The Village Voice’s Robert Christgau called this 1969 LP “ersatz shit” the year it came out, but I humbly disagree. It’s shit for sure, but there’s nothing ersatz about it; insofar as In the Court of the Crimson King was one of the pioneering records of the progressive rock genre, it was completely original. King Crimson did more than anticipate the Triumvirate of Terror that was Emerson, Lake & Palmer–their lead singer was one of its founding fathers.
Which isn’t to say Crimson King is as terrible as ELP; their grandiosity quotient is lower, and they largely spare us the pretentious and nauseatingly otiose adaptations of Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, and Copland. That said, Crimson adapted the riff that powers “The Court of the Crimson King” from Samuel Barber’s “Essay for Orchestra,” which shows you what I know.
King Crim fans like to point out that its members are all consummate pros who can play better than most mere mortals with one hand tied behind their backs. And it’s true; Robert Fripp, for example, is a true guitar original, and would go on to do great things with his own bands, in collaborations with other artists, and as a studio musician. Hell, I’d love him had he never done anything but play that mind-bending solo on Brian Eno’s “Baby on Fire.” Drummer Michael Giles is damned good too.
That said, my eternal retort to people who put a high stamp on virtuosity is that rock and roll is a populist art form; Chuck Berry wrote “Roll Over Beethoven” for a reason. I’m not necessarily opposed to instrumental wizards who can read a classical score, mind you. But I am offended by virtuosity for its own sake, and that’s one of the besetting sins of progressive rock in general and In the Court of the Crimson King in particular.
But to get back to the album’s positives. Or should that be positive? Opener “21st Century Schizoid Man” is a hard rock masterpiece, or would be had the band dispensed with the middle section, where all involved seem to be trying to outdo one another with their demonstrations of instrumental prowess. Prog fans find this sort of thing impressive. Me, I wish they’d kept it as simple as Cheech and Chong’s “Earache My Eye.” Still, gotta give credit where credit’s due; the guitar riff is primo, Ian McDonald contributes some no-fooling-around saxophone, and even Greg Lake fails to annoy, thanks to some nifty vocal effects that effectively disguise the fact that you’re listening to Greg Lake.
I can also bear the “The Court of the Crimson King,” or at least the big Barber riff–it’s quite lofty, it is, and if I recall correctly it sounds pretty snazzy when you’re really, really stoned. But between Greg’s “I’m so deep I can hardly stand it” vocals, Peter Sinfield’s risible lyrics (the song begins “The rusted chains of prison moons/Are shattered by the sun” and goes straight downhill from there) and the song’s various by-ways and interludes (including one where McDonald goes toot-a-toot on the flute in sinister imitation of the end of Blood Sweat & Tears “Spinning Wheel”) the damn thing tests my patience, to say nothing of my sanity. I might actually like the song had King Crimson whittled its 11 minutes down to a bearable 5 minutes or so. But that’s the problem with your prog rock guys–they proceed on the assumption they’re being paid by the note.
And that’s about it for the faint praise, cuz the rest of the album sucks. “I Talk to the Wind” is exquisite ear torture; “lyrics guy” Peter Sinfield’s words (Greg talks to the wind but the wind doesn’t pay him any mind, just like Neil Diamond’s chair in “I Am, I Said”!) are idiotic, and McDonald’s insipid flute flapdoodle dominates the proceedings. And no wonder–he wrote the damn thing. As for Lake, he’s trying real hard to sound like the most sensitive human being on the planet, but the only emotion he evokes in yours truly is a desire to punch him in the voice box.
“Epitaph” is a little better, but it reminds me of the old Russian saying that goes, “Your German may be a nice enough person, but it is better to be safe and shoot him.” Lake can’t help but approach every song he sings like a Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy, the melody and arrangement evoke disturbing recollections of Moody Blues past and Sinfield (you gotta admire a band with a guy whose sole job is to write bad poetry) drops such pearls of wisdom as “When every man is torn apart/With nightmares and with dreams/Will no one lay the laurel wreath/When silence drowns the screams?” I’ve overlooked many a lousy lyric in my time, but I’ll be damned if I’ll put up with them coming from Greg Lake.
Which leaves us with the ominously titled “Moonchild,” on which Lake goes straight for the jugular of the tolerable and leaves it dead within 15 seconds, tops. The lyrics are unspeakable, natch, but worse by far is the song’s wilting atmospherics. Fans will no doubt insist “Moonchild” is “jazzy.” To which I would reply yes, but in the worst possible way. You get lots of plink plonk that amounts that amounts to death by a thousand annoying little noises, and while your less discriminating jazzbos may appreciate this sort of sub-Miles dreck, I don’t. About the only good thing I can say about the song is that for large portions of it the players don’t give Lake the opportunity to open his mouth.
King Crimson would go on to record some decent music; 1981’s Discipline and 1982’s Beat are nice in their “let’s shamelessly rip off the Talking Heads” way, and I truly enjoy such songs as “Elephant Talk” and “Neal and Jack and Me.” But I’ve never trusted this crew of art rockers and I never will, nor will I ever forgive them for In the Court of the Crimson King. It spawned monsters, and those monsters in turn begat nightmares, and waking nightmares at that.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D
