The parachute isn’t the answer to everything because maybe the fucker isn’t going to open.
—Phil May, in the liner notes by Mike Stax from the 1999 release of Parachute
When I abandoned the United States for France in May 2013, I spent most of the time on the flight to Paris pondering an age-old question: “Am I running away from something or towards something?”
I had given up on the good ol’ USA following the aftermath to the Sandy Hook massacre, where instead of doing anything to rein in the madness, Americans flocked to gun shops in full support of their constitutional right to lock and load while the NRA-controlled Congress did absolutely nothing. I could no longer live in a society that treated the slaughter of innocents as just another item in the news cycle. Blessed with the fortune of dual citizenship, an employer with European operations and relatives in both Paris and Nice, I put on my parachute and left for La Belle France.
The transition was easier for me than most émigrés, as I spoke the language fluently and had spent a lot of time in France over the years. I ran into a few bumps along the road due to lingering Americanism—forgetting that shops close early and on Sundays, telling service people what I wanted before saying “Bonjour,” smiling too much—but nothing serious. Even though things went well, I think I would define those first three years as running away from something because I still held the hope that the United States would grow the fuck up. That hope was blasted to smithereens when Americans elected Trump. Going to the American consulate and handing in my passport the day after the election ended the running away period—I had passed the point of no return. I’d jumped out of the plane.
After returning from Marseilles that evening, I felt a strange sense of emptiness. After talking it over with partner and family at dinner, I realized that I had abandoned one country but hadn’t fully embraced the new country: I’d made the transition intellectually but not emotionally. I hadn’t defined what I was running toward. I felt like I was falling through mid-air, thinking, “Maybe my parachute isn’t going to open after all.”
Well, thank fucking whoever for Marine LePen, whose blatant racism and sheer stupidity awoke an undiscovered passion for French ideals and the European Union. The En Marche campaign turned out to be exactly what I needed to cement my relationship with my country (although I do wish Macron would lean a bit more to the left). Election night was the night my parachute landed, and when I hit the ground I rolled my body to make for a nice, soft landing.
Okay, I was on the ground was because I was as drunk as a skunk after the celebration and my legs were perfectly fucking useless, but I had to complete the metaphor!
Released in the pivotal year of 1970, Parachute is an album about larger transitions than mine—the multi-layered transitions that replaced the Swinging Sixties with the Disco Era. The broad movement that had fought for civil rights and world peace while dancing to the music of rock and folk icons began to devolve into a melange of alternative lifestyles. Gay liberation took its place alongside women’s lib; spiritual and earthy types left cities and burbs and headed back to nature; social activists either found jobs in the government or joined radical underground movements; the majority thought it was time to grow up and seek employment within the Establishment. All kinds of people were strapping themselves into parachutes.
Music reflected the transitions taking place in the larger culture. The symbolic coup-de-grace to the Swinging 60’s came on April 10, 1970, when Paul McCartney announced his decision to leave The Beatles (a formality, really, since John had told the others back in September 1969 that he was done). The break-up of The Beatles was certainly a traumatic experience for a generation who grew up with them and saw them “change the world,” but their departure allowed artists whose work had been hidden in the Beatle shadow to come to the fore. This newly-discovered diversity eventually led to the destruction of the “Woodstock audience,” music fans who listened to all kinds of music. Rock splintered into its various sub-genres during the 70’s in the same way the Baby Boomers fled into various cultural cul-de-sacs.
Despite critical validation, Parachute did not exactly turn The Pretty Things into household names or boost them to the forefront of those emerging from the Beatle shadow. However, I can’t think of another record that captured the transition from the 60’s to the 70’s as well as Parachute. The album features some of the best melodic rock on record (the style that would retrospectively earn the label, “baroque rock”) while integrating the heavier riff-based guitar rock that would dominate the early 70’s. The Pretties were unique in that they were exceptionally capable in both styles. Their second album, Get the Picture?, is a garage fan’s dream, and their magnum opus, the song cycle SF Sorrow, displayed their talents with more melodic and progressive styles. After some upheaval in the lineup in part due to the disappointing chart performance of SF Sorrow, creative force Phil May and bassist Wally Waller became the songwriting team, approaching their work through the shared realization that the musical and social assumptions of the 60’s no longer had any relevance. More importantly, they had the right temperament to take advantage of a rules-don’t-matter environment, experimenting with different ways to write songs and integrating creativity with daily life:
Sometimes Wally and I would get back at three or four in the morning, stoned out of our brains, and start writing, and write until 12 o’clock the next day, and then go out to a gig. The party was part of the writing. It wasn’t something you stopped working for to do, it just fused into it. It was all of one—the life was all about the music.
—Phil May, in liner notes referenced above
Recorded with Norman Smith of Beatles’ fame (as was SF Sorrow) at Abbey Road, the band brought the same spirit to the recording sessions, working long hours, experimenting and taking the time to get things right. The combination of excellent production, creative freedom and deep social insight is what makes Parachute such an amazing and horribly under-appreciated piece of art.
“Scene One” gets things rolling with an anxiety-inducing build combining Mellotron, rumbling piano and guitar feedback leading to an urgent guitar strum and a furious assault on the drum kit by Skip Alan. The song proper is almost Lizst-like in its dramatic intensity with sharp thrusts and stuttering rhythms. The poem supporting the music is brief, delivered in a wave of complex vocal harmony—an aural depiction of the ruthless energy of a great city:
Stone spires rise high, lacerate warmer skies
Iron laced populations, beneath molten fields
What follows is open to interpretation. In his liner notes for the album, Mike Stax describes the next five songs as two individual pieces and a three-part suite. What I hear is a five-part suite based on the experience of the protagonist in “The Good Mr. Square,” and this is coming from someone who didn’t read the liner notes for this edition until I prepared for this review. One of the themes in Parachute has to do with the migration of significant numbers of 60’s generation to rural areas—the “back-to-nature” movement. On Parachute, this conflict is manifested in the form of an unnamed woman who abandons city life for England’s pastures. The problem with the three-song suite concept is that you lose the conflict—the song that describes her as a city dweller (“She Was Tall, She Was High”) precedes those three songs. Add to that the fact the “The Good Mr. Square” segues seamlessly into “She Was Tall, She Was High”—so seamlessly that you have no idea you’ve moved to a new track—and the five-song suite makes much more sense.
Based on one of Phil May’s short stories, “The Good Mr. Square” is a stunning musical shift from the opener, a simple arrangement of acoustic guitar, bass and light drums containing a perfectly lovely melody spiced with luscious background harmonies. Wally Waller’s vocal is appropriately gentle, and I really love the way The Pretties change the shape of the vowels on those harmonies, moving from “aah” in the first line and “whoa-oh-oh” in the second. Our protagonist is a lonely fellow who allegedly “doesn’t have any hang-ups” and “spends his time looking through other people’s eyes.” The segue is crucial here, for the first four lines of the next song (“She Was Tall, She Was High”) are sung to the melody of “The Good Mr. Square,” which to me implies that Mr. Square is observing this young lass as she passes by his window. Even more evidence can be found in the way the last line of “The Good Mr. Square” is transcribed, ending with an ellipsis (“He spends his time . . .), indicating a continuous narrative.
The woman responsible for Mr. Square’s enchantment is a party chick with serious presence:
And as she weaves her way, through city streets,
The dawn arrives.
In concrete glades of metal grass,
Steel cords are woven tight.
But she is free, f . . . r . . . double e.
She was tall, she was high,
Lord she almost touched the sky,
Today, I said today,
She was tall, she was high,
Lord she almost made me cry.
Some fifteen years later this babe would reappear in Ian Anderson’s “Budapest” (“Yes, and her legs went on forever/Like staring up at infinity”). In response to her inspiring presence, the music becomes more libidinal, with sharp electric guitar cuts and a more intense vocal from keyboardist Jon Povey. The final words on the woman indicate either that the city is taking its toll (“Before the storm subsides, she’s flown/And leaves the body torn”) or that Mr. Square is experiencing deep anguish at her disappearance (or has a hard-on that will never probe her inner secrets).
Mr. Square then encounters the lady “In the Square,” perhaps having struck up some kind of casual friendship with her in the intervening days (“Hey,” she says to her friends, “I met this nice old chap in the square today.”) This is a perfectly sumptuous piece of music with clear baroque flavorings from Spanish guitar and electric harpsichord enhanced by a stunningly effective use of a sitar. The harmonies are once again absolutely gorgeous, sung gently and almost respectfully in support of the idyllic scene:
In the square, she came running,
I was lucky to be there.
In her hair, she wore flowers,
The scent it filled the air.
The flowers represent an important shift in the narrative: our hot city lady is about to go country on us. Mr. Square is appropriately devastated by her departure:
She must leave, not returning,
I was sadness standing there,
A silent square, bus of silver,
With my vision disappears.
Ah, but there’s always hope, even if it’s the terribly fragile hope of an unopened letter. Phil May finally gets a turn at the lead vocal spot in “The Letter,” a more upbeat number reflecting the delight Mr. Square experiences going through the post—the repetition of the line “She wrote me a letter,” with varied emotional emphasis on the part of Phil May, betrays his excitement and anticipation. Two aspects of the story are confirmed here: first, the pair did strike up a friendship with overtones of something more; and second, the girl describes her disillusionment with city life, clearly linking her identity to that tall drink of water in “She Was Tall, She Was High.”
She wrote me a letter
From the green fields it came
She wrote me a letter
Trying to explain
Now living came easy
In velvet valleys of sun
She wrote me a letter
She wrote me a letter
So many questions she asked
She knew, I just couldn’t answer
For they were all in my past
City life was too heavy
So she had run for the hills
A transitional passage highlighted by a intensely-picked bass line segues into “Rain,” where the vocal tone shifts to one of anguish and loss:
When I got to our meeting place
I stared into empty space,
No-one here for me, oh no no no
The phrase, “No, no, no, nobody here for me” is repeated several times during the fade, soon replaced by the dreary sound of cold raindrops. Whether you go with the a three or five-song suite, one thing is indisputable: these are magnificently crafted songs marked by poetic economy and performed with energy, professionalism and tremendous care.
But hold on there, we’re not done yet! Having given the 60’s a beautiful send-off, The Pretties embrace the emerging hard rock movement of the 70’s with the riff-driven ass-kicker, “Miss Fay Regrets.” The band is on fire throughout, bashing the shit out of everything they’ve got their hands on. The lead guitar duet in the break defines the word, “killer,” and as for the lyrics . . . well, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry in response to his story about an arrogant leading lady who peaked in the mid-40’s and now finds herself on the skids. Phil May manages somehow to stoke your anger at this bitch while also making you feel a bit sorry for her . . . but not too sorry:
Well could I spare the fare,
‘Cause your cheque book isn’t there,
Could I take you to where your hotel is?
Oh yes I told them who you were,
But they said they would prefer it,
If you would find another place to crash in,
I know the streets are very cold,
And the shallow walls don’t hold,
The shelter and protection you’re seeking.
And as I walk away,
You turn to me and say,
You’d rather I forget about our meeting.
Although Phil May described himself as a man with feet firmly planted in the city, he was hardly oblivious to the darkness inherent in any great metropolis. “Cries from the Midnight Circus” paints a vivid picture of hookers flagging down drivers “with faces greased and mouth full of shine” (or is it “shite?”—both work). It all sounds both rather sad and harmless at first, but sex workers are always the most vulnerable human beings in any city, as misogyny, dehumanization and guilt infect too many of their customers:
You lie in the alley, with blood on your clothes.
As fingers round your throat they close.
Your cries of murder, splash on the walls
As you die, you think about the injustice of it all.
The music is sexy-sleazy, dominated by heavy bass and improvised bursts of guitar—a soundscape reflecting the sheer noisiness of the city with the ever-present rumble in the background. What strikes me most about this song is its heavy but powerful social message, a feature missing from too many hard rock songs of the early 70’s.
We flip over to Side Two and find “Grass,” a song that has nothing to do with marijuana and everything to do with the city-country contrast that dominates Parachute. The song deals with separated lovers—she in the country, he in the city—and it’s tempting to consider this an epilogue to the suite. Phil May described the song as “a pastoral hymn,” but the language he uses to describe the pain of separation is hardly pastoral:
As silver tears they weave and lace,
Sad patterns upon her face,
She waits for you.
So low below a laser sun,
Through velvet fields she runs,
Reaching for you.
And so you bleed now,
Your hand holds the knife
That is tearing your life apart.
Why don’t you leave now,
The city’s too heavy
And your dreams they melt in the sun.
The melodic progression is fascinating, moving from pure loveliness supporting the country scenes to a more complex pattern in the city scenes—a pattern that refuses to resolve on the root note but leaves the listener suspended in uncertainty. The guitar duets that separate the verses are steeped in blues patterns, synthesizing the aching on both sides of the divide. If I were to choose one song that synthesizes the music of the 60’s and 70’s, “Grass” would come to mind in a heartbeat. What’s remarkable is you hardly notice the synthesis: the song flows easily despite the disparate parts. Equally remarkable are the four-part harmonies, where Norman Smith joins in because apparently only three Pretties could sing.
Up to this point, the songs on Parachute have accepted the notion of the countryside as a soft landing for those fleeing the cacophony of urban existence. That notion is put to the test in “Sickle Clowns,” where the gruesome ending of the film of Easy Rider is used to demolish the notion that rural areas are relatively free from hate. Shee-it, everybody in America knows that! That’s where the rednecks and the white supremacists hang! The “sickle” in the song is not the farm implement or communist symbol but short for motor-CYCLE, and the chord pattern, a modified blues pattern where the emphasis of the root 7th chord is the flattened third and the expected IV (major) chord is iv (minor), would have fit beautifully into the Easy Rider soundtrack. The band is tight and the song definitely gets your hips in motion.
“She’s a Lover” is a more melodic rocker but still pretty beefy, with outstanding support from the rhythm section of Skip Alan and Wally Waller. The song also breaks pattern—twice—in the middle of the song, first with a gentle passage dominated by vocal harmony then by a fascinating instrumental passage that moves in unexpected directions away and towards the base melody. The extended fade features both superbly executed rhythmic shifts from the band and surprising variations to the expected vocal harmonies, enhanced by a call-and-response pattern. The imagery in the song is that of Earth Mother—a sexier, more sinuous version as opposed to those fat broads the archaeologists always dig up in our ancestors’ caves—but still the nurturing image in perfect sync with nature:
With warm breezes
She will wipe away the sigh.
In the green folds of her skirt
A tired traveller lies,
She’s a lover and you know she’s coming through
Later, “She sheds her summer dress/Fearing it displeases you,” indicating that the concept of the dominant female had not sufficiently penetrated male consciousness. Fuck that! When I strip, I choose to strip and I don’t give a fuck who it pleases or displeases . . . though I rather like the awe that stripping can inspire.
Speaking of fuck, I really wish The Pretties had lived in another age with limited censorship and could have titled the next song, “Aw, Fuck It.” As it is, we’ll have to accept “What’s the Use,” which I will admit is probably a more precise choice of words but lacks the emotional impact of surrender. We could compromise and call it “To Hell with It” and I would be mollified. Suppressing my tendency to meander any further, this is a very clever little piece that opens beautifully with a heavily-reverbed piano playing a pattern similar to the gentle melodies you hear in old movies when the characters enter a bucolic town in China or Japan. The music shifts to a waltz for the verse proper, where vague hippie platitudes compete with nonsensical metaphors (“your smile was the wind” makes me think of someone with missing teeth). This absurdity is deliberate, for after the flower children admit they “can’t build to lines of a plan,” the pastoral harmonies and 3 /4 rhythm collapse into a poor-us repetition of “what’s the use, what’s the use.” The 12-string was a nice touch on this piece, a blast of folk-rock that fits the theme perfectly.
Norman Smith received co-writing credit for the lush album closer, “Parachute.” The exquisite harmonies are the work of Jon Povey, who took advantage of eight-track technology and layered eight different versions of himself to achieve the effect. In the liner notes, Jon describes how he pulled off the soprano parts, with Norman taking a more . . . assertive role:
The very, very high ones are very difficult to reach, so Norman used to come up behind me with a drumstick and stick it up my arse whenever I couldn’t reach the note. It was quite effective as well.
The lyrics are quite poetic; I’m not sure I agree with Mike Stax’s opinion that they evoke “The Waste Land,” but I do think they reinforce the themes of Parachute: the flight from city to nature and the uncertainty of a safe landing:
White ice towers, slow dissolving
Below savage moon
Iron cities soon to rust.
Warned first by the gathering shadows
From wide vapor deserts
They turned, turned towards the sea.
Pale worn the walking, pass
Through concrete glades.
Torn shadows, slashed silence
The harmonies segue into an instrumental passage where Povey demonstrates considerable skill on the piano before the arrangement descends and fades into a rising, single synthesized note that sounds like a fading siren . . . a curious warning of what might lie ahead.
Parachute is a wonderful multi-layered listening experience filled with excellent musicianship, superb vocals and lyrics that teem with meaning. It is a tragedy that both SF Sorrow and Parachute both wound up as chart failures due to poor support from EMI in the U. K. and the mind-blowing decision to sign a U. S. contract with a subsidiary of Motown. That is frustrating but I don’t think poor chart sales should minimize the extent of what The Pretties achieved here. Immersing myself in Parachute couldn’t have come at a better time in my life, for it encouraged deep self-reflection regarding a series of major life transitions that I had experienced as the blurry landscape that you experience when riding on a high-speed train. In the future, when I feel like reaching for a parachute, I know I will pause, reflect and think hard about whether I’m running away or running toward.
That’s what great art is supposed to do—get you to engage with your life, provide insight, raise questions—and Parachute does just that.
The small town was just under eight miles from everywhere, the grey brickwork soaked up the white sun. The factory of misery lay in the centre, it had been a boom year. From its tall chimneys the factory puffed out large black clouds of its importance that floated above the town. The boom continued. Each morning the workers were sucked from their houses that stood like rows of decaying teeth in long necklaces that were hung around the throats of nearby hills, a new day. It was such a day that a young couple arrive from up North, they moved into Number Three. The Sorrows, for that was their name, soon settled to the ways of the town, meanwhile the boom continued. Sometime later, during a night when there wasn’t a star to be seen, Mrs. Sorrow gave birth to a boy.
—The narrative introduction to S. F. Sorrow.
The boy born in Number 3 turns out to be one Sebastian F. Sorrow. “Nobody knew what the ‘F’ stood for and nobody really cared,” reads the narrative. This is how things go with Sebastian throughout his miserable existence, a life that is covered from cradle to grave in S. F. Sorrow. What we learn about this appropriately-named character after thirteen songs is that he is the doppelgänger of Forrest Gump, an imaginative fellow with no discernible talents whose life occasionally intersects with various events of historical significance, but only the tragic ones. Sorrow is ultimately the victim of a combination of the dehumanizing effects of the capitalist system, neglectful parenting and an uncanny ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
S. F. Sorrow has begun to receive belated recognition as the first rock opera, a designation of questionable value that people normally associate with Tommy. There is ample reason to believe Townsend was strongly influenced by S. F. Sorrow, which makes for titillating gossip but ignores the more salient point that operas had been around for centuries, and it was only natural that as rock began to explore subjects demanding extended musical forms that someone would say, “Hey, what was that thing that Italian guy did? You know, Vermicelli—no, Verdi. What was that called?” It didn’t take a fucking genius to figure it out. However, it must be pointed out that neither S. F. Sorrow nor Tommy can compete with any of the great classical operas in terms of musical ideas, narrative development or character construction, so when people use the term “rock opera,” they’re imbuing these works with far more comparative significance than they deserve. “Concept album with a story line” is a more or less accurate descriptor for both.
Having panned the shit out of Tommy for its loathsome main character, improbable psychology, ridiculous plot and even more absurd conclusion, and now having listened to S. F. Sorrow with and without the lyrics in front of me, I would say that Tommy does a better job of restating the musical themes with its overture, underture and repetition of the emotion-laden hook, “See me, feel me, touch me, heal me.” In every other aspect, S. F. Sorrow is the better work. Based on a short story by front man and main lyricist Phil May, the narrative has a discernible flow and makes psychological sense, even with a few bizarre turns. The main character is more of an Everyman character, while only sociopaths can relate to Tommy. Musically, S. F. Sorrow has stronger and more diverse melodies, and in keeping with the norms of the psychedelic era, more creative use of effects. Better still, the effects generally work, thanks to Norman Smith’s superb production. Most importantly, S. F. Sorrow was built on a human scale— it lacks the overweening pretentiousness of Tommy, where Townshend’s flair for the dramatic masks its underlying emptiness.
S. F. Sorrow does have its flaws. The most noticeable is that it’s impossible to follow the story without the narrative passages inserted between the lyrics in the liner notes. Why they didn’t simply include the narration in the recording is puzzling indeed (thirty years later they would correct the omission and hire Arthur Brown to handle the task in a live netcast performance). The second defect is that the origin of one of the key characters, Baron Saturday, is so obscure that you have to infer his motives from the relatively opaque lyrics that paint his portrait. The third is a jump-ball flaw, depending on your perspective: S. F. Sorrow is relentlessly bleak. The reasons for the bleakness are undeniably valid, but the cumulative effect is a downer. The result of all these imperfections is that the story fails to generate much empathy for Sebastian F. Sorrow; in the end, he’s rather like the annoying person in your life who never tires of reciting his tales of woe but chooses to wallow in his misery instead of trying to do anything to change things. You don’t actively despise Sorrow like you do Tommy, but you sure as shit don’t want to invite him to your next party.
Ironically, the music is often exuberant and performed with energy and commitment. The Pretty Things began life as the alt-Rolling Stones, steeped in R&B and bad-boy vibes. Over time they became more melodically-oriented and embraced psychedelic values, and the combination of singable melodies with tangible groove is a definite strength of this record. Unfortunately, by the time S. F. Sorrow was released, psychedelia was on its way out and the record seemed somewhat dated in comparison to where the market was headed. It hit the record stores at about the same time as The White Album and Beggar’s Banquet, both of which represented significant rejections of psychedelic values. That timing also helps explain why the album remains largely invisible to the public: competing against The Beatles and The Stones in their heyday was a pretty tall order for anyone, and EMI didn’t put any energy into promoting S. F. Sorrow. It wasn’t even released in the States until months later, on a Motown (!) sub-label. But while it might be nice to imagine a more happy outcome for the album had it been released during the Summer of Love, the depressing theme of S. F. Sorrow was completely out of touch with an audience desperate for sweetness and light. This is an orphan of an album, timeless in its themes but belonging to no specific era.
Despite the black and smoky description of Sorrow’s birthplace described above, the opening song, “S. F. Sorrow Is Born,” is a toe-tapping melodic delight. Opening with an energetic acoustic guitar duet, the intro dissolves into an uptempo, steady, bass-driven rhythm that expresses confidence and command. The guitars are pushed to the back of the soundscape through a sensitive application of reverb while the lead vocal comes into clear focus. The harmonies are very pleasing to the ear, giving an almost celebratory feel to the line “S. F. Sorrow is born.” A splash of Beatle-esque french horn-like sound opens the instrumental passage, where the Mellotron provides background in the center channel, nicely contrasted by acoustic and electric guitar. However, even in this upbeat number, there is a sense of foreboding:
The sunlight of his days
Was spent in the grey of his mind
As he stole love with a tongue of lies
The world is shrinking in size.
Those curious lines are explained more fully in the next song, “Bracelets of Fingers,” where we learn that young Sorrow is definitely an introvert who likes to withdraw into his private world of the imagination, with a particular fascination with the Moon. The Moon has served poets as a symbol for both the feminine and the inevitable passing of time, and in S. F. Sorrow, both interpretations are active. On a personal level, Sorrow’s imaginative fancies and lunar obsession are ways to shut out the ugliness of the world around him. This is where the tension of the story lies: Sorrow’s imagination is in constant battle with the omnipresent materialistic ugliness of his environment:
Fly to the Moon and I’ll get there quite soon if I wait awhile.
Daylight arrives with a turn of the skies I must wait awhile.
Clouds building castles, the wind comes and blows them away,
Tears in the water makes circles for me as I play.
The music contrasts an a cappella harmonic passage where the word “love” is repeated in an almost sleepy, indifferent tone with the jaunty, melodic verses. The instrumental segment features one of the most effective uses of the sitar in all psychedelia, reinforcing the magical universe that young Sorrow is determined to create for himself. “Bracelets of Fingers” may refer to the shapes children make with their fingers while playing; it may also refer to masturbation. Either way, Sorrow finds his natural impulses denied by the world he inhabits.
When he became old enough he joined his father working at the factory of misery, but the work was being cut and the older men were stood off.
Now young Sorrow loses valuable daydreaming time while taking on responsibility for supporting his family. Nonetheless, Sorrow continues to search for a distraction or a way out—and he finds it in the figure of the girl next door, his moon personified. “She Says Good Morning” describes this budding relationship with Beatle-flavored flair. The opening passage is dominated by an electric guitar solo panned slowly from right to left and back again, all dissolving in a backbeat-accented rhythm that provides solid support for the harmony-infused vocal. That vocal has a slight bite to it, expressing Sorrow’s bitterness that he can’t spend more time with his lady. The song kicks into double time in both the instrumental passage and in the fade; both transitions are flawless. The fade also features small talk between the young couple that provides a human touch in a context of human denial.
They dreamt of escaping from the small town, getting married and living somewhere else. Sebastian still dreamt of the moon. The factory closes down, war had been declared. Young Sebastian felt the call of duty and joined some very light infantry. He left the small town, he was now Private Sorrow. The war, like most wars, lasted many years, misery in the form of a large black bird flew above the dark trenches.
The war is World War I, a monstrously tragic affair for the main combatants, who lost millions of young men in the pointless war to end wars. Because the high commands regularly ordered the slaughter at the rate of thousands per day, they were desperate for human fodder, which is the only way you can explain how such a delicate creature as Sebastian F. Sorrow wound up on the front lines. In “Private Sorrow,” we learn that his survival strategy remains the same: try to escape the ugliness via the imagination. Unfortunately, this is not quite as easy as it was in the mean streets of home:
Heaven’s rain falls upon
Faces of the children who look skyward
Twisting metal through the air,
Scars and screams
So you might know his fury.
See shells whistle
Let your mind drift away
See shells whistle
Let your mind hide away
The music on this piece is simply outstanding. A folk guitar plays a lovely run of arpeggiated chords before the sound of a military snare enters the picture. A combination of fiddle and recorder with a splash of penny-whistle supply the main support for the verses, driven by a syncopated rhythm strongly influenced by traditional British folk. The instrumental passage features dreamy falsetto harmonies over synthesized sounds somewhere between and celeste and a harpsichord. That passage begins to repeat itself towards the end, fading into the background while a funereal organ takes its place and we hear a British male voice recite the names on the casualty list. “Private Sorrow” is probably the high point of the album, for while there’s plenty of interesting and even delightful music ahead, none of them move the plot forward quite as effectively.
When peace was finally announced, he found himself in a strange land called Amerik. Many bright new and bigger factories of misery were being built, there was plenty of work for everyone. Having decided to make this his home, Sebastian sent his childhood sweetheart a balloon ticket and waited for her to join him. The small town turned out to wave her goodbye as she sailed away on the Windenburg. Goodbye small town. Goodbye. By late evening the balloon arrived, Sorrow saw her just for a brief second as she stood there smiling before she was swallowed by the bright orange flames.
I’m not sure why they called the United States “Amerik,” since the Americans of the time were too busy with the Vietnam War to launch a defamation-of-character lawsuit. More to the point, there’s a problem with the timeline. World War I ended in 1918, and the first transatlantic dirigible flights did not occur until 1932. The Hindenburg Disaster came five years after that. Are we to believe that Sorrow’s lady waited 18-23 years, to join him in Great Depression America? Hmm. Putting that discrepancy aside for a moment, “Balloon Burning” certainly captures a feeling of tragedy and terror with its siren-like guitar, insistent fast-paced rhythm and dominant minor key. After watching the love of his life literally go up in flames, the narration makes one brief comment: “In sadness, she was buried by the spade of his grief.”
The next song is unsurprisingly called “Death,” a dirge of a song with very effective use of the Mellotron, which seems to moan in sympathetic grief. The song would have been much more powerful had Phil May developed the relationship between Sorrow and his intended more fully before her death; as it is, we only have Sorrow’s word for it that he is in grief. We don’t feel what he feels because to us, she was just a girl who said “good morning” to him on his way to work. While the narrative outline still makes sense, there are not enough details to complete the picture.
Sorrow grew lonely as he wandered throughout the tall concrete trees of New York. His name was licked on the wind of a thousand tongues, the factories of misery were very busy. One evening as he sat listening to this wind in Central Clearing he was approached by a distinguished gentleman wearing a tall silk hat. Like the night he was wrapped in a cloak of black.
What happens next is certainly imaginative, but you have to wonder if there wasn’t a more accessible way to describe Sorrow’s descent into depression. The “distinguished gentleman” is Baron Saturday, the anglicized name for a voodoo god known in Haiti as Baron Samedi. I can understand Phil May using this character in the context of the story, as Baron Samedi is both the master of the dead and the giver of life. Sorrow is entering the symbolic death of depression, and who better to have as a guide than someone with experience in resurrection? After reading a bit about Baron Samedi, he’s certainly more charming than the bore we imagine God to be: instead of asking for your first-born in exchange for service, he usually requests cigars and rum. My kind of guy! Still, the vast majority of the audience who would have been exposed to S. F. Sorrow had nevah hoid of da bum, so The Pretty Things certainly weren’t making it easy for people to embrace this record.
From a musical perspective, though, “Baron Saturday” is a fascinating mix of melodic pop progressions and drums that shift from Ringo-style bashes to dark Haitian nights. It’s followed by “The Journey,” where Baron Saturday magically lifts Sorrow from the streets of New York and into the skies. Despite the sudden change of scene, “Sorrow grew tired. He wanted to rest. He HAD to rest.” The progression is mirrored in “The Journey,” which shifts from pretty, harmonic verses strengthened by Wally Waller’s counterpoint bass into a stream of effects that mirror Sorrow’s descent into the unconscious.
Baron Saturday’s destination is the core of Sorrow’s true personality, embodied in The Moon . . . or what Sorrow believes is The Moon.
As they drew nearer to what S. F. had thought to be the moon, he soon realized that it was not the moon at all. It was a twisted face of a man in tortured sleep. It was his own face. They alighted on parted lips. Baron Saturday dragged the frightened Sorrow through the arch of the mouth, then in pink fleshy heat they coursed their way down the throat. Sorrow strapped to his fear resisted still. Baron Saturday flung wide two large oaken doors beyond which lay a long hall of mirrors. Dark. From each of these mirrors fragments of his life starred out at him. “Study it well,” whispered the Baron. His life like a jigsaw hung from the walls of the hall. Voice from his youth called his name. “Sorrow.” “Sorrow.” He covered his face with his hands but his eyes burnt in his fingers. At the end of the hall they mounted the thousand steps of spiral staircase up and up. When they reached the top he saw, thought two immense opaque windows, the most painful sight yet. Sorrow turned away.
The painful sight is apparently his dead fiancée (“The waves break and part for me/As my mind slips into sand/The water returns with the warmth of your hand).” This is captured in the moody piece, “I See You,” where the heavily processed vocals reflect the fun-house mirror aspect of this journey into the self. Following this is the brief instrumental passage, “The Well of Destiny,” where Sorrow allegedly “begins to search for new values.” I’ll take their word for it, but this is the place where the narrative thread in the music becomes very thin and having to consult the liner notes for direction is a serious distraction.
Let’s stop here and relate Sorrow’s journey so far. Sebastian F. Sorrow was born in a grimy turn-of-the-century factory town. He is a child with an active imagination that he struggles to protect against the ugly reality that surrounds him, a task that becomes much harder when he is sent to work at the factory. He finds renewed hope when he connects with the girl next door, but their dreams of escape are put on hold when Sorrow enters The Great War. After the war, he escapes to America and eventually sends for his bride-to-be, who is killed in a dirigible explosion. This leads to depression and, with the assistance of a voodoo spirit, a reexamination of self and his most strongly-held values: hope, imagination, beauty.
Instead of deciding to continue the fight, Sorrow gives up: the powers behind the overwhelming ugliness in the world are irrevocably set against hope, imagination and beauty. This surrender is expressed in the bleak lyrics of “Trust”:
Excuse me please as I wipe a tear
Away from an eye that sees there’s nothing left to trust
Finding that their minds are grey
And there’s no sorrow in the world that’s left to trust.
That’s a curious and insightful line: “And there’s no sorrow in the world that’s left to trust.” What I think it means is that Sorrow is resigned to facing a world dominated by resignation, where people have purged their souls of any emotional attachment to a belief that things could be better. Instead of at least feeling human sorrow about the decline of human values, our sorrowfully-named anti-hero finds a world full of empty shells masquerading as human beings. In ironic contrast, the music is anything but indifferent: the beat is mid-tempo and the harmonies here are the best on an album of very strong harmonies. It is as if Sorrow is allowing himself one last look at imaginative possibility before letting it go. The way the song ends—with the full arrangement vanishing into a series of descending acoustic guitar notes—reflects the feeling that Sorrow has simply run out of gas and given up.
He traced his thoughts through the wet streets, blank faces lined the pavements. They would not be saved. His mind turned cartwheels in an effort to understand. The factories of misery grew larger as Sorrow grew older.
“Old Man Going” follows and hey, wait a minute! Isn’t that the opening guitar rhythm of “Pinball Wizard?” No wonder Phil May was pissed off at Townshend’s denial that S. F. Sorrow influenced Tommy. The song is much darker than its offspring, with a vocal that foreshadows the sneering tone of Johnny Rotten. Sorrow is now totally consumed by bitterness:
Hopscotch of life will lead you to the grave
Wet faces line the street, they will not be saved
Black house you’ve built it soon will disappear
Another Corporation dig this year.
Sebastian’s madness built up like a surrounding wall shutting of the light until there was just darkness.
The album ends with the intensely melancholy “Loneliest Person,” where only an acoustic guitar comps the solo vocal. Though Sebastian sings, “You might be the loneliest person in the world/You’ll never be as lonely as me,” the delivery here is anything but maudlin, but sensitive and in character. Sorrow has realized the destiny implied by his name, accepts that life is indeed a vale of tears, but has no false hopes of resurrection. S. F. Sorrow ends with the main character believing that the fix is in from birth, that fighting fate or the authorities is senseless and that the human race has completely surrendered its essential humanity and any hope of a better future to the fight for survival.
That is not what people wanted to hear in 1968! They wanted to hear love, peace, happiness! They wanted to change the world through activism! They wanted to facilitate humanity’s ascent to a higher level of consciousness! They didn’t want to hear about a society that traumatizes its children from birth, that values profit over beauty and that is completely and irrevocably committed to a philosophy of materialism. So uncool, such a bummer, what a downer . . . and the absolute truth.
It’s too bad that the dogma of the psychedelic era led people to close their ears to alternative views, as I think an unfiltered look at reality might have led to more effective activism. It took a lot of guts for The Pretty Things to make a record so out of sync with the times, and the collective imagination that went into its creation would have absolutely delighted young Sorrow. S. F. Sorrow may be bleak and at times obscure, but it’s hard to deny the validity of its message and the strength of its music.