King Crimson - Lizard (1970)

Dan:

Steve told me recently that Lizard was Robert Fripp's least favorite King Crimson album. Fripp hated it, and so did the band. The lyrics were preposterous and the music a jumble of "jazz musicians" (what could possibly be worse?). Fripp was keen on discipline, so much so that he named a 1981 album Discipline. Lizard lacked discipline, which for Fripp spoiled the group's ambitious third album. 

I can understand his disappointment. Lizard surely has curious lyrics, and the themes are more pretentious than either of the first two albums. The jazz jumble is less of an issue for me, although their playing appears to be stitched together rather than played as an ensemble. But overall, I believe that this flawed album is redeemed by its finest moments, and many voices in cyberspace agree with me.

Side 1 (tracks 1-4) includes a series of songs with odd themes: "Cirkus (Including Entry of the Chameleons)," "Indoor Games," "Happy Family," and "Lady of the Dancing Water." "Cirkus" makes the biggest impact musically. It's an unsettling, threatening description of a circus as a dangerous place - a "pandemonium seesaw," as the lyrics proclaim. Compared to "Cirkus," the next two songs are merely cynical portraits of family and domestic life. Relief comes with the gentle "Lady of the Dancing Water," which resembles the pretty songs from the two preceding albums. 

Side 2 is what I really like about this album. The suite named "Lizard" consists of four parts. The first of these is sung by Yes vocalist Jon Anderson, the perfect voice for this assignment. Again, the lyrics are complicated and arcane, but Anderson makes it all sound like a safe fantasy. Even the Medieval ritual of staking of a lizard by the throat seems okay, given the positive vibe of the music. The second part, "Bolero - The Peacock's Tale," is a delightful instrumental that deserves careful attention. It's where "those jazzmen" create a magical soundscape, despite the stitching. A wind player named Robin Miller makes the biggest impression with his oboe solo, which segues into an English horn solo by the same artist. (This is how I know these sections were stitched together at the editing board.) No matter, the effect is beguiling. Eventually the other horns join in for "Bolero's" triumphant ending.

"The Battle of Glass Tears" consumes the next 11 minutes. It's a bit like "Devil's Triangle" from Poseidon. I don't usually pay much attention to it, given that I'm still marveling at "Bolero." Perhaps that is one of the problems with epic suites - they overwhelm an album's more appealing, shorter songs. 

Steve:  

Here, as with In the Wake of Poseidon, King Crimson was only barely a band at this point, careening uncertainly through different players and several musical approaches in an exploratory phase that would finally solidify with 1973's Larks' Tongues in Aspic. But as was the case with Pink Floyd's exploratory period (1968-1972), this strange uncertainty resulted in some of the band's finest and most unpredictable music. Lizard remains a favorite of mine for many of the same reasons Dan spelled out above, especially the "Bolero" section, which doesn't get much mention (being only one section of a suite), but it should - it's an eye opener. 

As for the band hating the lyrics, I'm thinking mainly of Gordon Haskell, the bassist/vocalist who was recruited for this album (he also sang lead on "Cadence and Cascade" from the prior album). At the end of "Indoor Games" you can hear him break into an extended fit of goofy laughter, which they decided to keep for the final mix for some reason. He was the one about whom I'd heard stories about his issues with the lyrics. Perhaps on the other takes he broke into angry protests instead: "What the bloody hell are these words? Where's Sinfield? I'll give him a right knock on the 'ead, I will!"

King Crimson - In the Wake of Poseidon (1970)

Dan:

The immediate follow-up to King Crimson's In the Court of the Crimson King was In the Wake of Poseidon, released in May 1970. The line up had changed. Peter Giles was added to relieve Greg Lake of bass responsibilities, and Keith Tippett joined as pianist. Lake retained his role as chief vocalist. Saxophonist Mel Collins joined the band as well, adding a new acoustic dimension. Guitarist Robert Fripp added Mellotron and "devices" to his arsenal while overseeing every detail of the recording and production. 

The program is punctuated by three brief "Peace" sections: "Peace - A Beginning," "Peace - A Theme," and "Peace - An End." Following the first of these is the energetic "Pictures of a City." It's an unflattering picture to say the least. The cryptic vocals precede Fripp's guitar in the first half of the song, after which matters cool down as the percussion takes over but inevitably rebuilds to a climax before the last vocal stanza, and the song crashes to a chaotic conclusion. 

In true King Crimson fashion, the chaos is followed by the beautifully lyrical "Cadence and Cascade," which segues into the epic title track. With Mellotron blaring a simple minor figure, Greg Lake offers up a spellbinding story that transports us into a Medieval fantasy world - one which is "balanced on the scales." I regard this as "cinematic" rock of a high order. It's ridiculous if you approach it literally, but profound when you let your mind conjure the images that the words and music inspire. 

After the second "Peace" interlude, "Cat Food" is served. Tippett's piano sparkles under the quizzical, almost nonsensible, words. "The Devil's Triangle" follows - a 3-part suite that begins quietly but ominously builds in intensity, culminating in a cacophonous conclusion. We're rescued from devil's triangle by the closing "Peace - An End."

Steve:

Poseidon was Fripp's attempt to hold King Crimson together following the dissolution of the original lineup, less than a year after its first album (In the Court of the Crimson King) came out. As such, it suffers the fate of being compared unfavorably to that massively original first effort. Even the flow of the album seems at first to mirror that of the debut: a loud, chaotic opener ("Pictures of a City" vs "Schizoid Man") followed by a languid ballad ("Cadence and Cascade" vs "I Talk to the Wind"), concluding with a bombastically symphonic epic of doom ("In the Wake of Poseidon" vs "Epitaph"). However, on some days I actually prefer these "copies" to the originals. "In the Wake of Poseidon" in particular has a more introspective slant than its more heroic big brother, giving it a subtler sense of despair that has aged better for me.  

Once you get past the temptation to compare Poseidon with Court, however, it's clear that King Crimson is already moving in new directions. "Cat Food" is completely out of the blue -- Keith Tippett (recently of Centipede) plays a scattered piano part that sounds like a cat running across the keys. "The Devil's Triangle" had its origins in the band's early live repertoire, as a variation on Gustav Holst's "Mars", from his suite "The Planets".  

1970-1972 saw King Crimson as a band still searching for a stable lineup and musical approach. While that stable lineup arrived in late 1972 with John Wetton and Bill Bruford anchoring the instrumental attack, the band never settled into a stable musical approach. Fripp's presence proved to be the only common element the band ever had. But this was by design, as the band name became synonymous with restless creativity and a sustained push into new combinations of players, styles and ideas.

King Crimson - In the Court of the Crimson King: An Observation by King Crimson (1969)

Steve: 

A strong case could be made that In the Court of the Crimson King is the first progressive rock album. Rock music had been building towards it for the previous two years, but here it finally took on the recognizable characteristics we associate with prog today: extended tracks with multiple sections, symphonic arrangements, and complex melodies, harmonies, and rhythms. The album cover itself practically screamed at you to listen and take notice, and the album made a big splash in 1969.

In my case, it made a big splash sometime in the early 80s. I had heard of Robert Fripp via an album he recorded with Andy Summers, guitarist for The Police, my favorite band at the time. I remember record shopping with Dan at Yardbird Records in Miami, and he pulled out In the Court of the Crimson King, priced at $5. He recommended I buy it, "because you like Pink Floyd". I did, and the album immediately opened up new worlds of rock music to me.

"21st Century Schizoid Man" is almost an unfair way to open an album - it's a full-on percussive, abrasive assault on the senses, sounding like nothing that had come before. It can't help but make a strong impression, and the song looms large over the band's history, even if they never recorded anything quite like it again. Most of the remaining songs are dominated by reedman/keyboardist Ian McDonald, who is the primary songwriter on the album in addition to handling most of the Mellotron parts, and vocalist/bassist Greg Lake, whose made-for-prog singing gives the band's compositions the theatrical, cinematic weight they need. Can you imagine David Byrne singing "Epitaph"? No, you need a larger-than-life vocalist like Lake, hair blowing in the wind, crying to the heavens atop his metaphorical mountain. 

 

I must say a word in defense of the album's most controversial track, the song that even people who praise this album as an all-time classic often feel the need to apologize for. "Moonchild" is the longest track on the album at 12 minutes, and the last 10 minutes consist of, at first listen, near-silence with occasional randomly scattered quiet passages with no purpose. As if the band went out to the pub and a few mice decided to crawl over their still-plugged-in instruments. 

But listen to this track closely, close your eyes, and imagine you are in a dark forest at night. What the band is playing is a simulation of the natural ebb and flow of nature in an otherwise quiet setting. Not merely random noise, but a virtual conversation between several nocturnal critters. The song does interrupt the sonic majesty, coming in between the album's two grand epics ("Epitaph" and "The Court of the Crimson King"), but that's what progressive rock seemed to be about in its earliest days -- confounding expectations. They were rewriting the rules, so why not add a squirrels' conversation in the middle?

No progressive rock collection is complete without this, but you don't need me to tell you that.

Dan: 

I had forgotten my recommendation to Steve that he check this album out. Obviously, he's absorbed it completely. The 1969 version of King Crimson is the one I like the most. I love "The Court of The Crimson King" and "Epitaph." They both etch pictures in my head of magical places and people. 

I appreciate Steve's defense of "Moonchild," and the remedy to listen more carefully. Sadly, listening has become a lost art, but I would think that the fascination with ear buds and headphones might give wearers a chance to hear more nocturnal detail. "Moonchild" is not a piece that you can crank up in your car or listen to from another room. I hope our blog motivates readers to find 12 minutes for the close-up experience. Of course, doing so will also allow you to be bathed in the glories of the Fire Witch and dancing puppets on the following track.