COS
Postaeolian Train Robbery

"Mousikè Tékhne"

The battle had been long and heartbreaking. It is therefore not surprising if Zeus and his brothers, at the end of the decade-long conflict with their tyrannical father (of whom we have already spoken before), allowed themselves some well-deserved rest, lingering long in the celebrations for the conquest of Olympus, their new and perpetual abode. Despite the overwhelming victory and the exercise of power that followed, there still lingered, among the ranks of the gods, an annoying feeling of incompleteness, as if an important element in the elegiac picture depicting the glory of the third divine generation had unexpectedly been lost. For as impressive as the feat appeared from every point of view, it could aspire to become legend, enchanting the astonished minds of posterity, only through the preservation of memory and the consequent tradition that would arise from it.

Thus it happened that the celestial sovereign, despite his recent ascent to the throne, found himself forced to don simple shepherd's clothes and head northward, to Mount Pieria, in the hope of encountering the silent walks of the reflective Titaness Mnemosyne, goddess of memory. The search, as exhausting as it was, bore fruit, and the king, finally in the presence of the elusive lady, succeeded in seducing her and spending nine nights with her, during which their as many daughters were conceived, who in the future would be universally known as "muses."

The term by which these divine maidens are identified comes from "music," but, contrary to the usage we have today, it assumed, in Greece, the more general and much deeper value of "culture," precisely because it was through song and the caressing sounds of the lyre that the aedes were able to pass down, in mythic form, the complex history of civilization.

Among the nine inspirers of these lofty narratives, as well as solemn guardians of all arts and therefore of human creativity (who knows where the word "museum" comes from), the uncertain profile of a smiling face seems to emerge in the background of the work in question, not reminiscent of the focused expression of Clio the historian, nor the carefree air of the flautist Euterpe, but perfectly matching the jovial personality of Thalia, the amusing comedian, intent on mirroring herself in the mask she constantly carries with her. It is not, in fact, the anecdotal list of events that unfold throughout the story that fascinates the mind, nor indeed the chronicle of every single note composing a score, but the unpredictability of forms generated by human soul's action, which, from mere event, turn into narrative, then transform into melody, and finally bloom into pure theater.

Progressive rock is in this sense a paradigmatic case, as from its genesis poets, acrobats, prophets, and tragic actors have succeeded one another in an endless artistic caravan, where interpretation has always assumed the same value as the music from which it emerged, often splitting into styles so peculiar as to be practically irreplicable by any craftsman, no matter how skilled. In this regard, a lance should be broken in favor of the uniqueness of Canterbury comedy, too often seen and located in representations that maintain only a vague and negligible echo of the genuine Kent school, consequently necessitating serious reevaluation of the very few set designers who have succeeded in reconstructing its fairytale landscapes in distant and apparently incompatible lands.

The Belgian composer Daniel Schellekens and his Cos are an excellent example of all this. Baptized Classroom in 1966 and enriched by the decisive presence of singer Pascale De Trazegnies three years later (when Daniel, incidentally, married her), they gradually transitioned from jazz to progressive rock, eventually settling, thanks to the visionary humor and unparalleled vocal flexibility of the girl, in those fertile Canterbuty lands that the band continued to cultivate until '76, when the slight ethnic undertones of the still excellent "Viva Boma" precluded fun, funky rhythms ("Babel," 1978) destined to fade, within a few months, into an insipid pseudo-commercial chorus hunt ("Swiss Chalet," 1979).

"Postaeolian Train Robbery", marked as the debut in 1974, shows one of the best moments, along with its successor, of Cos' career, when the mischievous grin of the liveliest muse was still accustomed to materializing in Pascale's playful vocalizations ("Populi"), also engaged on the oboe ("Postaeolian Train Robbery"), while the other instruments amused themselves dancing around her, now swift and exuberant, in a race between Robert Dartsch’s drums and the keyboard ("Afam"), now elusive, in the fleeting interventions of percussionist Steve Leduc between the dense weavings of Alain Goutier’s bass ("Cocalnut"), now contemplative and inspired in the exposure of a piano masterpiece signed by Charles Loos, praised by Daniel's Hatfieldian guitar ("Coloc"), who places the missing tile of the work by wielding the flute and conducting a short and lively instrumental episode ("Halucal").

The edition curated by Musea also boasts the presence of numerous tracks belonging to the "Classroom era" and presumably recorded in 1973 in the face of a contract possibility, which then faded, with CBS. Although it is an added section, it proves to be at least as valid as the actual record, if not perhaps even superior, thanks to Pascale's surreal lyrics, stunning in her singing in French ("Achille", "L'Admirable Amas Cellulaire Orangé"), and the chameleonic tempo of the rhythm section, which at the time saw Jean-Paul Musette on bass ("Sur Deux") and Jean-Luc Van Lommel on drums ("La Partie d'Échecs").

Here concludes the first of those two acts of the long "Cos" screenplay, which can boast the presence of an exceptional director, who, with her contagious smile, lightens and reassures the hearts of those who create and propose art, as well as the audience benefiting from it, admiring and becoming enchanted: Thalia, patron of comedy, bucolic poetry, and... why not? Maybe even Canterbury Sound.