After I wrapped up my review of Midnight Oil’s 10/1, I took a quick peek at the schedule to see what was on tap for this week and saw it was my first review of Rush. My first reaction was “Oh, okay.” I thought about it for a minute, and my next reaction was “Oh, shit!”

That’s not a knock on Rush; I look forward to covering them, and I only have to decide which of the two albums I have listened to intensely will come first. The problem was that I had ended the Midnight Oil review with a tribute to the recently departed Rob Hirst, and I knew Neil Peart had passed away a few years ago. Mourning two of the greatest drummers of all time back-to-back simply wouldn’t do, so I moved Rush back to April 5, then searched my schedule for a suitable replacement to fill the gap. Because I have a shitload of work this week, I knew I had to choose an album I was intimately familiar with. Because most of the reviews I’ve planned for this year involve artists I had never covered before, I found a GRAND total of one album that fit the bill.

Grand Hotel has been on my to-do list forever, but I held back because I worried that my personal attachment to the album would interfere with objectivity. Grand Hotel is one of my mother’s favorite albums. She loves the daring arrangements, Keith Reid’s clever lyrics, the chord patterns that are more suited to piano than guitar, and the touches of La Belle France. Whenever I felt myself getting bored with classical piano training, she would play the album and teach me some of Gary Brooker’s piano parts. Sometimes maman and I would play those songs together, with one on the piano and the other handling the melodies on the flute.

When I noticed that I had shortchanged the Brits on this year’s schedule, I thought about tackling Grand Hotel, but first I decided to read some contemporary reviews to find out how other critics reacted to the album. The British reviews were uniformly enthusiastic, but what motivated me to add the album to the schedule was the American reaction:

Rolling Stone (Bud Scoppa): Grand Hotel is a collection of overblown production jobs that, at their worst, approach self-parody, and simpler, less grandiose tracks that suggest Procol Harum may yet find a way out of the corner they have worked themselves into . . . Reid may have hit rock bottom on the album . . .  Brooker’s music, with its lavish use of orchestral and choral elements, is the real villain of Grand Hotel. The title song, “T.V. Caesar,” and “Fires (Which Burnt Brightly)” are pushed way beyond the scope of their lyric content by Brooker’s hopelessly extravagant arrangements. The last-mentioned track might have had some impact if Brooker had not substituted a dignified, sweetly scatsinging female voice for the guitar line that would have made sense there. And the album as a whole would have worked much better dramatically if Brooker had called on the band itself, rather than orchestrations and choral parts, to supply the punch.

Robert Christgau: For years, these guys have vacillated between a menu of grits that certainly ain’t groceries and larks’ tongues in aspic. Despite their current white-tie conceit, they still haven’t decided. Personally, I wish they’d pick their poison and choke on it.

Rather than react to this nonsense with my usual vitriol, I will allow those with greater wisdom to speak on my behalf.

Edna Ferber: “A closed mind is a dying mind.”

Frank Zappa: “A mind is like a parachute. It doesn’t work if it is not open.”

Milan Kundera: “It does take great maturity to understand that the opinion we are arguing for is merely the hypothesis we favor, necessarily imperfect, probably transitory, which only very limited minds can declare to be a certainty or a truth.”

Jan Garavaglia: “The only real stupidity is that of a closed mind.”

Sorry, I can’t help myself. My response: Fuck those guys.

It shouldn’t have surprised anyone that Procol Harum would continue to explore the integration of classical music and rock after releasing the highly successful Procol Harum Live: In Concert with the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra. They certainly weren’t the only ones who moved in that direction: The Moody Blues had released Days of Future Passed in 1967, Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne had officially launched the Electric Light Orchestra in 1971, and in the same year, Emerson, Lake and Palmer had recorded Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition in front of an enthusiastic live audience. While many American musicians had abandoned the perceived excess of psychedelia and returned to roots rock, the British continued to explore new possibilities in rock that would eventually earn the label “progressive rock.”

Most American critics and influencers were way behind the curve when it came to progressive rock, and their long-standing disdain of the genre reverberates to this day. The Jann Wenner-dominated Rock and Roll Hall of Fame would not induct a progressive rock group until 2010, when Genesis finally managed to make the grade, largely due to their later-stage pop offerings and Peter Gabriel’s more radio-friendly offerings. Ultimate Classic Rock ran the numbers and found that “In total, roughly 400 artists have been inducted, meaning prog rock makes up just 1.5% of the honorees. But what makes the trend truly confounding is looking at who the Hall has thus far left out.” Jethro Tull, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, King Crimson, and Procol Harum are among those excluded. The truth is that the Hall has little to do with artistry and more to do with success in the music industry (which is why they’ve opened the doors to rappers and hip-hoppers). Jann Wenner may be gone (good riddance), but his replacement is a businessman who co-founded MTV and was president of iHeartMedia. I would hope that if any of the progressive pariahs receive that tainted honor, they would respond in the same way Sinéad O’Connor responded to her Grammy win: “The only person to refuse a Grammy is Irish singer Sinéad O’Connor, who rejected the award for Best Alternative Music Performance in 1991 for her album I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got. O’Connor felt that award ceremonies promoted greed and commercialism, rather than the spiritual and healing power of music.” (Ryan Music TV)

No, Keith Reid did not hit rock bottom on Grand Hotel; he was at his best. As for Gary Brooker’s “hopelessly extravagant arrangements,” I would use the label “cinematic” and point out that Procol Harum’s albums that precede Grand Hotel also qualify as such—and I’ve got Martin Scorsese to back me up:

There was a richness and a mystery about Procol Harum’s music that echoed in on you, magisterial melodies and teasing, enigmatic lyrics you could invest with your own fantasies. For me and all my friends who loved the band, and this album, the songs seemed like a challenge. Where would they take you? What would you find? “A sand so white, and sea so blue, no mortal place at all.”

The point was not so much what the songs were saying, specifically, as what they were suggesting to each of us, individually, where all those sounds and images would lead us, then leave us. The films of Stan Brakhage, Bruce Conner, Kenneth Anger, Bruce Baillie and others worked the same kind of allusive magic, casting a deep spell that only began with the images on the screen.

Procol Harum’s music drew from so many deep wells – classical music, 19th century literature, rhythm and blues, seamen’s logs, concretist poetry – that each tune became a cross-cultural whirligig, a road trip through the pop subconscious. For that time, and for this one too – for any, I’m sure – it was great travelling music. I’ve been on a few journeys myself since the Salty Dog days, and Procol Harum has always been with me.

Scott-Irvine, Henry (2012). Procol Harum: The Ghosts Of A Whiter Shade of Pale (Function). Kindle Edition.

*****

Lyrics: Keith Reid. Music: Gary Brooker.

“Grand Hotel”: Though Grand Hotel is not a concept album, the main themes can be described in four d-words: decadence, debauchery, dissolution and decline.

The lyrics to the title track give the impression of the filthy rich enjoying pleasures that the average person could never afford, but Gary Brooker told Songfacts that “It’s actually an autobiographical Procol Harum on-the-road song.” I was somewhat disappointed to hear that, as I had conjured up images from the 1932 pre-code film with John Barrymore and Greta Garbo dressed to the nines in a sea of smoky decadence set in 1928 Berlin. I breathed a sigh of relief when Brooker explained how he came up with the music, which allowed me to hold onto my vision of the delightfully decadent milieu depicted on Broadway and the silver screen.

The lyric is all about the grandeur. It’s actually an autobiographical Procol Harum on-the-road song. But the grandeur of the words, and then all the expressions used of the food and wine and sparkle and chandelier, I looked at that and thought, well, you’ve got to conjure up an atmosphere here. And having experienced the same things that Keith had experienced in what he was writing about, I was able to interpret, hopefully, his lyrics into something which enhanced the whole effect.”

The piece opens disarmingly in the key of G with Brooker deftly playing the reflective, arpeggiated chords G7-C-G-C in the key of G major. Chris Copping enters with soft organ in sync with the start of Brooker’s vocal as he continues to play the simple piano pattern.

Tonight we sleep on silken sheets
We drink fine wine and eat rare meats 

At the moment Brooker sings the word “meats,” B.J. Wilson comes out of nowhere with a thunderous riff on toms and the kick, cueing the orchestra to enter the scene at full strength and marking a chord change to D7-A-D-A. This dramatic moment always takes my breath away with its sudden burst of power, but Gary takes it in stride, only slightly raising his voice to studied nonchalance as he delivers the next two lines:

On Carousel and gambling stake
Our fortunes speed, and dissipate

The music becomes even more intense as the chord pattern shifts to C7-F-C-F, while Mick Grabham joins in on guitar to sweeten the atmosphere. Gary adds a touch of gruffness to his voice on the next pair of lines:

It’s candlelight and chandelier
It’s silver plate and crystal clear

At this point, the orchestra takes over, providing two repetitions of a powerful Beethoven-like figure involving yet another chord change to Bb/Am/G. After the final blast, things settle down as we arrive at the chorus, where we are greeted with—yes, you guessed it—another chord change! This one involves a key change to Ab major (Ab7-Db-Db7-Gb) and a shift in the time signature from 4/4 to 3/4—closer to a Sarabande than a waltz.

It’s serenade and Sarabande
The nights we stay at Hotel Grand
(The nights we stay at Hotel Grand) [sung by the choral ensemble]

That may seem like one helluva lot of changes for a passage consisting of a single verse and chorus, but it all fits together beautifully.

Those chord patterns and time shifts are repeated in the second verse, where we find the fashionable in luxurious surroundings, indulging in drink, Dover sole, and French cuisine.

Tonight we dine at Hotel Ritz
(A golden dish with every wish )
It’s mirrored walls, and velvet drapes
Dry champagne, and bursting grapes
Dover sole, and Oeufs Mornay
Profiteroles and Peach Flambe
The waiters dance on fingertips
The nights we dine at Hotel Ritz
[The nights we dine at Hotel Ritz]

In my role as a healthy food influencer, I would advise those diners to double down on the Dover sole to compensate for the French delights. The ingredients for Les œufs Mornay are eggs (hard-boiled, poached, or soft-boiled) coated in a béchamel sauce enriched with grated cheese (Gruyère, Comté, or Parmesan) and often egg yolks. Top that off with a profiterole filled with whipped cream, custard, pastry cream, or ice cream, and you’ll soon be paying a visit to the neighborhood cardiologist. More importantly, those naughty bits of indulgence symbolize the decadence of 1920’s Berlin and its devil-may-care orientation.

The creation of the middle eight was explained in interviews with Gary Brooker and producer Chris Thomas for Record Collector Magazine:

“The middle instrumental section was a throwback to what you might have heard in a Grand Hotel,” Gary Brooker explains. “This captured music which we had heard in grand hotels all round Europe. For us that stopped when they closed the Palace Hotel in Southend-on-Sea. It was the end of Palm Court orchestras. We used to see them. So the middle section with BJ Wilson playing 22 mandolins was really just a Venetian input to the song. Wilson played it like that onstage!”

“Grand Hotel was a case of how big can this go?” recalls Chris Thomas. “Megalomania set in there! In the middle, we got BJ Wilson to play 22 mandolins. Then we mixed them all down so we had this fluttering effect in the background. There was a choir that we tracked three times, and an orchestra.”

What you hear is a lengthy cinematic passage in three segments. The first is a waltz that begins in the stately rhythms of the dance floor, then speeds up and out of dance mode to express either the urgent need to indulge beyond limits and/or the dizziness one feels when they’ve had too much to drink and the room is swimming around. The second section is a lovely orchestral passage with choral support in the key of G minor that may evoke imagery of a romantic turn on the dance floor set to a fox trot, or a romance on the brink, depending on your mood. The final passage is a jaunty reprise of the accelerating waltz, which soon gives way to a powerful, four-bar transition in the key of B major where Grabham shows off his chops with a soaring guitar performance before Gary enters to deliver the closing verse, singing with genuine passion partially driven by the upward key change:

One more toast to greet the morn
The wine and dine have danced till dawn
Where’s my Continental Bride?
We’ll Continental slip and slide
Early morning pinch and bite
(These French girls always like to fight) 

The lyrics suggest that the narrator is a Brit lucky enough to wed the classic sexually starved French babe. When I was about eleven, and I heard the line “These French Girls always like to fight” (sensually delivered by Brooker), I was puzzled. Why would a girl pinch her husband? Do French women really fight with men? I asked maman about it, and unlike most parents who would have said something like “That’s for when you get older,” she explained that sometimes when people have sex (she had previously explained the basics to me), they often feel strong emotions that lead them to do things that cause pain in other situations but may be pleasurable for their partner during sex. I thought that was weird . . . until I hit puberty. If you want to know why it’s weird that I thought it was weird, you can consult the About Me page.

This beloved masterpiece ends with a chorus where Brooker tries out his French and does just fine, stepping back to allow the choral ensemble to close the song.

It’s serenade and Sarabande
The nights we stay at Hotel Grand
The nights we stay at Hotel Grand
(instrumental restatement of the melody)
Les nuits qu’on passe à l’Hotel Grande
(instrumental restatement of the melody)
[Les nuits qu’on passe à l’Hotel Grande]

The Deluxe Edition includes two takes on the song: the familiar version with the orchestra and choral ensemble, and one without. Playing the two back to back clearly demonstrated the need for an “extravagant arrangement,” something that becomes quite obvious when you reach the waltz segment in the stripped-down version and find that the strings have disappeared and Brooker has to carry the load all by himself on piano. Losing the orchestra and choral ensemble also removes most of the emotional power of the original. The bare-bones take is still valuable because it makes it easier to learn the piano parts and appreciate the strength of the composition. “Grand Hotel” has strong bones, creating a solid foundation for the complex arrangement.

“Toujours L’amour”: Kudos to whoever came up with the track order! After the intensity and grandeur of “Grand Hotel,” we needed something more playful, even if the story involves a guy who is thinking of blowing his brains out.

“Toujours L’amour” translates literally to “Always Love,” but if you want to change that to the more suitable for English “Eternal Love,” you have my blessing. Whatever your preference, the title is ironic, befitting a tale told through the lens of British black humour. Reid’s introduction to the sad sack narrator evokes empathy and a giggle or two:

She took all the pleasure and none of the pain
All of the credit and none of the blame
I came home to an empty flat
She’d left me a note and taken the cat

In the second verse we get a bit more insight into why the woman left him (we already know she’s a bitch for taking the cat), but Reid also implies that marriage itself was at the heart of their problems by making her feel trapped, and making our hero feel more comfortable—comfortable enough to grow a big fat pot belly.

The cord that they knotted to keep us apart
Could never be broken: it was tied to my heart
She grew thin and I grew fat
She left me and that was that

The story ends with the sad sack planning his next move . . . or his last:

I’m thinking of renting a villa in France
A French girl has offered to give me a chance
Or maybe I’ll take an excursion to Spain
And buy a revolver and blow out my brains

My advice is “lose a few pounds and go with the French girl for that early morning pinch and bite.”

The music is ironically rollicking, with a strong bottom provided by Alan Cartwright’s bass, lively drums from B.J., well-timed organ shots and arpeggios from Copping, and quick chord changes reflecting the hero’s bout with indecision. Mick Grabham proves again that he was a suitable replacement for Robin Trower (and temporary member Dave Ball), supplying hot lead guitar and sinuous counterpoints in both the instrumental passage and the fade. The short closing section involving three tight blasts of rock ‘n’ roll separated by stop time is superbly executed, making for an exciting finish.

Pianists in the audience should take note that “Toujours L’amour” is an excellent étude because of those frequent chord changes and stride-like arpeggios, but I feel obligated to provide a consumer warning. Part of my deep listening process involves figuring out the chords myself on piano or guitar, then checking my work against various chord websites. Over the years, I’ve noticed a pattern where the first chord pattern that shows up online is copied by other websites without even bothering to test it out. Nearly all of the chord sheets for “Toujours L’amour” are absolute crap—most of them don’t even get the fucking key right! If you’re interested in giving your fingers a good workout, click this link to Chordify.

“A Rum Tale”: When I first glanced at the lyrics, I thought I might have to withdraw my kudos regarding track order. Two lost-love songs in a row? You’ve got to be kidding! Further research turned on the light bulb. In the end, I wound up hoping that Keith Reid was kidding and that the storyline was entirely fictional.

The song opens as a duet with Brooker and Cartwright engaged in a nicely flowing waltz. After introducing the piece with alternating F and C chords, Gary gets more creative with a chord pattern of F-Em7-Am-7-Dm-7-Dm-Gm-Gm7-C7sus4-C7 followed by a shorter pattern of Dm7-G7sus4-G-C. He then makes a move to Bb-C-F-A-Abm-Dbm-A-B-C-F to close the verse. Those chords evoke a touch of sadness and a dollop of uncertainty (“fuddled my fancy”= a state of being mentally confused, dazed, or bewildered, often in a whimsical or intoxicated way), but the verse ends on the resolution chord of F, mirroring the narrator’s firm resolution to get as drunk as a skunk.

She’s fuddled my fancy, she’s muddled me good
I’ve taken to drinking, and given up food
I’m buying an island, somewhere in the sun
I’ll hide from the natives, live only on rum

Talk about “a state of dissolution!” The duet continues through the second verse, where the narrator reveals his intention to cash in on his story.

I’m selling my memoirs, I’m writing it down
If no one will pay me I’ll burn down the town
I’ll rent out an aircraft and print on the sky
If God likes my story then maybe he’ll buy

I think someone should tell him that books or movies about drunks only sell when they involve celebrities, and I doubt very much that St. Peter would open the gates for a drunk who threatened to commit arson.

After a good, hard whack from Mr. Wilson, Chris Copping drops in to brighten the skies with a marvelous organ solo, strengthened by B.J.’s knack for power drumming. Solo complete, the duet becomes a trio for the first two lines of the final verse, then a quartet when Copping powers up the organ for the closing lines containing the narrator’s revelation:

I’m buying a ticket for places unknown
It’s only a one-way: I’m not coming home
She’s swallowed my secret, and taken my name
To follow my footsteps and knobble me lame

“What’s the big deal?” you ask. The Collins Dictionary will enlighten you:

4.  Knob: (British) a vulgar slang word for penis

8.  Knobbing (British) vulgar, slang: to have sexual intercourse with (a person)

Holy shit! She fucked his weenie off! He’s like Mussolini after he bit his weenie—now it doesn’t work! I’m not sure if “swallowing my secret” means a blow job or if “taken my name”, combined with “to follow my footsteps” means she wanted to steal his reputation as a go-to fuck and is determined to claim that crown . . . but that poor little weenie! No wonder he drowns his sorrows in rum! “Keith Reid may have hit rock bottom,” my ass.

Ooh! I have a special treat for budding pianists. You can head over to Chordify and play the song along with Gary Brooker! When you hit the play button, Gary will appear in the teeny-tiny video in the upper-right corner and tell you how he came up with the song before the music begins. Good luck!

“T.V. Caesar”: This song about talk show hosts who draw out celebrity secrets to feed television addicts with plenty of juicy gossip has never really grabbed me. The arrangement is a bit of a mess, and the endless repetition of “T.V. Caesar Mighty Mouse” gets on my nerves. If any of you feel the song has merit, you’re more than welcome to make your case in the comments box.

“A Souvenir of London”: Let me get this straight. The BBC banned this song for its hardly blatant narrative about a guy who got the clap, but they didn’t ban a song where a guy loses his dick? If the censors had any brains, they could have contacted someone in the National Health Service and suggested that they might want to use “A Souvenir of London” in a televised public service announcement.

Though I’m very sorry that the traveler (identified as an unknown busker in the RC article mentioned above) picked up a venereal disease, I love the song’s quirky arrangement and the fairly rare appearance of an acoustic guitar on a Procol Harum album. Even more rare is Chris Copping’s banjo, adding a touch of bluegrass to the scene. Copping’s deft organ contribution adds a county fair feel, and Wilson’s big booming drums call up memories of marching bands. Mr. Brooker leaves the piano behind to focus solely on his vocals, and he does a stellar job of conveying the embarrassment, anxiety and discomfort of the victim. Keith Reid’s lyrics cleverly indicate a diagnosis of syphilis without resorting to the ugly word “chancre.”

Bought a souvenir in London
Got to hide it from my mum
Can’t declare it at the Customs
But I’ll have to take it home
Tried to keep it confidential
But the news is leaking out
Got a souvenir in London
There’s a lot of it about

Yes, I found a bit of London
I’d like to lose it quick
Got to show it to my doctor
‘Cause it isn’t going to shrink
Want to keep it confidential
But the truth is leaking out
Got a souvenir in London
There’s a lot of it about

Poor bastard. Thank fuck for penicillin.

“Bringing Home the Bacon”: “’Bringing Home The Bacon’ was inspired by American hamburger joint menus,” Keith Reid told Streetlife’s Angus Mackinnon in May 1976. (RC, ibid) Later he claimed that the song was “really about obesity in America.” Many European visitors are shocked by the massive portions of comfort food gobbled down by Americans. On the other hand, they have no problem inviting American burger joints into their countries. Wendy’s opened a new restaurant in Cork just last year, and they’re planning to open ten more in Ireland in the coming years.

Reid’s lyrics are a bit too thin to inspire Americans to downsize their bellies, and there is no evidence that singing a menu has inspired a sufficient number of songwriters to create a “junk-food-rock” genre. The attraction of “Bringing Home the Bacon” lies entirely in the seriously hot music dished out by the band, driven by the amazing percussive talents of B.J. Wilson (the oft-mentioned recorder ensemble really doesn’t add much). The drama in the music is hardly suited for a song about greasy spoons, so I would suggest that when you listen to the song, you shut out the lyrics and just let your mind travel back to the greatest sexual experiences you’ve ever had.

“For Liquorice John”: You learn something every day. I had no idea that Procol Harum recorded an album under the name Liquorice John Death way back in 1970 titled Ain’t Nothing to Get Excited About. The album wasn’t released until 1997, and by that time, I was immersed in punk and Britpop and wouldn’t have paid attention to it anyway. Bruce Eder of AllMusic explains: “The sessions, which were never intended for release but more as practice for all concerned, were jokingly credited to Licorice John Death & the All-Stars, a name once suggested by Dave Mundy, a session singer and an old friend of Gary Brooker’s.”

Dave Mundy committed suicide two years later. According to the liner notes on the 1997 release, “Dave Mundy was at Westcliff High School for boys with Gary Brooker from the late 50s to early 60s and became one of the great eccentrics of the Southend area while still a teenager . . . In his early twenties, Dave suffered mental problems and was kept in Rumwell Mental Home for long periods . . . On a dark day in 1972, Dave escaped from Rumwell but was unable to contact any friends around town. He flew from the roof of a 15-storey building and found peace. The loss is remembered in For Liquorice John from Procol’s Grand Hotel.”

This eulogy is marked by the sound of phased-down piano and chromatic harmonica with their unique overtones and B.J.’s surprisingly strong drumming. As Gary explained to RC, “‘For Liquorice John’ wasn’t a happy song, because it was about suicide. It had quite a bit of aggression about it and a lot of sweetness too along the way.” The lyrics reveal the difficulty faced by both the doctors and the afflicted as they try to make sense of a disease that makes no sense.

He fell from grace and hit the ground
They tried in vain to bring him round
No one saw him make the fall
They couldn’t understand at all

His fall from grace was swift and straight
The doctors didn’t hesitate
What he had they were not sure
He didn’t have a temperature

His fall from grace was swift and sure
The doctors said they knew no cure.
They felt and poked and pushed his pulse
He couldn’t understand the fuss

He fell from grace and hit the ground
He fell into the sea and drowned
They saw him struggling from the harbour
They saw him wave as he went under

I hear the same struggle for understanding in Gary’s voice as he tries to accept the death of his friend, sometimes moving me to tears. I completely agree with Henry-Scott Irvine of RC that the song “is without a shadow of a doubt Procol’s most overlooked song and one of their greatest.”

“Fires (Which Burnt Brightly)”: The lesson here is that when your relationship turns into a battlefield, it’s time to wave the white flag and get the hell out. That lesson would be repeated a decade later with more modern references in Ian Anderson’s “Flying Colours” on Broadsword and the Beast.

Keith Reid mingles his metaphors to describe the conflict, moving from common war tropes to medieval imagery and finally comparing the struggle to a bad play that no one wants to see.

This war we are waging is already lost
The cause for the fighting has long been a ghost
Malice and habit have now won the day
The honours we fought for are lost in the fray

Standards and bugles are trod in the dust
Wounds have burst open, and corridors rust
Once proud and truthful, now humbled and bent
Fires which burnt brightly, now energies spent

Let down the curtain, and exit the play
The crowds have gone home and the cast sailed away
Our flowers and feathers as scarring as weapons
Our poems and letters have turned to deceptions

As for the music, Gary Booker relied on an inspiration that had worked wonders in the early days of Procol Harum. “The opening of ‘Fires’ is a little bit from Bach’s ‘Well-Tempered Clavier.’ I hadn’t written anything which was Bach-like since ‘A Whiter Shade Of Pale,’ so I thought I’d have another go there.” The Bach theme serves as the central motif and appears from time to time to introduce different segments, thereby strengthening the composition. French singer Christiane Legrand of the Swingle Singers makes a brief appearance with her gorgeous soprano toward the end of the Bach segment, a delightful surprise indeed. After that nod to Johann, Gary shifts gears a bit in the verses, retaining the C minor key while leaving the Later Baroque period for something more contemporary: Cm-A-A7-Dm-B-B7-Am-B7-E-Em-D-D7-Gm-Cm.

The arrangement of the verses is initially limited to piano, drums, and bass, with a brief appearance from the chorus on the closing lines, while Chris Copping waits until the second verse to supply background organ. A shift in mood and speed is signaled when Brooker plays eight consecutive block chords to open the first instrumental passage, where Copping takes the lead role as the band adds additional power. Once the third verse ends, the Bach figure reappears, with Legrand duplicating the melody in her higher range. The second instrumental passage retains the strong forward movement of the first, now supporting Legrand as she delivers what I’ll call “Baroque Scat,” a flurry of beautiful vocalizations covering her entire range and always in sync with the chord pattern. The music returns to the main motif, with Legrand easing up on the volume to create a soft landing.

And that idiot from Rolling Stone wanted to replace her with a guitar? That would have ruined everything, you dumb mother fucker!

Bottom line: “Fires (Which Burnt Brightly)” is fine as is . . . a beautiful, inventive, and solid composition.

“Robert’s Box”: Several people have noted the lyrical similarity to “Doctor Robert,” so don’t look for any new revelations here. The music is pretty cool, though, with a catchy melody, excellent unison singing,  solid performances by all the band members, and a touch of drama toward the end that makes for a worthy closing curtain to a truly wonderful performance from Procol Harum.

*****

Dear Readers:

I mentioned that I’ve been swamped at work, and thanks to the fucking Americans and their stupid Middle East war, I will likely be swamped for a while. Next week, I have a pseudo-diplomatic meeting with representatives from one of our member countries about human rights violations, and a get-to-know-you chat with folks at the European Union Agency for Asylum regarding the expected flood of refugees. There’s also bad juju in the European air in the form of anti-American anger, adding to everyone’s stress. What this means is that I can’t guarantee that I will have the time and energy to maintain my Sunday publication schedule. I’ll do my best to publish reviews on a weekly basis, but the reviews could appear on any day of the week. I apologize for the inconvenience.

Next up: Fully Completely by the Tragically Hip.