Barclay James Harvest: Live At High Voltage

JOHN LEES' BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: LIVE AT HIGH VOLTAGE (2011)

1) Nova Lepidoptera; 2) Poor Wages; 3) She Said; 4) Galadriel; 5) Ball And Chain; 6) Mockingbird; 7) Taking Some Time On; 8) Medicine Man; 9) Song For Dying; 10) The Poet; 11) After The Day; 12) Hymn.

Our saga is almost at an end — technically, it has ended, because, other than a couple archival releases from the old days on the BBC, «Barclay James Harvest» was no more after River Of Dreams. In its place, through a simple budding process, two new entities were generated: «John Lees' Barclay James Harvest» and «Barclay James Harvest featuring Les Holroyd» — yes, the only thing better than a Barclay James Harvest are two competing Barclay James Harvests, each of them with its own personal assembly line.

It is beyond my level of endurance to go for a close analysis of Lees' and Holroyd's post-split careers, but just a few words may be in order. Holroyd had always been the «lesser» part of the two, writing relatively fewer hits and generally acting as a «sissy» counterpart to John's «tough­ness» (the distinction is embedded about as firmly as the Lennon/McCartney division line, which is to say not firmly at all, but there is a distinction) — on the other hand, he did take the drummer, Mel Pritchard, with him, so, from an arithmetical point of view, he might have more rights to the name of BJH than his tougher colleague. So far, «Barclay James Harvest featuring Les Holroyd» has had only one studio album out (Revolution Days, 2002: the small bits that I have heard con­firm the predictable suspicion — mostly pathetic adult contemporary with melodies as attractive as a bunch of squished caterpillars), as well as a couple live ones, and I suppose they must be pretty big in Germany, as always, and pretty small everywhere else.

The story of «John Lees' Barclay James Harvest» is marginally more interesting, because, in order to even out the quotas, Lees got back together with Woolly: their first effort, Nexus, re­leased in 1999, mostly consisted of reworkings of old classics, going all the way back to the early days, with a few new ideas thrown in. Also featuring Craig Fletcher on bass and Kevin White­head on drums, the band, from then on, mostly stuck to touring, and did that with modest success until Woolly's suicide in December 2010, caused by mental health problems. He was then re­placed by Jez Smith.

Live At High Voltage is a rather typical example of several live performances that the band has released in the 21st century. Recorded on July 23rd, 2011, at the High Voltage Festival in Lon­don (rather than Berlin!), it was then released as a 2-CD set (which, as a «bonus gift», included a third blank CD on which the buyer was invited to burn some photos and a video interview from the band's own site — is that marketing genius, or what?), with a side aim to act as an honorary  tribute to Woolly: they even performed Woolly's own ʽBall And Chainʼ, which they did not cover onstage while Woolly was alive.

The first thing, of course, that strikes you about the album is that none of the material dates past the late 1970s — and that most of the material (10 songs out of 12!) is from the band's earliest period (1970-72). Usually, this kind of behavior is branded as «turning into a nostalgic oldies act», but in this particular case, the aim is altogether different: for John Lees, who had been crea­tively stagnating over two decades, this is a rebirth — almost like a rejection of all that utter crap, going back to the spring of youth, that sort of thing. Listening to the band crank the volume up on those early tunes was fun to me, and a good reminder that there did really exist a time when Bar­clay James Harvest could lay claim to some depth, creativity, and good taste.

I mean, a Barclay James Harvest live album with no ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ on it? No ʽLove On The Lineʼ? No ʽLoving Is Easyʼ? No ʽTitlesʼ? Not a single Les Holroyd ballad? Most impor­tantly, no ʽSpud-U-Likeʼ or any traces of the band's existence in the synth-pop era? Bring it on, even if the actual performance is far from perfect: Lees' singing has grown craggy and cranky, the other guys, replacing Woolly, cannot sing expressively at all, the rhythm section does not feel particularly tight, and John seems to have lost a bit of the old «fluidity» in his soloing, as seen best of all on the slightly clumsy phrasing in ʽMedicine Manʼ (arthritis? or just nervous?).

But they do drag out the very first song on the very first BJH album — a fairly good run through ʽTaking Some Time Onʼ, even if, naturally, they cannot properly reproduce the psychedelic over­dub-fest that made the original coda so head-spinningly impressive. They do the entire ʽPoet / After The Dayʼ suite, with a ferocious solo at the end that quite compensates for the imperfection of ʽMedicine Manʼ. They do lots more of that nice early stuff. It's a pretty swell trip «down the old memory lane».

It is not that I am advocating for anyone to rush out and look for it, or any other «John Lees' Bar­clay James Harvest» record — normally, if you want to hear ʽTaking Some Time Onʼ or ʽSong For The Dyingʼ, you should just go back to the original source. The important thing is that this and other live records fulfill a «redemptory» function: it is pretty much John Lees saying to us, "yes, ladies and gentlemen, everything I did past 1979 was fairly crappy, and this here is me trying to undo some of the wrongs I'd done». Well, it seems to be that way — I may be getting it all wrong, but this is the interpretation that I like the most, and since I'm a sucker for happy end­ings, this is just the kind of happy ending I'd been hoping for. Therefore, all's well that ends well; thumbs up to this imperfect, but vivacious and well-meaning live album; and here's hoping that Barclay James Harvest, for a brief while at least, will continue to be remembered for the many beautiful things they'd done in their early years, rather than the numerous crimes against Taste, Queen and Country perpetrated in later ones.

Barclay James Harvest: River Of Dreams

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: RIVER OF DREAMS (1997)

1) Back In The Game; 2) River Of Dreams; 3) Yesterday's Heroes; 4) Children Of The Disappeared; 5) Pools Of Tears; 6) Do You Believe In Dreams; 7) (Took Me) So Long; 8) Mr. E; 9) Three Weeks To Despair; 10) The Time Of Our Lives.

If you actually managed to stay with me here, all the way through that interminable string of «papcore» records getting duller and duller with each subsequent release... well, I wouldn't exact­ly call River Of Dreams, Lees' and Holroyd's last BJH collaboration, a «reward» for all that patience, but at the very least, it is a partial recompense. It was not intended to be a swan song for the band — but, luckily indeed, the guys managed to stay together long enough to not let the to­tally abysmal Caught In The Light close the book on Barclay James Harvest.

This, not its predecessor, is the real objective «comeback»: finally, somebody started paying atten­tion to how far away the band had drifted from its mid-1970's sound into the territory of smooth-bland adult contemporary, and the record is a very conscious, very hard-working attempt to get back where it all... not «began», exactly, but where it had that relative balance between be­ing «artistic» and «commercial». Not only are the guitars back in a big way, fighting back the synthesizer mush with renewed forces, but so is the «poor man's Moody Blues» / «poor man's Pink Floyd» / «poor man's Beatles» spirit, which seemed so pathetic back in the 1970s, compared to what was going on at the time, but, by the late 1980s, was so goddamn sorely missed as the band plummeted into «poor man's Phil Collins» territory.

Of course, subtlety was never a forte for the band — you could suspect something of the sort hap­pening just by glancing at the song titles: ʽBack In The Gameʼ, ʽYesterday's Heroesʼ, ʽTook Me So Longʼ... And then there is all that musical legacy — the Harrison-esque slide guitar parts that open ʽDo You Believe In Dreamsʼ, the unflinching "let me take you down..." quotation on ʽMr. Eʼ, along with the psychedelic cellos, the Wall influence on ʽYesterday's Heroesʼ... but then again, without all these links, how could we call this a «comeback» in the first place? Barclay James Harvest used to make a living out of «plundering» everyone in sight — the quintessential «art-rock vultures», and now they're back with a flesh-ripping vengeance.

There is nothing «awesome» about these songs, and there probably could not be at this point, but there are almost no embarrassments, and the nostalgia is handled with care. ʽBack In The Gameʼ opens with a little chamber muzak, then enters energetic pop-rock mode with acoustic power chords backed by a permanently wailing electric part and multi-part harmonies — plenty of juicy stuff going on to excuse the expectedly trivial lyrics about "spirit of the 1970s live forever" etc.; and, what's more, it is written by Holroyd, who I'd already think had, by that time, completely forgotten how to write anything other than suave synth ballads. Lees follows with ʽRiver Of Dreamsʼ, an equally catchy «arena folk» song — not great, not awful, and vastly helped by being backed with ye olde electric organ rather than cheesy synth.

Later on, ʽYesterday's Heroesʼ gives us a rockier sound: the guitar tone is a bit rotten, like on those post-Waters Pink Floyd albums, but the main echoey riff shows inspiration. The main prob­lem with the song, I think, is that Barclay James Harvest are too «happy» a band — at least, have been too happy a band ever since their reformating in the mid-1970s — to be able to plow the lower depths of depression and desperation: ʽYesterday's Heroesʼ somehow tries to convey the despairing realisation of being stuck in an endless wheel of fate, but the growling wobble of the song's main riff is as far as they can go about expressing that despair. Still, this is light years ahead of ʽSpud-U-Likeʼ, no question about that.

The album is not entirely free of Caught In The Light's nightmarish legacy: sooner or later, electronic sentimentality must take over, and it certainly does on Holroyd's ʽTook Me So Longʼ, an elevator ballad with no redeeming value, and on Lees' ʽPool Of Tearsʼ (glycerin ones, I sup­pose), riding on pure, and very boring, atmosphere. But these, I'm happy to say, form the mino­rity among a generally acceptable bunch of songs that honestly try to get back to the source — they don't always manage to get there, but most of them are at least headed in the right direction. For that particular reason, I am inclined to mark the album with a very modest thumbs up, if only to indicate the huge «upwards» step in comparison to everything they did in the previous ten years, and to put a checkmark in the «finished career on a positive note?» box.

Check "River Of Dreams" (CD) on Amazon

Barclay James Harvest: Caught In The Light

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: CAUGHT IN THE LIGHT (1993)

1) Who Do We Think We Are; 2) Knoydart; 3) Copii Romania; 4) Back To Earth; 5) Cold War; 6) Forever Yester­day; 7) The Great Unknown; 8) Spud-U-Like; 9) Silver Wings; 10) Once More; 11) A Matter Of Time; 12) Ballad Of Denshaw Mill.

Apparently, browsing the Web reveals that a small bunch of fans continues to regard this album as a «comeback» of sorts — some call it BJH's most «progressive» effort since the late 1970s. But only a very strong love for the art of John Lees and Les Holroyd, leading to malicious self-delusion, could trick anyone into mistaking this vapid, turgid, somnambulant pile of sonic mush for an artistic comeback. The way I see it, Caught In The Light simply scales another peak in turning the band into a bland adult contemporary act — and this time, their act lasts all of sixty minutes, letting you savour each whiff of that blandness for minutes on end.

Maybe Barclay James Harvest were never a first-rate art-rock band, and maybe their devolution was slow, subtle, and treacherous, but it actually makes sense to think back twenty-three years and compare their first (and, in my opinion, best) album with this piece of junk. Think, let's say, ʽTaking Some Time Onʼ, a song that seriously and amusingly mined the psychedelic rock mines, and ʽSpud-U-Likeʼ, a song about... well, basically, this is John Lees complaining about Gameboy and «Mega drives» squishing out the rock'n'roll spirit, get it? "Don't want a Gameboy, just rock and roll... Don't want a system that ain't got no soul", Mr. Lees complains over a backdrop of electronic drums and synthesizers that is, altogether, more «Modern Talking» than anything even remotely approaching ʽrock'n'rollʼ. In a long, long story of one stylistic embarrassment after ano­ther, ʽSpud-U-Likeʼ just might be the lucky one to take first prize.

Subtler, but even more embarrassing, is ʽOnce Moreʼ. If you already know your BJH well enough, you might, perhaps, suspect that the title really means «let us re-record an old song», and indeed, this is a re-write of ʽMockingbirdʼ, lock, stock and barrel, only with synthesizers replacing strings — Lees does let go with some frenetic soloing towards the end, but this does not save the ridi­culous monster, it only raises further questions, such as, if this guy's only remaining talent is to squeeze out beautiful lead sequences from his guitar, why does he do this on one or two songs per album, and lets generic synthesizer parts rule with an iron fist over the rest of it?

But wait, there is more. ʽBallad Of Denshaw Millʼ is a nine-minute track that is almost complete­ly — barring the noisy intro and the small solo of the outro — ruled by a keyboard «melody» that requires the compositional skills of a 6-year old after his second piano lesson. «Based on a Saddleworth legend», apparently, but who gives a damn? In a world populated by miriads of at­mospheric epics, this one does not even begin to qualify. ʽForever Yesterdayʼ took me a few lis­tens to understand its source, but then the title ultimately helped out — of course, the verse me­lody is but a slight variation on Dylan's ʽForever Youngʼ, with the first line completely the same and the rest deviating by split hairs. And if I were offered to cherish the memory of my departed father with a corny synth ballad like ʽBack To Earthʼ, I know I would quite certainly be offended. (And I can certainly understand this grief, but did those lyrics really need to sound like a rhyth­mic rearrangement of a schematic memorial service?).

And now for the big one — all of the songs mentioned above are Lees songs. You can try to imagine what the Holroyd songs are like — better still, don't even try, because it is fairly hard for a mind not thoroughly accustomed to sentimentally synthesized adult contemporary to imagine such a copious amount of pathetic triviality all at once. Each of these songs must have been com­posed in about three minutes' time, then took about three years of huffing, puffing, and convin­cing oneself that this is one of the most serious, profound, heartfelt songs ever written. Then they go in, play the required three notes on the rhythm synthesizer and the required one note on the «lead» synthesizer and go out.

All in all — my hearty congratulations: after Welcome To The Show, it seemed that they could already sink no further, but Caught In The Light successfully conquers an extra five or ten feet of depth (we are talking sewer territory here, of course). Then again, for justice sake, it should be remembered that this is just my irate personal opinion, and there are alternate ones, for instance, such as «in the age of trivial grunge, these brave people returned with their deepest, most intro­spective album in more than a decade!» So take this next thumbs down with a grain of salt — especially if you have a habit of, for instance, thinking of Chris de Burgh in terms of «depth», «introspection», and «progressiveness».

Barclay James Harvest: Welcome To The Show

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: WELCOME TO THE SHOW (1990)

1) The Life You Lead; 2) Lady Macbeth; 3) Cheap The Bullet; 4) Welcome To The Show; 5) John Lennon's Guitar; 6) Halfway To Freedom; 7) African Nights; 8) Psychedelic Child; 9) Where Do We Go; 10) Origin Earth; 11) If Love Is King; 12) Shadows On The Sky.

By the late Eighties / early Nineties, some of the prog dinosaurs were willing to show signs of life, but most were still hibernating in «commercial» lairs, and Barclay James Harvest, of all people, were fairly safe in one of those lairs as long as the East European markets were open — and open they were, with more and more breachings of the Iron Curtain, as lovingly commemorated by Les Holroyd in one of these album's worst songs (ʽHalfway To Freedomʼ). Consequently, Welcome To The Show — no, this is not a live album, wouldn't it be too damn obvious even for a band like BJH if it were? — simply offers you twelve more slabs of different varieties of adult contem­porary muzak for all tastes. Sappy adult contemporary, hard-rocking adult contemporary, mysti­cal adult contemporary, anthemic adult contemporary, ethnic adult contemporary — you name it, we got it, as long as it is glossy, «serious», and deadly dull.

Needless to say, Holroyd's half is about twice as putrid as Lees' — mostly either electronic pop junk with a steady beat, but no true hooks (title track; ʽThe Life You Leadʼ) or Phil Collins-style big ballads with big brass saxophones and so much h-e-a-r-t you'll cry out for liver in no time (ʽWhere Do We Goʼ; ʽShadows On The Skyʼ). Of particularly specific cringeworthiness is ʽAfri­can Nightsʼ, a nostalgic remembrance by Les of the band's tour of South Africa in 1972 — if the annoying electronic congas do not do you in a matter of moments, the lyrics surely will: if it is indeed true that one of Les Holroyd's most lingering memories of traveling through the apartheid-torn South Africa in 1972 is how "the sound man played The Eagles / As we listen / ʽTake It Easyʼ echoes on through our lives"... words fail me so utterly.

But every once in a while, Lees comes quite close to matching the tastelessness of his crumblier partner. The juiciest «highlight» is ʽJohn Lennon's Guitarʼ, a song about how — listen to this! — a guitar, borrowed from John Lennon at Abbey Road Studios in 1970, turned out to be instrumen­tal for the recording of the Barclay James Harvest song ʽGaladrielʼ. Yes, that is what the song is about, and it tells the story in plain documentary fashion. No, there is nothing wrong in borrow­ing a guitar from John Lennon, or even in acknowledging that fact twenty years later. Yes, one does not usually do this in the form of a sentimental ballad, for fear of not only looking stupid on one's own, but also making every recipient of said ballad feel equally stupid. Yes, the Beatles were great and all, but why all this relentless sucking up? ʽTitlesʼ were bad enough, and now "I remember the day, I remember the day, the day that I played John Lennon's guitar, I remember the day, as if it was yesterday, and I know that the memories will never fade..." — am I the only one to suspect some neural imbalance here?

Almost as bad, but in a different way, is ʽPsychedelic Childʼ, a slurred logorrhea of «flower power clichés» set to... no, not retro-stylized «psychedelic» sounds of fuzz guitars, harpsichords, and sitars, as could be thought, but to a muscular riff-rock sound with a serious hair metal flair: the «heaviest» that Lees gets on this album, perhaps under the influence of a Def Leppard concert or something in the same style. A song that sounds awful and makes no sense whatsoever at the same time — mission accomplished to perfection.

Struggling to find anything even vaguely redeeming about the album, I can only think of two songs that have potential: ʽLady Macbethʼ is John's valiant attempt at writing and recording some­thing inscrutably mysterious (but the song is still butchered with plastic electronic key­boards), and ʽIf Love Is Kingʼ features one of those quintessential-classic Lees solos that can be melodic, intelligent, and kick-ass at the same time — unfortunately, it has the unluck to be stuck on top of yet another forgettable pop-rocker, driven by a corny synth riff. It really baffles me how this obvious talent — at his best, the guy could rival Dave Gilmour as a soloist — could be com­bined with such poor skills at decision taking, but natural selection works in mysterious ways.

If BJH are the poor man's Moody Blues, then Welcome To The Show is the equivalent of a poor man's Sur La Mer, and that, as anybody vaguely familiar with Moody Blues history can easily tell, is not much of a compliment. And, naturally, the album runs for one whole hour straight, be­cause, according to an unbreakable law of physics, the worse a BJH album is, the longer it has to run. To give the record a thumbs down is to say nothing — I'd like to submit an official demand to remove it from public circulation, but, fortunately, it seems that nature has already settled this in its own wise way.

Check "Welcome To The Show" (CD) on Amazon

Barclay James Harvest: Glasnost

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: GLASNOST (1988)

1) Nova Lepidoptera; 2) Hold On; 3) African; 4) Love On The Line; 5) Alone In The Night; 6) On The Wings Of Love; 7) Mockingbird; 8) Rock'n'Roll Lady; 9) He Said Love; 10) Turn The Key; 11) Medicine Man; 12) Kiev; 13) Child Of The Universe; 14) Life Is For Living; 15) Poor Man's Moody Blues; 16) Berlin; 17) Loving Is Easy; 18) Hymn.

If, having lived way past the Gorbachev era, you happened to forget the exact meaning of the Rus­sian word glasnost', or if, on the contrary, you are too young to have lived through that era and are in need of a good translation, look no further than the fourth live album by Barclay James Harvest! Of course, they forgot to put it on the album cover, but I will gladly fill it in for you: «Glasnost' is when they finally let us sing our crappy songs in East Berlin as well!»

Recorded July 14, 1987 at the Treptower Park (the actual date would rather suggest a different location, like the Place de la Bastille, but the BJH codex of honor explicitly states that all memo­rable dates in BJH history must take place on German soil, or else John Lees' right to a life-long supply of free Sauerkraut will be forfeit), this is a full CD — these days, actually a nearly full double CD, containing the entire concert — of songs played live before an appreciative audience of East Germans, about a year prior to the demolition of The Wall, but with change already high in the air. The band was invited to play as part of a larger celebration of Berlin's 750th anniver­sary, and the attendance was measured at way over 100,000, particularly since many were able to get in for free. (In retrospect, I wouldn't probably go to a BJH concert around 1987 if you paid me, but those times were sure different).

However, even if there actually was a feeling of liberty and excitement at the venue (and there obviously must have been), it is not well translated onto the recording. Chief reason for this is that, even at that juncture, Barclay James Harvest still refused to come to terms with themselves as an oldies act, focusing chiefly on new material. Consequently, we get an eye-(and ear-)popping set of six songs from Face To Face — songs that deserve to be forgotten upon first listen, much less revived in a live environment — and, on the whole, more than half of the set is culled exclu­sively from the post-Woolly era. With minor exceptions, all of these loyally reproduce the studio recordings, bringing the sonic wonders of such late-period masterpieces as ʽHe Said Loveʼ, ʽAfri­canʼ, and ʽOn The Wings Of Loveʼ back to your tired ears just as you thought you would never have to encounter them again.

Real golden oldies, in addition to the ever-present ʽMockingbirdʼ, are also represented by the welcome return of the hard-rocking arrangement of ʽMedicine Manʼ, done in good style and with the expected frantic solo by Lees. Mid-1970s oldies, though more abundant in scope, are also to­tally predictable — ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ to drown the crowd in third-rate sentimentalism, ʽBerlinʼ to justify the paying crowd's expenses, and ʽHymnʼ to merge with the crowd in throbbing religious ecstasy at the end of the show. Only the album opener ʽNova Lepidopteraʼ is a relative surprise. but, again, the live version is almost completely identical with the studio album's. (At least the new CD edition makes it into a slightly unexpected opening — the original would open with ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ!).

Clearly, there are only two groups of people who should care in the least about this album — (a) the really hardcore BJH fans, those who simply need to have an official live record from Ger­many recorded on proper equipment (something that Berlin did not really offer), and (b) East Germans, particularly those who were there on that memorable day and, naturally, attach special nostalgic value to the show; for them this event may have had a very special meaning — anything, after all, that makes one's life happier and nobody else's life unhappier, should be worth owning and cherishing. That said, I'm fairly sure that many other good things — better things — than this show could have taken place in Berlin on that day, so, for justice' sake, let us not forget how almost utterly awful this particular setlist is, and settle with a thumbs down after all. One thing must be said for Lees, though — he learned to speak a fairly good German in all those years that the funny old Krauts were sponsoring his personal and artistic existence.

Check "Glasnost" (CD) on Amazon

Barclay James Harvest: Face To Face

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: FACE TO FACE (1987)

1) Prisoner Of Your Love; 2) He Said Love; 3) Alone In The Night; 4) Turn The Key; 5) You Need Love; 6) Kiev; 7) African; 8) Followed Me; 9) All My Life; 10) Panic; 11) Guitar Blues; 12) On The Wings Of Love.

All through 1985 and 1986, some of the worst years in commercial pop music history, thankfully little was heard of Barclay James Harvest — in fact, this was the first time ever in the band's his­tory that they decided to take such a long break, and the musical press must have finally breathed a sign of relief. But not to worry: refreshed and remobilized, John «Jesus Loves Africa» Lees and Les «Boy Loves Girl» Holroyd are back, and now they have the opportunity to make full use of the CD format: the full CD version of Face To Face contains twelve songs and stretches out for a grand sixty minutes. Turns out that the years weren't simply wasted, after all. But maybe this is exactly what all the German fans were waiting for — that new, improved TV dinner from your favourite band, now 20% more nutritious.

The best I can say about Face To Face is that every time I listened to it while doing something else at the same time, I had no impression / memory / faint reminiscence of what I just heard ten seconds after I'd heard it. And this was the good news, because when I finally got angry with my­self, dropped everything, and started focusing in on the music... well, the most awful thing about this whole late-period BJH trajectory is that there really was no single-moment werewolf trans­formation: it was more like a portrait-of-Dorian-Gray kind of a thing, with each subsequent al­bum adding another streak to the general degradation. But by this time, Barclay James Harvest can no longer even be called «poor man's Moody Blues» — this late Eighties stuff sounds like a parody on late Seventies BJH, which itself sounded like... oh well.

Without going into serious details (this album certainly ain't worth it), I will just briefly mention some of its more appalling elements. Number one: how many song titles with the word ʽloveʼ in them does one really need? we got the message twenty years back, thank you very much. Number two: didn't John Lees already set The New Testament for Kids to music with ʽHymnʼ, a decade ago? so why did he feel the urge to do that again, in an even more thorough, and even more trivial, manner? Number three: didn't John Lees already come up with his best anti-oppression / anti-war song more than a decade ago with ʽChild Of The Universeʼ? Who needs this particular ʽAfricanʼ, with its plastic synth-rock arrangement? Number four: excuse me, but the combined evil of the melody, the arrangement, and the lyrics makes ʽPanicʼ a fine candidate for worst BJH song ever written by Lees on any occasion — tough as the actual competition might be. The "yeah yeah yeah rock'n'roll" bit simply shows that the man must have not been in his right mind at the time: no normal human being could have agreed to release this crap on a commercial basis.

You might think that Les Holroyd is finally doing better, but no dice: his ʽTurn The Keyʼ is hor­rendous Phil Collins-type adult contemporary, his ʽPrisoner Of Your Loveʼ is bland synth-pop, and, although his ʽKievʼ may have been driven by pure generous empathy with the victims of Chernobyl, in the context of his past karma it just feels like a continuous quest to write a sugary love song to every bisyllabic European city: for some reason, we never got around to hearing his ʽBelgradeʼ or ʽMadridʼ, and I am still personally and impatiently waiting for my own ʽMoscowʼ. And, for that matter, do Barclay James Harvest fans exist in India? China? Central African Re­public? They may want their own personal tribute to their capital cities, too.

All right, enough sarcasm. Truth be told, under normal conditions Face To Face provokes neither laughter nor anger — even when the band are at their most appalling, they cloak it so well with slick, inoffensive production and soft, inobtrusive singing that all the senses just go plain numb. I do feel like giving the album a thumbs down this time, though, seeing as how it has no re­dee­ming qualities whatsoever, and even the band's trademark «melodicity» is reduced to rehashing, recycling, and regurgitating chords and leads that weren't on anybody's hot list in the first place.

Barclay James Harvest: Victims Of Circumstance

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: VICTIMS OF CIRCUMSTANCE (1984)

1) Sideshow; 2) Hold On; 3) Rebel Woman; 4) Say You'll Stay; 5) For Your Love; 6) Victims Of Circumstance; 7) Inside My Nightmare; 8) Watching You; 9) I've Got A Feeling.

No big changes from the formula here, either — just small ones, and, as usual, for the worse. For instance, there is a further slight tilt into adult contemporary: ʽI've Got A Feelingʼ, another vile bur­glari­zation of a Beatles title, represents Holroyd's most faithful adoption of the Eighties' sen­ti­mental ballad style (watery synthesizers, trembling falsettos, the works). A little more guitar than there was last time, but what guitar? The leaden arena riffs of ʽHold Onʼ have nothing to do with John's lilting melodic solos.

Perhaps the biggest introduced «novelty» is a set of female singers singing backup, an idea that might have meant wanting to give the record a little soulful-gospel flavor, but ended up, I think, moving the band closer to Europop. One needs to go no further than the album opener: ʽSide­showʼ starts out as a glossy uptempo folk rocker, but then, as massive strings and female choirs start fountaineering from the speakers, it becomes an odd mix of Bee Gees and ABBA (in fact, a few of the string movements are almost openly copied from ʽDancing Queenʼ). As usual, they have the means to pull it off without embarrassment, but the whole style is really so alien for John and Les that they have no means whatsoever to turn it into something remarkable.

Those who have never embarked on an anti-arena rock crusade might get to like the rockier stuff on here. ʽRebel Womanʼ (despite the title, this is, curiously, an anti-Soviet song, written in the wake of the Korean airliner incident) has a streak of grim catchiness, although it could have done better without the irritating synth loops — and, perhaps, with an actual guitar solo (for some rea­son, Lees saves all of his solos for the ballads on this album — an unexplainable choice, since he used to do really well on the fast rockers). ʽInside My Nightmareʼ could have been just as good, had they kept the girls away from the microphone and made the basic guitar riff less sterile. At the very least, the two songs are a refreshing change of pace from the usual mush.

And the usual mush is hardly worth commenting — lots and lots of ballads that mostly reshuffle old ideas, scraped off Bee Gees and Elton John (ʽFor Your Loveʼ) records; I wouldn't be surpri­sed, either, to learn they had been listening to late Genesis and early solo Phil Collins as well (ʽSay You'll Stayʼ definitely has the same atmosphere as ʽFollow You Follow Meʼ). The staying power of these tunes is expectedly close to zero, although, once again, I have to stress: even at this late period, BJH songs are all «forgettable» and «mediocre» rather than openly offensive and embarrassing (unless you start bringing in the lyrics).

It should also be noted that this is the first BJH album on which Holroyd compositions outnumber those of Lees (5:4), and also the first BJH album on which Holroyd compositions are significant­ly weaker, as the man completes the transition from folk-based soft-rock into synth-choked adult contemporary, while Lees still attempts to at least nominally justify the «rock» heritage of the band. Thus, even though at this point there is still no talk whatsoever of splitting the alliance (after all, they didn't just kick Woolly out of the band for nothing: Turn Of The Tide showed how happy they could be as a duo), it is not excluded that the first faint traces of the creative rift can be tracked to some time around this period.

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Barclay James Harvest: Ring Of Changes

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: RING OF CHANGES (1983)

1) Fifties' Child; 2) Looking From The Outside; 3) Teenage Heart; 4) High Wire; 5) Midnight Drug; 6) Waiting For The Right Time; 7) Just A Day Away; 8) Paraiso Dos Cavalos; 9) Ring Of Changes.

There is practically nothing that could be called «synth-pop» on this album, but neither is there anything that would even remotely qualify for a «rock» sound. Acoustic guitars, keyboards, and orchestration fully dominate the proceedings: Ring Of Changes is Barclay's mellowest album since the very beginning, and that says a lot, considering how mellow they had been since 1974. In a way, this is even curious, because the record goes against the grain: in 1983, «mellow» usu­ally meant stuffing your songs with bland synthesizer tones that reached all the way to heaven, not placing your trust in old-fashioned cellos and violins.

Much of the credit for this must proba­bly go to the band's new producer, Pip Williams, who was previously mostly known for produ­cing a long bunch of Status Quo records — but who also helped relaunch the comeback of The Moody Blues. And, supposedly, once he had helped the «rich man's Moody Blues» get back on their creative feet with Long Distance Voyager and The Present (the only two of their Eighties' records that could at least partially match the quality of the old days), it must have been only natural for him to go across and try and do the same thing with the «poor man's Moody Blues».

The beginning is weirdly promising: a baroque chamber music passage instead of the expected synthesizers. Midway through, the strings turn Hollywoodish, though, and then sink into the background as ʽFifties' Childʼ finally takes shape as a typical BJH number: soft, romantic, thinly intellectual, mildly nostalgic, just a teeny bit touching while it's on, and completely forgettable when it's off. The vocal melody in some respects seems like a variation on the already not-too-awesome ʽHymnʼ — and the message is of comparable profundity: ʽLove was a lesson we tried to learn / There were no exams to pass or failʼ. With each passing year, as nostalgic tributes to Sixties' idealism keep multiplying and, consequently, depreciating in net value, there is less and less motivation to be interested in this one.

But you know what? Easily the best thing about ʽFifties' Childʼ is its bassline — all of a sudden, Holroyd's lines start drawing more attention to themselves than whatever Lees is doing, because the guy suddenly gets the urge to make them as melodic and expressive as possible. Maybe he had some serious Sgt. Pepper inhalation or something, but the way he explores all possible swerves from the basic rhythm is really the only thing that prevents me from falling asleep to Lees' soft preaching. And later on, it turns out that this is not an exception: about half of the songs here have excellent basswork: ʽHigh Wireʼ, ʽJust A Day Awayʼ, ʽMidnight Drugʼ... we probably have Pip Williams to thank for putting these parts so high in the mix, but, whatever be the situa­tion, Ring Of Changes is the first album in the BJH catalog that made me aware of Holroyd's above-average talents as bass player.

Holroyd is also responsible for the most memorable, if also most repetitive and unadventurous, bass phrase on the album — the pulsating loop that drives the title track, which is itself an anthem to the endless cycle of life, going on for way too long (unless the underlying message is that the endless cycle of life is a continuous bore, which would be at least worth considering) but cleverly arranged, with the bass loop, the grumbling electronic bleeps, and the strange Eastern-vibe strings combining in a unique manner. The bass loop and the bleeps might illustrate the relentless cogs of life locked in an endless grind, but the psychedelic strings?.. Makes one wonder.

As for the rest of the songs, they're okay — on the whole, less satisfactory than Turn Of The Tide because of the lack of a rock sound (not a single uplifting Lees solo!), but, as usual, melodic and somewhat memorable for those who will stand several listens. Occasionally, they do begin to sound like late period Bee Gees (ʽWaiting For The Right Timeʼ — strange that Les held back on singing this one in falsetto, all the other adult contemporary ingredients already present), but on the whole, the 1970s folk-pop vibe is still prevalent, and as long as they manage to hold out against mainstream Eighties' values, BJH are still a listenable outfit.

One last particular mention: the orchestration on ʽParaiso Dos Cavalosʼ, John's hyper-sentimental ode to a horseback vacation in Portugal, is absolutely marvelous — formulaic and a little cheesy, perhaps, but the New World Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by David Katz, gives the song a far more uplifting and grandiose flavor than its main melody. Probably an accident — on the whole, the orchestral arrangements on the album are not too adventurous — but every happy ac­cident on a late period BJH album counts, because that's what a typical late period BJH album usually is: mush and mediocrity with an occasional tasty treat for the seeker.

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Barclay James Harvest: A Concert For The People (Berlin)

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: A CONCERT FOR THE PEOPLE (BERLIN) (1982)

1) Berlin; 2) Loving Is Easy; 3) Mockingbird; 4) Sip Of Wine; 5) Nova Lepidoptera; 6) In Memory Of The Martyrs; 7) Life Is For Living; 8) Child Of The Universe; 9) Hymn.

We all saw it coming. I'm guessing they just ran out of space on the front sleeve, preventing the album from flashing its true full name: A Concert For The People (Who Continue To Buy Our Records Because We Wrote A Very Sappy Song About Their Hometown And They Fell For It, Well What Do You Expect Of Them Dumb Krauts Anyway). In grateful and sincere recog­nition of that fact, Barclay James Harvest did indeed play a live show on the steps of the Reich­stag, no less, on August 30, 1980 — and recorded this historical event (why historical? no idea) on audio and video for as much posterity as will be ready to stand the band.

Consequently, the biggest problem with this third BJH live album in less than ten years must have been the setlist. It is not very likely that they only played the nine songs on the album (al­though these are also the same nine songs that are available on the official video): most likely, they just selected the stuff that was not yet written in the age of Live and Live Tapes. So the set­list, or at least this particular section of it, mostly focuses on their recent period — the majority of the songs stemming from either XII or the yet-to-be-released Turn Of The Tide (oddly enough, Eyes Of The Universe is completely snubbed — too bad, the 175,000 Berliners assembled for the show might have enjoyed some disco dancing). ʽMockingbirdʼ is also included since, well, it is BJH's equivalent of ʽSatisfactionʼ; and ʽChild Of The Universeʼ and ʽHymnʼ make a re­ap­pe­ar­an­ce because a live album just ain't a live album without its fair share of singalong anthems, and XII was rather lean on singalong anthems.

The album is reported to have been seriously doctored, since there were multiple problems with the recording equipment (the spirit of the Reichstag does not take lightly to overseas intruders, so it seems), and some of the guitar parts had to be recut, which is why the final version came out so relatively late. This explains why Lees' guitar solos sound so much cleaner and sharper than they did on the earlier live releases — and, as usual, plunges us into the philosophical discussion on pre-calculated quality vs. flawed spontaneity. But at least they did go to the trouble of re-recor­ding rather than, say, using the solos from the original studio mix.

Still, it is hard to think of any reasons that would make Berlin an essential listen. There are a few rearrangements — ʽLoving Is Easyʼ, for instance, is sped up (which does not make the opening bassline any less ʽPsycho Killerʼ-ish) and recast in a rockier mode; whereas ʽChild Of The Uni­verseʼ, on the contrary, seems a bit softer and slippier than the original, with more emphasis on the keyboards and less heaviness in the guitar department. But it's almost impossible to under­stand what makes this seven-minute version of ʽIn Memory Of The Martyrsʼ preferable over or in addition to the studio version — naturally, this song, written in homage of the unlucky Berlin Wall crossers, had to be played there, but it would probably make more sense to try and get ins­pired by watching the faces of the people listening to it than by the audio track of the actual per­formance. Same goes for ʽHymnʼ, of course, except that ʽHymnʼ, unlike ʽMartyrsʼ and ʽBerlinʼ itself, is not specifically targeted at German audiences.

At least, with the possible exception of ʽLife Is For Livingʼ, they don't play any of their bad material — and the concert catches them in that short-lived upwards spiral of the post-Woolly era, so it represents another bookmark in the Amazing Technicolor Story of Barclay James Harvest that most people couldn't care less about. Oh, and do buy the DVD rather than the CD if you are really desperate — Lees cuts quite a melodramatic figure, jumping around in his matching red pants and jacket, and, with his beard shaved off, he sort of looks a bit like Roy Orbison now.

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Barclay James Harvest: Turn Of The Tide

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: TURN OF THE TIDE (1981)

1) Waiting On The Borderline; 2) How Do You Feel Now?; 3) Back To The Wall; 4) Highway For Fools; 5) Echoes And Shadows; 6) Death Of A City; 7) I'm Like A Train; 8) Doctor Doctor; 9) Life Is For Living; 10) In Memory Of The Martyrs.

This time, the album title is anything but random: this is arguably the most optimistic-sounding record put out by BJH since God knows when, if not ever. Perhaps it had just sunk in how much happier they were without Woolly and his Mahlerisms (not likely), or maybe, like the song ʽHow Do You Feel Now?ʼ, it reflects John's uplifted mood upon the birth of his daughter (a little more likely), or it could be a consequence of the band's surprisingly high commercial success in Europe — in many a well-known case, all it takes is to start making a little money on artistic depression to make artistic depression go away. But this is all guesswork, and the plain fact is that most of these songs (with the deceptive exception of the opening lost-love-style number) stick together as a consciously designed, and sincere-sounding, ode-to-joy.

More importantly for long-time followers, Turn Of The Tide is also the first BJH album to be almost completely keyboard-dominated: in addition to Kevin McAlea, new guest member Colin Browne also adds his support on numerous instruments, including synthesizers — and guitars are all but relegated to either, sometimes, providing a wimpy acoustic foundation, or, even more rare­ly, squeezing out a hard-rocking solo or two, just to remind us that John Lees can still play guitar and remember what a lead melody is. So, from a purely technical point of view, one could try and argue that this is the band's first «synth-pop» album — except that, from a deeper point of view, «synth-pop» also requires a shift of approach to melody as such, and in this respect, BJH remain staunch traditionalists ("that kind of rock don't appeal", grunts Lees on ʽHighway For Foolsʼ be­fore engaging in one of those ass-kicking rock'n'roll solos with wah-wah a-plenty).

Surprisingly, though, it's all neither as boring nor as tasteless as could be expected. The band pays a little more attention to the hooks — a little too much attention, in fact, with obsessive repe­ti­ti­ve­ness as a key factor in their memorability — and carefully avoids falling into the trap of mistaken identity (e. g. posturing as disco kings or «New Romantics»). Instead, they just focus on their old-school, «Beatlesque» idealism, dress it up in trendy (but not too trendy) new (but not too new) sounds, give it a bit of punch, and voilà, something listenable is born.

As usual, I could very easily do without the sappier Holroyd parts. His high point here is pro­ba­bly ʽI'm Like A Trainʼ — not coincidentally, the least catchy of his songs, but the one that grows the most, with an almost surprisingly complex vocal arrangement, coming in cadences and cas­cades that are normally associated with The Beach Boys; the whole thing ends with a series of accappella harmonies that were earlier reserved for the likes of Smile. It's not tremendously great in all its derivativeness, but a fair try nonetheless — which I couldn't say about the rather idiotic Caribbean-styled ʽLife Is For Livingʼ, written with ritualistic arena audiences in mind (it is all based on exactly one endlessly repeating musical phrase), or about ʽEchoes And Shadowsʼ, also minimalistic to the point of stupidity (and it doesn't help, either, that they are selecting some very yucky, long since outdated synth tones for both).

Lees, however, is in better form, and a more variegated one: he contributes a sentimental, but clear­ly heartfelt ballad (ʽHow Do You Feel Now?ʼ, delivered in a vocal style midway between Jeff Lynne and George Harrison), a couple of glossy, but crunchy pop-rockers with a hard edge (the instrumental sections of ʽHighway For Foolsʼ are the only corner of this record where a heavy rock fan could find some refuge), a dumb post-disco dance number (ʽDoctor Doctorʼ) that should probably count as the most «modernistic» song on the album (when applied to a band like BJH and a year like 1981, this does not promise any bliss, though), and the obligatory closing anthem — ʽIn Memory Of The Martyrsʼ, where «the martyrs» explicitly refers to those who perished while trying to cross over the Berlin wall. Naturally, that last song would have been a success in Germany even if it were melodically horrible, which it is not: as far as anthemic acous­tic ballads with a singalong chorus and a sophisticated touch (symbolized by moody fusion-style synth solos) are concerned, it is simply overlong, but at least the punchline — "we are love, we are, we are love" is delivered without pathos, and that is laudable.

Altogether, for an «uplifting» record (and in art rock, good or bad, convincingly «uplifting» re­cords are a relative rarity — usually reserved for the likes of Yes), Turn Of The Tide is not at all disgusting, and occasionally entertaining. This is not sufficient grounds for a thumbs up, but it does show that Barclay James Harvest did not enter the Eighties completely empty-handed; like most of their art-rock contemporaries, they still had something to say at that point, or at least it could have seemed that way. They left the Eighties quite empty-handed, to be sure, but in that, too, they were quite far from being alone.

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Barclay James Harvest: Eyes Of The Universe

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: EYES OF THE UNIVERSE (1979)

1) Love On The Line; 2) Alright Down Get Boogie; 3) The Song (They Love To Sing); 4) Skin Flicks; 5) Sperratus; 6) Rock'n'Roll Lady; 7) Capricorn; 8) Play To The World.

Woolly's departure did not make much of an actual difference — his regular «one track per al­bum» quota (occasionally graciously increased to two) seemed to uninspire him to the point of not really giving a damn, and, with the possible exception of Octoberon, most of his songs re­corded in the «silver age» of BJH were not the major highlights of those albums. His keyboards may certainly be missed, but the new guest player Kevin McAlea, drafted in mid-session when it became clear that Lees and Holroyd were unable to properly compensate without a separate key­boardist, does a fine job both filling in for Woolly's «old-school artsy» style and propelling the band into the electronic age — ʽLove On The Lineʼ opens the record with a gruff synth loop in a Kraftwerk fashion. Would Woolly have wanted that? Would Mahler have wanted that, for that matter? Isn't this transition a bit too straightforward?

Then again, who cares. Eyes Of The Universe sold exceedingly well in continental Europe, fur­thering BJH's reputation in Germany and other neighboring countries, but in retrospect, the only thing that makes it different is a bit of homage to contemporary musical styles. ʽAlright Down Get Boogieʼ, for instance, is a disco-rocker, supposedly tongue-in-cheek, given the unhidden sarcasm in Lees' lyrics — but if you do not consult the lyrics, it is quite easy to take the "lights, boogie, lights, get down boogie alright" chorus of the song for serious, and the more seriously one takes this song, the more stupid it ends up.

ʽLove On The Lineʼ, apart from its electronic loops, also makes room for a disco bassline; and ʽThe Song (They Love To Sing)ʼ is a completely synth-dominated rhythmic ballad that makes ABBA sound like tough hard-rockers in comparison. Sequenced together and placed at the top, these three songs really create a strong impression that Eyes Of The Universe is the beginning of something radically new for Barclay James Harvest — a third period, in which the gates are finally opened for the onslaught of disco, New Wave, synth-pop, electronics, and all kinds of fresh new ideas used in predictably bad ways. As if it were only the presence of Woolly that hin­dered Lees and Holroyd from finalizing the bill of sale.

However, once we are past the opening three, the remainder of the album is much more tradi­ti­onal. ʽSkin Flicksʼ is an acoustic-based, orchestrated, anthemic ballad about how glitz, glamour, and easy money separated the protagonist from his loved one, continuing Lees' ongoing and slightly suspicious fascination with «adult-oriented» themes. ʽSperratusʼ wobbles from tragic introspective ballad to agitated pop-rock chorus and back, before launching into a spirited, but somewhat cartoonish guitar duo battle à la Thin Lizzy. ʽRock'n'Roll Ladyʼ is one of those many late-Seventies songs that have a subversive mention of "rock'n'roll" in the title, but are really targeted at nightclub audiences, with their stiff, glitzy, dancebeat-oriented atmosphere. And the last two songs are traditionally «wall-of-soundish», but completely non-descript — ʽPlay To The Worldʼ, in particular, might be the most boring, uninventive, one-finger-on-a-piano epic ballad  that ever served as a coda to a BJH album.

I suppose that it must have been the double-punch of the silly disco send-up and the achingly boring seven minute epic at the end that made me, at one time, think of Eyes Of The Universe as one of the worst efforts from an «art» band in the 1970s, and rate it as 1 star out of 5. In all fair­ness, it is not that bad — with a few exceptions, BJH do not have to sacrifice much of their usual melodic talent to keep up with the times. At the very least, it is about as consistent as XII, and should be rated modestly high by everyone who generally favors the «poor man's Moody Blues» vibe. Still, for old times' sake, I award it a thumbs down, if only because I still cannot stand ʽPlay To The Worldʼ and everything it represents — pretentious sentimental pomp without any genuine dynamics whatsoever. Leave it to the mighty state of Germany to disagree — they are all wusses anyway. Imagine making a national hero of Les Holroyd instead of Lou Reed.

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Barclay James Harvest: XII

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: XII (1978)

1) Fantasy: Loving Is Easy; 2) Berlin; 3) Classics: A Tale Of Two Sixties; 4) Turning In Circles; 5) Fact: The Closed Shop; 6) In Search Of England; 7) Sip Of Wine; 8) Harbour; 9) Science Fiction: Nova Lepidoptera; 10) Giving It Up; 11) Fiction: The Streets Of San Francisco.

At least we now know that Barclay James Harvest were definitely not deaf and blind to recent musical developments, including that whole oddball «New Wave» thing — considering that the stern-marching bassline that opens ʽLoving Is Easyʼ was lifted directly from ʽPsycho Killerʼ. (Perhaps Lees just thought that there was no way the base audiences of BJH and Talking Heads could have any overlap whatsoever — and he was probably right, too).

Unfortunately, where the bassline of ʽPsycho Killerʼ flows quite naturally into the funky guitar riff, and the funky guitar riff nicely tills the soil for the paranoid vocals, the bass in ʽLoving Is Easyʼ does not even technically fit in with the rest of the song — it was stuck there just for a fla­shy flourish, and this decision very neatly summarizes the main flaw of BJH: a band that never stopped looking for ideas (not necessarily their own ones), but ever so rarely had a good under­standing of how to «set up» an idea once it had been found.

It's not even that ʽLoving Is Easyʼ is that bad an album opener — it's got a catchy Foreigner-style chorus, a vicious solo, a perky-arrogant synthesizer tone... well, okay, it is pretty bad, because all of it is hardly enough to override the confused amusement at John's salacious double-entendres. I mean, "...as I shoot all my love into you"? "just get a hold and watch how it grows"? I do not exactly remember anybody ordering a blue plate special à la AC/DC, although it is the Foreigner comparison that is more appropriate here: sexist arena-pop with crude, stern hooks and no sense of irony whatsoever. And leave it to a band as perplexed as BJH to mix all that with the bassline of ʽPsycho Killerʼ.

If I have unintentionally made the song sound more curious than it is, I apologize, because, in all actuality, XII is a fairly boring record. Those who do seriously care about the second phase of poor Barclay's career will probably still want to own it, and make it their last: after XII, Woolly, disgruntled with disproportionate discrimination, finally quit the band and became free to pursue his own Wagnerian-Mahlerian dreams in a solo career. But even as XII still sticks fairly close to the band's «progressive» or, at least, «art» roots, it seems to run on an even smoother, less per­ceptible railtrack than its predecessor. It is melodic, modestly complex, and rarely indulges in huge lapses of taste, the biggest exceptions being the aforementioned ʽLoving Is Easyʼ and ʽA Tale Of Two Sixtiesʼ, where, once again, Lees puts on his old-and-worn Rock Guru Shoes and pours out a name-filled «baby-boomer complaint» on the decline of rock music: apparently, "rock and roll died with Easy Rider" and "I'm cutting out now before the New Wave takes my surf board flair". (That's all fine, but why steal from David Byrne then?).

On the formal side, the album is notable for containing ʽBerlinʼ, a typically mushy Holroyd an­them that endeared the band to the Germans so much, they would go on to sell most of their al­bum stock in that country — Les is honestly trying to come up with a McCartney-quality ballad here, and it probably wouldn't be too cringeworthy if not for his elfish voice, carrying such an overdose of sentimentalism that my emotional centers immediately regurgitate the stuff.

It is also notable for an «encyclopaedic» twist on Lees' part: all of John's songs are arranged in «library folders» (ʽFantasyʼ, ʽClassicsʼ, ʽScience fictionʼ, etc.), to reflect the wide variety of his interests and the genuine Renaissance nature of his character. This bold artistic move is a little diluted, though, by the necessity of mixing his material with that of Les and Woolly, both of whom refuse to play the game; and by the rather loose adherence to the rules — for instance, why the hell is ʽLoving Is Easyʼ placed under ʽFantasyʼ when it clearly should have been labeled ʽAdultʼ (unless, of course, under «fantasy» we first and foremost understand something like this)? And why does he write such deadly boring «fiction» as ʽThe Streets Of San Franciscoʼ, which closes the album with three minutes of a repetitive dark-descending-acoustic coda with splutters of barely audible morose harmonica pasted over it for consolation?

Overall, they seem to have succeeded in creating a slightly darker, denser, more stylistically uni­fied and, subsequently, less memorable and «flashy» sequel to Gone To Earth: Woolly went on record stating that he actually prefers XII (probably, among other things, because they let him have two songs on it instead of the usual one — mercy gift before the final breakup?), and in a way, so do I, because it does not at least have a ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ on it. But that does not make it recommendable, either: darkness and density aside, the music is still as limp and spineless as ever — by this time, only a miracle could lift them out of this bog, and Barclay James Harvest were a steady, self-assured band that never really believed in miracles.

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Barclay James Harvest: Live Tapes

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: LIVE TAPES (1978)

1) Child Of The Universe; 2) Rock'n'Roll Star; 3) Poor Man's Moody Blues; 4) Mocking Bird; 5) Hard Hearted Woman; 6) One Night; 7) Taking Me Higher; 8) Suicide; 9) Crazy City; 10) Jonathan; 11) For No One; 12) Polk Street Rag; 13) Hymn.

Only four years separate Barclay James Harvest's second live album from their first — that and the unexpected commercial success of Gone To Earth, which must have been the decisive factor in the appearance of Live Tapes, a record that is just as long as Barclay James Harvest Live and about twice as unnecessary. The actual tracks are a mix of performances recorded on the 1976 and 1977 tours, and the original album title was to be Caught Live until somebody pointed out that, once again, this would only help prolong the «poor man's Moody Blues» curse, as the Moodies already had a Caught Live + Five to their name. The advice was heeded, and the band eventually went along with the genuinely original, groundbreaking, and inspirational name of Live Tapes instead.

This time around, the band has jettisoned its pre-1974 incarnation output almost entirely, retai­ning only a somewhat perfunctory run through ʽMocking Birdʼ as the only link with their «pro­gressive past». The result is that the setlist now consists only of their derivative art-pop songs that leave very little space for improvisation, restructuring, or rearrangement (besides, songs like ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ were already «restructured» in the first place, so how much further tampering could they stand?). So the only thing that makes the record worth any of our while is that the live setting removes some of the problems with extra-glossy production or too much silky soft­ness in the arrangements on the studio albums.

Concerning the setlist, it is interesting that not a single one of Woolly's tracks is performed — the poor keyboardist is thus completely degraded to the role of session player — and that Lees gets a slight advantage over Holroyd, which is well understandable since it was Lees who was respon­sible for writing most of the band's harder-rocking and anthemic tunes, suitable for an arena-rock setting. As usual, Lees' melodic soloing is practically always the high point of the performances, and he does get at least one of those on each song. But the only track that can be seen as a relative improvement is Holroyd's ʽRock'n'Roll Starʼ: in this setting, it gets a little more meat on its bones and a little less ground to be accused of soft-rock bogginess.

From a certain point of view, Live Tapes may act as a decent shortcut for evaluating the band's entire career in their «silver» period of 1974-77 — most of the highlights are here, and, fortuna­tely, they do not include such thorough lowlights as ʽTitlesʼ, and go easy on Holroyd's exaggera­ted sentimentalism (only ʽTaking Me Higherʼ manages to break through the arena-rock filter). But the live setting may be a turn-off just as well — in particular, the roar of audience approve­ment that Lees gets after announcing ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ as the next song brings on the usual troubled thought on the elusive nature of good taste... then again, maybe the good gentle­men wre just happy that, with the Moodies no longer around, somebody was able to go on stage and at least offer a credible substitute for all the yearning hearts.

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Barclay James Harvest: Gone To Earth

BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: GONE TO EARTH (1977)

1) Hymn; 2) Love Is Like A Violin; 3) Friend Of Mine; 4) Poor Man's Moody Blues; 5) Hard Hearted Woman; 6) Sea Of Tranquillity; 7) Spirit On The Water; 8) Leper's Song; 9) Taking Me Higher.

Well, this record is certainly memorable. From the «ambitions» point of view, it is a step back from the relative complexity of Octoberon — more songs on the whole, and more simple songs in particular, with «soothing repetitiveness» as one of the key factors that determine memorability. But there are some cool songwriting ideas here, and the soft-rock atmosphere is still resonating with echoes of Sixties' art-pop idealism, and the formula still works.

Ironically, the song that helped make Gone To Earth into «the» BJH album of all time (their big­gest commercial success and the first pick of many a critic in retrospect) is... a joke song. Not only does ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ truly sound the way it is called, but John Lees actually de­signed it that way, as a slap-in-yer-face in the direction of many a reviewer who had previously derided the band as a cheaper imitation of who-do-you-think. Essentially, it is just one of those silly ideas — like ʽTitlesʼ — to tinker around with the old treasure chest. And, just like ʽTitlesʼ, it fails because it never really lets you know what it wants to be.

I mean, for somebody who has never heard ʽNights In White Satinʼ, ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ may be a stately, solemn, chivalrous love anthem rather than a senseless deconstruction of the original, subtracting most of its pluses (the inimitable Hayward vocals, the group harmonies, the flute solo, etc.) and offering nothing in return. For those of us who do know the original, this is, at best, a self-ironic statement, something like: «...so you thought we were all a poor man's Moody Blues? well, you couldn't be more wrong, because here is what a true poor man's Moody Blues really sounds like, and nothing that we did before is really that ridiculous!» But if such was the reasoning, it is doubly ironic how the song became a hit for the band, and ended up as a perennial favourite on their live setlist.

The other live highlight from the album is John's ʽHymnʼ, which can be easily mistaken for a loving retelling of the story of Jesus for kindergarten-age children, then correctly reinterpreted (with the aid of John himself, who would always clarify the interpretation in concert) as a war­ning for the simple folks not to use drugs as a means of attaining Godlike status. Then, finally, it becomes a Kansas-style moralization without the Kansas-style musicianship, and the final effect is — too much preachiness and pathos, but just not enough depth. Granted, it is hard to explain why something like ʽHymnʼ feels like pablum where something like George Harrison's ʽIsn't It A Pityʼ, largely designed according to the same rules, is genius — either George uses the more ap­propriate tonalities, or has more soul in his vocals, but the feeling is unmistakable, even if it may not be shared by everyone.

John gets more interesting on ʽLove Is Like A Violinʼ, where folk verses are integrated with upbeat, disco-wise (but not really disco) choruses with an elegant resolution — this time, the fluff manages to be charming; and on ʽLeper's Songʼ, which sounds sort of like Supertramp (in fact, it is not the only song on the album that sounds like Supertramp), but in this context, it is more of a compliment than anything else. (The lyrics are allegedly inspired by reading Joseph Conrad and Graham Greene — well, at least this beats ʽHymnʼ, which must have been inspired by «The New Testament For Preschool Conservatives»).

Holroyd's contributions are a little bouncier this time, and not all of them emphasize the sugar-and-spice, as it was on Octoberon: ʽFriend Of Mineʼ is catchy, if hardly original, Eaglish country-pop, ʽHard Hearted Womanʼ is a dark, mildly brooding, Eaglish country-rocker à la ʽWitchy Womanʼ, and ʽSpirit On The Waterʼ, breaking the tendency, is a clear attempt to emulate the Beach Boys circa Sunflower and Surf's Up — and, if you look past the ugly synthesizer tones, an almost successful one: at least the harmonies are pretty well arranged; although, truth be told, I wouldn't be surprised (and would be very amused) to see the song titled ʽPoor Man's Beach Boysʼ, just to complete the circle.

Meanwhile, Woolly, true to his nature, goes on with the ʽPoor Man's Gustav Mahlerʼ project, this time in the context of a space-age song, about being either lost in space or losing the space race or something like that — ʽSea Of Tranquillityʼ is no better and no worse than ʽRaʼ, a stately project carried out with some dignity, but in a completely predictable fashion, with the usual fanfares in their usual places. The man does know his Mahler and his Strauss — too bad that, cruelly reduced to one contribution per album, Woolly decided to stick exclusively to these pastiches; perhaps he thought that this was the best possible antidote he could offer to the excessive soft-poppiness of his bandmates, but it would certainly have been nice to see him try out other styles as well.

Altogether, the reasons why Gone To Earth has achieved such a «special» status in BJH history, other than the accidental popularity of ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ — I wonder if the success of that song could have played any part in the Moody Blues themselves reuniting the following year, recognizing how much they were still missed? — those reasons remain a mystery to me, because for those who perceive BJH as an «art» band, Octoberon would be a much better choice, and those who think of them as primarily soft-pop, light-fluff artists, have no reason to worry about album favourites in the first place. With the exception of ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ, a song that makes me feel very stupid every time I listen to it, Gone To Earth is pleasant, inoffensive, and, as I said, occasionally «hooky» and memorable, so a thumbs up it is, but in retrospect, it is hard­ly a high point for the band, and definitely not up to their classic early standards.

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