fall in love with it, I'd say.

For the record: the (semi-official?) CD release of the al­bum adds a bunch of bonus tracks that seems to be randomly assembled from various points in Arthur's career — including a very early, hiss-crackle-stuffed white R'n'B number, ʽYou Don't Knowʼ, that he recorded in 1965 with his first band, The Diamonds. Funny coincidence, I guess, but the heavily distorted electric organ that drives the song, from a sheer sonic perspective, fits in brilliantly with the electronics of Speak No Tech — and beats most of it to hell.

Arthur Brown: Faster Than The Speed Of Light

ARTHUR BROWN: FASTER THAN THE SPEED OF LIGHT (1979)

1) Storm Clouds; 2) Nothing We Can Do; 3) No; 4) Bright Gateway; 5) Timeship; 6) Come And Join The Fun; 7) Storm­wind; 8) Storm; 9) This Is It; 10) Tightrope; 11) Balance; 12) Faster Than The Speed Of Light.

Two years after the paths of Crane and Brown had briefly crossed during the sessions for Chis­holm, the two gentlemen fell into each other's arms again, this time for a fully-fledged collabora­tion — apparently, at the urge of Klaus Schulze, with whom Arthur made some recordings and toured a bit in the late 1970s. For a long time, the resulting album was very hard to find — the pressings were limited, Schulze's German-based label was small, and by the time somebody even star­ted thinking about transferring the results to CD, the mastertapes had been lost. Apparently, the recent re-release managed to locate the original tape, so look for it — I am reviewing a semi- crappy vinyl rip here, and laziness prevents me from locating a better version. That, and the fact that the music just isn't good enough to make me crave for a better version.

Not that it's an undeserving album or anything. The design is as follows: a loosely conceptual al­bum or even a «pseudo-rock opera», centered around one of Brown's favorite topics — surre­a­listic travel, be it in the sci-fi, me­dievalistic fantasy, or psychedelic register — played completely (or almost completely, I'm not altogether sure) without guitar participation, although Crane's numerous keyboards are still aug­mented by a normal rhythm section (no drum machines), brass players, and a small symphonic orchestra. In a way, this is sort of a brave return to the aesthetics of Kingdom Come (after two fairly «normal» albums in a row), but there is also a big difference — other than the lack of guitar, it seems that the «story» elements here were at least as important, if not more important, for Brown, than the accompanying music.

And so, Faster Than The Speed Of Light is sort of a cross between Kingdom Come's fantasy worlds and the «normality» of Brown's 1975-77 period. The brief interludes here function the same way they would function in a Broadway musical, and the actual songs weave together clas­sical influences, shades of R'n'B, and some «operatic pop» for good measure. Since the orches­tration never takes center stage, most of the music is relatively low-key, so prepare yourself for a bit of quiet, inobtrusive, «off-Broadway» music theater. If you prepare yourself well enough, it might even sweep you off your feet and take you along on its journey — although, frankly speak­ing, I would define those chances as close to one in a hundred.

The actual tunes are, indeed, theatrical rather than musical. Actually, when they get closer to «real music», the effect can be repulsive: ʽNothing We Can Doʼ, for instance, fuses its funky key­board riffs with silly-sounding disco choruses, and the point of ʽThis Is Itʼ is to play kiddie mar­ching muzak on trendy synthesizers (all the while pretending to share Arthur Brown's revelatory powers with the listeners — not easy to be convincing when the music itself is in the camp of ʽItsy Bitsy Spiderʼ). But such tracks as ʽTimeshipʼ, announcing the start of the journey, ʽStormʼ, which tries to brew the appropriate atmosphere from a set of jerky keyboard parts and «stormy» strings, and the title track, with its anthemic brass-dominated coda, are at least curious, if not tremendously effective.

Overall, the album just doesn't seem to have enough energy to satisfy the expected requirements. The lack of guitar harms the proceedings: many of these songs are, by nature, fast and dynamic, and Crane, as good as he is at writing memorable keyboard riffs and overlaying all the parts for maximum effect, cannot provide all the tension by himself — especially disappointing in the light of limp, pro-forma orchestration produced by people who probably thought that they were simply paid for a technical job. The «concept» is nothing special for those who are already familiar with Kingdom Come — in fact, most of those who are already familiar with Kingdom Come will pro­bably think of Faster Than The Speed Of Light as a «lite consumption version» of Galactic Zoo Dossier. The writing as such, though, is quite decent: Brown and Crane still remember how to tackle a variety of styles and sometimes shuffle them over the duration of one track.

From an optimistic standpoint, Faster ultimately deserves a thumbs up — it's a serious piece of art that still conveys Brown's usual work aesthetics: do your own thing against all odds, but never make it look like straightforward nostalgia. However, I couldn't honestly recommend it to anybo­dy but the most dedicated fan of Arthur Brown — and by «most dedicated», I mean neither the «heard ʽFireʼ on the radio a month ago and loved it» type nor the «Kingdom Come were the great­est, man, nothing ever comes close» type, both of which are the easiest types of «Arthur Brown fans» imaginable to my imagination. No, you'd really, really have to care a lot about Ar­thur Brown as a spiritually endowed human being to like this.

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Arthur Brown: Chisholm In My Bosom

ARTHUR BROWN: CHISHOLM IN MY BOSOM (1977)

1) Need To Know; 2) Monkey Walk; 3) Let A Little Sunshine (In Your Life); 4) I Put A Spell On You; 5) She's On My Mind; 6) The Lord Is My Saviour; 7) Chisholm In My Bosom.

With musical standards exploded and reassembled from the dust in between 1975 and 1977, Ar­thur Brown had pretty little hope of maintaining even a small pinch of notoriety. Even Kingdom Come, with all of their progressive trappings, were so far out as to be considered «underground» in the early 1970s. Now, with the New Wave revolution in full flight, Arthur's 1% of recognizabi­lity would be reduced to about 0.01% — particularly since he continued to behave as if his own musical evolution were on a completely self-sustainable path, not necessarily ignorant of what­ever comes around, but never for one moment giving reason to suspect that it could be influenced by some particularly current «fad».

So, in 1977, when everything around was changing and adapting, Brown instead made the most «normal» album in his entire catalog. Despite still working with Dalby, and despite old madman friend Vincent Crane returning to guest star on one track, Chisholm In My Bosom continues the line of Dance — upgrading the challenge a little bit by returning to epic length compositions and cutting down on cover versions, but overall, simply coming across as standard-fare «intellectual entertainment» without any serious attempts to break new ground.

In fact, the opening couple of numbers could easily throw the demanding listener into the arms of a hissy fit. ʽNeed To Knowʼ, with its gentle double-tracked slide guitars, sounds like formulaic country-rock, unexpectedly soft, mild, and mannered the same way Lou Reed surprised his fans with Coney Island Baby several years earlier. Not everybody will want to acknowledge that the slide arrangements are quite exquisite and emotional (Andy Dalby's talents on the podium again?), but it's also true that this isn't at all the kind of music that we would readily associate with Brown. The faster-paced R'n'B dance number ʽMonkey Walkʼ is a little more familiar, giving us Brown's sexy, rambunctious side, and the band plays very well, including the brass arrangements and the back vocals, but where ʽNeed To Knowʼ could be seen as too blatantly sentimental, ʽMonkey Walkʼ might just be a bit too generic and silly.

The rest of Side A wanders between Brown's newly-shaped passion for gospel (ʽThe Lord Is My Saviourʼ), epic optimistic R'n'B (ʽLet A Little Sunshineʼ), and dark funk (ʽShe's On My Mindʼ — the only track here to contain a shred of the old madness, maybe due to the participation of old friend Crane). There is also a re-recording of ʽI Put A Spell On Youʼ for those who'd for­gotten he already did it a decade earlier — slower, less freak-out-ish, more keyboard-dependent, and quite unnecessary in the long run.

Then there is the second side of the album, given over in its entirety to the title track — which, rather than trying to play out like a multi-part progressive suite, sounds like a cross between a Bob Dylan epic, a Van Morrison epic, and a Jim Morrison epic: a long, wordy ramble spread ac­ross several relatively simple melodies with relatively simple acoustic / keyboard-heavy (Mello­tron included) arrangements. Much of it sounds (but not necessarily is) improvised, and quite per­sonal — sort of a lengthy, multi-layered confession that must have meant a lot to the guy in 1977, but is hardly the kind of item we should be expected to enjoy thirty years on. Or maybe I just don't get it, but anyone can be excused for not trying very hard to «get» a twenty-minute acoustic / Mellotron epic from Arthur Brown written in 1977, provided it is not really out there to get you itself. It's certainly no ʽSad-Eyed Lady Of The Lowlandsʼ, anyway — neither the instruments nor Brown's vocalizations are enough to strike out the necessary amount of magic to carry it on for such a long time period.

Overall, the record is quite far from a crying disaster, as it has been characterized by the very few people who still managed to hear it (or not to hear it), but it neither has the unique weirdness of Kingdom Come nor the occasionally brilliant hook of Dance (not a single highlight of the ʽQuiet­ly With Tactʼ variety). Hence, coming from the likes of Arthur Brown, it is not easily made clear why the hell it even exists. Each and every one of these tracks, in its respective genre, could have been better coming from someone else.

Arthur Brown: Dance

ARTHUR BROWN: DANCE (1975)

1) We've Got To Get Out Of This Place; 2) Helen With The Sun; 3) Take A Chance; 4) Crazy; 5) Hearts And Winds; 6) Dance; 7) Out Of Time; 8) Quietly With Tact; 9) Soul Garden; 10) I Know The Lord Will Find A Way; 11) Is There Nothing Beyond God.

«Kingdom Come» came to an untimely end with Journey, but, considering that Brown still re­tained Andy Dalby for his next — and this time, first officially solo — project, one could claim that they simply underwent a name change, since the remainder of Kingdom Come's lineup was always a revolving door anyway. That is, one could claim that only before listening to the album. If you don't hear the substantial difference, try again.

Not that the difference is so substantial as to justify occasional haughty dismissals of Dance. One anonymous web reviewer went as far as to blame it for showing «disco tendencies», despite the fact that there is not the slightest hint of disco on the album — most likely, falling victim of a simple psychological association: if the year is 1975 and your album is called Dance, it must be some sort of a disco sellout, regardless of what your ears tell you. Others do not venture that far out, but the overall consensus seems to be that Dance finds Arthur Brown in decline, betraying his psychedelic and avantgarde roots for a smooth, accessible, ordinary pop sound.

However, let us not forget the general picture. At heart, Arthur Brown was primarily a big, sin­cere fan of R'n'B in its various incarnations, the grander, louder, and more theatrical, the better. The three albums of Kingdom Come, in the overall frame of his work, look more like a part-time experiment, fueled by the mood of the times — a conscious attempt to go over the top by adding layers of extra complexity to the same old R'n'B sound. Now that progressive rock was on its way out, though, Brown's experiment, too, came to an end: and in a way, Dance is not so much a sell­out as a process of «calming down» and returning to things that are less arrogant and defying, although by no means following the particular fads of 1975.

It opens with a loud cover of ʽWe've Got To Get Out Of This Placeʼ — yes, including a wobbly synthesizer pattern characteristic of the Era of Funk, but otherwise, quite loyal to the 1965 origi­nal in melody and attitude: sufficient proof that Brown could care less about the present if he still didn't have an open path to his past (and, in a funny move of self-irony, the other golden oldie co­ver on the record is the Stones' ʽOut Of Timeʼ, where Brown's "you're out of touch, my baby, my poor old-fashioned baby" could just as well relate to himself as to his imaginary antagonist). Both songs are quite well done, if not particularly spectacular in any respect, and the presence of «old-fashioned» female backup harmonies and saxophone solos should not be in the least annoying for those who don't have a prejudice against «old-fashioned» R'n'B in general.

The original compositions, meanwhile, are diverse and, even though much less befuddling and easier to swallow than on Kingdom Come albums, also make more sense — at the very least, they give the listener enough time to flesh out an emotional reaction. There is still at least one lengthy, prog-influenced, epic: ʽHelen With The Sunʼ is hardly worse than the average anthemic ballad from Kingdom Come or Journey, with a powerhouse vocal from Arthur and tasteful arrange­ments of electronically treated guitars from Dalby. There is a little bit of facetious/salacious mu­sic hall (ʽCrazyʼ) that is so tongue-in-cheek it would be ridiculous to get offended. There are moody, lyrical R'n'B numbers (like the title track) that sound very closely to certain bits of King­dom Come properly extended and played to their full length. And there is a funny ten-minute «gospel suite» to end the album, running the gamut from kitschy ska (ʽSoul Gardenʼ) to quite sin­cere-sounding gospel-funk (ʽI Know The Lord Will Find A Wayʼ) to a rather mysterious, unpre­dictable reggae conclusion where, after having just sung all the required praise for the Supreme Being, Arthur repeats the mantraic question "is there nothing beyond God?" for two and a half minutes — obviously not hoping for an answer, but not afraid to ask the question, either.

My personal favorite on this record has always been ʽQuietly With Tactʼ, a song that plays out exactly as suggested — in waltz tempo, with a certain cheese-free elegance, and features some of Dalby's finest examples of guitar playing: Dalby is actually credited for writing the entire song, and, indeed, Arthur's vocal part, fine as it is, sounds here more like a taster introduction to Andy's solo parts, spiralling around the listener in a grand display of «controlled emotion». Nobody ever seems to list the song as a highlight, which is a travesty: its solos would easily make my Top 100, had I ever bothered to compile one.

All in all, Dance is certainly not recommendable for those who, in «The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown», value the «crazy» part above all else. But it is definitely an album that belongs to the world of Arthur Brown as safely as anything, and its combination of styles, moods, theatricality, and spirit is anything but generic for 1975. And I, for one, feel good about getting to hear a bit of the human side of Arthur Brown here — we have all gotten to know him fairly well as the God of Hellfire and the Time Captive, but it turns out that he can fairly well hold his own in the much more grounded genre of «dance-art-pop». Thumbs up, of course.

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Arthur Brown: Journey

ARTHUR BROWN: JOURNEY (1973)

1) Time Captives; 2) Tri­angles; 3) Gypsy; 4) Superficial Roadblocks; 5) Conception; 6) Beginning Of "Spirit Of Joy"; 7) Spirit Of Joy; 8) Come Alive.

Kingdom Come's last album was its oddest one, and for that, is a particular favorite among the se­lect few who have chosen to receive their daily dose of truth and light from the likes of Arthur Brown. And I do have to say that, out of all of Arthur's output, Journey is perhaps that one re­cord indeed that might work better out of context than within it. I can imagine people who are not too familiar with Mr. Brown enjoy it more than those who already know him well.

To begin with, Journey is often named as the first album ever to rely exclusively on drum machi­nes in the percussion department. If this is true, it was one of those «accidents», like the several in­dependent inventions of hard rock through defective amps that are well documented in history — here, the «accident» was somewhat more trivial in that Kingdom Come, at a certain point, were simply left without a regular drummer, and instead of bothering with session musicians, Arthur and keyboard player Victor Peraino decided to handle all the percussion duties themselves with the aid of the «Bentley Rhythm Ace», an early invention from what would go on to become the Roland Corporation.

On the other hand, all the «pssht-pssht» percussion noises here do match the album's atmosphere, which is very different both from the crazy megalomaniac R&B of Zoo Dossier and the comic overtones of Kingdom Come. For some reason, guitarist Andy Dalby retreats into the back­ground and lets Peraino completely dominate the proceedings with the newest wonders of tech­nology: although old-time organs and Mellotrons still occasionally break through the walls, most of the sounds are produced electronically.

In a way, that makes Journey almost stupendously ahead of its time — an ice cold, shivery ce­le­b­ra­tion of the robo-digital ideology in pop music that not even Kraftwerk were fully capable of at the time, let alone all the New Wave and synth-pop artists of the times to come. With one excep­tion: it does not really look like there was any conscious effort here to break genre boundaries. Melodically and «ideologically», Journey does not constitute any significant departure from the old style of Kingdom Come. It just so happened that the melodies and ideologies had to be deli­vered through drum machines and synthesizers rather than actual drums and guitars. It could have easily happened otherwise. Is it a good or a bad thing that it didn't?

Hard for me to decide. Journey seems to take itself quite seriously, and, as I already said, it is ea­sier to agree with that seriousness for people who have it as their first Arthur Brown experience rather than those who have followed him from the burning helmet days. There is a «global» theme present here — the artist is breaking away from the problem chains of mankind and zoom­ing into open space, a subject for which electronic sounds are, of course, most appropriate, what with their connection to elementary particles of matter and all. But despite the appropriate sounds and the overall coldness, darkness, and «distant» nature of the music, its ability to carry you, the listener, away with it is somewhat questionable (of course, by «you» I mean «me», but who else could I put in the listener's seat? my cat is not much of a pop music fan).

In a small part this is because, having inadvertently fallen upon a New Sound, Arthur was so hea­vily seduced by it that he abused it on more than one occasion. ʽTime Captivesʼ, for instance, be­gins with almost an entire minute of nothing but rhythmic electronic percussion counting out time — yes, it ties in with the song's message, but maybe if so much of our time wasn't wasted by lis­tening to an electronic metronome, we could be somewhat less captivated by time? Four of seven songs go over seven minutes without presenting enough melodic content for three — in honest hope of setting your mind under the hypnotic power of the instruments, yet there is nowhere near the care here that, for instance, Pink Floyd would invest into their lengthy atmospheric numbers, meticulously, almost pedantically, alternating build-ups and come-downs. It is true that Journey sounds more calculated than its predecessors, with fewer of those spontaneous, sometimes irrita­ting wannabe-Zappa cuts-off and musical non-sequiturs, but it is still an Arthur Brown album, and that means it might be jumping off the pier any time now.

I would also like to add that, contrary to certain reviewers who dared to praise the use of the drum machine here, I personally find it quite dated. In 1973, these sounds were, first and fore­most, weird and otherworldly; today, they are silly and wimpy compared to what the subsequent evolution of electronic percussion has led us to. Likewise, some large chunks on ʽTime Captivesʼ, ʽGypsyʼ, etc., seem more intent on telling us «look at the real cool tone this box of knobs and cords can produce!» than on creating a cosmic mood based on suggestions that the cosmos itself is whispering into the musician's ear. If you know what I'm talking about, that is.

But none of this is to say that Journey is worthless — aside from being a genuinely unique al­bum for 1973, a totally out-of-bounds progressive experience for a year already rife with prog watermarks, it does have its share of memorable and inspiring moments. In its second part, ʽGyp­syʼ gains in fury and becomes an unstoppable cosmic rocker (the second song titled ʽGypsyʼ to use the title as a metaphor for space travel — after the Moody Blues). The wild screams, issuing out of the bass-heavy musical jungle of ʽConceptionʼ, still have an ability to shock. And ʽSpirit Of Joyʼ, despite only being three minutes of length, is an excellent attempt at fitting a happy R&B anthem within this tale of frightening cosmic darkness. Perhaps it should have been chosen as the album conclusion, instead of the overlong blues-rocker ʽCome Aliveʼ (where Dalby finally gets to come out with some blazing guitar work, but not for too long).

Altogether, Journey, like every other Kingdom Come album, is not a record that I would «trust» — and by «trust» I ultimately mean «enjoy», since it is fairly hard to honestly enjoy an album that one does not trust — but it has enough of puzzles in its sleeve, even coming off its already puzzling two predecessors, to still warrant a thumbs up. On my own cosmic journeys, I prefer to be taken by guys like Hawkwind and their B-movie visions of such things; but if a little bit of musical metaphysics conducted by a drum machine is right up your alley, give it a try by all means. After all, it's never been scientifically proven that Arthur Brown is not the ultimate source of knowledge on the universe.

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