welcome back my friends to the show that never ends

Greg Lake's
Bar Mitzvah 'do

I loved Emerson, Lake and Palmer... when I was 13. A friend from school introduced me to the 1973 progressive rock classic Brain Salad Surgery almost a year after its release. I remember sitting in my pal Bobby's bedroom, in front of his stereo, positively mesmerized by the otherworldly sounds emanating from the speakers. I was accustomed to the pop of The Jackson's Dancing Machine, Terry Jacks' clawingly sad elegy Seasons in the Sun, George McCrae's pre-disco Rock Your Baby and the inane "ooga-chucka"s of Blue Swede's take on Hooked on a Feeling. In comparison to the three-minute ditties I heard on the radio, Emerson Lake and Palmer were positively empyrean. Bobby also commented that he wanted to get his hair cut for his Bar Mitzvah in the style that Greg Lake sported in a photo included in the album package. But it was the music that got me hooked. I went right out and bought a copy of the album for my very own. 

I played my copy of Brain Salad Surgery over and over and over. I loved it! The songs spanned a variety of styles, although they all seemed to complement each other. There were ballads and traditional madrigals and even a bawdy skiffle tune. It was all capped off with an epic, three-part pseudo symphony, chockful of Keith Emerson's signature synthesizers, Greg Lake's soaring vocals and Carl Palmer's inventive percussion. 

But, alas, my interest in Emerson, Lake and Palmer was short-lived. In the Summer of 1974, I discovered Queen and there was no looking back. Freddie Mercury and company — in my limited teenage opinion — were the epitome of innovation and experimentation. By the time the 70s ended, Emerson Lake and Palmer had gone their separate ways and I was entering my new wave and punk phase of musical interest.

As a white male in his 60s, I grew up in what is now looked back upon as the "classic rock" era. Okay, maybe I'm on the young side of that era, but, still, I was in the thick of it. To be honest, I loathe the classic rock era, with only a few exceptions. I still like the stupid bubble-gum pop of one-hit wonders like Reunion and  Paper Lace (ahhhhh.... Paper Lace....!). But, I cringe at the reverence that "classic rock" unjustly thinks it deserves. Well, maybe not the music itself. I suppose it's the fans of classic rock. The unwavering, narrow-minded, opinionated cranks that just know that "classic rock" is the greatest music ever produced. The ones that angrily try to convince the members of subsequent generations that they should be listening to classic rock and the music from their actual youth is frivolous and unimportant. Of course, their campaign is bolstered by the regular parade of classic rock-era bands that trot themselves out for a national tour with one original member and a subsidy of recruited musicians who weren't yet born when the band in question was enjoying the adoration of their youthful fans. (I experienced this at a recent show I attended purely as a social experiment and to get a blog post out of it.)

"Is this bloody thing on?
C'mere and help granddad
with this, luv?"

A few days ago, I was mindlessly scrolling through the "Reels" on Facebook. Between the brief clips of stand-up comics, mouse-eared folks traipsing through Disneyland and cats climbing up curtains, the algorithm powers-that-be saw fit to stick in a promo video for an upcoming performance by.... um.... Emerson Lake and Palmer. The video, shot from the unnatural angle of a nasal cavity examination featured an older man that I swear I just saw picking though low-fat yogurt in the refrigerated section at Aldi. In a weak and scratchy British accent, this bloke implored the viewer (in this case, me) to come see him at the historic Levoy Theatre in glorious Millville, New Jersey. He revealed that for and extra fifty bucks, you could participate in a  Q & A session, as well as pose for an exclusive photo with him and his band. It turns out this older gentleman with the thick-lensed glasses and gray crewcut was non other than Carl Palmer. The video looped again and he repeated the details of the performance by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I was puzzled for a moment. After all, keyboard maestro Keith Emerson had taken his own life nearly ten years ago. Later the same year, vocalist/bassist Greg Lake (he of Bar Mitzvah-style hairdos) succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 69. I got bad news for you, Carl. Your former bandmates ain't joining you in South Jersey... or anywhere else, for that matter.

Additional research showed that the performance — "An Evening with Emerson, Lake and Palmer" — would consist of  the 74-year old drummer flanked by two giant screens (in the promo video, Carl emphasized the enormity of the screens) showing decades old footage of Keith and Greg. Carl will be accompanying the film live on drums. For an extra fifty bucks — over and above your ticket price —  you can meet Carl face-to-face and possibly ask him: "Jesus, Carl.... what the fuck?" before they kick you out the door. That sounds like it's worth fifty bucks. Maybe you can also tell him to center himself better in the camera frame when he makes iPad videos. Y'know, before the venue door smacks you in the ass.

Look, I don't begrudge Carl Palmer (or Brian May or the guy from The Yardbirds who's not Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page or Jeff Beck) for wanting to earn a living. But do you really have to grab a buck at the expense of a dead and more popular bandmate? Is that the career path you had hoped for? If you ask Brian May, he'd confidently reply that "Freddie Mercury would have approved."

I guess Keith Emerson and Greg Lake are on board, too. Right, Carl?

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