Edited by Neil Storey,
Published by Manchester University Press.
reviewed by Stuart Penney.
In late 1970 I took a job as a gofer at the famous classical music publisher Universal Edition. At age 20 I had little interest in classical music and found the work mostly dull, what with all those Mozart scores and their endlessly confusing Köchel numbers. But there were the occasional bright spots, such as when I stumbled upon a little-known 18th century Italian composer and cellist by the name of Francesco Zappa. I’m sure we only sold a handful of his scores during the entire time I worked there, but it was always a thrill to see them sitting in the racks, dusty and neglected, tied up with brown paper and hemp string, bearing a faded label reading simply "Zappa." 14 years later the “other” Zappa would record an album of Francesco’s work arranged for Synclavier (an early digital synthesizer) in an attempt to introduce his long-forgotten namesake to the modern world.
As well as the usual Romantic, Baroque and Classical era guys, Universal
Edition also published works by a number of 20th century composers including Karlheinz Stockhausen, Richard Rodney Bennett, Harrison Birtwistle and
David Bedford whose manuscripts were often unorthodox and fun to examine, even for those who, like me, didn't sight read. For example, Bedford had a piece wittily titled “Whitefield
Music 1 for 12 chime-bars, 12 tuned milk bottles, 4 drums,” and another called “With 100
Kazoos.” The latter work was commissioned by the BBC to
be performed as part of Pierre Boulez's series of concerts at the Roundhouse in
1972. Boulez refused to conduct the piece.
As for
Stockhausen, instead of conventional musical notation, some of his scores used
squiggles, symbols and moving parts, including holes cut in the pages behind
which cogs and wheels turned, revealing a variety of pictures indicating various random sounds and tempos to be played. Picture the elaborate
revolving sleeve of Led Zeppelin III and you’re still
not even halfway there. Those Stockhausen scores were eye wateringly
expensive even in 1970 and I can only imagine how much they are worth
today.
Why am I telling you this? Well, another 20th century composer whose work UE handled was Béla Bartók, which is where our story
begins.
One day I
was summoned into the manager’s office at Universal Edition and asked if I had
heard of a “pop group” (his words) called Emerson, Lake &
Palmer. The boss was a stuffy old geezer who cared little for popular music, so it seemed a strange question. I told him that, yes, I was
familiar with the group and was also aware that their self-titled Island debut LP had recently been released. I was tempted to add that I’d also witnessed the second-ever ELP live performance at the Isle of Wight Festival in August 1970 but felt this might be over-egging the pudding.
He appeared satisfied with my answer and reaching into his desk drawer, pulled out the petty cash box and handed over two crisp five-pound notes, instructing me to “Go and buy three copies of their gramophone record,” adding “and remember to get a receipt." Universal Edition were located in the heart of the West End, literally yards from the Dean Street branch of the famous One Stop Records store, and many a happy lunchtime was spent there browsing the import LP racks. Returning with the trio of ELP albums (they cost a little over £2 each), I left them on the manager's desk (with the change and receipt) and assumed my task was finished. But over the following week I was to see a lot more of those records.
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It seemed the Béla Bartók estate had become aware that the track "The Barbarian" on the Emerson, Lake & Palmer album
was an arrangement of Bartók's 1911 piano piece “Allegro Barbaro.” It was still
in copyright, but the record cheekily credited the piece only to ELP. Bartók's
widow was understandably miffed at this and contacted the band to request the credit be corrected, which is where the UK branch of Universal Edition came
in.
It was bizarre to see three pink label copies of the ELP record spread out on the boss’s desk for days while what I imagined were high powered telephone negotiations went on with someone at Island records or the band’s management regarding the composer credits.
It didn’t happen right away, but by the time Emerson Lake & Palmer was reissued on the group’s own Manticore vanity label in 1973, Bartók was correctly listed as co-composer alongside the band members on the sleeve credit for “The Barbarian,” while “Bartók” alone was credited on the label.
Incidentally, Emerson,
Lake & Palmer (ILPS 9132) was the penultimate UK album to wear the famous Island pink label, the very last one
being Tea for the Tillerman (ILPS 9135) by Cat Stevens
which closed out the decade in late November 1970.
I think
it’s fair to say British underground rock, folk rock and blues pretty-much began with Island records circa 1967. In response EMI set up the
Harvest label, Philips gave us Vertigo and stuffy old Decca revamped their
existing Deram label, which had started life in 1966 releasing mainly MOR material,
turning it into a full-blown hippie haven for the likes of the Moody Blues and
early releases by Bowie and the aforementioned Cat Stevens.
All these
imprints had their glory years and moments of magic, not to mention a boatload
of obscure (ie poor selling) LPs, some of which are now worth a king’s ransom
on the collectable vinyl market. But in my view, none of those major label
spin-offs could compete with the proudly independent Island label for
quality and consistency.
Like many
an old head, one of the first Island label records I ever owned was the
legendary sampler LP You Can All Join In (IWPS-2). Released
in April 1969 it contained a cross-section of artists who went on to do great things (Jethro Tull, Free, Fairport Convention, Traffic) plus a few
who fell by the wayside (Wynder K. Frog, Clouds and Tramline). Ironically, Tramline’s contribution to YCAJI was “Pearly Queen” a Jim Capaldi / Steve Winwood song
from the second Traffic album. It was all a little incestuous, but in
the nicest possible way.
1969 and
1970 is considered by many to be Island's golden era and this is
the period covered in the second volume of Neil Storey’s The Island
Book of Records, published at the tail end of 2024. My copy has only just arrived, courtesy of Amazon who lost the first order, hence the lateness of this review. Volume
one centered on the label’s earliest years from its calypso, ska and soul
inception in 1959 through to 1968 and the start of the home-grown British rock
explosion.
This latest
edition examines the legendary pink label releases in all their prog, folk and
blues rock glory. With Fairport, Tull, John & Beverley Martyn,
ELP, Free, Cat Stevens et al taking centre stage, every album
cover and single sleeve is present and correct (UK and foreign releases), most shown in full 12” LP-size. They are discussed via brief interview
quotes from band members, journalists and those who worked in and around Island
during the period. Author / editor Storey also contributes where
clarification is required (see the Bumpers sampler
below). There are also countless music magazine ads, contemporary
reviews and press cuttings, ads and other ephemera.
Following a lengthy dissertation on Blind Faith (their sole album may have been on Polydor, but Steve Winwood was still firmly contracted to Island at the time) the book kicks off with Tons of Sobs (ILPS 9089) the debut LP by Free. From there the 430-page hard cover volume works its way chronologically through the pink label years album by album, including all those missing numbers which have confounded archivists for years (Volume one ran to a not-inconsiderable 390 pages).
For example, folk blues artist Ian A. Anderson who appeared so prominently on the cover of the You Can All Join In sampler was cruelly dropped from the label at the eleventh hour allegedly due to a clash of names with the Jethro Tull front man. Ian A’s 1969 LP Stereo Death Breakdown, scheduled to be released on Island with the catalogue number ILPS 9094, eventually turned up on the Liberty label instead and the Island number remained unused. I daresay Anderson has been counting the money this savage blow has cost him ever since.
Other
“missing” catalogue numbers include unreleased albums by Hard Meat, Wynder K.
Frog and the band Clouds. Some were issued in the US while other gaps were filled by compilation LPs
released only in France.
Once the
catalogue hit its stride, however, it was all killer and very little
filler. Few labels can boast Island’s strike rate of blue chip,
timeless records from the late 60s and beyond. It really is hard to
find even a mediocre album, never mind a bad one, listed here after 1968.
The bulk of
the book is devoted to the legendary pink label era and the records we have
treasured for more than half a century. There is detailed coverage
of King Crimson’s In The Court Of The Crimson King, Nick
Drake’s Five Leaves Left, Fairport Convention’s Liege
& Liege plus other massively influential early LPs by Martyn, Free, Tull, Mott the Hoople, Spooky Tooth and
Traffic. Foreign releases are included along with subsequent UK
pressings on the pink rim palm tree label, which superseded the three famous
pink label designs in late 1970.
With their
none-more-hippie ethos, Quintessence were a different and somewhat more obscure
kettle of fish, and they often seemed out of step with the label’s big
names. But you can count me as huge fan of their heavy raga
rock. And let’s not forget this ragbag outfit from Ladbroke Grove
also gave us two of the most elaborate Island album sleeves of the period, one
of which opens up from the centre like a Buddhist altar. For that
reason alone, Quintessence should be forever cherished.
I was intrigued to see White Noise’s An Electric Storm (ILPS 9099) discussed at length. This early electronic album from 1969 really was an Island oddity, quite unlike anything else coming from the label at that time. Keen-eyed viewers of Danny Baker’s 2015 TV sitcom Cradle to Grave may have spotted a giant poster for this little-known album, along with another for Free’s Heartbreaker (ILPS 9217), on the fictional bedroom wall of the 15-year-old Danny.
As far as it relates directly to the main Island (ILPS) numbering system, the Chrysalis label is also covered here. Founded in 1967 by Chris Wright and Terry Ellis, Chrysalis (Chris+Ellis = Chrysalis) started life as a management company and booking agency, representing Ten Years After and Jethro Tull. Early albums by Tull, Blodwyn Pig and Clouds were licensed to the Island label, while TYA were signed to Deram. Island boss Chris Blackwell promised Wright and Ellis their own label identity should Chrysalis artists reach an agreed number of chart entries, and the target was achieved in fine style when Tull's second album Stand Up (ILPS 9103) sprinted to #1 in September 1969.
The first LPs to wear the green Chrysalis label with its red butterfly logo were Getting To This (ILPS 9122) by Blodwyn Pig and the third Jethro Tull album Benefit (ILPS 9123) released simultaneously in April 1970, although both still carried Island catalogue numbers at this stage. Several more Chrysalis / Island hybrid releases by Tull, Mick Abrahams, Clouds, Tir Na Nog and Procol Harum followed before Chrysalis finally hatched (or should that be metamorphosed?) and flew the nest, launching its own dedicated UK numbering series in August 1971 with Ten Years After's A Space In Time (CHR 1001).
An entire
section is devoted to the trio of famous pink label sampler LPs You
Can All Join In, Nice Enough to Eat and Bumpers. Inspired
directly by the CBS Rock Machine Turns You On samplers
which started it all, they were big sellers and introduced the Island catalogue
to a generation of record buyers.
Some years
ago, I co-wrote a series of Island articles for Record Collector magazine, one of which focused on the sampler LPs (reproduced on my blog HERE). It highlighted the errors,
discrepancies and downright cock-ups featured on Bumpers (IDP
1) the only double album to receive a pink label release. Retailing
at a shade under 30 shillings (soon to be £1.50 after decimalisation) it was
incredible value, but not quite in the way Island had intended.
Whether it
was wildly inaccurate track timings, incorrect mixes or simply bogus and misleading
sleeve information, hardly a track on Bumpers was untouched by inconsistency and an already splendid album became an essential purchase. It’s good to see Storey has listed the errors I first
documented, plus a few more besides.
At around
£80 this is not a cheap book, but for Island aficionados it’s worth every penny. Beautifully designed, lavishly illustrated and forensically researched, the 3kg tome is streets ahead of anything yet published about the label. We’ve been promised several more
volumes taking us through the 70s and into the 80s, each one covering possibly
a couple of years of Island’s history. If this comes to pass I’m sure
they’ll all be excellent but somehow I doubt future books will scale the giddy
heights of this one. I maintain 1969-1970 was indubitably Island’s
peak period. And I’ll fight anyone who says differently.
