The Progger's Progress, pt. 2: Smitten by the Mellotron

I think in it was 1972 when I first heard "Stairway to Heaven."  And, if you're honest, you were probably impressed with that song when you first it as well.  Sure, the song is the poster child for radio overexposure and general adulation, but it's range in dynamics, from opening acoustic guitar to all-out rock, is done so subtly that you probably didn't notice the changes.   Sure, the lyrics are a bit over-the-top, but you can't deny the excellence of the instrumental performance.

So, like about 80% of the other kids my age, I became a Zeppelin fan.  And, it was on "The Rain Song" from the Houses of the Holy album (an album whose cover shouldn't be left lying around, unless you wish to give grandmothers a strong bout of arrythmia), that the Mellotron finally stuck in my conscience.  Of course I had heard it used before - the flute opening of "Strawberry Fields Forever," and numerous Moody Blues songs that came across the radio.  In this case, however, the Mellotron was so prominent in that lush, lengthy instrumental passage after the first verse of "The Rain Song" that it would be impossible to forget. 

The Mellotron in all its glory.  It's a sight to behold, isn't it?

Chicago made interesting use of the Mellotron on their seventh album.  The opening track, "Prelude to Aire," featured Walt Parazaider's flute meandering over tom-toms and percussion, then Robert Lamm comes in, adding some odd counterpoint.  At the end, Lamm uses an off-kilter six-note ascending arpeggio.  When I first heard this song, so uncharacteristic of the band that gave us "Saturday in the Park" and "Just You 'n' Me," I was caught by surprise.  Head sandwiched tightly between the two speakers of the crummy record player I had at the time,  I thought "Okay, that worked."  That Chicago VII may be my favorite album of theirs should have told me something - side 1, with "Prelude to Aire," "Aire," and "Devil's Sweet" was a daring bit of jazz-rock fusion that I appreciated from when I first heard it.

A few months later, on a cold and windy Saturday afternoon, I had stumbled across a cassette of "A Question of Balance" by the Moody Blues.  I always liked "Question" and put the cassette in for a listen.  As the song faded, Mike Pinder's "How Is It (We Are Here)" came right in - a standard technique on those Moodies albums.  The song is a bit furrow-browed, as are pretty much all of Pinder's songs, but after the first verse there's a swell of mellotron.  And it hit me.  Psychologists refer to it as a "flash moment" - an otherwise insignificant moment in time that becomes permanently etched in one's memory.  For me, I had my flash moment.

Suffice it to say that I was on a Moody Blues jag for the next six months, buying all their albums, from "Days of Future Passed" to "Seventh Sojourn."  There is no doubt that many would consider the Moodies as prog, but so many of their songs weren't really that difficult to play, technically - hardly anything like Yes or King Crimson.  Anyone with a year or two of guitar under his or her belt could play all of "Seventh Sojourn."  It's a lesson, I guess - prog doesn't have to be 23 minutes of 17/8 music about fairies and elves (though some would say that if it is, then all the better).  Nor does using a Mellotron qualify a song as being prog - if so, then you can put "Freebird" in the prog bin - a sobering thought.  It leaves the question "what is prog?" to which I now answer "decide for yourself."

Somewhere in this time my high school had a dance after a basketball game.  I looked forward to hanging with my friends and being disappointed by a total lack of interest from the girls.  A band was going to perform (no dj's for this upper-crust school), and I got there a little early to watch them load in.  As the band was bringing in their equipment, two of the members lugged in what looked like an organ in a white wooden casing.  Jamie Vogt, who was a friend of mine at the time (and also a Moodies/mellotron fan) and I asked what this strange-looking keyboard was.

The guy carrying it in was nonchalant.  "It's a Mellotron."

You'd have thought it was the Hope Diamond.  ("So...that's...a...mellotron.  Ohhhhhh...")  Jamie and I stood there, wide-eyed and transfixed, while we got an explanation of its workings - a series of tape loops inside that played when the keys were pressed.  (Legend says that the sampling of the string sounds were taken by three elderly women playing violins in a room.  It may be true - who knows for sure?)  We got a small demonstration of its ability, and Jamie and I were pretty much blown away.  Wow - a Mellotron.  Right there in our high school cafeteria.  Why nobody ever cordoned off that area and put up a sign ("Here once stood a Mellotron.  Proper decorum expected.")  was a mystery to me.

And to this day, if I hear what sounds like a Mellotron (I don't know if anyone really uses them anymore - they weighed as much as a diesel engine and often went out of tune), it hits me like a scritch behind a dog's ear.  The head tilts back and a slight expression of reverie comes to the surface.  The sound goes from the ear to some place between the head and heart where music often makes its strongest connection.