VELVET THUNDER

You can still put these records on and disappear back to a simpler time of longer hair, wider trousers, three TV channels and, of course, strangely alluring album covers left in school classrooms. It’s marvellously evocative stuff…

Ah, Greenslade. The name still stirs memories of first encountering the band in 1973, as a callow 12-year-old, still entranced by T Rex and just starting to discover Deep Purple, Status Quo and Black Sabbath. Back then, the ‘regular kids’ had Slade, all misspelled titles and mirrored top-hats, with their simple, yet classic, ‘terrace rock’ anthems. However, one day when going into a new classroom for a school lesson, I spotted an album cover featuring an incredible painting (by Roger Dean, though I had no idea about him at that time), with a strange multi-armed creature bathed in rays of sunlight. The title emblazoned across it was ‘Greenslade’, and this was like some sort of ‘road to Prog Damascus’ moment, as it seemed symbolic of a more mysterious, alluring, exotic and exciting world lurking beneath the charts and Top Of The Pops. We had Slade, but the cooler kids, well, they had Greenslade, and I imagined their music as a thing of amazing untapped splendour. Of course, when I finally got to hear their stuff a year or so later, it wasn’t quite like that, but by then their job was done. They had opened a gateway and I had stepped through it, discovering Yes, ELP, Pink Floyd and, as I explored further, the likes of Focus, King Crimson and Procol Harum, before I truly left safety behind and immersed myself in the glorious world of 1970s prog. I still looked back at that first Slade vs Greenslade moment as a trigger point, and to be honest I always will. With the cold hard untinted glasses of critical hindsight on, however, how does the band’s music hold up now, some four and a half decades on? Well, as this superbly packaged box containing all of their four ’70s studio albums ably demonstrates, the answer is, still pretty damn well, actually.

First out of the box of course is the 1973 self-titled debut, that very same album which promised me forbidden sonic delights all those years ago. And I can happily say that, in a stroke of packaging genius, it, along with all of the albums here, is presented in all its gatefold glory, with the original cover fully reproduced in CD-sized form. It may seem a small thing to go for a gatefold sleeve rather than a simple single mini-LP sleeve, but to the eyes of nostalgia it makes all the difference in the world. Okay, you might need access to a telescope such as Jodrell Bank to be able to read the writing in some places, but that matters not one bit. That’s what the booklet which accompanies the albums is for, and the mini-sleeves themselves just get on with their job of being quietly, evocatively brilliant. The immediate thing to strike the listener about the music is the unusual line-up: two keyboard players, bass, drums but no guitar. The guitarless configuration was done by ELP and The Nice first, of course, with the likes of Refugee also giving it a go, while the double keyboard option was also taken for the first two albums by Rare Bird. But it’s still an unusual approach, and I would venture to suggest that, with no disrespect to Rare Bird at all, it was Greenslade who really made the two-keyboard-no-guitar sound their own. The band was, of course, named for one of those keyboard men: Dave Greenslade, ex of Colosseum and, incidentally, the son of noted orchestral arranger Arthur Greenslade (not, as is occasionally claimed, ’50s radio announcer and Goon Show straight man Wallace Greenslade, who was no relation). Dave Lawson was the other keyboard man, who also doubled on vocals, while Tony Reeves on bass and drummer Andy McCulloch completed the line-up.

That first album, released in early 1973, sets the band’s stall out clearly and decisively. The key touchstones for reference are that of a more restrained ELP and a less convoluted Gentle Giant. There is also more than a hint of Chris Squire and Yes in some of Reeves’ bass playing, as on a couple of occasions here when he plays some upfront lead bass lines high up the neck, filling a space where perhaps a guitarist might go. On one occasion this is so noticeable that it practically marches across the room and paints ‘Chris Squire Was Here’ on your HiFi system. It’s a strong album though, no question, with the opening Feathered Friends and closing epic Sundance being clear standouts. An English Western, Melange and the song which named this collection, Temple Song, are all full of merit. And that gatefold cover art! Did I mention that? Oh, right…

Anyhow, the follow-up, Bedside Manners Are Extra, followed later in the same year, enclosed in another Roger Dean sleeve featuring the multi-armed creature again, which may be even better than the previous one (especially with the more vibrant colour it has here). Style-wise, the apple did not fall very far at all from the recent tree, and many fans still proclaim this to be the band’s best album, which is certainly a strong claim. Some of the best music of their career is on here, including the title track, which sounds so ‘public school English’ as to make the Charterhouse-educated Genesis sound like oiks from the local comprehensive by comparison. In fact, that very polite, reserved sound is a trademark, as it was at the same time for the likes of Caravan and Camel, and it works for the most part, as the band spin a sort of ‘Greenslade web’, within which it all makes internal sense. Other highlights on this one are the fine instrumental Pilgrim’s Progress, the closing Chalkhill and the lengthy Drum Folk, which matches its title by combining a couple of manageably short drum solos with some gorgeous mellotron flutes to create a stirring and multi-faceted folk-prog opus. One track sticking out a little is the differently-toned ‘Sunkissed You’re Not’, in which Lawson tells of a disastrous relationship with a masochistic woman, which ends up sounding not so much seedy and risque, as much as him being rather bewildered by it all! ‘Whitesnake You’re Not’, as one might say…

The third album, Spyglass Guest, from 1974, saw some changes. Firstly, no Dean cover this time out, instead giving us a gong fronted by a real black panther, which was surreal to say the least. Also, Greenslade and Lawson had stopped writing together, and indeed for half of the album do not even appear on each others’ songs. Finally, guitar even appears on a couple of tracks for the first time, with Clem Clempson guesting on lead to contribute a couple of excellent solos which undeniably strengthen things and shake the sound up. The cohesion may have gone a little awry, but it is still a fine record, with the eight minute Joie De Vivre and the opening Spirit Of The Dance clear highlights. There’s more though: Siam Seesaw benefits enormously from Clempson’s superb contribution, while the out-of-character black humour of Little Red Fry-Up (it’s about a chicken on a farm in a most un-vegetarian manner!) is matched by some wonderful music. In fact, the album only gets docked a small point because of the final track, a cover of Jack Bruce’s Theme For An Imaginary Western (made famous by Mountain). It’s well-played, and a classic song in its own right, but what this rendition proves is that at least one of two things are essential for the song to work: the vocals of either Bruce or Felix Pappalardi, and/or the searing guitar work of Leslie West. Lawson’s voice is serviceable, but hopelessly inadequate at conveying the wistful feel of the song, and here the instrumental politeness just doesn’t work at all, and the album fizzles out a little. A shame, but it is still an excellent record apart from that small misstep.

The final album here, 1975’s Time And Tide, has the multi-armed thing back, though this time represented (brilliantly I may add) by Patrick Woodroffe, an artist very much from Dean’s own school of album design. Tony Reeves has gone, however, replaced by Martin Briley, who also contributes occasional guitar. The magic has substantially departed here, however, with the three-part instrumental suite of Time / Tide / Catalan easily the standout. The album is barely over half an hour, yet contains ten tracks, which hints at a band running on empty as to songwriting, and unsurprisingly this shows some more pop-rock elements creeping in to a simpler mix – it’s a little like the way Gentle Giant began going on The Missing Piece, and while there is some decent enough music here (the TV theme Gangsters is strong, and the horribly-titled The Flattery Stakes and The Ass’s Ears are both sprightly vocal tracks), elsewhere are problems. Animal Farm and Newsworth are unremarkable openers, while the sparse Doldrums sees Lawson attempt to channel the introspective angst of Peter Hammill without complete success. It’s still nice to have the album included, however, as it certainly isn’t a dead loss, and the perfectly reproduced artwork is marvellous.

The band split the following year, and though they have reunited a few times since with different line-ups, further studio work has not been forthcoming, so this really is ‘the complete Greenslade’ as far as that goes. There’s a nice chunky booklet with band members giving their own thoughts on the band’s career and all of the albums, and really, for any self-respecting prog listener, these are required artefacts from that decade for any collection. You can still put these records on and disappear back to a simpler time of longer hair, wider trousers, three TV channels and, of course, strangely alluring album covers left in school classrooms. It’s marvellously evocative stuff, and also music that the younger generation of prog fan should listen to in order to discover what left-field wonders were hiding just below the Yes, Genesis, ELP and Floyd monsters of the time. This is the real thing. Come on in and try it. They won’t bite – bedside manners are included, really…