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Gandharva (1971)
 In
electronic music
circles — and among
"heads" in general —
the names of Beaver
& Krause have
attained an almost
mystical status that
their small back
catalog frankly
struggles to live up
to. Sure, they were
matchmakers when
commercial rock and
electronic music
were circling each
other warily — it
was
Bernie Krause,
in particular, who
introduced the Moog
synthesizer to the
likes of
George Harrison
and
Micky Dolenz
(though he neglected
to show them how to
put it to good use).
Yet much of their
recorded work sounds
remarkably timid
when compared to
that of other
electronic pioneers
of the period.
Ironically, the most
powerful music they
committed to record
involved hardly any
electronic input
whatsoever. The
suite that filled
the second side of
Gandharva was
recorded in San
Francisco's Grace
Cathedral — chosen
for its extended
decay time and as a
space that would
make the most of new
quadrophonic
recording techniques
— and involved jazz
legend
Gerry Mulligan
on baritone sax and
Bud Shank
on alto sax and
flute. Also present
were
Gail Laughton,
playing two harps
simultaneously,
Howard Roberts
on guitar, and
Krause
on Moog — though he
can only be heard
adding the very
occasional rumble.
But what made the
music unlike any
previously recorded
was
Paul Beaver's
serene performance
on the cathedral's
pipe organ. The
combination of sax
and church organ has
been attempted many
times since (by
Keith Jarrett
and
Jan Garbarek
to name but two),
but never have the
results come close
to matching these.
"Short Film for
David," "Good
Places," and
Mulligan's
own "By Your Grace"
are works of
extraordinary
stillness and
beauty, with both
Shank
and
Mulligan
soaring
effortlessly.
Speaking recently,
Krause
described
Gandharva as "an
attempt to express
our collective
spirituality
musically" that
would "bring music
from a point of
noise to a place
very much quieter
and more
contemplative."
Unfortunately, it's
the "point of noise"
— to wit, much of
what was side one of
the vinyl edition —
that lets down the
album badly. "Saga
of the Blue Beaver"
is a standard-issue
blues-rock jam,
while "Walkin' by
the River" is an
equally humdrum
gospel workout. What
these tracks are
doing on an album
like Gandharva
is anyone's guess.
The only traces of
B&K's pioneering
spirit to be found
on side one are the
electronic
manipulation of
Patrice Holloway's
powerful a cappella
performance on
"Walkin'" and the
brief
synth-generated
breathing effect of
"Soft/White,"
originally written
for the film
Performance.
Small fry indeed.
Nevertheless, all is
forgiven in the
light of what
follows.
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All Good Men (1972)
 The final collaboration between Paul Beaver and Bernie Krause finds the pair floundering wildly in search of a distinctive voice. In fact, an unwary listener coming to the album blind might assume it was an early example of the mixtape, such is its haphazard collision of styles and genres chosen seemingly to demonstrate its compiler's catholic taste. Most disappointing of all, few traces remain of the pioneering spirit that at least partially justified Beaver & Krause's early reputation as sonic pioneers. The album does boast one small masterpiece, however. "Legend Days Are Over" is based on an elderly Native American's spoken lament for civilization's erosion of her people's way of life. Over a haunting blend of synths, wood flutes, and increasingly urgent tribal drums, her voice is electronically treated and looped to form rhythmic incantations in a way that predates sampling technology by at least a decade. Yet the boldness displayed here only serves to underline the milksop mediocrity that characterizes much of the rest. Worst of all are the vocal tracks, three of which were co-written by regular Bette Midler and Barry Manilow collaborator Adrienne Anderson. "Child of the Morning Sun," "Looking Back Now," and "Sweet William" are tremulous, dewy-eyed singer/songwriter fare of the kind that infested a hundred other albums in 1972. Of the instrumentals — which provide the only sightings of the pair's trademark Moog — "Loves of Col Evol" is bland cocktail jazz, "Bluebird Canyon Stomp" sounds like a Joe Meek castoff (made worse by its hideously dated wah-wah guitar and drum solos), "Prelude" is switched-on Bach five years too late, and "Between the Sun and the Moon" is ersatz Latin jazz over a sequenced synth riff. Most bizarrely of all, the album is top-and-tailed by a raucous choral version of the little-known Scott Joplin song "A Real Slow Drag," the result, Krause recently admitted, of a brainstorming session that went horribly awry. Before the reprise that concludes the album, there's a brief outbreak of free-form electronics called "Waltz Me Around Again Willie" — a half-hearted attempt, perhaps, to persuade the listener that they've just been on some kind of crazy trip through a whole mind-blowing kaleidoscope of musical styles. Small wonder that Warner Bros. showed them the door shortly after.
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