Review of King Crimson's In The Court Of The Crimson King

Released 1969

"The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king"

I seem to begin so many reviews with a confession for a very simple reason: my tastes have changed, often dramatically over the years. What I find interesting is that the change is always one way: I've yet come across an album which I once adored and now abhor. Yet there are so many times when I've purchased an album with high expectations only to be crushed with disappointment, often to the point where there has then been a new addition to the local second hand record shop's bargain box within twenty four hours of the original purchase. Needless to say, King Crimson's ground-breaking debut album falls very squarely into this well populated category.

I couldn't pick up a music magazine or music book without being reminded from every quarter that In The Court Of The Crimson King was one of the most important albums of the prog rock genre, in all likelihood the very first album to be labelled as such.

Likewise, there always seemed to be a copy of Barry Godber's iconic pink and blue screaming face peering out from amongst the twenty seven copies of 10cc's Greatest Hits and 461 Ocean Boulevard in the seond hand boxes.

It was hard not to be seduced by the sleeve; the front back and gate fold all drawing any self-respecting prog fan desperate to familiarise himself with the finest proponents of the foundations of prog.

There were also a few serious prog nerds in the halls of residents at the University of Glasgow. These guys were conversant with bands like Gentle Giant, Family, Pavlovs Dog and The Mahavishnu Orchestra; bands with an almost mystical unobtainability which made me coo pathetically in admiration. Mind you, they didn't have girlfriends. However, they would nod wisely, tugging their wispy beards and roll up the sleeves of their jumpers in enthusiasm at the mention of ITCOTCK. I had to see what the fuss was all about.

After exactly thirty seconds of mostly nothing, a sax and powerful guitar screams out the instantly recognisable riff of 21st Century Schizoid Man. The heavily distorted vocals, furious drumming veers from hard rock to more jazz influenced sections with the sax given at least equal time as the discordant guitar. The guitar solo was unlike anything I had heard before and seemed far removed from any form of rock I was familiar with. I looked at the year of release and was startled by the weirdness and strength for 1969. I could see why it must have caused a stir at the time of release. The band was incredibly tight; the drumming was outrageously precise. This was very strange but oddly hypnotic. Perhaps not what I expected, but worth a second listen at least.

On my first listen, from that point on, it all fell apart. I Talk To The Wind was a soft and directionless piece of whimsy, totally at odds with the preceding song and so obviously rooted in the late sixties, that I had to wonder if the two songs were by the same band. I thought it was terrible and willed it to stop.

Again, first time around Epitaph seemed a weak and inconsequential effort. I wasn't much fonder of Moonchild. I could see similarities with The Moody Blues and perhaps Barclay James Harvest, but all seemed very weak and not at all inspirational. The title track had it's moments, but seemed to wander on forever. As the needle ran off the into the centre groove, I removed the LP and put it back on the shelf, sneering at the gulf between its reputation and my nineteen year old opinion of it. Very soon afterwards, it too joined the many copies of 461 Ocean Boulevard and 10cc's Greatest Hits in the local second hand shop.

It would be unfair to end the review there.

I have of course revisited the album and am astonished by what I now see as one of the bedrocks of my record collection. But why do I see it differently? Simply being several years older is part of the reason. I can now contextualise the album in ways I couldn't when I was nineteen. I overlooked many things then: the adorable vocal of Greg Lake, the lush mellotron; in many ways unsurpassed since, the skill of the musicians in producing something genuinely unique which paved a path followed and exploited by others and above all the beauty of the title track. When I listened to this once more after a space of almost twenty years, I couldn't understand how I had missed this gem. I can only reason that as a teenager, my ability to appreciate more the subtle nuances of music weren't fully developed.

To be able to revisit a piece of work after two decades and find it so compelling is an incredible experience and a privilege. If I Talk To The Wind was absent, this would be a strong contender for a top five album for me.