Part Stalin, part Gandhi, part Marquis de Sade, Crimson King Robert Fripp has led himself and his league of crafty artists down a regimented route to groundbreaking musical excellence since the age of 11. Progrevisits the cheerful insanity in an article that originally appeared in issue 11.

Words: Sid Wilson

I’m heading north up Manhattan’s Eighth Avenue in August’s broiling heat just as a fast as my legs will carry me. It’s 2008 and I’ve an appointment with Robert Fripp who, aside from being the 42nd best guitarist in the world according to Rolling Stone’s 2003 poll, or the 47th best on the planet if you prefer guitar maker Gibson’s more recent hit parade, is also a stickler for punctuality.

Although I’ve been to the USA a couple of times in the past, this is my first time in the Big Apple and it’s hard to resist the temptation to loiter and gawp awhile amidst the iconic buildings and strangely familiar streets. Having seen NYC on so many movies and TV shows gives one an odd sense of déjà vu.

One person who’s definitely been here before is Fripp, smiling broadly as he steps out of the lobby of the Hilton Garden Inn just as I arrive. “This hotel,” he tells me as we start walking in the dazzling sunshine, “is the very first one that King Crimson stayed in when we first arrived in November 1969. Only back then it was called Loew’s Midtown Motor Inn and it was then home to most visiting rock bands of the day.”

Can the can: Fripp in the studio, 1969.

PRESS/DGM/KING CRIMSON

Amid the blaring bustle of what seems to be fastest-moving city on the planet, Fripp’s gentle Dorset burr is incongruously infused with graphic tales of just how luridly exotic the street life was to a wide-eyed 23-yearold old red-blooded male back in 1969.

Walking the six blocks towards the Nokia Theater, Fripp is in full tour-guide mode; that’s the hotel where Adrian Belew wrote the words to Neurotica (from KC’s impressionistic tribute to Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, Beat); there’s the hotel where Bill Bruford once found a dead rat in his room; here’s the Longacre Theater where the Double Trio incarnation of the band played a series of sell-out gigs in 1995; then back to the late 70s recounting his days living in the Bowery and riding the new wave, gigging with Walter Stedding, doing benefit gigs for Johnny Blitz, hanging out with Debbie Harry. Fripp’s garrulous commentary is momentarily interrupted when a well-dressed, middle-aged man steps into our path, extending his hand and declaring loudly, “I just wanted to say how much I love your work.” The venerable guitarist doesn’t make eye contact but neatly sidesteps the man, and without missing a beat, keeps striding purposefully in the direction of the Nokia on Times Square. Glancing over my shoulder I see the guy has been left standing, hand outstretched, with a perplexed ‘What the fuck?’ look on his face.