1. The Musical Box – 10:25
2. For Absent Friends – 1:48
3. The Return Of The Giant Hogweed – 8:09
4. Seven Stones – 5:08
5. Harold The Barrel – 3:01
6. Harlequin – 2:56
7. The Fountain Of Salmacis – 8:02
As I’ve referenced previously on this blog, there is sometimes a convention in Prog circles that the mainstream of the supposed ‘genre’ are what are known as a ‘Big 6’ of Pink Floyd, Genesis, Yes, King Crimson, ELP and Jethro Tull. I’m not entirely sure where this idea came from. They’re obviously all legends but virtually nowhere can I find any real acknowledged partitioning of just them that doesn’t include some other worthy candidates alongside or in place of. It often tends to include Rush. Or sometimes you could say obscure (but not really hugely moreso than say, King Crimson?) artists like Van Der Graaf Generator and Gentle Giant, or cross into the mainstream work of acts like The Moody Blues and Supertramp. But this is how my formative study and understandings as a teenager leaned and (not coincidentally, it’s impossible to say whether the chicken or the egg came first and influenced the other more here), they’re the six I do genuinely love the most. You can probably increasingly tell this in where my posts keep leaning.
As far as this classic Prog dominance in my reverence goes, Pink Floyd and Yes just recently became the first artists to be represented here twice. Before that came the first effort to make it from ELP. In earlier months I covered some of the work of King Crimson and Jethro Tull. So what does the lack of Genesis so far mean? Until now perhaps it could be wondered if I appreciated them a bit less? Maybe they were going to be a beloved sacred Prog band I commit the sacrilegious act of not quite adoring as much as I probably should and therefore not including them in my Top 52 (spoiler alert: see Rush). Instead we now have the likely opposite implication, that they are so wonderful that all their masterpieces of consequence are here and to come.
Nothing beats the colours of Genesis music. The beauty and the power, and all the one of a kind creativity and unmatched dynamism between it all, mark them out as a singular special act. This applies to most of their career. It is important to immediately note that though it does not reach the true heights of the early Gabriel-Hackett era, all the 1978 through 1991 Genesis remains high quality and worthwhile. But for now we’re going way back to the still clearly tender roots of 1971.
Nursery Cryme is the second in a sequence of five iconic sacred Gabriel-era Genesis albums and, more importantly, the first Genesis effort featuring the classic five-piece lineup. The core founders of the band, singer (and bits and piecest) Peter Gabriel, keyboardist Tony Banks, bassist and regular guitar player Mike Rutherford and lead guitarist Anthony Phillips were pupils together at Charterhouse, one of the nine grand old English boarding public schools. It’s a background as prim and proper, as nauseatingly Queen’s English as possible. This comes out in their music, with an educated, intelligent, distinctly middle class Englishness, increasingly laced with more progressive teenage influences in the vibrant culture of the late 60s. By 1967, via a pair of initially disparate school rock bands, the four of them and drummer Chris Stewart coalesced into the beginnings of Genesis. Their initial breakthrough is well chronicled and left-field, as they sought out and were taken on board by Old Carthusian Jonathan King, the iconoclastic entrepreneur, producer and general man of questionable repute behind all manner of quaint bubblegum pop hits in Britain through the 60s and 70s. King returned to his old school seeking musical talent, and by 1969 the result was a series of singles and a total outlier (and super excellent) album of pleasant pop ditties recorded by the boys as teenagers at the behest of (and unduly plastered on with non-consentual strings by) their benefactor. But the boys were already moving on. Genesis had greater ambitions, as songwriters more than performers, but their ideas were nevertheless burgeoning far beyond the scope of King’s preferences. They rid themselves of his necessary but misguiding influence, switched drummers a couple of times, and managed the far more ambitious, progressive, heavy, expansive but heavily folk-dominated effort, Trespass (link). But there was still more to come, in scope and, with the reality of being a gigging band not merely a songwriting collective taking over, performance. But such a touring reality wasn’t comfortable or suitable to the introverted Phillips. Meanwhile the rigours were beyond the adjudged standard of Mayhew. So the original trio were joined by Steve Hackett and Phil Collins. Another foray back into the studio produced yet another logical and inevitable forward. But more notably, it was the first album which really transcended Genesis into a special status as Prog legends in retrospect, but also earned them their first sustained success at the time, albeit largely confined to Italy.
Nursery Cryme is a textbook transitional album. It represents an interesting hybrid at an evolving part of the early Genesis journey. With Hackett and Collins on board, they now have together the tight, disciplined, dexterous core unit, with its undervalued virtuosity, which would define peak Genesis. But you can definitely still tell they haven’t quite reached their full potential yet. Like its predecessor, and far beyond any subsequent efforts, this album remains very much in the folky realm at times, dominated by harmonising 12-string work from Hackett, Rutherford and at times Banks. That’s the influence of their initially most prolific songwriter Phillips still at play. There is still a silliness to proceedings, a child-like energy and joy. All these preppy private school boys (with the notable, and noticed, new exception of Collins), Gabriel in particular, do have certain pretensions and a certain solemn intensity, but they’re still 20 and 21 year old kids making this album. The subject matter is very upper class and English, but it is also hilarious and dumb, from horny vengeful ghosts, to murderous plants and other black humour. There are still some growing pains. Gabriel’s angelic young voice, which is he trying to evolve into a more powerful, dynamic instrument, cracks and strains at times. Some of the shorter filler tracks don’t really go anywhere. The really rich, deep, full sound that would come on the next few albums, dominated by the mellotron, grand piano and liberal bass pedal usage from Rutherford, still takes a back seat to the acoustic guitars and Hammond organ.
A lot of this innocent, slightly simpler floweriness is to the album’s credit though. It is as beautifully melodic as they or anyone would ever be at times. The dynamic range is extraordinary, with so much soft, sweet material but huge, powerful intrusions and payoffs on every highlight track. Somewhat like all Genesis albums, it is not consistent all the way through. It has some filler, but multiple utterly immense peaks, both in their sudden contrasting energy and in their excellence. The structure of the album, how these feature pieces are spaced apart and naturally broken up with moments of rest and contrast make it flow perfectly.
When it comes to dynamic range, there is no greater masterpiece than The Musical Box, be it in the work of Genesis, or anywhere in the wider Progressive Rock oeuvre. The Musical Box is quite simply, one of the all-timers. It stands on the top plane with any of the other lengthy and mighty Prog tomes. It is wild, bizarre, creepy, kind of stupid and (that old underrated Prog element again) fun, but it is wrought, emotionally, powerful and obscenely beautiful. It shifts gorgeous and seamlessly between passages of such driving, galloping energy, and sequences or aching delicacy.
The opening few minutes, and the bulk of the first half and beyond of the song, is a tender and typically early Genesis acoustic 12-string number, possibly their prettiest. The band then embark on a quintessential Gabriel narrative jaunt, with a story that is hugely British, perversely sexual, macabre, and totally stupid. In Victorian England, young girl Cynthia accidentally decapitates her friend from some kind of particularly egregious and aggressive croquet mishit. Later on, she opens an old musical box that belongs to Henry, unleashing his spirit…except now he’s a horny old man creepling on Cynthia. Makes sense. But though he would become rather more refined, Gabriel was always a rather evil master of subtly creeping darkness and disquiet throughout his career, and this is probably the first deep dive into that part of the world he makes. So it has a certain historic gravitas to it when you awash in the full context of the piece. The hair-raising, mystical darkness of the tense 12-string music does rather befit the over-riding discomfort of the story, as does the sheer emotion and power of the frustration laden outbursts which manifest in the hard rock sections, most notably at the very end.
The dynamic contrast being better than ever, with a fury that remains consistent with the theme and tone, comes from the instrumental breaks being lent a far greater punch than Genesis had before by the disciplined virtuosity of both Hackett and Collins. The new drummer and his understated rhythm buddy Rutherford gallop constantly, while Hackett trades solos with Banks throughout. The first of these sections is a brief and fairly simple jam a few minutes in, where Banks fills the sound with simple sounding, but characteristically busy and huge hammond chord, while Hackett takes centre stage.
The second quiet sequence breaks down into an almost total stop, with near unbearable tension as the Old King Cole and tick tocking clocks tease us along and further delay and amplify the gratification of the mightiness to come. Then there is more galloping gallivanting behind dualling Hackett and Banks sequences, before they meet together to double-track a fabulous spidery riff to end the section and set up Gabriel’s big and harrassing finish. The finale is launched then anchored by the monstrosity that is Banks style massive organ-chordage, and punctuated emphatically by the precise but punchy Collins. It is an exemplary, grand, textbook Prog final. Gabriel/Henry’s beleaguered cries of ‘now!’ and ‘now!’ again and again somehow seem to grow more distant despite their desperation, as the band surges forward and eventually bears down into the most gorgeous warbling final Hackett solo, and grand classically inspired staccato 1-2 ending.
For such a total afterthought piece of filler, For Absent Friends is actually marvelous. Often such filler tracks fulfill their role in every negative stereotypical way by lacking any kind of energy, melody, or interest. In this case, the little 90 second respite from the surrounding epics is sleepy but so very tenderly melodic. It is a simple folksy guitar piece written by Hackett, with lyrics and vocals by Collins. It is his first of both such efforts and you can tell, for the 19 year old’s sentiments and voice are so child-like, but in a way that is endearingly adorable.
But then we get right back into full on absurd melodrama with The Return of the Giant Hogweed. The story is another layer more ridiculous, tracking the violent takeover of the world by sentient and vengeful Hogweed plants, angry that they’ve been removed from their homeland in Russia and placed in London’s famous Royal Botanic Gardens in kew. The music depicting this is suitably yet overwrought, with gnarly, crunchy riffs aplenty. Liberal dollops of massive organ are piled on in parts, but the piece is very much a Hackett showcase, from the heavy, spidery main riff to his historic solo.
Most of the song is a rollicking fun rockout. It alternates between the main riff and energetic verses where Gabriel brings out the punky growl he occasionally loves to fire into, and some subtly brilliant slower passages which bubble cleverly back to a climax. At full pelt, the song is as heavy as Genesis would ever get, driven by ferocious triplet-heavy drum work from a tireless Collins. But the real quality comes when everything slows down into the quieter more melodic verses, under which the rhythm section builds from understated colour to emphatic punches that punctuate a tense climax. The vocals and organ also surge until everything has snuck back up on you at full burst, before satisfyingly breaking back into the initial power verse.
Second time around, after the build and climax, comes a lovely Hackett solo over a brief instrumental jam section, before a sudden change of pace. Banks brings a baroque-influenced huge piano break which serves as the anchor point for the song’s late bridge, where Hackett embarks on an iconic and bizarre staccato solo. This sequence from Hacett is often credited as the first solo to dominantly employ the tapping technique made famous later by Eddie Van Halen and other metal guitarists.
From there comes the final warning of vengeance and murder, before the murderous triumph of the Hogweed is represented by the total Collins-driven cacophony of the mad finale, which was somehow even huger live.
In an album mostly revered for its holy trinity (two have been covered, with one still to come at the end), Seven Stones is the true underdog triumph. The first Banks solo composition on the album, it is therefore suitably more piano driven, verging on the balladesque. It is very simple, patient and pretty, with uncharacteristic conventionality and a kind of gospel choral feel to it. That does the basic trick for a quality, mature composition, but its two choruses and the mellotron finale transcend it to a different level.
There isn’t really a true chorus, but they are the end of each of the song’s two fairly conventionally structured halves. The first time through, the vocal climax is big and powerful, with Gabriel unleashing a deep, harrowing, soulful bellow. A brief, relaxing bridge then resets the song back to its start and a second run through of the verse. By the ‘chorus’ second time around, the same section is attacked totally differently. Everything slows down and gives Gabriel and Collins room to share the sweetest almost whispered little quiet duet, adding tension and building a sense that something big is coming. But what we get is indescribably transcendent, as Banks unleashes the most achingly howling, warbling, monumental mellotron showcase ever committed to tape. It is uplifting and heartbreaking, inspirational and gut-wrenching, all in one. It is a brief, hidden, undervalued slice of vintage analogue mellotron holiness from the absolute clouds.
I suspect that the pompous haranguing I just spewed about the previous track probably contributes to my slight frustration and cognitive dissonance about the next. Harold The Barrel is jaunty, silly fun and always melodic and energetic, but it seems so frivolous after what felt like the music of the gods. Instead we have a fun, fresh, energetic little pop ditty about…well a man trying to commit suicide obviously. I guess that’s the other element that makes me not fully appreciate this piece, as it is rather dated and dodgy (and very British again) But even still, it is great. It always seems to verge on the mildly embarrassing, but Gabriel always had a great gift not just for black humour once again, but an almost self-destructive propensity to flirt with precipices but then pull you back with moments of beauty, grace and meaning. This track doesn’t quite do that (except for its random, token, pretty piano bridge), but it is brimming with such creativity as to be really enjoyable. There are fun and satisfying little brief nuggets and gems of random melody, sweet harmony, left-field noises and all kinds of other non-sequitur moments that are very clever and effective.
Harlequin is another of the softer pieces and the most immediately reminiscent of their previous work on Trespass. This makes sense as it is the track’s one album to give a writing credit to the recently departed Anthony Phillips. Written by Phillips and Rutherford, it is exactly the kind of 12-string sweetness that was their bread and butter, with a beautifully optimistic and affectionate lyric. It allows Gabriel to dip back into a bit of retro teenage angel mode from their earliest work. It’s not a sound his hard-worn voice could pull off for much longer but goodness could he still here, with some help from the luscious sweetness of a teenage Collins falsetto harmony. The track is certainly nothing special but never for a second is it anything less than lush and lovely in its harmonies, on guitar and vocally. On top of it all comes some easy to miss but effective little tinkles from Banks across the Hammond which top it off nicely.
Last comes the final tome, The Fountain of Salmacis, as the band go into full on Greek mythology territory, recounting the tale of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis. It’s the most stop-start and imperfect of the three epics, guilty of the occasional stodginess of structure and phrasing early Genesis could fall into. It’s very wordy and its story is very busy, but it is worth it primarily for its magnificent middle section.
The track starts with an iconic mellotron swell that recurs throughout the piece, with Banks surging on left hand and arpeggiating right hand. The mellotron dominates, almost to a point of being too loud, but the key undercurrent comes from Rutherford’s bass pedals, footwork he so adeptly employed throughout the band’s career. The pedals pulse and swell along with the mellotron, giving depth to the bottom end. From there, the first three minutes is not hugely spectacular, with verses and bridges introducing the story without digging deep into territory of particular melody or power. But it is after the end of this section, launched by Gabriel’s warning lament as Salmacis that ‘we shall be joined as one’ that things become truly amazing.
The jam throughout the middle section reminds of later powerful Genesis peaks. First, a clear tempo and volume change driven by Rutherford’s rhythm guitar and Hackett’s slithery, sharp solo, gives a clue that we’re into the fun stuff. But it constantly goes in directions you don’t expect, starting with a brief little funky moment where the rest of the band backs down and lets Rutherford and Collins saw away for a few measures on bass and drums. In fact, the drum sound of Collins throughout is bizarre and amazing, with his tomtoms dampened, detuned and/or muted to such an extent that they take on a tribal sound, upon which he frenetically congas.
Banks then charges back in with huge organ chords, backed subtly by maybe Gabriel’s most effective ever flute contribution. Hackett and Banks then interplay continually throughout an angelic yet terror-laden Hermaphroditus vocal bridge, complete with heavenly choirs. This sections launches into what feels for all money like a grand finale, except that we’re only five minutes in and there’s yet more ferocious Rutherford and Collins anchored jamming. A signature snaking Banks arpeggio then completes the sensational sequence before resetting back to the start, another verse, vocal climax, and a sombre but still lush closing sequence driven by yet another aching, longing solo from Hackett.
Both song and album can be said to not be the absolute best of Genesis, but they both aptly and powerfully capture a nice essence of all the grand, wacky, wild, pretentious, absurd, powerful varieties of sounds and moods that classic Genesis were all about.
Hoss Album Reviews 