Procol Harum

Beyond
the Pale

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Shine on Brightly

Contemporary album review


International Times

In true cub reporter style, I carry a portable tape recorder. But I cheat. Most of side one is filled with my all time fave records. Which means at least fifteen minutes of Procul [sic] Harum.

PH are the all-time anomaly, a band who've had a multi-million seller, who boast an obscenely good guitarist, an immediately recognisable sound and a talented song-writing team. Yet they are only really appreciated in America. Can it be that they're too far out, beyond the bounds of British record-buyers' credibility? It wouldn't surprise me, for Harum's second LP is a little too much even for me, a fan of old.

The production is superb – efficient without being overpowering, it allows that curious combination of organ, piano and stinging guitar to emphasise and project the beautifully controlled schizoid lyrics. A Bosch-like picture of a private hell that just might be paradise courses with frightening optimism from speaker to speaker. Listen especially to the operetta In Twain Held was I [sic] on side 2, particularly In The Autumn Of My Madness. It'll slay you.

In the next issue we hope to do a thing on PH as we understand they are coming to Britain some time in May. Meanwhile grab the album and suss what we've all been blind to.


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