King Crimson basically invented progressive rock with “21st Century Schizoid Man” from 1969’s In the Court of the Crimson King. It’s certainly tempting to pick that one by default, or to choose the gargantuan “Lizard” or the impassioned “In the Wake of Poseidon,” but ultimately, they’ve simply never fused remarkable songwriting and arrangements better than on “Epitaph.”

Inspired by the horrors of the Cold War, the song would be harrowingly beautiful enough if it featured only Robert Fripp’s forlorn acoustic guitar arpeggios alongside bassist Greg Lake’s poetically distraught singing (“If we make it, we can all sit back and laugh / But I fear tomorrow, I’ll be crying”). Yet, both aspects are elevated exponentially by the stirring use of percussion, woodwinds, piano and mellotron (which ebb and flow brilliantly to capitalize on Fripp and Lake’s groundwork).

Appropriately apocalyptic and hopeless, “Epitaph” is a gorgeously sobering commentary on how mankind repeatedly borders on exterminating itself.

It’s only right that Genesis’ magnum opus, “Supper’s Ready,” happens to be the finale of their finest LP: 1972’s Foxtrot. Sure, there are some other contenders for this list (such as “Dancing With the Moonlight Knight” from 1973’s Selling England By the Pound and – if we’re giving ‘80s Genesis some love – “Land of Confusion” from 1986’s Invisible Touch). However, none of them overthrow this 23-minute masterpiece.

From front to back, it epitomizes classic (Gabriel-and-Hackett-era) Genesis’ blend of majestic music, fantastical/theological lyricism and quirky embellishments. Gabriel is at his most endearingly theatrical throughout, with the rest of the band complementing and offsetting his animated performance with lovely acoustic guitarwork, rustic keyboard coatings and a fair share of fiery turmoil.

Genesis’ colorful storytelling and pastoral elegance is what set them apart during their initial decade, and nothing else they did harnesses that so completely as “Supper’s Ready.”

Steered by the dry snarkiness and rich singing of frontman/guitarist/keyboardist Rikard Sjöblom, Beardfish’s incredible songwriting and ability to juxtapose refined and zany instrumentation makes them the best Swedish prog band of the last 25 years. In fact, many of their records deserve to be praised as much as the ‘70s classics if judged purely on quality, and 2011’s Mammoth is no exception.

The whole disc is characteristically vivid, energetic, intricate and alluring, delivering one earworm after another. That said, it’s festive closer “Without Saying Anything” that steals the show and manages to exceed other gems in their catalog (such as the beautifully stirring “Ludvig & Sverker” and “Abigail’s Questions (In an Infinite Universe)”).

For must of its runtime, “Without Saying Anything” is a delightfully feisty and catchy showstopper that demands listener participation. Seriously, it’s damn near impossible not to sing along with every word (and tap along with every piano note) Sjöblom dishes out as his bandmates follow along with infectious percussion and bass lines. Halfway in, the song switches gears into a more serious, aggressive and somber decree of indoctrination; yet, it’s equally addictive, ensuring that Beardfish keep you glued to your speakers until the very end.

As a whole, 1972’s Close to the Edge is Yes’ crowning achievement, and its title track is routinely ranked as their No. 1 side-long suite (f not the No. 1 side-long suite in the entire genre). It’s clearly a challenge to refute either of those opinions, but we’re going to anyway. Why? Because in the end, the mesmerizing powerfulness and dynamic range of “The Gates of Delirium” (from 1974’s Relayer) ever so slightly surpasses it.

Bolstered by its War and Peace influence and the jazz fusion touches of keyboardist Patrick Moraz (who temporarily replaced Rick Wakeman), “The Gates of Delirium” expectedly takes listeners into the depths of hell before releasing them into the divinity of heaven.

Its prelude is the spiritual and sophisticated calm before the storm, lulling you into a false sense of security before Yes dive headfirst into an onslaught of piercing riffs, rhythms and recurring motifs. It’s irresistibly melodic yet chaotic, and it never loses its cohesiveness despite how often it intersects passages and changes movements.

Then, Yes’ magnificent coda (“Soon”) offers peace, unity and healing as only they could, with frontman Jon Anderson singing like an omniscient prophet who knows everything will be okay when the dust settles. It’s hard not to agree – and to not shed a tear or two – as “The Gates of Delirium” glides into its profound final moments.

We’ve already choses “Comfortably Numb” as Pink Floyd’s best non-“epic” song, and despite how amazing our pick for their best “epic” song (“Dogs”) is, it doesn’t outdo what’s arguably the signature track from 1979’s The Wall. Plus, plenty of Floyd fans – both audiences and journalists – agree that “Comfortably Numb” is their peak piece.

Bassist Roger Waters and guitarist David Gilmour always excelled at sharing lead vocal duties, but they’ve never contrasted security and sorrow as flawlessly as they do here. Gilmour’s warm choruses (about childhood) are the perfect antidote to Rogers’ cold verses (about adulthood). Meanwhile, Nick Mason and Richard Wright’s steadfast drumming and orchestral overtones, respectively, are wonderfully reassuring.

Oh, and Gilmour’s guitar solos are immaculate both melodically and emotionally, leaving little wonder as to why “Comfortably Numb” has become a pop culture mainstay that’s been covered by dozens of people (including Stained and Gov’t Mule).

In a simplistic sense, Nektar fused the psych/space rock of Pink Floyd and Hawkwind with the leisurely vibes and soothing singing of Camel and The Grateful Dead. They’ve always had an immeasurably devoted following, too, and they’re still going strong 55 years after they started (just listen to “Skywriter” from 2020’s The Other Side).

Split into two halves, 1973’s 35-minute “Remember the Future” is their biggest composition in terms of length and popularity. While it’s an absolutely essential example of the style (the “Lonely Roads” section is sublime), 1972’s “A Tab in the Ocean” – which kicks off the LP of the same name – gets the nod for accomplishing more in about half as much time.

It’s surprisingly symphonic and hectic at the beginning (like a more relaxing hybrid of ELP and Yes), with stampeding drums, abrasive guitar licks and cynical keyboard patterns welcoming you to the foreboding but still pleasant party. From there, it moves around gentler and harsher passages as guitarist/singer Roye Albrighton utters his stern decrees around the band’s lovely backing harmonies.

Basically, “A Tab in the Ocean” is a whirlwind of compelling musical and lyrical ideas that exhibit the fundamentals of Nektar’s world. You’d be smart to fall under its simultaneously pacifying and intense spell as soon as possible.

The Canterbury scene of the ‘60s and ‘70s was known for its sophisticated yet mellow atmospheres, improvisational freedom and English charm. It often melded touches of prog rock, jazz, psychedelia, pop and R&B as well (depending on the artist), and with 1971’s In the Land of Grey and Pink, Caravan cemented themselves as a leading force in the field.

Actually, In the Land of Grey and Pink is frequently ranked as the Canterbury scene’s defining album, and consequently, its versatile finale (“Nine Feet Underground”) as its defining composition.

Admittedly, it’s not as multifaceted or technically demanding as many of the other entries on this list, to the point that it could be considered proto-prog. We think it’s got enough going on to qualify as an official progressive rock masterstroke, though, with an intoxicating mishmash of keyboards, horns, and rhythms introducing (and then supporting) bassist Richard Sinclair’s unmistakably smooth voice.

The most exciting bit comes midway through, when “Nine Feet Underground” transforms from a sparse and subtly disturbing passage into exhilarating instrumental break prior to the return of Sinclair’s enchanting singing. The whole thing is exquisite, though, and the chief reason for why Caravan were so influential and extraordinary.

Comprised of keyboardist Keith Emerson, drummer Carl Palmer and Greg Lake (who left King Crimson to join this project), Emerson, Lake & Palmer – or ELP – were prog rock’s first supergroup. They debatably had a more sterile/clinical sound than just about all of their peers, but they still managed to inject a lot of their work with engaging hooks and as much playful adventurousness as self-serving flashiness.

The title track to their sophomore record demonstrates that better than some of their even bigger songs (“Lucky Man,” “Karn Evil 9: 1st Impression—Part 2”). For one thing, the plot of the seven-part (21-minute) sequence should appeal to any fan of kaiju films and social commentary, as its surface-level chronicle (about the conflict between a manticore and the namesake armadillo-tank) is really an allegory about the senselessness of battle.

Silly plot aside, it’s is a rip-roaring good time purely for its bizarre sound effects (namely, duck quacks), complicatedly militaristic arrangements, fun jamming and Lake’s typically enthralling sentiments. Thus, “Tarkus” is the ideal pick to play someone who wants to know what ELP were all about.

England’s Van Der Graaf Generator were at the head of the table when it came to crafting morose and chilling prog rock with avant-garde/jazz fusion aesthetics. Led by the sullen outrage of singer/pianist Peter Hammill, their trademark dissonance and eeriness are probably a major reason why they aren’t quite as beloved as S-tier groups such as Genesis, Yes and King Crimson.

Nevertheless, they were legends who garnered a remarkable legacy, and this experimental, horn-and-organ-laden exploration of nightmarish nihilism is a triumphant testament to what made VDGG so fascinatingly fearless, distinctive and timeless.

Centered around a – gasp – lighthouse keeper who laments “seeing people die . . . and not being able to help,” the composition (which closes 1971’s Pawn Hearts) incorporates musique concrète as it builds cataclysmic tension and grief.

Hammill’s shrill singing and central keyboard motif are truly disturbing, especially during his hypnotic breakdown halfway through (“I know no more ways / I am so afraid / Myself won’t let me just be myself / And so I am completely alone”). Although the second half offsets his mania with some tender catharsis, it remains unsettling and unpredictable.

At times, the abstract nature of “A Plague of Lighthouse” authentically conveys losing your mind (as if you’re one of the protagonists of Robert Eggers’ The Lighthouse)  It’s a remarkably peculiar and profound creation.

Yes, “Tom Sawyer” is commonly seen as the Rush staple, and in terms of widespread appeal and perception, that’s totally valid. However, if we’re looking for a song that bottled the essence of Rush better than any other, it has to be the zenith of their prog/space rock period: the eponymous, Ayn Rand-inspired starter to their fourth album (from 1976).

Decades before Dream Theater wrote about the censorship of entertainment amidst totalitarian war (via 2016’s The Astonishing), the reigning trio of Canadian prog rock were already nailing the concept.

Its initial two movements – “Overture” and “The Temple of Syrinx” – are probably its most popular ones (and understandably so given how lively and catchy they are). That said, “2112” certainly doesn’t fall short afterward, with its serene and jovial middle segments being equally inviting in different ways. Then, the adrenaline-fueled “Grand Finale” lives up to its name as it cleverly brings things full circle.

“2112” isn’t necessarily the most welcoming, challenging or polished thing Rush wrote, but it does the best job of funneling their greatest attributes into a singular statement.

Like Beardfish, Spock’s Beard proudly wear their ‘70s influences on their sleeves; however, they wouldn’t have become a prevailing American prog rock band in the 1990s and 2000s if they merely emulated the greats. On the contrary, and up until his departure in 2002, their idiosyncratic quirkiness paired perfectly with the mischievous yet life-affirming songwriting and voice of Neal Morse.

Their best record may be Morse’s swan song – Snow – but it’s the tour-de-force finale of Snow’s predecessor (2000’s V) that’s the group’s most mind-blowing song.

Based on Morse’s pre-Spock’s Beard life as “a depressed musician being revived by music again” (a tale he tells in-depth on his 2003 solo record, Testimony), “The Great Nothing” is full of his trademark hopefulness and everyman relatability (alongside Spock’s Beard’s electrifying and eccentric instrumentation). Its bouncy prelude (which returns near the end) is at once dramatic, flamboyant and motivating, paving the way for Morse’s heartfelt allegories and – later – plenty of raucous playfulness .

Honestly, “The Great Nothing” is packed with too many ingenious callbacks, rewarding lessons and appetizing moments to describe. So, your best bet is to blast it as loudly as possible and then pick your jaw up off the floor when it’s over.