I can think of a whole bunch of reasons to own this album. It’s a slightly marred musical masterpiece, one that melds heavy metal and progressive rock without ever letting the latter dominate the proceedings. And most of its songs are great. But the most important reasons to keep a copy of 1971’s Look at Yourself on hand is its cover.
Because it’s a real mirror! True, what you’ll see is a distorted fun house reflection of yourself, but how do you know that isn’t what you really look like? Could the fact that you look like one of Francis Bacon’s portraits be the real reason you never get dates? (And here everyone tells you it’s because you’re obnoxious!) Are your friends only hanging out with you out of pity? Could you be the Elephant Man of your social set? Would it be better for all concerned if you simply disappeared into some dark forest, where you’ll be able to bag all the game you need simply by staring at them?
Uriah Heep–or just the Heep, as we serious Heepheads call them–were powered by Ken Hensley’s omnipresent organ, Mick Box’s fantastic guitar, and David Byron’s operatic vocals and ability to out-shriek a Tiger Pistol Shrimp. What separated them from your average progressive rock band were their driving tempos, heavy metal inclinations, unwillingness to write complex five-part songs, and the fact that Hensley wasn’t some pompous Keith Emerson clone with classical pretensions (although he has his brief moments). Hensley didn’t write a single piano concertos. He was a rock and roll guy through and through.
Look at Yourself—the band’s third—was Uriah Heep’s breakout album, and it’s not hard to figure out why; most of these songs proceed at a breakneck speed, and the two that don’t (“July Morning” and “What Should Be Done”) are both classics in their own right. Rarely do they let their progrock inclinations run away with them, but there are exceptions—“Shadows of Grief” and the absurdly titled “Love Machine” being the chief offenders.
Drummer Iain Clark introduces Hensley’s driving keyboards on the mad dash of a title track, while Box plays speed metal and David Byron waxes histrionic on vocals. I could do without Clark’s drum solo, but at least it has the common decency to further the proceedings instead of stopping them dead in their tracks. Box’s power chords open “I Wanna Be Free,” which is a sort of template for American prog-lite heroes Styx. Byron offers up some banshee vocals, while Box brings a T-Rex Stomp and razor sharp guitar to the party.
The organ into to “July Morning”—one of the songs Uriah Heep is best known for—is a spitting image of the opening of Joe Cocker’s “With a Little Help From My Friends,” but Paul Newton’s heart palpitation bass and Box’s guitar carry it until Hensley comes in with some oh-so-sensitive vocals. “July Morning” could be placed in the prog rock category, if only because of its length (it clocks at 10:35) and the complex interplay of instrument (including that of sit-in Manfred Mann’s moog synthesizer). But at no time do I fold my arms and say “Harrumph. Why can’t these pretentious geezers stick to the plot?”
Box’s dominates the proceedings on “Tears in My Eyes” with a riff that would make Jimmy Page proud. He even captures that Page sound, until the song slows and Byron tosses off enough “na’s” you’ll need a calculator to count them. Then things build again, and Box launches into a fiery guitar solo guaranteed to singe your eyebrows.
Follow-up “Shadows of Grief” is progressive rock, and progressive rock at its worst, what with Hensley’s playing recalling Keith Emerson at his most grandiloquent. If I didn’t know it was a Uriah Heep song I’d swear it was a Tarkus outtake, and the worst part is Box and the rest of the band also hop aboard the ELP bandwagon. And the song isn’t all that. “You’re looking at me like I must be mad,” sings Byron, and he’s right. Anyone who longs to sound like ELP is mad. It’s right there on page 257 of the 2022 edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
“What Should Be Done” opens as a piano ballad; Byron drops great lines like “So you think you found a way of living/That prevents you losin’ any sleep” until the band steps in, light of foot, with Byron playing tasteful guitar on the down low while Clark’s drums sound like somebody put a muzzle on ‘em. And then there are the hushed backing vocals, which lend some cushy padding to the going-ons.
“Love Machine,” which is not to be confused with the landmark compositions of Wham! and the Miracles, doesn’t really fit in with Uriah Heep’s wizards and demons image. And it shows: lines like “Lovely little lady, you’ve got me on the run/You’re a love machine and you say that I’m your gun” cross into Kiss/Spinal Tap territory, and Uriah Heep ain’t either. I’m reminded of ELP’s “Taste of Love” from their 1978 LP Love Beach, and that is a very, very bad thing.
Uriah Heep are my favorite seventies progressive rock band because they never forgot they were standing in front of thousands of people eager to be entertained, not to be subjected to some pretentious twats eager to indulge their classical fantasies or demonstrate just how many different time signatures they can pack into a single song. Uriah Heep were a slightly upscale Deep Purple but I don’t hold it against them, if only because they never recorded a song as annoying or overplayed as “Smoke on the Water.” If Uriah Heep has an albatross hanging around its neck it’s “Easy Livin’.” And “Easy Livin’” just happens to be a great song.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
