Centipede - 1971 - Septober Energy

Centipede

1971

Septober Energy

01. Septober Energy - Part 1 (21:43)

02. Septober Energy - Part 2 (23:34)

03. Septober Energy - Part 3 (21:21)

04. Septober Energy - Part 4 (18:45)

- Wendy Treacher, John Trussler, Roddy Skeaping, Carol Slater, Louise Jopling, Garth Morton, Channa Salononson, Steve Rowlandson, Mica Gomberti, Colin Kitching, Philip Saudek, Esther Burgi / violins

- Wilf Gibson / lead violin, conductor

- Michael Hurwitz, Timothy Kramer, Suki Towb, John Reese-Jones, Katherine Thulborn, Catherine Finnis / cellos

- Peter Parkes, Mick Collins, Ian Carr, Momgesi Fesa, Mark Charig / trumpet, flugelhorn, cornet

- Elton Dean, Jan Steel, Ian MacDonald, Dudu Pukuwana / Alto saxophone, Flute, Soprano saxophone

- Larry Stabbins, Gary Windo, Brian Smith, Alan Skidmore / Tenor saxophone

- Dave White, Karl Jenkins, John Willimas / Baritone saxophone, bass saxophone, oboe, clarinet

- Nick Evans, Dave Amis, Dave Perrottet, Paul Rutherford / trombon

- John Marshall, Tony Fennell, Robert Wyatt / drums, percussion

- Brian Godding / guitars

- Brian Belshaw, Roy Babbington, Jill Lyons, Harry Miller, Jeff Clyne, Dave Markee / basses

- Maggie Nicholls, Julie Tippett, Mike Patto, Zoot Money, Boz / vocals

- Keith Tippett / piano

- Robert Fripp / producer

Septober Energy, the sole recorded outing by Centipede in 1971, is a sprawling, ambitious, occasionally unhinged double-album beast that feels less like a polite jazz-prog fusion experiment and more like someone handed Keith Tippett the keys to a musical circus, a few crates of wine, and told him “go wild, mate—no one’s stopping you.” Clocking in at a hefty 85 minutes across four side-long movements, it’s the kind of record that makes you wonder whether the early ’70s British scene was fueled by pure creative optimism or just really strong tea and even stronger herbs.

Keith Tippett, born in 1947, had already established himself as a daring pianist and composer by the late 1960s, blending modern jazz, free improvisation, and rock elements in ways that made traditionalists clutch their pearls. His work with his own group and notable contributions to King Crimson (on albums like Lizard and Islands) showcased a restless spirit unafraid of grand gestures. Influences included the avant-garde edges of free jazz, the exploratory Canterbury scene, South African township rhythms via exiled musicians, and the boundary-pushing ethos of contemporaries like Soft Machine and Nucleus. Tippett didn’t just want to mix genres—he wanted to throw them into a blender with fifty friends and see what glorious (or gloriously messy) smoothie emerged. The name “Centipede” was a cheeky nod to the ensemble’s 50-ish legs (give or take a few pairs), and the project was very much a labor of love among mates rather than a calculated commercial venture.

The lineup is a who’s-who of the vibrant London underground: strings, horns, reeds, rhythm section, and voices drawn from King Crimson, Soft Machine, Nucleus, Blossom Toes, and the South African exile community. Highlights include Elton Dean (alto sax and saxello), Dudu Pukwana (alto), Ian Carr (trumpet/flugelhorn), Mongezi Feza (pocket cornet), Karl Jenkins (baritone sax/oboe), Robert Wyatt and John Marshall on drums, Roy Babbington and Harry Miller on basses, vocalists like Julie Tippett (née Driscoll), Maggie Nicols, Zoot Money, Boz Burrell, and Mike Patto, plus guitarist Brian Godding and a battalion of classical string players. Robert Fripp produced the sessions at Wessex Studios over just three intense days in June 1971, somehow wrangling the chaos into something releasable. It was issued on RCA’s Neon imprint in the UK—a major label taking a flyer on something this bonkers speaks volumes about the era’s adventurous spirit.

Musically, Septober Energy is a four-part suite that careens between tightly composed passages, loose collective improvisation, funk grooves, lyrical vocal sections (with words by Julie Tippett), roaring big-band energy, and moments of near-anarchic free blowing. Part 1 opens with brooding pedal tones before erupting into marching drums, ascending horns, and string motifs that dissolve into smaller chamber-like episodes—think Gothic cathedral meets ramshackle jazz party. Part 2 locks into a more assertive rhythmic pocket with standout solos from Ian Carr and others, while Part 4 features a gorgeous Tippett piano solo with McCoy Tyner-ish fire before settling into groove territory. It’s equal parts majestic and messy: soaring communal highs followed by sections that feel like the orchestra is politely (or not so politely) arguing in public. The South African horns bring a joyous, earthy lift, the strings add cinematic sweep (or sometimes just luxurious dissonance), and the rhythm section keeps things from floating completely into the ether. Technical execution is impressive given the scale—engineer Mike Thompson captured the massive forces with reasonable clarity, though the sheer density can occasionally turn into a glorious wall of sound. Fripp’s production keeps it from total collapse, but this is no pristine studio confection; it pulses with live, communal electricity.

The original UK artwork leans into stark, minimalist design befitting the ambitious scope—simple yet striking in a gatefold package that hints at the contained explosion inside. The US RCA version went for a more photographic, cosmic-abstract approach that feels very much of its time: dramatic, slightly trippy, and perfectly suited to an album that wants to transport you somewhere between a symphony hall, a jazz club at 3 a.m., and a very stoned picnic.

Upon release, Septober Energy earned a fair share of critical side-eye—many reviewers found it overreaching, directionless, or just too much, with the sheer size and stylistic whiplash alienating as many as it delighted. Sales were modest, and it didn’t turn Centipede into a going concern (the band played a handful of live dates before Tippett wisely retired the idea to avoid logistical insanity). Yet its reputation has grown steadily over the decades. Reissues, especially the well-remastered Esoteric and BGO editions, have brought fresh appreciation for its ambition and heart. It’s cited as an influence on everyone from Mike Oldfield (who saw a live performance and drew ideas for Tubular Bells) to later generations of boundary-pushing musicians. In prog, jazz, and avant-garde circles, it stands as a legendary “what if” monument—a flawed but magnificent testament to a time when a pianist could assemble fifty mates, book studio time, and create something that still sounds daring half a century later.

I have always had the feeling that Septober Energy reminded me of Eddie Gale’s two late-’60s Blue Note albums, Ghetto Music and Black Rhythm Happening, so let’s delve into it.

That comparison hits me every time I drop the needle on Keith Tippett’s sprawling 1971 double album. Both projects radiate this rare, almost ritualistic communal energy — the kind of music that feels less like a conventional jazz record and more like a gathering of souls trying to summon something bigger than themselves through sheer force of horns, voices, and collective will. Eddie Gale, with his background in hard bop, Sun Ra’s Arkestra, and Cecil Taylor’s fire, built his albums around a core group but exploded them outward with the large Noble Gale Singers choir. The result is raw, gospel-soaked, street-level funk fused with free jazz eruptions — marching rhythms, ecstatic call-and-response shouts, polyrhythmic layers, and a deeply spiritual yet gritty sense of Black American community and resilience.

Septober Energy, on the other hand, takes that same impulse and blows it up to almost ridiculous British proportions with a 50-plus member “orchestra” of jazz, prog, and classical players. When those massed horns, strings, and voices (including Julie Tippett and Maggie Nicols) swell into those towering, chant-like peaks, I get the exact same spine-tingling, chest-expanding rush I feel during the choral climaxes on Gale’s records. The South African exiles in Centipede (Dudu Pukwana, Mongezi Feza) bring an earthy, joyous township flavor that echoes the celebratory, parade-like spirit in Gale’s work. Both feel like spiritual revivals — Gale’s version happening on a vibrant city block, Tippett’s unfolding in a smoky London arts collective that’s equal parts symphony hall and chaotic underground happening.

Personally, I love how both reject polite small-combo restraint in favor of something sweaty, inclusive, and a little unhinged. Gale keeps things tighter and more viscerally funky, anchored in soul and gospel with a direct emotional punch. Tippett, true to form, goes gloriously overboard — why use ten musicians when fifty will do? — resulting in an 85-minute suite that careens between majestic composed passages, tender chamber moments, and free-jazz free-for-alls that can feel like the entire ensemble is joyfully arguing and then suddenly hugging it out. There’s a touch of delightful British eccentricity and prog indulgence in Septober Energy that Gale’s more grounded, streetwise fire doesn’t have, and the production (captured live-in-the-room by Robert Fripp in just three days) has a raw, chaotic beauty compared to Rudy Van Gelder’s punchier clarity on the Blue Note sides.

At the end of the day, the resemblance isn’t note-for-note but spiritual. Both capture that late-’60s/early-’70s hunger for large-scale, boundary-smashing ensemble music that blends jazz, improvisation, folk elements, and a deep yearning for transcendence and community. Eddie Gale delivers the fiery, heartfelt sermon from the streets; Keith Tippett builds a slightly wobbly but magnificent progressive-jazz cathedral around the same idea. Whenever I listen to Septober Energy, it reinforces why that connection has always stuck with me — both albums make me feel like I’m witnessing something alive, hopeful, messy, and profoundly human. They’re not easy or casual listens, but when they hit those ecstatic peaks, they remind me exactly why this kind of audacious music still matters.

In the end, Septober Energy isn’t an easy listen or a casual spin—it’s a commitment, a wild ride, and a glorious middle finger to restraint. Keith Tippett and his Centipede didn’t just aim high; they built a wobbly ladder out of every available instrument in 1971 London and climbed it anyway. The result is messy, magnificent, and utterly unforgettable. If you’ve got the stamina (and perhaps a stiff drink), dive in. Just don’t expect it to behave.