PROG SLOGS

 

King Crimson

I have never been greatly enthusiastic about the genre commonly referred to as progressive rock, even though I consider Frank Zappa’s instrumental records and the vast majority of King Crimson’s discography to be among the most outstanding and influential releases ever to fall under the ever-expanding and increasingly ambiguous label of “rock” music. These albums, for me, have remained perpetually vital—music that continues to sound vibrant and inventive, refusing to fade into irrelevance or become a mere artifact of a bygone era.  

Whenever I listen to the likes of Grand Wazoo or Larks' Tongues in Aspic —even after all these years—I am consistently inspired and compelled to write lengthy, detailed 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 managed to withstand and transcend countless shifts in musical trends, passing fashions, and fleeting fads, can be traced back to the unique, almost obsessive vision that both Frank Zappa and Robert Fripp brought to their leadership of the Mothers of Invention and King Crimson, respectively. These two artists, each in their own way, operated with a fierce independence, shaping their bands’ identities through restless experimentation and a relentless pursuit of new sounds and concepts. Although their musical approaches were distinctly their own—each band forging a unique sonic identity, markedly different from one another—they shared a fearless willingness, across several decades, to transform their artistic direction. Zappa and Fripp never hesitated to change styles, to adopt unconventional strategies, to venture into uncharted creative territory, and to abruptly pivot toward new musical horizons whenever their interests demanded it. Admittedly, both bands possess recognizable hallmarks—certain signature techniques, stylistic quirks, and auditory motifs that fans can instantly associate with either group—but it’s clear that anyone with a discerning ear can trace the wild, unpredictable evolution that characterizes the histories of both ensembles. 

It is precisely these kinds of artists—those who never stop challenging themselves, who constantly seek out new concepts and sonic experiences, and who approach each creative endeavor with a strong, clear sense of purpose—that continue to fascinate me and sustain my interest in music. Especially appealing to me are those musicians who enter unexplored musical territory with a deliberate vision, eagerly appropriating, transforming, and ultimately reinventing the sounds they discover. It’s important to recognize, however, that not every artist in the eclectic realm of rock music is capable of accomplishing this feat. As a genre, progressive rock began—and, for the most part, remained—as a musical arena defined by a relatively narrow set of ideas: complex time signatures, lengthy instrumental passages, quotations from classical compositions, and, all too often, unbearably overwrought and pompous musings on philosophical and spiritual themes, usually delivered in the most tortured and pretentious poetic language imaginable. Musically, the genre initially generated a great deal of excitement and intrigue—it was compelling and challenging, sometimes to the point that I found myself lifting the phonograph’s tone arm just to skip the vocal sections and get straight to the intricate, extended instrumental jams that lay ahead. But after only a handful of years, much of the output began to blur together, with different bands retreading the same ground, recycling creative ideas that had already been thoroughly explored. In doing so, these groups ended up establishing their own set of genre conventions, which they then repeatedly leaned on, sometimes to a fault. For me personally, the genre’s tipping point came with Tales from Topographic Oceans , the sprawling three-disc opus from Yes, which somehow managed to be even more sluggish and ponderous than the slowest, most lethargic tracks by Pink Floyd. 

The lyrics, unfortunately, reached new heights of insufferability—they were grandiloquent, impenetrable, and saturated with platitudes so toothless they could only be described as empty gestures toward profundity, at best promising the listener the illusion of a transformative experience. The only real miracle, as I saw it, was that the album eventually ended—that there was, in fact, a final side, a concluding track, and a last note, after which one could finally return to the real world, a place where clear thinking was once again possible. All this said, I do recognize numerous exceptions to my general skepticism about progressive rock; but, by and large, I tend to avoid the genre altogether, preferring instead to seek out those artists and sounds that continue to genuinely surprise and engage me.

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.