Two for the Road (1)
W George Lovell for 'Beyond the Pale'
TWO FOR
THE ROAD, A PAIR ON THE PRAIRIE (1)
I wasn’t at all sure that I’d be able to fit them
in, but I did. It took a fair bit of improvisation, for I was teaching two big
undergraduate classes that fall term, with enrolments of some four hundred
students. I was able to arrange good cover for the one class I would actually
not be at Queen’s University – the one in Kingston, Ontario, not its UK
namesake in Belfast, Northern Ireland – to deliver in person. I braced myself,
furthermore, for a couple of contingencies at an iffy time of year: come
November, the weather on the US eastern seaboard, to say nothing about the
Canadian prairies, can nix the best-laid plans of mice and Procol Harum fans.
But the prospect of hearing the band play four times in the space of a week, two
gigs on their own, two with the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra, was too tempting
not to pursue. Having added three concert outings in the summer of 2010 (see
here) to the twenty-seven documented in my memoir,
The Waiter Brought a Tray, I relished raising my lifetime “heard-them” tally to
thirty-four. The vignettes that follow afford admiration and appreciation of a
rock group whose star, unlike that of most, still shines on brightly.
Lofty
Peak Thirty-One (Harrisburg PA, 4 November 2010)
Dark. The
texture of Home is in synch with my pre-dawn departure. The sun comes up
as I head east along the Saint Lawrence Parkway. A ten-minute cameo is all the
light it radiates the entire day, a wan peek along the river. Black clouds shut
down the sky. I cross the border, and on comes the rain. It falls, at times
heavily, from Watertown (how appropriate, I say to myself, as the windshield
wipers arc back and forth relentlessly) to Harrisburg. The journey from upstate
New York to southern Pennsylvania turns into a sodden, eight-hour drag. It was
dark when I headed out, and it’s dark when I pull the car up to the Crowne Plaza
Hotel, my home for the night. A bath and a change of clothes give me a
much-needed lift, and I’m good to go.
The Forum Theatre, a short walk away, lies adjacent to the grounds of the
handsome state legislature, and there I bump into some familiar faces – Freddie,
the self-anointed Unsteady One, who in fact has been a stable fixture at many of
the Procol Harum events I’ve attended over the years, and Marvin Chassman, Tito
Davila, and Evan Wagshul, a trio of Procoholics who have become dear friends. In
attendance, also, is the incorrigible Allen Edelist, a salty dog who I am
certain could get himself to a Procol Harum concert were it staged on a
Polynesian atoll unknown to man, but not to One-Eye’s travel agent. Even though
Marvin secured me a ticket several months ago, Allen has an extra one a-begging,
in the very front row. I take the prized seat next to that Devil from Kansas,
Pat Keating, in whose company I heard Procol Harum play on Cape Cod in 1995. The
house lights dim. Positions on a crepuscular stage are assumed to scant
applause. The attendance on this chilly damp night is loyal, but thin, the
tastefully restored theatre less than half-full: a pity.
Gary Brooker counts the beat – one, two three, FOUR – from
his seat at a Yamaha, not a Roland piano, and Shine on Brightly bursts forth,
sunnier by far than any weather I witnessed on the drive down. That emblematic
opener is followed by Homburg and The Wall Street Blues. Gary reminds us
that Keith Reid penned the lyrics of the latter, most presciently, several years
before Lehman Brothers became household curse words, shorthand for financial
crisis. He then leads us into The Idol, which features some adroit guitar work
by Geoff Whitehorn. TransAtlantic passage, however, is taking its toll. Gary
yawns and starts dozily droning Lee Marvin’s I Was Born Under a Wandering Star
before easing us into A Dream in Ev’ry Home. Up next comes a piece “written
for the electric guitar,” the rollicking Simple Sister – composed with the bass
guitar in mind also, if Matt Pegg’s stellar playing is anything to judge by.
Matt is in top form, too, during the ethereal Strangers in Space, Josh
Phillips on organ as well. Two up-tempo numbers, The VIP Room and Juicy John
Pink, are interspersed by tongue-in-cheek asides.
“An Englishman and his breakfast can never be parted,” muses Gary, recalling the
group’s jet-lagged arrival at a restaurant that morning, when they sat down to
break their fast only to discover that the designated hour for the most
important meal of the day had long since passed. “Good job we’d brought along
some Marmite,” he quips, before coaxing Geoff and Matt into “Monkee-ing” around
by mimicking “Hey, hey, we’re the Procols / We all love Procol-ing around.” A
sombre volte-face puts paid to any further tomfoolery, as Barnyard Story is
recounted. I spare a thought for my brother Henrik in Denmark, and hope he’s
paling well. Next comes one of the band’s “Three Boxes,” the one about Pandora.
Gary turns reflective.
“Anyone ever been to England?” he wonders aloud. “Not like it used to be.”
The poignant An Old English Dream sees him look back not only in time but,
literally, upward in space, his eyes catching a beautifully-wrought frieze that
adorns The Forum’s ceiling, its ornate circular form decorated with the signs of
the Zodiac. I had noticed it earlier, during a leisurely reconnaissance of the
premises, and glanced up at it during apt lines in Strangers in Space and
Juicy John Pink. Like the words of the song he has just finished singing, Gary
brings us back down to earth. “Make a good album cover that would,” is his
critical appraisal of the frieze’s aesthetic potential. Then, completely
unexpected, comes what for me turns out to be the highlight of the evening.
The material at hand for the eponymous first album, I recall Robin Trower once
stating, was among the best ever available to Procol Harum when studio recording
was called for. Salad Days (Are Here Again) has always been a favourite of
mine, Repent Walpurgis too. It takes me a while to figure out, after a
celestial lead-in keeps me guessing, that the band are about to launch into
Kaleidoscope, a song that now ranks right up there for me, its riffs and
chords resounding with new-found edge and vitality. I am mesmerised by its
reinvention, amazed at hearing a song I believed I knew well played as never
before. What a galloping way to wind things down, I decide, with Geoff Dunn’s
resourceful drumming keeping the ensemble tight and focused throughout.
The patience of the faithful few, who clapped loud and long for an encore, is
eventually rewarded by A Salty Dog. Gary’s respectful dedication “to those who
watch us from above” is complemented by a visceral “and who can see we’re having
a bloody good time.” Great to hear and observe! The lines of Conquistador make
me think of what I’ll be getting up to the next day, and A Whiter Shade of
Pale closes the concert in time-honoured fashion, with the crowd (or what passes
for it) calling out for more.
No “more” is delivered musically, but at the Appalachian Brewing Company I rub
shoulders with the band during post-gig revelry, standing guitar maestro Geoff a
draught of local ale. Gary opts for a vodka and coke. Josh shouts for a pint for
me, Matt and drummer Geoff on a roll of their own. The wee small hours, like the
bar bills, accumulate to considerably more than sixpence. It’s 3 am by the time
Tito and I walk back to our hotels, the magic of Kaleidoscope still ringing in
my ears.