Procol Harum at Bloomsbury, 6 March
2005
A fan-driven website like 'Beyond the Pale' is of course
likely to write approvingly of much of its target band's activities: it's
refreshing, then, to read something like this wittily-written review, which
turns a jaundiced (if occasionally under-informed) eye on
a highly-regarded Procol Harum concert and
some of the people who attended it. Click the author's picture below if you want
to read the review verbatim as it appeared on the 'Whiskyfun' website: for BtP
we've omitted the insider jokes and name-drops that don't amount to much in the
wider world beyond the whisky milieu.
I can't now remember if it was my brother or sister who came home one summer
Saturday afternoon clutching a copy of Procol Harum's Salty Dog, but whichever
it was, I was hugely jealous. The LP cover, wittily based on one of Britain's
most famous and iconic tobacco trademarks was stunning, and was also a fond reminder of my Great Aunt Win, who
wilfully smoked a few Player's untipped every day 'till she died in her
nineties.
The music was surprisingly bluesy for a group that had produced THAT single
(which was already wearing thin by 1969, and is now simply painful), the songs
were great (and have stood the test of time far better than THAT song) and the
eponymous A Salty Dog (a poetic warning to sailors all) quite outstanding.
Anyway somehow that piece of beautifully packaged vinyl (and I don't care what
anybody says, packaging is important) found its way into my collection, and now
the CD is a regular part of my extended playlist. Which is odd really as I
couldn't give a fig for the band, whose earlier and subsequent 'progressive'
meanderings (Grand Hotel? give me a break!) were to me symptomatic of the
pompous and witless rubbish that finally pushed the door open for punk rock in
the late 1970s. But for all that when I saw they were playing in London
('blimey, I thought they were dead') I just couldn't resist getting hold of some
tickets.
Just a few points on the band before I move to the heart of the matter. Did you
know that the core of the classic line-up (Brooker, Trower etc.) were originally
Southend rhythm and blues rockers The Paramounts (hit single Poison Ivy)?
That Brooker is still working with co-writer Keith Reid (who never performed
with the band)? Did you know that at one point Brooker gave it all up to go
fly-fishing? Did you know that Brooker performs mightily with Bill Wyman's
Rhythm Kings? Or that the band always thought of themselves as a blues-band
('Welcome,' says Brooker, 'to an evening of Procul [sic] Harum Blues: more than three
chords, but that's the only difference').
Or that they loathed being compared to the Moody Blues (well, come on, who
wouldn't ?). Or that Brooker is the only one of the original band to still
perform? Or that this is the first concert I have attended where Liquorice
Allsorts were for sale in the foyer? 'Who cares?' Well the answer is that
someone does – a lot.
I knew there was something odd going on from the moment we walked into the
theatre. It wasn't just all the old fat grey haired men and their surprisingly
elegant wives. Or the earnest young ones with beards intently studying the
equipment on stage, noting down arcane technical specifications. Just how big
was the air intake on Josh Phillip's [sic] Hammond organ? There was something eerily
familiar about the look on some of their faces, and the expectant and almost
reverential atmosphere. Finally of course it clicked. This wasn't a concert at
all. In effect it was a fan-club (of the most extreme 'Play Misty for Me'
stalker sort) convention. The majority of the audience were on first-name terms,
and many (again I think a majority) had travelled from the continent (and some
from the United States) to be there. [Have
a look at the
proportion of seats occupied by BtP fans]
As it turned out a good number of them had been at a party for much of the
afternoon, celebrating some anniversary or other
[not so
on this occasion] connected with THAT song. And
during the performance many clapped their hands and waved their arms in the air
like proselytites at a revivalist meeting, whilst others muttered darkly that
'Garry [sic] vas not playink so properly, didn't he miss a note out there?' And of
course they all wore their secret society Salty Dog T-shirts.
And what of the concert I hear you ask. Hmmm. High points: Gary Brooker's
singing on the newer bluesey (lower key vocals) songs
[Victims of the Fury is new and one of the
highest vocals GB has written]; Brooker's 'Light and
bitter corr that's a bit of a larrf' patter; Hammond Organ heaven; an almost
faultless version of A Salty Dog.
Low points; Brooker's voice on most of the older material (he simply couldn't
make the notes, and in fact apologised in a sort of a way when he explained that
he had sung his voice out in rehearsals). Other lowpoints: School of Rock lead guitarist; the plodding nature of many of the
songs: they really dragged; THAT song; and the bizarre 'multi-song suite'
(ugh!) from the 1968 album Shine on Brightly, In Held 'Twas in I.
Badly played and poorly rehearsed (but I wondered, was it specially played for
this most special of audiences as the result of a request, or even maybe a
threat?) this piece (I listened to at home later over a much needed Brora
[a
kind of drink])
allegedly influenced all those later creators of what came to be known as rock
opera.
As far as I could see all it could have inspired was that particularly daft bit
in Spinal Tap when the mini-Stonehenge arches were lowered to the floor
on wires. But the audience loved it, sang along, did crowd noises on cue during
'Twas Teatime at the Circus (a lot of ''twas', then) and almost wept at its conclusion.
I was in shock, but by this time had decided that discretion was the better part
of valour as I couldn't help sensing someone looking over my shoulder at the
invective I was scribbling in my little black notebook. My photographer said 'They're
a group of well-meaning blokes in danger of becoming their own tribute band'.
And maybe it was that which caused her camera to malfunction. I said, 'Lets [sic] get
out of here, fast.'. So we did.