File under Acquired Taste I Don’t Want to Acquire. My ears have recoiled in horror at many a progressive rock album, but Van der Graaf Generator’s 1975 LP Godbluff isn’t prog-rock, it’s musical theater for people who wish Hamilton had been written by Emerson, Lake & Palmer.
Vocalist Peter Hammill wins an Obie for Shameless Histrionics, and ruinously over-emotes over those precious few moments when when the band condescends to play something interesting. Robert Benchley once quipped, “Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back and, instead of bleeding, he sings.” A demoralizing thought indeed; here I’d been thinking of stabbing Hamill in the back just to shut him up.
Better minds than mine–Julian Cope being just one–have hailed Godbluff as a classic, but I simply can’t bear the sound of Hammill’s voice. It’s like he learned how to sing by listening endlessly to Jesus Christ Superstar. Some of the music’s listenable, at least in parts–both ”The Sleepwalkers” and “Arrow” have their shining moments, and saxophonist/flautist David Jackson’s performances don’t offend my tender aesthetic sensibilities. But every time I think, “Hey, this ain’t so bad!” 1) Hammill shows up and regurgitates on the thing or 2) the band abruptly switches gears, and rarely for the good.
It tells you everything you need to know about Van der Graaf Generator that they were only big in Italy. Opera originated in Italy, and its citizens enjoy listening to shrieking fat women in Viking helmets. To quote the immortal Don Rickles, “Italians are fantastic people, really. They can work you over in an alley while singing an opera.” Me, I’d like to work Peter Hammill over in an alley, period.
But Hammill isn’t Van der Graaf’s only problem. I’m a certified musical physician, and having examined the patient that is prog rock my professional diagnosis is that it suffers from a collective case of Attention Deficit Disorder. Prog rockers as a class can focus on one thing for only the briefest amount of time before getting distracted and rushing off to do something else. They remind me of the hyperactive 2nd grade classmate (let’s call him W.W.) who invited himself over to my house and tore like a tornado through my toy cars, model airplanes, board games, and football and baseball card collections before going his merry way, leaving a shambles behind. The whole process to about 10 minutes. I’ll bet you that kid went on to become a prog rock musician.
A quick run down. “Scorched Earth” begins life as paint-by-numbers ELP, before Hammill comes in and proves–and I didn’t believe this could be done–that there are worse things than ELP. “The Undercover Man” starts as a yawn, recovers slightly when a melody emerges and Jackson’s flute enters by stage right, but ultimately sinks beneath the weight of Hammill’s “Look ma, I’m on Broadway!” vocal stylings.
“Arrow” opens on a snazzy jazzy note (think Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew) and positively dances, that is until the band slows things to a crawl, fucking things up royally. And to make matters worse Hammill is lowered by crane to center stage, where he waves his arms about and does his best imitation of Maria Callas. Then the band breaks into a very cool gallop with Jackson’s sax leading the way, and if someone had just stuffed a rag in Hammill’s mouth I’d be enthralled.
“The Sleepwalkers” begins as a plugged-in Renaissance Faire, and is about as much fun as stale mead. And things only go downhill when the band breaks into a jaunty Wurlitzer-fueled polka, or whatever it is. (Nice to run across a band playing music I remember from the Lawrence Welk Show.) Then just when you think all is lost the band transitions to hard-driving rock mode, Jackson blows and blows and blows, and if Van der Graaf Generator always sounded like this I’d buy their records.
But musical ADD isn’t Grand der Graaf Generator’s besetting sin. It’s Peter Hammill. His voice is a gun pointed at Van der Graaf Generator’s head, and while one shot would suffice, on Godbluff he pulls the trigger over and over and over and over again. I’m glad I don’t have to clean up the mess. And look at the bright side; having listened to “The Sleepwalkers,” I’ve finally figured out who’s to blame for Geddy Lee.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D
