Änglagård: Buried Alive

ANGLAGARD: BURIED ALIVE (1996)

1) Prolog; 2) Jordrök; 3) Höstsejd; 4) Ifrån Klarhet Til Klarhet; 5) Vandringar I Vilsenhet; 6) Sista Somrar; 7) Kung Bore.

A prog band just ain't a true prog band without an eighty-minute live LP under its belt; and even if Buried Alive was released as an afterthought, with the band already defunct for two years (the actual performance is from 1994's Progfest in Los Angeles), that does not make it any less of a «destiny fulfilled» symbol for the Swedish revivalists.

The track list is unmercifully stern: they reproduce all of Hybris, most of Epilog, and none of the cover tunes from their idols they occasionally allowed themselves to perform live (such as Ge­nesis' 'Musical Box', for in­stance) — come to think of it, that must have been a wise decision, be­cause the band's singing sucks even worse live than it does in the studio (this particular version of 'Klarhet' features some of the lamest off-key notes I've ever heard on any prog rock record, peri­od), and the sooner the world forgets about Tord Lindman's impersonation of Peter Gabriel, the better. Buried Alive sticks to its own guns, and let it stay that way.

Of course, it also means that, like all traditional prog bands leaning over to the symphonic rather than free-style ideology, the sole point of Buried Alive as an album is to prove that Änglagård's complexity can be and has been reproduced in a live setting with the exact same precision as it showed in the studio. The sound quality, I believe, could be slightly better — volume levels are not always properly adjusted, some instruments sometimes come out muffled, etc. — but overall, the quibbling is minor, so if your CD copy of Hybris ever rots down, rest assured that Buried Alive will still give you the same satisfaction.

On a sidenote, it is hard to refrain from noting that the «Progfest» in question, judging from the volume of the applause, must have been delighting an immense army of music lovers — no less than twenty, I'd say, and perhaps even all of a whoppin' fifty. Considering that, according to pub­licity descriptions, the LA Progfest draws progressive rock lovers from all over the world, I would guess that, be it «neo-prog», «retro-prog», or «prog-o'-the-prog», all of these new-fangled bands put together still would not match the popularity of a single classic Yes, Genesis, or Jethro Tull album — that most music lovers today would rather relisten to their stiff, preserved copies of Fragiles and Foxtrots than pay money to witness the living, breathing sounds of Echolyn, Anek­doten, and Minimum Vital. Which, as far as I'm concerned, should not make anyone sad — on the contrary, the more it stays this way, the more it helps ensure the status of Fragiles and Fox­trots as the stone cold classics they are, and I, for one, am a hopeless sucker for stone cold clas­sics. And what about Änglagård? They're all right, for about sixty minutes per year.

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The Art Of Noise: In No Sense? Nonsense!

ART OF NOISE: IN NO SENSE? NONSENSE! (1987)

1) Galleons Of Stone; 2) Dragnet; 3) Fin Du Temps; 4) How Rapid?; 5) Opus For Four; 6) Debut; 7) E.F.L.; 8) A Day At The Races; 9) Ode To Don Jose; 10) Counterpoint; 11) Roundabout 727; 12) Ransom On The Sand; 13) Rol­ler 1; 14) Nothing Was Going To Stop Them, Anyway; 15) Crusoe; 16) One Earth.

On their third album, Art Of Noise decided to hit it off the deep edge. Now reduced to the core duo of Dudley and Jeczalik, no chains prevented them of making the psycho-electronic equiva­lent to Jethro Tull's Thick As A Brick: a sprawling, not-obviously-coherent mess of tunes, ef­fects, and ideas whose main point is «never let the listener understand where he is going to find himself the next moment».

My version of this album is not actually divided into sixteen tracks; just like the original CD versions of Thick As A Brick, it only contains two, and I have never given myself the trouble of trying to understand which sections of these two correspond to the sixteen «songs» listed on some of the editions — and I am pretty sure that the dynamic duo themselves never intended for any­ of their fans to waste time on that trouble. No single track on the album truly stands on its own; it all works as a single-breath fourty-minute Art Experience.

As usual, the saving grace, particularly for those who are not amused at the idea of art for art's sake, is «fun». Certain chunks don't go anywhere and are really quite boring (particularly the ones that go for that old «brea­thy moody» style of 'Moments In Love'), but every once in a while they bring out the brawny dance rhythms, inject them with samples of whatever they heard on TV the previous day, then interrupt and replace them with crap stuff any time they feel like it — then, as you start cursing under your breath, bring them back... for a while. In short, they cling on to their reputation as the arrogant hoodlums of sampling, and that counts.

The only single piece of it that stuck with audiences was, unsurprisingly, the band's rearrange­ment of the classic theme from the old TV show Dragnet (to serve as a modernized version for the 1987 movie), maybe out of sheer amazement that no significant pop artists since Ray Antho­ny in 1953 had ever wanted to ingrain it into the public conscience as much as, say, the Batman theme. The rearrangement is as fine as the theme itself (and pokes some concealed fun at the show's trappings by looping the spoken line 'I carry a badge' many times over), but sort of obscu­res the fact that much of the rest of the album also consists of music, and not only that, but music originally written by the band members themselves.

A thing, in itself, controversial: the album that presented Art Of Noise in their least compromi­sing, most seriously inaccessible emploi, at the same time betrayed their original purpose — to serve as spiritual guides to machine-crafted art — like no other. There's guitar solos a-plenty on the record, violins playing classical interludes, lounge jazz pieces coolly swung on electric pianos: they're almost becoming a real band. Sure it all goes away then, replaced by crowd recordings or wobbly white noise, to remind us that we are still in 1987, but then wham, you get a fresh saxo­phone solo passage or something. Want it or not, the human still shows through the machine.

Overall, it is the kind of album that really makes me wish Anne Dudley were born ten years earlier and had herself a little stand next to Yoko Ono's at the Indica Gallery, because In No Sense — in all senses — is that particular musical statement that 'Revolution No. 9' could have been, but never was. Of course, one big difference is that Art Of Noise, at their best, were inten­ded to be fun: laughing-smiling, celebrating life's absurdities or, at least, mocking them rather than being terrified at their sight. But then that's exactly what the Beatles' spirit was, too, isn't it, before life made them all bitter and grim? I don't know about everybody else, but this is just the way I like my modern art: self-ironic, easy-going, butterfly-style. You may hate this album, but you will almost certainly snicker at it at least once or twice, and that's enough by me. Thumbs up for all the good feelings.

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Alan Parsons Project: Eve

ALAN PARSONS PROJECT: EVE (1979)

1) Lucifer; 2) You Lie Down With Dogs; 3) I'd Rather Be A Man; 4) You Won't Be There; 5) Winding Me Up; 6) Damned If I Do; 7) Don't Hold Back; 8) Secret Garden; 9) If I Could Change Your Mind.

Up until 1979, The Alan Parsons Project had not only exercised a total ban on «love songs», but, in fact, the issue of male/female relationship was almost conspicuously absent from their art as a whole — so much so that it is highly likely that many must have been questioning the nature of the relationship between Parsons and Woolfson themselves. Of course, there is a formal justifi­cation — that issue was not of central importance to their concepts — but, after all, neither Edgar Allan Poe, nor Isaac Asimov, nor, least of all, the Egyptian pharaohs were ever above «getting some», neither in their writings nor in their actions.

Then, in 1979, they released Eve, and the people's worst fears came to life. Song after song after song, Parsons and Woolfson push forward the idea that «getting some» is an understandable tem­ptation, but, in the long run, it's simply not worth it. Look at the string of song titles from track 2 to track 6: it may be the single longest-running, most expertly and intelligently crafted assault on the female sex ever committed to vinyl. Move over, Bernie Taupin, tell Mick Jagger the news. She lies down with dogs, she's winding me up, she won't be there anyway, so I'd rather be a man, but damned if I do and damned if I don't no matter what.

The concept was that long-awaited catalyst for critical oxidation — most of the pen-holding brothers never loved The Project all that much anyway, but at least the previous three albums, with their immaculate execution, never provided them with a strong enough excuse to torpedo them right to the bottom. And it did not help matters either that Eve was, unquestionably, the most lightweight «pop» album from The Project so far. Individually, there are no songs here that pander to tastes even simpler than those that demanded 'Don't Let It Show' and 'One More River', but collectively, Eve is almost exclusively remembered for its catchy pop choruses rather than dense arrangements or breathtakingly complex «progressive» instrumentals.

So there is nothing really surprising in the fact that Eve fell through the cracks. It must have dis­gusted women, feminists, and liberal critics (and conservative critics weren't listening to the band in the first place); it must have betrayed the expectations of the dwindling, but still present, prog-rock crowd; and at the same time, it was not that much of a sellout — because the one thing that was definitely not on the Project's mind when making the record was making it sell à la Styx or Journey or the Bee Gees.

Too bad. Eve is a pop album, for sure, but it is one of the best and, in this writer's opinion, least dated pop albums of 1979. Yes, the points that most of the songs make are certainly debatable, but, as with all kinds of art, it is not the substance of the points that counts, but the coefficient of success with which they are made. Your woman may not lie with dogs neither literally nor meta­phorically, but if 'You Lie With Dogs' manages to be Biblically-angry enough to convince you — for that one particular moment! — that she does, then the song is a respectable piece of art. And Lenny Zakatek sings it in quite a convincing manner, not to mention the trivial, but unforgettable guitar riff that goes along with the singing.

Likewise, 'I'd Rather Be A Man', with its 'Run Like Hell'ish echoey guitar, brims with misogyni­stic paranoia so much that lead vocalist David Paton must have understood he was running cer­tain career risks there; 'You Won't Be There' is an excellent send-up of a typical BeeGees-style Seventies ballad that ends up demeaning its object rather than glorifying it; 'Winding Me Up' subtly conceals its anger behind bouncy rhythms and Vivaldi-colored interludes; and 'Damned If I Do' does a good job of conveying a mesmerized lover's desperation. It all works, right down to the sleeve cover on which two females of suspicious occupation are busy unsuccessfully covering their herpes sores with stylish veils. Symbolism, what?

Nevertheless, it is sometimes forgotten that women are given a fair chance to rebound on the al­bum: in fact, Eve is the only record by The Project that actually features female lead singers: Clare Torry of 'Great Gig In The Sky' fame ('Don't Hold Back') and Lesley Duncan, an occasional hitmaker and Elton John backup vocalist ('If I Could Change Your Mind'). The former gives poor men an optimistic perspective on things, the latter sort of admits that, whaddaya know, these cold heartless bitches have feelings, too. And, once again, both make good points: 'Don't Hold Back' is catchy and uplifting, while 'If I Could Change Your Mind' is a fine example of a cheese-free Se­venties ballad that, in a reasonable and refined society, should and would have been a much big­ger hit than — oh, I dunno, 'More Than A Woman', for one thing.

Anyway, do not be misled by the inappropriate application of political correctness and do not be afraid of liking this record if it is its subject matter, not its music, that seems off-putting to you. There are all kinds of women in the world, and some actually «lie down with dogs» (want it or not, my spam inbox reminds me of the fact every few days), and it doesn't sit well with some men — that's the kind of situation Parsons and Woolfson are playing around with, but it doesn't mean they are forcing the listener into making some absurdly generalizing misogynistic conclusions. Proof? No true woman hater would have let his patented woman-hating album end up with a song as gorgeous as Lesley Duncan's ballad, which, on its very own, makes one forget all about the female transgressions so vividly depicted on Side 1.

As for the watering-down of the progressive style in which the band initially started out, well, I would say that mixing «progressive» and «pop» is a very difficult art in itself, and whoever suc­ceeds in making the final results not come across as overtly dumb and cheesy deserves recogni­tion per that success alone. Pink Floyd had set that standard on Dark Side, and Parsons, as their #1 disciple, would be expected to follow suit. I would say that on Eve, for the first time ever, the band's instrumental compositions — 'Lucifer' and 'Secret Garden' — while still immaculately ar­ran­ged and produced, no longer show us the band's true heart; they are intended more as a lure for old-school fans, an obligatory tribute to tradition. But I don't think it's a problem at all.

Anyway, the intrigue, controversy, and originality alone make Eve a standout in Parsons' disco­graphy — and what's wrong with having a bunch of good melodies finalize the picture? Ani Di­Franco will, no doubt, want to rip me to shreds for this, but a powerful thumbs up all the same.

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