Permanent staycation
Take a thoroughly British break in the land of Caravan. With Jim Irvin.
FROM THE RANKS of mid-’60s Canterbury R&B band The Wilde Flowers – “Every Friday night at the Bear and Key Hotel, Whitstable, admission 3/6d” – emerged the delightfully unstuffy Caravan, longest-serving purveyors of the resolutely un-R&B Canterbury sound. Which, if it actually existed, lay in variants of a whimsical vocal style, like sarcastic folk singing, delivering a casual lyric over freeassociating music that felt more improvised than composed. Titles were often surreal and rarely referred to in the material. This set them apart from classic prog rockers who flirted with portentousness and the codspiritual – Caravan, six albums in, were still calling things Cunning Stunts and Fear And Loathing In Tollington Park Rag. British to a fault, their name conjured the thing you pulled behind a Ford Cortina rather than the exotic desert convoy.
Now, The Decca/Deram Years (An Anthology 1970-1975) (HHHH) (Decca/UMC) pulls along almost everything from their peak on 9-CDs. (Considering Universal owns the rights, it’s a shame their 1968 debut longplayer for Verve, an overlooked psych nugget, isn’t included.)
By 1970, Decca debut If I Could Do It All Over Again… I’d Do It All Over You, they were crafting extended works with frequent passages of beauty or feverish excitement, as displayed in 14-minute closer Can’t Be Long Now. My first exposure to Caravan was via Top Of The Pops’ short-lived Album Slot,
for which they played the title track, an offhand thing, its catchy refrain of “Who. Do. You. Think you are.” bookending a noodling instrumental. Its quirky appeal placed it alongside King Crimson’s Cat Food, though the band resembled students – all kinky hair and corduroy loons – who seemed surprised to be there. On this album, Pye Hastings isn’t the distinctive presence he would become, partly because his vocals are mixed ludicrously low. For this reason, If I Could Do It… would benefit from a proper remix. Nonetheless, there’s audible confidence in the playing, from years of dues-paying.
Louche-larynxed Richard Sinclair leads the vocal charge on In The Land Of Grey And Pink: Golf Girl is steadfastly English, all tea and trombones, Winter
Wine is a jammy showcase for Dave Sinclair’s organ and mellotron prowess, and
Nine Feet Underground is Caravan’s celebrated sidelong opus, a fan favourite which retains its exploratory exuberance.
Caravan seemed poised for greatness, but key players came and went with every album afterwards. Only nimble drummer Richard Coughlan and the quietly assertive Hastings stayed the course, effectively starting from scratch each time, which may explain why they never took off commercially.
Waterloo Lily isn’t usually cited as a fan favourite, as fusion-y new keyboard player Steve Miller was tugging them towards – gasp! – jazz, but it does contain the greatest thing they ever cut, The Love In Your Eye, Hastings’ masterpiece of ethereal melody and strident riffing – bucolic Englishness meets US cop-show themes – given a bold orchestral setting and 12-plus minutes to stretch out. Occasional member Jimmy Hastings’ flute-playing shines.
For Girls Who Grow Plump In The Night took a rockier, more prosaic approach, while also introducing electric viola, as you do. Live album Caravan & The New Symphonia consolidated their sonic ambition. (The previously edited show is here in its entirety.) Cunning Stunts, though fine, didn’t sell enough to justify further Decca releases. Punk showing up wiped out interest in their brand of whimsy for a while.
The posthumous Live At Fairfield Hall and the BBC session compilation The Show Of Our Lives are welcome additions to the contemporary albums, all underlining why Caravan, still going today, deserve a special place in our cultural affections. The bonus material has all been heard before, but if you’re a fan who’s been waiting for these definitive CD editions to gather together, purchase with confidence.