King Crimson: Absent Lovers

KING CRIMSON: ABSENT LOVERS (1998 /rec. 1984/)

1) Entry Of The Crims; 2) Larksʼ Tongues In Aspic, Part III; 3) Thela Hun Ginjeet; 4) Red; 5) Matte Kudasai; 6) Industry; 7) Dig Me; 8) Three Of A Perfect Pair; 9) Indis­cipline; 10) Sartori In Tangier; 11) Frame By Frame; 12) Man With An Open Heart; 13) Waiting Man; 14) Sleepless; 15) Larksʼ Tongues In Aspic, Part II; 16) Discipline; 17) Heartbeat; 18) Elephant Talk.

General verdict: This is the one true reason why King Crimson was destined to survive the Seventies.

So it took Fripp about 14 years to release a fully representative live set for his bandʼs Eightiesʼ lineup — and to this day, Absent Lovers remains the only such document to be widely available for consumers, although the extensive Collectorsʼ Club series does feature about 6–7 additional shows stretching from 1981 to 1983. Even so, it is hard to shake the feeling that Robert himself is somewhat under-appreciative of this period in KC history, preferring to either plunge himself into Seventiesʼ nostalgia or, instead, concentrate on the evolution of the band in the 21st century. Maybe he thinks that those years were a little too pop-oriented to properly convey and symbolize the essence of King Crimson, or maybe he is subconsciously jealous of Adrian Belew stealing way too much spotlight for himself in those years — it is only possible to speculate on this matter, but it is clear that the more time passes by, the fewer happy memories survive.

Which is, of course, a pity, because from a lot of perspectives Absent Lovers is the one most perfect, most well-rounded, most energetic and inspiring King Crimson live album to ever see the light of day. It may not be the most well-representative of the bandʼs enormous and diverse legacy — there is no ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ in the setlist, no ʽEpitaphʼ, no ʽFractureʼ, no ʽStarlessʼ — but there was no better time in KC history when the band would actually sound more live in the fundamental sense of the word. And for that, we do indeed have to thank Adrian Belew, as well as Tony Levin, KCʼs liveliest bass player: in this particular four-man lineup, Belew and, to a slightly lesser extent, Levin are the perfect Dionysian counterpoint to Frippʼs and, to a slightly lesser extent, Brufordʼs Apollonian structurality (though both pairs of players can occasionally switch or merge functions if the context requests it). The Fripp / Belew contrast, in particular, was arguably the most exciting contrast ever — the calm, strong, stable, confident anchorman and the wild, playful, hystrionic, hopping entertainer, although beneath the surface you can easily see a strong will to entertain on the part of the former and a strict, well-organized sense of discipline on the part of the latter.

The performance here was recorded on July 11, 1984, at The Spectrum in Montreal, which was the very last show for the Belew / Levin / Bruford lineup, yet shows nary a hint of tiredness or boredom — if anything, KC only draw rather than dissipate energy for each show they play, so the later, the better. It also gives us a good chance to hear a fully representative retrospective of the entire early Eightiesʼ trilogy, with the best album (Discipline) and the latest album (Three Of A Perfect Pair) in the lead and Beat lagging a bit behind, but thatʼs OK. The bandʼs earlier legacy is restricted here to just two classic instrumentals from the golden days of 1973–74 — ʽRedʼ and ʽLarksʼ Tongues In Aspic, Pt. 2ʼ — but both are performed quite faithfully, implying that the musical styles of prog-era and New Wave-era King Crimson might not be that different from each other after all. That said, it could be argued that it is precisely the live setting which draws them closer together, because the difference in style between the studio counterparts of these Eightiesʼ performances and their live renditions is stunning — just about every live track here blows its studio original away, so much so that ʽThela Hun Ginjeetʼ and ʽSleeplessʼ from this album have long since become the default versions of these songs for me, and I only come back to the originals for re-reviewing purposes and such.

The simplest statement of difference, of course, would be to just say that Absent Lovers rocks harder than any KC studio album from the same period — which might not necessarily please Fripp, since this is the kind of statement that typically applies to hard rock bands like the Who or Led Zeppelin, not progressive math-rock projects like King Crimson. But then again, at the beginning of the concert, right after the opening punch of the first two numbers, isnʼt it Adrian who tells the audience to "have a good time, sit tight, yell, scream, spill your beers, have a pleasant evening"? throw in a handful of "fuckinʼ"s and this might just as well have been a Metallica sort of welcome. Want it or not, this is a rock concert, and if that means, for instance, bringing the microphone all the way up on Tony Levinʼs bass, adding a whole lot more «bottom» to the sound than in the studio, well, count me happy.

Even Fripp is completely happy to get into the spirit of things, soloing like a maniac let loose on the slow part of ʽLarksʼ Tongues In Aspic, Pt. 3ʼ and cracking extra fireworks for ʽIndisciplineʼ which goes on for almost twice as long as the original but never feels like it. Belew occasionally falters in his singing, which is to be expected from a guy who is doing that while prancing on the stage and trying to make his guitar walk the thinnest line between discipline and madness at the same time — we can surely forgive him for that, given that most of the time he stays perfectly on key. But in the instrumental sphere of things I find no flaws whatsoever. Particular emphasis should be placed on the Bruford / Levin rhythm section: despite the occasional criticism that Robert may have had for Billʼs style, I think that Absent Lovers, even more so than the some­times overproduced and doctored studio recordings, shows how smoothly he had transitioned from the symphonic textbook of early Seventiesʼ prog to the funkier polyrythmics of prog-cum-New-Wave in the early Eighties.

Like I already said, my own personal favorites here are ʽThela Hun Ginjeetʼ and ʽSleeplessʼ. The former, stripped here of its distracting sampled overdubs, lets you hear the «dialog» between Belewʼs and Frippʼs guitars in all of its insane glory — the «physical» choppy funk rhythms and chicken scratch of Adrian serving as the basis for the «psychic» cyclic waves of Robert, though superficially it is all Belewʼs show, as he goes from classic funky fun to making his guitar sound like broken glass to dive-bombing and whatever other urban ruckus comes into his mind and back to funk again. ʽSleeplessʼ, in the meantime, is here revealed in all of its nightmarish power, with Levinʼs «throbbing» Chapman stick pounding out the restlessness of your brain, while Belew and Fripp create a solid blanket of demonic terror around it — a genuine beast of a performance, and a fairly unique one, since, unless I am mistaken, they never got around to resurrecting the song live after the 1984 tour.

Importantly, if you thought that Discipline-era records were not altogether free of filler, Absent Lovers also fulfills the role of a nearly immaculate best-of-live package: there is not a single song from that era whose absence I would actually miss on this album. Interestingly enough, they omit most of the ambient-ish, atmospheric tracks such as ʽSheltering Skyʼ and ʽNuagesʼ: the closest you get to relaxing and tripping out is on the opening Frippertronic track ʽEntry Of The Crimsʼ, and even that one eventually descends into Hell before you have proper time to go to sleep. Other than that, you have here everything that truly matters — from the weird tribal dance rituals to the avantgarde crescendo build-ups to Belewʼs pop schtick (I know some Crimheads do not care much for songs like ʽMan With An Open Heartʼ, but I am quite fond of its pop hooks, even though I admit that this kind of material benefits the least from being played live). In other words, if you only have time and money for one King Crimson package from the era, it goes without saying that Absent Lovers — easily one of the best live albums of all time — is the true way to go. The only thing that puzzles me about the situation is why they had to wait 14 years to release it officially, especially after having announced so proudly to the excited Canadian audiences that "to top the occasion, we are recording the evening for posterity". ("Whatever posterity is", says Adrian after a brief pause, and it turns out that he did have a point). 

Pink Floyd: The Division Bell

PINK FLOYD: THE DIVISION BELL (1994)

General verdict: A tired, derivative, and washed-out nostalgic prayer thatʼs as honest and sympathetic as the finest in tired, derivative, washed-out nostalgic prayers go.

Critically slammed upon release with just as much verbal venom as A Momentary Lapse Of Reason, it might look like The Division Bell is one more of those albums in desperate need of a fair reassessment — especially in this new era when Angry Artistic Assholes such as John Lennon or Roger Waters are starting to (at least temporarily) lose the battle to Pleasant Polite Personalities such as Paul McCartney or Rick Wright (Gilmour, I guess, sits somewhere in the middle between these two, though still probably closer to PPP than to AAA). So far, however, I have not seen much activism on the matter; and the main reason, I think, is that The Division Bell simply holds no appeal whatsoever to the younger generations — of all nominally Floyd albums, this one is the most openly «boomer-oriented» of the lot, meaning it would be totally uncool, at best, to defend it around 2020.

Roughly speaking, The Division Bell in its entirety is one long, juicy, self-absorbed nostalgic trip. Recycled musical ideas with slight variations; lyrics almost completely centered on past memories and experiences; guitar solos that weave a near-constant fabric of light nostalgic melancholy — everything here screams, one way or another, that the course has been run and that this bandʼs best days are long, long gone. But at least there is a hint of honesty about it, one that was missing on Momentary Lapse Of Reason, an album whose production values, moments of puffed-up anger and occasional stabs at social relevance gave the illusion of a band ready to move forward with the times. On The Division Bell, Gilmour and Wright are busy doing what they actually want to do and what they can do, freeing themselves from the social obligation to prove that Pink Floyd can continue to be a progressive force even without Waters. If what they want to do is simply shed a tear about how "the grass was greener", we have every right to empathize with that tear.

Except you have to wait a long, long, long time to get around to ʽHigh Hopesʼ, arguably the albumʼs culmination. Before that, you have to sit through ʽCluster Oneʼ, a nice and forgettable instrumental in the vein of ʽShine Onʼ, but with no memorable guitar lines; ʽWhat Do You Want From Meʼ, the albumʼs most energetically aggressive blues-rocker in the vein of ʽHave A Cigarʼ, but without that songʼs bitter sense of sarcastic humour; ʽPoles Apartʼ, seven minutes of pleasant folk rock with a «psychedelic» interlude in the shape of a carousel waltz; ʽMaroonedʼ, another instrumental excuse for an extended Gilmour solo that could have been taken right from the outtakes of his first solo album; ʽA Great Day For Freedomʼ, an ironic anthem whose musical pomp makes it sound like a special coda for The Wall directly commissioned from the likes of Asia (Gilmour even sounds a bit like John Wetton here); ʽWearing The Inside Outʼ, a bona fide adult contemporary number sung by Rick Wright but featuring no interesting keyboard work from him whatsoever; ʽTake It Backʼ, a very strange attempt by the band to go all utterly U2 on our asses — I mean, Gilmour did invent The Edgeʼs style of playing, but did he actually have to adapt it back, and try to sing like Bono at the same time?... and oh God no, there are still three more songs here before ʽHigh Hopesʼ, and I have already exceeded my limits on these mini-assessments.

Arguably the main weakness of all these songs is that they all go on for way too long, but thatʼs Pink Floyd to you: you know it donʼt work if it donʼt have an epic or atmospheric intro, and a solid Gilmour solo, and these things take time. But another weakness is the production — even if it is cleansed of the usual Eighties excesses, most of the album still sounds surprisingly lifeless, to the extent that even the live renditions of these tunes on Pulse are somewhat preferable to their studio counterparts. Gilmourʼs guitar tones are thin, and the melodicity is often lost in the dense forest of keyboard overdubs and echo effects. Even something as forgettable by itself as ʽComing Back To Lifeʼ actually does come back to life for a brief while during the live performance at Daveʼs Pompeii concert in 2016, with sharper and crisper guitar tones, louder and prouder vocals, and a band that seems way more willing to get into it than the session musicians were in 1994. It is almost as if Gilmour gave everybody a warning — "listen, guys, we are making this brooding melancholic album about how everything sucks, you are not allowed to bring any emotional sharpness or power into the proceedings".

ʽHigh Hopesʼ is a different story, though. It isnʼt nearly as killer as ʽSorrowʼ, simply because it delivers a smoother, compromising message — but it does feature the albumʼs most (if not only) memorable chorus, it does contain its most beautiful slide solo, and it does deliver its general message more efficiently in seven minutes than the rest of the album does in one hour. In the lyrical department, I admit that it can make one uneasy to sing along with lines like "the grass was greener, the light was brighter", even while fully grasping their irony — but one should not also overlook the titular line of "the ringing of the division bell had begun", which, in the context of the song, certainly referred to Sixtiesʼ counter-culture, but in these days could just as easily ring true with the social and generational rifts of the 21st century. I am not a big fan of the main piano-led melody — its chords are more post-peak Camel than Floyd in nature — but boy does David ever shine on that solo outro, maybe his best since ʽComfortably Numbʼ, though, once again, he does an even sharper and shriller job on subsequent live performances.

In any case, I think that at the very least, The Division Bell does good as a proper swan song for Floyd — who knows, maybe it would have earned a little more respect had Gilmour, Wright, and Mason expressly stated at the time that there would be no more Pink Floyd after this release, instead of leaving everybody hanging on in obscurity and letting things just go their natural way. It is definitely no Abbey Road, an album that managed to nicely sum up things while at the same way pointing several distinct paths to musical future; but neither is it an Itʼs Hard, an album that had to fake creativity and enthusiasm where there was none in sight. It is a record that honestly says it — we are tired and weary, we are through, we have no perspective on the future, we are only inspired by our past, and we are not ashamed of it. No wonder that the message was ignored or ridiculed back in 1994 — but as you look back on it from 2020, it is actually hard not to get some respect for this position.

Elvis Presley: G.I. Blues

ELVIS PRESLEY: G.I. BLUES (1960)

1) Tonight Is So Right For Love; 2) Whatʼs She Really Like; 3) Frankfort Special; 4) Wooden Heart; 5) G.I. Blues; 6) Pocketful Of Rainbows; 7) Shoppinʼ Around; 8) Big Boots; 9) Didjaʼ Ever; 10) Blue Suede Shoes; 11) Doinʼ The Best I Can; 12) Tonightʼs All Right For Love.

General verdict: One of those odd cases when the Army actually makes a muppet of a man rather than the other way around. (Then again, maybe thereʼs nothing really odd about that).

Let me kick this off with a fun bit of personal trivia: this new version of ʽBlue Suede Shoesʼ was the first one Iʼd heard, since, for some reason, it was included on my extensive (French, I think) compilation of Elvisʼ greatest hits instead of the original — by mistake, probably, but the result is that I have always been more partial to this version, by way of nostalgia. It is fascinating, though, to play the 1956 and 1961 versions back-to-back: there is no better way to see how sloppy, wild youthful exuberance gives way to slightly more restrained and assured professionalism. On the original, Elvisʼ voice is deeper and more intimidating, yet it also sounds like he is literally jumping at your throat with each line, possessed by that crazy rockʼnʼroll power to the point of barely holding it together. Come 1961, his delivery is calmer, more natural, maybe a bit more homely, without any crazy ad-libbing — you can actually picture him sitting down for this one rather than jumping up and down the microphone stand. In terms of actual musical backing, though, the second version has a much better pronounced and fun acoustic rhythm track, and the guitar solos (I assume thatʼs Tiny Timbrell; Scotty is only credited for lead guitar here on ʽShoppinʼ Aroundʼ) seem more expressively melodic and complex, while still having a decent rockʼnʼroll vibe to them.

In the end, I have to forfeit my childhood experience and concede that the original version is the one to be enshrined if we agree to put inspiration above professionalism, but at the very least, this re-recording clearly proves that, even with a maturity adjustment check, post-army Elvis still understood the art of rockʼnʼroll better than most of his contemporaries, and had anything but forgotten what it is like to get a good groove going. Alas, if only the same could be said about the rest of this album!

One has only to take a look at the list of songwriters engaged in creating the soundtrack to Elvisʼ first post-army movie to see whatʼs wrong. Abner Silver, the author of ʽBashful Babyʼ and ʽOn The Beach At Bali-Baliʼ. Sid Tepper, the author of ʽRed Roses For A Blue Ladyʼ, the Guy Lombardo hit. Sid Wayne and Sherman Edwards, the authors of ʽSee You In Septemberʼ. Ben Weisman, probably the most talented of the lot (it was he who wrote ʽCrawfishʼ, after all), but also as far from rockʼnʼroll as possible — basically, just all sorts of nice Brooklyn-born Tin Pan Alley songwriters, whose task was to assemble an «easy-listening» set for Elvis. Nine out of eleven songs on this record are locked in this mode, the only two exceptions being the above­mentioned re-recording of ʽBlue Suede Shoesʼ and Aaron Schroederʼs ʽShoppinʼ Aroundʼ, a song that would have been considered thoroughly third-rate on any of Elvisʼ pre-war, uh, I mean, pre-army records, but here it is a goddamn highlight. (You might probably know ʽShoppinʼ Aroundʼ as the Bonzo Dog Bandʼs ʽDeath Cab For Cutieʼ if you are a Magical Mystery Tour fan).

If we agree to drop the «TRAITOR!» attitude and give the Tin Pan Alley spirit a chance, then this setlist isnʼt that bad — after all, you cannot go completely wrong with seasoned pros, and there are only two songs here that genuinely make me want to cringe: ʽDidjaʼ Everʼ, because it places Elvis squarely into ʽItsy-Bitsy Spiderʼ mode, and ʽWooden Heartʼ, adapted from a German folk song and sung in a style with which Elvis himself is clearly uncomfortable. (Iʼd definitely take Marlene Dietrichʼs recording of ʽMuss I Dennʼ over Elvisʼ performance any time — she gives the song, like everything she ever sang, a much more ironic reading). Taken together, they give the album a kiddie feeling that absolutely goes against the interpretation of Elvisʼ early Sixtiesʼ career as «maturation» — if anything, this gives the impression of falling into infantilism.

Marginally better is ʽFrankfort Specialʼ, a choo-choo train song whose intro bears a superficially pleasant, but disappointing resemblance to ʽMystery Trainʼ — unfortunately, Elvisʼ call-and-response session with the Jordanaires here sounds way too cuddly and clean-cut. Of the ballads, ʽPocketful Of Rainbowsʼ also deserves special mention with its seductively winding vocal melody; but while ʽTonight Is So Right For Loveʼ proves that Elvis can sing a reworked Jacques Offenbach as efficiently as he can sing ʽO Sole Mioʼ, this serenading style in general has always been and will always remain cheap in essence.

Granted, the whole thing is but a soundtrack, but let us not forget that there was much greatness to be found on Elvisʼ soundtracks from the previous decade, and nobody in his right mind would want to deny the status of a classic Elvis album for something like King Creole. In comparison, G.I. Blues holds the dubious distinction of being the first openly bad Elvis album — nowhere near as bad as some things that were yet to come, of course, but the very first Elvis album where it clearly looked as if the man was being eaten up alive by the commercial machine. At least on Elvis Is Back! we had this variety of styles and attitudes that suggested experimentation and looking for new paths of development. This, on the other hand, is almost pure show-business, with the rebels being thrown an occasional bone (ʽBlue Suede Shoesʼ) and the rest of the world now allowed to gloat at how politeness, cleanliness, and overall gentlemanly behavior have finally tamed the Beast and introduced it to respectable society. 

Paul Banks: Banks

PAUL BANKS: BANKS (2012)

1) The Base; 2) Over My Shoulder; 3) Arise, Awake; 4) Young Again; 5) Lisbon; 6) Iʼll Sue You; 7) Paid For That; 8) Another Chance; 9) No Mistakes; 10) Summertime Is Coming.

General verdict: About as inspiring to listen to as its cover art.

This man seriously does not relent. It takes a real brainstorm to figure out the aesthetic differences between Interpol and Julian Plenti, and to this we now add the even more difficult and nuanced task of figuring out the differences between Interpol, Julian Plenti, and Paul Banks. Even without listening to the album, though, you will probably want to surmise that Julian Plenti Is... Skyscraper must have represented a specially constructed and loyally impersonated artistic persona, whereas Banks, on the contrary, must represent something so achingly sincere and self-adequate that if you care about this human being at all, you just have to get yourself to try and love his confessions as he lays his soul bare for you all to see.

It does seem like this presupposition is fairly close to the truth, given the passion with which Paul himself talked about each song in a fan interview. But if it is, then, I am sorry to say, Paul Banksʼ soul is just not that exciting as far as souls go. Let us begin with the second track, ʽOver My Shoulderʼ, about which he says: "I had this riff for a while..." — well, sure he had, because if he means the opening riff, then it is essentially the melody of Springsteenʼs ʽBorn To Runʼ, and while the two songs are definitely not one and the same, I cannot get rid of the feeling that Banks was trying to go for his own Born To Run — after all, Springsteen did exert a strong influence on almost the entire indie-rock scene on the 2000s, Interpol included, and there is nothing criminal about the idea, provided you do it well. Unfortunately, ʽOver My Shoulderʼ is a stiff, repetitive composition with too much slowdiving-shoegazing ice wedged into the groove to ever match Springsteenʼs exuberance — and if there is no such goal, I can hardly even understand what other goal it might pursue.

On the whole, the album tries to be more rocky and pushy than Interpolʼs self-titled disaster, but rockiness and pushiness calls for great riffs and mounting energy, both of which are nowhere to be found. It is just one boring mid-tempo rock song after another, going for anthemic effects with their keyboard arrangements and multi-tracked echoey vocals and getting absolutely nowhere. When your only thoughts are about setting up a mid-tempo groove and half-singing, half-reciting a chilled-out poem of depression in a multi-tracked robotic voice... well, you get away with it if you are Kraftwerk, not if you are Paul Banks. I just took a couple extra listens to ʽThe Baseʼ just to see if there could be something about the track that I could share with you, gentle reader, and the only thing I could come up with is that, you know, "I feel youʼre truly anesthesized" is the most telling line on the entire album.

Arguably the only noticeable moments are when Banks breaks out of the formula to try his hand at something without vocals — but this does not mean that the instrumental ʽLisbonʼ is in any way more memorable, it just surprises you by not having that monotonous voice plastered all over the monotonous instrumental textures. I donʼt even know what it is; perhaps it is really all about the bland, colorless production style, because the tune has both a melody and an attempt at a build-up, almost Godspeed You Black Emperor-style, but either he cannot find the right chords or he is unable to create a proper mix, with the lead guitar drowning in all the synthesized strings rather than soaring over them. Even worse is his attempt at a bit of sampled «plunderphonics»: ʽAnother Chanceʼ, featuring tons of annoying dialog from some godforsaken indie film, is a confusing sonic mess without a purpose.

In the end, I myself am fairly confused, because that Julian Plenti record did not bore or annoy my senses that much — it wasnʼt great, but it sounded like an honest attempt to construct some Interpol-related personality that would be sufficiently distinct from Banksʼ main band. This, on the other hand, just seems like a version of Interpol that has amplified all the boring aspects of the band and completely dropped all the potentially non-boring ones. And it also turns out that Paul Banks with his heart on his sleeve looks pretty much the same way as Paul Banks with his heart tucked deep inside. Talk about a glass heart...

Tom Tom Club: The Good, The Bad And The Funky

TOM TOM CLUB: THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE FUNKY (2000)

1) Time To Bounce; 2) Who Feelinʼ It; 3) Happiness Canʼt Buy Money; 4) Holy Water; 5) Soul Fire; 6) Sheʼs Dangerous; 7) Sheʼs A Freak; 8) (CʼMon) Surrender; 9) Love To Love You, Baby; 10) Superdreaming; 11) Lesbians By The Lake; 12) Let There Be Love; 13) Time To Bounce (dub); 14) Dangerous (dub).

General verdict: More accurately, NOT good, NOT bad, and NOT AS funky AS MAY HAVE BEEN INTENDED.

This record isnʼt bad, and it is nice to see Tom Tom Club still in solid action at the turn of the millennium, but, unfortunately, it fails to recreate or refresh the goofy-creepy atmosphere of Dark Sneak Love Action. This time around, so it seems, Tina and Chris decided to produce a relatively normal-sounding funk-pop record. To that end, they surrounded themselves with veterans such as Charles Pettigrew of Charles & Eddie fame and Toots Hibbert of Toots & The Maytals fame; added a bunch of covers by Lee Perry and Donna Summer to their repertoire; and placed a huge emphasis on pure grooves and club atmosphere. In the end, close to a half of the album does not even properly feel like Tom Tom Club — or, more accurately, it feels like a Tom Tom Club invaded and infected by certain things that make the very idea of Tom Tom Club seem pointless and superfluous.

As far as intrigue goes, The Good, The Bad And The Funky does not really go farther than its opening track — the only point of ʽTime To Bounceʼ is to tell you that it is time to bounce, which you should do on the very first beat and then never let go until the fadeout. Tinaʼs sexy-ghostly vocal immediately identifies the piece as Tom Tom Club, but beyond that most of the beats and backing vocals and rapped intermissions largely just regurgitate popular clichés, and there is nothing outstanding about the musical arrangement. It gets worse on the second track, ʽWho Feelinʼ Itʼ, whose main point seems to be to reacquaint us with Marvin Gaye, Beastie Boys, Fela Kuti, Afrika Bambaataa, Wu Tang, and, of course, James Brown once again, by way of a cutesy pop rap from Tina (note to all artists: as a rule, the more names of famous performers you include in your lyrics, the less likely you are to produce a great track yourselves). The idealistic shiny chorus of "who feels it, knows it..." is endearing, but this is not the second coming of ʽGenius Of Loveʼ, and even that one was not that great in the first place.

From there, we get one mid-tempo funky groove after another, nothing particularly offensive or unlistenable but nothing particularly inspired or inspirational, either — the whole thing just feels like a friendly tribute to the African-American popular tradition from funk to disco to electropop to hip-hop. Songs on which Toots or Charles take lead vocals, such as ʽHoly Waterʼ or ʽCʼmon Surrenderʼ, sound way too serious for Tom Tom Club, but lack memorable moments or truly impressive musicianship to deserve that seriousness. Songs with Tina on lead vocals do not succeed in generating an otherworldly presence, either — I mean, if you encounter a title such as ʽSuperdreamingʼ, you may be within right to expect something on the level of John Lennonʼs ʽDream #9ʼ, but this here is just another generic Nineties funk arrangement, repetitive and without a hint of internal development.

The only time when the formula takes a short backstage break is the eleventh track, with a title one surely cannot miss — ʽLesbians By The Lakeʼ, a psychedelic instrumental fantasy co-written with Senegal musician Abdou MʼBoup, who plays a raga-style melody on his kora to a hissing trip-hop beat. I am not entirely sure what this slightly clumsy, but intriguing musical painting has to do with lakes and lesbians, but at least it grabs my attention at a time when I am already quite sure that nothing is capable of grabbing it any more.

I am certain that the album will stand up to multiple repeated listens if you are really in the mood for putting it on endless replay, but in the end, it really just goes to prove how much of a one-trick band Tom Tom Club have always been — when they play that trick to perfection, like on some of the early stuff or on Dark Sneak Love Action, it works; when they try to expand and make themselves look more serious than they really are, it doesnʼt. That said, there is absolutely nothing wrong if you just decide itʼs time to bounce along with these grooves, because Tina and Chris are professional «bouncers», after all. 

King Crimson: The Night Watch

KING CRIMSON: THE NIGHT WATCH (1997 /rec. 1973/)

1) Easy Money; 2) Lament; 3) Book Of Saturday; 4) Fracture; 5) The Night Watch; 6) Improv: Starless And Bible Black; 7) Improv: Trio; 8) Exiles; 9) Improv: The Fright Watch; 10) The Talking Drum; 11) Larksʼ Tongues In Aspic, Pt. 2; 12) 21st Century Schizoid Man.

General verdict: A historically important high quality recording — great if it serves as your default sample of live King Crimson in 1973, superfluous otherwise.

For those who find Great Deceiver to be overkill (not even mentioning all the gargantuan recent boxsets), The Night Watch instead might be a perfectly well-rounded dose of classic Larks-era live King Crimson. With a fantastically apt title — the performance was recorded at the Concert­gebouw in Amsterdam, a stoneʼs throw from the actual Night Watch — the album gives you a near-complete concert (for some reason, only the opening number, ʽLarksʼ Tongues In Aspic, Pt. 1ʼ was lost and never found) with a nice balance between fully polished compositions and raw improvisations and crystal clear sound quality.

Other than that, though, it is hard to say anything new about this release, since the majority of its improvisations had originally served as the basis for Starless And Bible Black: this here is the original source for ʽTrioʼ, ʽStarless And Bible Blackʼ, and ʽFractureʼ, without the extra edits and overdubs, but the latter were minimal anyway, and bothering about which of the two variants works better is a job for an experienced Crimsonhead, not yours truly. The only other improvised piece which did not make it anywhere, entitled ʽThe Fright Watchʼ, is really a six-minute atonal introduction to ʽThe Talking Drumʼ, with a nice mellotron buildup but hardly worth valuing as a standalone piece.

Let me, therefore, concentrate on one thing and one thing only: unless you rummage through all the archives on those enormous boxsets, out of all the 1973–74 live albums I have heard, The Night Watch arguably features the very, very best version of ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ. Without any sax players in the lineup, Fripp has to take care of almost the entire instrumental section himself, leaving just a little space for Wetton to show his bass prowess and then coming back in with a vengeance. This time around, the guitar tone is thick and growly, and the licks that Robert delivers are all over the place — one moment he is Hendrix, the next one he is Cream-era Clapton, and then, for brief moments, he even forgets himself to the extent of transforming into Woodstock-era Alvin Lee (but only for very brief moments). In comparison, the one version on Great Deceiver is shorter and somewhat «wimpier», whereas the older available version on USA suffers in the sound quality department. (Ironically, I trashed Frippʼs guitar solo in my original negative review of the album — where the heck were my ears back then?).

Other than that, I am really not sure what else to say that has not already been said in the Great Deceiver review. Allegedly, the show at the Concertgebouw was one of the most heavily boot­legged KC recordings of all time, which is an additional (if not primary) reason for the albumʼs official release — but it is also true that the remastered sound is ultimately more colorful and juicy than anything on Great Deceiver, and the record screams to be played loud and proud; it is somehow even easier for me to gain a good feel for ʽFractureʼ on here than in the strange context of all the other songs on Starless And Bible Black. All of this certainly justifies its existence. 

Elvis Presley: Elvis Is Back!

ELVIS PRESLEY: ELVIS IS BACK! (1960)

1) Make Me Know It; 2) Fever; 3) The Girl Of My Best Friend; 4) I Will Be Home Again; 5) Dirty, Dirty Feeling; 6) Thrill Of Your Love; 7) Soldier Boy; 8) Such A Night; 9) It Feels So Right; 10) Girl Next Door Went A-Walking; 11) Like A Baby; 12) Reconsider Baby; 13*) Stuck On You; 14*) Fame And Fortune; 15*) Are You Lonesome Tonight?; 16*) I Gotta Know; 17*) A Mess Of Blues; 18*) Itʼs Now Or Never.

General verdict: Problematic — not because Elvis «goes pop», but because he doesnʼt always go the very best pop out of all possible alternatives.

This has always been the trickiest question in Elvis history — did the King «go bad» right upon his return from the army, immediately becoming irrelevant and even retrograde just as the world stepped into the new decade? Or did he simply «mature», making a switch to a slightly more adult audience — perfectly expectable, given that his original millions of young fans werenʼt growing any younger, either — and it wasnʼt until somewhere around the middle of the decade, with Beatlemania and the psychedelic revolution all around, that he really became an outdated conservative relic?

Half a century ago, the typical answer from most rockʼnʼrollers was that they pretty much stopped paying attention to Elvis after his discharge — indeed, no textbook history of rockʼnʼroll will quote ʽStuck On Youʼ or ʽFeverʼ, and no post-ʼ50s song will be surrounded with the same level of admiration as a ʽHeartbreak Hotelʼ or a ʽHound Dogʼ or a ʽJailhouse Rockʼ, let alone the legendary Sun tracks. But as the public taste gets more and more fed up with rambunctious fun and rebellious aggression, mellowing out and drifting towards sentimental melodic pop, the Kingʼs legacy is getting its own re-evaluation, and these days, while most people certainly recognize a big difference in style between the 1950s and Elvis Is Back!, the album is commonly looked upon as a step forward in the artistʼs development, rather than a regression.

I have nothing against Elvisʼ brand of soft-rock — when he is at his best in this genre, as he was on songs like ʽDonʼt Be Cruelʼ or even ʽTeddy Bearʼ, it would be insane to deny the hooks, the fun, and the sexy cuteness of the atmosphere. But at the same time, I do not like to engage in too much revisionism: there was a dang good reason why Elvis Is Back! was originally a major disappointment even to some of those Elvis fans who were growing up with him, and that reason was simple enough — the album shifted Elvisʼ musical paradigm not just in an «unwanted» direction, but towards a dead end. Elvis Is Back! does not merely disappoint in the titillating department, being the first Elvis album to contain almost nothing that could cause the ire of The Greatest Generation; it is also the first Elvis album where it seems like nothing fresh is being invented, no breakthroughs planned or carried out by accident.

It is somewhat telling that the only song on the album that is vaguely reminiscent of the old school is ʽDirty, Dirty Feelingʼ, an ultra-short rocker from the Leiber-Stoller archives that was originally considered for King Creole and discarded. It is fast, it sounds a bit like the Coasters with its funny bass backing vocals and faint echoes of yakety-sax, it features an ecstatic guitar solo (the only ecstatic guitar solo on an album where Scotty Moore is essentially relegated to the status of a submissive team worker), and it is nowhere as exciting as even most of the manʼs second-rate rockʼnʼroll tracks from the old days; even so, it sticks out like crazy among the generally toothless content of the album, almost feeling like a consolation prize thrown out to hardcore purists so they could find at least one decent reason to buy the LP.

That said, as far as «pure pop» albums go, Elvis Is Back! is certainly not all bad. Nobody could seriously knock ʽFeverʼ, which Elvisʼ voice and the bass-heavy «mystical» arrangement make every bit as HOT as Peggy Leeʼs version on which it was based — really, those two deserve each other — and nobody could resist the head-spinning seduction of ʽSuch A Nightʼ, which you will always prefer over the Driftersʼ version if you are looking for a more testosterone-heavy delivery than Clyde McPhatterʼs (no objective reason why you should, but if you are, you will; not to mention, of course, the outdated production values and sound quality of the original, whereas Elvisʼ version still sounds perfectly modern). The fast tempo and quirky vocal harmonies of ʽGirl Next Door Went A-Walkingʼ are fun, too, though the song, unlike the musically similar ʽAll Shook Upʼ and ʽI Need Your Love Tonightʼ, is more openly soaked with sentimental sap.

Somewhat less understandable is Elvisʼ sudden passion for slow soulful blues — ʽIt Feels So Rightʼ and Lowell Fulsonʼs ʽReconsider Babyʼ (on which the King even plays lead guitar, though, predictably, he never takes a proper solo); throw in the contemporary B-side ʽA Mess Of Bluesʼ and you really begin to suspect something. The renditions are not bad, per se, but these songs are, by nature, more suitable for Chicago blues players than the Nashville crowds, and, honestly, Boots Randolph does a much better job with ʽYakety Saxʼ than with his extended blues solo on ʽReconsider Babyʼ. Honestly, the blues is one genre that Elvis never subjugated properly — he was neither a convincing blues singer, nor could he surround himself with great blues players.

The preoccupation with doo-wop and crooner ballads is much more understandable, but it is also the kind of material that requires a very high tolerance level for cheap sentimentalism, and, personally, I do not much care if I never ever hear ʽI Will Be Home Againʼ or ʽThe Thrill Of Your Loveʼ or ʽSoldier Boyʼ ever again, regardless of how professionally they are crafted or how much extra refinement Elvis places in his crooning deliveries. Perhaps most importantly, they are just boring as songs — mainly recycling the old chords and transitions; ʽSoldier Boyʼ, for instance, is reminiscent of the earlier and superior ʽI Want You, I Need You, I Love Youʼ. The fact that so much of this stuff was validated by Elvis himself clearly shows that his passion for breaking the mold was pretty much gone by 1960.

Just like before, of course, Sixtiesʼ Elvis has to be judged first and foremost by the singles rather than LPs — in this case, modern CD editions of the album usually come packed with the appropriate bonus tracks, and of these, ʽStuck On Youʼ, the manʼs first post-army single, is the clear highlight, with a vocal hook that will most definitely get stuck on you. It even has this shade of defiant attitude — "you can shake an apple off an apple tree, but youʼll never shake me" — just to remind the world who is really back and has no plans of disappearing. Even so, I still remember my big hit singles compilation from childhood where ʽStuck On Youʼ came directly after ʽI Got Stungʼ and I had this weird subconscious feeling of something broke down in between the schizophrenic ballsiness of the former and the restrained coolness of the latter, not even aware yet of the substantial shift in between the two.

If it is any consolation, I must also add that ʽI Gotta Knowʼ, a rare case of pre-Invasion British influence (the song was first recorded by Cliff Richard, though it was written by an American songwriter), is the one Elvis song that, for some reason, sank the strongest hooks into my brain when I first heard it — the verse and chorus melody are infectious to an almost terrifying degree here. It should have been a Buddy Holly song, I think (the bridge is just 100% Buddy), but some­how fate has decreed otherwise. It is also totally cuddly and inoffensive and sappy and stupid, and my brain loves it to death, so what can I do?

As for the case of Elvis outsinging Caruso and Pavarotti, it is impossible to protest against the immaculate musical structure of ʽO Sole Mioʼ, but... well, maybe a symbolic difference between Elvis and the Beatles was that the latter, in the end, did not officially record ʽBesame Muchoʼ, whereas the former did officially put out ʽItʼs Now Or Neverʼ. It is always possible to argue that Elvis did have the vocal chops for the song, whereas the Beatles did not, but from a social perspective it was still kind of an early proto-Vegasy gesture, fairly telling of things to come. The recording itself is as perfect as they come — amazing backing vocals, great metronomic rhythm, perfectly adjusted vocal overtones and flourishes, wonderful dynamics between quiet and loud — but I listen to it about as often as I listen to The Three Tenors (and I do like listening to each of the three individually, but preferably in the context of a wholesome Verdi opera).

In the end, I am not joining the crowd that says this was the beginning of a new musical life for Elvis, deserving equal respect with his previous one; sticking to the old guns, I prefer to view this as «the beginning of the end» — but fully understanding that the end took quite a bit of time, and that Elvisʼ artistic decline was gradual rather than sudden. From this perspective, Elvis Is Back!, especially taken together with all the singles, is still a must-have, and at least the next few pre-Beatles years would still bring us plenty of good material. But no revisionist willing to claim that Elvis Is Back! is just as artistically strong as Elvis Presley shall ever find understanding with me. Sonically superior, perhaps — it was Elvisʼ first stereo mix, after all — but thatʼs about it. 

Julian Plenti: Julian Plenti Is... Skyscraper

JULIAN PLENTI: JULIAN PLENTI IS... SKYSCRAPER (2009)

1) Only If You Run; 2) Fun That We Have; 3) Skyscraper; 4) Games For Days; 5) Madrid Song; 6) No Chance Survival; 7) Unwind; 8) Girl On The Sporting News; 9) On The Esplanade; 10) Fly As You Might; 11) H.

General verdict: A surprisingly decent stab at a singer-songwriter manifesto, though the lack of fresh ideas or attitudes blocks it from getting any higher.

So, let us approach this as logically as possible. «Julian Plenti» is really Paul Banks, whose full name is Paul Julian Banks and who had actually already used this pseudonym in his pre-Interpol days when he was still a solo acoustic player. Here, however, we also learn that Julian Plenti is «Skyscraper». Later on, in the title track we hear Paul Banks / Julian Plenti sing "shake me, shake me, skyscraper", literally implying that Paul Banks / Julian Plenti / Skyscraper is asking himself to shake him, which does not make much sense. From here on, we might proceed to the idea that Paul Banks, Julian Plenti, and Skyscraper are the same, yet not quite the same, in Holy Trinity mode: «Paul Banks» is the Father hypostasis, «Julian Plenti» is the Son, and «Skyscraper» the Holy Spirit. In that case, "shake me, skyscraper" should be taken as an analogy to the moment where the Holy Spirit descends upon the Son right after His baptism. See, weʼre getting into some truly serious shit here — and you thought this was just a forgettable solo album.

Complex and controversial interpretations aside, though, I must say that I was rather pleasantly surprised. The uninteresting voice, unconvincing lyrics, and unmoving ego of Paul Banks have always been one of the least attractive sides of Interpol — so a record where all these things would be brought way up front seemed like a nightmare to begin with. I did give it a chance nevertheless, and was surprised to find not a few decent melodies and occasionally moving atmospherics. As an artistic personality, «Julian Plenti» is really in no way different from the standard Interpol frontman — similarly moody, morose, and detached, combining unrealised romantic yearning with disillusioned cynicism on pretty much every track. But since he can no longer hide behind the powerful shoulders of his bandmates, he tries to compensate for this by adding extra elements of melody which, at the very least, make the individual songs stand out from one another and not converge into a single gray mass of moping.

These elements arenʼt particularly awesome or original: thus, ʽOnly If You Runʼ, the albumʼs opening number, begins with a painfully familiar intro riff (think the Yardbirdsʼ ʽHeart Full Of Soulʼ), then becomes the Pixiesʼ ʽWhere Is My Mindʼ for a moment, and later on sort of exploits the nagging one-note riff of Status Quoʼs ʽPictures Of Matchstick Menʼ — hardly intentionally, but just to give you an idea of the neural activity of Paul Banks / Julian Plenti / Skyscraper during the creative process. Yet it is not a bad song: the decisive intonation of the lyrics combines quite nicely with the plodding distorted bass line, and there is something truly genuine about how the final stop is placed with "...and you will make it... but only if you run". Moreover, the mix of instruments, in which the bass wail, the guitar jangle, and the atmospheric synthesizers never overshadow each other, to me actually seems more colorful than the majority of Interpol songs, though I do not qualify this as anything other than a fleeting impression.

Several of the tracks are pure mood pieces, whose main purpose seems to create an atmosphere of powerless self-empowerment — ʽMadrid Songʼ, for instance, with its burning-embers feel and the endlessly repeated "come have at us, we are strong", delivered in a rejectedly dying voice; or the title track itself, one of the few here to give us a glimpse of the original Julian Plenti (because of the acoustic guitar track) while at the same time borrowing some ideas from contemporary classical. I mean, it could possibly be confused with a Jonny Greenwood soundtrack outtake, or taken for an exercise of a pop-minded Górecki disciple — at the very least, it sounds nothing like an Interpol track, and given my usual thoughts on Interpol, it is more of a compliment than a criticism. Though I certainly cannot say to be a big fan of this minimalist brand, either.

Oddly enough, I think the soft ballads on this album are better than Banksʼ attempts to rock out without his buddies — something like ʽGames For Daysʼ is just a fairly generic indie-rock track with the same kiddie-chainsaw-buzz as characterizes the least impressive Interpol tracks, but something like ʽNo Chance Survivalʼ, seductively sharing its guitar tone with Radioheadʼs ʽNo Surprisesʼ, has a somewhat unusual balance between instrumental and vocal melody, generating a feeling of warmth and friendliness that, unfortunately, dissipates once the song picks up steam and truly begins to attempt sounding like a spaced-out outtake from OK Computer, but happily comes back at the end. ʽOn The Esplanadeʼ is another highlight, though, given the similarity of the guitar patterns, I think Iʼd rather hear it performed by Leonard Cohen (even if Paul Banks has a long, long way to go to match Leonardʼs amazing word games).

In the end, it all boils down to limited talent — the intelligence and ambition are there, but the spiritual energy of «Skyscraper», no matter how hard he shakes down Julian Plenti, just isnʼt enough to make this whole thing qualify as a significant singer-songwriter achievement for the 2000s. It is perfectly listenable, though, and it almost makes me sad to see Banks going from this semi-successful exercise to the musical platitudes that would dominate Interpolʼs next album, but what is there to do? Apparently, Skyscraper and Interpol really donʼt like each other. 

David Byrne: Feelings

DAVID BYRNE: FEELINGS (1997)

1) Fuzzy Freaky; 2) Miss America; 3) A Soft Seduction; 4) Dance On Vaseline; 5) The Gates Of Paradise; 6) Amnesia; 7) You Donʼt Know Me; 8) Daddy Go Down; 9) Finite = Alright; 10) Wicked Little Doll; 11) Burnt By The Sun; 12) The Civil Wars; 13) (Interlude); 14) They Are In Love.

General verdict: A solid return to form, even if the songs may require repeated listens to reveal themselves to you in all their complexity.

So either it is just that David was going through a really rough phase around 1994, or, perhaps, it was the No Talking Just Head debacle that shook him up and made him realize how far he had strayed from his musical identity — whatever the reason, Feelings is a damn good album that manages to correct most of the mistakes heʼd made on the self-titled David Byrne. There are no breakthroughs here, no serious attempts to invent some new synthesis, even despite the elements of collaboration with Morcheeba; but there are songs that bring back funky grooves, humor, and cool musical hooks, all the while retaining Byrneʼs usual depth and intelligence.

It all begins with ʽFuzzy Freakyʼ, easily Davidʼs catchiest and slinkiest tune in at least a decade: the combination of funky wah-wah guitar, menacing intonations in the verse melody and falsetto suspense in the chorus creates a weirdly sleazy atmosphere that could be decoded in a million different ways, given the lyrical vagueness — but each of these ways would be either offensive or provocative, considering that the chorus goes "itʼs summertime and the weeds are high, fuzzy freaky, funny family". The text is a mess, the melody is one big fuzzy wobble, the guitar solo, whoever is doing it, rips through the speakers in sharp, treble-soaked wailing waves... basically, itʼs alive, which is more than could be said about anything on the first record.

 

From there, the album takes us on a little journey through different territories. Byrneʼs love for Latin American rhythms comes back into play (ʽMiss Americaʼ, ʽThey Are In Loveʼ), while Morcheeba helps him develop a new love for trip-hop (ʽDance On Vaselineʼ). There are quiet sentimental ballads (ʽA Soft Seductionʼ), string-led chamber pieces (ʽFinite = Alrightʼ), loud psychedelic pop anthems (ʽThe Gates Of Paradiseʼ), at least one song that sounds like a tribute to the Velvet Undergroundʼs ʽVenus In Fursʼ (ʽDaddy Go Downʼ), and at least one song that shows David may have developed a special love for old friend Adrian Belewʼs brand of intellectual-idealistic pop (ʽBurnt By The Sunʼ). All of these tunes have something to offer by way of both melody and lyrics, even if they never rise to the heights of Talking Headsʼ best material.

ʽMiss Americaʼ is probably the one song that gets the most mentions on the album because of its near-manifesto status: "I love America, her secretʼs safe with me" — David discussing, with a surprisingly high level of candor, his complicated love-and-hate relationship with the country that sheltered him from childhood (and donʼt we all, really?). Musically, however, it is not the most interesting track, essentially sounding like a potential outtake from Rei Momo or Uh-Huh sessions: its samba rhythms make a nicely joyous counterpoint to the half-sincere, half-sarcastic lyrics, but for musical inspiration, Iʼd rather go to something like ʽDance On Vaselineʼ, which combines a small pinch of Remain In Light jerkiness with echoey brass creating the kind of dusky atmosphere you find on Miles Davisʼ Bitches Brew — and is also far more enigmatic from a lyrical standpoint (come to think of it, "come preacherman, shoot me with your poisoned arrow, but I dance on Vaseline" is one of the most weirdly articulated statements of freedom and immunity to come from a human mind).

On the other hand, Byrneʼs Feelings are clearly meant to be expressed here in such a way that words and melody are just about 50-50 important. A song like ʽThe Gates Of Paradiseʼ, for instance, without its verbal content balances between soft, cuddly verses, caressing your ear with Davidʼs sweetest crooning and a warmly ambient organ pattern, and all-out ecstatic choruses of exuberant joy, climaxing in a frenetic psychedelic guitar solo at the end. At the same time, the words are pure, undiluted cynicism: "Itʼs a sin to seek perfection / Itʼs a sin to help the poor / Itʼs a sin to hold convictions / For none of them are true" — only a very seriously pissed-off person could have come up with something as brash as that. Amazingly, the song, especially its ecstatic coda, has somehow triggered in my mind an association with Fleetwood Macʼs ʽEyes Of The Worldʼ — another musically similar «ode to joy» whose actual lyrics are a rant against deceit and hypocrisy. Great minds deviate alike?..

The more you listen to the record, the more you begin to understand that, perhaps, the gloomy and depressed frame of mind that was so much on display in the self-titled album had never really gone anywhere — it is just that David took better control of himself and returned to that complex state of ambiguity, where the complexity, diversity, and occasionally optimistic mood-setting of the music made all the gloom and depression sound less self-important, more ironic, and, ulti­mately, far more poignant and influential. You know that he is pissed off if the verse melody of ʽBurnt By The Sunʼ hits you on precisely the same beats as Bob Dylanʼs ʽHurricaneʼ — but he is not above outbalancing the anger with sweet Belew-ish nostalgia when it gets to the chorus ("we were burnt by the sun, having way too much fun..."). In short, we have quite a few of those onion layers on each of these songs, and thatʼs the way it should be. Damn good record. 

King Crimson: Epitaph

KING CRIMSON: EPITAPH (1997 /1969/)

CD I: 1) 21st Century Schizoid Man; 2) In The Court Of The Crimson King; 3) Get Thy Bearings; 4) Epitaph; 5) A Man, A City; 6) Epitaph; 7) 21st Century Schizoid Man; 8) Mantra; 9) Travel Weary Capricorn; 10) Improv: Travel Bleary Capricorn; 11) Mars.

CD II: 1) In The Court Of The Crimson King; 2) Drop In; 3) A Man, A City; 4) Epitaph; 5) 21st Century Schizoid Man; 6) Mars.

General verdict: As perfect a document of the original bandʼs live sound as possible — echoes of that old, old, old King Crimson from the hippie era.

The one major historical document of the original King Crimsonʼs awesomeness on stage, Epitaph comes in two varieties — a regular two-disc set for the average consumer, such as yours truly, and an expanded four-disc monster for the fully loyal vassal, which can be obtained via DGM. The main two discs are packaged with proper respect for the average consumer: they contain tracks from three different events (four live recordings for the BBC, three from shows at the Fillmore East, and ten from the Fillmore West) with a nice sprinkling of previously unheard and occasionally non-overlapping compositions. The only performances to be captured thrice are ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ (which should be alright with everybody) and ʽEpitaphʼ proper (not so alright, since its symph-prog nature leaves little room for improvisation or any other type of sonic maneuvering). If you do opt for the 4-disc version, though, remember that there will be no further surprises — also, the sound quality of those recordings, from the 9th National Jazz and Blues Festival and the Chesterfield Jazz Club respectively, seems to be inferior.

In any case, what we have here is two hours of live greatness from the original KC, dating both from before the release of In The Court (BBC recordings) and after (the American shows). Predictably, the band performs all three major epics from that album, though not ʽI Talk To The Windʼ and not ʽMoonchildʼ (the former omission is quite curious, the latter may have been deemed either way too quiet for the live performance or way too demanding even from the 1969 brand of listener). Additionally, we have here early previews of ʽPictures Of A Cityʼ and ʽDevilʼs Triangleʼ from In The Wake Of Poseidon, the former still under its earlier title ʽA Man, A Cityʼ and the latter still being honestly called ʽMarsʼ and featuring a slightly different main riff (Holstʼs estate allegedly prohibited Fripp from releasing ʽMarsʼ itself, so he had to mutate the melody sufficiently enough and retitle the composition).

Tracks that did not see any studio release at all are predictably inferior, but still instructive. ʽGet Thy Bearingsʼ from the BBC set is a Donovan track from Hurdy Gurdy Man which they likely adapted for a while due to lack of their own original material — a bluesy/jazzy little vamp with  serious sax presence, giving Ian McDonald plenty of room to stretch out, but, honestly, rather anticlimactic when sitting next to ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ. ʽMantraʼ is a quiet short piece, dominated by Frippʼs soft folksy-jazzy guitar picking and McDonaldʼs recorder, almost like something the Grateful Dead would produce in the middle of a jam session and, consequently, probably a nice gift for Fillmore West residents. From there, it segues into an even jazzier ʽTravel Weary Capricornʼ and its improv counterpart, ʽTravel Bleary Capricornʼ, which, for some reason, features Robert trying his hand at flamenco guitar — not to be taken too seriously, as hinted at by the fact that he begins it by quoting the intro to ʽBungalow Billʼ from the White Album (again, a touch of humor that shows the old spirit of Giles, Giles & Fripp was still flickering).

Finally, you get to hear the moody jazz number ʽDrop Inʼ, with its memorable, but not very pleasant (because offkey!) acapella introduction by Lake; the song tries to establish an aura of resigned melancholy, but ends up rather meandering and unfocused — no wonder it was shelved by the original band, only to resurface later as ʽThe Lettersʼ on easily the least inspired album of King Crimsonʼs early years. Not sure if the Fillmore audiences were really excited about this number — now maybe if Lake decided to sing "why donʼt you just drop out" instead of "drop in", they would have felt slightly more at home with this one...

Anyway, what really matters, of course, is not how many hitherto concealed lesser tunes we manage to recover on Epitaph, but precisely how well they are able to do ʽ21st Century Schizoid Manʼ. Of the three versions, the last one (Fillmore West) has the best sound quality, although Robertʼs guitar solo is oddly thin, almost as if the shadow of Jefferson Airplane and Quicksilver Messenger Service hang so persistently over the place that Fripp was involuntarily accomodating his feedback-drenched, jazz-avantgarde style to the psychedelic droning philosophy of the West Coast. Nevertheless, this is what makes the piece great — even in its very first year of existence, they were able to offer fairly different intepretations. And, just like the studio version, these live performances sound relatively unpolished — the drummer, the sax player, the guitarist all make occasional mistakes throughout the songʼs fast tempo, and their equipment, though probably decent enough by the standards of ʼ69, is insufficient to carry out a massively overwhelming attack on the senses the way it would be able to just four or five years later. Still, it compensates for this with sheer enthusiasm and excitement — always great to hear a masterpiece played right at its very inception, rather than at a stage when it becomes bearded and fossilized.

Lake does a great vocal job on ʽSchizoid Manʼ, too, even without any distorted effects on the vocals — except where the studio recording gave us the creepy perspective of a half-synthetic robo-human, these live versions rather express the organic terror of a rebellious human being, which is a bit more common but also fairly relatable. Unfortunately, ʽEpitaphʼ and ʽIn The Courtʼ, two epics that are way more vocally demanding, lay bare Gregʼs biggest weakness — he has a hard time correctly holding all the right notes and playing bass simultaneously, so those of you with perfect pitch will find yourself cringing every now and then; plus, there is really not that much to do to these songs on stage, other than try as hard as possible to reproduce their studio Mellotron-based depth. The Mellotron actually gets a real hammering on ʽMarsʼ, the one track here that manages to be more aggressive than its final studio realization — perhaps because there was little room for subtlety on stage, and under McDonaldʼs heavy fingers the poor instrument howls, screeches, and agonizes in ways comparable to the Hammond organ agonizing under Keith Emersonʼs knives. Then again, we are talking about an homage to the God of War here.

On the whole, it is safe to say that this was probably far from the best live incarnation of King Crimson — way too rough for the bandʼs general standards — but obviously a unique one. Here, the young and relatively inexperienced King Crimson are still very much a Sixtiesʼ band, with elements of the late Sixtiesʼ jam culture, psychedelia, and folksiness that would be gradually wiped out, one by one, as Fripp would lead them into an entirely new decade of completely new values. But they are already making great music, and you are already getting acquainted with Frippʼs philosophy of «discipline»  and... well, in a way it is just a very symbolic record: the sound of King Crimson, the ultimate intellectualʼs wet dream, maturing and developing (and being fairly well received) at the Fillmore, the ultimate turned-on hippieʼs den.