The Best Non-‘Epic’ Song by 10 Classic Prog Rock Bands (2024)

Known for their particularly intricate and strange uses of polyphony and counterpoint (both instrumentally and vocally), Gentle Giant aren’t quite as widely celebrated as English peers such as Yes, Genesis and Pink Floyd.

However, when it comes to sheer dexterity and quirkiness, they might be the best of the bunch. The surprisingly short “Cogs in Cogs” from 1974’s politically-charged The Power and the Glory easily offers the strongest combination of the quintet’s many distinctive traits.

It erupts like a colorful puzzle, with Ray Shulman’s melodic bassline captivatingly juxtaposing keyboardistKerry Minnear’s peculiar timbres and John Weathers’ steady percussion. From there, the instruments continue to run parallel and perpendicular to each other with eccentricbut classy brilliance; meanwhile, singer Derek Shulman belts out some of his most mighty and engaging hooks, culminating in Gentle Giant’s trademark intersecting vocal patterns (which undoubtedly inspired successors such as Neal Morse, Haken, Beardfish and Echolyn).

It's tempting to avoid the obvious choice in favor of, say, “The Whistler,” “Minstrel in the Gallery,” “Wond’ring Aloud” or “Nothing To Say”. But, when push comes to shove, it’s Jethro Tull’s three-part signature song (“Aqualung”) that has to get the nod since it represents their transition into becoming the prog-folk ensemble and it still encapsulates nearly everything that made them so extraordinary.

The eponymous opener to the band’s groundbreaking – and not entirely conceptual – 1971 LP, “Aqualung” examines the troubles of the homeless and is bookended by one of the most famous riffs in rock.

Frontman Ian Anderson’s descriptive verses and the rest of the music are equally gravely, if not bordering on early metal heaviness. It’s the ingenious contrasts between those coarse endcaps, the bittersweet acoustic sections and the virtuosic central jam (complete with a perfect guitar solo from the criminally underappreciated Martin Barre), though, that allow “Aqualung” to endure as a forward-thinking opus.

As Camel’s 1975 instrumental opus, The Snow Goose, demonstrates, the majority of their soothingly dramatic Canterbury-esque magic comes from their arrangements rather than their vocals. (That’s not a knock against frontman/guitarist Andrew Latimer, of course, as his voice fits the music very well.) No other composition symbolizes that as wonderfully as this introduction to 1977’s Rain Dances, which marked the debuts of ex-Caravan singer/bassist Richard Sinclair and ex-King Crimson saxophonist Mel Collins.

It begins as a blissfully jazzy cosmic voyage led by bouncy rhythms, acoustic strums, peaceful flutes and most importantly, magnetic keyboard-and-guitar motifs. About halfway through, however, Camel tastefully move into a more subtly unsettling space, with chilling sound effects and eerie spaciness building to a breathtaking interruption from Collins as he and Latimer close “Rain Dances” with haunting sentimental disorder.

It’s utterly magnificent.

Over half a century after it arrived, "21st Century Schizoid Man" (from 1969’s In the Court of the Crimson King) remains the quintessential progressive rock entry point. That said, if we’re talking about King Crimson's debatably underappreciatedknack for outstanding songwriting, we have to go with this morose masterpiece from the same album.

Influenced by the desolation of the Cold War, it kicks off with heavenly despair thanks to its use of downtrodden acoustic guitar arpeggios and lusciously divine mellotron swirls. Those components – among others, such as clarinet and timpani – evolve throughout the journey without losing their poignant punch; yet, it’s Greg Lake’s powerfully tender outcries that mesmerize with heartbreaking conviction.

Specifically, poetic lines such as “If we make it, we can all sit back and laugh / But I fear tomorrow, I’ll be crying” and “The fate of all mankind, I see / Is in the hands of fools” hit just as hard today, cementing “Epitaph” a suffocatingly beautiful but devastating cautionary tale.

Given its repeated appearances on classic rock radio (and in numerous movies, TV shows and video games), “Carry On Wayward Son” – which isn’t a sequel to “The Pinnacle” from 1975’s Masque, despite what people say – likely needs no introduction. That’s precisely why it’s here, though. Beyond flawlessly capturing Kansas’ expertise at merging genre complexity and commercial accessibility, it’s been a major doorway into progressive rock for previously uninitiated listeners for over 45 years.

Penned near the end of the writing sessions for 1976’s Leftoverture, “Carry On Wayward Son” came to guitarist Kerry Livgren like a divine nudge of “self-encouragement.” Its positive lyrics, enthusiastic singing (courtesy of keyboardist Seve Walsh) and radiant harmonies are a big part of why its equally meaningful to Kansas’ fans.

Plus, everynovice guitarist learns the main riff, and the ways in which it seamlessly ties together its core structure with plenty of sophisticated deviations is downright incredible.

If “The Cinema Show” was just a minute shorter, it’d be here instead, but it’s too lengthy to qualify so we’re going with a tune from the same album (1973’s Selling England By the Pound). In terms of personifying Genesis’ unrivaled countryside Englishness, there’s almost no better selection, as “Dancing With the Moonlight Knight” fuses the group’s characteristically elegiac songwriting and madcap musicianship into a wholly representative treat.

Its soft beginning is sublimely pastoral, with Peter Gabriel’s vivid and urgent storytelling gliding on top of colorful accentuations and rural pianowork and acoustic fingerpicking. That comforting segment soon transforms into an imaginatively hectic and engrossing wave of sinister and playful movements as only Genesis could create, with every member getting a moment or two to shine as they shuffle masterfully between opposing temperaments.

As for its ethereal coda, well, it’s the majestically ghostly icing on the cake.

Another staple of classic rock radio (and, for whatever reason, “to be continued” fail memes), “Roundabout” is surely Yes’ most popular track and their greatest non-“epic” one. Its origin lies in singer Jon Anderson and guitarist Steve Howe joking about seeing“so many roundabouts” while touring. Because of how addictively and sleekly it balances catchy-as-hell melodies with crowd-pleasing (but still intricate) arrangements, it’s an irresistibly adventurous and cohesive prog rock mainstay.

Aside from itslegendaryopening and joyful verses, “Roundabout” soars due to the energetic bass playing and high-pitched backing harmonies of the late Chris Squire. Throughout, Bill Bruford spices things up with resourceful (but not overly showy) syncopation, too, and of course, Rick Wakeman peppers in stylish textures before dishing out one of the greatest keyboard solos of all time.

Simultaneously serene and volcanic, “Roundabout” is a masterclass in prog rock synergy and an undeniable highlight of 1971’s consistently remarkable Fragile.

Honestly, 1979’sThe Wall– which is basically tied with 1973’sThe Dark Side of the MoonasPink Floyd’s biggest record – barely houses any prog rock traits. (Instead, it prioritizes art rock, hard rock, progressive pop and even touches of disco.) Nevertheless,the quartet were clearly a prog/psych rock band prior to it, so it’s fair game for this list, and third single “Comfortably Numb” is the ultimate example of their affective craftsmanshipandthe crucial chemistry of vocalist/bassistRoger Watersand vocalist/guitaristDavid Gilmour.

Centered around protagonist Pink’s emotional detachments and self-reflections, “Comfortably Numb” is subtly harrowing anddeceptivelyrelaxing.

The key to its impact is the contrast between Waters’ clinical verses and Gilmour’s brightly symphonic choruses. In addition to their overt musical differences, the former’s manifestation of cold adulthood and the latter’s dreamy manifestation of childhood makes for a very clever juxtaposition.

Naturally, it culminates in Gilmour’siconic closing solo, whose every tormented note embodies Pink’s psychological pain, fortifying “Comfortably Numb” as an exquisitely disturbing triumph.

There’s no denying that Frank Zappa’s work was so eclectic and distinctive that, cumulatively, it’s virtually unclassifiable. In other words, he’s a genre unto himself, with a catalog that spans doo-wop, comedy/satire rock, pop, avant-garde, jazz fusion and Stravinsky-inspired classical (to name but a few categories). A lot of his stuff approached progressive rock, too, and we can think of no bettersummationof his diverse range than “Andy” from 1975’s One Size Fits All.

In fact, it unfolds like a delicious casserole of musical ideas, styles and timbres that would take several paragraphs to fully explore. Suffice it to say, then, that its blend of warm orchestration, radiate rock instrumentation, endlessly hooky melodies, quirky singing, intimidating rhythms and comical lyrics (“Is there anything good inside of you? / If there is, I really wanna know”) is thoroughly mind-boggling.

Like much of his work, “Andy” is a creation that nearly everyone can like but no one can play, and it absolutely exemplifies Zappa’sunique and unquestionablegenius.

Admittedly, Supertramp are best known for their lighter and/or more mainstream art rock/progressive pop material (“Dreamer,” “The Logical Song,” “Give a Little Bit,” ‘Breakfast in America,” “Goodbye Stranger,” etc.) All that stuff is great – don’t get us wrong – but they’ve also got more than a few darker and trickier essentials up their sleeve, with the title track to 1974’s Crime of the Century being the superlative one (next to the slightly too long for this list “A Fool’s Overture,” that is.)

Written and performed by Rick Davies (rather than the arguably more recognizable Roger Hodgson), its delicately distressed arrangement and powerfully tender singing make the first half irresistibly moving and dynamic.

However, it’s the latter half’s evolution into arresting heartache that seals the deal, with one of the most chillingly lonely piano chord progressions you’ll ever hear complemented by a gradual influx of gorgeously gloomy strings, horns and percussion.

It’s intoxicatingly haunting and unforgettable, with a faint callback to album opener “School” at the end for added continuity and meaning.