(((O))) Review: Soft Machine – Slightly All The Time: Recordings 1970-1974

“Soft Machine had everything; Mike Ratledge made the organ sound like Jimi Hendrix, but you also had the melancholy stuff that Robert Wyatt did. You could freak out to them and listen to them at home. They took you on a musical journey”. So recalled Soft Machine fan Captain Sensible of The Damned in a MOJO feature on the story of progressive rock published more than twenty years ago.

It’s hard to explain why Soft Machine were such a groundbreaking band. They shattered conventions across psychedelic rock, avant-garde music, free jazz, and jazz fusion, emerging from the heart of the Canterbury scene like a tidal wave ready to engulf everything in its path. For me, that MOJO article served as an introduction to their music. I began with the band’s formative releases from 1968 through 1970: their self-titled debut, Volume Two, and the monumental Third. That was where my journey with Soft Machine ended. Until now.

This massive 14-CD/3-Blu-ray box set chronicles the band’s influential CBS/Columbia years, covering the five studio albums they released for the label. Despite numerous lineup changes and the band’s eventual breakup in 1978, Soft Machine’s story never truly ended. The group later resurfaced as Soft Machine Legacy in 2004 before reclaiming the Soft Machine name and continuing to record and tour. There has never really been a stop sign for this band.

The five albums collected here represent one of the most important periods in Soft Machine’s history. Powered by Mike Ratledge’s fierce, swirling fuzz-organ, the band opened Third with the towering ‘Facelift’. Ratledge’s organ unleashes metallic shrieks and distorted textures that feel both frightening and exhilarating, creating a musique concrète-inspired atmosphere that remains astonishing more than fifty years later.

Then comes Robert Wyatt’s masterpiece, ‘Moon in June’. Part ballad, part autobiography, part tribute to former bandmate Kevin Ayers, the piece finds Wyatt pouring his heart into every lyric and drum flourish. Acting as arranger, vocalist, and drummer, Wyatt guides the music through multiple moods and transitions while Hugh Hopper’s bass gradually drifts into territory reminiscent of Miles Davis’ ‘All Blues’. Elton Dean’s saxophone improvisations, along with guest contributions from Mel Collins, help transform the composition into one of the defining moments of the Canterbury movement.

Third was not merely an excellent jazz-rock album. It was a bold declaration that Soft Machine had moved beyond the psychedelic sounds of their first two releases and were determined to carve out a different identity.

Released in 1971, Fourth pushed the band even further toward jazz. It was also the final studio album to feature Robert Wyatt before he departed to form Matching Mole and eventually pursue his acclaimed solo career.

‘Teeth’ arrives like a sudden shockwave. What begins as a complex rhythmic introduction quickly evolves into a powerful ensemble workout. The interplay among Ratledge, Hopper, Dean, and Wyatt creates a sense of constant momentum, reminding me at times of Ian Carr’s Nucleus and the adventurous spirit of the Vertigo label.

The four-part suite ‘Virtually’ remains one of Soft Machine’s greatest achievements. Hopper’s deep bass textures anchor the opening section while Wyatt’s drumming drives the music forward with restless energy. As Ratledge’s keyboards surge and Dean’s saxophone cuts through the mix, the composition gradually builds into an exhilarating fusion of free jazz, improvisation, and atmosphere.

Wyatt takes center stage during the second section, exploring every corner of his drum kit while Ratledge transforms his organ into a snarling, distorted beast. Dean’s saxophone cries out like a lone voice in the night before the music settles into a passage that feels connected to the spirit of ‘Moon in June.’ In hindsight, it almost sounds like a bridge between Third and the direction Soft Machine would pursue in the years ahead.

The arrival of Six marked another turning point. With former Nucleus drummer John Marshall replacing Phil Howard and Karl Jenkins becoming an increasingly prominent creative force, Soft Machine continued refining their fusion of jazz, rock, and improvisation.

The live recording of ’37½’ captures this lineup at full strength. Ratledge, Jenkins, Roy Babbington, and Marshall lock into a groove that balances sophistication with raw energy. The performance radiates confidence, allowing Ratledge’s improvisations to flourish while Marshall and Jenkins push the music into new territory. It is fusion played with both discipline and freedom, carrying Soft Machine’s evolution forward without abandoning their experimental roots.

That intensity reaches another level on ‘Lefty’. Ratledge seems to channel the chaos of ‘Facelift’ once again, unleashing waves of distorted keyboards while the band plunges headfirst into an adventurous free-jazz landscape. Marshall’s drumming is particularly impressive, responding to every twist and turn with remarkable precision. Likewise, ‘5 from 13’ showcases the group’s ability to balance structure and spontaneity, creating music that feels both unpredictable and purposeful.

Then there is ‘The Soft Weed Factor’, a piece that journalist Mark Paytress once described in MOJO’s guide to essential Soft Machine recordings as a work that “probably owes more to Terry Riley than Miles Davis“. It is an insightful observation. The track embraces minimalist repetition while maintaining a hypnotic momentum that continually draws the listener deeper into its evolving textures.

The influence of Riley can also be heard elsewhere during this period. Phil Howard’s unconventional rhythmic ideas, Ratledge’s atmospheric Fender Rhodes work, and Elton Dean’s searching saxophone improvisations combine to create music that feels suspended between jazz, minimalism, and abstraction. On tracks such as ‘M.C.’ and ‘As If’, Dean’s playing often evokes the spirit of John Coltrane’s later explorations, adding another dimension to Soft Machine’s increasingly adventurous sound.

Fifth remains one of the band’s most daring achievements. Experimental, abstract, and frequently challenging, it demands complete attention from the listener. It was also the first studio album to feature Phil Howard as Wyatt’s replacement, and his contributions cannot be overstated.

On ‘L.B.O.’, Howard attacks the drums with astonishing force and imagination. His playing is explosive without ever becoming aimless, transforming the rhythm section into a constantly shifting foundation for the band’s improvisations. He rarely receives the recognition afforded to other Soft Machine drummers, yet his brief tenure left an undeniable mark on the group’s history.

And no, this is not subtle music. Howard launches into passages that resemble a full-scale percussive assault before suddenly shifting gears and allowing the rest of the band room to breathe. That contrast can be heard throughout ‘Pigling Bland’, where moody jazz textures mingle with grooves that occasionally bring to mind the emerging jazz-funk movement of the era.

Meanwhile, ‘All White’ demonstrates just how confident Soft Machine had become by the early 1970s. There are echoes of Frank Zappa’s ‘King Kong’ in the composition’s ambitious structure, but the band never sounds derivative. Instead, they absorb those influences and reshape them into something uniquely their own. The result is confrontational, exhilarating, and unapologetically adventurous.

By the time the band reached Seven in 1973, their final album for CBS/Columbia, another transformation was underway. The record often reminds me of Ian Carr’s Nucleus, which caught me completely off guard. Listening to it today, I sometimes wonder what its reception might have been had it appeared on Vertigo alongside many of the era’s other progressive jazz releases.

Regardless, Seven stands as one of the group’s most underrated recordings.

Roy Babbington, now a full-time member following Hugh Hopper’s departure, helps anchor the album’s evolving sound. The opening track, ‘Nettle Bed’, finds Ratledge exploring the EMS Synthi AKS, painting vivid electronic landscapes that almost resemble a soundtrack to a particularly chaotic Road Runner cartoon. At times, the energy recalls Frank Zappa’s Over-Nite Sensation period, particularly in its blend of humour, virtuosity, and relentless momentum.

The sequence of ‘Day’s Eye’, ‘Bone Fire’, and ‘Tarabos’ showcases the band’s remarkable chemistry. Babbington, Jenkins, Marshall, and Ratledge move effortlessly between delicate passages and more adventurous improvisational excursions. The music occasionally drifts into territory reminiscent of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, only to pivot toward Canterbury whimsy or bursts of synthesiser-driven experimentation.

Throughout these pieces, Ratledge’s keyboards remain a guiding force. His interplay with Jenkins creates moments of genuine beauty and unpredictability, revealing a band still searching for new directions despite already possessing an established identity.

The album concludes with ‘The German Lesson’ and ‘The French Lesson’, two atmospheric pieces that demonstrate Ratledge’s growing interest in mood, texture, and minimalism. Rather than ending with a dramatic flourish, Seven closes on a reflective note, providing a fitting conclusion to Soft Machine’s CBS years.

Beyond the original albums, the box set offers a treasure trove of archival material. Among the highlights are the alternate Fifth sessions remixed by Stephen W. Tayler, whose work on remixes from Van der Graaf Generator, Be-Bop Deluxe, Hawkwind, to The Moody Blues has earned widespread acclaim. His mixes place the listener directly inside the sessions, revealing details that were previously buried within the original recordings.

The alternate takes are fascinating. ‘Untitled Blow’ bursts with adventurous experimentation, while the alternate version of ‘All White’ places greater emphasis on Hopper’s wah-wah bass, Dean’s saxophone textures, and the rhythmic interplay at the heart of the performance. These recordings offer a rare glimpse into the band’s creative process and demonstrate how fluid these compositions remained during their development.

Perhaps most importantly, Tayler’s mixes highlight Phil Howard’s contributions with newfound clarity. Listening to these sessions, one gains a greater appreciation for the power, imagination, and technical skill he brought to the group during his brief tenure.

The inclusion of the complete 1970 Royal Albert Hall performance is equally significant. Recorded for the BBC Proms on August 13, 1970, and only partially available in the past, the concert finally receives the treatment it deserves. The performance captures Soft Machine during one of the most creative periods of their career and serves as an invaluable historical document.

The BBC sessions from 1970 through 1974 are similarly impressive, as are the recordings from Jazz in Britain and the band’s appearance at the Montreux Jazz Festival in July 1974. Each performance provides another snapshot of a group that was constantly evolving.

The Blu-ray collection may be the crown jewel for longtime fans. Featuring appearances from programs such as Pop Deux, Beat Club, Full House, and other television broadcasts, the footage offers a fascinating look at how the various lineups operated in a live setting. Watching the band perform makes it clear just how far ahead of their time they truly were.

Sid Smith’s liner notes provide a wealth of detail, chronicling the band’s evolution through every lineup and creative transition. Packed with rare photographs, recording documentation, promotional material, studio memorabilia, and fascinating archival discoveries, the accompanying book serves as a comprehensive guide to Soft Machine’s CBS/Columbia years. From rehearsal snapshots and sessions at Olympic and Advision Studios to recording contracts, master tapes, and behind-the-scenes insights, Smith paints a vivid portrait of a band constantly reinventing itself while somehow keeping the machine running.

Whether your preferred incarnation of Soft Machine features Kevin Ayers, Robert Wyatt, Mike Ratledge, and Hugh Hopper, or later members such as Karl Jenkins, Elton Dean, John Marshall, Roy Babbington, Phil Howard, and Allan Holdsworth, there is no denying the group’s importance. Few bands made such a dramatic artistic transformation while maintaining their identity. They evolved from psychedelic pioneers into one of the defining forces of jazz fusion and progressive music, leaving behind a body of work that continues to inspire generations of musicians and listeners alike.

Slightly All the Time places the listener at the centre of that remarkable journey. More than a box set, it is an invitation to rediscover Soft Machine and appreciate just how revolutionary they were. From the groundbreaking experimentation of Third to the increasingly sophisticated fusion explorations of Seven, these recordings capture a band pushing beyond convention with fearless creativity. The inclusion of the BBC sessions, live performances, alternate takes, and essential television footage only strengthens the experience, revealing how far ahead of their time they truly were.

Watching the 1971 Beat Club performances today, with Ratledge’s distorted organ eruptions, Dean’s fearless saxophone improvisations, Hopper’s fuzz-drenched bass, and Wyatt’s relentless drumming, it becomes abundantly clear why Soft Machine remain one of the most adventurous groups in progressive music history. The chemistry between the musicians is almost tangible, each member responding to the others in real time as the music continuously morphs into something unexpected. What could have easily collapsed into chaos instead becomes a masterclass in spontaneity, risk-taking, and creative trust.

What struck me most while working through this collection was how modern much of it still sounds. The band’s fusion of jazz, minimalism, musique concrète, electronic experimentation, and progressive rock feels remarkably contemporary. Many of the sounds, textures, and compositional ideas explored throughout these recordings would later become commonplace across progressive music, post-rock, ambient music, and experimental jazz. Yet Soft Machine were exploring many of these possibilities decades earlier, often with little concern for commercial expectations or conventional songwriting structures.

That spirit of constant reinvention is what makes this collection such an essential document. It captures not just a band but an idea: a group of musicians determined to follow their curiosity wherever it led. At different points the journey is beautiful, challenging, chaotic, meditative, humorous, and utterly bewildering. More often than not, it is all of those things at the same time.

For me, this box set completed a journey that began more than two decades ago when I first read that MOJO article and discovered Third, Volume Two, and the band’s debut album. Back then, I stopped at the threshold of Soft Machine’s story. Slightly All the Time finally opened the rest of the door. Revisiting these albums has revealed not only how vital the band’s post-Wyatt years were, but also how seamlessly their evolution unfolded from one lineup to the next.

Simply put, this is one of the finest archival releases devoted to any progressive rock or jazz fusion artist in recent memory. It presents Soft Machine’s CBS/Columbia years with the care, depth, and attention they deserve, while shining a light on a band whose influence extends far beyond the Canterbury scene from which they emerged.

They were unpredictable, visionary, fiercely independent, and completely uncompromising. More than fifty years later, their music remains fresh, challenging, and astonishingly modern. If there was ever a collection capable of demonstrating the full scope of Soft Machine’s brilliance, Slightly All the Time is it.

And to borrow a phrase from William S. Burroughs: “If the soft machine works, don’t fix it”.