Colosseum, part 1, unearthed in toto, sweet as in Suite and the rest.

Release Date: 23rd February 2024

Label: Esoteric (Cherry Red)

Format: CD boxset

Was I alone in finding Colosseum impossibly cool, way back in the, well, way back then? I just adored their fusion of rock, jazz, blues, and classical, a real and rare auditory treat for the ears. In no small part, this was down to one man, the ineffably odd figure of Dick Heckstall-Smith, with it seeming everybody loving a spot of Dick. And I don’t mean his later days, when he took on the expected garb of an ageing hipster, with indian hats and paisley robes, I mean his extraordinary appearance on the first album or two, a city gent stranded in a crowd of longhair hippies, seeming completely at odds with his companions. Yet it was he who held the blue touch paper to their extravagant ensemble extravaganzas, with at least one sax at a time, blowing forth flames from his lips. Figuratively, that is, Colosseum seldom needing the trick of the visual to expand their consciousness and that of their audiences.

Of course, it was down to much more than Dick, with that first line-up all giants amongst giants, what with Jon Hiseman, Tony Reeves, James Litherland and Dave Greenslade, a summation far greater than the parts, those parts they struggled to ever find, or so surefootedly, away from this quintet. I’m not even getting carried away; it’s true.

Like anything half good in the 1960s, it was all the fault of John Mayall. Or of John Mayall and Graham Bond, I guess, to be more strictly accurate. It was with Graham Bond’s Organisation that Hiseman and Heckstall-Smith first connected, that mid-60s potent hot bed of musical greats, even if the actual material has neither lasted well or been much left to last. Bear in mind, this is where Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker first discovered their serendipity, as well as being where John McLaughlin first began to become John McLaughlin. When Baker quit, as ever on account his personal differences with Bruce, in came Hiseman, and a three piece Organisation was born. Bond, Heckstall-Smith and Hiseman coulda shoulda, but didn’t, with Bond jumping ship on his own band in 1967. Needing another alchemist, it was to Mayall and his Bluesbreakers the now bonded rhythm section departed.

Mayall, in 1968, was at the peak of his own prowess, the main man of the British Blues Boom, the catalyst to just about any other successful band of that time, his band the finishing school for the Yardbirds, Fleetwood Mac, Cream and any other number of soon to be major players. The Heckstall-Smith Hiseman years prompted Bare Wires, acknowledged peak Mayall, but the two were restless, with their own band and own music to play. Greenslade was a childhood friend of Hiseman, and Reeves of Greenslade, so they were shoe-ins, with Litherland taking a tad longer to recruit. Which takes up, 1969, to the first disc here. In fact, as the extensive essay included reveals, an seeds for the band were sewn as far back as 1960, as Hiseman, Greenslade and Reeves met in a church youth club, clttering around in garages and church halls, Hiseman on an improvised kit of paintcans and the like. Further gaps in the storyline get further embellishment

Those About To Die Salute You: Released early in that year, this album attained 15 in the UK album chart, not half bad for a new band. It is somehow fitting that it kicks off with a Bond composition, Walking In The Park, a rousing driven progression, awash with brass and hammond, with additional heft coming from the trumpet of Henry Lowther. Litherland’s vocal makes up for any lack of prowess with buckets of enthusiasm. There are few more exciting first tracks from new bands, Litherland showing himself no lightweight in the guitar stakes, he providing the main solo focus here. The bluesier Plenty Hard Luck shows off Hiseman’s polar opposite from economical drum style, otherwise broadly a slower reprise of the earlier track, if introducing Greenslade’s masterful talent with a Hammond, having just that little more soul than Keith Emerson, himself also beginning to make his name. A Heckstall-Smith solo shows the intent possible and an introduction to simultaneous alto and tenor play. Mandarin is a play around oriental scales, saxophone and churning organ duelling it out, whilst Reeves does his own thing, an elongated near-solo, in the midst of it all.

Debut is basically a jam, set around some bluesy noodling, including, de rigeur, given the era, some drum soloing. I guess this suggests, and it wouldn’t be wrong, that the first album came together on the hoof, but it is the next track, which, with the opener, really gave the grist to the mill. Of course, courtesy a certain Procol Harum, Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor is already well known, quite irrespective of the prolonged rows about “authorship” that so wrangled that band. So it is a shock to seem to hear it bursting forth. Here entitled Beware The Ides Of March, it is a much more nuanced affair, with Heckstall-Smith playing, and playing with, the main theme, before Greenslade picks up with some wondrously moody wah wah organ. Reeves and Hiseman burble and clatter around with abandon, and, tin hat on, you know, I prefer it, not least as the harpsichord like second section sweeps in, Jacques Louissier on absinthe, just awaiting the blistering guitar denouement. Which duly comes, ahead a reprise the original theme.

The Road She Walked offers a more latin theme, with piano and congas to the fore, more wailing vocal, and not at all unpleasant. It shows, too that Greenslade was much more than just an organist. Backwater Blues is the old Leadbelly standard, and from a first studio session, the band briefly a six piece, it being a second guitarist, Jim Roche ,who provides most the soloing in what is basically a 12 bar walking blues. Heckstall-Smith, as ever, lifts it above the merely functional. Those About To Die is another jazz-rock belter, the swing, that follows the introductory riff, absolutely tremendous, Colosseum in concentrate. Which is how it stretches out, Litherland and Greenslade taking turn to ply their wares, without overstretching their welcome. I’d go further, if you haven’t the stamina for this whole box set, just play this track. very loud.

Being Cherry Red, there are extras, with two outtakes, I Can’t Live Without You and In The Heat Of The Night. The first, a Litherland composition, first appeared on the 2004 re-release, and is a rowdy blues shouter. It, and the second named, were recorded late ’68, and, frankly, stand the test of time a little better than the instrumental foot finding that pads out much of the debut disc. In fact, In The Heat Of The Night is a doozy of a slow smoocher, maybe deemed too obvious at the time, if, now with hindsight, longer legs. That it was actually by Quincy Jones should come as neither surprise nor disappointment. An earlier version of Those About To Die seals it up, if adding nothing other than to confirm the correct cut was chosen.

Valentyne Suite: A compulsory record to own back then, not least as it was a budget release and the first on the iconic Vertigo label; who can forget the eye-boggling swirl of the label as it spun! It too reached the same number 15 position, if, in the intervening years, selling many, many more. In two halves, with conventional tracks filling out the first side. Side two was a self-contained extended piece, the suite itself, as was the mode of the day. Think Five Bridges Suite, by the Nice, Atom Heart Mother and Echoes, from Pink Floyd and almost everything by Yes, once they hit their stride. Even Salisbury, by Uriah Heep, showed no shortage of relish for the long form piece.

But first, side one, breaking down the doors with the proto metal of The Kettle. Scrunchy guitar propels the song, over the ever busy drums, and squalls of wah wah guitar, the throaty churn of organ more for texture than melody. Quite a surprise, too, I’ll bet, for anyone just expecting more of the same. Litherland’s finest moment, vocally and instrumentally. Elegy is a gentler affair, reminding that there is jazz in jazz-rock, and a saxophonist in the band, to boot. The soprano sax and guitar riffing combine perfectly, and the strings gliding behind, arranged by Neil Ardley, add some energetic swing. And it is Neil Ardley, again, who supplies the expanded brass section behind the exotic jam of Butty’s Blues. Catch the fade of Butty’s and delight at it. These three tracks, as they play out, show quite what a range had the band at this stage of their existence. The Machine Demands A Sacrifice closes the non-suite side, the bar still high, but not quite as, although showing Heckstall-Smith now playing flute.

As the organ introduces Valentyne Suite ,a shiver can’t help but make its way up the spine, the sax riffing, the vibraphone, the frantic drums and bubbling bass, it is just immense. As a piano plonks into a slow pattern, Heckstall-Smith is blowing a soprano storm. Reeves settles into a descending bass and one of the organ solos of all time unveils. Eat your heart out, Emmo, and Wakeman, pah! Maybe here, at this moment, Jon Lord is the only serious competition. The old switch off the electric trick is incandescent, the fade downward of the notes extraordinary, the rest of the band pell mell behind, and with, him. As it switches into the choral oohs and aaahs, real rather than mellotronic, the saxophone is as sweet as can be. Fifty years on, is this not just the sound of Heaven? These have been January’s Search and February’s Theme, with the third segment, The Grass Is Always Greener, starting off with a fanfare, that follows some phased drums. A slow dramatic sashay, this reimagines part of the earlier melody, before a beautifully constructed swirl of keyboard and an elegiac bass solo, more about the notes than the dexterity applied. Litherland then sears in with a biting solo, that carries the track to a conclusion, no pedals of the day left unpressed, before a final repeat fanfare.

I’d have left it at that, but there isn’t such thing as dead space in the world of Cherry Red, so we get a 1969 outtake, Tell Me Now. it’s fine in a late 60s poppy would be single, as it indeed may have been deigned as, if then not followed through. But it sticks somewhat out of place right here.

Jumping Off The Sun: Actually a bit of an oddity, this one, being actually the version of Valentyne Suite as produced for the US and Canada, and released a year later, in 1970, and complicated by the loss of James Litherland, replaced by Dave ‘Clem’ Clempson, later of Humble Pie. This necessitated some remixing and rewiring of parts, even if Litherland’s presence is still felt, and heard, on Elegy.

The album starts with Jumping Off The Sun, a vigorous new piece, with Clempson nailing his distinctive guitar and vocal style into the band, the track enlivened by some tubular bells. If it carries a whiff of Cream, that may be as Mike Taylor, who co-wrote it, also wrote three tunes on Wheels Of Fire, to which Ginger Baker added lyrics. Lost Angeles is slightly messy, if with some decent vibraphone, from Greenslade, and maybe rather more guitar than we today require. Elegy is the same as on VS, but Butty’s Blues has Clempson dubbed in, his guitar actually a more sinuous toy.

Jack Bruce’s Rope Ladder to The Moon gets a jazzy rework, with Greenslade clearly enjoying the mallets he is increasingly taking to. Again, they liven up an otherwise slightly less than satisfactory version, even if Heckstall-Smith tries hard to rescue it with some scything soprano. Clempson’s voice isn’t really in it, or up to it. Bolero, described by Clempson, in the notes, as diabolocal, isn’t quite that bad, but only courtesy his guitar solo, which he also disowns. Another Cream co-writer, lyricist Pete Brown, now pops up with his The Machine Demands A Sacrifice. Flute is Heckstall-Smith’s choice of weapon here, altho there is also saxophone, the whole a bit more of a muddle, if better as each member steps out to showcase. The Reeves/Greenslade section especially.

The final track is the revised third movement from Valentyne Suite, The Grass Is Always Greener, and I confess it has an edge over the original. The guitar sound is cleaner and Reeves plays a different bass solo. In fact, the production is generally clearer altogether, if stil attributed to the same team of Tony Reeves and Gerry Bron. But, shorn off from the rest of the Suite, it seems a little lost, and the whole album screams stopgap as a result.

Daughter Of Time: Clearly there were others who felt Clempson the singer was struggling, as the band now elected to add a singer, with the not uncontroversial choice of Chris Farlowe to take on this role. Farlowe, an unreconstructed blues shouter, and an old mucker of Hiseman and Heckstall-Smith on the mid ’60s live circuit, has had an always distinctive tone and not all the fanbase were ready for that. (And, how can I put it, I can’t stand his honking.) Tony Reeves had also, by this stage, late 1970, moved on and been replaced by Mark Clarke, leaving also Gerry Bron as sole producer.

Opening with the slightly filmic Three Score And Ten, all seems much as normal, with a choral intro and melodic basslines. Up pipes Farlowe and I guess it then depends on where you stand on him. The instrumentation gels well, and i’ll concede, by Farlowe standards, he is fairly restrained. (Spare us the spoken word, mind, Dick!) The change of bass is noticeable, Clarke finding a timbre that, whilst playing as many notes, integrates slightly less intrusively into the mix. Time Lament welcomes back Neil Ardley’s arrangements into the band, adding extra strings and brass to the band, including Mr Lowther once more. It’s a decent drawn out jazz ballad, if a touch musical theatre, but that may be the result of our friend on foghorn. When the time changes come, and there are a few, it gets more lively and Greenslade and Heckstall-Smith get to shine. The strings are great, and, in passing, I notice that a Neil Cennamo is actually the bassist for this particular track, and a couple more.

Take Me Back To Doomsday I really like, Greenslade on piano as it starts, and, as it happens, Clempson on vocals. The tune is choppy and angular, with saxophone, and guitar firing salvos between those chops and changes. The later Mrs Hiseman, Barbara Thompson, and who also replaced Heckstall-Smith, after his death, in the reformed versions of the band, is on hand to give added weight to the brass and woodwinds provided, here and elsewhere. The Daughter Of Time follows, an odd amalgam of baroque styles and cartoon music, with some sombre guitar parts to further confuse, and is starts promisingly. It would have made a great instrumental. More Jack Bruce, with his Theme For An Imaginary Western, and it’s OK. I can’t help but feel the spirit of the band has changed, so it feels a relief for the reliable instrumental canter of Bring Out Your Dead, which feels much more like the old band, organ, vibes and Heckstall-Smith sounding happy to be there, his parps full of more joy than has largely seemed apparent. Sounding at times almost like Caravan, in the organ perambulations, it is a winner. As is Downhill And Shadows, which has a Heckstall-Smith in each ear, a horn on the go in each, before a thwack from Hiseman introduces a slow blues, guitar ragged and raw. This one suits Farlowe and, without breaking barriers, is an effective blues construction that allows, in turn, Clempson to go extensively off-piste. Closer, the live Time Machine is a drum solo. (It was 1970, man!)

The extras are a demo of Bring Out Your Dead, which, if anything is even more fun than the released version, a Farlowe vocalised Jumping Off The Sun and otherwise lost track, The Pirate’s Dream. And, damn his eyes, I’m acclimatising to Farlowe’s waul, it fitting better the helter skelter trajectory of the song. And I liked Clempson’s vocal, too! The Pirate’s Dream is a sort of sort of Bolero with a touch of cod opera kitchen sink thrown in, with a clue as to where Justin Haawkins found inspiration for his idiosyncratic vocal style for The Darkness. I can’t see Gilbert or Sullivan in the credits, but that’s in there too, I’m sure, rather than Brecht and Weill.

Colosseum Live: What it says on the tin, really, it astonishing to discover that it was the band’s greatest commercial success, based on chart longevity. Jon Hiseman’s notes state, I guess, an obvious: “From the inside, Colosseum can be a pretty exhilarating experience and one which I have always wanted to share.” With he now the de facto producer, this show from Manchester University became, for 23 years, their swansong, ahead Hiseman reviving the brand with, initially, this same line-up. The notes suggest some of the material hailed from a Brighton show too. (An interim “version”, Colosseum II were a far different beast, far heavier on the fusion aspect, the guitar histrionics too scary for most their original audience, if attracting another.)

Live in 1971 generally means extended versions, heavy on the impro and, I guess, heavy on the heavy too. It starts with a somewhat frenzied Rope Ladder To The Moon, which is instrumentally sound, with Heckstall-Smith sounding on particularly good form, with a good burst of double sax frenzy. Greenslade finds his most Emersonian aspects and Clempson his inner Hendrix, and it’s all great. (But you know my but.) Walking In The Park then gets a quirky revision as it starts, before reverting into a brisk canter, more rocky than the original, but with decent solos, especially from Heckstall-Smith. Skellington begins with a wail from the singer, before a relatively standard 12 bar unveils, It’s near 15 minutes and has a lot of vocal. Clempson then gets a bit generic blue-rock for longer than strictly necessary

I Can’t Live Without You, the “extra” on later editions of the standalone now slots back in where it first sat in the running order. Completists may applaud this, but its a bit of a slog, to be fair, a shame, as Mike Gibbs’ Tanglewood 63 steps away from what is becoming a little turgid. It’s completely different style, almost chamber jazz with choral vocals in the original, here relatively faithful, if with some distinct effort to Colosseumise it. Completely out of place, actually, nonetheless it’s intriguing, and I’d love to hear a studio version. Plus I’m not entirely sure the Swingle Singers on speed quite works. A brave set ender, though, if also explaining the need to have a recognisable standard as the first encore, blues standard, Stormy Monday Blues, presented in not its finest iteration. (Llet down by you know who.) Brought back again, it is Lost Angeles that gets a triple length outing, I too groaning at that information. But wrongly, as it is a corker, with little tasters from Valentyne Suite seeping into Greenslade’s opening organ work-out. In fact, its the best bit of work on the set. Play it first.

Additional Live Recordings 1971: The snappy title of this final disc says all you need to know, further recordings from the vault, all actually spread across the same two venues as the live disc preceding, if on different dates. Or possibly, if unconvincingly, unless they hired the same recording truck twice, March and June, for the exact same venues. (Anyone care to confirm?) Rope Ladder, Skellington, I Can’t Live Without You and Stormy Monday Blues all get a repeat, with Time Machine, The Machine Demands A Sacrifice and the Valentyne Suite added. Where relevent, they are different versions, I can confirm, if with no great redeeming need for the compares. Time Machine is Hiseman’s drum extravaganza, and is segued to the end of I Can’t Live Without You and before The Machine Demands. I won’t deny some fast forward function was used here, to elicit that the final part of the triad might strain the stamina of anyone other than the most committed. Good bass from Clarke, though, to give a positive.

It is the live Valentyne Suite that is the point and purpose here, really, and it doesn’t disappoint. A first opportunity to hear how Clempson might tackle the first two movements and Clarke the whole, each excel, even to the extent of wondering it a better overall iteration, something hitherto dreamed implausible, if not impossible. Feeling less restrained, all the musicians play as if tigers on their tails. Sure, the sound is a little ropy at times, but the intent is there and the deficit surmountable. In truth, if the last couple of discs have proven a bit of a struggle, suddenly all is forgiven. So, thank you for the ride, fellas.

Cherry Red can be congratulated, as ever, for this legacy production, a reminder for the faithful, as to quite what a behemoth the band were in their prime, and, with Hiseman and Heckstall-Smith both now departed this earth, a timely prompt of their talents and vison, as the two main proponents for this complex creation of stylistic fusions. A Clempson, Clarke and Farlowe iteration nominally exists to the present, Kim Nishikawara, Malcolm Mortimore and Nick Steed playing out the roles of, respectively, Heckstall-Smith, Hiseman and Greenslade, with studio product forthcoming, Restoration, as recently as 2022.

Here’s some 1970 vintage live, the line-up augmented by Barbara Thompson on flute:

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