The Moody Blues “Strange Times”
Given that “music television” was not really a thing in the 1960s, there are a surprising number of promotional videos for The Moody Blues’ “Nights in White Satin.” There is the semi-color one that features the band in burgundy suits, stiffly assembled on a staircase, lip synching, air guitaring and fake fluting. The colors of this underperformance reek with the patina of early TV. Aside from the brownness of their red suits, everything else is just a shade of yellowing grey.
There is also the black and white one for the German TV show, Beat-Club, wherein the band mimes on top of the orchestral arrangements. In that version, the film flips to negative briefly in the middle, so as to signify something experimental or “trippy.” And then there is what I believe to be the original video, also shot in black and white, where the band sways with their instruments, in front of the gates and statues of an old European church. There is no joy in any of these videos. There are only serious, overdressed men and their thoughts. And their hair. Yes -- the hair! With the exception of Mike Pinder, The Moody Blues were one of the most follically gifted band in music. These videos would make a compelling advertisement for some trendy, but esteemed, 1960s British wig shop.
The Moodies’ most famous song is often referenced as a touchstone for both Psychedelic and Progressive Rock. However, there is also a deeply sad, almost classical quality about it. It neither looks nor sounds especially stoned or futuristic. In their militaristic blazers and silk, puffy shirts, they look torn from the pages of Sergeant Pepper. But, in another way, they sound pre-Rock and Roll. At its core, “Nights in White Satin” is simply a lilting melody, decorated by orchestral strings and a haunting mellotron. To my ears, it feels less like the music of a post-JFK counterculture and more like the music that would be playing in the background of their childhood homes, the moment before The Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan.
While I’ve always understood them to be Rock canon, my exposure to The Moody Blues has been limited. I’m the child of Boomers, so their music was passed down. But they were not bestowed with the reverence of many of their contemporaries. Nevertheless, there seemed to be about a half dozen of their songs that were radio mainstays throughout my childhood. I owned a copy of “Days of Future Passed” as a teen, and wrongly assumed it to be their debut. I also had a copy of one of their many “Greatest Hits” compilations. In the early and mid-80s, they returned with a string of hits that sounded much more like A-ha or Erasure than the band that I had heard on my tape cassettes. And, eventually, I would see their live concert albums and DVDs promoted as an incentive to PBS viewers (alongside a tote bag) for their donations. That was really all I knew about the band. It was not nothing. But it was only a fraction of what I had been taught about, say, Cream or The Doors — more famous bands who survived only briefly and who were, in many ways, less accomplished.
It seems that I arrived at the story of The Moody Blues in medias res. I was never briefed on the preamble and I gave up long before the end. The band always existed in the ethers -- on the radio and at the fringes of my consciousness; just beyond Jethro Tull but nearer than Procol Harum. The more I learned about the band, though, the more I felt compelled to investigate. Their enduring success was inarguable. That was not a surprise. Many less talented bands from their era had ridden bigger waves of nostalgia. But there was also a Forrest Gump quality to their story. As exceptionally talented as the band was, they were perhaps doubly so in their good fortune and their proximity to greatness.
Before “Nights in White Satin” and “Tuesday Afternoon,” The Moody Blues were a middling R&B group, touring Europe and playing a combination of covers and unremarkable originals. From their earliest days, however, they were friends with The Beatles. Denny Laine, who co-founded the The Moodies, would eventually become the only core member of Wings not named “McCartney.” And Mike Pinder, who worked for the company that first produced The Mellotron, shared that instrument with John Lennon on the heels of “Sergeant Pepper.” Not long after The Beatles first discovered LSD, their brothers from Birmingham imbibed. Nonetheless, in 1966, The Moody Blues were on the verge of dissolution. Their record sales were poor. Their concerts, uninspired. Denny Laine left the band in 1966. It would have been reasonable at the time -- probably logical -- for Decca to simply move on.
Fortunately for all parties involved, they did not. The Moodies’ royalty account was unrecouped. They owed Decca Records money. Meanwhile, Decca had developed a new audio format which they needed to promote. The label hatched a plan to record an album of Classical music, performed by a contemporary Pop band, on this new Dermanic Stereo Sound format. In an act of both desperation and convenience, The Moody Blues were signed on for the unglamorous job. And through a combination of ingenuity and deceit, the band went on to produce “Days of Future Passed,” a genuine Rock “concept album,” written and recorded alongside a symphony orchestra. This version of The Moody Blues sounded nothing like the previous version. Justin Hayward replaced Denny Laine. There was not a hint of R&B. And while listeners had just recently heard string arrangements and classical tropes in The Beatles and The Beach Boys, “Days of Future Passed” fell deeper into the orchestra pit. It was equal parts accident and experiment, but, in 1967, The Moody Blues were reborn.
As stunning as the new sound was, the context of their breakthrough is perhaps even more important. 1967 was a landmark year in Rock music, in general, but was functionally “day one” for Psychedelic Rock and Progressive Rock. In late 1965 The Beatles dropped acid for the first time. In 1966, The 13th Floor Elevators called their music “psychedelic sounds.” That same year, The Byrds ascended and freaked out on “Eight Miles High.” So, the seeds had been planted a year earlier. But then, in 1967, this happens:
January
The Doors “The Doors”
Donovan “Mellow Yellow”
February
The Byrds “Younger than Yesterday”
Jefferson Airplane “Surrealistic Pillow”
March
The Grateful Dead “The Grateful Dead”
The Velvet Underground & Nico “The Velvet Underground & Nico”
June
Moby Grape “Moby Grape”
The Beatles “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”
August
Pink Floyd “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn”
Jimi Hendrix “Are You Experienced”
September
Procol Harum “Procol Harum”
The Beach Boys “Smiley Smile”
Tim Buckley “Goodbye and Hello”
Van Morrison “Blowin' Your Mind!”
November
Cream “Disraeli Gears”
Love “Forever Changes”
The Moody Blues “Days of Future Passed”
December
The 13th Floor Elevators “Easter Everywhere”
OK. Just sit with that list for a moment. Maybe read through it again and try to imagine what each album sounds like. Every mold of Psychedelic Rock is formed and broken within twelve months. The multi-colored Pop versions. The dark and poetic versions. The folky, acoustic versions. The loud and distorted versions. Most every trippy variation not born from Techno or Hip-Hop was first assembled that year. And, what’s more is that each of those albums has effectively endured. “Sergeant Pepper” is undoubtedly the most iconic on the list. But some could point to The Velvets’ debut as the most “important.” “Forever Changes” is as sprawling as it is flawless, and imagines the underside of Hippie ideals as well as any record before or since. Hendrix basically invented Hard Rock and Metal that year. So, while 1969 may have been more culturally significant, 1967 is the birth of Rock music as we still know it today. It’s rooted in Folk, Country and Rhythm and Blues, but it is looking higher, towards the sky. And, right in the middle of it all are The Moody Blues, who’s album could reasonably be called the most “psychedelic” and “progressive” of the bunch.
Situated among their formidable peers, and in their proper context, The Moody Blues don’t necessarily stand out. But, half a century later, they stand alone. With the exception of Van Morrison, none of those artists from 1967 survived beyond the early 1980s. The things that Mike Love calls “The Beach Boys” and that David Gilmour calls “Pink Floyd” obviously do not qualify. And Van has the benefit of being alone with his consistent brilliance and belligerence. There are no other bandmates to complicate things. A lot of people died young. Others died middle-aged. Some made it through. But The Moody Blues persevered -- even thrived -- into the mid-80s. It’s hard not to wonder how and why they were different.
Unlike their contemporaries, The Moodies featured five musicians who added value beyond their fractional role and instrument. Mike Pinder brought in the Mellotron and an ear for technology and arranging. Ray Thomas played the flute. Bassist John Lodge was a formidable songwriter in his own right. Drummer Graeme Edge was a poet, whose wrote many of the band’s famous, spoken word passages. Of course, singer and guitarist, Justin Hayward, sang with a lovely sadness that evoked Roy Orbison. Plus, his blonde, feathery mane was built for the 1970s. Peter Cetera had absolutely nothing on him.
Collectively, the band seemed to embrace their eccentricities. The quintet that made the “core seven” albums between 1967 and 1972 stayed intact throughout the 1970s. And, when Mike Pinder left in 1978, the remaining quartet survived until 2002. Even today, Hayward, Lodge and Edge tour together as the rightful, surviving “Moody Blues.” Although they always sounded like a fully formed band, the manner in which they celebrated individualism seemed to enable their evolution. The Moodies were unafraid of change. In fact, from 1974 to 1977, following a number one album and the success of "I'm Just a Singer (In a Rock and Roll Band),” they pressed pause. They didn’t break up. They just took a break and tried new things.
When they returned in 1978, Pinder was on his way out and former Yes keyboardist, Patrick Moraz, had joined. The band that emerged from the hiatus was far less orchestral and increasingly more synthetic in their Pop. It was no surprise that they could still write hit songs. But it was startling to hear programmed beats, synths and electronic strings where previously there had been a band and an orchestra. Nevertheless, it worked. In fact, even as they approached middle-age, in the time of early MTV and New Wave, The Moody Blues somehow fit right in. “The Voice” from 1981, and especially “Your Wildest Dreams” (1986) and “I Know You’re Out There Somewhere” (1988), sounded at home alongside Alphaville and The Pet Shop Boys.
In that way, there was always something a little timeless about The Moody Blues. They could sound like a product of the Sixties or the Seventies or the Eighties. I can picture them, frozen in black and white ember, in that “Nights in White Satin” video from 1967. But, also, the actual form of their music has always had a strange relationship with tempo. Their two major hits from “Days of Future Passed” are almost excruciatingly slow. Meanwhile, “Ride My See-Saw” and “I’m Just a Singer,” from the 70s, sound like Folk music strummed at breakneck speed. And, while those synthy hits from the 80s can pass for New Wave, they run well below the speed limit of their time. The band was able to succeed at every speed, but there is always this sense that they were pacing themselves differently than other Rock bands.
For over two decades, The Moody Blues managed to be highly relevant, global superstars that were never that famous. As a result, they never suffered from the acute dangers of idolatry. They’ll tell you that they had plenty of sex and drugs along they way (with the exception of John Lodge, who was a lifelong, devout Christian). But they were also the sort of group that could fill a stadium with fans who did not know a single band member’s name. It was an odd niche they occupied -- familiar and popular, but not known or owned. It was also a blessing that allowed the band to remain close to the popular consciousness without ever standing at the center of the zeitgeist.
When Psychedelic Rock exploded in the later 60s, many pointed to The Moodies as forebears. Years later, when Jethro Tull, Yes and E.L.P. established Progressive Rock as a dominant form, fans looked back, behind King Crimson, to “Days of Future Passed.” Even as “Romantic” New Wave was getting exported from the U.K. to MTV in American, you could catch the scent of The Moodies’ turn to Synth-Pop. It’s quite possible that Jethro Tull is the weirdest band to have had such enduring success. But, Jethro Tull had a singer who was also a songwriter and guitarist and flutist who stood on one leg. People knew the name “Ian Anderson.” Given The Moody Blues’ anonymity, their relatively modest success on the singles charts and their frequent stops and restarts, their enduring popularity is perhaps harder to explain.
As if to resolve this very mystery, following another decade of relative prosperity, the band avoided the studio from 1991 to 1999. Though the members were all in their fifties by the end of the decade, they had been a successful Pop act as recently as 1988. So, this second, major sabbatical seemed unexpected at first. They stopped recording around the peak of Hair Metal and right before Grunge and Alternative. During this span, The Moodies would still play out in large theaters, mostly alongside nostalgia acts. It was as though they aged twenty years in less than a decade. Patrick Moraz left the band and then sued the band. Meanwhile, Hayward was largely focused on figuring out how to perform live with a full symphony orchestra. For a group that was had more yesterdays than tomorrows, it made sense. But, it sounded like the sort of holy grail that could consume a band, if not bankrupt them. As the 90s came to an end, it was fair to wonder if we’d heard the last new music from The Moody Blues.
But then, during the summer of 1999, in the heyday of Limp Bizkit, Kid Rock, Backstreet and Britney, The Moody Blues returned with “Strange Times.” And, for the first time in over thirty years, the band that had been Classic, Classical, Psychedelic, Progressive and, even New Wave, finally sounded a bit lost. The timelessness that had been one of their great assets all those years began to feel a little time-less. For one thing, at fourteen songs and nearly an hour long, the album was unnecessarily long. Moreover, they sounded just a step too slow. To be clear, it was not really a matter of material. The songs were almost uniformly pretty and wistful. And, even at fifty three, Hayward’s singing mostly held up. But, everything else was just slightly off. The extra electronic beats on the Pop songs stretched beyond New Wave and beyond Eurotrash into the realm of Dance music for middle-agers who don’t want to dance. The crooners almost evoked late Roxy Music, but Hayward was earnest and light where Bryan Ferry was winking and dark. And the guitar solos, few as they are, sounded like they were pulled directly from the Top Gun soundtrack, and elicited exactly that much Rock and Roll fire.
On the whole, “Strange Times” sounds like an album made over so many years that, by the time it emerged, it was already too old. To be fair, there are numerous bright spots. “English Sunset,” the first (and only) single, opens the album and picks up sonically where “I Know You’re Out There Somewhere” left off. Complete with swirling synthesizers and a beat that gallops like a horse racing in the sands of Cornwall in the 1600s, the song is as lovely and effete as its title suggests. It is catchy, polite and highly English. But the feathery melody and the big beat move things along while Hayward dreams of his motherland:
I feel the rhythm of the earth
In my soul tonight
May it never fade away
And I've decided they can wait
For the requiem
We take it day by day
'Cause that's the English way
I saw the English sunset
As camp and as cheap Pop, it’s excellent. If it were made by a Scandanavian band, I could imagine a massively successful remix. But, it’s a Moody Blues song and I evaluate it with that bias. So, in that way, I consider it highly competent, but not much more.
After a couple flaccid attempts at Roxy Music’s middle-aged groove, The Moodies almost get it right on “Wherever You Are.” The windchimes don’t bother me. Hayward pulls out a surprising vibrato. And the beat stays patient and its place. It’s not what the band was built to do, but I can feel what they were aiming for, and I admire it. Just a couple of tracks later, on “Love Don’t Come Easy,” they take a half step away from grown up desires back towards Pop. The guitar returns to the front, where it jangles easily beneath Hayward’s vocals. The entire track is served up with a precision that recalls Jeff Lynne and ELO. It’s a very sensible and very refined mode that suits the band. But it is also probably five to ten years out of step from the charts.
Unlike most late career albums, the second half of “Strange Times” actually improves on the first. “My Little Lovely” is exactly that -- a quick, charming, English Folk song written and sung by Ray Thomas. Complete with strings and flute, it’s a sweet farewell for the co-founder, who would leave the band just a few years later. “Forever Now” aches as gracefully as Alphaville or Spandau Ballet’s finest ballads, but with just a touch of arthritis. And then there’s “The Swallow,” which is the lone moment on the album where The Moody Blues sound like an actual, live band. The guitar -- not the synthesizer -- sets the hook. The bass sounds like a bass guitar. The piano sounds like an organ. The players spread out and even jam a bit. The Moodies never had a problem sounding pretty. They struggled with their timing. But here, they sound at ease. The pace feels right. In the early 2000s, a bunch of Nashville all-stars called Moody Bluegrass assembled to make a couple of Bluegrass albums covering Moody Blues songs. “The Sparrow” is by no means a Bluegrass song, but it is close to Roots Rock. And it sounds entirely refreshing.
In between the near hits are, of course, plenty of misses. “Haunted” tries to pair electronic windchimes with beeps, boops and robot maracas. It’s not painful in any way, but it sounds cheap and dated. “The One” resembles Jeff Lynne wrestling with Steely Dan, and losing. And, in too many songs, the beats get heavy handed and the lead guitar sounds more synthetic than electric. That said, Hayward cannot seem to avoid simple, tender melodies, and there is just enough weirdness to the band to distinguish them from lesser imitators. As though to remind us of their great eccentricities, “Strange Times” closes with “Nothing Changes,” a spoken word piece written by drummer Graeme Edge. During his long tenure with the band, Edge had written some famously weird and poetic verses for the band. Here, the lyrics are neither especially weird or poetic. But they are delivered with weight and wisdom, and topped off with Hayward singing the closing refrain. For as much as transpired between 1967 and 1999, “Nothing Changes” sounds like a fitting end and a knowing return to “Days of Future Passed.”
“Strange Times” is the last Moody Blues’ album of all original material. They eked out a Christmas-themed album in 2003 and then gave back their keys to the studio. Since then, they’ve continued to tour and release a combination of live albums and reassembled greatest hits records. In 2018, the same year that Ray Thomas died, the band was inducted into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. By then, however, the band had shed any strand of modernity. They were fully an “oldies” act, remembered behind a frilly, satin shroud, in fading colors that were closer to black and white. They were too popular to receive the archeological celebration that was bestowed upon Love and The 13th Floor Elevators. But they were too weird and anonymous to reach the iconic status of their 1967 peers. Today, among writers and historians, they are discussed alongside the pioneering Psychedelic and Progressive Rock bands -- and rightfully so, I suspect. But they were in no way definitive of either form and they never held their ground for very long. When I think of them now, I, of course, think of “Nights in White Satin” and “Tuesday Afternoon” -- two songs, joined together, that are as lovely as any Pop songs of the last fifty years. But I also picture them in grainy videos, backed by a string section, playing odd instruments either too slowly or too quickly. For over twenty years, they were a band with uncanny timing. But they always sounded kind of time-less.