by Greg Lake
We played them ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’ and ‘The Court of the Crimson King’. I could immediately see by the reaction on their faces that they were shocked. I think they had come expecting to hear a modified version of their own light, orchestral style. They were not ready for the passion of the vocals or the speed of Robert’s guitar-playing or the intensity of our band in general. We rounded off their visit with ‘Mars, the Bringer of War’ from Holst’s The Planets. They left quietly.
We moved to Wessex Studios to record the album. We took Tony with us and started work but we quickly came to realise that working with a producer was not giving us the freedom we needed. So, we decided to go it alone. During the rest of the recording sessions everything happened fast and our ideas were often spontaneous rather than preconceived. There were few discussions or deliberations or retakes because we all pretty much sensed what we had to do. It all just flowed naturally without us forcing ideas on each other. As Ian McDonald once said, there was a shared musical intent about the band.
Being part of King Crimson in those formative days really felt like we were ‘following wind’. Everything just happened without effort. It was bizarre. The album In the Court of the Crimson King not only captured a moment in time but it also spoke of a new awareness, a dream that shone a light into the future. It announced the arrival of a new generation.
Towards the end of the sessions, we started to discuss the album cover. We wanted the full package – gatefold sleeves, striking artwork, in-depth credits – and Pete Sinfield mentioned that he had a friend called Barry Godber who was a graphic artist. We agreed to let Barry have a try.
A few days later we had just finished a take for the recording of ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’ and I saw someone walk into the studio with a large sheet of cardboard wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string. I didn’t know who he was until Pete explained that it was Barry, and that he had come to show us his ideas for the album cover. Bands are always sceptical about album covers so I was expecting to hear at least one person say, ‘Oh no, I can’t live with that.’
Barry took a pair of scissors out of his pocket, snipped the string and tore off the paper, making sure we couldn’t see the picture. Then he flipped it over and dropped it on the floor. We looked down and there was the screaming face of schizoid man! How could he have known? We were in shock. If ever there was a picture that could evoke the screaming, raw, wild feeling of ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’, it was this one. Everyone knew that this was the album cover. There was no discussion.
The strangest part about this story – and most tragic – is that only a short time later Barry Godber fell down dead in the street from a heart attack. He was only twenty-one years old. I can never quite separate in my own mind the image that he created and the terrible fate that awaited him so soon after it was delivered to us.
The image was a tribute to Barry’s talent as an artist and absolutely befitting a recording that has now gone on to become a classic of its era. It’s possibly the best record I ever made.
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Right from the first King Crimson show, it was obvious that the band was special. It wasn’t just that we went down well. The audiences were shocked when we performed. We opened with ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’ and halfway through the song we put the venue into complete darkness and then used a strobe-lighting effect during the blindingly fast guitar solo passage, which was extremely disorientating. This was further intensified by Robert glaring at the audience with a fixed stare, later referred to as ‘the death look’, and my distorted singing. It was not uncommon to see people cowering as if the stage was about to roll over them. And that was only the first song! And if you had taken a few of the wrong pills, believe me . . . you would want out of there.
The shows often ended with Holst’s ‘Mars, the Bringer of War’. It is one of the most intimidating pieces of music ever written and, although we were only a four-piece band, we played it with all the menace we could muster. Part of the magic of King Crimson, though, was its ability to switch dynamics. One moment it was the brutal onslaught of ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’, the next the audience was gently caressed by the velvet sound of Ian’s flute-playing in ‘I Talk to the Wind’; the power of ‘Epitaph’ contrasted with the more wistful, folky ‘Moonchild’, and I would modulate my voice according to the nature of each song. Another element that seemed to be distinctly different about King Crimson was that we all placed as much importance upon listening to each other play as we did upon playing our own instruments, and this made the music take place very much in the moment rather than always being preconceived.
Our show was surreal in a way, but there was a streak of dark reality too. Our lyrics could be political – Pete’s lyrics to ‘Schizoid Man’ included ‘Politicians’ funeral pyre / innocence raped with napalm fire’ and directly referenced what was happening in Vietnam – and we tried to tackle big themes such as injustice and suffering. If there ever was a record that deserved the word ‘progressive’, it was In the Court of the Crimson King because it looked forward, it was new – although I don’t like the word ‘progressive’ because of how it has been adopted to pigeonhole the music. It sounds elitist and pretentious. We simply wanted to be original and to make art rather than commercial rubbish. We wanted our songs to mean something, but that didn’t mean we were high-minded and thought we were superior to everyone else.
When we started playing the songs live, before the album was released, we were already starting to take off but we didn’t expect the album to be a hit. The record was released in October 1969 and, to our surprise, reached number five in the UK album charts.
One of my most vivid memories of the early shows by King Crimson was when we performed at the legendary Marquee Club in Wardour Street in Soho. The Marquee was famous for being the place where new talent got discovered and it was also a proving ground for more established acts searching for recognition. If you went down well at the Marquee, you were almost certainly on the road to success.
I doubt if there is one single famous British band from that era that didn’t perform there. Everyone from the Rolling Stones to Jimi Hendrix, the Yardbirds, the Who, Rod Stewart, Jethro Tull, Led Zeppelin . . . the list just goes on and on.
Expectations were high the night King Crimson played at the Marquee. Could they be as good as people say? We were determined not to disappoint. I peered out from behind the stage and, although I have since performed in front of far larger audiences, my memory of that sight of the crowd that night still gives me a thrill. The Marquee had vastly oversold the show and the crowd was way beyond the official capacity – so much so that the audience were literally climbing the walls. When we eventually came on to the stage there was a deafening roar of anticipation as if an epic Roman games was about to begin. And we didn’t disappoint. In that one night, the band were hoisted into a different league.
We quickly gained a reputation in and around London. From gatherings of sixty people at our first gigs, we went on to be headliners a few weeks later and, without any publicity whatsoever, we were playing to audiences of five hundred. Word was spreading fast within the music business as well. One night we were playing at the Revolution club in London and I looked out at the crowd and saw Jimi Hendrix staring back at me. He had come to the show to check us out.
Within six months of our first gig, we were performing with the Rolling Stones at Hyde Park in London on 5 July 1969 to an audience of over a quarter of a million people. According to some reports, over twice that number were there. I had never seen that many people, even in a film. It was an unreal spectacle. The park was so thick with people you couldn’t see the grass anywhere. You could barely see the trees because so many people had clambered on to the branches. It felt beautiful, too, because the spirit of the age was one of goodwill and peace. It was about sharing love and awareness. This was even the feeling down the front among the Hell’s Angels, doing the shoulder dance or whatever it is they do. And next to them w
ere the flower people. It was bizarre.
We were first on. We played our set and at the end we got a standing ovation from the entire crowd. That was it. We were really on our way now: 250,000 people can’t be wrong, we thought. Thank goodness we had our managers to keep us in check. They made sure we kept paying our dues, learning our craft as a band and never deluding ourselves that we would go straight to Madison Square Garden. So, after Hyde Park, we went back to playing the clubs.
CHAPTER 4
Crimson America
Not long after the Hyde Park show, the buzz about King Crimson reached the United States. We were offered a tour there and flew over to John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York. We were greeted in arrivals by a portly Italian gentleman with grey-white hair and a white beard, and a sunshine smile with suntan to match.
This was our new American manager. The legendary Dee Anthony.
He was simply a tidal wave of enthusiasm and positivity; something that English people at that time had little understanding about. As we walked out of the airport, I was struck by the sight of a long row of bright yellow New York taxis and two enormous black Cadillac Fleetwood stretch limousines. At last, here I was, in the United States of America.
Manny, one of the limo drivers, jumped out and opened the door with a stylish flourish, beckoning us to step inside. Of course, we had only seen cars like these in the movies and for us the ride into the city was like a dream. During the journey, the radio came on and Dee, who was sitting in the front, suddenly turned around and said, ‘Listen!’
The radio station was playing ‘The Court of the Crimson King’. Halfway through the song, Manny reached back and handed us a lit joint and, with a deep voice reminiscent of Barry White, said: ‘Welcome to the Big Apple.’
We drove across Brooklyn Bridge in the Fleetwood Cadillac and saw the Manhattan skyline for the first time. There it is! It was just breathtaking. And In the Court of the Crimson King was playing on the radio. It turned out that Dee had bribed the DJ to play the record just as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. He had it timed so perfectly. That was Dee. He was a showman.
Meeting someone as charismatic as Dee was part and parcel of all the new experiences we were having. Even booking into the hotel in New York was exciting. To be honest, I hadn’t stayed in that many hotels with elevators until then. I was amazed by the buttons lighting up in the lift – there were fifty floors! And I remember touching the buttons again and again just to see them light up. Then I stood by the window in my room, looking down at Manhattan for a long, long time, marvelling that I had made it to America. Now we had to make it in America.
As far as Dee was concerned, the band was already a hit even before we got off the plane. All we had to do was follow his plan and all would be well. We had no concept about the actual size of the United States or what achieving success there really meant, but such was the power of Dee’s enthusiasm that anyone who encountered it would be carried along and so it was with us. He took great pleasure in making things happen that most people would consider impossible. He was partly a Svengali manager like Elvis’s Colonel Tom Parker, and he was partly a fan. He would stand on the side of the stage all night and after every song he would be cheering. He was so passionate.
He was smooth, too, wherever we went, and would tip the doormen at the front of hotels in order to ensure that they were focused on getting things done for him. He showed me his technique one day. He concealed a $20 bill (Dee always referred to it as a ‘twenty spot’) in the palm of his right hand and then, when he stepped out of the car, he would immediately shake hands with the doorman. Of course, the doorman instantly felt the note pressing into the palm of his hand and, in that one small moment, a secret little bond was established without a word needing to be spoken. The doorman’s dignity was preserved and, once he had glanced down at the denomination, he was totally onside.
‘Certainly, Mr Anthony, I’ll take care of everything for you. Please let me take you right to the front desk.’
Bada bing! Bada boom! as Dee would often say.
Dee was born Anthony D’Addario and grew up in the Bronx in the 1940s, and he went on to manage a number of artists including Tony Bennett. He told me that over the years – simply due to being an Italian in the music business – he had met a number of the well-known Italian crime bosses, who would often say hello to him in a restaurant or on the street. One night Dee took us to dinner at one of his favourite Italian restaurants down in Little Italy. As we all entered the restaurant and stood in the lobby, Dee began talking to the maître d’ about our table when suddenly he turned round and ushered us all back out on to the pavement. He had seen someone who had mob connections sitting in the corner of the restaurant. Although he had no problems with the old gangsters on a personal level, and made sure that he was polite and respectful, he tried to avoid becoming too friendly because there was the risk they could suddenly assign him a dubious role which he would be unable refuse.
‘“No” is just not a word they understand,’ he told me, with a huge smile on his face.
Just now and again, you come across someone who is truly luminous and Dee was one of those rare people who lit up a room simply by his presence. Dee passed away in 2009 and, to me, it was more than simply the loss of a great human being and a great manager, it was truly the end of an era.
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In the euphoric early days after arriving in the United States, I could never have guessed that the tour would be the beginning of the end of my time in King Crimson.
The first show we played in America was on 29 October 1969 at Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont. Dee Anthony had chosen this particular venue because he wanted to protect us. It was so far out of the way that it was unlikely that the music critics from the major cities would bother to make the trip.
We flew up to Vermont courtesy of what Dee used to affectionately call ‘Sudden Death Airlines’. It was an old two-propeller plane of the type that Buddy Holly and Otis Redding had crashed in. We all boarded the plane with trepidation. After being delayed on the runway for twenty nail-biting minutes we took off from La Guardia in New York, which was then followed by an hour of bouncing around in the ominous dark grey clouds before we finally arrived in snow-covered Vermont.
As we stepped outside the airport terminal, we were greeted by a couple of college students who helped to bundle our luggage into the back of two waiting estate cars. I was struck by a word that was written in sweeping chrome letters along the side of one of the cars. It was one of those peculiar moments when one single iconic image just says it all, and what it was saying to me was that here I was, in the United States of America, the home of Elvis Presley, John Wayne and Little Richard. From Florida to Hollywood and from hot dogs to hurricanes, the United States has it all and I still get that same feeling to this day, every time I enter the country. The word on the side of the car was ‘Chevrolet’.
We set off for the show with the two young students in the front and the rest of us sitting in the rear, feeling grateful to be back on the ground. After a few miles, the road began to climb up a steep hill. We twisted and turned along snowy, tree-lined roads before we eventually came upon a charming little village that had a couple of convenience stores, a small garage and few wooden chalets dotted around. As we drove through the village, we happened to spot a community notice board with a large poster advertising a concert – ‘King Curtis Appearing Live’ – that was taking place at the local college where we were about to perform. We thought no more about it and drove on.
Daylight was starting to fade and we followed the road through a heavily wooded area and then down a gravel track, where we saw a few students walking around. We arrived at a brightly lit building, which turned out to be the college gymnasium, opposite the main school. We could see through the windows that a small stage had been erected at one end and that all of our gear had been set up, waiting for us.
After a brief sound check we were shown into a small changing
room behind the stage where we waited for show time to arrive. From the dressing room, we could hear all the students entering the hall and shouting to each other as they began organising themselves places to sit. There was no proper seating in the gymnasium so everyone sat festival-style on the floor. When it was show time, the main gymnasium lights were turned off and our small stage lights, which were a few red household fire-glow bulbs scattered on the floor, were switched on.
As we walked up on to the stage there was nervous, tentative applause. It was different from the expectant and enthusiastic reactions we had come to expect back in England. We pressed on regardless and began to play the opening number, ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’. Before the song had finished we saw three or four students suddenly jump up and run out of the hall in a panic. We didn’t know what to think because the rest of the audience seemed enthusiastic.
The rest of the show went down well until we started to play the last song, ‘Mars, the Bringer of War’. This piece opens in a sombre way with the snare drum tapping out the incessant five-four rhythm, which gets louder and louder throughout the entire piece. Robert would then join in playing the same rhythm while staring at the audience with menace and disdain. The intensity of the piece would build until the final staccato movement when two strobe lights would begin flashing in perfect sync with the music as Ian McDonald entered with the huge orchestral main theme on the Mellotron.
As I looked down at the audience, I could see terror on the faces of some of the students and another group of them got up and ran out of the hall in a panic. After the show had finished, we were informed that the kids who had run out had taken LSD earlier in the evening, and what had made it even worse was that they were not expecting to see King Crimson at all. They had come to see King Curtis, a rhythm and blues act we had seen advertised on the poster back down in the village. No wonder some of them were freaked out, losing themselves in their trips and expecting to hear some laidback soul music, only to be assaulted by ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’ and ‘Mars, the Bringer of War’. It turned out that the college printer had made a mistake and had put the wrong name on the poster.
