PROG SLOGS

 

King Crimson

Progressive rock has never been a genre that inspires much enthusiasm, even though Frank Zappa's instrumental records and the vast majority of King Crimson's discography stand among the most outstanding and influential releases ever to fall under the ever-expanding and increasingly ambiguous label of "rock" music. These albums have remained consistently vital, continuing to sound fresh and inventive rather than fading into irrelevance or becoming mere artifacts of a bygone era.

Repeated listens to albums such as The Grand Wazoo or Larks' Tongues in Aspic—even after all these years—still inspire lengthy essays exploring the rich musical ideas captured in recordings that are now nearly fifty years old. The enduring freshness and relevance of these works, which have withstood countless shifts in musical trends, passing fashions, and fleeting fads, can be attributed to the singular vision that Frank Zappa and Robert Fripp brought to the Mothers of Invention and King Crimson, respectively. Each led with remarkable independence, shaping the identity of his band through restless experimentation and a relentless pursuit of new sounds and ideas. Although their musical approaches were distinctly their own—each band forging a unique sonic identity—they shared a fearless willingness, over several decades, to transform their artistic direction. Neither Zappa nor Fripp hesitated to change styles, adopt unconventional strategies, explore unfamiliar musical territory, or pivot toward new artistic horizons whenever curiosity demanded it. Both bands possess recognizable hallmarks—signature techniques, stylistic quirks, and recurring musical traits—but anyone listening carefully can trace the wild, unpredictable evolution that defines the history of each ensemble.

Artists of this kind—those who never stop challenging themselves, who constantly seek new ideas and sonic experiences, and who approach every creative endeavor with a clear sense of purpose—continue to fascinate. Especially compelling are musicians who enter unexplored musical territory with deliberate intent, absorbing, transforming, and ultimately reinventing the sounds they encounter. Not every artist working within the broad world of rock music is capable of doing so. Progressive rock began—and, for the most part, remained—a musical field defined by a relatively narrow set of ideas: complex time signatures, lengthy instrumental passages, references to classical compositions, and, all too often, overwrought reflections on philosophical and spiritual themes delivered in pretentious poetic language. Musically, the genre initially generated genuine excitement and intrigue. It was adventurous and challenging, sometimes to the point of lifting the phonograph's tonearm simply to skip the vocal sections and move directly to the intricate instrumental passages that followed. Yet after only a handful of years, much of the music began to blur together, with different bands revisiting the same territory and recycling ideas that had already been thoroughly explored. In doing so, they established their own conventions and repeatedly relied upon them, often to diminishing artistic effect. The personal breaking point came with Tales from Topographic Oceans, Yes's sprawling double album, which somehow managed to be even more sluggish and ponderous than the slowest recordings by Pink Floyd.

The lyrics, unfortunately, reached new heights of insufferability. They were grandiose, impenetrable, and saturated with platitudes masquerading as profound insight, promising little more than the illusion of a transformative experience. The only real miracle, as far as this listener was concerned, was that the album eventually ended—that there was, in fact, a final side, a concluding track, and a last note, after which it became possible to return to the real world, where clear thinking once again prevailed.There are, of course, numerous exceptions to this general skepticism about progressive rock. However, the genre itself holds less appeal than those individual artists whose work continues to surprise, challenge, and engage by refusing to stand still.

WHEN LESTER BANGS STOPPED LOVING LOU REED

 

The infamous and almost comically bitter feud between Lester Bangs and Lou Reed remains one of rock criticism's most entertaining soap operas, endlessly dissected by readers and critics with a taste for the dramatic. I have to tip my hat—perhaps with some eye-rolling—to Greil Marcus for including Bangs's over-the-top, detail-obsessed account of their ongoing squabbles and ego clashes in Psychotic Reactions , a collection that gives us front-row seats to the freak show of personalities and philosophies behind the music. Bangs was practically in love with the existential, dead-end fatalism that the Velvet Underground and the Stooges turned into their own brand of musical misery—songs oozing with hopelessness and emotional wreckage. He was convinced that nothing in adult life ever rivaled the pure, unfiltered agony of a teenage boy drowning in his own overblown, melodramatic emotions, feelings so tangled and extreme that the only logical conclusion was an operatic eruption of rage and angst. Because, apparently, nobody feels feelings like a teenage boy with a guitar and a grudge.

In his writing, Bangs often soared to moments of genuine poetry and insight while decoding the music that spilled out from the ignored corners of urban and suburban sprawl. Still, for all his eloquence, he conveniently sidestepped the messier question of what actually happened when all those glorified emotions spilled over into real-world violence—whether it was self-inflicted or aimed at the nearest unlucky bystander. Back then, everyone seemed content to shine a spotlight on these feelings and call it a day, as if exposing them was a public service. But Bangs, being the endlessly restless self-examiner he was, couldn’t leave it there. As he got older, he started poking holes in his own fanboy worship of obviously damaged artists and began to question the entire cultural urge to prop these people up as icons—never mind that, in reality, their “genius” usually meant being a cautionary tale in a world supposedly trying to stay decent and humane.

These waves of second thoughts—followed by third, fourth, and probably fifth thoughts—inevitably seeped into his run-ins with Lou Reed. Reed, who inspired more ink than most monarchs, was, in Bangs's acerbic estimation, the ultimate aesthete: a walking, talking relic of the old decadent scene. Bangs, with his signature blend of admiration and exasperation, watched Reed fall headfirst into the myth of “Lou Reed,” apparently so entranced by his own legend that he couldn't resist hamming it up for the crowd. The result? Reed came off as ever more decadent, self-absorbed, and all too happy to spoon-feed his fans exactly what they expected, simply because their appetite for his myth knew no bounds.

From start to finish, Bangs was on a never-ending quest for “authenticity” in both music and motive. Eventually, however, he got a little queasy over the growing notion that the ultimate artistic statement was to go full-throttle into oblivion—to die for art, because, apparently, nothing says “commitment” like self-destruction. Bangs, to his credit, finally decided this trope was a load of nonsense, and started calling out the cultural obsession—embodied by the likes of Sylvia Plath and John Berryman—with lionizing the artist who flames out spectacularly. This newfound skepticism arrived just as Reed, ever committed to the bit, seemed to be doubling down on the whole tragic artist routine—the philosophy that art justifies any cost, and the artist’s misery (or even demise) is some kind of noble, necessary sacrifice. As if the world needed one more reason to light a candle for tortured souls with guitars.