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The ConstruKction of Light King Crimson Virgin, 2000
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Tracks Reviewed by Ian Grey
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Of course, there was never anything even vaguely progressive about "progressive rock." Rather, it was mainly an excuse for musicians with no more innate musical intelligence than, say, Foghat, to exercise savant-like abilities to play really fast in ridiculous time signatures while mouthing lyric mush cobbled from assorted questionable texts (Ayn Rand for Rush, for example). Played exclusively by males for an audience of same, prog could boast the distinction of being a socially acceptable sort of musical circle jerk. There were exceptions: very early Yes, about three songs by Peter Gabriel-period Genesis. And King Crimson. Crimson, the brainchild of notoriously cranky guitarist Robert Fripp, was simply too authentically deranged to be consistently pretentious and dispositionally averse to gratuitous solo wanks. Still, from its ersatz heavy title to its cosmic PhotoShop graphics, the group's The ConstruKction of Light threatens to be everything dorky about prog. Luckily, appearances can be misleading. Over their 30-plus year history, Crimson has possessed two essential saving graces: a self-skewering humor (evidenced here via lyrical self-mockery) and, most importantly, the urge and ability to Rock Like a Motherfucker. (Along with Fripp, Crimson is now comprised of Adrian Belew and Trey Gunn on guitars and Pat Mastelloto on drums.) Both qualities are evident on Light's first cut, the unfortunately-titled "ProzaKc Blues." Over an ominously catchy, semi-blues swamp guitar ramble, Belew's voice is digi-fucked into a creepy baritone that sounds like a junked-out Dr. John. And in direct prog procedural violation, you can even dance to it. Well, mostly. Other songs venture into virtuoso, rapid-fire gamelon guitar arpeggio territory with varying degrees of listener-excluding self-fascination. However, with "Larks' Tongues in Aspic-Part IV," Crimson rediscovers the psycho-metal of its 1969 classic, "21st Century Schizoid Man," exnays that song's ersatz jazz BS and goes berserk in an artistically stunning, one might even say progressive, manner. Equal parts fuzz-tone orchestration, Beatles-like harmonies and white-noise freak out abandon, the song packs more musical invention into its 9.07 minute running time than most bands of any genre do with an entire CD. For this track, and several others that nearly match its modern realization of Crimson's simultaneously cacophonous/sublime aesthetic, Light becomes an essential acquisition. | June 2000 Ian Grey's work has been published in Time Out, Icon, Fangoria and many other periodicals. 1998 saw the publication of his book, Sex, Stupidity and Greed: Inside the American Movie Industry (JunoBooks). He is currently at work on an epic novel dealing with sex, pop music, family and mass murder, based on two lines from a mediocre Depeche Mode song. Mr. Grey likes to think that he will be among the very first to do this. |
Over an ominously catchy, semi-blues swamp guitar ramble, Belew's voice is digi-fucked into a creepy baritone that sounds like a junked-out Dr. John. And in direct prog procedural violation, you can even dance to it. Well, mostly. |
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