“It was late in December, the sky turned to snow,

All round the day was going down slow…” – Time Passages, Al Stewart

History, I’m told, is written by the conquerors. Ultimately it seems, in our schools and even in our zeitgeist, the losers still manage to scratch and claw their marks into our collective unconscious. I’m a little jaded, I admit, but it strikes me as excessively ironic that the very first album I had chosen would be a time capsule from a troubadour of tales that situated on the fringes of human history. The spectacle at the U.S. Capitol on then sixth of this month left many of us speechless, but the insurrectionists there were little different than the anarchists of the early 1900s or the fascists in Europe during the 1930s.

So it’s hardly a shock that idle minds and idle hands would make of themselves a cautionary tale that plays into the hands of the manipulating powers-that-be. I think Franz Ferdinand would feel a little less pressure as the historical catalyst for a tragic cataclysm if he knew how we picked up and ran with the mustard gas. Let’s take a second to analyze: is the point of learning history (human, not natural) to memorize dates of battles and names of the influencers of history, or is to glean some context and understanding of the human condition that may save our sorry asses going forward? Your answer to that question definitely determines where you stand on the human evolutionary timeline.

Well.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Now, let’s talk about that time capsule I mentioned earlier, Year of the Cat (Al Stewart). Possibly one of the best (definitely one of the most literate) albums to arrive in the middle 1970s, Year of the Cat boasted a broad range of topics and pop hooks that carried historically-driven stories to the masses. (As a side note, I’m constantly plagued by an overwhelming feeling of despair that the broader music audiences of today lack the acquisitive nature of the audiences of 1976.). From “Lord Grenville” and “On the Border” to “Flying Sorcery” and “One Stage Before”, Stewart throws wave after wave of nostalgic reminiscence at the listener, a barrage of musically splendorous ammunition that permeates and ignites the soul.

“You were always Amy Johnson since the time that you were small” (Flying Sorcery) were lyrics which led me to a 1930s-era female pilot, the first to solo from London to Australia, and her tragic end in a Thames Estuary crash while flying in a WWII Air Transport Auxiliary ferry flight. Or, in “Lord Grenville”, “Our time is just a point along a line that runs forever with no end, I never thought that we would come to find ourselves upon these rocks again” left me with many questions, not the least of which was who was the title subject. a 14th century Lord and politician who fought aboard the Revenge following a protracted battle with 15 ships of the Spanish fleet. “On the Border” flips between the Spanish Basque separatist campaign and the Rhodesioan conflict, all driven by a superlative Spanish guitar improvisation by guitarist Peter White. The lyrics, prosaic poetry (“On my wall the colours of the maps are running” – the changing geopolitical topography of human civilization) and plaintive in their call to arms (“The ghost moon sails among the clouds turns the rifles into silver on the border”) for the oppressed, are never more haunting than in the final verse:

“Late last night the rain came knocking on my window, I moved across the darkened room and in the lampglow I thought I saw down in the street the spirit of the century telling us that we’re all standing on the border.”

This is hardly lightweight pop. It’s catchy, sure; it has Alan Parsons as both engineer and producer (engineer for Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” and The Beatles’ “Abbey Road” to name the biggies); but it has depth and complexity and connections to the higher human aspirations that set it apart from many of its contemporaries, and its successors.

I could linger on “One Stage Before” (an existential romp and Christopher Nolan-esque event horizon that any performer faces in the endless repetition of performances – “While others talk in secret keys and. transpose all I say and nothing I try or do can get through the spell”) or “Broadway Hotel” (the retreat to anonymity for those overwhelmed by…life?). But, still, it waits, like a vigilant sentinel on the window seat, watching a rainy day pass; quiet, observant, and introspective, there is the cat.

Let me state that I believe unequivocally that any song which opens with the lyric “On a morning from a Bogart movie” has already placed itself above other pedestrian fare. It’s not just that the Casablanca connotations inherent in the phrase evoke that film classic (helped along with the straight-on reference to Peter Lorre), but the song as a whole, lyrically, paints a tableau of a bygone era, which, amid masks and social distancing and so many unimagined future shocks, is perhaps mythologized now more than when it was first released.

“Year of the Cat” is filled with everything we eagerly devoured at Saturday matinees: the mysterious feminine presence, an exotic foreign setting, and a sense of the inevitability of the of a predestined assignation leading to heartbreak. Even recognizing the transitory nature of the protagonist’s realization of desire, there is no choice but to pursue the liaison which will ultimately dissolve. “Better to have loved and lost” Tennyson said but here, though “the drumbeat strains of the night remain in the rhythms of the new-born day”, the melancholy of the poet is replaced by an inevitability in the voice of the narrator.

Echoing that constancy of change is the instrumental bridge, cello to violin to acoustic to electric guitar and finally a jazzy Phil Kenzie sax solo every bit as memorable and penetrating as Raphael Ravenscroft’s “Baker Street” riffs. The seamless transitions between the instruments could be echoing the human shift from relationship to relationship, “like waves upon the shore of infinity.” The fullness of Alan Parson’s arrangements on “Cat” (and the rest of the album) elevate the stories, giving a feeling of completion, rather than a burial in overproduction.

All in all, Year of the Cat – for me – is about as perfect as an album can be: tales of history and nostalgia that produce a rare synergy. It’s got a folk-rock feel with jazz tones and a heavy dose of literate insight. But don’t take my word; carve yourself forty minutes of time, put on the phones, and listen, and let the stories paint your day.