Keith Rainere “Totally Innocent Prog Rock Genius”
According to Nancy Salzman — and presumably Vanguard himself — at some point before scoring the world’s highest IQ and before being identified as one of our planet’s three greatest problem solvers, Keith Rainere taught himself many musical instruments, including the piano, which he could allegedly play at a concert level. Of the many claims made by the NXIVM organization, I found the one about Rainere’s musical aptitude most confounding simply because it is the most disprovable.
Throughout the nine hours of “The Vow’s” first season, and despite the fact that NXIVM seemingly taped everything that Keith Rainere ever did, we are provided with no evidence of his virtuosity. We don’t see him playing the flute or the oboe or the violin. He doesn’t grace us with classical guitar. We don’t hear his take on “Stairway to Heaven.” The only proof we get of Rainere’s musical gift is a brief, middling performance of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” — a piece generally taken on by young students in the first few years of their studies. On the basis of this showing, and without additional verification, it’s hard not to conclude the obvious: Keith Rainere is no Keith Emerson.
So, why? Why did he make such a bold and obviously false claim? IQ tests can be forged. Problem solving is hard to measure. But musical aptitude is hard to fake. The hubris of this particular assertion vexed me for some time — it seemed like lazy hyperbole in a sea of better crafted hyperboles. But then, in the late Spring of 2019, I got a clue. Two clues, in fact. Apparently, shortly after mastering all of those instruments but presumably before breaking the IQ test, Keith Rainere got really into Prog Rock, and specifically Yes and Genesis.
In a May 28, 2019 column for the New York Post, Emily Saul reported:
The alleged leader of an upstate sex cult is into progressive rock, even if his views on women are highly regressive. NXIVM leader Keith Raniere is a fan of the 1970s prog bands Genesis and Yes, a former “slave” testified at his human-trafficking trial in Brooklyn federal court Tuesday.
A witness referred to as “Daniela” told jurors Tuesday she often used the computer Raniere kept in his upstate Waterford home-office, which he allegedly used as a sex lair, including import copies of the cult leader’s CDs onto the machine at his request. Amid the stacks of music, Daniela found “Yes and Genesis — several albums of that,” she testified.
Just weeks later, somebody calling themselves “Brigid,” writing for either the South Buffalo News or the Frank Report (or both) summed up Rainere thusly:
Raniere is a swinging singles suburban orgy throwback, a prog rock doofus, who looks like he wandered out of a John Denver concert.
Eureka! There it was. Two profound insights from two marginally reliable sources. Nevertheless, Emily and Brigid put words to the correlation that was so obvious as to be almost axiomatic. The connection that we all always kind of assumed but almost never spoke of. Prog and Cults. Yes — it's definitely a thing.
Before I drop the mic in sociological triumph, and assuming that you’ve minimally heard of NXIVM and Keith Rainere, I should probably begin by defining “Prog” (or “Progressive”) Rock. Prog is a broad term used to describe popular or semi-popular music that attempts to advance its form through experimentation, instrumentation and, frequently, virtuosity. Historically, Prog has been known as much for introducing “classical” techniques into Rock as it is for eschewing tradition and leaping forward. Lyrics to Prog Rock songs are as likely to be about medieval English fjords as they are about space ships. Fans and makers of Prog marvel at skill — they are wowed by orchestration, erudition and ambition. To them, fifteen minute songs are too short. Eight minute solos are gifts. They are amazed by 7/4 time signatures and the ways in which the singer effortlessly moves up an entire octave.
By most accounts, Prog was born in England in the second half of the 1960s. And while there is constant debate among aficionados as to whom is fully Prog and who is not, people generally agree that King Crimson, Yes, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Genesis (with Peter Gabriel as lead singer) and Jethro Tull are the masters of the form.
Critics, of course, have a very different opinion of things. They despise the pomposity of Prog. They view the virtuosity as unnecessarily bloated and showy. To cynics, Prog conjures images of Spinal Tap playing “Stonehenge” — of absurd laser light shows and million dollar synthesizers and songs about hogweed and slipper people (actual Genesis song topics). In that Prog elevates its musicians as geniuses and hoists them high up on the tallest pedestal, those allergic to the form consider it both silly and fascistic. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Prog is the realm of middle-aged (white) men. Female Prog acolytes, while not unique, are very hard to find. If civilization depended on the guests at a Yes concert to survive, we’d all be completely fucked.
Many fans of Prog and, presumably, the musicians themselves, are aware of its reputation. Generally speaking, they defend the music itself while they giggle at the pomp and circumstance of it all. Proggers are people too! And they can absolutely have a sense of humor. Additionally, there is no strict definition of “Prog.” Some would say that Pink Floyd is a Prog band while others would strongly disagree. There is Prog Rock and Prog Metal and Electronic Prog music. Prog is kind of like pornography — you know it when you see (hear) it. Unlike porn, Prog tends to go on much longer.
In the same way that I am no expert in cults, I’m not an authority on Prog. I’ve dipped one toe in the water of Yes. I may have taken a swim in the lochs of Tull. I’ve even listened to a good deal of King Crimson, but a fair amount of that was under duress. As musical ideas, I understand very little of it. But also, I totally get it.
Which is why I feel confident suggesting that cult leaders would naturally be Prog-inclined. Both are steeped in orthodoxy and technique. Both presume that there are objectively right and wrong ways to do things. Both require vigilant practice for promotion. Both are obsessed with performance. More importantly, there is an implicit power dynamic in both realms — the cult leader is separated from his (not to be sexist, but…) acolytes by myth and doctrine in the way that Prog Rockers are separated from their fans by virtuosity and stagecraft.
With both cults and Prog there’s a haze of complexity and superiority that implicitly confirms their own greatness. They are both designed for learned people who are searching for answers. And to their credit, they provide meaning and structure where there previously was none. Ultimately, though, no matter how much you study, you can never fully understand either one of them.
Yes — the parallels run deep, but they all lead to the same conclusion: Young Keith Rainere didn’t want to be Charles Manson, David Koresh or even Tony Robbins. Nor did he tinker with the piano to become Bach or Beethoven. “Moonlight Sonata” was a red herring. Vanguard wanted to be Rick Wakemen. He wanted to be Steve Howe or Greg Lake. He wanted to be the guy who decoded the lyrics to “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway” (or at least, imply that he had).
There was only one problem — he couldn’t. He couldn’t figure out Genesis’ “Firth of Frith.” He couldn’t play the Christopher Squire parts on “Long Distance Runaround.” But he could look the part. Right around the time he meets the Dalai Lama, Rainere — having shed his baby fat through intense volleyball and sex with disciples — grew out his stubble and let his hair grow long. To the casual observer, it might have seemed that he was chasing Jesus-chic. But, he was not. Vanguard wanted to be the lovechild of David Gilmour and Richard Wright from Pink Floyd. Or the younger brother of Ian McDonald and Michael Giles of King Crimson. Just Google those names and compare. The resemblance is uncanny. Rainere’s monastic vibe was a happy accident, a side effect of looking like an early 70s English Moog prodigy.
To be clear, and as is the case with the most extravagant Rainere claims, I have very little proof of any of this. I don’t have secret tapes of Rainere singing along to “Seen All Good People.” And in spite of what court transcripts might indicate, I’ve not observed him rocking out to “The Return of the Giant Hogweed.” And yet, I am certain of the link. The relationship between cult leaders and Prog is not well documented, but it's also not hard to establish. Rainere simply demonstrated what his more famous predecessors only implied.
After his unnerving brand of Progressive Folk music failed to land in Los Angeles during the 1970s, David Koresh regrouped in Waco as both the leader of The Branch Davidians and as the frontman for a late 80s, Steve Vai inspired outfit called “Messiah.” In 1982, L. Ron Hubbard released “Space Jazz: The soundtrack of the book Battlefield Earth,” an album of experimental, progressive New Age music that featured Jazz legends Chick Correa and Stanley Clarke, alongside erstwhile Rolling Stone, Nicky Hopkins. To my knowledge, “Space Jazz” is the first and only soundtrack to a book.
However, the O.G. of Prog-cult leaders is, of course, Charles Manson, whose “Never Learn Not to Love” was famously covered by The Beach Boys, who paid Charlie with a BSA motorcycle. The Manson/Dennis Wilson friendship begs a critical, albeit adjacent, question: does it go both ways — do Prog Rockers have oversized interest in cults and cult leaders? Though The Moody Blues’ “Days of Future Passed” is frequently cited as the first Prog record, I’m of the opinion that the title actually belongs to The Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds.” Minimally, it’s a thread worth tugging at.
The Beatles, who responded to “Pet Sounds” with their own Prog breakthrough, “Sergeant Pepper,” were repelled by Manson (who was obsessed with them). But the Fab Four were much more than curious about a different cult leader right around that same time -- Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. In the 1970s, beloved Progressive Folk duo, Richard and Linda Thompson, converted to Sufism and lived alongside their sheik and other Sufists in conditions that sound quite “culty.” Neil Pert, drummer for Canadian Prog legends, Rush, was profoundly interested in Ayn Rand and her Objectivist ideals. And, more recently, Cedric Bixler-Zavala of Prog Punk-Metal band, Mars Volta, had a stint with the church of Scientology.
Despite the correlation, though, none of the men in these examples occupied both sides of the dichotomy. In other words, while there may be mutual interest, the Prog gods do not pretend to be religious apostles and the cult leaders never make platinum-selling records featuring WARR guitars. This seems to be the rule — with one possibly complicated, possibly innocent exception: Robert Fripp. In addition to being the guitarist and spiritual leader of Prog’s most stalwart brand — King Crimson — Robert Fripp is the founder of Guitar Craft, which begat Guitar Circle. On the surface, these institutions seem wholesome enough. For many years, they’ve provided education and training for guitar enthusiasts through multi-day retreats and longer term academies. Fripp is famously erudite, spectacled and eloquent. His interests seem virtuous and his pretense appears harmless. It’s hard to imagine the seventy-something year old guitar master who jokes around with his wife on Instagram as being nefarious.
And yet, there’s a cultish waft that emanates from Guitar Circle. Fripp has dabbled in motivational speaking, alongside his sister, who does it for a living. Moreover, Guitar Circle boasts a commitment to “personal development,” through relaxed sitting, T'ai chi ch'uan and the “Alexander Technique.” On a hopefully unrelated note, one time King Crimson bassist Gordon Haskell said the following about his former bandmate:
“The King Crimson weapon is musical fascism, made by fascists, designed by fascists to dehumanize, to strip mankind of his dignity and soul.”
Now, I don’t really believe that Robert Fripp is a fascist. And I’m only marginally unnerved by the idea of dozens of men and their thirty-string guitars practicing “relaxed sitting” and the “Alexander Technique” (whatever that is). I can easily forgive Haskell’s backstab as a spat between old friends. I can almost giggle at the music that David Koresh made, despite the atrocities he committed. I can roll my eyes at L. Ron Hubbard’s record for a million reasons, not the least of which is because he did not write a single note of its music nor did he play any of the instruments on it. But the Rainere thing is harder to shake. It seems highly relevant, if only barely newsworthy, that the man who called himself “Vanguard” was also a “Prog Rock doofus.” It’s a revelation that sounds almost preordained. Which makes me wonder — as with most things MXIVM-related — whether it’s even true at all.