Keeping alchemists busy since the 1500s, a first live recording for the Elizabethan proggers.

Release date: 6th September 2024

Label: Talking Elephant

Format: 2CD

No, neither re-issue nor retrospective, as Gryphon are still go, rather than being just a dimly remembered dip into medieval prog, as those who do, remember them best. True, this is a live outing, recorded last year, during their 50th anniversary of existence, but it may have escaped wider knowledge that the band have been once more a thing since 2015, following their initial 1977 lay-off and a one-off concert in 2007.

Now, still with original members Brian Gulland, Dave Oberlé and Graeme Taylor as constants, the rest of the ensemble has fluctuated only a little these last nine years, the overall headline sound remaining a heady mix of crumhorn, bassoon, guitar, keyboards, bass and percussion, with newly (ish, since 2019) textures of violin to fill out the soundscape. And neither is this all stuck down memory lane, as, with two “new” albums in 2018 and 2020, there have been lashings of new tunes and songs. And, for those who fret, no, neither is there any, or much, look at our new direction here, the band still irredeemably marooned between the renaissance and, roughly, the 1970s, equal footholds perched somewhere between baroque and berserk.

a blast from the past?

It is, however, a blast from the past that opens proceedings on this double disc, with Kemp’s Jig, which opened their eponymous debut, in 1973. Does this differ much from that original? Not overtly, but it is fair to say, the rattle of percussion, with recorder and crumhorn jousting the core melody, is maybe a tad more prominent. The presence of Taylor’s electric guitar feels written higher into the mix, a little distort built in, as it sits gently beside a harpsichordal keyboard. The changes in metre remain as present and correct as anticipated, the very feature that alerted Rick Wakeman to get them signed, back then, to the then Yes management roster.

The Astrologer, which follows, is of the same vintage, but has had a bit of a brush and polish, the keyboard sound now more prog than pastoral. Oberlé’s vocal has matured over the decades, less received agricultural, more acquired Canterbury, as in Caravan and that ilk. Taylor’s fingerpicked guitar play is equally deft and delicate, Andy Findon clearly up to the part of replicating the woodwind parts of the twice departed Richard Harvey. (I’ll skip the brief “in character” call and response vocals, they not my thing at all.)

reinvention?

Dumbe Dum Chit welcomes in both the newer material, from 2018’s Reinvention, and the violin of Clare Harvey, a vigorous instrumental gavotte, that may well not be one, but sounds as if it should be. There is some Tull-y flute in there as well, it giving the rhythm section some opportunity to show off their more contemporary chops. Flute remains in the ascendant for A Bit Of Music By Me, some soundtrack style mood music that, of all things, reminds me of some of the more pastoral moments on King Crimson’s debut, such as when the wind got a talking to. Brian Gulland adds signature bassoon as it extends, before Taylor, C, scythes in with some searing violin. (For clarification, it is of interest that Clare is Graeme’s daughter.) It was written by Graham Preskett, who had been in the band between Harvey leaving and her joining, and is a fine tune.

The Brief History Of A Bassoon is agreeable nonsense, another very “Canterbury” component of their output, lest everything get too serious. This can be a weakness and a strength, dependent upon mood, this G. Taylor penned song some cod-whimsy around how, or not, Gulland became attracted to wind, reported in a way to show I am not entirely immune. The musical arrangement is lovely, the vocals less, even less so when the whole band add some additional colour, but it is intrinsic to the overall Gryphon experience. It does give the bassist, Rob Levy, the chance to add some solidly reflective walking bass. (Maybe a good bladder break in the live show, or is that too unkind?)

positively modern?

Normal Wisdom From The Swamp starts positively modern, with a rolling piano and violin part. Oberlé’s drums, as they slot in, are very rock and roll, but, being Gryphon, the time signature then goes all over the place. Taylor is chucking in 60’s guitar motifs, think Hank Marvin, at least to start, sparring with a jaunty Elizabethan flute and recorder melody. And is that harmonica for the bridging section? Whichsoever, it leads in to some madrigal style vocals and roustabout bucolic folk. It is odd, mighty odd. From 2020’s Get Out My Father’s Car album, it is a Gulland composition, and is as wild as he now looks.

Needing something of greater stability, Sailor V offers that, via recorder and harmonium, a sweet passage that, as much of their work can, evokes the mood of early Mike Oldfield. The violin adds a Celtic touch, a feature hitherto unexplored. Sure, it drifts off into a moray of confusing side sections, but is overall one of the standout offerings, and is a further Preskett composition, again from Reinvention. As it winds down, it also offers a mesmerisingly Knopfler-esque lyrical guitar solo from Taylor, up to the high standard of his days with The Albion Band and Home Service, bringing the tune cycle back to the beginning.

key gryphon

Reduced Krum Dancing, they suggest from the stage, possesses no k/crumhorns, but I think they lie. However, it may be that the sounds of that nasally textured instrument, like most of the recorders here, are but clever recreations of their respective sounds, via Findon’s compact electronic woodwind instrument; this much I remember from a 2018 show at the Robin 2. Regardless, this tune, last before the interval, is key Gryphon, heavy metal medievalism, with extravagant riffing, over which Gulland and Findon parp merrily. I love it, which possibly also explains why I want to gag with what they return with, opening disc two. Designated an homage to the Bonzo Dog Band, Hospitality At A Price…(Dennis) Anyone For, it is a clumsy pastiche, in more than name. It does neither Gryphon nor the Bonzos any credit. A longer version of Krum Dancing (geddit?), is on the last album, the other track on the album before.

Sticking with recent, Christina’s Song gives Taylor, C the chance to show off both her voice and her composition, it a setting of a poem by Rosetti of that name. Flute and guitar give a bed for her violin and some piano to introduce her untutored voice, the whole a charming change of palate. Backing vocals are more successful than they have sometimes earlier been. A mellower sound, so too, is Fort Sahara, a first tune by Rob Levy, which drifts gracefully, guided by muted brass and woodwinds, the violin sneaking in some Grapelli like sinuosity. It’s good, the run maintained as the familiar theme of The Unquiet Grave starts up. This staple of trad. arr. , and one they included on their debut, gets a surprisingly straight turn, Oberlé singing well, over guitar and blown accompaniment. The folkie in me says yes, even allowing for the longer and more experimental middle eight, expanded somewhat since that earlier version.

craving mushrumps?

Mindful the audience may now be in need of some more difficult, Haddock’s Eyes is now laid down, as a challenge, maybe, a further act in many parts, the lyrics a Lewis Carroll nonsense poem. This means more “theatrical” vocals, but it gels better, possibly through acclimatisation. Indeed, better than that, it is imaginable as one of Genesis’s early story songs, helping the medicine go down. The instrumental ducking and diving opens some hitherto unexplored areas, Findon now blowing some fairly free-form sax, that wouldn’t disgrace Dick Heckstall-Smith. Red Queen Muddle, up next, is a mash of the various themes from the Red Queen To Gryphon Three album, of 1974. With no great intent to make them flow seamlessly, it is shameless nostalgia, encapsulating all the best bits, over nearly eight minutes, making me hungry for a similar assault, unforthcoming, on Midnight Mushrumps.

Just as the set opened with the first track on their first record, so it ends with the last on their last, the aptly named Parting Shot, an orchestral serenade in the form of a love song. Initially it seems slight, but, as the build of backing vocals establishes, it becomes a thing of benign splendour, flute and guitar trading places on the periphery, an anthemic way to end a show. But, being a live album and all that, well, you can guess what happens next, with the length of applause suggest they even left the stage, ahead the vim and vigour of Estampie. Oberlé is all over this, his percussion everywhere, before Gulland crumhorns in with some free Tudor jazz licks, levering in the James Bond theme for good measure, before Findon tootles back in with the main theme. Cascading downhill like a runaway train, it ends the show, the night and the record, on an inescapable high.

This is as odd and as varied a record as my opinion about it, there being so many conflicting parts to the curate’s egg. And, for all the bits I can do without, overall I can think of fewer better momentos of a band, far from the end of their long and discursive career.

Here is The Unquiet Grave, from 2022, with thanks to flytomars, for the lift of the video clip:

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