The long musical career of Rick Wakeman raises an interesting ethical question: should certain forms of music be illegal? More so even than Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Wakeman is the High Priest of Prog, and his 2,000 or so LPs—many of them concept albums on themes having to do with Merry Olde England—are synthesizer-riddled nightmares that force one to confront the very real danger of symphonic rock.
I mean, this stuff is potentially lethal. Its pomposity levels spike at Chernobyl-like levels, and exposure to his work, even in small doses, carries with it the risk of being prog-rocked to death. Church organs, massive choirs, and full symphonies—Wakeman spares nothing and no one in his obsessive quest for the grandiose. It’s his Sword in the Stone, a subject about which he has of course recorded an album, namely 1975’s The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.
The very fact that Wakeman—a member first of Strawbs and then Yes, taking time off to record solo albums—makes ELP sound like the Ramones speaks volumes, and is almost impossible to fully comprehend. One thing’s for certain; this is not music to be fooled with. Which is why I took the precaution of wearing a Level 4 biocontainment suit while listening to the above mentioned LP. One has to be cautious when dealing with prog at this level of toxicity. Listen to too much of it, and soon you’ll be walking around saying things like, “Faire lady, whither hast thou merkin gone?”
Like all progressive rockers Wakeman caters to that crowd of prog-rock pinheads who think lowly rock’n’roll can only be improved by a major infusion of Wagner and Beethoven. But even idiots have rights, and I’m on the fence when it comes to banning Wakeman’s work worldwide. Like Lionel Richie, he makes one question how far freedom of expression should go. But I’m not here to argue ethics, but to attempt to communicate to you, dear reader, just how horrifying a thing a Rick Wakeman album can be.
A classically trained musician, Wakeman the Medievalist knows whereth the Hobbits dwell, along with lots of boring English Renaissance history (the six wives of Henry VIII, anyone?) that he turns into overweening wax for the edification of those of us less intellectually fortunate. That he hasn’t recorded a six-album telling of Edmund Spenser’s “The Faerie Queene” is to his credit, just as it is to God’s credit that He saw fit to off Spenser when he was only six books into a planned twelve-book poem, saving a lot of us much suffering. Although for all I know Wakeman’s hard at work on an adaptation as I write this.
“Who so pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is the true-born king of all of Britain,” intones a Monty Pythonesque voice to open the album. This moment of unintentional comedy is followed by a roll of drums and Wagnerian horns and strings, only to morph into a fast-paced prog-rocker that isn’t, when all is said and done, unlistenable. There’s even a cool guitar in there. But then a ponce commences singing to the sound of a harpsichord and lots of trilling woodwinds, and I have to hand it to Wakeman; he somehow makes a song 7:32 minutes in length sound five times as long. Then Wakeman, who likes to sport a golden cape in his concerts, lays into his synthesizer, and boy is he a wizard. A true star. And the only question is, how does one get him to shut him up? If forced to say something nice about him, he occasionally keeps his playing simple, and when he does he reminds me a bit of Elton John.
“Lady of the Lake” opens with a manly man’s choir singing, “I am the Lady of the Lake,” and the spectre of Monty Python again arises. Were there no female choirs available? Anyhow, “Lady of the Lake” is quickly followed by “Guinevere,” which features Wakeman playing a frilly piano, then by a silence (oh, if only it lasted!) that morphs into a sort of magical dust consisting of a duet between synthesizer and piano. Then some guy starts singing and things get ugly, because his vocals are purest schmaltz and he’s joined by all kinds of gizmos and gimmicks, both synthesized and not. A female choir gets angelic—where were they during “Lady of the Lake”?—church bells ring, and Rick shows off on the synthesizer, playing a funky beat that one can only call Medieval muzak.
“Sir Lancelot and The Black Knight” opens on a sweeping symphonic note, sorta like the Star Wars theme or something, before some funky dude lays into the vocals. I believe he comprises what is known as an anachronism. Then another vocalist takes over, a choir repeats, “Fight! Fight!” and Rick takes off on another synthesized flight, which is quite impressive if you’re into that sort of thing. This one’s a raver, and if forced to listen to one song on the LP this would be the one, if only for the humor value added by funky vocals guy.
As for “Merlin the Magician,” it also opens with a men’s choir, getting all Gregorian and shit. Then the keyboards come in, and Wakeman is at his classical worst. He’s followed by a twisting rhythm that almost sounds Hawaiian, and I’ll be damned if I know what’s going on. What I do know is that the melody that follows isn’t half awful, but is quickly replaced by some funky synthesizer duking it out with a piano, and the synthesizer is winning. Then it sounds like somebody, a good Samaritan, pulls the plug on the whole thing, and another nice little melody emerges just long enough to be knocked out by some cartoon music played at a madcap pace. And if I hadn’t refused to get on the boat in the first place, this is where I’d get off. Wakeman is too ADD to keep a song in one place for more than 45 seconds, and following the logic of his genius virtuoso brain is too much for me. Maybe Nietzsche understands it.
“Sir Galahad” opens with that same male choir I find so annoying, then some authentically pretty piano comes in before Rick takes off another madcap tempo, with lots of vocalists and a wacky synthesizer and one boring little section follows another until I just can’t take it anymore, I give up, Mr. Wakeman complicates matters for their own sake and that’s my idea of bad art. As for the closer, “The Last Battle,” it features more church bells and a lugubrious vocal and a massive choir and strings before Wakeman’s synthesizer takes off on a long solo that at least is linear. It’s joined by some classical piano and horns, and the melody is bearable until the pompous vocalist who opens the LP comes back and sends me spinning into a bout of helpless laughter, because this is pomposity pomped up to the level of self-parody and I’m forced to wonder if what I’m listening to isn’t really a comedy album, which would make Rick Wakeman a genius and this critic just another fool too slow to catch onto the joke.
But no, Wakeman is in earnest, and he’s a master of only one thing: the preposterous. I would play this pretentious slab of shit for laughs but it’s too boring and scary for that. It’s a long day’s journey into fright, and proof that too much talent of the wrong kind can only be an impediment to a rock’n’roller. And it makes me afraid for our children. Adults who like this stuff are already doomed, but it kills me to think that there’s some kid out there right now putting on a Rick Wakeman album and getting hurt. Parents, protect your children. If you have a Rick Wakeman album in your collection, get rid of it or keep it under lock and key, the way you would a firearm. Because this shit could send a child down the road to rock perdition, and you don’t want that for your child, do you? Of course you don’t.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
F+
