How a magnificent new book helped me rediscover the maverick’s music
*****
Often, the route to discovering new music is fairly conventional; there’s no Damascene moment. I found The Cure and Joy Division (and many other bands) by listening to John Peel on BBC Radio One. I discovered The Beatles and Pink Floyd by listening to my older brother’s records (1967-1970 and The Dark Side of the Moon).
Very rarely, pure serendipity can introduce you to music that changes your life. As I have previously described on this blog, I found the music of Steven Wilson by chance when I was making a radio programme about high-quality music production.
On Tuesday, 26 September 1978, Peter Hammill supported Brand X at Manchester Apollo. I went to that gig, probably because I had heard of Brand X through their connection with Genesis drummer Phil Collins, although by then Collins had left the band.
I hadn’t heard of Peter Hammill before I saw him live. I was puzzled that several audience members left after he played. I stayed on to watch Brand X, who were very good. It was only later, when I saw Hammill supporting Marillion in London and the same thing happened again, that I realised some fans had come only to see him, even though he was the support act.
At the Manchester gig, I bought the concert programme, and on the back was a picture of a half-shaved Hammill, Janus-like, with one half of his face in the past and the other in the future, promoting his new album, The Future Now, released that month. My programme is long lost, but I still remember his avowed intention to, in his words, ‘carry on’ (I remember the italics, too).
My father, the most important musical influence in my life, came to pick me up from the Apollo. He was as bemused as I was by the strange image. But there was something about Hammill that resonated deeply in my adolescent mind. I quickly became an avid fan, buying all the records I could by Hammill as a solo artist and with his band Van der Graaf Generator.
The music we hear as teenagers often resonates with us for the rest of our lives. There’s more time to listen to music at that age, and our intellectual and emotional influences are more plastic than later in life when adult commitments take over. Nostalgia is powerful. Listening back to the music we loved then, can we be sure it’s good music now? Can we be objective? Does it even matter?
So it came as a surprise to me (and to my friends, family and everyone else that knows me) that I found another artist, Steven Wilson, who had an equally profound effect on me. This was about 40 years later, long past the time when I should still have been discovering new, contemporary music. After I met Wilson about ten years ago, I bought all his solo records and his Porcupine Tree recordings. Something about his music touched my soul.
I began a new journey of discovery, delving deep into the world of contemporary progressive rock, with artists like iamthemorning, Marjana Semkina, Gleb Kolyadin, Hats Off Gentlemen It’s Adequate, Ms Amy Birks and The Beatrix Players. In the meantime, Peter Hammill continued to lurk somewhere in my psyche.
There was a time when vinyl was as popular as a 90-minute drum solo. When we moved house 30 years ago, we were short of space and seduced by the ‘perfect sound forever’ that CDs promised. We sold our turntable and our vinyl. This included my collection of Peter Hammill and Van der Graaf LPs. We kept a few records for the sake of nostalgia, even though we could no longer play them. So I kept my copy of Sgt. Pepper, a couple of albums by The Cure… and Sitting Targets by Peter Hammill…
When I was writing my first-ever blog for this site, How I Found Steven Wilson in 2019 (later updated), words from Peter Hammill came into my mind, like the Ghost of Progressive Past,
I’ve got every one of your records, man,
Doesn’t that mean that I own you?
'Energy Vampires' by Peter Hammill from The Future Now (1978)
It was late at night in my writing/listening room, and I had to stop to remind myself of the track whose lyrics were lodged deep in my brain. Once again, Hammill spoke to my soul.
I'm not selling you my soul
Try to put it in the records
But I've got to keep my life my own
In 2023, I began a new series on my blog called Off the Beaten Track. The first post was a review of Burn the World by Hats Off Gentlemen It’s Adequate. But it wasn’t long before Peter Hammill’s work floated back into my consciousness with Autumn and A Louse is not a Home, and more recently Mr X (Gets Tense)/Faculty X. I was also lucky enough to see Hammill playing live in Manchester last October.
My interest in Hammill has been further revived by Father Christmas, who kindly brought me a copy of the new book ROCK and ROLE – The Visionary Songs of Peter Hammill and Van der Graaf Generator by Joe Banks, and the multi-CD box set Peter Hammill The Charisma & Virgin Recordings 1971-1986. Who knew that St Nick (no relation) was a fan of progressive rock?
Reading the Introduction to Banks’ superb book, it’s striking how similar the careers of Steven Wilson and Peter Hammill have been. If you went through the Introduction and replaced Hammill’s name with Wilson’s, many of the statements would remain true:
Both artists have passionate fans, in Hammill’s case described by Banks as ‘true believers.’
Both fronted groups for whom they wrote the music and lyrics (Van der Graaf and Porcupine Tree, respectively.)
Both have pursued successful solo careers but have sometimes returned to perform, record, and play live with their bands.
Both have created music that pushes boundaries and challenges listeners. Try Hammill’s ‘Magog (In Bromine Chambers)’ from In Camera (1974), a ten-minute, frankly terrifying essay in musique concrète, which Banks describes as ‘a bold move even by Hammill’s standards.’ Compare anything under Steven Wilson’s Bass Communion. In prog, no one can hear you scream.
Both artists have been categorised as progressive rock, but that doesn’t do them full justice:
They can write epic prog songs, full of portentous concepts.
They can write art-rock songs.
They can write gorgeous, heartfelt ballads with memorable melodies.
They share a certain cynicism about the world, particularly organised religion and politics. Their lyrics are thoughtful and intelligent, covering a wide range of topics, from the profoundly personal to biting social commentary.
They share, in Banks’ words on Hammill,
“[an] unquenchable creative spirit, consistently pushing at the boundaries of what’s possible.“
Both artists, recognising that their music isn’t the easiest to assimilate, have released compilation albums which are intended to introduce listeners to ‘the more accessible side’ of their music.
Wilson released Transience in 2016, which included a cover of Alanis Morissette’s Thank You and various radio edits.
Hammill released The Love Songs in 1984, with re-recorded versions of ballads from his previous albums. Banks describes it as ‘a misstep, both artistically and commercially… some of the songs sound positively traumatised by the experience.’ I added to my parents’ trauma by briefly modelling my dress sense on Hammill’s as seen on the cover of the album (see above), complete with white boots. Fortunately, no photographic evidence is available of my sartorial misstep.
Banks’ book is arranged chronologically, with historical context provided for each release, starting with The Aerosol Grey Machine, released by Van der Graaf in 1969 and ending with Hammill’s solo album A Black Box from 1980; the ‘classic years’ when Hammill and his band were signed to the Charisma label. The final chapters address key themes in Hammill’s songs from the seventies, his poetry and prose, and pen portraits of Hammill. The section on the post-Charisma years (of which there are now 45!) sensibly picks landmark albums from those times, including (pleasingly) the aforementioned Sitting Targets, my copy of which has now been reunited with a new turntable….
The book is beautifully illustrated throughout. It includes footnotes, chronological lists of releases and Radio/TV recordings, references and an index, all of which make it easy to navigate the book and Hammill’s extensive career. It’s nicely bound too, rather than just glued together, making it easy to fold flat without causing it a spinal injury.
The most fascinating and valuable aspect of the book is the detailed analysis of each album and each song, with subtly colour-coded pages to make them easier to find. I should declare a professional interest here. This blog, as well as my book on Porcupine Tree and my forthcoming book on Steven Wilson, often attempts a detailed, track-by-track analysis of an artist’s work. As Banks wisely says,
“This is, of course, an entirely subjective exercise, and other interpretations are always available.“
Agreed! It’s fascinating for me to compare Banks’ interpretations of Hammill’s songs with my own. I was amused to read that ‘attempting to describe the music’s flow in detail’ for a song like A Louse is not a Home is a ‘fool’s errand.’ Reader, I went off on that errand…
Banks often comes up with a lovely turn of phrase which perfectly sums up the mood of a song, such as his description of the opening of A Louse,
“With vocal and bass piano in perfect unison, Hammill delivers the opening line – “Sometimes, it’s very scary here” – in a lugubrious, Bela Lugosi voice, a horror show host introducing the midnight movie.”
Banks says that (like Steven Wilson), Hammill has always remained true to his artistic vision, which has always been more important to him than selling records. He does a superb job of reminding us of the unique quality of Hammill’s vision and his astonishing singing voice. The level of detail and insight Banks brings to his analysis will be extremely valuable to long-term fans, but his clarity and enthusiasm will also appeal to curious, open-minded music fans who don’t know Hammill’s music. Banks does what all good music writers should do – make us want to listen to the music he is writing about.
The design and layout of the book are a model for a music book. Let’s hope that Kingmaker Publishing, founded in 2019, Prog magazine journalist/Big Big Train manager Nick Shilton and Big Big Train founder Greg Spawton, publish more like this in future.
This is a book to treasure, to savour like a bottle of vintage Port, to dip into as you listen to each album and each song. The new box set, Peter Hammill The Charisma & Virgin Recordings 1971-1986, makes a perfect companion.
Read on…
