At first, Phil was as excited about the new music as the rest of us and wanted to devote all his time and attention to the band. Gradually, though, that changed. Phil had a family, and his wife wanted him to spend more time with her and their kids. At that point, I was so far from that type of thinking that I couldn’t imagine how he could think of anything but the band. Eventually, the conflict would prove to be too great for him, but when we recorded Octopus at Advision Studios between July 24 and August 5, he was able to tune out any outside distractions and completely focus on the music. It was an amazing collaboration, and we were all deeply involved in the process, generating ideas that enhanced and complemented the songs that Kerry and Ray wrote, creating a more developed version of Gentle Giant with which we were all pleased. When we finished writing, we had our most rounded and fully formed statement date.
I’ve often thought of the band evolving in life stages. Our self-titled debut was us as toddlers learning to walk, excited about everything whizzing around us. Acquiring The Taste was us as kids, establishing our values as creatives and trying all kinds of ideas to discover what worked. Three Friends was our awkward adolescence and the realization of personal flaws that held us back despite the unwavering drive to move forward. In that context, Octopus was Gentle Giant discovering our sea legs and finally living up to our potential. With it, we turned from spotty teens to young adults.
The studio sessions for Octopus were occasionally fraught, as was almost everything we did. A little discord is useful for generating passion, emotion, and energy from band members. But there’s a balance. Too much disenchantment is never good. Each of us wanted to place our musical mark on the new songs, which at times led to arguments. More often than not, though, we had a great time. John injected a more rock-oriented vibe into the songs, resulting in some of our heaviest and most enjoyable songs.
Whenever we became frustrated, our engineer, Martin Rushent, had a way of calming us down and bringing us back to earth. We were producing the album ourselves, as we had Three Friends. Martin made it sound great and kept us reigned in. Not only was he an excellent engineer, but he could always tell when we could use some levity, and he’d always have an anecdote ready or a joke on hand to lighten the mood, sidetrack us, and get us to focus on what we enjoyed about making music.
When we encountered a creative obstacle and started to get fidgety, Martin came to the rescue. ‘Hold on, guys,’ he’d say. ‘Let me play something back for you to see what you think. Be quiet for a sec?’
Martin had set up six twelve-inch reels around the studio and had a loop of one-quarter-inch tape perpetually running throughout the sessions. He cued up a two-track Studer playback machine. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, and pressed play.
We watched the wheels of the machine turn, and instead of hearing Gentle Giant, out came this crazy recording of The Troggs—the band most famous for ‘Wild Thing’—arguing with one another after listening back to a hopeless take of a song they should have left on the cutting-room floor. Their engineer, Clive Franks, had become so sick of the bickering that he hit the talk-back mic, pressed ‘record,’ and captured the absurd conversation:
RONNIE BOND (drums) Whether you think so or not, that is a number-fucking-one, and if that bastard don’t go, then I’ll fucking retire! I fucking do!
DENNIS BERGER (producer) I think it is a good song. I agree, it is a good song.
RONNIE But it fucking well won’t be unless we spend a little bit of fucking thought and imagination to fucking make it a fucking number one. You gotta put a little bit of fucking fairy dust over the bastard, you know?
DENNIS Oh, we’ll put some fairy dust over it. I’ll piss over the tape.
REG PRESLEY (vocals) I’m a fairy!
RONNIE Do you know what I mean? I don’t know what it needs then.
DENNIS Aah!
RONNIE But I know that it needs …
DENNIS I know that it needs strings. That, I do know …
The Troggs argument goes on and on for another fifteen minutes, following a tight audio edit, and was one of the most hilarious interactions caught on tape I’d ever heard. It took us out of a dark period of uncertainty and had us pissing ourselves laughing. For the rest of the session, whenever we disagreed about anything or started getting frustrated, Martin would interrupt—‘I have an idea …’—and turn up the sound on the track with the Troggs recording. His little producer trick brought us back to earth and made us realize we weren’t negotiating to save hostages. We were supposed to be having fun doing what we loved, and that epiphany erased the cloud of tension from the room more effectively than a dehumidifier removing excess water from the air. For months or maybe years afterward, we quoted bits from the Troggs argument recording back to one another and smiled. It became a great inside joke.
With Martin at the controls, we recorded Octopus in about two weeks at Advision Studios and finished just in time to prepare for our first US tour, promoting Three Friends in North America, which saw us opening for Black Sabbath. We’d known them since the early days and cheered them on as their self-titled first album revolutionized heavy music. Now, they were heading to the States to promote their second album, Paranoid, which was a game-changer in both the US and the UK. It was their first tour of America as well, and we were excited to be chosen as the opening band, though that had much to do with our shared management company. We weren’t as heavy as them, but they were loved by loads of fans seeking a new sound, and we figured that anyone who connected with good songs would be able to appreciate Gentle Giant. Besides, Black Sabbath generated headlines everywhere they went, and we hoped some of that attention would rub off on us and maybe open a door for us in the US.
From the moment The Beatles played Ed Sullivan, every English band has fantasized about conquering the States. The opening date of the tour was in Savannah, Georgia, but we flew to Toronto, Ontario, first to get our work visas straightened out. Then we headed to Buffalo, which was our first contact with American soil.
‘What kind of a place is this?’ I asked Ray. ‘This doesn’t look like the America in the movies.’
Almost before he had time to answer my rhetorical question, we were on a plane from Buffalo to Charleston, South Carolina. As we disembarked, a wave of wet heat washed over us. It was sticky and a little hard to breathe, and there were palm trees everywhere. It was a culture shock beyond our expectations. We had been in hot climates before, but never anywhere so humid. It was sixty-five degrees or so back home in England, and here we were in South Carolina, sweating as if we had just finished a game of tennis.
We got to the venue, County Hall, and hooked up with Black Sabbath. We loved those guys, and they were happy to see us. Connecting with other musicians from working-class backgrounds was always comforting. County Hall was a dilapidated building that resembled a big underground bunker. We played for about thirty minutes and received the kind of lukewarm reaction opening acts often get from big crowds. We didn’t think much of it and looked forward to watching Sabbath.
They began with ominous, introductory music, and then the band took the stage dressed like high priests of the Satanic temple. Now, this was new! The volume was ear-splitting, and as they launched into the soporific drone of ‘Black Sabbath’ the crowd stood transfixed. Then Ozzy started to sing. He sounded nasal, as usual, and his voice was scratchy coming out of the PA, which, I guess, pissed him off. Partway through the third song, he hoisted the mic stand above his head, flung it over the amplifiers, and stormed offstage. Show over. More than five hundred angry fans started throwing shit, and when they saw us at the side of the stage, they began aiming at us, as if we had somehow wrecked Ozzy’s voice and made him cancel the gig. The cops stormed in and dispersed the crowd, which flooded into the street, where they continued to voice their displeasure by shouting and smashing things. It was a grand introduction to the American policing system—and a sign of things to come.