In the spirit of the revisionism of which I am accused in Robert Fripp’s Diary, allow me to insert this mercifully brief rebuttal. I in no way intended this as an attack on anybody, and am surprised at the anger coming back. I’m just an old fart indulging in some personal nostalgia. And the mystique of all things Fripp was very much part of my youth. The recording in question, recently purchased for download from the DGM site, brought back some of those memories, and seemed suitable fodder for a blog post that (normally) nobody ever reads. So apologies for any offense — none was intended — but I stand by my skewed view of reality, because as I said so inelegantly in the comments, this ain’t journalism… the only thing I’m “reporting” on is the addled impressions of a young man some 35 years ago… Original post follows.
(Marking the first entry in a series of posts by this name. You know, maybe.)
On this day* in 1973, progressive rock fans got a short refresher course in the strangeness of Robert Fripp.
During a King Crimson concert at the University of Texas at Arlington, guitarist and bandleader Robert Fripp emerged for a moment from the shadows at stage left, where he lurks in darkness as a way of drawing attention to himself, and approached John Wetton’s microphone.
Since in the normal course of events Fripp does not talk to the audience, he does not require his own microphone. So the fact that he’s now emerging from both darkness and (vocal) silence suggests we’re in for a pronouncement of some significance.
(King Crimson in Toronto, 1974. Fripp not shown.)
The audience members, like good Texans, have themselves been rather vocal this night, a hootin’ and a hollerin’ like they will, including it would seem, issuing cries for the band to play louder.
King Crimson was known during this era in particular, for their mastery of dynamics, their tendency to build slowly from small beginnings up to “barrage” level. Lark’s Tongues in Aspic Part One comes to mind as the seminal example of this, being the first track on the first album of their mid-1970’s incarnation. The song builds slowly but relentlessly up to a highly-focused, highly-organized sonic assault. But, like the proverbial frog in the cooking pot, being brought slowly to the boil, maybe the Texans didn’t notice it happening?
In any case, I can only imagine the Texas crowd was not so much asking them to play louder, as asking them to play louder more often. They don’t like them quiet parts. Quiet parts are for sissies, like Canadians.
So Robert Fripp takes the microphone from the much taller Wetton’s mic stand, and delivers this pronouncement in his precise, upper-class Dorset accent:
“I have heard a request from a gentleman over here to play louder….I would make one suggestion: if we’re not loud enough sir, perhaps you’d care to listen more attentively?”
Whereupon he returns to his stool, his throne of darkness, perhaps leaving some to mutter to themselves: “listen a-what-ively?”
This interchange was made famous on a bootleg recording released on vinyl back in the day, which is how I am able to pretend I was actually there. Also, having attended several shows from this period (see photo above), I can channel my memories of those shows into extra realism.
The recording is also available for download from the DGM website. Along with just about every second of every performance the band ever gave. Making me think those rumours may actually have been true, that Fripp would show up at the homes of advertised bootleggers, demanding they hand over his intellectual property.
*One last thing: for the purposes of this article, “this day” in PROG history was actually October 6, 1973. But let’s not split hairs.