From the perspective of the modern Western world, it's hard to grasp that in 1976, when members of the Plastic People of the Universe were doing hard time for "vulgarity," it had been 10 years since Lenny Bruce, free on bail and awaiting appeal, did his final performance, opening for Frank Zappa. Indeed, by that time, Zappa and bands like the Sex Pistols had far outpaced Bruce and the Plastic People, and were freely taking their outré acts on the road.

But there the comparisons end. While performers in the West got in legal skirmishes, artists like the Plastic People and their fans were subject to arrests, brutal interrogations, house burnings, beatings and forced exile.

Today the reconstituted Plastic People are going strong, both on the performing circuit and in the studio. On Saturday, the band has a CD launch at Vagon for Začni U Stromu, a new release by saxophone and clarinet player Vratislav Brabenec and guitarist Joe Karafiát. Over lunch during a rehearsal break, band members agree to talk about their turbulent history — sort of.

"I don't like talking about politics," bassist/vocalist Eva Turnová says as soon as the tape recorder is switched on. Her statement seems to ring true for the rest of the group as well. For the past 15 minutes, the conversation has moved from Brabenec talking about a pig farmer telepathically translating James Joyce's Ulysses to keyboardist Josef Janíček professing his love for Celtic music, while violinist Jiří Kabeš nods approval.

Brabenec, Janíček and Kabeš, the three remaining members of the original lineup, are affectionately referred to as the "central committee" by band manager/bass player Ivan Bierhanzl. The newer members — Turnová, Bierhanzl, Karafiát and drummer Ludvík Kandl — form the "opposition party."

"I see it as avoiding the main work, which is completing a CD," Turnová says when the topic shifts to a proposed collaboration with composer Michal Nejtek that involves the Plastic People and the Agon Orchestra doing a concert on a moving train. The other main political issue with the group these days seems to be whether to use samplers or not.

Losing Hlavsa

For all the political turmoil that has engulfed the Plastic People, the incident that finally drove the band apart was the departure of the group's charismatic star and founder, Milan Hlavsa, in 1988. Though he had a reputation of being difficult to work with, Turnová recalls that Hlavsa, a bass player and vocalist, "had a light aura around him and it was very joyful to simply watch him."

From 1969 through 1988, Hlavsa's charisma not only held the band together, but also served as its primary source of musical ideas. A self-taught musician, he led the group in its early days through a canon of '60s music, with the Velvet Underground as a primary blueprint. By the mid-'70s, the Plastic People had forged a unique sound that, if it didn't predate the gloom of post-punk groups like Public Image Limited and Joy Division, it certainly coincided with it. Within haunted grooves, the Plastic People set down their signature instrumental breaks that often featured the over-the-top improvisations of Brabenec's saxophone and Kabeš's violin.

Arguments over the future name of the band, compounded by Brabenec's exile to Canada and ongoing hassles from state officials, led to Hlavsa's departure. His death in 2001 of cancer came as an even harder blow; the group had been enjoying a velvet reconciliation and was planning to relaunch its performing career.

"After Hlavsa's death in 2001, no one expected the band would continue," says Bierhanzl. He had been working with the Plastic People since 1979 as an occasional session musician and engineer, and after 2001 took on a more central role, eventually becoming the group's manager and bassist.

But the remaining members decided to continue, adding a younger rhythm section that added new life to their sound, and the Plastic People now play about 40 concerts a year. Vocals are shared by more members, and the Edgar Varese-meets-Eddie Van Halen guitar work of Karafiát, Turnová's feminine influence and Bierhanzl's passion for 20th century composers have become important parts of the mix.

Fairy-tale ending

In Jana Chytilová's 2001 documentary, Plastic People of the Universe, Václav Havel says, "I have to admit the story of Charter 77 still reminds me of an odd horror [movie] with a fairy tale end." The footage that follows, of the Plastic People performing at a 1997 concert — their first in 16 years — in a palace hall reserved only for the most prestigious official events seems as good a fairy-tale ending as any.

The solidarity that coalesced around the Plastic People's 1977 trial and imprisonment has been heralded as a direct link to the formation of Charter 77 and the Velvet Revolution that followed. Yet to limit this talented group — which evolved from a promising Communist Party-approved dance hall '60s cover band to a persecuted tribe of avant-rockers performing in coal-heated shacks in the '70s — to being a political symbol, would be a mistake. With more than a dozen CDs in international distribution, an ongoing recording schedule and trans-Atlantic tours, the Plastic People remain a prolific contemporary rock group with a unique poetic vision.