The album title is a direct reference to the adage about people who ‘live in glass houses.’ To us, the stone-throwers included management, fickle labels, and fair-weather fans—and, yes, our acrimonious split with Phil, which colored many of my lyrics. I didn’t want to make an album full of literary references and existential commentary. I wanted the songs to be fresh and to express how I felt about what was going on with the band, in our lives, and how the social and political climate of the time was impacting everything around us. And a lot of that was colored by my mental turmoil. As a five-piece touring band, we knew we couldn’t have as much instrumentation onstage, so we didn’t write as many parts into the arrangements. There was plenty of violin and some horns, but guitar took a more prominent role, and while we still strayed from convention and included many tempo and rhythm changes, the songs were more accessible and conventionally melodic—for Gentle Giant.
When we started working on In A Glass House, I was conflicted, but I still felt like that turmoil was generating the purest, most honest musical expression of which we were capable. From a pure physical and emotional level, it was my favorite Gentle Giant album. Later, however, as I began to reevaluate what we had done, I came to regard it as one of my least favorite records. More recently, I’ve looked at it for what it is—a good, authentic snapshot of where we were at that point in our career. With decades of hindsight, and having reconciled with Phil in our silver years, I can say that moving on as a five-piece was a blessing in disguise, and his decision to devote himself to his family was one he needed to make. We were getting more popular, and there was a greater demand for us to tour internationally, which would have been horrible for Phil. And, considering how many major career decisions came our way over the second half of the band, it benefitted us to have one bandleader taking care of business, instead of two jockeying for position. I just wish we all had had more time to prepare for what transpired, and that everyone had parted ways on good terms. As our lives progressed, we discovered that while history tends to repeat itself, you can’t rewrite the past, which sadly would cause many years of acrimony.
It would have been great if In A Glass House had been the commercial resurrection we needed and immediately supercharged our career in America, the UK, and beyond. That didn’t happen. The executives at Columbia took one listen to it and had a knee-jerk reaction—it was too dark, and it wasn’t Octopus. To our shock, they refused to release it.
As some small consolation, Vertigo liked the album just fine and released it in Europe on September 21, 1973. Our fans loved the record too, and no one complained that it was bleaker or more introspective than Octopus. It sold well in Europe and set us up for some big headline tours there.
Columbia’s lack of interest didn’t poison us in the US, either. The album was one of the most popular import albums of the year, and it resonated strongly with our American fans, which would later lead to our decision to reissue it in 1992 on our own Alucard label. This was a brand-new era for Gentle Giant. We were no longer on Columbia, we were almost through with WWA, and we’d signed a new management deal with Terry Ellis, who we knew because he also managed Jethro Tull.
Ellis had co-founded Chrysalis Records with Chris Wright in 1968. He knew our music well and was excited to work with us. It was a win/win, and everything changed for the better. We didn’t have to look over our shoulders anymore to see if anyone was screwing us, because the only one we saw when we glanced behind us was the friendly smiley Giant. We had tour managers to make sure we received our guarantees, and everything happened as planned, which is never a sure thing when you’re on the road in a foreign country. We hired Eric Brooks, who had mastered the nuts and bolts of tour managing while on the road with Jethro Tull. He worked with us for around two years and did a fantastic job, cleaning up spills and making sure the Giant machine was well-oiled. He was all business too and avoided the lurid elements of the job that attract too many tour managers (wrangling groupies, procuring drugs, making sure the party is raging). That was fine with us—the more effort he put into communicating with venues and hotels, getting us where we needed to go, and ensuring we were paid, the happier we were.
With Terry’s guidance, we signed to Capitol in North America and Chrysalis for the rest of the world. At first, we focused our efforts on touring Europe, since In A Glass House wasn’t being released in the US. We had a bit more money and were headlining more shows, so we took a cue from the stage productions of Jethro Tull and Yes and put more resources into our visual presentation. We started with a projection screen, and that rapidly became multiple screens splashing surreal, Giant-themed images across the back of the stage. We barely played any of the songs from our first two albums anymore, focusing instead on the evolved material from Three Friends, Octopus, and In A Glass House, the latter of which had entire crowds on their feet. As a five-piece, we were at the peak of our playing powers, and our performances were close to flawless. Usually, our production enhancements made for a better show, although there was one time when that wasn’t the case—at least for Gary.
Gary started out by doing a pretty piece on acoustic guitar, and I was preparing to come out from backstage and start singing ‘So Sincere.’ Ray entered first. In the fog and darkness, I didn’t notice the electrical wires crossing the stage. I stumbled over one of them but didn’t fall over. Something went CLANGG! and Gary and Ray looked behind them giggling. They thought I had tripped and was on the ground, but the noise was actually caused by the wire snapping into the guitar stand, which went flying, as did the guitar it was holding. Gary’s roadie picked the Les Paul off the ground to hand it to him in time for him to finish the song. He should have figured it was out of tune and grabbed another guitar. But it wasn’t just out of tune. It was in two pieces. When it fell on the stage, the headstock snapped right off. Gary had to finish the set with a Telecaster, and when he got offstage, he was bereft that his prize guitar was broken.
Gary’s guitar was in desperate need of repair. Not long after the show, I found out I needed some fixing as well. During the tour, I had started experiencing severe stomach pains. I figured I was suffering from physical exhaustion. If I had been having a great time on the road, and if the shows had been standing room only, I would have gutted it out and finished the tour. But the only time I felt good was onstage. Before and after the shows, I was anxious, doubled over in pain, and I had to be in a quiet room with soothing music, breathing deeply and practically meditating for the pain to pass. The cue to stop touring came after I started vomiting blood. We canceled a twelve-date tour of France and I went straight to the doctor, who diagnosed me with bleeding ulcers.
I had wrestled with gastric issues in my late teens and early twenties, and throughout my life, I’ve experienced semi-regular stomach discomfort to varying degrees whenever I’ve gotten anxious or upset. Stress causes some people headaches or anger issues. For me, it goes right to my gut. Instead of flying to France and playing shows, I went back to Portsmouth, rested in bed, watched my diet, and took medicine until the ulcers healed.