Philly, King Crimson, Life

There is so much to write about from our trip.







To begin, Susan's sister Kathi and her husband Seth's hospitality are the sole reason we were able to accomplish our voyage. They gave us room and board and transport and entertainment in their Allentown home, and allowed Henry to rummage in their basement for toys once played with by their now-adult sons. May the sun shine upon them and smile. It was great.

All of the appropriate obeisances were paid to our heritage:






Smile Martha! Okay...don't.


They have trees here, nice ones.




Before the King Crimson show at The Keswick we met up with someone who turned out to be just as charming, interesting, and sweet as they seemed via the internet, Sid Smith. Sid is covering the King Crimson 40th Anniversary Tour for DGM Live.

I showed him some Panasonic Lumix tricks, and he watched us inhale a passable greek dinner. We had earlier encountered a couple of other characters, KC's Quarter Maintainers De-Luxe Tom Redmond and Terry Kalka, who stated, along with Sid, that they were going to lay waste to KC's food supply.


Adele and Henry found the greek food less than satisfactory, and laid a nom nom nom on some pizza.




Into the belly of the beast.

This is the part where I write. We took our seats, 2/3 of the way back and 1/3 in from the right. At 7:29, I experienced a familiar, warmish presence enter my awareness, briefly. At 7:30 the band took the stage, and a struggle ensued, inside and out.

The sound was poor, a mud ball with sharp pieces sticking out. All of the bass was a blur. Tony Levin might have played something, but we weren't able to tell what notes he had chosen throughout the evening, unless he played in the same register as the guitarists. The acoustics of the venue worked against the band throughout the show, almost actively it seemed. The tom toms especially suffered from the kits, overwhelming the rest of the drummers' arsenal.

Inside, the struggle was in full swing, as well. I have now come to realize that I experience this every time I see the band (all four times). I am, for almost the duration of the show, confronted with every possible internal blockage, consideration, expectation, pettiness, jealousy, irritation, anger, disappointment, and distraction that my collective organism can muster, a personal psychic June '44 Normandy landing. This lifts briefly, happily, ironically, for Neurotica, and occasionally elsewhere when I can grab a breath. I managed a few moments during the encore Elephant Talk, and then was lost beneath the waves again when the song ended and the band left the stage after applause. At one point I closed my eyes, and experienced an internal visual sensation that I have become familiar with, the music forming amorphous but meaningful shapes. During Impediments recording sessions this often occurs when we are listening to tracks recorded that evening. What I saw in The Keswick were roiling clouds of black, liquid charcoal, Jupiter's surface in dark grayscale. During the last, last, final song, Indiscipline, I managed to break through. I focused my aural attention on Adrian's guitar, and allowed the sound of the band into my awareness fully, during a raging, tough, rendition of the tune. Then it was over. What mechanism is at play here, for me? That's an ongoing subject of discussion in here. Any opportunity for honest self-examination is welcome, even during rock and roll's finest hour.

Despite my internal bloodbath, the set was filled with nuggets from Crimson's past, ones that I wouldn't have expected, and was happy to hear. The Talking Drum, with Robert's guitar providing an icy, liquid, doubled tone for the melody, was a stunner. Vrooom rocked. The double drum lineup is a muscular beast, and it works in a way that the double trio didn't, for me. Adrian's guitar throughout was sinuous, fleshy, fiery, and edgy, in a way I haven't seen in the past. It is good, very very good. He is the glue. I wish I could have heard Tony. After the show we said goodbye to Sid, and said hello to Marcus Reuter, who was in Philadelphia for a gig of his own.







So, through the wringer and out again for one BS. Home again home again jiggety jig. Many thanks go to my wonderful wife Susan for arranging this vacation, and for putting up with this moody, idiosyncratic, "reluctant Crafty".