In a recent piece in The Atlantic titled âThe Whitest Music Ever,â James Parker trashes prog-rock in what is ostensibly a review of David Weigelâs book, The Show That Never Ends: The Rise and Fall of Prog Rock. (Spoiler alert: Weigel likes prog-rock.) From that atrocious and erroneous headline onward, Parker coughs up an array of misguided assertions to dismiss a genre that is responsible for some of the greatest rock ever. Taste is subjective, obviously, but flawed arguments cannot go unchallenged. Not on my watch.
Now, as with all musical styles, prog has generated tons of garbage. But when itâs great, itâs mind-blowing. Cast aside your biases and ignore screeds written by detractors who only skim progâs surface; follow trusted guides and explore for yourself, and you will discover a treasure trove of works that will tingle your synapses for a lifetime. As a champion of prog-rock, I would like to address what I perceive to be Parkerâs critical/aesthetic wrongdoings in âThe Whitest Music Ever.â
First, that headline: Prog-rock is far from âthe whitest music ever.â Come on, manâyouâre not even trying. There are several strains of European folk music, German schlager, grindcore, and the twee indie pop of a hundred small Anglo-American labels, to name a handful, that one could safely say are âwhiter.â Parkerâand his enabling editorâis just going for shock value here.
Of course, a posse of dead white European menâs classical music influenced prog, but if you get out a magnifying glass and scan the credits of releases by DJ Shadow, Kanye West, Madlib, and many other hiphop producers, youâll find samples from loads of prog records. Or, more conveniently, you could log on to whosampled.com and type in any prog-rock bandâs name and see how widely this so-called âwhitest music everâ impacted a genre dominated by black artists.
You want some instant examples? Go YouTube McDonald & Gilesâs âTomorrowâs Peopleâ and gawk in amazement at one of the fattest funk breaks that will ever penetrate your everloving ears. Hit up a B-boy contest and peep dancers busting moves to Canâs âVitamin C.â Check out French proggers Shylockâs elastically funky rhythm on âHimogene.â Go stream Eggâs âFugue in D Minorâ (a funked-up Bach cover, yo) and Arzachelâs âQueen St. Gangâ and witness what sounds like the birth of triphop. Whom are you gonna trust on this matter: some of historyâs most ingenious producers or a contributing editor for The Atlantic?
Letâs move on to Parkerâs second paragraph, in which he outlines the few prog tunes he does like: Queenâs âBohemian Rhapsodyâ (of bloody course); that portion of Mike Oldfieldâs Tubular Bells heard in The Exorcist (of bloody course); Tool (what a tool); Meshuggah (okay, I did not see that coming). Parker closes the graf with an elegant explanation about his bias: âYesâs Tales From Topographic Oceans is an experience to me unintelligible and close to unbearable, like being read aloud a lengthy passage of prose with no verbs in it.â Translation: I have a short attention span and hate deviations from traditional song structures. Fine. So does 98.7 percent of the world. But do you have to preen about it in the august pages and pixels of The Atlantic/theatlantic.com?
Later in his review, Parker quotes Weigel quoting a member of the Nice: ââWeâre a European group,â declared the lead singer of proto-proggers The Nice in 1969, âso weâre improvising on European structures⌠Weâre not American Negros, so we canât really improvise and feel the way they can.â Indeed. Thus did prog divorce itself from the blues, take flight into the neoclassical, and become the whitest music ever.â This description may apply to some prog-rockers, but it reveals a shallow knowledge of the genre, a glossing of strictly English and American acts. Explore the prog made by musicians from South America, continental Europe (even Scandinaviaâsee especially Bo Hansson, Pärson Sound/Träd Gräs och Stenar, and Pugh), Southeast Asia, and Africa, and youâll hear a different story.
Let us now feast upon the most egregious passage in Parkerâs essay, which I will annotate with caps lock retorts.
But progâs doom was built in. It had to die. [ITâS STILL LIVING. YOUâRE JUST NOT PAYING ATTENTION.] As a breed, the proggers were hook-averse, earworm-allergic; they disdained the tune, which is the infinitely precious sound of the universe rhyming with oneâs own brain. [ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I COULD GO ON FOR DAYS REFUTING THIS STATEMENT, BUT HERE ARE A FEW EXAMPLES: MCDONALD & GILESâ âFLIGHT OF THE IBISâ; THE ENTIRETY OF POPOL VUHâS LETZTE TAGE â LETZTE NĂCHTE; CARAVANâS âGOLF GIRLâ; SENSATIONSâ FIXâS âMUSIC IS PAINTING IN THE AIRâ; SOFT MACHINEâS âMEMORIESâ; KING FUCKING CRIMSONâS âI TALK TO THE FUCKING WINDâ] Whatâs more, they showed no reverence before the sacred mystery of repetition, before its power as what the music critic Ben Ratliff called âthe expansion of an idea.â [DUDE, YOU EVEN DISCUSSED MAGMA, BUT APPARENTLY YOU DIDNâT LISTEN TO THEM CLOSELY. THEN THERE ARE HELDON, SOFT MACHINE (E.G., âWE DID IT AGAINâ), TANGERINE DREAM, CAN, GONG, PĂRSON SOUND, ETC.] Instead, like mad professors, they threw everything in there: the ideas, the complexity, the guitars with two necks, the groove-bedeviling tempo shifts. [THE SPICE OF FUCKING LIFE! WHY DO YOU HATE INNOVATION AND EXCITEMENT, JIMMY?] To all this, the relative crudity of punk rock was simply a biological correctiveâa healing, if you like. [YES, ONE OF THE MOST SONICALLY CONSERVATIVE, RIGIDLY DEFINED GENRES SAVED US ALL FROM THE HORRORS OF PROG. HALLELUJAH. FUCK ANY SONG THAT GOES OVER THREE MINUTES AND HAS MORE THAN THREE CHORDS.]
Parker closes his piece with a fugly flourish. âThe proggers got away with murder, artistically speaking. And then, like justice, came the Ramones.â HOO BOY. A one-trick ponyâadmittedly, itâs a good trickâis your trump card? Enshrine Parkerâs sentencesâand hell, his whole essayâinto the Oversimplification Hall of Fame. Now if youâll excuse me, Iâm going to listen to Tangerine Dreamâs Rubycon to dissipate Parkerâs inanities.