The Incredible String Band – Earthspan (1972)

This was the first Incredible String Band record I heard, way back in the day, which explains why several years passed before I was willing to give them another chance, or, instead, makes me now wonder how I ever came to give them said chance (not to say I regret having done so). 

The ISB pretty much erected an entire aesthetic – freak folk avant la lettre - around, among other things, a certain disregard for musical proficiency, which, on albums like The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter, sparked in them the unimpeachable ability to craft nonsensical songs that employed no compositional rationale known to civilized society (whatever that may be), using whatever instruments might come their way, in whatever way they saw fit, including, I can only assume, at some point, having sex with them (friction being a time-honored method of getting sounds out of things). 

However, by Earthspan, perhaps mirroring their "spiritual" migration towards more corporate forms of mysticism (i.e. scientology), that former carefree pack of pagans seemed to have been decidedly edging towards mainstream musical industry, taking a stab at delivering a more “professional”, streamlined product, while, unfortunately, showing no signs of having acquired the skills required to do such a thing – which they (skills) are (required): you don't get to be a sellout out of sheer want. 

The result is a most unholy union of amateurishness and frivolity, wherein church organs and straightforward rock n’ roll drumming (courtesy of the omnipresent folk-rocker Dave Mattacks) or smooth jazz ambiences and howling lads and lasses, can freely mingle, alas with no apparent sense of irony or self-awareness (à la, say, The Flying Lizards) to at least pass it off as subversion or comment re the music business, of which they awkwardly really seem to be posing as committed stakeholders. 

What could be good ideas still rear their heads here and there, but they are almost immediately taken out back to slaughter amidst loud alley cats. "Antoine" might be the only thing here kind enough not to get on my nerves at some point - something the rest of the record makes a point of doing on a regular basis. Right from the get go - just a few seconds into the record - when - as if crying murder - a sharp voice - so pitch-challenged as to make ISB’s front men Robin and Heron (compared by Luke Haines (look who's talking), in a song of praise for the band, to "a couple of weasels trapped in a sack") sound as accomplished singers as their winged namesakes - shrieks in in chorus, I already want to smash this record – twice!, to make sure it stays smashed. The fact that I have listened to all of it, more than once, is bound to raise questions as to how I have been spending my time on this earth, but, in the very least, if my sacrifice is not to be in vain, and while I have not had the fortitude to go beyond this point in their "career" (nor do I think I ever will), I can only suggest this be one of the very last things you ever, if ever, listen to from these cleaned-up weirdos. I'll take mine shabby, thank you very much.