Camel - A Dream in Odd Times

It's often overlooked, due to a lack of information about the band's and its members' earlier doings, but Camel actually served a surprisingly long apprenticeship. They're considered the last great band of classic progressive rock, since their classic albums date from between 1974 and 1976, by which point everyone else had already passed their creative peak and boasted fairly substantial discographies. In reality, though, the founding members had been on the scene since the Sixties, stuck in that limbo of minor releases, small-club gigs and session work for more famous artists. By the time they finally managed to debut, in 1973, the prog epic was already preparing to head down its own, admittedly glorious, path to decline. Genesis, King Crimson and Van Der Graaf Generator had already released four albums each, while Yes had put out as many as five. The situation doesn't change even if we look solely at the Canterbury scene, to which Camel are often compared because of their resemblance to that school's brightest band, Caravan, who had debuted a full five years earlier.

Keyboardist Peter Bardens was twenty-eight when Camel hit the shops. He had played in countless outfits whose names are now all but forgotten, and had released a couple of solo albums blending progressive rock and blues (on "The Answer" he was joined by none other than Peter Green, guitarist of Fleetwood Mac).

For the project's other mastermind, guitarist Andrew Latimer, things weren't all that different. After a string of blues outfits scattered across the second half of the Sixties, in 1971 he found himself working as a session player for singer-songwriter Philip Goodhand-Tait on the album "I Think I'll Write a Song". Paradoxically, that record is today the only one by Goodhand-Tait to enjoy even a modest cult following, precisely thanks to the presence of the future Camel core. Alongside Latimer in the studio were Doug Ferguson (bass) and Andy Ward (drums), who needed nothing more than a classic ad in Melody Maker to recruit Bardens and kick off the adventure.

In December '71, thanks in part to the efforts of Ferguson, a skilled charmer of managers, Camel played their first-ever live show, opening for Wishbone Ash — a band little remembered today, but one that carried considerable weight at the time. From there, Camel's web of contacts kept expanding, leading within a few months to a deal with MCA.

Camel (1973) turned out to be a commercial flop, and the label dropped them without a second thought. In hindsight, though, that dismissal proved beneficial, since it opened the doors to Deram (and therefore Decca), who were firmly convinced of the band's potential and willing to back them unconditionally all the way through to 1984.

The production is indeed weaker than on later efforts, at times a little flat, with instrument levels not always perfectly balanced, despite a tonal clarity that was already remarkable and destined to become the band's trademark.

The album opens with "Slow Yourself Down", but this is a Camel far removed from what the name would soon come to mean. With its strong blues imprint and smooth cadence, it even recalls Fleetwood Mac's "Black Magic Woman", and not even the organ-led digression manages to shake off that impression, even though the result is far from bad. Odder still is Latimer's voice, deliberately strangled and unrecognizable, even compared to the other track he sings on that same side of the vinyl, "Separation", a short, convulsive interlude that packs in funk, hard rock, jazz, fairy-tale romanticism and surprise shifts in tempo. This is the real, celebrated Camel, notwithstanding the short running times, the necessary rough edges and arrangements that don't yet boast their trademark symphonic fullness.

The masterpiece, however, is sung by Bardens and titled "Never Let Go". Already released as a single at the end of '72, it's one of those perfect songs that take on a life of their own, transcending both the era and the album that contains them. The sound has a tone foreign to the conventions of the time, and seems to belong instead to the repertoire of Porcupine Tree or to the lighter moments of Opeth, material from two or even three decades later. An airy ride, with the mellotron mimicking both a string bed and a flute solo, drums that are dynamic yet never intrusive, and acoustic-guitar textures unfurling rhythmic strikes one moment and gentle flourishes the next, "Never Let Go" blends with absolute nonchalance vivacity (the brisk pace, the ease of the shifts) and melancholy (the tone of the vocal part), epic grandeur (Latimer's closing solo) and pop sensibility. The opening arpeggio would later be borrowed by Opeth themselves as the basis for "Benighted", along with a declaration of admiration from Mikael Åkerfeldt.

With the change of label, Camel were paired with producer David Hitchcock, a historic name in progressive rock, already behind the desk for Caravan and East Of Eden. Mirage came out in March 1974 and initially failed to chart, but the band's live activity intensified and they began building the foundations of their cult following. They would get further publicity from a dispute with the Camel cigarette brand, because of the cover, which was essentially a variation on the famous logo. The album would eventually be released with artwork specially altered for the American market, while keeping the original in Europe. By the autumn of '74, Camel's name had begun to carry a certain weight among the most demanding rock fans, to the point that the album crept into Billboard's chart at number 149.

The hammering opening of "Freefall", with Latimer's violent electric blasts seemingly pulling against the rhythm section, immediately reveals a peculiar take on hard rock, bent to the dictates of symphonic prog without losing its enchanted atmosphere. It's a blend Genesis had already pulled off years earlier on "The Knife", but here updated to new recording technologies and techniques. Bardens's jazzy electric-piano phrasing takes care to preserve the clarity and polish of the formula.

Latimer, for his part, contributes a three-part suite inspired by "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy. The first two minutes are taken up by "Nimrodel" and "The Procession", two short instrumental interludes featuring a mournful intro for tremolo guitar and minimoog, followed by a military-style parade for drums and trumpets, meant to evoke the processions found in Tolkien's work.

The actual song is titled "The White Rider" and takes up the remaining seven and a half minutes. A journey into fantasy, with Latimer's calm voice introducing the figure of Gandalf, driven along by sudden surges and slowdowns, unusual chords, melodies that appear and vanish as if caught in a whirlwind. The Mellotron's tragic strings, the electro-acoustic interplay of the guitars, flute and oboe trading off as magically as in a Prokofiev piece (the former played superbly by Latimer himself; there are no official sources on the latter, though some swear it's actually a keyboard), and then more minimoog solos, frantic funky staccato bursts, passages with a bucolic feel, cavernous basslines that who knows how many trip-hop producers must have pricked their ears up at, menacing distorted riffs, and whatever else you could throw in. "Once he was robed in grey. He fell and slipped away, out of sight of all. The wizard of wizards returned from his fall, this time clothed in white."

The instrumental "Earthrise" opens the second side of the vinyl with breathless jazzy runs, flurries of notes and bold rhythmic interplay. While the touch of Latimer and Bardens is constantly praised, so finely balanced are the guitars and synths, justice isn't always done to Ward's drumming, capable of unleashing genuine cymbal storms, or to Ferguson's bass, with its swollen, galloping lines.

Closing the album is what is probably still, to this day, Camel's most beloved track, the suite "Lady Fantasy", a nearly thirteen-minute labyrinth blending heartache and acrobatics, giving final shape to the quintet's style. A frenzied, anxiety-laden synthesizer serves as the antechamber to a pop-folk section in the style of Caravan, where amid acoustic flourishes and jazzy chords, Latimer tells of a woman he wished were his, yet could never bring himself to confess his feelings to. A frenetic funk jam follows, then another slowdown leading into a dreamlike central section, dominated by keyboard beds and slow guitar echoes. Here it's the voices of Bardens and Ferguson, in clear harmony, singing to the longed-for object of desire: "I saw you riding on a moon cloud, I saw you walking on a wind, from the corner of my eye I saw you." As if determined to shatter every certainty, though, just as inner balance seems to have been reached, the scene breaks off and the band erupts into a hard-rock section of unprecedented violence and darkness, driving the instruments to the point of spasm, before the ending returns to a calmer theme already hinted at earlier in the suite.

All progressive rock is built on continually throwing the listener off balance, but what separates the top-tier bands from the rest of the pack is the fluidity with which these shifts appear to have been constructed. In Camel's case, that fluidity is such as to place them among the genre's great masters, regardless of their having arrived slightly late to the party. If anything, it worked in their favor, since that time lag allowed them to engage with the language of prog both through codes already established by others and by drawing on new ones, just then emerging, of which they too would go on to become authoritative exponents.

Considered by some too symphonic for fans of the Canterbury scene, by others too restrained vocally for those who loved the relentless attack of Peter Gabriel and Peter Hammill, perhaps too jazzy for lovers of symphonic prog, perhaps too spacey and guitar-driven to avoid cumbersome comparisons with Pink Floyd (to whom they had nothing to be ashamed of) — Camel nevertheless had enough going for them to appeal to pretty much every corner of the prog audience. If they never fully broke through commercially, it was for lack of a frontman with star quality. No masks, no dancing pipers, no capes, no political lyrics (at least in the Seventies) — just four long-haired young men in ordinary clothes singing about wizards and dragons, or about love through lunar visions and metaphors. That is, when they actually sang, because most of the time was spent playing. Indeed, the whole time on the following album, The Snow Goose, released in April 1975. The work was originally meant to include vocal parts, inspired by Paul Gallico's novel of the same name, but the project was abandoned following protests from the author. To cover themselves, the band added small print on the cover reading "Music inspired by", so as to at least keep the title.

The Snow Goose is considered by many a pivotal work in Camel's story and in progressive rock more broadly, but it also shows just how important vocal parts were to the band's balance, however understated and never overbearing — almost like milestones to help listeners navigate the winding instrumental passages. Their absence, combined with the fragmented nature of the pieces (sixteen tracks for just forty-three minutes total), makes the album a touch harder to digest than the band's other work, even though its strong melodies are beyond question, as is its taste for instrumental timbre, the delicacy of the arrangements, and the successful collaboration with the London Symphony Orchestra, arranged by maestro David Bedford (who had already worked with Kevin Ayers and Mike Oldfield). In particular, "Rhayader" and "Rhayader Goes To Town" would remain among the classics of the band's repertoire.

Surprisingly, the album was rewarded with a long-coveted entry into the British charts, where it stayed for about three months, climbing as high as number 22. That was enough to get the band to perform an excerpt on television, on BBC2. The high point came in October, with a historic sold-out show at the Royal Albert Hall in London.

For Moonmadness, March 1976, the sleeve credits no longer list David Hitchcock, but a rising new star of the British scene, Rhett Davies, fresh off producing Brian Eno's "Another Green World". With this injection in the production booth, the band delivered a new classic.

Latimer and Bardens' songwriting skills are once again on equal footing, as shown right away by "Song Within A Song". After an intro led by Bardens' now-trademark romantic synthesizer, the track slips into a kind of catalepsy, with the rhythm section moving in slow motion and a shimmer of enchanted electronic particles spreading all around, led by Latimer's flute (it's a moment so crystalline and blissful that it puts to shame most of the dream-pop ideas that would surface ten or fifteen years later). What follows is a new funk excursion, between liquid guitars and Minimoog, radiating retro-futuristic scales. The glorious close sees this section surge over Ward's gnarly offbeat rhythms and a breathtaking build driven by the Minimoog riff and the angelic backdrop of the Arp Odyssey. Ironically, it's Ferguson who provides the vocals on what is one of the band's most representative tracks, a serious contender for their stylistic peak.

Another gem is "Another Night", this time sung by Latimer, where the band finds itself at ease with the prog-tinged arena rock that would run riot in the US between the late Seventies and early Eighties (the movement was taking shape right around that time — four months earlier Styx had released "Equinox", and soon "2112" by Rush and "Leftoverture" by Kansas would follow). Either way, the band doesn't seem too interested in chasing that trend, and the album closes, not by chance, with the spacey epic of the instrumental "Lunar Sea": Bardens' electronic tide, a mythic groove in 5/8 with Ward and Ferguson more possessed than ever, Latimer tearing into one of his fastest and most tangled solos, while underneath the electric piano punctuates it all in a convulsive flurry. You might come out of it with a headache, but the band is called Camel, and the effect is, once again, pure harmony of interlocking parts.

It's surprising that such sonic bliss produced irreconcilable tensions within the band. While Ward was pushing for an increasingly overt jazz rhythm section, Ferguson would have preferred to stay in more conventional territory. In the end it was the bassist who left, which is a shame, since his grooves lubricated his bandmates' jazz-rock machinery to perfection, laying the groundwork for those long instrumental excursions. This didn't stop the album from reaching number 15 in the UK, consolidating the band's popularity among genre fans. Fortunately, the departing bassist was replaced by the best in class, none other than Richard Sinclair, who had left Caravan a few years earlier and had recently disbanded Hatfield and the North. Not satisfied with that, Latimer and Bardens also brought in, after testing him out across a long run of shows, saxophonist/flautist Mel Collins, who had been in King Crimson from 1970 to 1972.

This monster lineup recorded Rain Dances, a solidly successful album at the time (number 20 in the UK), but one destined over time to split audiences between those who see it as the beginning of the end and those who defend the excellent craftsmanship of its songs, regardless of their decidedly more pop-leaning character compared to the past.

None of the nine tracks actually runs past six minutes, but the notion that prog only works over the long haul of the suite is, as it happens, a cliché disproved the moment you pay even a little attention to the genre's most iconic names. Rain Dances is a work of undeniable quality and delivers at least three of the band's most moving songs.

Graced by Sinclair's soft voice, which turns every note it touches into arcadian wonder, "Tell Me" floats on angelic keyboards and elongated fretless bass notes, coining a delicate, ambient art-pop that seems to anticipate David Sylvian's "Brilliant Trees".

It's Latimer instead who sings the mid-tempo "Highways Of The Sun", so catchy, infectious and polished that it could pass for the embryo of Christopher Cross's debut album. The two voices overlap on "Univensong" (though Sinclair's is mixed higher), a pounding piano-pop number in odd time that closes with a breathtaking cascade of delicate guitar melodies, undoubtedly one of the standout moments for Latimer as an instrumentalist.

Half the album is made up of instrumental tracks. The seductive funk of "One Of These Days I'll Get An Early Night" and the soundscape of "First Light" (a familiar parade of rhythmic upheavals and majestic keyboards, with a grand sax finale) both convince, while a couple of tracks perhaps suffer by comparison with the excellence of their sung counterparts (there's a lot of talk about "Elke" because of Brian Eno's participation on keyboards, but in the end it's little more than a drowsy ambient piece, without any truly remarkable elements).

Early 1978 saw the release of the double album A Live Record, recorded live between '74 and '77. Still considered one of the best live albums in progressive rock, it does admittedly have a few flaws (the recording isn't always perfect, and Latimer's voice isn't always up to par live), but overall it's an important document in the band's history. That same September came the new album of original material, Breathless. Its decent initial reception (number 26 in the UK, number 134 in the US — their peak stateside) wouldn't spare it from critical savaging. Aside from Allmusic's enthusiastic review, it's been getting hammered pretty much everywhere for decades.

It's true that not everything works as it should (the vocal melody of "You Make Me Smile" is indeed a bit generic; the attempt to recreate Caravan on "Down On The Farm" would almost have succeeded, if not for those couple of big-guitar breaks), but it's also true that there's no shortage of sly surprises. On the Latimer-sung front, "Echoes" stands out, a new monument of cutting riffs, crooked progressions, cosmic technology and gentle singing, while on the Sinclair side the controversial "Summer Lightning" draws attention, a sophisticated disco-music number with a fusion flavour and a strict 4/4 pulse. For those who enjoy spotting unlikely echoes, the bass groove distantly recalls that of Lucio Battisti's "Il veliero", from the album "La batteria, il contrabbasso, eccetera".

Bardens returns to singing after two years (three, if you don't count the tracks with vocal filters applied), on the playful "Wing And A Prayer", a pop vignette as easy as a glass of water. One can understand why longtime fans turned up their noses, but shaking off the ideology, one could wish for more "failed" albums like Breathless.

Defending the immediately following works proves far more difficult. Bardens's departure, never fully explained to the public, plunged Latimer into a period of creative instability from which it would take him years to re-emerge.

I Can See Your House From Here (1979) sees the lineup completely reshuffled, with Latimer and Ward joined by session player Colin Bass on bass and two new keyboardists, Kit Watkins (from American prog band Happy The Man) and Jan Schelhaas (from the mediocre Caravan of the late Seventies). The album ranges far and wide, but turns out to be something of a mess, caught between heavy orchestral ballads ("Who We Are") that certainly won't have the Carpenters trembling at the sudden competition, and garish experiments in robotic pop ("Remote Romance") that make a purifying dose of Kraftwerk feel urgently necessary. And yet, even amid such chaos, whenever the guitarist takes the helm he's still capable of pulling off a classic. Placed at the close, the instrumental "Ice" rests on a long, jazzy, intimate solo, with a louder passage in the middle that never picks up the pace. The structure is simple, but the effect is evocative and grandiose. Even those who trash the album usually tip their hat to a track like this.

After the commercial disaster of the previous record, Latimer tries his hand at a concept album to revive interest in his creation. He's joined only by Ward and Bass. Nude (1981) is inspired by the story of the Japanese holdout soldier Hiroo Onoda, who officially surrendered only in 1974. However, it's debatable how wise a choice it was to include ten instrumental tracks out of fourteen on an album meant to narrate a story so dense with implications. It's a record that dares less than its predecessor, for better and worse, and ends up as an anthology of late progressive rock with glossy pop tints, a somewhat faded cousin of the Alan Parsons Project.

If a couple of tracks are worth salvaging, "City Lights" and "Lies" have well-oiled melodies and come across as rather pleasant. Entering the UK charts at number 34, Nude would be Camel's last appearance in the top 40.

Ward's departure, crushed under the weight of alcohol and drugs, comes within a hair's breadth of ending the band's story (the drummer would play briefly with Marillion before retiring from the scene for a few years). The Single Factor (1982) is essentially a Latimer solo work, backed by friends and session musicians, among whom Anthony Phillips, guitarist on the first two Genesis albums, and Dave Mattacks, drummer with Fairport Convention from 1969 to 1975, stand out. Recorded reluctantly to fulfill contractual obligations, it contains the instrumental "Sasquatch", on which Bardens makes a cameo appearance on synthesizer, briefly rekindling the old flame.

Ignored by the public and mocked by critics, the Camel name seems destined for certain death. And yet, just when nobody would have bet a penny on him, Latimer summons a burst of pride and delivers one of his most ambitious projects.

For Stationary Traveller (1984) the leader tries to rebuild the semblance of a band around the Camel name, permanently recruiting Ton Scherpenzel, formerly keyboardist with the Dutch band Kayak, and session drummer Paul Burgess. The rest is handled by a host of outside collaborators, some of whom had already featured on the lackluster previous efforts: bassist David Paton and singer Chris Rainbow, both accomplished session players on loan from the Alan Parsons camp, and journalist Susan Hoover (Latimer's future wife) on lyrics.

This time, however, the result is of an entirely different caliber. Stationary Traveller is first and foremost Latimer's best record as a singer, having evolved over time into a crooner capable of handling both darkness and velvet. Secondly, the central theme of the lyrics, namely the atmosphere and drama of East Berlin at the height of the Cold War, is this time developed with real care, shaping the sound of the songs, which have never been so dark and oppressive. It's no coincidence that this is Camel's only overtly political work and the last occasion on which Latimer showed himself to be a visionary artist, capable of producing his own reading of the times (whereas for some years he had seemed to settle into a retirement-home attitude, churning out music that was effectively already old before it hit the shops).

The tiger thus roars again in superb hybrids of new wave, AOR and progressive pop-rock, positioning the album as the equivalent of what "90125" was for Yes or the 1983 self-titled album was for Genesis. This one, though, is gloomier than both, which had moments of strong tension ("Changes" for the former, "Mama" for the latter) but also knew how to ease them. On Stationary Traveller, by contrast, there isn't even five minutes of breathing room.

"Pressure Points" is an anguished instrumental intro, cinematic and sinister electronic music that would have delighted John Carpenter. The brisk pace of "Refugee" again shows debts to the Alan Parsons Project, but from "Vopos" onward there's no contest. Pitch-black, with its hacking rhythm guitar chops and obsessive electronic keyboard patterns (Prophet-5, Fairlight, Juno-60, CS-80), it's enough to blow past much of the contemporary existentialist gothic rock of the era.

Grave and baritone, only slightly lightened by epic choruses, "West Berlin" continues through cold Eighties territory, a technological nightmare underscored by the closing solo, a long electronic refraction with an evanescent quality. "Above the roofs, beneath the rain, and I'm looking toward West Berlin, I feel freer now than I've ever been." "Fingertips" plays the classy card, between fretless bass and saxophone (the returning Mel Collins), dispensing with guitar for once. The result ends up somewhere in David Sylvian territory (as we've seen, this isn't the first time for Camel, and the timeline clears them of any possible charge of imitation).

Among the instrumentals, the syncopated, aggressive "Missing" stands out, while two tracks see Latimer hand the microphone to the aforementioned Chris Rainbow. If "Long Goodbyes" is a dignified ballad, "Cloak And Dagger Man" is a memorable, full-throttle AOR assault, with snappy electronic patterns, full-lunged vocals (the opposite of Latimer's introverted approach), and a dizzying synthesizer solo set entirely to high, faintly dissonant tones. "Act undercover and trust no one you know. Watch what you say, there's no turning back."

A music video was also made for the track (now impossible to find), but by this point the world seems to have lost interest in Latimer's creation, and a towering work goes overlooked. Among Camel's albums, only Mirage is more cohesive, though comparisons are pointless given their very different content.

After the live album Pressure Points (1984), Latimer is dropped by Decca. The disappointing sales of the last few records leave no room for appeal, and there's nothing left to do but put the band on hold for a while. Seven years of silence follow, during which Latimer ends up in court settling copyright disputes, and, once he wins the case, decides to emigrate to California.

In 1991 he founds his own label, simply calling it Camel, and resumes activity. However, the shoestring budget doesn't allow for productions on a par with the old classics, and listening to the four albums of this new era, released between 1991 and 2002, one often gets the sense of listening to a skilled but amateur Camel cover band. Old fans do seem to genuinely appreciate this incarnation, mostly because Latimer carefully avoids any attempt at innovation and settles into a glossy, drowsy progressive rock, certainly reassuring for his audience, whose average age has in the meantime risen considerably.

Worth mentioning is the title track of Rajaz, a melancholy, drawn-out ballad that finally offers a glimpse of what the band could still be, given the right conditions.

In January 2002, Peter Bardens lost his battle with lung cancer, putting an end to the hopes of those who had so wished for his return. After a long hiatus, in 2013 Latimer came out with a new version of The Snow Goose, a pointless remake that in turn put a definitive gravestone over the hopes of anyone still expecting the Camel name to have something important left to say. Still, it was at least enough to convince the guitarist to get out of the house again. Since then, concerts have followed one another all over the world, entirely built around a classic repertoire that, whatever ailments its performer may suffer from, always remains a joy to hear.

Meanwhile, new prog bands from every corner of the globe keep building their sound on the model of albums like Mirage and Moonmadness. One can only hope that the worthwhile material that followed those classics will soon be rediscovered too, since its reputation is currently nowhere near as solid.

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