The Progger's Progress, pt. 1: "Why do you listen to that crap?"

I think all of us who play music, or at least come to love it in whatever form, have that moment of illumination when we were hit in some way, either spiritually, emotionally, or in a Zen "oh, yeah" manner where you make that indescribable connection.  A friend of mine, a phenomenal pianist, remembers listening to a sonata while following along with the sheet music that his father provided and thinking "THIS is what I want to do."  For others, it may be hearing "The Ballad of Jed Clampett" while watching Buddy Ebsen, Irene Ryan, et. al. tooling down a palm tree-lined street, that led to a fascination with bluegrass, as what happened with Bela Fleck.   

I should have had an inkling of where my musical inclinations were headed when my sister Lynn brought home Sgt. Pepper in June 1967.  Besides that iconic front cover, where my siblings and I managed to misidentify half the people on the cover (we thought Lenny Bruce was Jackie Gleason, Marlene Dietrich was Lucille Ball, and that bit of statuary in the lower right was Lurch from the Addams Family - okay, we weren't the most sophisticated kids in the 'hood), and that stupid cardboard cutout mustache that I could never get to stay hooked to my nose, I was mesmerized by George Harrison's contribution "Within You Without You."  My sister Lynn, however, didn't share my enthusiasm for Eastern music, so side 2 always seemed to start with "When I'm Sixty-Four" and ended with the opening chords of "A Day in the Life" - she wasn't much for orchestral "every man for himself" excursions, either.  Still, the drone of the sitars to open "Within You" told you right up front that you were going on a journey.  I may have been seven, but if I could have voiced my thoughts on hearing the opening of that song, it might have been something along the lines of "Whoa.  Bring it.  Bring.  It."  After hearing "Within You," singing "Billy Boy" or "Bingo" in music class at school just didn't cut it anymore.

Fast forward to 1971 when, with considerable-bordering-on-insufferable pleading, begging, and whining, I got a record player and a few days later came back from Swallen's department store with the start of my music collection (you Cincinnati folks will remember Swallen's - for the others, I'll talk about that store some other time).  I had four 45s: "Beginnings/Colour My World" by Chicago, "It's Too Late/I Feel the Earth Move" by Carole King, "I Just Want to Celebrate/The Seed" by Rare Earth, and the Five Man Electrical Band's "Signs/Hello Melinda Goodbye."  (The fact that I even remember what was on the B sides of those last two 45s shows how seriously I took this stuff.)

The big prize for me, however, was my first LP: Chicago III.  I had heard it several times at a friend's house and the more I listened, the more I was impressed.  It got to where I was almost obsessed.  "Blown away" doesn't even begin to describe its impact on me.  It was the Beethoven symphonies, Rembrandt's "The Night Watch," "Citizen Kane," and every other great work of art over the last 300 years all rolled into one.  Everything about that album, from the music to the artwork, the huge poster, the label itself (I thought Columbia's label design in the 70s and 80s was worthy of a genius grant on someone's part), all added up to "Excellence."  And that's with a capital "E".



The coolest band ever.  Or so I thought at the time.

I listened to that album non-stop for a few weeks, but it wasn't enough.  I needed more and I needed it fast.  I decided that as great as Chicago III was, I had to hit their back catalogue.  One day, while mowing the front lawn, I told my brother that I wanted to get their previous album, Chicago II, with that cool metallic cover and one of my all-time favorite songs back then, "Make Me Smile."

As older brothers are wont to do, he took up the gauntlet.  "Why do you listen to that crap?"

"Crap?  Are you kidding?  It's not crap!  It's great!"  I may have been twelve, but I knew great music from crap.

"But you already have one of their albums."

"Well, yeah, but I want to get their others."

"Why don't you get something else?  Why don't you get Tapestry?"

My brain froze.  Granted, I drove my poor brother crazy with my infatuation with Chicago, and perhaps he was trying to broaden my horizons, but Tapestry?  Tapestry??  No self-respecting twelve-year-old kid is gonna buy Tapestry - that would have to be my sister Ann's job.  I sure wouldn't own up to actually owning that album even if I did buy it.  Besides, I already had a 45 of hers - that should have sufficed.  Sure, Tapestry was and still is a landmark album of wonderfully crafted tunes, but the thought of telling my classmates that I have a Carole King album would be equivalent to changing my name to Poindexter, dressing like Gainsborough's Blue Boy and reciting Emily Dickinson - in other words, making myself a ripe target for playground humiliation and massive physical abuse.  Is that what my brother really wanted?  I should have realized at that point that he may not have had my best interests in mind.

But I persevered by more pleading and whining, getting the first two Chicago albums before exploring their closest jazz-rock competitor at that time, Blood, Sweat, and Tears.  Sure, the music sounds a bit mundane now (though I still hold that Dave Bargeron's solo on "Redemption" from BS&T 4 is as rocking a trombone solo as has ever been recorded), and I'll occasionally listen to Chicago III for sentimental reasons rather than for the music itself, but in the 1970s sticking a horn section with a rock rhythm section was PROG, doggone it!  So, what was it that knocked me for such a loop?  I think it was that those bands had a broader palette of sound than other popular bands at the time such as Creedence or Three Dog Night.  Horns, woodwinds, piano, organ, guitar - it was varied.  And maybe that's what caught my ear, much like Revolver or Sgt. Pepper did - the pure broadness of it all, coupled with a little bit of adventure.

That still holds true for me.  I can appreciate the two-guitars-bass-drum approach, from "Please Please Me" to XTC's "Black Sea" to King Crimson's "Discipline", but it may have been that the horn bands of the 60s and 70s were trying to actually *go* somewhere.  It went beyond much of the I-IV-V songs out there, and there's no denying that Chicago, back then, could flat out rock.  I connected with them.  And so, in September of 1971, a progger was born.

Next: 1974 - The Epiphany of the Mellotron.