An Observation by Shawn Perry
After countless risqué “lockdown” videos with wife Toyah Wilcox, Robert Fripp is back in the driver’s seat on the Mothership Crimson. It’s impossible to not expand one’s appreciation for everything that is right with music after sitting through a King Crimson performance — and their concert in Nashville at the sacred Ryman Auditorium was no exception.
Previous sightings at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles during the carefree, pre-pandemic days of yore had prepared me for a rigid yet loose, splendiferous, all-senses-attacked performance from King Crimson. Would it be less callable with slight jingle of trepidation at the Ryman during a more scrutinous period in modern history? Only those with a foggy notion would care to notice.
Pretty much every seat in the Ryman provides an optimum view, which was something you were going to have to commit to memory instead of photographing. As per their usual guidelines, a strict rule against photography of any kind was enforced via on-stage, can’t-miss signage, along with ushers telling certain individuals they saw to not take pictures or shoot videos with their mobile devices. This policy is is buoyed with good intentions — primarily stopping the outreach of limbs trying to capture the moment for virtual enjoyment while blocking the view of those behind you who are there for real-time enjoyment.
Cameras in general have continuously been an annoyance to Robert Fripp, but he has since acquiesced to allowing their use at the very end of the band’s concert. In fact, Fripp, bassist Tony Levin, and other band members are in the habit of taking picture of the audience after they’ve put down their instruments for the night. It’s a good way of turning the tables on smart phone video and camera enthusiasts.
As they had done on previous outings, Crimson brought along their friends, the California Guitar Trio, for support at the Ryman. Tonight’s lineup was augmented by the inclusion of Tom Griesgraber filling in for Hideyo Moriya. Whereas Moriya, alongside Paul Richards and Bert Lams, is a third of CGT’s unique, multi-layered sound, Griesgraber is a master on the Chapman Stick, adding a entirely different element.
After running through five numbers from their extensive catalog, the California Guitar Trio blew the lid off the proceedings by diving into a beatific, well-phrased version of Pink Floyd’s “Echoes.” This one detour alone seemed to have quelled the seasoned progger’s unspoken aching for authentic accountability. Not that the Trio needs it — they’ve been on the KC gravy train since the 90s.
After a brief intermission, The Music Is Our Friend show commenced to embrace Nashville with “The Hell Hounds of Krim,” a fierce display of frontline, triple-action percussive ingenuity from Pat Mastelotto, Jeremy Stacey, and Gavin Harrison designed to inform the audience of just how in sync each musician on the stage is with one another. It won’t work any other way.
Tonight’s set list tip-toed through three specific eras of King Crimson’s career — their auspicious beginnings (“Epitaph,” “The Court Of The Crimson King”), the shifting mid 70s (“Red,” “One More Red Nightmare,” “Starless”), and the streamlined early 80s comeback (“Neurotica,” “Indiscipline,” “Discipline”). Staying within a two-hour time frame didn’t leave as much room for improvisation, though instrumental runways like “Radical Action II” and “Level Five” certainly provided the opportunity.
Stacey holds double duty, contributing not only to the drums, but also playing keyboards and zoning in one those dreamy Mellotron parts integral to “The Court Of The Crimson King” and “Starless.” In truth, no single musician, not even Fripp, leads the way. It’s more in the form of a waterfall approach that coalesces in an iterative manner, building upon and often transcending melody and molecular structure.
By the time Crimson’s seven members — Fripp, Levin, Mastelotto, Stacey, Harrison, singer and guitarist Jakko Jakszyk, and horn player Mel Collins — took their bows, you could sense a feeling of overwhelming musical satisfaction at the Ryman. Within these hallowed walls, so much greatness has sweetened its essence. Adding King Crimson’s acute tear at the sound waves to Nashville’s emerging oeuvre of musical tastes emanating from institutions such as these is simply the right thing to do.
