Читать книгу Listening to the Future - Bill Martin - Страница 11
ОглавлениеIntroduction: Seize again the day
For a brief, shining moment, there was a time when the trend in music known as “progressive rock” captured the imaginations of millions of listeners. Although this book defines the “time” of progressive rock in terms of the years 1968 to 1978, the shining moment was a somewhat shorter period, perhaps from about 1971 to 1975. Writing on the eve of the fin-de-millennium, this brief period seems as though it was an eternity ago. And yet, no matter how brief the moment, and no matter how long ago it might seem now (and, from another perspective, 1972 was just yesterday), this was a significant period for music.
Indeed, the period of the late sixties and the years immediately following were significant for many reasons, not least of all for the fact that the world was being turned upside down by widespread, and global, social upheaval. This was a time of both protest and possibility, and even revolution—and some great music was inspired by what seemed to be the retreat, at least on the ideological front, of systems of exploitation and domination, and the emergence of a new world, or, at least, a new understanding.
This music took many forms, both within rock music and beyond. Indeed, there was a general opening of genres and a letting down of barriers. To a great extent, these barriers have yet to be fully erected again in their previous form, which is one of the lasting legacies of the sixties. (When I use the term, “the sixties,” I mean this more politically and culturally than in a strict chronological sense.) This was a time of both raw and harsh music of protest, and of visionary experimentation. (In some rare cases, there was even a combination of the two, for example in the “fire music” of Archie Shepp; another interesting example, from rock music, was the Blows Against the Empire album by Paul Kantner and Jefferson Starship.) These musics of both radical negation and radical affirmation were certainly linked at the time—it was perfectly obvious to everyone that both came out of a more generally experimental social milieu. Progressive rock, to the extent that it is seen at all, is rarely seen in this context. This is not only a mistake made within the field of music history (a mistake that has been made, for example, in the Public Broadcasting System’s documentary series, Rock & Roll); even more, this is a mistake in cultural and even political history that has large cultural and political ramifications.
In its time, progressive rock represented something unique in the entire history of art: a “popular avant-garde.” For most aestheticians and social theoreticians, the very idea is oxymoronic. Supposedly, an avant-garde can only be appreciated by an elite; supposedly, this elite appreciation is part of the very definition of the concept of avant-garde. But we might take a page from Marx, and argue that “once the inner connections are grasped, theory becomes a material force.” Not to be obtuse or cute, the point is that the motive forces of society are grasped when a significant part of society is compelled to expand its understanding of these forces. Then this understanding becomes a real force in the lives of many people. As the late sixties gave way to the seventies, many people were prepared by their social experience to be open to experimental, visionary, and utopian music that was brilliantly crafted and performed.
Perhaps the key preparation for this possibility was made starting about ten years earlier, by John Coltrane. He and a number of other post-boppers expanded the frontiers of jazz; they were popular, at least among a significant and international public, and their music had to be understood against the background of both the oppression and struggle of Black people, the Civil Rights Movement, and the emergence of Black Power. (This is not to say that I advocate any kind of crude reduction of this music to particular aspects of social movements or upheavals. More on this general question in a moment.) John Coltrane, certainly one of the greatest visionary and virtuoso musicians of any time period or genre, was always pushing the limits. Indeed, as any avant-garde composer or musician must do, he placed into question the very nature and possibility of music itself—for which some critics called his music “anti-jazz” or “nihilistic.”
There came a moment, perhaps best captured by the Concert in Japan album, when Coltrane seemed to take a leap into the stratosphere, and many of his admirers had great difficulty following him. Perhaps as long as only two of the basic elements of music were stretched to the limit, or perhaps somewhat beyond the limit, and the other four elements were relatively restrained, then Coltrane was able to take many people along on the journey. (I’m taking the “basic elements” to be melody, harmony, rhythm or meter, timbre, duration, and dynamics.) But, as soon as the figure no longer seemed to have a ground, there was a sense of complete suspension and fragmentation, and fewer people were ready for it. The jazz that continued to go down this road (or up into this space), for instance that of Ornette Coleman, Cecil Taylor, or Anthony Braxton, no longer had a mass following. From this time, serious jazz increasingly became the province of intellectuals (many of them white, male, and middle class); this Black music became separated from the masses of Black people.
An instructive counterexample is provided by the late-sixties music of Miles Davis. This is the Miles who had heard Jimi Hendrix, Sly and the Family Stone, and the Byrds—and his music from this time, Bitches Brew, Jack Johnson, Miles Davis at Fillmore (where Miles and group opened for the Byrds, in fact), was a part of the general crossing of musical and social barriers of this time. Whereas the time was not entirely ripe for a popular avant-garde just a few years earlier (John Coltrane died in 1967 at the age of forty-one), by the time Miles Davis played the Fillmore East, in June 1970, dramatic changes had taken place. Not that the critics necessarily liked these changes; for instance, in The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Jazz for 1978, authors Brian Case and Stan Britt argue that, prior to Bitches Brew, “Miles cut what, from the jazz fan’s viewpoint, was to be his last album (In a Silent Way)” (p. 59). “Although labels are arbitrary, Miles Davis’ subsequent output is of little interest to the jazz record collector” (p. 59). So much the worse, then, for the “jazz record collector”—but what of those who saw that music was taking an adventurous turn along with culture and politics more generally? An account by Morgan Ames, from the liner notes to Fillmore, is instructive:
I went to see Miles at the Hollywood Bowl recently, in concert opposite The Band. At least half the audience was young rock fans. There were also jazz people of all categories—middling executives with their tolerant wives, boppers, suede-covered mods who like both rock and jazz. There was black pride, in vivid African shirts and robes. And young girls with young children. There were celebrities, particularly from the music world. Most had come to see what Miles was up to now. The night was warm and the air was laced with waiting: Miles Davis and The Band? What does that mean?
Miles opened the show. He and his group played for about 45 minutes without pause. The critics wiped him out in the paper the following morning. But the audience loved him. In amphitheaters as large as the Hollywood Bowl, a roaring ovation can sound like a polite coming-together-of-hands, unless you listen closely and look around you. I did. Hippies were on one side of us, non-descripts were behind, a black couple was on the other side. Front-to-back it was a happily received evening. People liked what Miles was about, even if they couldn’t grasp the free-form display. They felt his honest effort, his adventure, his openness, and they took him in without asking why. For Miles Davis has the hunger and the ability to entertain through exploration.
Of course, another thing that had changed in the years 1967–1970 is that, by the latter year, electricity permeated everything. Arguably, this was not the best thing for jazz in the long run, and perhaps not for anything. At the time, however, there was certainly a feeling of “electric freedom” (as in “Sound Chaser” by Yes) that crossed all boundaries and was perhaps a necessary component of a culture and politics where “the whole world’s watching.”
Throughout the short history of rock music up to that point, there had been, along with more commercial and mainstream efforts, an adventurous trend—going right back to Chuck Berry and Little Richard and, someone I’ve come to appreciate more and more in this respect, Bo Diddley. Into the 1960s we see harmonic and timbral innovation, especially on the part of the Beach Boys and the Beatles. With the latter, we see an increasing drive toward a global synthesis of music. Rock music begins to develop an avant-garde, and a subgeneration of musicians emerge who have tremendous instrumental, lyrical, and compositional skills. And millions of people are into it.
My aim in this book is to explore this very uncommon period. I hope, in the case of those of us who were around during the time of progressive rock, to recapture the feeling that what happened in music in that period was important, significant. I want to provide the philosophical, aesthetic, and social theoretical terms that would allow us to see that this period not only was significant but, indeed, still is and should be. For those of us who are new to this period (either we weren’t around then, or we didn’t pick up on what was happening at the time), I want to provide some access. We live in a time when it is very hard for anything to be significant or important, a time of an immense cultural machinery of pure distraction. Between 1968 and now, there lies an effort, which might especially be associated with the administrations of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, to blame the sixties for all sorts of things, and to attempt to make sure that, apart from superficial aspects of fashion, something like that doesn’t happen again. Progressive rock might seem to be a relatively minor part of the truly major social and cultural upheavals of that time. After all, 1968 saw the largest general strike to ever occur in a Western, industrialized country (the “events of May,” in France), and mass strikes in Mexico City, Chicago, Prague, Shanghai (there with the actual encouragement of a revolutionary government), and many other places. So, yes, it is the case that, from one valid perspective, the progressive rock chapter of this immense volume called “the sixties” would be relatively short. But there is something in that chapter that should not be lost, something that we need today, and it is toward the possibility of seizing again this moment that I write.
The reader will more than likely have figured out that I am writing not only from a perspective that is sympathetic to the sixties, but indeed from a perspective that is radical and, yes, somewhat Marxist. I feel that I need to say some things about this, “up front,” as it were.
Of course, this is not my first extended foray into these questions. I have written other books that explore various dimensions of radical social theory, as well as a book that readers of the present text may be familiar with, music of Yes: structure and vision in progressive rock. This book, about the music of what I regard as one of the essential pillars of progressive rock, argues not that the music of Yes is “Marxist,” in any sense, but that it instead partakes of the radical spirit of the sixties and carries this forward in a utopian and radically affirmative way. One thing that can be said about Yes is that there is not a trace of cynicism in their music—and this is an extraordinarily rare thing, even in progressive rock. Indeed, the music of Yes is something of an antidote for cynicism, and therefore is especially despised by “critics” who believe that a cynical attitude is the height of hip.
Edward Macan ends his interesting and important book on English progressive rock, Rocking the Classics, with the following:
Above all, progressive rock, like the period which gave rise to it, was optimistic. The whole underlying goal of progressive rock—to draw together rock, classical, jazz, folk, and avant-garde styles into a new metastyle that would supersede them all—is inherently optimistic. So too is the attempt to bridge the gulf between high and low culture, which I consider progressive rock’s worthiest ambition: by creating a style of music that combined technical innovation and sophistication with mass appeal, progressive rock musicians achieved a goal that avant-garde composers could only dream of. The heroic scale on which so much progressive rock unfolds suggests an abiding optimism; as do the epic conflicts and the grapplings with the Infinite and otherworldly which dominate so much progressive rock. It is also possible to see in the “uncommercial” nature of progressive rock a reminder of a time when the music industry was more tolerant of experimentation and individual expression, and less concerned with standardization and compartmentalization.
At its best, progressive rock engaged its listeners in a quest for spiritual authenticity. Sometimes its ernestness could lapse into a rather sophomoric naivete. However, even at its most naive it was never wide-eyed or saccharine, while even at its bleakest, it never gave way to bitterness, cynicism, or self-pity. In short, I suspect that progressive rock has retained its attraction for many of its older followers—and has even drawn some younger ones—because it encapsulates an optimism, a confidence, and perhaps even an innocence that is a refreshing antidote to the cynicism and pessimism of more recent times. (p. 222)
Although I might have approached one or more of the aspects of the question with a different emphasis than Professor Macan’s, I think what he says here is insightful and essentially right. (I will discuss Rocking the Classics in detail in my third chapter.) But what is the connection to larger political and cultural questions? Although this connection may be perfectly obvious to many readers, let’s try to set it out systematically—my view is that doing this will help us see why progressive rock is historically important in the realms of music, culture, and politics in a broad sense.
Let’s begin with a question: What is “the cynicism and pessimism of more recent times,” and what is the basis of this? Another way to come at this is, What is the sense in which optimism and cynicism are opposites, and what is the sense in which this opposition is materially grounded?
In the largest frame, pessimism is the view that either the human project can come to no good end, or that there really is no human project—or even prospect, in any collective sense—in the first place. I think that if there is a human project, it is the sort of thing argued for by Aristotle: the bringing about of eudaimonia, flourishing, which involves an intertwining of the good person, the good life, and the good society. If the question is, What might humanity hope for and strive for, I don’t see any other answer. Now, of course, neither “flourishing” nor “good” in these formulations is self-defining, and there is the question of what might truly be possible in any given historical period. Marx’s contribution to all of this was to give material grounding to the immense possibilities that exist in our time. Pessimism and cynicism, however, regard the prospect of all of this as either undesirable or highly unlikely. Of course, as Marx demonstrated, this pessimism is also materially grounded, in that it is in the interest of some social classes that a collective human project of mutual flourishing not emerge. In other words, some classes depend on the majority of humankind being held in conditions of subjugation and exploitation—and these oppressing classes promote the view that, because of “human nature,” the “permanence of greed,” or some such cliché, nothing else is possible.
Radically affirmative or utopian strivings emanate from the felt experience that society does not have to be based on exploitation and domination, and that something else is indeed possible. The pessimism and cynicism of our time are especially driven by the fact that, in the twentieth century, movements and ideologies working for an alternative to capitalism have been defeated, derailed, or have rotted from within by the very tendencies that need to be overcome. In the wealthier countries, and among the wealthier classes, this cynicism has been accompanied by a certain euphoria, one that aims at a “partial utopia” mainly through the acquisition of lots of toys (often of the high-tech variety) and accommodations and plots of land cut off from the general condition of humankind. Although one shouldn’t become too concerned for the welfare of these “rich kids” in a world where, through the new processes of globalization, whole continents are being written off (namely, Africa), the fact is that even this little bit of “utopia” is not and could not be “true flourishing.” Perhaps the pleasures of “cybersex,” real enough on some level, but certainly limited and really quite thin, are a good demonstration, by way of negative example, of the idea that true flourishing has to be mutual and ever open to its extension to others. (Indeed, in the music of Yes, there is clearly the sense that mutuality has to extend beyond humanity itself, to nature, the world, and the cosmos more generally.) Or simply think of the idea of feasting at a small banquet that is surrounded by thousands and even millions of starving people, especially starving children, and inquire into the nature of the “happiness” that might be achieved in such a feast.1
Here’s yet another way of coming at this question in terms of hopes, dreams, and aspirations—imagine someone saying something like this: “I dream of a world where people are divided into classes, and where what they might accomplish in the world is heavily conditioned by this division; I dream of a world where people are divided by gender and ethnicity, and where there is an advantage to being one gender or ethnicity rather than another; I dream of a world where a few have much, and where many have little or nothing; and I dream that, in this world, I am one of a small minority that occupies the top part of this hierarchy, and that reaps the benefits from the collective labor, strife, and suffering of the immensely larger bottom part.” Such a “dream” could only be the product of a sick mind—or a sick social system.
Certainly, and this is the contribution of Marx to this discussion, what will first of all bring down the system of anti-mutuality is not its failure to achieve true happiness, but rather the fact that the oppressed and excluded cannot hold body and soul together. As their numbers and immiseration increase—and this must happen, according to Marx, because of the fundamentally exploitive nature of the capitalist system (one of Marx’s greatest insights is that the cause of exploitation is not first of all that there are bad, oppressive people running things, but instead that there is a social system based on exploitation)—so does the possibility of an explosion of protest, rebellion, and even revolution against this system. Such movements must aim, ultimately, to achieve a global community of mutual flourishing (this is what I mean by “communism,” with a small “c”, or what I sometimes also call “radical communitarianism.”) Such movements must not aim to simply replace those who are at present the beneficiaries of the machinery of exploitation.
In its best moments, this immense collective transformation is what the sixties and its cultural expressions were all about. What is overwhelmingly obvious is that such a transformation did not occur—though, significantly, many of the expressions of the possibility of such a transformation have been extraordinarily difficult for the system to bury, despite an equally extraordinary effort to do this. What has worked best for the system is to recuperate elements of the sixties as mere fashion (though even this strategy of cynicism has its dangers—I would identify the whole area of sex and gender as especially rich with possibilities). Likewise, progressive rock, at its best, is also an expression of this utopian, radical, and transformative spirit—even if not in a straightforward “political” way, at least as that term is often understood (or misunderstood). In fact, this is all to the good, because therein lies progressive rock’s potential staying power and relevance to a time of pervasive cynicism.
But why get into these questions here, in a book about progressive rock—or even in a book about any kind of music or art? I do reject purely “political” readings of artists and works, of the sort one gets from critics of a more sociological bent (such as they are—and they are a motley group, from the boorish to the insightful, from Lester Bangs to Greil Marcus or Dick Hebdige). If music is simply a matter of the “political statement” it makes, what is the point of it as music? In other words, why not just cut to the chase and put out the pamphlet or flyer? “Political statement” music, by the way, is sometimes called “agit-prop” (“agitation and propaganda”) art, and it is certainly the case that a good deal of this has been generated under the heading of one or another formulation of “Marxism,” or under the heading of a “worker’s movement” or even “power to the people.” My view is that, if any of this agit-prop music turns out to be “good,” it is primarily good for what it primarily is, namely agitation and propaganda. (Incidentally, I would not put some of the better punk music under this heading, as some who reject the sociological reading of music tend to do.)
On the other hand, I also reject purely formalistic analyses of art, which attempt (though they can never succeed, in my view) to see works as not being grounded in any historical, social, cultural, or political context. If a work of art has any significance (indeed, if anything has any significance), it must be in terms of some context (or set of contexts) and its relation to this context.
My guess is that the basic issue here is one that is close to the hearts of people who love progressive rock music: What is music (or art more generally), fundamentally? It seems to me that there are two basic possibilities: either music is fundamentally entertainment, or music is something capable (at its best) of speaking to the human spirit and the human condition. I’ll wager that folks who love progressive rock music are attracted to it because it speaks to the soul and to deep and significant human possibilities.
This is not to say that progressive rock cannot be entertaining as well, even if perhaps on a quite different level than what we expect from most “entertainment music.” Perhaps one way to put it is that there are kinds of entertainment that can be fulfilling and that can generate the deeper happiness that I mentioned earlier. There are other kinds of entertainment that are the equivalent of junk food or perhaps a mildly pleasant sensation or even a more intense giddiness, but one that has no lasting value. Indeed, it is because progressive rock is not readily consumable in the terms of our giddy junk-food society that the rock music establishment has largely rejected it.
Great music is able to speak to the soul, I think, because it offers (or perhaps “conjures,” in a truly magical way) the possibility of a different world. When this is done with intensity and vision and skill, as it is in the best of progressive rock music, the gesture is a profound one, a radical affirmation of human possibility. Such a gesture is more deeply “political” than much of what ordinarily goes under this heading—which, again, is not to say that there is any kind of straightforward “swap” possible (or desirable) between art that has this utopian dimension and the other things needed to deal with reshaping our world, e.g., political theories, movements, activism. (There is also an art of radical negation, which I think is also necessary for social transformation. In my book about Yes, I deal with this under the heading of what I call “the YesPistols question,” pp. 185–90.)
I hope that it is clear that I am a rather unorthodox Marxist. Although I believe that there is a great deal to be learned from Marx and others more properly identified as Marxist revolutionaries (Lenin, Mao) and Marxist philosophers (though here I have a very diverse canon—Adorno, Sartre, Jameson, many others), there are many others who are helpful in the critique of capitalism and the imagination of a radically different world who do not fit well into the Marxist canon (some examples would be Jacques Derrida, Wendell Berry, Ursula LeGuin, Octavia Butler, and Orson Scott Card). I am happy to learn from any of these and many other sources—including, obviously, progressive rock, almost none of which fits under the heading of Marxism (the exceptions would be Henry Cow and Robert Wyatt). I won’t belabor this point much further here, but I hope that readers who encounter the Marxist side of my perspective will avoid cold-war clichés. Certainly there have been social systems and movements and theories that have called themselves “Marxist” or “Communist” that have nothing to do with real liberation and the creation of a global community of mutual flourishing. Of course I reject these systems, movements, and theories. Certain ideas and possibilities have been dragged through the mud. Marxism isn’t the only thing this has happened to—I could see many of my arguments being made from a certain kind of radical religious perspective, and religion has certainly been dragged in the mud by some of its adherents and many of its supposed leaders. There are tremendous difficulties to be overcome; but none of this makes capitalism any less grotesque or the need to transform society any less real.
Some of these thoughts were first formulated (as regards progressive rock music, that is) in response to a critique of my book on Yes.2 The author of this critique, while overwhelmingly positive and generous regarding music of Yes, began by saying that he was annoyed and distracted by my “Marxist/Communist views.” He then repeated a few of the standard clichés. But, having thus vented, he went on to say that, “It is probably the first time I have ever read intelligent, convincing interpretations of Jon Anderson’s lyrics that actually SOUND RIGHT!” (emphasis in original), and that “[i]n general, I agreed with Mr. Martin’s analyses and opinions (on purely musical issues, that is . . .)” (ellipses in original). These comments raise (at least) three very important issues.
First, and not to be self-aggrandizing about it, if my interpretations of what everyone agrees is very difficult music and lyrics “sound right,” then might that not be a point in favor of the perspective out of which these interpretations have been generated?
Second, it is quite significant that, in the face of a politics that one has difficulty with, there is a standard move toward formalism—in this case, one concerning “purely musical issues.” Such issues do not, in my view, exist—which is not to say that formal analysis of musical structures is either impossible or unimportant. But form itself has content, and this content is historically, politically, socially, and culturally informed.
Third and finally, it may be the case that the radical perspective on these issues is well and good, but isn’t it distracting, as my critic claims, to go on at length about this perspective in a book on music? Or, again, Why not stick more closely to the “purely musical issues”? As a matter of fact, beyond this introduction, I do intend to focus primarily on musical forms and their context(s). But if we also want a way to say that progressive rock is significant and important music, there has to be a perspective from which to make this claim.
Of course, others are most welcome to develop their own perspectives. In my book on Yes, I’m sure I got it wrong here or there, or went overboard, and I know that I didn’t engage with some contexts that are also important for understanding the music of Yes or progressive rock more generally (for instance, I didn’t go deeply into the influence of non-Western belief systems on Jon Anderson or Steve Howe, in part because it is beyond my competence to discuss these things). I certainly hope that readers will correct me or extend the discussion where needed—and I will certainly be happy if one major outcome of this book will have been to provoke such discussion. Like any great art, progressive rock music works on many levels and inspires many interpretations. But I will stick to my claim that there is something fundamentally liberatory and utopian about progressive rock, and I imagine that readers, whatever they might have heard about some things called “Marxism” or “Communism,” will for the most part agree with this.
Incidentally, if such a thesis can be fleshed out, this will help to show not only how social theory and philosophy have something to contribute to the understanding of music, but also how an exploration of music can contribute to social theory and philosophy. The approach I take, then, has the virtue of avoiding both purely sociological or purely formalist perspectives, even while availing itself of the best insights of either. I think this approach fits progressive rock pretty well, and it also helps to flesh out the better possibilities of the radical communitarian perspective.
So, I would argue that following out such a perspective is not a distraction if there are important reasons for taking up such a perspective—but it can be rough going, undoubtedly. In this respect, I would like to quote my friendly critic one more time, because I feel that he has understood something important.
I did find myself occasionally skimming through the philosophical sections, just to get to the musical “meat.” However, in retrospect, all of the writing is significant, and it short-changes the book to read it merely to get the “warm fuzzies” from experiencing someone else’s praise for something that one already admires (although this DOES unmistakably feel good). (p. 4)
This is very generous and much appreciated. Naturally, I don’t want to prevent anyone from getting a warm feeling from revisiting the glory days of progressive rock—on the contrary, I want to help us seize again those days and the great energy and inspiration of them.
Edward Macan situates progressive rock in terms of a broad sixties counterculture. Progressive rock is no longer a part of this counterculture—which itself now only exists in the form of embattled or recuperated fragments. But if there was ever a “culture” (if such it is) that needed to be countered, the one we live in is it. In two important books, Postmodernism and The Seeds of Time, Fredric Jameson has spoken to the way that meaning and history are flattened and consigned to stasis and oblivion in this period of postmodern capitalism. In the latter book, he describes this in terms that are brutally stark:
Parmenidean stasis [changeless Being in itself, to which Jameson is comparing the postmodern resistance to history] . . . to be sure knows at least one irrevocable event, namely death and the passage of the generations. . . . But death itself . . . is inescapable and [has been rendered] meaningless, since any historical framework that would serve to interpret and position individual deaths (at least for their survivors) has been destroyed. A kind of absolute violence, then, the abstraction of violent death, is something like the dialectical correlative to this world without time or history. (p. 19)
When I argue that we should seize again the day, and take up again the idea that music, and a certain music in particular, was and is important, it is ultimately this absolute violence to which this argument and this proposed raid is opposed.
As Macan argues, progressive rock has gone from being part of a more general counterculture to being simply what sociologists call a “taste public.” This means, as Macan explains, that whereas there was something like a world view associated with being an afficionado of progressive rock at a time when this kind of music was part of a larger counterculture, after the heyday of progressive rock it is more likely that afficionados only share an interest in the music, and do not necessarily share any larger set of values (see especially pp. 72–83). There is a good argument to be made that the degeneration of a counterculture into a mere taste public fits in all too nicely with a more general “culture” of consumerism and with the idea that there is nothing more at stake than individual “tastes.” Furthermore, and returning once again to the question of formalism and my friendly critic’s attempt to isolate “purely musical issues” from “political” questions, the move from counterculture to taste public is surely a monumental defeat, in that the move is an acceptance of the idea that music is not really that important in terms of this larger thing called “life.”
So, again, What is music? If it is only capable of being entertainment, something to occupy us in our leisure time, but of no greater importance, then perhaps some of the components of the sixties counterculture really were invested with a significance all out of proportion to their actual worth.
The response to this charge, I think, is seen first of all not in one of my more theoretical discussions, but instead in the fact that people who are into progressive rock seem to love this music, seem to think that it is important, seem to feel that it speaks to them on the level of the soul and not just as passing entertainment; there is a deep feeling that this music can be engaged with. Why, then, retreat into a sterile formalism when the larger issues begin to get rough and where one is challenged to examine where one’s commitments lie? My aim, instead, is to show why we need to go in the opposite direction.
Another way to put this is that, if I dealt with this music only from the standpoint of history or musicology done from a purely academic perspective, or as a mere nostalgia trip—“warm fuzzies” and nothing more—then there wouldn’t be much point, as far as I’m concerned, in attempting to deepen our understanding of this music. Instead, I’d just put on Thick as a Brick or Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, and sit around with my friends and say, “Man, that is really something, that is really cool!” Of course, it is really something, it is really cool (in the pre-jaded sense of “cool,” that is), and it is good to just sit back and listen from time to time, without too much of an agenda as to what one will make of the experience. But my perspective is that there are two central issues here that are deeply linked. First, there is something about progressive rock that is not only to be enjoyed on the surface, but also to be understood and appreciated in depth. This depth appreciation is not unassociated with enjoyment, but here we would be interested in moving beyond surface pleasures and more into the realm of what speaks to the possibilities of human flourishing. Second, I would argue that, if we break with formalism (which, again, doesn’t mean absolving ourselves of the need for analysis of musical structure), then our perspective on the aforementioned understanding, appreciation, and enjoyment must be an engaged perspective. That is, we accept that, although “music” (or art more generally) and “life” do not at every point describe the same thing or activity, neither is there a way to strictly separate the two. This would go even more for the kinds of music that one could get very seriously involved in, “wrap one’s life around”—and, of course, I hold that progressive rock is one such kind of music. (In this connection, I can’t help but think about the title of Valerie Wilmer’s book on four major jazz innovators, including Cecil Taylor: As Serious As Your Life.) Therefore, a commitment to the importance of a kind of music that goes beyond surface enjoyment, toward that which speaks to the human spirit and the possibilities of human flourishing (and even a cosmic co-flourishing), must be understood, on reflection, to also entail a commitment to working those changes in the world that will enable this flourishing.
This is to ask a great deal of music and of any one kind of music. And yet, I imagine that the kinds of people who are deeply interested in progressive rock will be able, upon reflection, to follow out these claims and to grapple with them. After all, we are interested in progressive rock because it is a thoughtful music.
Alright—I realize that I am asking a great deal of you, dear reader; I hope that you will take this in the same spirit as progressive rock itself, which also asks a great deal (and therefore isn’t something that thoughtless rock music “criticism” has any time for). Just to be clear, I am not arguing that there is any single progressive rock “ideology” or political “agenda,” or something on that order, but rather that there is a fundamental connection between thoughtfulness and care in art and an engagement with the possibilities of human flourishing.
Now let us turn to a brief tour of the rest of this book.
Chapter 2 will deal with what I call the “prehistory of progressive rock.” Here we will discuss the history of rock music from the founders (including, for instance, Ray Charles and Chuck Berry), up through the Beatles, as well as other more experimental forms of rock that prepared the way for the emergence of progressive rock. This will necessarily be a skewed and slanted history; I do not believe that the only raison d’être of other kinds of rock music than progressive rock was to prepare the way for the latter, but in chapter 2 I will proceed as though this were the case. In addition to those already mentioned, I will discuss the Beach Boys, Hendrix, Cream, the psychedelic movement, and then four groups that are very important for being close to the edge (to coin a phrase!) of progressive rock: The Who, Led Zeppelin, the Moody Blues, and Pink Floyd. Obviously, I will need to explain why I do not place the Floyd, especially, in the category of progressive rock, and this will require the construction of definitions. Some of this work will be done in the second chapter, some in the third. Finally, I will discuss a group that was truly transitional to progressive rock, namely The Nice.
In taking up this somewhat channeled history, I will foreground the experimental tendencies that have been around since the beginnings of rock music in order to show what larger cultural and social forces shaped these tendencies, and, ultimately, how these tendencies underwent, in the late sixties, a transformation of quantity to quality such that a distinct trend in rock music, progressive rock, emerged. I will argue, in a dialectical but I hope not a too-overdetermined way, that the seeds of progressive rock were always already present in the music of the “founders,” especially Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Bo Diddley. (When I say that I hope to avoid overdetermination, I mean that there was no absolute dialectical necessity that these seeds blossomed—which is again where there is a need to go beyond merely formalistic analysis.)
In chapter 3, “The time of progressive rock,” I will discuss the definition and the conditions of emergence of the phenomenon itself. I originally took up some of these questions in a section in music of Yes (pp. 37–45); here I will rearticulate these themes and expand on them. Definitions can be dangerous, they can be confining (“by definition,” this is what definitions are all about)—and this is especially a problem where such an expansive phenomenon as progressive rock is concerned. My aim will be to generate a definition that is enabling, that helps rather than hinders understanding. To this end, in the second chapter I will also take up a rather large group of bands that are not ordinarily grouped under the heading “progressive rock”—as that term is understood or, in fact, badly understood, today—yet were clearly a part of the expansion of rock music’s possibilities in the early seventies. This is a large set of groups—I’m thinking of such exciting and innovative artists as Traffic, Chicago, Steely Dan, Santana (to name some of the famous ones). My aim will not be to say anything definitive about these groups (though they are all deserving of extended treatment), but more to deal with the expansion and contraction of the phenomenon and definition of progressive rock itself.
In the third chapter I will also deal with the fact that, although not all progressive rock bands are from England, by any stretch, there is something about the progressive trend that is very centered in England.
Finally, in chapter 4, I will turn to the bands and their music. As the subtitle indicates, chapter 4 is meant as a kind of annotated discography. Even though the chapter is quite long, my aim was to create something that the reader could move through at a fairly quick pace, mainly in order to get a sense of the rhythms and dimensions of the larger progressive movement. In my final chapter, I will take up developments in progressive rock beyond its “time.” In the main, however, I limit more extensive discussion to groups that made important albums in the years 1968 to 1978. (Admittedly, even this choice of years is somewhat conditioned by the desire to present a nice, even decade.) I will deal with both the famous and the obscure—making it plain that, just because some groups such as Yes or Emerson, Lake, and Palmer became quite famous does not mean that they were necessarily more “commercial” or “watered down” (I don’t know who could call Tales from Topographic Oceans “commercial” or “Karn Evil Nine, 2nd Impression” “watered down”). There’s a tendency to punish some of these groups for their fame, when, in fact, they were also making better music than some of the more obscure groups. At the same time, some other groups were undeservedly obscure and were certainly as creative as the more famous groups. In other words, I focus on quality, not quantity of albums or concert seats sold.
In what, I am sure, will be a controversial move, I divide the discussion of groups in chapter 4 into three categories. First, I make a distinction between what I see as the “first-line” and the “second-line” groups. The first line consists in what I will argue are the most consistently innovative contributors to the genre. Of this list of thirteen groups, about five or six of these would be in the category of less famous, while the others are fairly well known (of course, most of them will be familiar to long-time followers of the genre). In alphabetical order, these are the “first-line” groups of progressive rock: Caravan, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, Genesis, Gentle Giant, Gong, Henry Cow, Jethro Tull, King Crimson, Magma, Mahavishnu Orchestra, PFM, Soft Machine, and Yes.
My second category will also be controversial. Within the category of “first line,” I will identify two groups in particular as the pillars of progressive rock, namely King Crimson and Yes. This does not mean that these groups were or are absolutely the best of the lot—though, in my opinion, they are. Instead, the idea is that these two groups, taken together, give us something like an “archetype” for the genre.
A smaller, but still significant, part of the fourth chapter will be devoted to a much longer list of groups, approximately fifty of them, that are both less well known and are among the less “heavy hitters” and are more peripheral to the progressive trend. They constitute, in other words, the “second line.” This category includes groups such as Curved Air, Greenslade, Egg, Nektar, Jonesy—to name a few. Here I will not attempt to be exhaustive, but I will try to give readers/listeners access to this easily forgotten chapter in rock music (and even a forgotten chapter of progressive rock music). In the resources section, I will also give some sources where listeners can obtain albums by these groups. In every case, these groups have made at least one important album and therefore a real contribution to progressive rock.
In making the “first-line”/“second-line” distinction, I will undoubtedly rankle a few readers. My hope is not only to make some judgments of quality, but also to provoke further discussion. If a disgruntled reader wants to launch a campaign to demonstrate that, in fact, Grobschnitt should have been considered within the first line, then let’s debate it out in the newsletters, journals, and other forums. I should say, as well, and by way of preparation, that just because I think some of these bands are more important does not mean that I wish to diminish the contributions of the others. On the contrary, I hope to show that progressive rock in the seventies was a very diverse and vibrant trend. At the very end of chapter 4 I present a list of fifty-nine of the most noteworthy albums, which would form a solid basis for a progressive rock album collection.
Finally, in chapter 5, I will discuss the fate and possibilities of progressive rock after its “time,” that is, after 1978. I will consider the factors that led to the close of the progressive rock era as a major musical trend, as well as the more recent trajectories of some of the principal groups as they navigate the post-progressive period. Some attention will be given to punk, new wave, and recent music that might be called “postmodern.” I will also discuss the music and thoughts of Brian Eno as a figure who bridges the progressive era and postmodern music. Finally, considering Yes’s recent Keys to Ascension, I will ask whether progressive rock has a chance of once again becoming a force in the world.
In the afterword I will share a few thoughts on Paul Stump’s recent book, The Music’s All That Matters, especially concerning the distinction he makes between “alternative” and “mainstream” progressive rock. I will also discuss alternative approaches to the genre that might prove fruitful for future research.
Is there hope for the future? I see this book as an attempt to gather a few, mostly overlooked, seeds of redemption, and I look forward to a larger discussion with readers regarding the possibility of the sort of society that could enable good music, and the sort of music that might encourage us to work toward mutual human flourishing in a good society.
