"Money rained down upon the proggers. Bands went on tour with orchestras in tow; Emerson, Lake & Palmer's Greg Lake stood onstage on his own private patch of Persian rug. But prog's doom was built in. It had to die. As a breed, the proggers were hook-averse, earworm-allergic; they disdained the tune, which is the infinitely precious sound of the universe rhyming with one's own brain. What's more, they showed no reverence before the sacred mystery of repetition, before its power as what the music critic Ben Ratliff called 'the expansion of an idea.' Instead, like mad professors, they threw everything in there: the ideas, the complexity, the guitars with two necks, the groove-bedeviling tempo shifts. To all this, the relative crudity of punk rock was simply a biological corrective—a healing, if you like. Also, economics intervened. In 1979, as Weigel explains, record sales declined 20 percent in Britain and 11 percent in the United States, and there was a corresponding crash in the inclination of labels to indulge their progged-out artistes."
James Parker at The Atlantic criticizes prog rock.