I’ve spent the entire day toting up the odds. Of yours truly, music’s Prog-Hater-in-Chief, actually happening upon a progressive rock LP I truly like. Sure, there are one or two Genesis LPs I can tolerate, but truly like? Nah. Which is what makes Van der Graaf Generator’s 1970 sophomore LP, The least we can do is wave to each other, so remarkable. Mikey likes it.
There are several reasons for this unprecedented occurrence. The first are the frenetic horns of David Jackson, who was known to pull the occasional Rahsaan Roland Kirk and play alto and tenor saxophone simultaneously. More importantly, they weren’t averse to producing a clamorous din. While most of their prog compatriots were beholden to the staid and stately classical tradition, where every note has its place, Van der Graaf Generator went in the direction of free jazz squeal and skronk, producing a noise that most likely would have caused Emerson, Lake and Palmer to thrust their fingers into their ears and squeal girlishly, “Make it stop!”
Finally, they don’t go in for the forty tempo changes per minute that make prog so unlistenable to me. Their songs progress with minimal muss and fuss, and for the most part the band doesn’t attempt to show off its technical prowess by writing songs so intricately complex that Bach would have said, “Cheese it boys. Simpler is better.” I will concede that Peter Hammill’s histrionic vocals are an acquired taste, but for the most part the prog pomp and circumstance stops there.
Jackson’s squealing dual saxophones dominate debut cut “Darkness (11/11),” which opens with some whistling wind and moaning vocals but soon flowers into a song that vaguely evokes Traffic. It’s a rocker, with some loud and soft dynamics going on, but when it explodes it explodes like a hand grenade. I cannot say enough about Jackson’s sax work, and Hugh Banton contributes a great Farfisa organ solo as well. This is what I want progressive music to sound like; aggressive and not the slightest beholden to classical tropes, and with a cataclysmic close (in the form of Jackson’s horn freak-out) that never fails to make my day. “Refugees” is excellent although not my cup of tea; sung by Susan Penhaligon, its bucolic tones (produced on the Farfisa) evoke England’s green and pleasant land, while the lyrics serve as an ironic counterpoint, referring to the plight of refugees fleeing said pleasant land. I like the way the song moves to a dramatic climax, to say nothing of Penhaligon’s vocals and Mike Hurwitz’s cello work, and what we have here is a vaguely pretentious tune that somehow manages not to offend my delicate anti-prog sensibilities.
“White Hammer” is about witchcraft and the bloody punishments meted out to those suspected of practicing the dark arts, and while the opening organ is a bit much, all is forgiven when the tune kicks into gear. It’s a decent tune, but I’m going to be straight up with you—this one doesn’t really rock my world until the end, which comes out of nowhere. Banton abruptly lays on the Farfisa like he’s trying to explode eardrums, while Jackson goes into full free jazz blowout. This may be the most exciting couple of minutes in prog rock history, and I can’t get enough of it. “Whatever Would Have Robert Said?” is dedicated to Robert J. Van der Graaf, the generator’s inventor, and features lots of fancy drum work, some snazzy guitar riffs, and a sunny melody, and goes briefly into a super-fast section that doesn’t do much for me. As with “White Hammer” it’s the ending I love most, which once again explodes into one tres dissonant musical catfight. Van der Graaf Generator produced some of the wildest shit this side of The Stooges’ “L.A. Blues,” and any band that can somehow evoke both King Crimson and The Stooges is dandy with me.
“Out of My Book” is a relatively simple little ditty, nice enough but not enough to write home about. It opens on a prettified bucolic note while Hammill annoys me with his vocals, and the organ throws off glints of sunlight as Hammill “runs through sunlit meadows.” And while the melody is nice enough, I can’t say I ever care to hear this one again. Might even run if it came at me out of a dark alley, afraid it might stab me with its sheer friendliness. The LP closes with the epic “After the Flood,” which is more “prog” than anything that comes before insofar as there are frequent changes in tempo and lots of showboating. That said, once it introduces its end-of-the-world note it builds and builds until it’s truly awe-inspiring and I rejoice, although “all is dead and nobody lives.” Then the song turns into Orson Welles swimming a panting lap across a Hollywood swimming pool while World Saxophone Quartet chases him, and this is it, the BLESSED SKRONK, before an acoustic guitar takes over and by God the cycle starts all over. Hammill finally puts some grit into his vocals (actually they’re altered), the organ goes Phantom of the Opera, and then everybody throws in, and what we have here is a great droning dread of the water-logged end, and a vision of the end times as played out by guitar, drums, organ, one that I want to go on forever but doesn’t because it stops with the fearsome droning feedback of Banton’s organ.
I still believe that 99 percent of prog is pure shit, the province of classical music-addled effetes who sneer at their betters in The Troggs, The Stooges, and The Adverts. But I’m happy to have discovered a progressive rock LP that I don’t want to weigh down with stones and sink to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Van der Graaf Generator never let their avant garde tendencies lead them into the benighted garden of high art schlock, rejecting the Old for the New of free jazz noise, and never succumbing to the horror house music of ELP Frankenstein rock, which was made up of mismatched parts of the corpses of rock and classical. Instead they exploded like a nuclear bomb, and oh what a wondrous din, oh what a wondrous din.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
