By J.R. Taylor

PROGGIN' OUT I arrive a half-hour late to the Nektar/Caravan show at the B.B. King Blues Club. This means I may have missed a song. The show's begun at 7:30 instead of the usual 8 p.m., since every second counts when you're hosting legends of prog-rock. I'm just hoping that Caravan didn't start with "Love Song with Flute" or "The Dog, The Dog, He's At It Again."

It's always nice to be one of the youngest people at a concert. Most of the audience looks like they should be behind a lectern. The rest look like they should be behind the cash register of a particularly ramshackle record store. There are also several cute college gals who must find Phish to be intellectually lacking. Either that, or they're out on dates with their professors.

Naturally, this is one of those nights where B.B. King's has the tables out on the floor for a proper dining experience. The crowd's certainly civilized enough to be properly hushed. I haven't heard an audience this rapt since the last three Richard Thompson concerts. This show's a pretty big deal, you know. It may not be the prog equivalent to the KISS/Aerosmith tour, but it's up there with an Iron Butterfly/Steeleye Span bill.

Caravan are doing a fine job of showcasing their bawdy-yet-overeducated rock. They've always really been more like a great pop act that just didn't know when to shut up. The line-up has an impressive roster of original members, and they're effortlessly knocking out tweedy pastorals and mannered funk. This may be my only chance to ever refer to "tasteful guitar licks" without sounding like a total hack.

Caravan also come through with plenty of shining moments where they let loose with perfect psychedelic spy music. They're sounding almost economical. "Nine Feet Underground" clocks in at a perfectly reasonable 18 minutes.

To further illustrate the importance of time, Nektar already have their drum kit set up. The roadies have even thoughtfully gone ahead and mounted the gong. You can't goof too much on Nektar, though. They're kind of the Cream of prog-rock, or maybe the Motorhead for bikers who've avoided head injuries.

Nektar even have some NYHC chuckleheads cheering them in the crowd. The band's looking pretty good, too. Guitarist and vocalist Roye Albrighton remains a rare prog-rock sex symbol. That liver of his is practically brand new, as well—but he should've left his fashion statement to those kids in the Polyphonic Spree.

Anyway, it's all very heavy and exactly the kind of thing that would pack stadiums in Germany. I rock out for a while, but head out early. They're having the Pop Gear! night at Rififi, and I could stand a few hours of three DJs, three-minute songs, no waiting. o