Top 100 Albums - #66: Frampton Comes Alive! (1976)

Peter Frampton makes his only chart appearance at number 66, with the live album that launched his career as an "arena rocker".A musical prodigy from the age of 7, self-taught guitarist and pianist Peter Frampton began his professional music career in 1966, when he became the lead guitarist and singer for The Herd, scoring a series of minor hits in the late-1960s. In 1969, 'the Face of '68' joined forces with former Small Faces guitarist and singer Steve Marriott, forming Humble Pie. It was during this period that was introducing to the 'talkbox' effect on guitar which would become his signature sound. After two years playing second fiddle to Marriott, he left to start a solo career just as Humble Pie scored their biggest US hit, 'Rockin' The Fillmore'. But despite favourable reviews for albums like Wind Of Change (1972) and Frampton's Camel (1973), mainstream success still eluded him.

Frampton Comes Alive! is the live album resulting from recordings of the 1975 tour of the States, largely culled from the concert at San Francisco. After introducing our hero as "an honorary member of L.A. society", it begins with the rip-roaring rocker that is 'Something's Happening'. Taken from the album of the same name, this is an ideal opener thanks to the precise and aggresive drumming of John Siomos. Overlay this with the guitar playing of Frampton and Bob Mayo and you have a cracking song. You sense from the start that Frampton is in his absolute element. All the timidity of his studio recordings is out the window, and the result is just plain great.

With 'Doobie Wah', Frampton gets more funky (by his own admission). The relatively softly-softly opening allows Stanley Sheldon's run-of-the-mill bass playing to creep out of the speakers. This is a lot more laid-back, with Siomos focussing on the ride and snare than the tom-toms. Frampton crests the heights with his attractive vocal delivery; and on the guitar he is given plenty of room for his riffs to settle. It's not the memorable song he's ever produced, but the sound is definitely there - even if the ending comes a little too soon.

If memorable lyrics were the problem on the last song, that is not the case on the live staple, 'Show Me The Way'. This song from Frampton (1974) finds the band in a perfect mellow balance, and the first glimpse (so to speak) of the famous talkbox. The chorus is classic Frampton modified blues: I want you to show me the way/ I want you to show me the way/ I want you day after day. Overall this mellow rock ballad is a little too laid back for many arena rockers' tastes; on the other hand, the band does not display any feelings of complacency which tend to emerge on such numbers under less control circumstances.

'It's A Plain Shame' is "an oldie, but goodie" with a proper head-banging rock riff, perfectly executed by Frampton. It's a number with a riff straight out of the late-1950s, played with all the bravado of men in long hair playing Les Pauls. Again, Sheldon is pushed into the shade as Frampton and Mayo jump into the quiet area with high-pitched solos. The chorus is catchy in its simplicity, a feeling echoed in lines like She'd like to taste me/ She'd like to waste me - it's so simple it's obviously going to work.

Taken from Wind Of Change, 'All I Wanna Be (Is By Your Side)' is the first acoustic number on the album. It's a love song, much in the same vein as 'Baby, I Love Your Way'. But there is a question of why Frampton chose acoustic for a song which would have sounded a little better with electric. On the album, sure, acoustic skills are welcome, but Frampton is not a folk singer and so cannot carry off unplugged stuff as well. Just be thankful that it's a good song. Sadly, the next one isn't. The title track of Wind Of Change is the first turkey of the album. It's acoustic again, but this time it sounds like Frampton is trying to be Dylan with the least amount of success. It's a soulless song designed only to buy time in the set - perhaps to recharge the talkbox?

'Baby, I Love Your Way' is still acoustic, but thankfully the rhythm section has woken up from its slumber. Siomos adds a lovely samba touch into the mix, while Sheldon played some beautiful harmonies over Frampton's melodies, in a manner reminiscent of a less pretentious Chris Squire. Where Mayo does feel brave enough to step forward, his backing vocals blend in well, so that you almost don't know that he's there. This is a love song from the 1970s that comes without any of the shtick or faux-macho pomposity of an Enkelbert Humperdinck or Tom Jones.

In a parallel of Frampton's career, no sooner has he got it so right, than he goes and gets it so very, very wrong. Both the next two tracks are rubbish efforts, both on their albums and on the stage. 'I Wanna Go To The Sun' is an instantly forgettable funk rip-off which meanders along and down dale with little real substance. There is no substance to this repetitive mishmish of influences, and is one to skip over. 'Penny For Your Thoughts' is pure 1970s self-indulgence. It's an instrumental (bad move) on acoustic (very bad move). Like a lot of arena rockers, these pieces were designed to prove to the audience that electric guitarist could still play acoustic well, without any reliance on effects. But like the rest of them, this sounds like a cross between an ELP record and the music being piped in a touristy Greek restaurant.

Having been stupid enough to sit through this, we come to the really good stuff. And it was worth it. '(I'll Give You) Money' is from Frampton and opens with a brilliant sequence from Siomos on tom-toms and bass drums. The opening lines are priceless: I'll give you money/ I'll give you loving/ I'll give you everything/ Except heaven opening. And while this is too complex to be a proper headbanger, the sound is great. The crowd is louder, the drums are more prominent, the guitar is edgier - everything falls into place. You'd almost think it was a different gig...

'Shine On' is mellower, but only just. Complete with a catchy riff and organ (Mayo), this is yet another one to shuffle to slowly and gently with little care for the meaning of the song. Siomos' cymbals sound notoriously tinny on this track, like something from an early-1960s pop record. Listen carefully and Sheldon will creep into with his melodious bass lines. 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' is a cover - obviously. But this is actually a massive improvement - especially for those who didn't like the original. Die-hard Stones fans will cry sacrilege, but Frampton has done a great service by stripping away Charlie Watts' monotonous timekeeping, jazzifying it with a lovely instrumental section. He can sing better than Mick Jagger, too.

'Lines On My Face' is lifted out of Frampton's Camel and has a more mournful edge to it, with the kind of sound in the opening that Snowy White would borrow in the early-1980s. It's a power ballad with the volume turned down abouty missed opportunity for love. Frampton's voice is quivering slightly, giving the impression that this is intensely personal. It may well be about his first wife, Mary Lovett, whom he divorced in 1973, the year the album came out. It's a deeply personal, well-rounded little number.

As it turns out, we are rewarded for our patience. If you must listen to only one track on this album, for the good of the world, make it 'Do You Feel Like We Do'. It's the longest, clocking in at 14:17, but it's absolutely majestic. From the first six notes from Frampton's guitar, the place is alive with excitement because everyone knows what's coming next. It's solid lyrically, the chorus is simple but effective, and the musicianship is great. But best of all is the long gap left after 3:53. After a pretty reasonable keyboard solo by Bob Mayo, we wait with baited breath for that moment. When the talkbox arrives, the euphoria comes and you sink into a sense of deep satisfaction which is most particular to rock'n'roll.

On all counts, Frampton Comes Alive! would not seem like a worthy rival to Live At Leeds (#68). Judged on the same criteria it comes across as a poor relation. The sound is so polished that all the live energy is dissipated; the lyrics are forgettable; the crowd are almost shoved aside instead of becoming part of the sound; and the musicianship is above average, hardly giving the impression of people at the top of their game. But to view this album through such a narrow prism is to do it a disservice. The real charm of Frampton Comes Alive! is the culmination of Frampton's best work into the arena that suited it best. It is the ideal starting point of an examination of his career, where other live albums are issued to buy time. It's not Live At Leeds, but in the mid-1970s it was the closest that discerning fans would get without selling their soul to punk.

3.79 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #76: A Trick Of The Tail (1976)

Genesis' only entry on the chart is A Trick Of The Tail, their first album with Phil Collins at the helm which marked a return to the English eccentricity and psychedelia of Foxtrot (1972) and Selling England By The Pound (1973).By 1974, Genesis had become stalwarts of the progressive rock scene in Britain. Their early albums had a disarmingly psychedelic quality which became increasingly experimental as the 1970s wore on. By 1974, singer Peter Gabriel had caused tensions in the band; while the group philosophy had always been to write and perform as a collective unit, Gabriel was appearing ever more flamboyantly to hide his stage fright. In the studio he was increasingly absent due to difficulties with his wife's pregnancy, and yet insisted on writing the bulk of their lyrics. After the tour for their rock opera masterpiece, The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway (1974) - which brought both to the fore - Gabriel left the group to look after his family and pursue a solo career. After auditions proved fruitless, Phil Collins took over vocal duties and the band became a four-piece.

'Dance On A Volcano', the album's opener, is in many ways indicative of the album's sound. Opening with Steve Hackett's gentle strumming and Collins' clever tom-tom work, we get a very amiable instrumental section. When Collins kicks in, the tempo quickens - tempo changes are one of the great features of this album, though arguably the division of songs into 'movements' is a key motif of all prog rock, good and bad. Contrary to perceptions, Collins' lyrics and delivery are nothing like his ghastly pop efforts in the 1980s - maybe he is deliberately trying to sound like Gabriel to provide continuity, but whether or not that is the case he sings very well.

'Entangled' continues this gently flowing vibe, with Hackett switching to acoustic. The lyrics, even if a little peculiar and incomprehensible, fit with the texture of the whole song. The opening lines, When you're asleep they may show you/ Aerial views of the ground,/ Freudian slumber empty of sound blend serenely into the mix, producing something which makes it increasingly possible to believe that (a) Genesis could manage without Gabriel; and (b) at one point in his life, Collins could actually write good songs instead of producing ones designed to make you haemorrage.

'Squonk' is the first slip-up on the album, and is also the first song Genesis recorded with Collins as the vocalist. Before he comes in, we get the faint sound of an oboe, hinting that this is to more a more ambitious piece. As is so common with ambitious pieces, the end product is a disappointment. The lyrics seem like a hotch-potch of ill-fitting influences, including nursery rhymes - All the King's horses and all the King's men/ Could never put a smile on that face - which sound hopelessly cloyed. For all the impressive efforts of Tony Banks on keyboards and Mike Rutherford on bass, this is rather directionless.

With the faults of that in mind, 'Mad Man Moon', is a great rebound. Beginning with the wonderful combination of piano and flute, this is tender, stripped-back and in no way cloyed or clichéd. The verses and chorus see Collins under control on the vocals and drums, neither of which are imposing enough to crowd out the wonderful arrangements. Rutherford's presence is less here than on 'Squonk', but if you listen carefully you will spot his talent. The chorus is fairly catchy, unusual for a prog song, but the best part of this song is the middle section. With simple percussion to back him, Banks run riot on the keyboards like he is gliding through keys made of water. The lyrics here are witty and upbeat, catchy in a strange and unexplainable way:

Hey man, I'm the sand man,
And boy have I news for you;
They're gonna throw you in gaol
And you know they can't fail
'Cos sand is thicker than blood.
But a prison in sand is a haven in hell,
For a gaol can give you a goal
And a goal can find you a role
On a muddy pitch in Newcastle,
Where it rains so much, you can't wait for a touch
Of sun and sand.

Despite the many great qualities of 'Mad Man Moon', the true masterpiece of the album is 'Robbery, Assault And Battery'. Another Banks masterpiece, this song about a petty criminal opens with a wonderful passage in 7/8 time. The great thing about the lyrics is not (just) that they tell a clear story - but that they flow in such a way that they appear to rhyme seamlessly, even though it becomes obvious that they don't. Once again, amidst the glorious riffs there is a sumptuous middle section devoted to Banks' solos, and while his contemporary Rick Wakeman tended to lose the plot somewhere along the way, this is relatively tight, creating a very likeable little number.

No sooner have we reached such heights, though, that we are brought back down to earth with a bump in the form of 'Ripples'. This sounds rather pointless. It's the complete opposite of the previous track: while the former didn't see the need to rhyme and yet sounded fantastic, this is a deliberate attempt at extended pop, where the rhymes are forced and frequent. The chorus is no better - Sail away, away/ Ripples never come back/ Gone to the other side/ Sail away, away would be more at home in any 1980s mediocre pop song. It's a lazy effort and a worryingly accurate harbinger of things to come.

The title track is punchier and rockier. Rutherford and Banks have achieved a better balance between themselves, even though Hackett remains underused. The lyrics are reminiscent of Syd Barrett's work in that they have a strange charm to them which is impossible to pinpoint or explain. Sure, They've got no horns and they've got no tail/ They don't even know of our existence is hardly a match for Take a couple if you wish/ They're on the dish ('Bike'), but they're both decidedly English and dignified.

'Los Endos' ends the album on what amounts to a whimper. Beginning like an outtake from a long-forgotten Yes album, this ends up a mish-mash of half-baked phrases welded together with the best riffs from all the previous songs. This might have worked better, had this been a concept album or a song cycle. But because A Trick Of The Tail is neither of these things, it has the essence of a bolt-on outtake, something for cultists to unravel while the rest of us fall asleep.

Considering the quality of Gabriel's output both with Genesis and his subsequent solo career, A Trick Of The Tail already gets some points for demonstrating that the band could not only carry on without him, but produce something decent along the way. Rather than extending the themes of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway - racism, modernity and nightmare - this is a regression back to the earlier, more eccentric sound. And yet this doesn't feel like treading water. The songs will grow on you as you give them space and attention. There are some times when we glimpse worrying hints of a certain member's disastrous venture into the mainstream, and Rutherford is often drowned out by the other instruments, only coming into his own on 'Squonk'. In short, this is an amicable effort, but in hindsight it is no surprise that Steve Hackett left after the Seconds Out tour.

3.75 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #100: Station To Station (1976)

Well, we have to start somewhere on the countdown of my Top 100 albums. And we begin with David Bowie's lowest entry on the chart, Station To Station (1976).

By the time Station To Station came along, Bowie's career had taken many a turn for better or worse. After 'retiring' the Ziggy Stardust character - present on both The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars (1972) and its follow-up Aladdin Sane (1973) - Bowie had sought to branch out into theatre. He intended to produce a musical version of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, but Orwell's estate blocked him from changing the book into a filmscript. The resulting album, Diamond Dogs (1974), sold poorly, both because of the quality of songs and the fans' backlash from 'killing off' Ziggy when glam rock was still going strong. Bowie responded by relocating to America, where he became fascinated by soul music. In 1975 he delivered the highly-praised and transitional Young Americans, creating the genre of 'plastic soul'.

Station To Station saw the debut of a new Bowie character, the Thin White Duke. Unlike Ziggy, the flamboyant, bisexual, androgynous transvestite, the Thin White Duke was straight, suave, sophisticated - and fascist. Bowie by this time was heavily dependent on drugs; living off a diet of cocaine and milk caused him to lose a lot of weight, giving him a skeletal appearance similar to that of a dying Freddie Mercury. The cocaine caused him to become paranoid, culminating in a PR disaster: on his return to England in late-1976, he gave the expectant crowds a Nazi salute. It did so much damage that it persuaded Bowie to clean himself up. He moved to Berlin(?!) to live and work with Brian Eno, which eventually produced the acclaimed Berlin trilogy - Low (1977), 'Heroes' (1977) and Lodger (1979).

The epic opening/ title track begins with the sound of trains. Eventually we hear one pulling into the station, at which point the first traces of guitar and piano kick in. We are treated to several minutes of scene-setting, layered riffs before Bowie croons the opening lines: The return of the Thin White Duke/ Throwing darts in lovers' eyes. The 'return' implies that this side of Bowie has been present all along, which can be put down to the liberal drug culture of 1970s and Bowie's vocal style, which he honed on Young Americans. But before long, the song changes drastically, with a greater urgency shown through the time signature Bowie's voice which becomes more screechy.

'Golden Years' is more feelgood and feels like a cabaret track, precisely the stage that the Thin White Duke needed. The song is bright, rhythm and an easy dancer - as proved by its (of course anachronistic) use in the Heath Ledger film A Knight's Tale (2001). The song also benefits from quick lyrics counterpounted by simple, subtle bass lines which leave you feeling relaxed, like you're lounging in a Los Angeles club without a care in the world.

'Word On A Wing' switches back to stricken. Despite the jarring piano opening, this is Bowie at his best when it comes to emotive songwriting. His voice is pleading yet reassuring, drawing you in. Going against persona by the song's close, what starts as another polished cabaret number along the lines of 'Golden Years' turns into a spiritual plea with him on his knees. It's a deep love song and very powerful when taken with a pinch of salt, considering Bowie's ever-surreal influences and unexpected changes in direction.

'TVC 15' is probably the strangest track on the record, sounding as it does like a B-side from Young Americans with the technical prowess of Hunky Dory (1971). It's too jazzy to fit perfectly, with the prominent saxophone backing to the vocals, and yet you come away highly satisfied if a little clueless to the song's meaning. 'Stay', the penultimate track, also has a 'plastic soul' feel to it, especially in the chorus, but like the opener it tries to be clever with a lengthy introduction - the difference is that this time it feels like excess material.

The closer, 'Wild Is The Wind', finds Bowie at his most sombre until the soundtrack item 'Drowned Girl' from 1982 (both the videos are, interestingly, shot in black and white and features an actual recording of the studio performance). Bowie's lyrics are a cry for help - Love me, love me, love me, love me, say you do - , the cries of a man falling apart with his only salvation in love. Overall, the song is a little too repetitive and the ending is too long, yet it has a special quality to it.

Station To Station is by no means Bowie's best album, of the golden age or overall. It makes an important bridge between the commercialism of his glam rock days and the introspective technical fascinations of the Berlin era. It is a show case for Bowie burdened by a fame he never sought and, like Pink Floyd, he didn't know how to deal with it. The latter two songs are the lesser tracks musically, but lyrically this is generally a strong effort. The problem is either that Bowie cannot sustain the quality of the openers throughout, or that his emotional problems become a drag. Nevertheless, an interesting effort which set things up for albums to come.

3.67 out of 5