Director Peter Bogdanovich has a new podcast, One Handshake Away. The setup is he gets together with a current director to talk about the work of a classic director – one who Bogdanovich happens to have recorded interviews with. It’s a neat idea. A recent episode featured Rian Johnson and focused on Orson Welles and, perhaps inevitably, Citizen Kane. Listening to it sent me on a deeper dive that got me thinking about Kane’s parallels with another iconic debut – In the Court of the Crimson King.
My journey to Citizen Kane is an odd, if not unique, one. I really dove into movies, even “cinema,” in college and particularly in law school. It didn’t take long to have Kane pop up here and there, often near or at the tops of lists of the best movies ever made, but for some reason I didn’t feel compelled to seek it out. It’s not because it was old or in black and white – I devoured movies by Fritz Lang and Akira Kurosawa. Maybe because it had been placed on such a pedestal I thought it was too good for my growing cinephile brain?
Regardless, what really drew my attention to Kane was the story around the movie and the lengths William Randolph Hearst went to squash it. I’m not sure whether I stumbled into that via The Battle Over Citizen Cane, a 1996 PBS documentary, or RKO 281, the 1999 HBO movie based on it. Both tell how the character of Charles Foster Kane became a stand in for Hearst (even though he was based on several different magnates of the age) and how the publisher marshalled all his considerable resources to kill the film (in the process, of course, bringing extra attention to the whole thing – a proto Streisand Effect, if you will). Regardless, Kane became one of the those works, like Brazil, that I was attracted to because of the story behind it more than the work itself.
All that said, when I first saw Kane I was not overwhelmed. It was good, don’t get me wrong, and I liked the flashback structure and the “Rosebud” MacGuffin. Still, it did not necessarily scream out at me that this was the greatest film ever made. My opinion ticked up somewhat when I watched it again with Roger Ebert’s commentary. He pointed out all the myriad ways that Welles was breaking new ground in terms of how shots were composed, how the very medium of the movies was changing in his hands. It made all the praise easier to understand. After repeated viewings I easily called Kane a classic, even if it’s not necessarily at the top of my list of favorite movies ever.
On the heels of listening to the Bogdanovich and Johnson discussion, I found an episode of The Ringer’s Big Picture podcast on the legacy of Citizen Kane in the lead up to the release of David Fincher’s Mank, which takes on the writing of the screenplay (among other things). In that discussion, critic and author Adam Nayman made an interesting observation. Contrary to Ebert’s commentary, or at least what I took away from it, Nayman argues that Welles didn’t really break any new ground himself, but combined a lot of recent innovations in one place with a sense of skill that hadn’t been seen before. He was, in other words, making the best refinements of breakthroughs that had come before, in the process giving birth to a lot of the visual language of modern movies.
I immediately thought of In the Court of the Crimson King.
As evergreen as the “what is progressive rock?” debate has been over the decades, the “what was the first prog album?” debate is equally well worn. For broader audiences King Crimson’s 1969 debut is usually cited. But the truth is that there are several other candidates that predate it, at least for certain elements of what would come to define “progressive rock”:
The Beatles, along with the Beach Boys, helped transition the album from just a collection of singles to something that is a cohesive work (Sgt. Pepper in 1967 and Pet Sounds in 1966). The Beatles even threw in what amounts to a side-long suite on Abbey Road (1969).
The Moody Blues took the concept album idea (which dates back to at least the 1940s) and layered it over with symphonic grandeur on Days of Future Passed (1967).
The Nice were doing the side-long suite thing and adapting classical (and related) pieces for a rock setting before Keith Emerson left for Emerson, Lake, and Palmer on albums like Ars Vita Longa Brevis (1968).
Then there’s Frank Zappa, who by 1969 had done albums covering fun-house pop/rock/blues music, orchestral stuff, jazz fusion, music concrete, and just plain weirdness.
Given all that, does In the Court . . . still have a valid claim to the title of “first” prog album? I think so, because, as with Citizen Kane, it took a lot of different things that were happening in the musical culture at the time and seamlessly wound them together into a single, cohesive work. It wasn’t the first drip of the prog rains, but it was the deluge that nobody could ignore. Once In the Court . . . was released the era of progressive rock was upon us.
There’s another similarity I see between Kane and Crim – its creators would never again reach the same heights, at least in terms of the popular zeitgeist. Yes, Welles made more movies, some of which are very good, but none can lay claim to being the best film ever made. As for Crimson – it wasn’t took long after In The Court . . . came out that the band became, effectively, a Robert Fripp project (he’s the only common member for the rest of the band’s history). And while they, too, made some great albums over the years, none punctured the culture the same way In the Court . . . did. Being first is important, in a way, but it’s not the only thing. Welles may have been borrowing from other ground breakers, just as Fripp and company were synthesizing a lot of things that were in the rock music atmosphere at the time. Doesn’t make their accomplishments any less mind blowing. Sometimes it’s best to come just behind the pioneers.
My mother passed away this past weekend. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still came as a shock. Naturally, I’ve been doing a lot of remembering in the past few days and I pulled a story out of my brain involving my mother and the ultimate development of my bizarro musical tastes.
My musical tastes were shaped by two main forces inside my family. The first was my brothers, who are 10 and 13 years older than I am. I say that not to call them old (we’re all old now!), but to point out that just when I was old enough to start thinking about popular music they were old enough to have established tastes and preferences. It’s why, in spite of going through junior high and high school in the 1980s my musical likes lagged by about ten years. It’s through my brothers that I discovered progressive rock – they introduced me to Yes, Genesis, Zappa, etc.
The other force inside my family was my parents. They were my introduction to the world of “serious” music – the symphony, opera (my father is a huge opera fan), musical theater. I never jumped into that stuff quite as much as I did prog, but its influence definitely contributed to that. In addition, both my parents were singers, having been in the WV Symphony Chorus for years. They were big fans of vocal harmony groups like The Hi-Los and the Swingle Singers. I can draw a direct line from hearing that sort of stuff to bands like Gentle Giant, echolyn, and Moon Safari that feature exquisite vocal harmonies.
With that said, my first music collection was mostly cassettes recorded from albums my brothers had (they each had, over time, bitchin’ stereos, while I made due with a boom box). At one point, probably because they were about to move out, I made a more concerted effort to make cassette copies of some albums that I didn’t necessarily love but figured I should have anyway.
Enter Relayer.
The seventh Yes album, the first and only with Swiss keyboard player Patrick Moraz. I was aware of it at the time, but not really familiar with it. But it was Yes and I was a fan, so I needed a copy.
One day I was the only person in the house and decided that would be a good time to record and listen. See, kids – back in those days if you wanted to record something onto cassette it took as long as the album lasted, so you might as well listen as you went. I wasn’t trying to be clandestine, just considerate.
My parents came home at some point. I’m not sure what attracted my mother, whether the music itself or the cover, but she took a look at the track list on the back of the LP cover.
As you can see, side one is one long piece called “The Gates of Delirium.” My mother was convinced that this twenty minutes of progressive rock madness could only be about one thing – drugs. For whatever reason, she decided to put her foot down and stop me from listening to/recording any of it. I still don’t know why – my house growing up was not exactly censorial and I got exposed to a lot of stuff I was too young to understand, from George Carlin to Monty Python (remember, two older brothers!) and, as I mentioned, Frank Zappa! None of this was an issue with my mother but, for some reason, “The Gates of Delirium,” that great ode to the power of drugs, was a bridge too far.
I didn’t argue with her. As I said, Relayer didn’t mean much to me at the time and I couldn’t mount a credible defense for “The Gates of Delirium,” anyway. Jon Anderson’s lyrics were always what you might call “opaque” – I read somewhere that he was more interested in how words sounded than in what they meant – and I didn’t know, at the time, what it was really about. So I put Relayer away and got on with whatever album was next.
I only later learned what “The Gates of Delirium” was really about – War and Peace. That’s right, in typical prog fashion, Anderson had decided to whittle down a 1200+ page classic of world literature into one side of an album. While I’m certain drugs were involved in the creative process, it isn’t actually about that, much less a celebration of it (as the lyrics make fairly clear – as clear than Anderson typically gets, anyway).
You’d think after all that I’d bear some grudge against my mother for denying me this masterpiece for so long. You’d be wrong! See, the thing is that all of Relayer, and large chunks of “The Gates of Delirium,” are by far the weirdest, most aggressive things Yes ever did and at the time I was trying to record it I didn’t really like it much. When came back to it in college or law school I’d started listening to way weirder stuff and so Relayer didn’t strike me as “too much.” Rather, it hit just the right sweet spot. That it was, in some minor sense, “forbidden” probably didn’t hurt. If I’d lived with it for years by that point, I’d probably just shrugged it off as not for me.
So thanks, Mom, for letting that rarely used overly protective streak come out in this particular instance. It probably led to this becoming one of my favorite bits of Yes music ever.
It’s one of the most iconic moments in all of Star Trek lore – hell, in all of science fiction. The “death” of Spock:
Spock’s mantra is a callback to his earlier pontification of the maxim that “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” It’s a stirring call to sacrifice for the betterment of your fellow being, a dictum that sounds throughout different ethical systems and religions. A personal best practice it’s hard to argue with (if also hard to follow).
But it’s also kind of fucked up, if you think about it.
I think the writers of Silo thought about it. Adapted from the Wool series by Hugh Howey, Silo’s first season on Apple TV wrapped up not too long ago. It’s a slice of post-apocalyptic sci-fi with a twist – it takes place almost entirely in a silo that stretches for dozens of levels underground, where survivors of some catastrophe eke out an existence via strict rules and superb logistic coordination.
Naturally there are secrets and lies and all that good stuff, which the main character doggedly sets out to uncover. Hovering over her is the interim mayor of the silo, played by Tim Robbins, who eventually turns heel and when he does he says a quite interesting thing:
Holy shit – “the needs of the many” – significant pause – “require the sacrifices of a few.” I can’t be the only one who thinks that’s not a coincidence.
Star Trek is generally thought of as utopian, aspirational sci-fi. Sure, there are baddies like Romulans and The Borg and The Dominion running around making the universe a mess, but, for the most part, life in Trek land is pretty good. Most people in the Federation get to lead a life they feel is fulfilling and, it appears, nobody has to do shit work for money. It’s not quite as decadent as The Culture universe, but it’s getting there.
Trek isn’t unique in presenting a positive human future (indeed, there’s some argument that sci-fi by definition has to be of that persuasion), but it’s probably the best well known. And its achieved that in a world that, at least in the last few decades, seems much more interested in exploring various dystopias than it is speculating how science might solve humanity’s problems. Silo fits snuggly into that dystopian field and stands as almost a challenge to the Trek view of the future.
Which is why I can’t believe its swerve on “the needs of the many” is an accident. There’s no reason it should be. As I said, Spock’s maxim is a generous rule of thumb to guide personal interactions. As a societal principle, however, it doesn’t take took long until it looks pretty dangerous. You don’t have to go very long down the slippery slope before you’re severely restricting personal freedom in name of the greater good (see also, Omelas, of course).
What makes dystopias so rich is that their fundamental dilemma is one we deal with everyday in the real world. I have to strain my imagination to imagine a world of little scarcity where anything I can dream of needing can be pumped out of a replicator. On the other hand, it’s not too far to buy into a society run by a guy who thinks the only way for life to survive is to brutally crush dissent, given human history since, well, ever.
It doesn’t make one better than the other, but we rarely see them in conversation with each other. I think that’s what Silo was doing. As a slogan, “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few” looks good on a coffee mug, but that doesn’t mean it can lead society to some very dark places. The road to hell being paved with good intentions and all that.
It’s always nice when you see Margaret Atwood share a picture of your alma mater(s)’s most distinctive building! Oh, wait:
Yes, West Virginia University, from which I obtained my two degrees, has been in the national news recently and not for anything good (although the men’s soccer team is nationally ranked!). Faced with a tens-of-million dollar shortfall, the WVU administration has decided to cut numerous class offerings and majors. As the faculty open letter Atwood highlights puts it:
WVU’s current crisis has received significant national news coverage over the past few weeks. Faculty and staff heard vague rumors about financial problems in late 2022, but the deficit was publicly announced only in March 2023. The crisis is largely caused by financial mismanagement; the university is running a $45 million deficit after a decade of real estate boondoggles, administrative bloat, and declining state funding. Instruction costs have declined but the administration is responding to the budget deficit by proposing a mass layoff of around 170 faculty and an undeclared number of staff this fall on top of 135 layoffs over the summer. Many departments may be closed or gutted to the point of not being able to function. Academic support units are also suffering: the library was forced to reduce its operational budget by thirty percent and currently cannot purchase books. Not a single senior administrator—many making at least five to ten times what most faculty earn—is taking a pay cut.
Beyond the fact that the administrators who got WVU into this mess aren’t likely to face any repercussions (Gordon Gee, WVU president who presided over all this mess, will retire to a spot on the College of Law faculty – the academic version of a corrupt prosecutor becoming a judge, I suppose), what really bothers me about all this is WVU’s insistence that everything is actually fine.
I got an email the other day (at my work email address, for some reason), titled:
It says, a little further one:
Due respect, but no, it won’t be the same University I know and love. For one thing it will be diminished as a teaching institution. How couldn’t it? The email (and other news releases) cite the relatively low number of students majoring in, say, foreign languages, but that minimizes the issue. How many future WVU students will be denied the experience of a former colleague of mine who, via the foreign language requirement for her major, wound up studying abroad and widening her horizons in ways that still impact her today?
For another, the reputation of WVU will take a hit due to all the negative coverage of this mess. Sad to say, most people already don’t have a mental picture of that “West Virginia University” is a citadel of higher learning. That the main move here in dealing with a budget shortfall isn’t “find the money somewhere,” but rather gut a bunch of academic programs sends the signal that they’re impression isn’t that far off. That only degrades the degrees already handed out and will stigmatize students going forward.
And really, did someone type this with a straight face?
It’s not a “budget crisis,” merely a “structural budget shortfall”! Orwell would be proud. Here’s the thing, in my line of work the “structural” modifier only makes it worse. Really, there’s no way to sugarcoat the bottom line that the school spent too much money in anticipation of students that have not arrived. Maybe that was an honest “oopsie” instead of a growth-driven fever dream that somebody should have tried to cool off, but either way – WVU is short a shitload of money.
University leadership have also been reviewing WVU’s academic support programs for potential cost-saving changes.
Programs under review include the libraries, Honors College, Office of Global Affairs, LGBTQ+ Center and the Women’s Resource Center.
Also on the chopping block is WVU Press, the book publishing arm of the school, which recently had one of its titles be a finalist for the National Book Award (among a host of other awards). These are not the kinds of things you cut if you’re trying to attract students and maintain the school’s reputation as a big-time research institution. The way things are going I’m afraid this isn’t too far from the truth:
Except we’ve been nowhere near a “massive” football program for years.
I’ve got a fondness for micronations, those tiny bits of land that someone has declared a small, independent nation that nobody else in the world really recognizes (aside from other micronations). My favorite, up to this point, has been the Principality of Sealand, which is actually an old offshore platform in the North Sea off the British coast.
Sealand even has its own soccer team (there’s an entire World Cup for unrecognized nations) and, I’m pretty sure, inspired an excellent song by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark Song:
That’s interesting and quirky and all, but is a micronation art? It certainly can be.
You might think it’s just a few acres of scrub in the Utah wilderness (and you wouldn’t be wrong), but it’s also a project of artist Zaq Landsberg. I found out about him via this article in the Washington Post about his statue “Reclining Liberty,” currently installed in Arlington, Virginia, in which he translates the Statue of Liberty into the form of the reclining Buddha you can find all over Southeast Asia.
I like the whole vibe of it:
one of the piece’s goals is to be accessible — Lady Liberty is relaxed in the grass, not towering above viewers from a pedestal. It is easy to interact with her, and he hopes that people will.
‘There’s plaster layers, the copper, the patina, but really, the last layer is the kids climbing on it,’ he said. ‘This thing, it’s on the ground, there’s no pedestal, there’s no admission ticket, there’s no velvet rope.’
So something like Zaquistan is right up his alley. He’s filled the scrub with various sculptures and installations, including a “port of entry” and Victory Arch. My favorite, though, are The Guardians of Zaquistan, a couple of large 1950s-style robots. According to the place’s website they were installed in 2006 and “[t]o this day they steadfastly protect Zaquistan’s borders from intruders.”
My wife and I don’t see eye-to-eye when it comes to visual art. She prefers the look of more traditional painting and sculpture, things you can look at and see recognizable people and things. I prefer more modern and abstract stuff, things that aren’t even particularly “arty” at first glance. Our trip to the Tate Britain earlier this year spawned a good round of “is this art?” discussions. They often go like this:
I think part of what I like about the more modern stuff is that it inspires in me a sense of playful wonder and awe that more traditional works don’t. I can certainly appreciate the artistry of Renaissance statuary or paintings by the great masters, but I find myself more interested in the details of what’s being depicted by them than the art itself. More modern stuff hits me right in the gut, however, and almost demands that I deal with it on its own terms, without concern for what it’s “about.”
When I was in law school I got to go to Chicago for a mock trial competition. One afternoon, a teammate and I wandered through the Art Institute, which was probably the first big art museum I’d ever been to. Around one corner we walked into the wildest thing I’d ever seen, an installation called “Clown Torture,” which:
consists of two rectangular pedestals, each supporting two pairs of stacked color monitors; two large color-video projections on two facing walls; and sound from all six video displays. The monitors play four narrative sequences in perpetual loops, each chronicling an absurd misadventure of a clown (played to brilliant effect by the actor Walter Stevens). In ‘No, No, No, No (Walter),’ the clown incessantly screams the word no while jumping, kicking, or lying down; in ‘Clown with Goldfish,’ the clown struggles to balance a fish bowl on the ceiling with the handle of a broom; in ‘Clown with Water Bucket,’ the clown repeatedly opens a door booby-trapped with a bucket of water that falls on his head; and finally, in ‘Pete and Repeat,’ the clown succumbs to the terror of a seemingly inescapable nursery rhyme. The simultaneous presentation and the relentless repetition creates an almost painful sensory overload.
This is not an inaccurate description, particularly the “almost painful sensor overload” part (and particularly if you don’t know what you’re walking into!). Now, I’m not going to say I loved “Clown Torture,” but I love the idea of it and I love that it completely unsettled me and made me think “what the fuck?” for a good long time afterward (still does, sometimes). In some instances that’s all art has to be about.
The Republic of Zaquistan is nowhere near as disturbing as “Clown Torture,” but it gives off similar “what the fuck?” vibes and so I kind of love it. It’s weird and its funny and it kind of makes you reconsider the world around you. If that’s not art I don’t know what is.
I am not, in general, a big reader of historical fiction. Not anything against it, I think I’d just rather read the history itself. Nonetheless, when Hilary Mantel died last year I thought I probably ought to check out some of her work. A little leery of wading directly into the Thomas Cromwell books I scanned her bibliography and saw a book called The Giant O’Brien. It rang a small bell and, after a bit of poking around, I found it was about, perhaps, a distant relative.
Said giant was Charles Byrne, who measured over seven-and-a-half feet tall. As chronicled in Mantel’s book, he leaves rural Ireland to go to London and become an attraction. What’s really interesting about the man in the book (whether it tracks reality I don’t know) is that he was very much in control of his exploitation. He’s not a simpleton dragged away from home by someone out to make a quick buck. Rather, he’s well aware of what’s going on and happy to make his way in the world in that manner, with the possibility of a young death hovering over him the whole time.
In the book, Byrne is pursued by a surgeon, John Hunter, who is a collector of “specimens” and wants the giant’s skeleton once he’s dead. Byrne makes it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want this to happen, but is betrayed by the hangars-on that have come with him to London, who eventually make the deal with Hunter for a few hundred pounds. The result was that Byrne’s skeleton was put on display at Hunter’s museum, where it became the most famous part of its collection.
There is some dispute as to how, precisely, Byrne’s bones came into Hunter’s possession – let’s hope he wasn’t so cruelly betrayed – but there’s no doubt Byrne didn’t want to go on display like a museum piece. Nonetheless, he was and there he hung for the next two centuries.
Until just recently. The museum is nearing reopening after several years of renovation and have announced that Byrne’s skeleton will no longer be on public display:
“What happened historically and what Hunter did was wrong,” said Dawn Kemp, a director at the Royal College of Surgeons of England, of which the Hunterian Museum is now part. “How do you redress some of these historical wrongs? The first step is to take Byrne’s skeleton off display.”
The real question now is what else, if anything, should be done with it. On the one hand, if we’re rectifying historical wrongs and Byrne wished not to be a specimen that should be the end of the discussion. On the other, there is something to be said for having Byrne’s bones around for scientific study:
“We shouldn’t think that we now know everything,” said Marta Korbonits, a professor of endocrinology at Queen Mary University in London, who has researched Byrne’s genes.
The research “isn’t done and dusted,” she added.
Indeed, Byrne’s skeleton has offered up new answers as medicine has evolved. In 1909, an American surgeon studied Byrne’s remains, and discovered that he had a tumor in his brain. Then, about a century later, researchers including Dr. Korbonits extracted DNA from Byrne’s teeth and found that he also had a rare genetic mutation that had been unknown until 2006.
“Without the public view, we wouldn’t have made that link,” Dr. Korbonits said.
I’ll admit, I’m a little conflicted. On the one hand, since I believe that a body after death is just meat and bone and the person who it once was is gone, I don’t get too worked up over what people do with dead bodies, particularly at the remove of a couple of centuries. And if there is some broader benefit for mankind that’s a good thing, right? On the other, disrespecting a person’s wishes is a shitty thing to do and it seems if you’re going to right that wrong you have to go all the way.
In the end, there’s no good answer, given the proven good that having Byrne’s skeleton around has done, although I could see a compromise – since we’ve gotten more out of him than we ever should have, maybe it’s time to say “thanks” and let the guy rest? It’s the least we can do for cousin Charlie.
So, the original plan for the “month of lists” is lying in ruins along the side of the road at this point – given that it’s now June. Perhaps because of that, I’ve decided to cheat a little bit and expand the favorite movie list from the twenty in Steven Wilson’s book to twenty-three. Why? Well, why not? Also, paring this list down proved harder than I’d imagined (if I could get down to only 100 songs, right?) and I didn’t feel like cutting any others. Twenty-three it is. Think of some as bonus tracks, I guess.
As with the favorite songs list, the operative frame for this list is “favorites.” There’s at least one movie on this list that is generally regarded as bad, but I love it anyway and it’s a fav. Likewise, this list omits some really excellent movies that are, nonetheless, so emotionally destructive that I have no desire to see again – things like Requiem for a Dream, Graveyard of the Fireflies, and Hunger. It also omits some really great things that I really like, but nonetheless wouldn’t quite call a “favorite” – like, say, Citizen Cain.
Oh, and spoilers will abound. Most of these movies have been out for years so, really, you’ve got nothing about which to complain.
With that said, away we go . . .
Amadeus (1984) Directed by Milos Forman Written by Peter Shaffer
I’m not the biggest fan of Mozart, years of slaving away at his magical clarinet concerto notwithstanding. When it comes to orchestral stuff my preference runs to the later romantic and early modern composers. Which is why a lot of what is in Amadeus – the music, the operas – wouldn’t do much for me if the actual story itself wasn’t so compelling. Yes, I know, it’s not historically accurate (neither is Shakespeare – let it go), but I’m a sucker for a story about rivals involved in a petty dance of destruction (see also, The Prestige, below). That the film is beautiful to look at, centered on a pair of great performances, and a joy to listen to is what probably pushed this to the list ahead of my other Forman favorite, The People Versus Larry Flynt.
Blade Runner (1982) Directed by Ridley Scott Written by Hampton Fancher & David Peoples
I was working on (or at least thinking about) this list when the news came down that Vangelis had died. Blade Runner is a triumph of atmosphere, visual and audible, more than anything else. Without Vangelis’ score, a ground-breaking electronic soundscape making full use of the new(ish) Yamaha CS-80 synth, it wouldn’t have worked nearly as well. I mean, yes, the whole concept is interesting and asks questions about what it means to be human and everything, but even if Blade Runner was just the visuals, the music, and Roy Batty’s “tears in the rain” speech it would still make this list.
The Blues Brothers (1980) Directed by John Landis Written by Dan Akroyd & John Landis
The blame or praise for this one being on the list lies solely with my older brothers, who introduced me to The Blues Brothers (the band and the movie) at an early, impressionable age. The music is the highlight here, with the band joined by R&B luminaries like Aretha Franklin, John Lee Hooker, and Ray Charles (among others) – hell, Joe Walsh even turns up in the “Jailhouse Rock” scene in the end! And there will never be a more touching and poignant version of “Stand By Your Man” put to film. But the straight comedy bits are mostly gold, too, including the running bit with a murderous Carrie Fisher that only gets explained when it has to. Also, there’s a little car chase that’s kind of fun.
Bob Roberts (1992) Directed by Tim Robbins Written by Tim Robbins
Whoo, boy, here’s one that continues to be sadly relevant in the modern world. The titular Bob Roberts is a “conservative folk singer” who made millions with junk bonds, hostile takeovers, and the like and decides to run for the US Senate in Pennsylvania. His opponent is an old-line liberal Democrat (basically a Ted Kennedy stand in) played to smarmy perfection by Gore Vidal (basically playing himself). The movie follows the Roberts campaign (run by Alan Rickman) as scandal swirls around it related to drugs and overseas shenanigans (rooted out by journalist Giancarlo Esposito). The songs are deadpan perfect (one anthem is “The Times Are Changing Back”). But what really sells it these days is the way a near-cult following grows around Roberts (including a young Jack Black) that, when it’s shown in the end that he’s a complete fraud, simply doesn’t care. Prescient, no?
Brazil (1985) Directed by Terry Gilliam Written by Terry Gilliam, Tom Stoppard & Charles McKeown
If I was forced to name an absolute favorite movie, this might wind up being it. I love the blending of “reality” and fantasy. I love the dark humor, with several running jokes. I love Robert de Niro almost unrecognizable until he’s swallowed up by a massed ball of waste paper. But I also love the story behind the movie, the battle Gilliam had to fight to get it released the way he wanted it (in the United States, anyway) and the amazingly odd edit the studio chief put together of it. Gilliam said he wanted to make a movie where the happy ending was a man going insane, which the studio cut reduced to a triumphant “love conquers all” ending. Gilliam’s vision is brilliant. The oddball alternate reality version is an fascinating comparison.
Breaker Morant (1980) Directed by Bruce Beresford Written by Jonathan Hardy, David Stevens & Bruce Beresford
I saw this for the first time in a military history class in college, which makes sense. It’s a true story from the Second Boer War where a trio of Australian soldiers are put on trial for killing prisoners and deals with the clash between established notions of just war (don’t kill prisoners!) and the evolving nature of war itself (guerilla tactics and how to respond to them). They’re given an inexperienced Australian solicitor to defend them and it’s made clear that they’re to be (in the words of a book the one whose death sentence is commuted) Scapegoats of the Empire. It’s an idea movie, a great lawyer movie, and contains one of the best last lines in all of cinema.
Clerks (1994) Directed by Kevin Smith Written by Kevin Smith
Dogma deals with bigger ideas, but dammit, Clerks is just funnier. It’s dumb in a lot of ways and far from a work of distinction when it comes to visuals, but it’s full of individually hilarious scenes and conversations that really probably have no place being in a movie. Yes, the second Death Star discussion (*ahem* see below), but also there is the stuff about position dictating behavior and the contrast between Dante’s life of obligation and Randall’s care-free approach to living (note they both wind up largely in the same place). Plus, this is another one of the those movies with a great story behind it.
Do the Right Thing (1989) Directed by Spike Lee Written by Spike Lee
Another movie that’s decades old, yet sadly remains so relevant today. You could easily see the spark that grows into the literal fire at the end of the movie happening today online, with sides quickly drawn over a small, but meaningful, incident that touches on the history of racism in this country. Oh, and don’t forget the horrific act of senseless police violence that ultimate sets off the tinder keg. The cast here is amazing, as is the score, as Lee manages to pull together an ensemble of characters that are each well drawn and compelling in their own right. It’s a joy in a lot of spots, until it hits you in the face.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964) Directed by Stanley Kubrick Written by Stanley Kubrick, Terry Southern & Peter George
Another for the “still relevant after all these years” file. Strangelove is a master class in making a comedy that is not inherently funny. It works so well because everybody is playing everything perfectly straight (the “you can’t fight in the war room” is not really a punch line), which keeps it both darkly funny and terrifying. There’s an additional gloss to the proceedings these days as General Ripper comes off as the prototypical Q-follower and represents the danger of those folks actually gaining power. Which, in some cases, they have. Where’s my falling bomb and ten-gallon hat?
The Empire Strikes Back (1980) Directed by Irvin Kershner Written by Leigh Brackett & Lawrence Kasdan
I am of a vintage that the original Star Wars trilogy is the one that means the most for me – I remember seeing Empire in the theater (I think on vacation visiting my aunt in Philly?) and still being slightly terrified by the guys walking up and down the aisles dressed as Darth Vader and a pair of Stormtroopers. Going back to Clerks, Dante is right that Empire is the best of the movies (including the two newer trilogies, which are OK), but not just because of the downer ending (life, Dante says, is a series of down endings). It’s because it’s a brilliant middle part in a trilogy, moving the entire plot along while deepening our understanding of the characters and telling a fairly self-contained story. There’s no wheel spinning here. Plus, the whole Vader-is-Luke’s-dad reveal really worked (in a way it couldn’t today in the age of spoilers).
Fargo (1996) Directed by Joel Coen Written by Joel Coen & Ethan Coen
Few movies set outside LA or New York have such a firm sense of place as Fargo. From the frozen wastelands to the urban sprawl to the accents, there’s nothing that’s ever really felt like this movie. It’s a story that drills down on one of the great truths of criminality – crooks are usually undone by their own fuck ups, not necessarily by brilliant police work. It’s worth noting that Marge’s best quality isn’t a particularly keen eye or Sherlock-style deductive logic, but sheer persistence and basic goodness. She has a good bullshit detector, not because she’s super cynical, but because she isn’t. It’s why the creepy stuff with guy from high school is there, to show she still has blind spots. But I’ll give Marge her due – I use “he’s fleeing the interview!” way more often then I should in casual conversation.
A Few Good Men (1992) Directed by Rob Reiner Written by Aaron Sorkin
I joked once to my wife that if we’re scrolling through the TV and this is on that I have to stop and watch it or risk being disbarred. It’s not quite like that, but I am pulled into this pretty much any time I see it. Part of it, of course, is that it’s a quintessential lawyer movie, with defense attorney’s striving fully to save their clients’ lives. But part of it is I really fall for Sorkin’s dialog. I know it’s not realistic – people don’t talk that way! – but who cares? I also love the ending, after Nicholson’s epic meltdown, because it’s so true to the life of a defense attorney – yes, you won on the most serious charge, but your guys were still convicted of something and got kicked out of the Marines (which is what they wanted to avoid in the first place). Criminal defense is all about partial victories and learning to revel in them.
Flash Gordon (1980) Directed by Mike Hodges Written by Lorenzo Semple, Jr.
I refuse to buy into the concept of “guilty pleasures.” It’s just a way for people to feel good about liking stuff that others don’t, which is bullshit – love what you love when it comes to art. I love Flash Gordon for all the cheese and questionable swashbuckling that runs all the way through it. There are a couple of really good lines in there (“tell me more about this man Houdini” gets me every time) and the whole big finish, with Queen blasting out the soundtrack, is as good as it gets. Special shout out to Max von Sydow, who somehow managed to appear in a lot of movies I love that are, let’s say, not that well received – Victory, Strange Brew, David Lynch’s Dune. I don’t know what that says about him. Or me.
Ikiru (1952) Directed by Akira Kurosawa Written by Akira Kurosawa, Shinobu Hashimoto & Hideo Oguni
Kurosawa is one of my favorite directors and my first instinct was to go with one of his more typical samurai movies (probably Ran, his visually sumptuous take on King Lear), but this movie kept picking at the back of my brain. There’s no fight scenes, no swordplay, but it’s haunting and beautiful. A meditation on life, death, and legacies, it’s a very humanistic film. The underlying message is that there is only one life we’re given that we can make a difference in peoples’ lives, even if only in small ways. More than that, it’s worth trying to do that.
LA Confidential (1997) Directed by Curtis Hanson Written by Brian Helgeland & Curtis Hanson
I’m not generally one to get bogged down in book versus movie comparisons (they’re different art forms with different strengths, weaknesses, and goals), but there’s an interesting detail in the novel LA Confidential that didn’t make it into the film. In the movie we hear that straight arrow cop Edmund Exley is a war hero, but only in the book do we learn that his status is a fraud. Thus, novel Exley comes to the story of LA Confidential – an interwoven tale of murder and utter corruption among the LAPD (based, as they say, on actual events) – with more baggage than his film counterpoint. I’m not sure which works better, though I tend to lean toward the movie, since it makes Exley’s awakening to moral compromise more heartbreaking. Oh, and the more times I watch this, the more I really feel for Russell Crowe’s meathead muscle who wants to be so much more.
Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979) Directed by Terry Jones Written by Graham Champan, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Terry Jones & Michael Palin
Grail is probably funnier, although in a different way, but I think this is a much better movie. It’s less a collection of (albeit hilarious) set pieces and actually does tell a pretty well thought out story. Of course, it’s funny as hell and tears apart various sacred cows, religious and political. All of that’s still relevant, too, from the way people become mindless followers to the splintering of movements over the most minute details to the inertia of inaction. Plus, it ends with a jolly tune!
Matewan (1987) Directed by John Sayles Written by John Sayles
It’s a pity that we’ve never gotten a movie about the West Virginia Mine Wars. Given the scale of the thing (the largest armed insurrection since the Civil War, the use of aircraft, etc.) it would make for an obvious movie subject. But if we can’t get that, Sayles’ exploration of the struggles to organize the mines in southern West Virginia at least gives a good sense of what might drive people to take up arms eventually. There are several people in the cast that were Sayles’ regulars who would go on to bigger (though not necessarily better) things, too, which is always fun.
Metropolis (1927) Directed by Fritz Lang Written by Thea von Harbou
Pretty much every science fiction movie involving some kind of robot can trace its visual lineage back to this movie. It was so innovative for its time, so unlike anything that had ever been seen, that even if the story portions of the film completely sucked it would be a masterpiece. They don’t, although honestly it’s hard to gauge sometimes given that it’s a silent film with title cards and what not. Given that it’s a silent film, it’s had an interesting afterlife when it comes to soundtracks, most famously a 1984 version produced by Giorgio Morodor with input from (among others), Pat Benatar, Jon Anderson, and Loverboy. Honestly, there’s music out there for just about every taste to go along with this movie.
Murder on a Sunday Morning (2001) Directed by Jean-Xavier de Lestrade
Public defenders, or anybody who practices criminal defense with regularity, inevitably get the “how do you defend those people?” question, where “those people” are, in the questioner’s mind, criminals. There are many answers to that question, but one of them is that if you don’t do everything you can (within the bounds of the law) in representing every defendant then you’ll be in no position to save a defendant who is actually innocent. This documentary presents one of those cases, as a defense team fights to save a 15-year-old from being convicted of a murder he didn’t commit. Thankfully, they did. This film won an Oscar, but Lestrade went on to even bigger things by essentially giving birth to the modern limited-series true-crime documentary with the (original version of) The Staircase.
The Prestige (2006) Directed by Christopher Nolan Written by Christopher Nolan & Jonathan Nolan
As I said earlier, I really dig stories about rivals who go to unhinged ends to one up each other. That’s the driving feature of The Prestige (which is why the book suffers by comparison, as it’s burdened with a needless frame story that distracts from the good stuff), but there’s a good bit of other weirdness going on that creates an interesting atmosphere. Nested timelines can be tricky, but the Nolans pull it off in a way that only deepens the back-and-forth between the two magicians. Plus, it’s got David Bowie as an otherworldly Tesla!
This Is Spinal Tap (1984) Directed by Rob Reiner Written by Rob Reiner, Christopher Guest, Michael McKean & Harry Shearer
Yeah, I’m surprised that the only director represented here twice (as a director – sorry, Terry Gilliam) is Rob Reiner. If A Few Good Men is one of my go-to lawyer movies, Spinal Tap is my go to music movie. It’s more of a collection of set pieces than a moving narrative, but almost each of them are hilarious and the music is just good enough to make you bang your head while realizing why Tap wasn’t the hugest band in the universe. It’s easier to show the rapid ascent of success (see below), but the lengthy ride back down is laden with more comic possibilities. That’s how you get to 11.
The Sweet Hereafter (1997) Directed by Atom Egoyan Written by Atom Egoyan
Fun fact – most lawyers aren’t litigators. I’m not. There are more of us who make our livings representing clients out of court – trial courts, particularly – than in it. This is my favorite movie about being a lawyer, even though there’s no dramatic courtroom climax or wronged client who needs defended. Instead, it’s about the toll it takes on a person’s psyche to make a living by inserting yourself into the tragedies of others. In this case, it’s the aftermath of a school bus crash in a remote Canadian town that killed most of the town’s children. Even if you’re trying to help, nobody is happy to see you and nobody is really happy with the limits of what you can do for them. This is also one of those examples of the movie improving on the book (as author Russell Banks admitted).
That Thing You Do! (1996) Directed by Tom Hanks Written by Tom Hanks
Movies about fictional creatives are difficult because it can be really hard to get whatever they create right. Spinal Tap does it with regard to low-brow metal and That Thing You Do! nails it with regard to early 1960s pop. The titular song in this movie brilliantly manages to be catchy enough to believable as a one hit wonder (sorry, Oneder) while not wearing out its welcome since you have to hear it over and over through the movie. The rest of the movie works really well, too, capturing the giddy highs of a completely unexpected rise to the top, without a hugely downer ending when the bottom falls out.
To kick off the substantive part of my month of lists, I figured I’d being where Steven Wilson did, with my 100 favorite songs. This was an interesting exercise, as while there are some common artists and even albums between our two lists, there aren’t any common songs. And, of course, my list has a couple of Steven Wilson-related tracks, whereas his list did not (nor did it have any of mine!). Before we dig in, a few ground rules.
First, when I say “favorites” that is just what I mean. Making a list of “best” anythings when it comes to art is a fool’s errand. These are just songs I really like. I make no claim that you will love them, too.
Second, I didn’t select these as particular best examples of what I love about these bands and artists (although many ended up that way). In other words, there was always going to be a Genesis track on here, but I didn’t select it based on how paradigmatic it was of their glory years, just because I really really love it.
Third, I imposed a limit of one song per band/artist on this list. Even with that, my first go had about 200 songs on it. I thought if we’re really talking “favorites” then let’s keep it as just that. That said, some musicians show up multiple times in different bands.
Finally, I made the executive decision to include as one unit multiple songs that segue into one another. If you can listen to them all in a hunk without a break, I counted them as one “song.” Is it cheating? No, because it’s my list and my rules!
So, on with the show. In alphabetical order by song title . . .
“3 Years Older, “ by Steven Wilson from Hand.Cannot.Erase (2015): A perfect blending of Wilson’s prog side and his penchant for memorable pop/rock hooks.
“Almost Medieval,” by The Human League from Reproduction (1979): Rough, early synth pop. All the grit and fuzz of early synths without the slick finish the 1980s would bring. How can you not love a song about a gibbet, anyway?
“Another Murder of the Day,” by Tony Banks (w/Fish) from Still (1991): A sort of “what if?” track, with Fish providing lyrics and vocals. Imagine Calling All Stations with him on board?
“The Ballad of Jenny Ledge,” by Toy Matinee from Toy Matinee (1990): The most fully brilliant result of the brief collaboration between producer extraordinaire Patrick Leonard and the gone-too-soon Kevin Gilbert (another Calling All Stations “what if?”).
“La Ballata de S’lopsoa ‘e Mannorri,” by DFA from 4th (2008): DFA’s muscular Canterbury-influenced prog is taken to another level by the collaboration with a female vocal group on this folk-inspired tune.
“Bass Folk Song,” by Return to Forever from Return to the Seventh Galaxy (1996): Furious bass-led fusion, with lots of juice distorted electric piano to boot.
“Beat Box Guitar,” by Adrian Belew from Side One (2004): An infectious mix of electronics and guitar heroism. Nominated for a Grammy, even!
“Between the Wheels,” by Rush from Grace Under Pressure (1984): An overlooked gem, in my opinion. Love Alex’s solo.
“Bring Out the Sun (So Alive),” by Von Hertzen Brothers from Love Remains the Same (2008): Love the way this one builds to about the halfway point, then shifts gears and does it all again.
“Canto Nomande Per un Prigioniero Politico,” by Banco from Io Sono Il Libero (1973): Banco at their lush, romantic best.
“A Cat With Seven Souls,” by Steve Hogarth & Richard Barbieri from Not the Weapon But the Hand (2012): Love the combination of Barbieri’s gauzy atmospherics and H’s voice.
“Catwalk,” by Oblivion Sun from Oblivion Sun (2007): As an author, how can I not be a huge fan of a song about someone helping out the Cheshire Cat with a story? Oh, and that slinky Minimoog solo, too.
“Celebrity,” by I Am the Manic Whale from Things Unseen (2020): An epic that manages both to make fun of artsy “competition” reality shows, while showing genuine respect for the people who are good enough to do well on them.
“Chat Show,” by Sanguine Hum from Now We Have Light (2015): The central track on a concept album about the buttered cat phenomenon. Top that!
“Cinema Show,” by Genesis from Seconds Out (1977): My favorite performance of my favorite hunk of classic Genesis. They didn’t get better than this.
“The Clever Use of Shadows,” by Nathan Mahl from The Clever Use of Shadows (1999): Deeply cynical lyrics and amazing keyboard parts. What more do you need?
“Close to the Edge,” by Yes from Yessongs (1973): The definitive version of the band’s definitive song (if you ask me). Carries some extra energy from the studio version (although it lacks Bill Bruford).
“Closet Chronicles,” by Kansas from Two for the Show (1978): A great (and sad) story song carried along by some amazing playing. The live version rules.
“Clownhead,” by Dreadnaught from The American Standard (2001): I don’t really know what a “clownhead” is (a descendant of Krusty?) but I love this weird, off-kilter album closer regardless.
“The Crane Wife 1, 2, & 3,” by The Decembrists from We All Raise Our Voices to the Air (2012): Spread across the studio album of the same name, I love hearing it all from stem to stern.
“Day of the Cow 1 > Snowcow > Day of the Cow 2,” by Mike Keneally from Hat (1992): A perfect encapsulation of Keneally – weird, fun, and amazingly musical. Should I mention it’s about a bovine apocalypse?
“De Futura,” by Magma from Udu Wudu (1976): Now this is an apocalypse! The last half is basically the same riff over and over getting just slightly faster until the whole thing feels like it’s going to spin apart (in a good way).
“Deus ex Machina,” by Deus ex Machina from Deus ex Machina (1992): It’s a band name, it’s an album name, it’s a song name! And everything’s in Latin – what’s not to love!
“Dixie Chicken,” by Little Feat from Waiting for Columbus (1978): I love a great story song and they don’t come much better than this. The live version gets the nice Dixieland break from the Tower of Power horns.
“The Dream,” by Robert Cray from Showdown! (1985): Best line in a blue song ever: “When I reached out to hold her / Oh, I woke my wife instead!”
“Driving to Amsterdam,” by Khan from Space Shanty (1972): Loosy, jammy goodness. If this is what a “Nederlander dream” sounds like, I’m on board.
“Les etudes d’organism,” by Thinking Plague from In Extremis (1998): 14 minutes of pure weirdness, punctuated with ambient and symphonic beauty. Dark beauty, but still.
“Even Less,” by Porcupine Tree from Recordings (2001): This is the full version, not the first half as it appeared on Stupid Dream. I like the dreamy interlude in the middle and the recapitulation in the end.
“Felona > Le solitudine di chi protegge il mondo > L’iquillibiro,” by Le Orme from Felona y Sorona (1973): Light, graceful Italian goodness. An alt-universe ELP that admired Renaissance instead of Hendrix.
“Fitter Stoke Has a Bath,” by Hatfield and the North from Rotter’s Club (1975): I’m also a sucker for songs about musicians, particularly ones like this, that try to rub some of the glamour off their image.
“Free Will and Testament,” by Robert Wyatt from Shleep (1997): “What kind of spider understand arachnophobia?” I dunno, Robert, but it’s worth pondering.
“Games Without Frontiers,” by Peter Gabriel from Peter Gabriel (Melt) (1980): When I was young I thought the French refrain was “she’s so funky.” That kind of works, anyway, you know?
“Go!,” by Public Service Broadcasting from The Race for Space (2015): Not the “best” song from this album (I’d go with “Sputnik”), but this one makes me giddy every time. The newsreel clips are spliced up here expertly.
“The Gooberville Ballroom Dancer,” by Beardfish from The Sane Day (2005): “He was a filthy motherfucker by the name of Dwight” – hell of a first line, particularly when it’s your opening tune at your first American prog festival!
“Head Over Heels > Broken,” by Tears for Fears from Songs from the Big Chair (1985): It says something when the third (or fourth?) hit from an album is this good.
“Hell’s Kitchen> Lines in the Sand,” by Dream Theater from Falling Into Infinity (1997): I know this isn’t Dream Theater’s most loved album (and rightly so), but these two tracks work really well together, the jammy instrumental turning into a solid tune, with a great chord progression in the chorus (and King’s X’s Doug Pinnick!).
“Hereafter,” by The Dregs from Bring ‘em Back Alive (1992): Not that the Dregs didn’t frequently blaze, but I really love this laidback jam.
“Hibou, Anemone and Bear,” by Soft Machine from Volume 2 (1969): Fuzzed bass, many woodwind overdubs, and lyrical silliness. My preferred variant of Soft Machine.
“Hostsejd,” by Anglagard from Epilog (1994): My first exposure to the amazing retro-symph prog from Sweden that helped kick off prog’s third wave.
“I Dream of Wires,” by Gary Numan from Telekon (1980): It took me many listens before I realized that this song is about an electrician worried about remaining employed in a wired world. I always figured it was about synth patch chords.
“Idioteque,” by Radiohead from Kid A (2000): Speaking of synth patch chords. Officially the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen performed on Saturday Night Live.
“Impressioni di settembre,” by PFM from Storia di un Minuto (1972): My first impression (so to speak) of Italian prog. That Minimoog solo!
“In Earnest,” by The Tangent from A Place In the Queue (2006): My favorite epic of the modern prog era. The last verse chokes me up still.
“In Every Dream Home a Heartache,” by Roxy Music from For Your Pleasure (1973): Roxy’s not really my thing, but this mix of weirdo confession that explodes into rock and roll goodness is great.
“In the Dead of Night > By the Light of Day > Presto Vivace & Reprise,” by UK from UK (1978): Prog’s last gasp in the 1970s, really – but what a gasp.
“Intentions Clear,” by Umphrey’s McGee from The Bottom Half (2007): For an odds and sods collection, this is a pretty good album. I prefer this version to the “real” one on Safety In Numbers.
“Internal Exile,” by Fish from Internal Exile (1991): Fish’s love song to his native Scotland, in which I hear lots of echoes of West Virginia (in the bridge, particularly).
“The Invisible Man,” by Marillion from Marbles (2004): This is what modern Marillion is all about – layers of sound for days, atmosphere all about, with H’s emotive vocal on the top.
“Invisible Sun,” by The Police from Ghost in the Machine (1981): Favorite song by The Police. Simple as that.
“Judas Unrepentant,” by Big Big Train from English Electric, Vol. 1 (2012): I’ve written about this song before. I love me songs about interesting criminals.
“King of Number 33,” by DeExpus from King of Number 33 (2011): Another song about an interesting criminal, but this time one who is completely out of his mind. Delusion and nifty solos across 25 or so minutes.
“Lady Fantasy,” by Camel from Mirage (1974): The instrumental workout in the last half of this it just peak Camel. They did not better, IMHO.
“Le Fantome de M.C. Escher,” by Miridor from Mekano! (2001): If there’s such a thing as “fun” avant garde prog, Miriodor is it. That said, the way this ends in an unholy mishmash of noise kind of makes you wonder.
“Liberty City,” by Jaco Pastorious from The Birthday Concert (1995): Jaco with a big band in full song filling his sails.
“Life During Wartime,” by Talking Heads from Stop Making Sense (1984): Rampant paranoia with a driving beat.
“Lochs of Dread,” by Bela Fleck & the Flecktones from Live Art (1996): A banjo player grooving on a reggae riff, held down by his synth-drum drummer and a guest on bass clarinet. If that doesn’t define all that’s great about Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, I don’t know what does (great title, too).
“Man-Erg,” by Van der Graff Generator from Pawn Hearts (1971): Musically and lyrically the best VdGG ever did. Hopeful and frightening in equal measure.
“Memetic Pandemic,” by 3rDegree from The Long Division (2012): The highlight of 3rDegree’s political opus.
“Microdeath Softstar,” by Phideaux from Doomsday Afternoon (2007): In some ways it’s a theme song for the modern age (written 15 years ago).
“Moonwalk,” by Moon Safari from The Gettysburg Address (2012): The first song of the first set released where I was in the room when it was recorded. Good tune, too.
“Neon Lights,” by Kraftwerk from The Man-Machine (1977): Kraftwerk’s “Cinema Show,” if you will – starts off with a pleasant enough song section, before transitioning into an extended instrumental coda.
“New Holy Ground,” by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark from History of Modern (2010): Few bands get back together decades later and produce new stuff worth listening to. They’ve done it a lot.
“No Sign of Yesterday,” by Men at Work from Cargo (1983): It’s like melancholy set music. With a nifty guitar solo in the end.
“No Thugs In Our House,” by XTC from English Settlement (1982): I had a conversation once with a client’s mother. She had no idea why her son was spending years in a federal prison. This song makes me think of her.
“On Reflection,” by Gentle Giant from Playing the Fool (1977): I chose the live version of this song because they take apart the original, rearrange it, and make the end product even more jaw-droppingly impressive to perform it live.
“One of Our Submarines,” by Thomas Dolby (1982): Inspired by a true family story (as I understand it). Better than anything that was actually on The Golden Age of Wireless (which is excellent).
“Out In the Darkness,” by Martin Orford (w/Steve Thorne) from The Old Road (2008): Atheists need anthems, too. Particularly in times like these.
“Oxygene, pt. 2,” by Jean-Michel Jarre from Oxygene (1976): Where things really get moving in this electronic classic.
“Poisoned Youth,” by England from Garden Shed (1977): England were not particularly original in the context of 1970s prog, but they put all the pieces together in a pretty satisfying way in this epic.
“Present from Nancy,” by Supersister from Present from Nancy (1970): Canterbury wasn’t just an English thing, as these Dutch boys prove. With a dash of Zappa here and there.
“Racing In A,” by Steve Hackett from Please Don’t Touch (1978): One of my earliest favorites (thanks to my brother), which breaks off from a full-throated song into a solo nylon-string guitar outro.
Recycled Side 1 by Nektar from Recycled (1975): Okay, this really is cheating, but these seven songs all run together, honest (as do the four on side two). Larry Fast’s synth programming really elevated these guys.
“Remurdered,” by Mogwai from Rave Tapes (2014): Love Mogwai in general, but really love it when they dig into the electronic sounds, as in here.
“S.A.L.T.,” by The Orb from Orblivion(1997): The unhinged preaching film clips (from the Mike Leigh movie Naked) are almost enough to put this on the list, but the way the beats and soundscapes get deeper and more paranoid as the go along really sells it. “Do you ever get a feeling your being followed?”
“Safe In Hell,” by The Bears from Car Caught Fire (2001): Leave it to Adrian Belew and crew to take an alternative look at half of the afterlife.
“Seven Is a Jolly Good Time,” by Egg (1969): If prog had a theme song, how could it not be this single (which sank without a trace upon release) that extols the joys of playing in odd time signatures? Still stunned no band has whipped this out at a prog festival.
“The Seventh House,” by IQ from The Seventh House (2000): A perfect epic of World War I loss and remembrance. Still don’t quite know what the “seventh house” is, though.
“Sheep,” by Pink Floyd from Animals (1977): It’s all about that chord progression from Gilmour in the end. And the tinkly electric piano from Wright in the beginning.
“Solar Musick Suite,” by Steve Hillage from Fish Rising (1975): Hillage’s stuff seems to uncoil like a snake, solid but ever shifting.
“Some Memorial,” by echolyn from echolyn (Window) (2012): It starts sort of wistful and cynical, but builds into a climax with some of my favorite lyrics about the end of things.
“Soterargarten 1,” by Gosta Berlngs Saga from Glue Works (2011): Uses repetition to great effect, building up to the amazing ending.
“Squarer for Maud,” by National Health from Of Queues and Cures (1978): Maybe my favorite bit of Canterbury ever. Another song that goes one direction, breaks for something completely different (spoken word interlude!), then gets to business.
“St. Elmo’s Fire,” by Brian Eno from Another Green World (1975): A very good lush pop tune becomes great with Eno’s decision to let Robert Fripp rip right through it from time to time.
“Stander on the Mountain,” by Bruce Hornsby from Here Come the Noisemakers (2000): The older I get, the more this story of faded glories and the people who can’t let them go sticks with me.
“Starless,” by King Crimson from Red (1974): Another one (like “Cinema Show” and “Neon Lights”) that starts as a “song” proper and then slides into a feverish instrumental final. How long does Fripp play that one note?
“Surrender,” by Cheap Trick from At Buddokan (1979): High point of the best side of pure rock and roll ever recorded? I’d say yes.
“Telephasic Workshop,” by Boards of Canada from Music Has a Right to Children (1998): Trip hop and burbly synths. I love that I can listen to this and not have the first idea of how it’s really made.
“The Doorway,” by Spock’s Beard from Beware of Darkness (1996): I love those first five Beard albums (I got in on the ground floor, sort of) and this exemplifies why.
“There’s Something On Your Mind,” by BB King (w/Etta James) from Blues Summit (1993): Great duet by two giants who are no longer with us, sold with all their heart and soul.
“Thick as a Brick,” by Jethro Tull from Thick as a Brick (1972): Technically an entire album, I guess? It’s just one long song broken across two LP sides. Would have to make it for the fake newspaper artwork, regardless.
“Toujours plus à l’est,” by Univers Zero from Live (2006): What did I say earlier about “fun” avant garde stuff? UZ has done much denser and darker stuff, but I love this spritely little thing. Dig the clarinet!
“Trilogy,” by Emerson, Lake & Palmer from Trilogy (1972): My favorite synthesis of ELP’s push/pull struggle between Greg Lake’s romantic balladry and Keith Emerson’s keyboard pyrotechnics.
“Vertiges,” by Present from Barbarro (ma non troppo) (2009): This makes the list for the thundering piano runs up and down the keyboard.
“Village of the Sun > Echidna’s Arf (of You) > Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing?,” by Zappa from Roxy & Elsewhere (1974): Everything I love about Zappa – a silly song (although not as silly as usual) followed by mind-blowing musical workouts. It’s a whole side, yes, but it goes by in a flash.
“Warriors,” by Synergy from Electronic Realizations for Rock Orchestra (1975): Probably my favorite “composed” bit of electronica. I could see this transcribe for a human ensemble very easily. All done with a single Minimoog and a Mellotron.
“Whalehead,” by Moth Vellum from Moth Vellum (2007): This album has grown and grown in esteem for me over the years.
“What Looks Good On the Outside,” by Animal Logic from Animal Logic II (1991): It’s not necessarily what you’d expect from the rhythm section of The Police & Return to Forever, but it’s some seriously good grown-up pop.
“With a Car Like That You Must Be Knee Deep In Whores,” by Forever Einstein from Down With Gravity (2000): It’s here for the title, yes, although it’s a groovy little tune. Don’t worry, it’s instrumental!
“World Through My Eyes,” by RPWL from World Through My Eyes (2005): This makes the list mostly for the awesome synth solo that resolves into the guitar solo near the end. Sublime stuff.
“Yellow Submarine,” by The Beatles from Revolver (1966): I probably loved this movie before I really digested The Beatles’ music. Good way to wrap things up.
Here are some fun facts about this list.
The list covers 54 years, from 1966 (The Beatles) to 2020 (I am the Manic Whale)
There’s a cluster of great live albums there from 1977 to 1979
The musician most represented on the list (I think) is keyboard maestro Dave Stewart, who was a key member of Egg, Hatfield and the North, and National Health, as well as playing with Steve Hillage in Kahn and on his first solo record
My absolute top favorite? Not going to say! It’s been hard enough to whittle things down to 100!
Beginning in 1955, Donald Campbell piloted Bluebird K7, the world’s first functional jet-powered hydroplane, to a slew of water speed records. He didn’t just break the record, he shattered it over and over again – the record he initially broke was 178 miles per hour, while his last complete run, nine years later, was over 276 miles per hour.
On January 4, 1967, Campbell took Bluebird to Coniston Water in England’s Lake District for another run, hoping to hit 300 miles per hour. After making the run one direction at over 297 miles per hour, Campbell began the return run. Then, tragedy struck:
It was big news in the UK, big enough that young Steve Hogarth, while not quite grasping what had happened, noted the emotional impact Campbell’s death had on his mother. Flash forward three decades and Hogarth, aka “H,” and his band Marillion release Afraid of Sunlight, my personal favorite album of theirs. One track, “Out of this World,” is about Campbell and his fatal voyage, complete with some snippets of radio traffic from that day.
So far not that interesting, right? A band writing a song about a tragic historical event is hardly rare (Marillion themselves have jokingly been referred to as a band specializing in songs about “death and water”). What’s really cool is what happened afterward. Bill Smith was not just a Marillion fan (he even sort of promoted a solo Fish show in Newcastle!), but an experienced salvage diver. Inspired by the song, he led a team that found Bluebird and raised it from the depths. The official photographer for the event? Steve Rothery, Marillion guitarist. You can hear more about that day on the latest episode of Hogarth’s podcast, The Corona Diaries, which includes an interview with Smith.
Again, that would be an interesting enough story, but it goes even further. Smith and his team restored Bluebird and, in 2018, it was in the water again, on Loch Fad in Scotland, where it hit 150 miles per hour.
Sadly, that wasn’t the end of things. There appears to be an ongoing legal dispute over where Bluebird should make its final landing. According to the BBC, the Campbell family promised Bluebird to a local Coniston museum (that has built a wing specifically to house the restored craft). Smith, however, argues that because some of the restored craft is made up of new parts, he “co-owns the craft.” Interestingly, in the podcast, Smith points out that the usual finders-keepers salvage law of the open ocean doesn’t apply to inland waterways.
I suppose it’s inevitable that when someone’s legacy is at stake the parties involved wind up at odds. I don’t think it’s a matter of money more than it is pride and obligation. I hope there’s a happy ending in there somewhere, a resolution that can please all the parties involved, if not completely.
All in all, there’s probably at least another song in all this.
When I went to college most of the music I had was on cassettes recorded from the record collections of my brothers. As a result, I didn’t have the liner notes that came with those albums and, thus, no lyrics to pore over. This wasn’t a huge problem, but I did always wonder what Jon Anderson was singing about on old Yes albums.
I got online during my junior year of college and quickly discovered primitive websites devoted to bands I loved. Some of them even had song lyrics on them! So I dutifully dove into some of those old Yes albums and . . . didn’t really get any better understanding of the lyrics. Turns out Anderson was more focused on what words sounded like rather than meaning, so they were pretty vague on purpose – what on Earth (or beyond) is “cold summer listening” and how does “hot color melt the anger to stone,” anyway?
Still and all, Anderson never wound up in the crosshairs of J. Edgar Hoover. And he never inspired , one of my favorite Bloom County strips of all time:
The joke works, of course, because nobody really knows what the words to “Louie, Louie,” are, which is pretty amazing given how much the song has seeped into our culture. How exactly did that happen? Turns out, it’s precisely because purveyors of moral panic can try to make the lyrics be any old thing they wanted.
This article in Reason tells the tale. The song was written in 1956, but didn’t really breakthrough until it was recorded by the Kingsmen in 1963 (it peaked at No. 2 on the Billboard chart) and even then it took a while to get rolling. As the article points out, it’s not a particularly deep song:
It was nothing more than a lovesick sailor’s lament to a bartender about wanting to get back home to his girl. But because Jack Ely, the Kingsmen’s lead singer, slurred the words beyond recognition, it became something of a Rorschach test for dirty minds. Schoolyard rumors about filthy lyrics in “Louie, Louie” stoked parental fears, prompted fevered complaints, and ultimately triggered a prolonged nationwide investigation.
My favorite overreaction to this comes from the governor of Indiana who “claimed that the record was so obscene it made his ‘ears tingle’” and used his connections with radio stations to effectively ban the song in that state. That’s peanuts to the multi-year investigation that the United States government launched into the song, via the FBI and the fellas at the freakin’ FCC, among others. Even with all that time and all those resources involved, investigators couldn’t figure out what the Kingsmen were on about!
My other favorite detail is this – it took the crack investigators at the FBI 18 months to think to go look up the actual lyrics on file with the U.S. Copyright Office! Mystery solved, at least, right? Not really. There were “other versions” of the lyrics circulating in schoolyards and such, which seems to say less about “Louie, Louie” than it does about the hyper sexed minds of young adults everywhere.
There’s lots of other interesting stuff in the article, so I recommend the full read. I will go ahead and spoil the ending, though – “Louie, Louie” won, in the end, becoming its own kind of classic. Did you know that April 11 is International “Louie, Louie” Day? Now you do, just in time to celebrate and tell the censorious prudes to go fuck themselves.
JD Byrne 