As England shivers beneath an onslaught of unseasonably harsh weather, Sunbeam Records continues its ongoing mission to explore strange new (old) sounds, to seek out new (old) music and artistes, to boldly go where no reissue label has gone before. And with the autumnal battering the country is presently undergoing*, what better time to take a listen to this latest reissue, Bruce Janaway’s Puritanical Odes; what is a prime example of the miserable-bastard fest and musical sub-genre nowadays referred to as ‘downer folk’.
They don’t come much more arcane than this slice of 1977 acid folk. It began life as a private pressing of just 200 vinyl copies, which was then circulated among a selective audience. Far out!
Shot through with a lyrical bitterness that underlines Janaway’s apparent disgust with this mess of a world, through painfully crafted metaphor and the minimalist acid folk sound he employs, Puritanical Odes is six acoustic songs (entitled ‘Odes’ A to E and ‘Labour Pains’) performed on the 12-string guitar. There is no accompaniment other than the occasional haunting choral shriek and disconcerting bursts of erratic feedback.
Did you think I would leave you crying, when there’s room on me hoss for two? So said Rolf Harris to a small boy and it’s with a nod to this spirit of benevolence that I’ve put together a summer treat for both of my loyal readers. The one’s that put up with this nonsense week in, week out.
Yes, the first – and quite possibly last – ever Head Full of Snow progressive rock mix is here to tickle your royal earholes (track listing below).
Always fashionably late to the party, HFoS celebrates St. Paddy’s Day two weeks after the event, with a dose of sun-kissed acid folk, drifting in like a bank of green mist from the glittering shores of the emerald isle.
Released in 1974, Loudest Whisper’s folk opera concept album, The Children of Lir, recounts a tall tale from Celtic legend, regarding a Sea god and his four children, who’re turned into swans by a jealous step-mother. Just another day at the office in Irish folklore.
Originally envisaged as a stage show and performed parochially, The Children of Lir turned out to be such an ambitious production that a pared-down version of it was featured in a primetime slot on national TV station RTE. The band, accompanied by 50 or so performers and vocalist/slide guitarist Ron Kavanagh, succeeded in wowing their audiences and the TV exposure helped bring about a record deal with Polydor, a label offering sanctuary to many a progressive artist throughout the preceding years.
And so it’s with a hey-nonny-no, a pewter tankard of Abbot’s Wedding Tackle™ and an aran-knit jumper you could walk to the North Pole in, that HFoS bids farewell to 2010 with a festive folk Christmas Selection Pack.
The rules, as ever, remain the same. This is no top five and shouldn’t be treated as such. Just another pointless list that captures a few of Head Full of Snow’s favourite acid folk/folk rock albums from the moisty mists of time.
Comus – First Utterance
As unfestive an album as it’s possible to get. Comus’s songs of bloody Pagan sacrifice, murder, rape and insanity are certainly not recommended listening for the Christmas dinner table when granny comes around. Liable to cause an untoward reaction in those of a delicate persuasion, First Utterance is the Witchfinder General of progressive acid-folk. Released in 1971, this godless nightmare of an album features an astounding vocal performance by lead singer Roger Wootton, whose words form like the gnarled, twisted roots of a hanging tree against the icy, death-sodden melodies that seethe ominously away, somewhere beneath. A full review of First Utterancecan be found here.
First Utterance by Comus is available as part of 2-disc anthology Song to Comus, to buy from Amazon.co.uk Read more…
Forget you ever heard the loathsome ‘Part of the Union’. When the Strawbs were firing on all cylinders they knocked out great tunes like this.
Appearing on 1971′s From the Witchwood, ‘The Hangman and the Papist is a rich swirl of Rick Wakeman’s church organ noodling and Dave Cousins’ atmospheric vocals. A parable on religious divide, ‘The Hangman and the Papist’ is powerful stuff indeed.
Long have I avoided the folk/prog outfit formerly known as The Strawberry Hill Boys. This has been a premeditated decision that has everything to do with their highest charting single, ‘Part of the Union’. This sorry offering is both offensive and musically reprehensible. I won’t dwell on the rights and wrongs of well-fed rock stars smugly making fun of the downtrodden; suffice to say HFoS doesn’t approve. One bit.
That said, this distasteful example of anti-trade union sentiment was written by the band’s rhythm section, who would depart soon after, and despite any animosity I might hold towards the song and its writers, if the truth be known, before this affront to the working classes was vomited onto an unsuspecting world, clad in an ill-fitting overcoat of jauntiness, the Strawbs were a cracking good band. Even after this unsightly smear of a song had been foisted upon the Great British public, the Strawbs could still knock out a half-decent album, leaving the pro-Tory vaudevillian act in the gutter where it belonged.
Political rant over, the epiphany that allowed this previously despised group into HFoS towers came in two forms. Sid Smith’s Postcards From the Yellow Room podcast and Rob Young’s essential and essentially weighty tome on British folk music, Electric Eden. Rock writer Sid gave us a Strawbs special, admitting he too had held similar reservations about the band because of the abysmal ‘Part of the Union’, while the Electric Eden book dedicated a substantial proportion of a chapter to them. Whisperings of folk and prog stylings piqued the interest and voila! Here we are with a look at 1971′s From the Witchwood.
One of the UK’s great unsung psychedelic bands (in the wider scheme of things) has to be Kaleidoscope. Not to be confused with the American psychedelic band of the same name, Kaleidoscope released two albums before changing their name to Fairfield Parlour and pursuing a more progressive, yet equally excellent, path. Their 1967 debut, Tangerine Dream, is one of the classics of the era and deserving of a place in the collection of any psych nut.
Songwriter and keyboardist Peter Daltrey provides the often elegantly wraithlike vocals that place the listener within the dreamworld of his imagining, populated by not only the fairytale waifs and strays of children’s stories but also something occasionally darker – the grimmest of Brothers Grimm.
One look at the track titles on The Lick on the Tip of an Envelope Yet to be Sent, the 2005 debut album from Circulus, reveals some pretty fertile ground upon which to sew next season’s crop. There’ll be no need to set light to Edward Woodward, or to give a rousing chorus of ‘Sumer is Incumen In’ (not until their third album, anyway); Circulus have it all in hand.
Existing in one form or another for longer than I’d care to mention, the constant factor that has kept Circulus going all this time is Michael Tyack; songwriter, vocalist and medieval throwback. It is him we have to thank for the unique brand of psychedelic, progressive folk rock that Circulus purvey, like the troupe of wandering minstrels given access to electricity that they are.
The Lick on the Tip of an Envelope Yet to be Sent may not be their first release, but it is their first album and it sets out the Circulus manifesto very nicely indeed.
The world of Mr Fox is one inhabited by characters that sport names such as Neddy, Jacky, Clancy and, of course, the sinister presence that gives its name to both the band, and this, their debut album.
Released in 1970, this fascinating strain of electric folk is as bucolic as a winter’s afternoon stroll along the Yorkshire Dales. Such is its rustic charm that it very nearly slips into the pewter tankard and horse brass territory of traditional acoustic folk, which, if you’re partial to the occasional spot of “hey-nonny-nonny” (ahem) is no bad thing.
Husband and wife team, Bob and Carole Pegg take the helm, crafting an album that’s occasionally jolly, occasionally dark, sometimes sombre and in the case of the title-track, downright sinister.
If there’s four words guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of those of a nervous disposition, assorted woodland animals and my good self, they are The Incredible String Band. I have previous with this particular band of “musical” ne’er-do-wells and it wasn’t pretty, so imagine my horror when reading the liner notes of Spirogyra’s 1971 debut, St. Radigunds, and their name cropped up as a major influence on guitarist, vocalist and songwriter, Martin Cockerham.
It’s enough to turn a man to drink but fear not, for although there are occasions when Cockerham’s voice does sail dangerously close to the tuneless whine often heard emanating from the vicinity of the ISB’s Robin Williamson, he manages to keep it together, ensuring a listening experience that isn’t likely to leave you reaching for the bleach as a pre-bedtime nightcap.
Following on from two previous downers, it’s time HFoS had something a little more uplifting.
Well, not necessarily uplifting (though there are moments), but something gentle, occasionally dark, fleetingly creepy and most importantly, worthy of a second listen. Trader Horne’s one and only album, 1970′s Morning Way, is, in fact, worthy of much more than a second listen.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Firstly, this may have been Trader Horne’s lone release, but they were in fact a duo comprising of original Fairport Convention vocalist and one time member of an embryonic King Crimson, Judy Dyble, and Irish folk rock underground ubiquity Jackie McAuley. The conjunction of these musical forces resulted in Morning Way, a pleasingly obscure example of psychedelically informed folk rock.
It’s easy to laugh at Donovan. So often painted as a bandwagon-jumping, wide-eyed innocent, he was initially marketed, somewhat wrongly, as the British answer to Bob Dylan, before he embraced the flower power movement, turned all trippy and started hanging around with John Lennon. The fact that he took his dad on the road with him didn’t really help matters.
Despite the ridicule fired in his direction back then and in the intervening years, Donovan was nonetheless responsible for some of the gentler and more memorable songs of the psychedelic era. His blend of acid-folk flavoured psychedelic pop/rock first found an outlet on his third album release, 1966′s Sunshine Superman.
Originally denied a release in the UK due to contractual disputes, Sunshine Superman finally saw the light of day over here in 1967, although with an amended track-listing that threw in some songs from the follow-up, Mellow Yellow, and omitted others. The 2005 EMI reissue reinstates the original line-up, as well as a further 6 bonus tracks.
Any compilation that features the song from the maypole scene in The Wicker Man is going to have something going for it.
Strange Folk is a collection of folk songs, some from the 1960s and 1970s, and others more recent, which share a dark or decidedly unusual edge. The 19 tracks hereon range from the eerie, in Beth Gibbons & Rustin Man’s ‘Mysteries’, to the unintentionally terrifying with the Incredible String Band’s masterclass in cat-strangling, tuneless dirgemaking ‘Saturday Maybe’.
But don’t let the inclusion of those enemies of the carried note put you off – skip buttons could well have been invented with these forte-free fiends in mind – as Strange Folk manages to erase any bad Incredible String-based experiences with some shrewdly chosen musical remedies.
Cave of Clear Light from Esoteric Recordings does for Pye Records – and its progressive imprint Dawn – what Spirit of Joy and Breath of Fresh Air do respectively for Polydor, and EMI’s prog label Harvest.
That is, deliver a comprehensive, beautifully packaged three-disc extravaganza complete with extensively detailed booklet.
Once again compiled by Mark Powell, behind both the Polydor and Harvest excursions, Cave of Clear Light shines the fiery torch on the label that’s been dismissed as a poor relation to the more dedicated exponents of the psychedelic and progressive sound. Unfairly so, one might add, as Pye/Dawn had an impressive roster of artists on the books, even if the vast majority never so much as tickled the public conscious.
Obviously, that’s the style of output HFoS thrives on.
How about a wee drop of finest acid-folk from Pentangle, the folk-rock/jazz-folk pioneers formed by legends of the scene, Bert Jansch and John Renbourn?
Thankfully, ‘House Carpenter’ is a jazz-free zone, instead incorporating Renbourn’s sitar and Jansch’s banjo to produce one soothing psychedelic folk ensemble. Singer Jacqui McShee and Jansch share vocal duties on the unique arrangement of this traditional folk song, which, in turn, is based upon ye olde ballad, ‘The Daemon Lover’.
So begins the first review of 2010. And where better to start than with the latest release from those retro vinyl-pushers, Fruits de Mer Records? This time they’ve called upon the services of Swedish anglophiles (musically, at least) Us & Them, and produced a 3-track EP worthy of Venus herself.
Now, before we crack on, it’s worth mentioning that this site was once tagged by someone out there in the sprawling wilderness of the internets as “anti-folk”. This was on the strength of a review of those warbling cat-stranglers The Incredible String Band and their so-bad-it’s-awful album The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth, and to say that Head Full of Snow loves a bit of acid, pastoral or wyrd-folk is a bloody great understatement.
Which is just as well in the case of Us & Them and their brand of gentle, but dark, folk stylings as demonstrated on the Fruits de Mer Volume Eight EP. Now if we’d been tagged “anti-jazz” that would be a different, yet fairer, matter.
2010. It may be January 5th, but the Christmas decorations are still up at HFoS towers, and the festive spirit will not wear off until at least April. But enough of that. The New Year brings a new decade, and inevitably more of my nonsense.
Jethro Tull look forward to another year of HFoS
2010 marks the official first birthday of Head Full of Snow, February 8th last year being the hallowed date when all this started with a wee profile of lost psychedelic popsters and brief Beatles’ protégés, Focal Point.
To celebrate this momentous occasion we’ll be doing absolutely nothing. Should you wish to wear a sparkly hat or release a party-popper into the wild on said date, you’re more than welcome.
Which brings me to the intentions for Head Full of Snow into 2010.
If your idea of a good time is something along the lines of setting light to virgins in wicker effigies, then Comus could be right up your street. Even if you harbour no such homicidal tendencies, they’re still a damn fine listen.
Comus inhabit that most spectral of sub-genres, acid-folk – A blend of the psychedelic and the folkish, underpinned by a progressive foundation. It’s an area of music renowned for its ethereal eeriness, oft-beauty, and mystical meanderings…
… Except nobody seemed to have told Comus that, for their 1971 debut, First Utterance, is, to put it bluntly, quite terrifying.
If you were to head over to AMG and look up their review of Mark Fry’s Dreaming With Alice, you would find the rather iniquitous quote “… reminiscent of Donovan’s forays into that area, though not as interesting.”
How wrong could they be? Dreaming With Alice, released only in Italy in 1972, possesses a certain magic that more than exonerates the cult that has built up around it over the years. As far as obscure acid folk rarities go, this is a stone-cold classic.
In fact, the only fault that can be found in it is the fact it was released in 1972, whereas it sounds as though it were recorded at the tail-end of the 1960s. The fact that music had moved on so much in the intervening years possibly accounts for the fact it could only secure an Italian release. Of course, nearly forty years on, when it was recorded is an irrelevance.
“Man alive! Please make it stop!” Listen very carefully on a crystal clear, dark winter’s night and you may well hear these words carried on a distant breeze, emanating from yours truly as I dream that once again I’m listening to The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter by The Incredible String Band.
Personally I blame Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin. It was following his recommendation that I bought said album in the first place. Word to the wise: Don’t be fooled if Mister Plant tries the same trick with you, tis all lies. Not that he sidled up to me in the bar of my local and out of the blue suggested I should part with some hard-earned in exchange for a ropy, hippy-folk recording. It was, in fact, within the pages of a Mojo magazine Psychedelic special a few years back, so heaven knows how many other unsuspecting record collections have been infected on the strength of his words.
The hirsute Zeppelin frontman had me in. Please don’t let the same happen to you.
Which brings me to the actual album, The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter, which along with Wee Tam and the Big Huge was the first of two releases by The Incredible String Band in 1968. I’ve done my damnedest to put it off, as you may well have suspected, but it’s my duty to listen once again so that you won’t have to. It’s not all peace and love here.
As unfestive an album as it’s possible to get. Comus’s songs of bloody Pagan sacrifice, murder, rape and insanity are certainly not recommended listening for the Christmas dinner table when granny comes around. Liable to cause an untoward reaction in those of a delicate persuasion, First Utterance is the Witchfinder General of progressive acid-folk. Released in 1971, this godless nightmare of an album features an astounding vocal performance by lead singer Roger Wootton, whose words form like the gnarled, twisted roots of a hanging tree against the icy, death-sodden melodies that seethe ominously away, somewhere beneath. A 
. Rock writer 
Jethro Tull look forward to another year of HFoS
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