Pye Hastings - Caravan - Under Canterbury's grey and pink sky

Certain bad company can leave an indelible scar on the spirit, and the same holds true for musical listening habits; anyone who has spent a long time dwelling in the territories of the most long-winded progressive rock will have ended up identifying the genre as a refuge for musicians with perpetually swollen egos, the kind of people for whom a solo can never last less than a good five minutes. To these unfortunate souls we'd recommend taking up residence as soon as possible in the fairy-tale yet exquisitely British non-place inhabited by the protagonists of one of the leading bands who, at the dawn of the Seventies, coined the so-called "Canterbury sound", namely Caravan. More restrained than Gong and their freak psychedelia, and more inclined towards melody than their friends in Soft Machine, the quartet led by singer and guitarist Pye Hastings, together with cousins Dave and Richard Sinclair on organ and bass respectively, and drummer Richard Coughlan, proved to be much more than just the masterpiece for which every self-respecting rock encyclopedia can't help but cite them, the 1971 album "In The Land Of Grey And Pink". Talented musicians and inspired composers, they forged a style of mysterious elegance that never felt stiff, producing songs of oblique beauty (just listen to the velvety romanticism of "Winter Wine") without denying themselves bold experimentation which, even when occasionally drawing on the waters of dissonance, always followed a recipe that was never off-putting and always thrilling (the 22 minutes of the suite "Nine Feet Underground").

Storied wanderer of the road for over 55 years of honourable career, Hastings has kept a firm hand on a musical path that, once the flourishing prog era had passed, found the courage and humility to pare down the formula and look his present squarely in the eye, feet planted firmly in a land that, to the eyes and ears of his fans, will always appear in soft shades of pink, in melancholy tones of grey.

Pye, what's the first image that comes to mind when you think back to the Canterbury of your youth?

The first image is that of a dull, run-down city, scarred by the devastation of World War II yet still possessed of a certain beauty. It was the early 1960s: reconstruction had touched large areas of the city among those damaged by German bombing, so you'd notice a certain discontinuity between some of the original buildings and the rebuilt ones. On the musical side, Canterbury was full of pubs where you could hear live music and perform yourself. It was in those places that we kids learned to face an audience and build up a repertoire. At first the kids were split between mods and rockers, desperately trying to outdo one another in popularity. Then, as with everything in life, that changed too, and along came the so-called hippie culture. People started growing their hair long and wearing loud clothes, causing friction not only with their parents but also with the mods and rockers.

Were these fashions a conscious expression of individual originality?

There's something tribal in all of us, a desire to mix with others, to belong to an extended family who thinks the way we do. These fashions were, first and foremost, a way of outwardly showing which tribe you belonged to, not unlike the kit worn by players on a football team. One way or another, they're all uniforms.

Canterbury sound: an effective piece of journalistic shorthand, or were there real musical elements you shared with the other bands on the scene?

It was, first of all, the invention of a journalist who wanted to geographically lump together groups like ours, Soft Machine and other bands that actually came from London but also Liverpool and Birmingham. That said, it's true that, compared to others at the time, we played in a more jazz-inflected way, because we experimented with chord progressions and time changes typical of that genre and still foreign to the world of pop.

As a composer, at the time, what was your view of so-called progressive rock?

If I remember correctly, there was no preconceived idea driving me to write songs in what would later be identified as "progressive rock". Quite the opposite, really - we all lived out in the countryside and so were fairly detached from the feverish development of the London scene. Which is to say, we didn't feel any pressure to develop in ways different from our own. Of course, we wanted to stand out from the rest, so we wrote material drawn from whatever idea popped into our heads, material that, naturally, was also shaped by what we'd been listening to.

What memories do you have of your time with the Wilde Flowers?

My first experience in a band. I was brought in as rhythm guitarist and for my vocal harmonising skills; it was Brian Hopper who called me, a founding member alongside his brother Hugh. Rounding out the line-up were Richard Coughlan on drums and Robert Wyatt on vocals. The first challenge was getting past stage fright. Our first live show was at a battle-of-the-bands contest in Margate. We played as a four-piece, since Richard was on holiday, but even so, we came first.

The prize?

The "fabulous" prize was a recording session in a studio that turned out to be rather amateurish. It was actually just a guy with a tape recorder, and for a studio we had a room there in Margate at our disposal. I remember thinking: "Well, welcome to the world of rock'n'roll!" I hadn't thought about it since.

From the psychedelic beat of your debut "Caravan" to "If I Could Do It All Over Again, I'd Do It All Over You", you surprisingly found an original style. How did that happen?

All four of us were rapidly evolving as musicians, but Dave Sinclair in particular had made giant strides with his Hammond organ; he was, in effect, creating a unique sound and style, which rightly made him the central axis of Caravan. From then on, the mood of the songs shifted from guitar to keyboard.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on two great artists who are no longer with us. Starting with Daevid Allen.

When people your own age pass away, that's when you really "feel it in your bones" how fragile our lives are. Of course, personal habits and lifestyles also play a significant role in these deaths, and they can become either our curse or, in the best case, our salvation. I only knew Daevid for a short time and, maybe because of his constant use of certain substances, he struck me as a decidedly strange guy.

Kevin Ayers.

Kevin, on the other hand, I knew better - he was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde kind of character. I bought my first guitar at 17, in 1964, but it was actually him, the year before, who taught me my first chords, during a holiday in Morocco. What can I tell you about him? He was handsome, charming, full of talent, but unfortunately also a manipulator. What attracted him most of all were beautiful women, especially married ones, and even better if they had a wealthy husband. Despite his talents, getting on stage made him very anxious, so he relied heavily on alcohol and drugs. That's how he ended up losing his way and, I daresay, some of his closest friends too. If he'd been able to control his demons, I'm convinced he could have become the new Cat Stevens. Either way, he left behind a legacy of songs that present and future generations will love forever.

What was Robert Wyatt's greatest talent?

Simply, being Robert!

Music critics agree in naming "In The Land Of Grey And Pink" your masterpiece. Do you agree?

It's all true: most specialist critics consider it our masterpiece, and indeed it was our first and only Gold record. But I wouldn't want to forget a later album either, "For Girls Who Grow Plump In The Night", which actually earned a Silver disc.

What were the reasons behind the success of "In The Land..."?

Besides the fact that we'd shifted compositional focus onto Dave's organ, we were probably also in the right place at the right time.

Before "For Girls..." you recorded the excellent "Waterloo Lily", also notable for the collaboration with a saxophonist who, sadly, few people here in Italy know: Lol Coxhill.

It was Richard's idea to invite him into the studio as a session man for "Waterloo Lily". He was an extremely interesting character, a single dad who, when work was scarce, would play delightful, mesmerizing sax solos on the street on Kings Road just to make rent. DJ John Peel noticed him, and he played a key role in drawing the public's attention to his talent.

Are there elements you rule out on principle from your compositions?

You can't apply elements or formulas to musicians as a given, no matter how effective they've proven to be. Sure, you have a duty to preserve the character of the band, but that shouldn't be something that limits the talent of the individual musicians who are part of it. Look at Caravan: every time there's been a lineup change, it's brought welcome contributions from people with new influences, and that's inevitably had an effect on the final result, without ever distorting the formula. For me it's been a pleasure to guide every new member through this collective journey, while always maintaining continuity with what we'd been before.

Let's go back to '72: how did you react to the departure of your Sinclair cousins?

There were never any real fights; it was more a difference of opinion about the direction the band should take: I was pushing for rock, Richard for jazz. Dave, meanwhile, had already left to join Wyatt's Matching Mole, though he later came back on several occasions to record with Caravan.

What's your relationship like today?

I have the utmost respect for the contribution both Sinclairs made, and I'm perfectly aware that no band can withstand collapse when it's being pulled in two opposite directions at once. At the time, though, I was determined to carry on, to rebuild Caravan after the departure of people who were not just colleagues but friends. I'm happy to say we still get to play together from time to time even now.

By the mid-Seventies, prog had suddenly become "dinosaur" music. And yet, listening back to some of your live recordings from '72, you had an attitude (especially when it comes to the electric guitar) that was punkier than punk itself.

What can you do, fashions change, and music is no exception to that. Even though we never cared about chasing the trends of any given era, we were guilty of losing touch with what was happening at the time, when a new generation of listeners was loudly demanding a rawer, more basic musical form to identify with. In the end, though, reality caught up with us, so in '82 we opted for a time out to take stock. Looking back on it now, the prog rock approach, with its long and sometimes self-indulgent solos, can certainly be seen as dated, out of fashion. Bands, too, given the kind of equipment they used, were also particularly expensive to book.

A band like Camel owes a great deal, stylistically, to Caravan.

I think we influenced each other. There was, that much is true, a healthy rivalry between the two bands, although, to be honest, they're the ones who achieved greater commercial recognition. And the reason for that success, in my view, lies above all in the brilliant guitar style of their leader, Andy Latimer.

Is there a track recorded in the new millennium that properly captures the present-day Caravan?

At this point I should tell you that the most representative track, the best one, is "the one I haven't written yet." But I'll say instead that "It's None Of Your Business," from the 2021 album of the same name, sums up well the direction the band is currently taking.

Is going commercial always, without exception, an unhappy choice?Going commercial generally brings greater financial reward and, well, despite the best intentions in the world, we too have to pay the bills at the end of the month, so I'd say it's an option that should take that need into account, but also the effect it might have on longtime fans. Both options, though, should be considered with respect.

Does the new generation of rock catch your interest?

Music in general is always a surprise to me. Like most people, I too sometimes fixate on certain preferences, a matter of personal taste, but every now and then I come across things that push me to explore different directions. And I'm not talking about any specific genre or style; I listen to a bit of everything and I'm drawn to melody in all its forms, whether it's classical music, rock, jazz or folk. Then, you know, there are certain so-called "experts" who arrogantly impose their view of what good music and bad music are. On that note, there's a quote from I don't know who that I really like: "There's no such thing as bad music, only badly played music." Then there's "so-so" music but, listening to it closely, even that isn't as terrible as some make it out to be.

Aristotle: "Music directly represents the passions of the soul. If a person listens to the wrong kind of music, he will become a person prone to error."

Naaa. You always have the chance to change your mind and move on to something you like better. At the end of the day, it's just a matter of personal taste.

Any regrets from your career?

That I never managed to reach the top rung of the ladder. Mind you, there's still time for that, even if my time is running out fast.

You waited until 2017 to release "From The Half House", your solo debut.

Actually, "For Girls …" from 1973 was supposed to be my solo debut, but I was persuaded by the manager at the time to release it under the Caravan name. After quite a few years I went back to live in my home country, Scotland. I honestly thought our time as a band was over, that yes, up to that point we'd done great work, but the moment had come to release something under my own name. I'd bought a house in the village of Tomintoul, in the Grampian mountains, and I built a small recording studio in the garden. I spent months and months trying to learn everything about digital recording, but in the end I realised that the more time I wasted on that, the less I focused on the guitar to work on new songs. Luckily I decided to turn to my son Julian, who's a producer and sound engineer, so I was finally able to record the backing tracks with ease. Then I sent the tracks to my brother Jimmy, who recorded all the horns you hear on the album, and I wrapped it up by inviting former Soft Machine man John Etheridge into my studio, who played a few solos.

Caravan are also known for ironic lyrics that are never banal. If you happen to love literature, what do you read?

I love writers like Gilbert Keith Chesterton and poets like John Betjeman. When I get stuck writing a song's lyrics, though, I always turn to those who can spark my inspiration, people like Bob Dylan or Paul Simon. Let's be honest: most of my early lyrics were rubbish, and only now am I starting to understand the importance of a properly crafted lyric. Before my time runs out, I hope to come up with something truly meaningful.

What gets your creativity flowing?

Anything, really, from morning sunlight to a delicious, well-made meal. There are no limits.

Are you scared of the possible implications of AI in composing music? Perhaps one day anyone, through some piece of software, will be able to write a song in the style of Caravan…

AI will become a danger the day it's no longer guided by human input, that is, when it starts producing music out of its own personal will. But in any case, think about it: who would even claim the copyright?

Brexit. All things considered, was it the right choice or not? The Italian media predicted disaster for the UK.

I voted firmly against it and I was upset when the result favoured those in favour of leaving the EU. Honestly, there's so much chaos going on around the world these days! Sometimes I suspect it's all orchestrated and funded by foreign powers. So my main worry isn't just the effects of Brexit, but the fact that we could be dragged into some other war at any moment. It makes me despair to think about our political class, who are supposed to find a way out of this mess. So far they haven't exactly handled Brexit very well, would you agree?

What's the most extraordinary aspect of being an artist?

Creating something out of nothing that ends up being appreciated by a whole crowd of complete strangers who, over time, in a way, become your friends.

Ride the wave of great music

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