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MARCH 9, 2003
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Source: Cat Ashton
The Immram Tradition in Progressive Rock Epics of the Seventies:
"All in all the journey takes you all the way"
By Cat Ashton
Most twentieth- and twenty-first century Westerners have at least a passing
familiarity with the travels of Odysseus, the ancient Greek warrior who
spent ten years finding his way home to his family. For those who have not
read the Odyssey itself, there are more than enough contemporary
adaptations, both in print and on screen, translating the luckless
mariner's wanderings into twentieth-century terms. Something about
Odysseus clearly has a hold on the Western imagination. However, there are
other legends, other voyages, and other ways of telling stories. This
essay will take a look at Immrama, the ancient Celtic stories of sea
voyages to the otherworld, and show that elements of these, too, have
secured a hold on the late twentieth-century Western
consciousness...whether they are acknowledged or not.
I have found few examples of Immrama in contemporary literature* [* A
possible exception is C.S. Lewis' Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which
resembles the Immrama on so many points that conscious adaptation is not
out of the question. But that is another essay, and a very easy one at
that.], and can guess at two reasons for this. First of all, The Odyssey
features a lone hero, a man whom we are repeatedly told is superlative. He
sets out with a crew, but loses them before the story opens. It is easy to
glorify one man, to remember him, to recast him in whatever mould a
literary situation calls for. But while the four Immrama that I have
examined--The Voyage of Bran, Son of Febal, to the Land of the Living, The
Voyage of Maeldune, The Voyage of Snedgus, and The Voyage of St. Brendan to
the Land of Promise of the Saints--are named for the captains of the
voyage, all involve at least two travellers and often more, none of whom
are extensively characterized. The sights on the journey are far more
important than who is doing the seeing. When most contemporary literature
demands well-developed characters, it is easy to see how the appeal of
relatively faceless observers might wane.
But a determined author may invent personalities; there is another, deeper
reason. The Immrama are cyclical, rather than linear. Chronological events
in the Odyssey begin with the hero's departure from Troy, while the text
itself begins in the period when Odysseus is captive on Calypso's island
(Homer, Book 5). Granted, the act of beginning the story in the middle
removes the narrative from the realm of the strictly linear, but even so,
either way Odysseus starts out far from home, every event driving towards
his return, dramatic tension created by the possibility that he might be
too late, or not make it back to Ithaca at all.
In contrast, the Immrama begin and end in the same place: Ireland, the
homeland of the travellers. The men (they are universally male) depart
willingly on a quest or pilgrimage; with the possible exception of Bran and
his crew, they return to the very area they left. In two of the four
stories, the travellers are deliberately looking for the otherworld, but
they are told early on that they will find it, eliminating much of the
"pull" from that direction. (The Voyage of St. Brendan takes this to an
extreme; the monks are told that they will travel in circles for seven
years before they find the Land of Promise of the Saints.[Webb, 52-53])
With this end-ward tension resolved, the reader has only the episodes
themselves, without much of the weight of previous events or the momentum
towards a conclusion and resolution. The fulfillment of the quest is a high
point, but the absence of momentum makes it difficult to adapt the Immram
to contemporary notions of the story arc.
This said, books are not the only forms of narrative. In the 1970s,
popular musicians were experimenting with longer songs, classical
structures, and storytelling. Repetition and cycles are permissible in
contemporary music; it requires no character development and no progressive
buildup of action. It is my contention that two of these longer,
experimental songs from 1972--specifically Genesis' "Supper's Ready" and
Yes' "Close to the Edge"--borrow, perhaps unwittingly, both structural and
story-related elements of the Immrama.
First, it is necessary to identify some such elements. I have mentioned
the cyclical nature of these stories: the travellers leave home, and return
home. They go willingly. Bran and Brendan are looking for utopias;
Maeldune, his foster-brothers, and his crew are looking for revenge on the
men who murdered Maeldune's father (Gregory, 83); Snedgus and his companion
Mac Riaghta or Mac Riagla have sentenced one hundred and twenty men and
women to be "cast on the sea in small boats" (Rees, 317), and on their way
home, decided to do the same of their own free will. Alwyn and Brinley
Rees mention another story I was unable to find, that of the Ui Chorra, in
which three brothers repent of plundering churches, make reparations, and
"set out in a three-skinned boat, drawing in their oars and committing
their destiny to the wind. (Rees, 317)" This drawing in of the oars, and
trusting to the wind, is common to the other Immrama, with the exception of
Bran's story.* [* It was also an actual, even common practice at the time;
other countries have historical records of people from Ireland and Scotland
arriving, having travelled in this way. (Webb, 19)]
On the journey, the travellers typically visit a wide variety of
islands--breaking the narrative naturally down into episodes--and encounter
wondrous people and creatures, but there are always commonalities. All
four stories involve at least one encounter with a wise man, who
prophesies. Bran meets the sea god Manannan Mac Lyr (Rees, 31), who tells
him about the son he himself is going to father, and the wonderful land
that awaits Bran (Ragan, 32). (Ironically, in what Michael Ragan describes
as "an Ecclesiastical insertion" [Ragan, 25-26], this deity in his own
right also "predicts" the birth of Christ.) Snedgus and Mac Riaghta, at
the end of their journey, come to a "great high island and everything that
was in it that was beautiful and holy. It is good the king was that lived
in that island, and holy and just" (Gregory, 46). This king predicts war
for Ireland, but a safe return for the travellers. (Gregory, 47) Maeldune
meets two wise men: the first a pilgrim whose currach broke under him, and
who now lives on a bit of sod that expands yearly (Gregory, 102), sustained
by divine provision (Gregory, 103); the second a thieving monk whose flight
was transformed into something like the forced pilgrimage of Snedgus' sixty
couples, and who is now also sustained by the divine. The first tells
tells Maeldune that all but his remaining brother will return home
(Gregory, 103); the second, of whom I will speak in more detail later,
confirms the return home, and advises Maeldune not to take the revenge for
which he set out (Gregory, 124). Almost every man that Brendan's monks
meet appears to be intimately familiar with the details of their journey,
including Brendan himself (Webb, 42).
Along with these holy men who have in some cases exiled themselves in order
to practice lives of asceticism, present in every narrative but that of
Bran is also a penitent, or group of penitants, banished from the land for
their crimes but kept alive in the same manner as the ascetics. Snedgus
and Mac Riaghta come upon the very sixty couples that they banished, living
"without sin" (Gregory, 46) on an island. The prophetic thief that
Maeldune and his crew meet lives on the waves, clothed in his own hair
(Gregory, 119), fed half a cake and some fish every day, and feeling
neither heat nor cold. (Gregory, 123) St. Brendan and his monks meet
Judas himself, perched on a rock in the sea while being lashed by the
waves, on an Easter holiday from his torment in hell (Webb, 62).
Birds are common to all four tales--perhaps not surprising, as they were
likely abundant at sea. However, they do bear examination. The fairy
woman sings to Bran,
There is an ancient tree that blossoms there.
from which the birds call in their time.
They sing in harmony as is their want
to call together on all proper hours. (Ragan, 7)
Snedgus and Mac Riaghta find an island with a tree filled with
psalm-singing birds (Gregory, 44). Maeldune finds one island filled with
giant birds (Gregory, 86), one surrounded by birds who eat from the fruit
trees there at night (Gregory, 92), one occupied by a great bird who is
cared for by two eagles until it renews itself by bathing in the lake
(Gregory, 116-117), but most significantly (in light of the similarities to
bird episodes in other voyages), an island of brown speckled birds making a
noice "like the singing of psalms (Gregory, 102)". St. Brendan and his
monks spend every Easter on the Paradise of Birds, an island bearing a tree
full of hymn-singing birds of pure white, who explain that they are fallen
angels (Webb, 42-43).
All but Snedgus and Mac Riaghta have some dealing with a mysterious
curtained structure in the middle of the ocean. The fairy woman sings to
Bran,
Four inventions are seen
over which dragon stones and crystals fall,
showers of the sea descending towards the land.
Clear tresses fall from its crest." (Ragan, 12)
This seems to correspond to Maeldune's discovery of a vast, four-sided
white structure, covered by a silver net (the "clear tresses" from Bran's
story; "hair of crystal" in the Meyer translation [Meyer, 2]) and standing
in the middle of the ocean (Gregory, 108). Brendan and his monks also find
such a structure, a massive crystal column covered by a canopy (Webb, 59).
Webb suggests that this is an iceberg (Webb, 60).
If those three find ice, Snedgus, Maeldune, and Brendan also find fire. The
island inhabited by Snedgus' sixty couples contains a lake of water and a
lake a fire, both of which would have consumed Ireland long before now if
not for the prayers of the saints (Gregory, 46). Maeldune and his crew
sail past an island of smiths, one of whom uses tongs to launch at the boat
a lump of iron so hot that it makes the sea boil (Gregory, 105). This
episode is repeated and expanded upon in Brendan's voyage:
When the boat had sailed about a mile from where the
slag fell, all the inhabitants of the island rushed down to the
beach, each carrying a glowing mass of slag. Some aimed at the
servants of God, but the rest pelted the embers at each other.
Then they ran back to the forges and set them alight. Soon the
whole island was like a blazing furnace and the sea hissed like
a cauldron of stew boiling over a good fire. All day a long
drawn-out wail could be heard. An intolerable, fetid stench
emanated from the island and was still perceptible after they
had lost sight of it. Brendan tried to comfort his flock:
'Soldiers of Christ, put on spiritual arms and stand firm in
faith unfeigned. Watch and play the man, for we are at hell's
gates." (Webb, 61)
The Reeses explain many of the episodes in the Immrama as an effort to
create "a world where our world as we know it seems to resolve itself into
its components (Rees, 322-323)." They go on to say of Maeldune's story,
"The separation of animals into species and natures is particularly
striking... Again forms, such as pillar, pedestal, arch, are singled out,
and so are the contrasting attributes of 'blackness' and
'whiteness'."(Rees, 323) The Reeses name examples, from several Immrama,
of islands that separate humans along lines of age, status, and occupation.
Emotions and other abstract concepts are assigned to islands too; both
Bran and Maeldune temporarily lose crew members to such islands when they
are overwhelmed by the emotion--laughter for Bran's man (Ragan, 61), grief
for Maeldune's (Gregory, 98). Although the Reeses do not mention St.
Brendan's voyage, the monks do visit an island on which men are separated
into boys, young men, and elders (Webb, 55). The separation of the world
into its component parts is not as evident here, although it could be
argued that while the other Immrama are engaged in "disentangling the
constituent elements" (Rees, 323) of the Celtic world, this later tale does
a similar thing for the Christian world, showing us wickedness, holiness,
paradise, purgatory, and hell.* [* Of course, this would mean that the
Christian world was entirely male, since females are not even mentioned in
the text. Then again, the earliest surviving account of Brendan's voyage
is from the tenth century (West, 70), leaving roughly four centuries
between the reported events and our record of them. Even if Celtic
monasticism at the time permitted contact with women, subsequent
generations of monks were probably not permitted to read about it.]
The Reeses conclude, "The metaphysical implication would appear to be that
Whiteness, Blackness, Fire, Water, Joy, Sorrow, Femininity, Masculinity,
Youth, Age, Life, Death, and so on, exist as abstract principles over and
above the objects or people in which they are manifested. (Rees, 323)"
They connect this to the Tibetan Book of the Dead which documents the
progress of the soul after death, through a stage where thoughts and
concepts are manifested physically (Rees, 325), and infer:
In the 'Voyages', we submit, have been preserved the
tattered remnants of an oral Celtic 'book' of the dead, which
proclaimed that the mysteries of the world beyond death had been
at least partially explored and the stations of the soul's
pilgrimage charted. The Plain of Delight and the Land of the
Women are but stages on the way. [...] Thus, like the other
types of tales we have described, the Immram has its own
function. It is to teach the 'craft' of dying and to pilot the
departing spirit on a sea of perils and of wonders. (Rees, 325)
Without challenging the correctness of this interpretation, I wish to
suggest another. The Reeses liken the Immrama to the unravelling of a
life, in which the person dying is able to perceive separate threads. But
the voyagers return. They have been vouchsafed a "backstage" vision of
life in raw material form, they have often reached a paradisical land, and
they return, although they are changed. Bran, unable to touch land for
fear of crumbling into ash like his comrade, stays only long enough to set
down his adventures in writing before setting out again (Ragan, 66).
Snedgus and Mac Riaghta come back with a warning for Ireland (Gregory, 47).
Maeldune finds his father's killer, but does not exact the revenge he set
out for (Gregory, 125). Brendan lingers long enough to set his affairs in
order, and then dies (Webb, 68). I would argue that while these voyages
may represent death, they may also represent the journey to enlightenment.
Although rarely if ever stated as an explicit goal in Western literature
until very recently, enlightenment too involves an unmasking of the
universe and a momentous change that has been likened to death (Campbell,
??), but it leaves people alive to try to convey it in whatever terms they
can.
To sum up, some of the things we might expect from the Immrama are a
cyclical and episodic form, a pilgrimage undertaken for the sake of penance
or a quest, a sage, a wretch atoning for his sins and sustained by divine
intervention, birds singing holy songs, a gleaming edifice, a host of
fabulous creatures and transformations, the gates of hell or something very
much like it, and a denouement that returns the heroes to their home,
altered in some way. Now I will discuss how "Supper's Ready" and "Close to
the Edge" take up these elements and adapt them for the twentieth century
West.
In "Supper's Ready", the narrator is apparently about to sit down to dinner
with his lady love when he--or at least his attention--is lured outside by
the presence of seven holy men, the front one carrying a cross (Genesis,
I). This appears to be the Christian equivalent to Bran's enticement by
the fairy woman, although the holy men seem more ominous than appealing. A
further parallel might be drawn between the cross and the silver-leafed
branch that the fairy takes from Bran. In the Ecclesiastical insertion,
the scourge that Kuno Meyer translates as "old age" (Meyer, 6), Michael
Ragan translates at "the fruit of the oak" (Ragan, footnote 29), calling it
a reference to Druidic wisdom, which suggests that a fruit-bearing branch
may have had as much religious significance to the pre-Christian Celts as a
cross would to Christians.
The narrator seems to make an attempt to ignore the intruders in his
garden, carrying on a conversation with his mate, but he can already feel a
growing distance between himself and the "warm arms" of his beloved. "It's
been a long long time, hasn't it?" he whispers (Genesis, I).
There is an instrumental period, in which the music retains its softness
but takes on a sightly foreboding quality, but events are left to the
imagination. Judging by the lyrics that follow, this section marks the
character's passage into the otherworld.* [* Despite the section title,
"Lovers' Leap", and the mention of a companion or companions on his
travels, it is my position that his reiteration at the end that he has been
far away from his love signifies that she does not accompany him, although
of course other interpretations are possible.]
He then says:
I know a farmer who looks after the farm.
With water clear he cares for all his harvest
I know a fireman who looks after the fire. (Genesis, I)
These two figures are set up as opposites--water and fire, growth and
destruction, nature and technology. Note the atypical role of the fireman;
we are used to using the term for men who extinguish fires. This may be,
simply, a fireman in a different sense; or it may indicate a perversion of
the profession, the use of a discipline for its very antithesis.
In the next breath, the traveller, addressing an unnamed group, launches
into a warning against the charms of the "Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary
Man", presumably the aformentioned fireman. Portrayed as an unholy
combination of salesman, snake, and cult leader, the Guaranteed Eternal
Sanctuary Man reads as a corrupted version of the sage, urging people to
"Share his peace, / Sign the lease" (Genesis, II). The name of this figure
is prediction enough, in its own pompous fashion, but the narrator too does
some the prophesying:
And all the children lost down many paths,
I bet my life, you'll walk inside
Hand in hand, gland in gland
With a spoonful of miracle... (Genesis, I)
The outcome of the encounter is not directly reported.
With the next movement, "Ikhnaton and Itsacon and Their Band of Merry Men",
the narrator and his unnamed companions set out to find the "children of
the West", and instead find themselves in the middle of a group of fighting
men. The narrator finds himself sharing the thrill of battle in spite of
himself:
And they've given me a wonderful potion,
'Cos I cannot contain my emotion.
And even though I'm feeling good,
Something tells me, I'd better activate my prayer capsule. (Genesis, III)
The "dark-skinned warriors" (Genesis, III) in the battle somewhat resemble
Maeldune's dark-skinned, dark-garbed mourners on the Island of Keening
(Gregory, 97). The members of Maeldune's crew who venture onto this island
begin weeping, and become indistinguishable from the others (Gregory, 98).
The difference here is, rather than grief, the dominant emotion appears to
be bloodlust. This, in the Reeses' analysis, would be war personified.
Certainly there is no reason given for the battle, no ideology evident
behind it. But there may also be a purely twentieth-century explanation:
what reason, what ideology, could truly justify war? To British musicians
emerging from the sixties counterculture, rebuilding after the second world
war and now watching America in Viet Nam, all war would likely seem
senseless, no matter what reason is given.
Following their triumph in battle, the travellers wander through the
carnage. From the solemn pace of the music and the catch in singer Peter
Gabriel's voice, their exuberance seems to have worn off, and they are
awakening to the horror of what they have just witnessed, perhaps even
participated in. They "climb up the mountain of human flesh" (Genesis, IV)
to a lush oasis. There they are audibly shaken by the sight of a boy
"stamped 'human bacon' by some butchery tool" (Genesis, IV). This seems to
be the penitent of the Immrama, although his crime is not immediately
apparent, nor does he show any consciousness of it. But shifting cultural
notions of guilt and responsibility will have impacted the way in which
this figure is portrayed. It is fairly safe to assume that the composers
of the Immrama felt that the penitent deserved to be in his uncomfortable
position. This does not seem to be the case here. He "sits still"; he is
described first as a "young figure", and then a "lad" (Genesis, IV). These
paint a picture of passivity and helplessness. His crime--as will be
discussed in the next paragraph--may be vanity, but if it is, the
punishment is far out of proportion.
If there is any doubt remaining as to the boy's culpability, it is
dispelled in the next--albeit parenthetical--phrase: "He is you." (Genesis,
IV) Since the narrator has not separated himself from the "we" that has
come to the oasis, "you" appears to mean the listening audience. This
assertion may indicate that the boy is meant to represent the listener in
the narrative, or it may simply remind the listener that the boy is just as
human. Either way, the statement reinforces his innocence: we have been
equated with him; do we deserve to be branded?
"Social Security took care of this lad," (Genesis, IV) we are told. Note
the departure from divine ministration. This not only reminds us that we
are experiencing the twentieth-century version of the otherworld; it places
an institution in a position previously occupied by a deity.
In the end, the boy is identified as Narcissus, and turns into a flower
(Genesis, IV). However, the transformation is a departure from the Greek
myth. In the original story, it was a punishment* [* It is possible that
the branding itself is punishment for vanity, but the only references to it
are the section title and the mention of Narcissus in the last line.
Although I may be wrong, I take the title to mean that Narcissus has been
"punished" for his beauty with transformation into a flower, rather than
apply such a lighthearted phrase to the brutality of the branding.] for
vanity--indeed, the section title is "How Dare I Be So Beautiful?" Here,
the narrator and his companions "watch in reverence" (Genesis, IV). The
transformation is a holy thing, then. We can also assume that flowerhood
is an improvement compared to the situation in which the boy was discovered.
As if this first metamorphosis has started a chain reaction, an abrupt
change in tone heralds the beginning of the section simply titled "Willow
Farm". Here, listeners are told, "Oh, there's Mum and Dad, and good and
bad, / and everyone's happy to be here." (Genesis, V) Amid this cheerful
chaos, transformation appears to be the norm:
The frog was a prince, the prince was a brick
the brick was an egg,
the egg was a bird.
(Fly away you sweet little thing, they're hard on your tail!)
Hadn't you heard?
(They're going to change you into a human being, ha-ha!)
Yes, we're happy as fish, and gorgeous as geese,
and wonderfully clean in the morning.
We've got everything, we're growing everything,
We've got some in
We've got some out
We've got some wild things floating about.
Everyone, we're changing everyone,
You name them all,
We've had them here...(Genesis, V)
The other force operating here is creation. This is a farm, and they are
growing everything--including "good and bad", and "in and out" (Genesis,
V). This sounds a lot like the separation into component parts that occurs
in the Immrama. Willow Farm is manufacturing the raw materials of the
world as it was known in the early 1970s. Given the apparent joy involved
in doing so, it may also be analogous to Bran's Island of Delight.
Halfway through the piece, there is another abrupt change,
marked--appropriately enough--by the cry, "All change!" (Genesis, V),
accompanied by a whistle and the slamming of a door. Now the raw materials
are put to use, resolving themselves into the familiar world. Mum and Dad,
mentioned as a pair on the farm, are separated, with the latter being boxed
into the office, and the former assigned to the washing (Genesis, V).
Although the tone is still light, the narrator seems upset, saying, "Let me
hear you lies, we're living this up to the eyes. / Momma I want you now!"
(Genesis, V) He sees the world in which he now finds himself as false, but
as he is absolutely immersed in it, all he can do is call for his mother.
There is another change in tone, and the music used in the first part of
"Willow Farm" is taken up again. This time, however, there is no
playfulness in the singing; only malice as it outlines the way of the world:
And as you listen to my voice
To look for hidden doors, tidy floors, more applause.
You've been here all the time,
Like it or not, like what you got,
You're under the soil,
Yes deep in the soil (the soil, the soil, the soil, the soil!)
So we'll end with a whistle and end with a bang,
and all of us fit in our places. (Genesis, V)
Here the narrator is taunted with a vision of the primary world, his home,
as a cheerless place where the only worthy pursuits are fame, conformity,
and the ferreting out of secrets, and from which there is no escape. This
reassertion of the primary world is not present in the Immrama, perhaps
because the traditional stories were not intended as critiques, whereas
"Supper's Ready" is. Perhaps in the time of the Immrama, the seeds had
been sown for separation from the natural world and a preoccupation with
order, but these could not have been carried out to the extent that they
were in the twentieth century.
Following this section is another fairly long instrumental passage, the
tone of which suggests sadness and resignation, or wistfulness and
contemplation. Towards the end, however, it gradually becomes more
animated, until in breaks into a driving, throbbing beat tinged with
urgency, and the hero finds himself in the middle of the what the movement
title calls the Apocalypse (Genesis, VI). The "dragons coming out of the
sea" (Genesis, VI) hearken back to St. Brendan's encounter with the two sea
serpents, while the "Shimmering silver head of wisdom looking at me" who
"brings down the fire from the skies" (Genesis, VI) carries with it
inklings of both the gleaming edifice in three of the four Immrama, and the
Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary Man, the corrupt sage. The latter works on a
further two levels: given that this is supposed to be the Apocalypse, the
sage acts like a Christian religious figure, raining torment on the
unrighteous. However, the fire could just as easily be a nuclear one, and
the "head of wisdom" a reference to science. The Guaranteed Eternal
Sanctuary Man is referred to as a "supersonic scientist" (Genesis, II) in
the movement bearing his name. This mingling of science and religion is
probably intentional. "You can tell he's doing well by the look in human
eyes / better not compromise, it won't be easy" (Genesis, VI), the narrator
warns.
Following this section is another instrumental passage which maintains the
driving beat in 9/8 time, over which a synthesizer solo is played.
(Genesis, VI) The effect is that of throbbing machinery or clockwork whose
rhythm is slightly off, overlaid by short electronic tones that mimic the
sound of the 1970s conception of a computer. In short, it sounds like
machinery gone mad.
At the end of this passage, the narrator describes a scene taken from
Christian mythology, with some modifications: the Beast has a helper, the
seven trumpets are "blowing sweet rock 'n' roll" and "Pythagoras with the
looking glass reflects the full moon. / In blood he's writing the lyrics of
a brand new tune." (Genesis, VI) Pythagoras is a symbol of scientific
thought, a facet of the sage. Given the position of the sage in the rest
of the song, it is reasonable to infer that he is the aforementioned helper
of "666" (Genesis, VI). However, in this context he seems less sinister;
he has the name of a benign historical figure, and is only holding up a
mirror to the full moon.
This image can have several different interpretations. The moon
traditionally signifies nature and the irrational; a full moon is said to
provoke madness. Pythagoras, a rational figure, holding a mirror to it may
represent the rational carried forward to a degree of lunacy...or symbolize
a union the rational and irrational as two halves of a whole. But the moon,
too, has its cycles, and the full moon signifies the end of one cycle and
the beginning of another. Whatever the case, the destruction that the
narrator witnesses is the prerequisite for the "brand new tune"...which, as
the music settles down, bears a striking resemblance to the old one
(Genesis, VI).
The narrator is back at his supper table, with his beloved. The tune from
"Lover's Leap" is enriched by the presence of other instruments. "I have
been so far from here, far from your loving arms," (Genesis, VII) he tells
her. Note that her arms are no longer just warm; there is an added
dimension of emotional attachment. "Now I'm back again, and babe it's
gonna work out fine." (Genesis, VII)
At this point, the tune from "The Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary Man" is
reprised, but the spoonful of miracle described herein is the real thing:
Can't you feel our souls ignite
Shedding ever-changing colours, in the darkness of the fading night?
Like a river joins the ocean, as the germ in a seed grows
We've finally been freed to get back home. (Genesis, VII)
The change is described first in terms of the natural world: water, birth,
sunrise. But if it is not clear enough, it is reiterated in Christian terms:
There's an angel standing in the sun, and he's crying in a loud voice,
'This is the supper of the mighty one.'
Lord of lords,
King of kings
Has returned to lead his children home
To take them to the new Jerusalem. (Genesis, VII)
The presence of both sets of analogies may seem redundant, but they serve
to clarify each other. The Christian mythology makes it clear to a
listenership raised largely on Christianity that the change is a spiritual
one; the natural analogies indicate that this is not an end, but one of
many beginnings.
For all the similarities that I have outlined here, the connection with the
Immrama is likely accidental. Nevertheless, here are a sage, a community
dominated by a single emotion, a penitent, transformations and fabulous
beasts, an ordeal comparable to the gates of hell, and a traveller who
after everything returns home, changed.
"Close to the Edge" is more difficult to analyze. The connections are more
tenuous, the lyrics more nebulous--as Jennifer Rycenga describes them, "a
transient, shifting kaleidoscopic play of meanings, tinged with physical
and dreamt affect, but concerned with vital meanings, creating flashes of
understanding but nothing denotative enough to be static or permanent."
(Rycenga, quoted in SoulQuest7@aol.com 25 11 2002) However, the song does
speak of a cyclical, mystical journey, broken into sections and employing
several of the elements present in the Immrama.
Curiously, one of the similarities lies outside of the text itself, in the
episode that in part inspired the song:
It was a vivid dream several years old that still haunted Jon
[Anderson, the chief lyricist]'s memory, and inspired the vague
image. For during a restless sleep, Jon had unconsciously
envisioned himself caught in a patch of quicksand, sinking
slowly without help near. Accepting his fate calmly, he was
rewarded by being transported to a hilltop overlooking the
valley that would appear again and again throughout Close to the
Edge. There, looking toward a distant river, he saw a tall old
bearded man before him, wrapped in flowing white robes. The man
pointed down into the valley and at the tip of his fingers, Jon
saw his entire life 'All laid out before my eyes. I started
laughing, and I said, "so that's what it's all about."' (Circus,
1973, quoted by SoulQuest7@aol.com, 25 11 2002)
At first glance, it seems unrelated. However, remember that the dropping
of the oars is an integral part of the Immrama, arguably the action that
effects transport into the otherworld. By giving up one's powers of
navigation, one is permitted to visit the unnavigable. Anderson's refusal
to struggle is an analogous sacrifice.
"Close to the Edge" begins with the sound of running water and birdsong. A
tumultuous instrumental passage resolves itself into a happy, lighthearted
melody capable of straying into minor--and hence slightly
unsettling--territory. Then the narrator begins, "A seasoned witch could
call you from the depths of your disgrace / And rearrange your liver to the
solid mental grace." (Yes, I) This implies a journey undertaken for the
sake of penance, as with the Ui Chorra.
The "seasoned witch" is said to "achieve it all with music that came
quickly from afar, Then taste the fruit of man recorded losing all against
the hour." (Yes, I) This carries echoes of Bran, whom the mysterious woman
sings to sleep prior to her appearance in his home. When viewed in terms of
Bran's story, the "fruit" could refer to the record, in Ogham, that Bran
sets down before leaving Ireland again for the last time. (Ragan, 66)
After all, Bran has presumably lost everything; the passage of time has
taken away everything he ever owned or loved, and he cannot even return to
his homeland without crumbling into dust. The implication of this
interpretation would be that the witch has catalyzed the journey to harvest
the story of it.
Many other interpretations are of course possible. The witch is mentioned
in the first line only, and the lyrics, as they appear on the record
sleeve, are largely unpunctuated. "Then taste the fruit of man..." may be
a separate statement, addressed to the listener: "Then hear the story of a
man who will shortly lose all."
The next few lines deal with the transition to the otherworld:
A dewdrop can exalt us like the music of the sun
And take away the plain in which we move
And choose the course you're running (Yes, I)
This virtually guarantees that the journey is understood as a metaphorical
one. Unless the dewdrop itself engulfs the traveller, it is either the
exaltation that provokes the journey, or the realization that a bead of
water the size of a pinhead and a ball of fire many times the size of Earth
can accomplish the same action.* [* Mind you, when the song was performed
live in the seventies, it was accompanied by a backdrop of protozoa.
(Yessongs, 1972) If the dewdrop were the literal scene of the action, it
would raise the same issues of scale and relative significance that the
song deals with anyway.] At any rate, this removes the traveller from the
"plain"--which may be "plain" in the sense of ordinary, "plain" in the
sense of the flat, usually barren topographical feature, or "plane",
mistranscribed, in the sense of a level of existence--where people are able
to exert control over their own actions. This surrender of the ability to
direct oneself hearkens back to the throwing away of the oars.
The beginning of the journey is marked by hesitation. "Down at the edge,
round by the corner...close to the edge, down by a river" is a theme that
is repeated several times, but here a single voice interjects, "Not right
away, not right away," signifying fear on the part of the traveller, or
cautioning that entering the otherworld is only the beginning; there is
still much more to come. (Yes, I)
Now the journey begins in earnest:
Crossed a line around the changes of the summer
Reaching out to call the colour of the sky
Passed around a moment clothed in mornings faster than we see
Getting over all the time I had to worry
Leaving all the changes far from far behind
We relieve the tension only to find out the master's name. (Yes, I)
Crossing, reaching, passing, getting over, leaving...these are all ways of
going places, even if the topography is comprised of intangibles like time,
colour, and states of mind. In the case of a metaphorical journey,
intangibles are all that can comprise the topography. The "mornings faster
than we see" indicate a time distortion, as occurred with Bran and his crew
on the Island of Women.
This is followed by a reprise of the main theme:
Down at the end
Round by the corner
Close to the edge
Just by the river
Seasons will pass you by
I get up, I get down
Now that it's all over and done
Now that you find, now that your [sic] whole. (Yes, I)
The crossing of a river is often symbolic of death (Weiss, 10 10 2000); it
has also been argued that the river serves equally well as the border
between childhood and maturity (Ashton, 10 17 2000). "Seasons will pass you
by" and "I get up, I get down" are references to a cycle. The last two
lines quoted are more of an enigma, though. They mark the end of the first
section, but by no means the end of the song; plainly it is not all over
and done. Now...what?
My eyes convinced eclipsed with the younger moon attained with love
It changed as almost strained amidst clear manna from above
I crucified my hate and held the world within my hand
There's you, the time, the logic, or the reasons we don't understand.
(Yes, II)
The first line presents an eerily beautiful image, and calls to mind the
line in "Supper's Ready". Instead of the moon reflected in Pythagoras'
mirror, though, we see it reflected in the narrator's eyes. There is a
merging going on here, although the participants are not nearly as
diametrically opposed. This results in the narrator's rejection of hate,
and something much more. Holding the world in his hand signifies a sort of
total acceptance; it also means that he has grown. This does double duty,
showing us his spiritual progress in metaphorical terms, and playing with
notions of scale and space.
It is perhaps a stretch, but the "younger moon" "amidst clear manna from
above" could also be another variation on the gleaming edifice and its
transparent canopy. Here, though, there is nothing to suggest that it
represents technology; rather, it is a positive force.
Use of the word "manna", too, is very interesting. It is entirely
possible--likely, in fact--that it was chosen purely for the sound. But
manna is also a source of nourishment with divine origins. In all of the
Immrama save for that of Bran, travellers and penitents alike credit the
Christian god with sending them food and water, sometimes indirectly in the
form of fruit on an island or the carcass of a sea animal, and
sometimes--especially with the penitents--directly, in the form of fish and
cakes that appear every few days. Here, too, then, the traveller is being
sustained by the same force that is guiding him.
In any case, the last line of this verse sets up a list of choices, "you,
the time, the logic, or the reasons we don't understand." The "reasons we
don't understand" are named in opposition to the other three--the ego, the
finite, and the rational.
Emerging from this sublime state of affairs, the narrator observes a
battle: "Sad courage claimed the victims standing still for all to see / As
armoured movers took approach to overlook the sea". (Yes, II) Rather than
find himself in the thick of the action as in "Supper's Ready", the
traveller here observes it much as Maeldune or Brendan and their men are
able to observe the goings-on on the islands, and although his remark about
"sad courage" shows that he is not without sympathy, he is able to continue
on, "Passing paths that climb halfway into the void". (Yes, II)
"As we cross from side to side," the narrator says, "we hear the total mass
retain." In other words, at the end of the second section and halfway
through the journey, despite fluctuations, transformations, and wavering
between life and death--or youth and maturity--the traveller perceives a
certain unity, a certain cohesion to what he has so far witnessed.
The third section, "I Get Up I Get Down", introduces the penitent--a woman:
In her white lace she could clearly see
The lady sadly looking saying that she'd take the blame
For the crucifiction [sic]
Of her domain.
Two million people barely satisfy
Two hundred women watch one woman cry
Too late
Thru [sic] the duty she would coil their said
Amasement [sic] of her story asking only
Interest could be laid upon the children
Of her Domain. (Yes, III)
Beyond the white lace, there is no lyrical description of her circumstances
or the terms of her exile, but the music at this point takes on an echo, as
if performed in some large space, and a dripping noise is audible in the
background, indicating a proximity to water.
Female characters could hardly be expected in stories featuring monks, but
both Maeldune and Bran encounter islands populated by no one but women, and
these bear some resemblance to Anderson's lady in her white lace:
The Chief of the Women stood on the land before Bran and spoke,
'Bran son of Febail, the ripe corn comes from the earth and not
the hand of Bran.['] In the plain little boat, Bran covered his
face from the woman of fair beauty. From the palm of her hand,
in a great feat, the Beautiful woman cast a single thread,
formed by the hands of many, that went straight to the hand of
Bran. The currach was now obliged* [* Ragan, in his
translation, points out that while Meyer's translation says that
the currach is towed to the Isle of Women, the Gaelic word used
implies obligation, 'either material, legal, or spiritual.' By
leaving, the men abandon their obligations.] to move towards the
port. Leaving injury behind, they entered the Mansion of the
Sea. (Ragan, 62)
While the Reeses characterize Bran's Island of Women as "the quintessence
of femininity and erotic pleasure" (Rees, 323)** [** Curious that the
Reeses would equate the two, when I can find no such indication in the
translations I've read.], the latter of which would seem at odds with the
traditional connotation of white lace, the Ragan translation refers to the
island as "the many colored Otherworld with modesty and decorum." (Ragan, 60)
The version of the story given in the Voyage of Maeldune is somewhat
expanded. The travellers come to the island of their own free will.
Maeldune is paired with the widowed queen, who still holds court and
settles disputes for her people; his seventeen crew members are matched to
the queen's seventeen daughters. The travellers stay the winter before
setting out against the wishes of the women, and it is then that the queen
casts her thread. She does this three times, and each time, the travellers
stay another three months. The final time, Maeldune instructs another man
to catch the thread, and then that man's hand is cut off, at which point
"the island was one loud cry and one lament." (Gregory, 113)
Here, in the Immrama, are queens--women with domains. And in wanting to
pair their subjects with the travellers, we could say that each is "asking
only interest could be laid upon the children of her Domain". In pursuit of
this duty, each throws a thread--a "coil" perhaps, hoping to keep them
there. But the men depart, unsatisfied, and the women are left behind. It
is easy to imagine that Anderson's crying woman is Maeldune's forlorn
queen, who has just lost another husband and whose subjects have been
deserted.
As with the episode concerning the "armoured movers", in "Close to the
Edge", the traveller has no part in the women's plight. He is merely an
observer, but what he sees upsets him, prompting him to ask:
The eyes of honesty can achieve
How many millions do we deceive each day?[...]
In charge of who is there in charge of me
Do I look on blindly and say I see the way?
The truth is written all along the page
How old will I be before I come of age for you? (Yes, III)
In the Immrama, the islands of women are mere destinations; the plight of
the penitent apparently moves the men to greater faith. Here, though, the
sight of suffering provokes these three critical questions--the first about
lies, the second about hypocrisy, the third about the perceived maturity of
the traveller himself, or as Circus put it, about how "it often took man
too long to recognize his won [sic] potential." (Circus, 1973, quoted by
SoulQuest7@aol.com, 27 11 2002)
Interspersed throughout this section is the repeated phrase, "I get up, I
get down". As before, this refers to a cycle. Part of the cycle may
involve the mood of the traveller: elation at what he is learning; despair
at the suffering he perceives. The last "down" precipitates another long
instrumental passage that begins with the solemn tones of a church organ.
Then the main musical theme is recapitulated, not as a lighthearted
travelling tune but as raucous, percussive discord which then resolves
itself into a more traditional* [* That is, traditional from the point of
view of a non-musical listener thirty years later.] keyboard solo (Yes,
III). Anderson has referred to this instrumental passage as representing
the destruction of a church** [** I'm almost certain that the source for
this is Tim Morse's Yesstories, but I can't find the book to cite it
correctly. Of course, "Close to the Edge" was a collaborative effort, and
though Anderson can safely be credited with most of the lyrics, the
creation of this instrumental passage was likely overseen by the
keyboardist, Rick Wakeman, who is a devout Christian and might not
characterize his own work in this way.] --in other words, the tearing down
of organized religion, at least inasfar as Anderson sees it as contributing
to suffering. This is in sharp contrast to three of the four traditional
Immrama, in which religion is a source of stability in lands where the
accustomed order does not apply. But "Close to the Edge" comes out of the
post-modern era, where nothing is stable; and furthermore, it incorporates
elements of Eastern spirituality and English Romanticism, both of which
involve a different relationship between the individual and the sacred from
that theorized by the early Christian church. Voyagers in the later
Immrama transcend time, space, and nature, but could not conceive of
transcending religion.
Of course, the above assumes that Anderson's explanation is the correct
one. Even if he were the sole author of the instrumental passage, it would
still be open to interpretation, even more so since it is nonverbal.
Without his input after the fact, we have a passage much like that in
"Supper's Ready". It follows on the heels of the traveller's
disillusionment, makes use of a musical technique--discord in this case,
where "Supper's Ready" uses odd time signatures--to disquiet the listener,
and taking into account traditional narrative structure, comes in the final
third of the piece, the area where Syd Field locates the "pinch", or ordeal
(Buchbinder, 26 11 2002). Like the two songs, Brendan's voyage contains
such a pinch: the episodes involving the sea serpent and the gates of hell
come just before the steward directs them to the Land of Promise of the
Saints. The pinch is more characteristic of traditional narrative form
than it is of the Immrama, but in the case of "Close to the Edge", it lends
shape to a piece that is a challenge to understand, and provides a
transition between the vision of suffering presented in "I Get Up I Get
Down" and the final climax.
"Seasons of Man" begins with what the traveller has learned so far:
The time between the notes relates the colour to the scenes
A constant vogue of triumphs dislocate man so it seems
And space between the focus shape ascend knowledge of love
As song and chances develop [sic] time lost social temperance rules above
(Yes, IV)
This is in part a critique of technology, the "constant vogue of triumphs".
The Circus interview says of Anderson, "Shaking his tangled head, he
explains, 'We go to the moon, and people are still starving,' then winces
at the irony of the way he sees man 'dislocating' himself." (Circus, 1973,
quoted by SoulQuest7@aol.com, 27 11 2002) Instead, it is between-ness that
is valuable: the unheard and unseen are the true connectors and shapers of
life. In short, the traveller has been vouchsafed a "backstage" view of
the world, just as the Reeses said.
Now, the material from Anderson's dream is incorporated into the song. The
"man who showed his outstretched arm to space" (Yes, IV) bears some
resemblance to the wise men of the Immrama, particularly the steward who
ultimately points Brendan and his crew to the Land of Promise of the Saints
(Webb, 67). The traveller continues, from his vantage point:
On the hill we view the silence of the valley
Called to witness cycles only of the past
And we reach all this with movement in between the said remark (Yes, IV)
Silence is again emphasized, twice. Where Bran has spent many years in the
Land of the Living, and Brendan's mentor Barinthus has spent a full year in
the Land of Promise without knowing it (Webb, 34), we are told that "Close
to the Edge" has taken place in the silence between one word and the next.
The song concludes with another repetition of the main lyrical theme:
Close to the edge down by the river
Down at the edge round by the corner
Seasons will pass you by
Now that it's all over and done
Called to the seed right to the sun
Now that you find now that you're whole
Seasons will pass you by
I get up. I get down.
I get up. I get down.
I get up. I get down. (Yes, IV)
The repetition drives home the cyclical nature of the journey, while the
manner in which it is sung--slowly, with emphasis--gives this passage a
climactic character. Note that the only line that actually changes,
"Called to the seed right to the sun", uses the same language as the
concluding verses of "Supper's Ready". The seed metaphor is another
reference to the cycle, as is the repeated mention of seasons. As the
music dies out, all that is left is birdsong, and the noise of rushing
water--the sounds that were present at the beginning.
As with "Supper's Ready", there is nothing to suggest that "Close to the
Edge" is a conscious adaptation of the Immrama, or that any of the
musicians involved were even familiar with the stories at the time. In
fact, when questioned about his influences, Anderson credits Herman Hesse's
Siddhartha, and his own dream. And yet, as with "Supper's Ready", many of
the elements are present, changed but still recognizable: the call to
adventure, the penitent, the wise man, the distortion of time...even birds
have a small part in the song. Are these elements, and the ones identified
in "Supper's Ready" somehow integral to a certain type of storytelling, or
story? Two songs is far too small a sample to draw a conclusion either way.
And furthermore, if there is no evidence that the writers of these songs
were consciously working in this tradition, can they truly have been
satirizing, critiquing, or even responding to the Immrama? It seems
doubtful. However, in addition to portraying the transition from life to
death, or ignorance to enlightenment--again, between-ness--the traditional
Immrama are themselves transitional, using a pre-Christian narrative form
to tell stories that become increasingly Christian in subject matter. It
is not unreasonable to suppose that Jon Anderson, Peter Gabriel, and their
fellow musicians, in their quest to transcend boundaries, would seek out a
new narrative form that happened to be an ancient one, suited to song; and
that they would then use this to critique the old social order, part of
which was emerging in the time of the Immrama.
If in the first part of this essay, I introduced some ambiguity as to the
purpose of the traditional stories, I believe that the purpose of these
contemporary songs is much more sharply defined. First of all, they were
written in an era when in Western culture, enlightenment was gaining
popularity as an explicitly stated goal; and their creators were part of
the generation and the subculture that considered itself at the forefront
of this movement. Secondly, the critique of twentieth-century Western
society adds a layer of meaning not evident in the traditional stories--the
belief that the journey transcends the otherworld itself, and that the
values represented by the otherworld can and should be changed. This layer
is difficult to justify in terms of a journey to death, but quite at home
in a journey to awareness. These epic songs, unwitting heirs of the
Immrama, do not seek to teach their listeners how to die, but rather how to
live.
Works Cited and Consulted
Anderson, Jon, with Steve Howe, Chris Squire, Rick Wakeman, and Bill
Bruford. "Close to the Edge". On Close to the Edge. New York: Atlantic
Recording, 1972.
Ashton, Cat. "The Road of the Gods: By the Waters of Babylon as Future
Myth". Toronto: York University, October 17, 2000.
Buchbinder, Amnon. Lecture for FILM 3120 6.0: Feature Screenwriting.
Toronto: York University, November 26, 2002.
Campbell, Joseph, with Bill Moyers. The Power of Myth. New York:
Doubleday, 1988.
Excerpt from Circus Magazine (Author unknown, title unknown), 1973. In
"[Southside] Re: Hesse in Yes". From Soulquest7@aol.com, November 25, 2002.
Gabriel, Peter, with Tony Banks, Steve Hackett, Phil Collins, and Mike
Rutherford. "Supper's Ready". On Foxtrot. London: Stratsong Limited, 1972.
Gregory, Lady Augusta. Book of Saints and Wonders Put Down Here by Lady
Gregory According to the Old Writings and the Memory of the People of
Ireland. London: John Murray, 1908.
Homer. The Odyssey. Samuel Butler, trans. Online at
http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext99/dyssy10.txt. Created April 1999,
updated February 2003, accessed March 2003.
Meyer, Kuno, trans. "The Voyage of Bran, Son of Febal to the Land of the
Living". Online at http://celt.net/Celtic/Myths/brantxt.html. Originally
published 1895, online version accessed December 28, 2002.
Ragan, Michael, trans. "Immram Brain". Online at
http://www.danann.org/library/gael/bran.html. Created 2000, accessed
December 28, 2002.
Rees, Alwyn and Brinley. Celtic Heritage: Ancient Tradition in Ireland and
Wales. London: Thames and Hudson, 1961.
Rycenga, Jennifer. Excerpt of "Tales of Change Within the Sound: Form,
Lyrics, and Philosophy in the Music of Yes", from Keith Holm-Hudson's
Progressive Rock Reconsidered. Quoted in "[Southside] Re: Hesse in Yes".
From Soulquest7@aol.com, November 27, 2002.
Webb, J.F., trans. The Voyage of St. Brendan in Lives of the Saints.
Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965.
Weiss, Alan. Lecture for AS EN 2240F 3.0: Apocalyptic Science Fiction.
Toronto: York University, October 10, 2000.
West, Geoffrey. Introduction to "The Life of St. Brendan", page 75 in
Rosalind Kerven and Penelope Lively's The Mythical Quest: In Search of
Adventure, Romance, & Enlightenment. Rohnert Park: Pomegranate Artbooks,
1996.
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