(Prog)nosis critical
Imagine what most bands music would sound like if they only drew inspiration from their parents record collection. My particular musical Frankenstein would have the hair and rhythm of Leo Sayer, the body of Status Quo’s Rick Parfit, the cold dead eyes of Phil Collins and the libido of Tina Turner, oh yeah, and how could I forget, the moist hairy hands of Chris de Burgh. Thank fully most people show a healthy streak of rebellion and reject the sins of the father/mother and look further a field for something better. This seemingly isn’t the case for Inouk, they give the impression they discovered their parents record collection at a very impressionable age and rather startlingly, actually liked what they found : Rush, shite era Pink Floyd, The Who at their most overblown, and ELO.
The unmistakable pong of prog hangs in the air on this release, blown about by liberal wafts of the insidious aroma of AOR and the sickly scent of 70’s cocaine fueled soft rock, all held together by the magical elements that make pub rock such an attractive proposition on a Saturday night.
The first six tracks leave little mark : “Elected” is a fuzzy stupor inducing trawl through MOR rock , “Search for the bees” an aimless muso plod and “With the birds” (birds/bees, argh the start of a concept) a drawn out over intricate Beatlesy slog. “Somewhere in France” and “Island” offer some respite : the former a mournful emotional ballad with a country lilt ,the latter a catchy pop ditty that has hints of The Stone Roses’ Sally Cinamon and The Byrds. The final 2 tracks sadly repeat the forgettable qualities of the first 6.
There are a few bands around at the moment who stand from the point that prog rock, AOR, soft rock etc isn’t the enemy, strangely these bands all seem be in their very early 20’s so have no memory of how pompous and self indulgent this kind of music was, and how punk arrived and made it all sound so redundant.
Maybe a public broadcast film could be made: “Prog rock; a warning from history”. Rick Wakeman would obviously appear, prancing around on stage in his gold lame cape with a furrowed brow of seriousness behind a mountain of synths, Rush with their spandex cycling shorts and poodle perms would have to be included as would Jethro Tull and their bloody flute solos. It would obviously have to show how this movement led to possibly the worst record with the most atrocious title and cover of all time : Marillions’ “Script for a jesters tear”.
Maybe I’m being reactionary and hyperbolic, but these revivals have to start somewhere, a convoluted guitar lick here, a bombastic drum solo there, all played in a slightly too snug fitting denim trouser and before we know it there's a full blown resurrection. Do the decent thing and stamp it out at conception, if only for your children’s sake.