Author: Peter Podbrežnik
Artist: Comus
Label: Virgin Records
Released: 1974
Rating: 2/5
“To Keep From Crying”, the second album from Comus, the one-of-a-kind pioneers of progressive folk rock, is a monstrous letdown that will make even the most devoted fan throw in the towel and rack their brains for a long time over how it all went so downhill. One of the first questions they’ll surely ask is how this is even possible after their unforgettable debut “First Utterance” (1971), one of the most original, provocative and obscure prog rock albums of the early ’70s, which with its mix of eerie and mystical atmosphere seethed with untamed energy, raised goosebumps and, light as a feather, could carry the listener at any moment from the depths of dark Tartarus to the heights of heavenly Olympus. So where did their distinctive, unique spirit of debauched Dionysian orgies, wild dances around the forest fire and the smell of sacrificial offerings to the gods go? It evaporated in the stink of greenbacks and in Virgin Records’ almost pathetic attempt to resurrect an already dead band, which, despite its incredible obscurity, enjoyed cult status among music connoisseurs thanks to a brilliant debut, and to push it toward the wider masses. That way they’d have been shoved into the league of those rare chosen few in prog rock who enjoyed huge commercial success in the year the genre was at the peak of its popularity. None of that happened, because the end result was catastrophic and a flat-out mockery of everything Comus had stood for until then. Instead of keeping their spotless status, they dirtied it with a failed pop rock experiment.
Even so, right after the debut came out, everything pointed to Comus carrying on in a worthy way with their dark and scary pagan sound and visions, but they split up the very next year and so never released the planned concept album that was supposed to be called “The Malgaard Suite”. I’m almost sure that one would have been a more than worthy follow-up to the debut, but the past just can’t be changed. It looked like Comus would stay in eternal slumber in the strange barbaric world they had emerged from in such a wonderful way. Then, two years later, something inexplicable stung the band’s boss, singer Roger Wootton, and he bowed to the appetites of the label and sold off the band’s signature sound. The expected commercial success, of course, came from nowhere, because Comus, despite the still wildly popular “guys and gals” vocal duo recipe, simply didn’t have pop in their genes, and their two voices are far too unconventional for it. I can put a fair few of the reasons for this total system collapse down to the fact that, while all the main members of the original lineup were still there, that is, the vocal duo of Wooton and Bobbie Watson and bassist Andy Hellaby, the key instrumentalists were gone: the talented guitarist Glenn Goring, violinist Colin Pearson and keyboardist/flutist Rob Young. Wootton did manage to find more than decent, you might even say dream replacements in masters like Lindsay Cooper on woodwinds (Henry Cow) and saxophonist Didier Malherbe (Gong). But even two such masters couldn’t save this album from going down with all hands. The only things left of their signature sound are the eccentric vocals and the dull, obscure bass guitar line. And sadly, all of it constantly lacks that barbaric, mystical energy that made the debut what it was. Three years after a timeless masterpiece, Mr. Wooton, at the urging and on the terms of Virgin Records, revived the legendary name only to smear it with wretched pop rock. Of course I have nothing at all against quality, properly inspired pop rock, because as a prog fan I have a pretty wide musical spectrum.
Instead of a quality, inspired approach, though, the vocal duo of Wooton and Watson serve up boring pop rock with a fleeting hint of folk, the kind that breaks every one of your teeth in an instant. A fitting analogy for the change in their sound: it’s as if you tamed a wild, bloodthirsty beast and then showed it off in a circus, where it danced decked out in little bells while the audience just yawned with boredom at its act. Some of the songs deserve nothing but mockery, like the opener “Down (Like A Movie Star)”, which is only partly saved by Wootton’s ever-excellent vocals and that distinctive, obscure, dull bass guitar line, while everything else on it is just a pale shadow of former glory. Among the considerable disasters are also the dismal attempt to make folk and pop rock coexist on “Figure In Your Dreams”, where Miss Watson, with her quail-like drawl of a singing style, sounds completely out of context, and “Get Yourself A Man”, which is yet another wretched, overstretched pop-soul experiment. A good idea at its core, but sadly it doesn’t deliver the results it wanted. The same goes for two more pop clunkers with awful choruses, “So Long Supernova” and “Perpetual Motion”, a total system collapse that borders on self-parody. Here and there a real breath of dark prog folk does blow through, like on the solid “Touch Down” and on the epic title track, but sadly they’re still far from what I’d have expected from them. On “Waves And Caves” and “Panophany”, bassist Hellaby tries to conjure up some dark sonic curtains and lift the mood at least a little, but it all turns into needless filler. The only track on the album worthy of the band’s name, and the one where they sound more or less the way I’ll keep them in my memory, is the excellent “Childen Of The Universe”, where they show off quality prog folk rock, though it’s closer to the sound of more traditional folk bands like The Strawbs, Fotheringay and Fairport Convention than to their own signature sound. The vocal harmonies are placed exactly as they should be this time: with Wotton’s epic vocals up front and a cooing Watson in charge of the backing harmonies. But that’s of course far too little, and the end result is a barely digestible flop with no real energy or creative inspiration, one that will sadden all of us who gave the band cult status as a kind of forgotten heroes of progressive folk after the debut, and who can only barely forgive them for such a final product.
It’s sad that one of the most unique and promising bands in the history of progressive rock bowed out in such a lackluster way. It would have been far better if this album had never been recorded at all, and they’d stayed forever in fond memory as the band that said everything it had to say with its debut. The commercial flop and the dismal response from the rare but loyal handful of their fans convinced them, soon after the release of this utterly unnecessary album, that the time had finally come to say goodbye for good. Everyone who was blown away by their debut will, despite all the warnings, want to hear “To Keep From Crying” too, and will inevitably end up asking how Comus could fall so far after such a start, and whether this is even the same band anymore. Then again, the band’s few fans don’t really have much reason to mourn, because the unforgettable “First Utterance”, no matter the black stain that “To Keep From Crying” left on them, will forever guarantee Comus the cult status of an obscure and misunderstood band, full of incredible paradoxes (a phenomenal debut and a catastrophic last album), who weren’t fated to be inscribed among the biggest names in progressive rock, but who kept the reputation of a band the likes of which there will never be again.
Lineup
Roger Wootton – vocals and guitar
Bobby Watson – vocals and percussion
Andy Hellaby – bass guitar
Gordon Caxon – drums
Keith Hale – keyboards
Lindsay Cooper – woodwinds
Didier Malherbe – saxophone
Philip Barry – percussion
Tim Kraemer – cello
Tracklist
1. Down (Like a Movie Star) (4:07)
2. Touch Down (4:46)
3. Waves and Caves (1:34)
4. Figure In Your Dreams (3:11)
5. Children of the Universe (5:38)
6. So Long Supernova (3:22)
7. Perpetual Motion (4:07)
8. Panophany (0:31)
9. Get Yourself a Man (7:08)
10. To Keep from Crying (5:40)
11. After the Dream (1:00)
Album length: 41:04
