DISCIPLINE

To understand how "Discipline" came about, and why the new band isn't a reiteration of KC '73, you have to know that music has changed enormously between the '74 release of "Red" and the '80 revival of KC as a band. Fripp was fascinated by new wave music (see his two "League of Gentlemen" projects) and was eager to get out from under what he considered the "repressive" label of being a "progressive" band. He liked the idea of lightening up the new band's sound, moving away from the stentorian, monolithic sound of the early '70s lineup ("music to invade Mordor by," I've always called it, and yes, Crimheads, I love that lineup and listen to albums by that particular band regularly). But Fripp wanted to go in a different direction. For that matter, so did Bruford, who as much as he enjoyed the earlier band's music, didn't want to repeat what had gone before. Bruford brought in studio bassist Tony Levin, and Fripp brought Adrian Belew on board to play 2nd guitar, sing, and write lyrics. Belew was fresh from working with dance-new wave bands Talking Heads and Tom Tom Club, and brought a lighter, poppy, more humorous feel to the band, exactly what Fripp wanted without actually going so far as risking mainstream acceptance.

The new band was originally called "Discipline," but as the band found its groove, Fripp realized that the band warranted being brought under the King Crimson rubric -- besides, Levin thought that the moniker was the best band name he'd ever heard.

Indeed, the band explored brand new turf, creating a hyperactive, guitar-driven "world music" sound radically different from the previous band, and in the process alienating many of its older fans. But Fripp is Fripp, and goes where he will. The first track, "Elephant Talk," serves as a warning shot to fans and critics alike that whatever the new band may be, it wasn't going to rework old ground. Crisp and high-tech, the song featured Belew's whimsical, David Byrne-flavored vocals, his wryly whimsical alliterative lyrics, and showcased Belew's "elephant guitar," a fun experiment with feedback, distortion, and neck-bending. Levin and Bruford showed that they could handle the slinky, sinuous rhythm with ease, while their contributions to the song hinted at the thunderous polyrhythms they would explore later on in the album. "Frame By Frame" features Fripp's and Belew's sharp, filigreed guitar intertwinings over a ratchety, energetic beat, along with second call-and-response vocals by Levin, showing that the new KC would be more of a vocal band than previous lineups. The lovely "Matte Kudasai," a deceptively simple Belew love song, works with Belew's keening "seagull" guitars over airy washes of Fripp's patented soundscape guitar sculptures. And then there's "Indiscipline." Any older fan whose teeth were ground to dust by now in frustration with what he was hearing must have leapt to his or her feet in glee. Here is the band in full battle mode, with frantic drum glissandos, an earthshaking bass line, and Fripp savagely wrenching runs and ostinatos from his overheated Gibson.

After catching your breath, you'd flip the LP over (no CDs when this puppy came out) and launch into a funky, nearly danceable "Thela Hun Ginjeet." Belew's spoken word vocals were recorded surreptitiously after Belew was nearly mugged in a NYC alley, and made it back to the studio to breathlessly tell his tale of near-woe to his listeners; the band decided to weave an urgent, urban-jungle instrumental around Belew's words. (The title is an anagram for "Heat in the Jungle." The sixth track is in many ways the centerpiece of the album. "The Sheltering Sky" features Bruford on African percussion, with Fripp and Belew exploring lovely guitar figures on a pair of Roland synthesized guitars. The final piece, "Discipline," is a five-minute masterpiece of meticulously arranged syncopation, with all four instruments circling and intertwining around Bruford's click track. It is a thing of beauty; Bach would have undoubtedly been pleased. It's the song I intend to have played at my funeral.

The album has a lot of tribal and "third world" influences, leading one critic to glibly label it a "guitar gamelan." But there's plenty of firepower to be had, plenty of staccato Fripp solos, howling Belew feedback, the then-unique sound of Levin's Chapman stick, and Bruford's impeccable, supersonic drum figures. The album broke so much new ground that the band would continue to explore the same ground over two other, somewhat lesser albums ("Beat" and "Three of a Perfect Pair"), and continue playing tracks from it for twenty years. It is a landmark album in myriad ways, both for Crimson and for progressive music in general. It's a testament to the excellence and the lasting power of this album that many, many Crimson fans formerly dedicated to the early '70s dark monomania were able, in time, to give their allegiance to the new band without swearing off their love for the earlier incarnation.

Any King Crimson fan worth his salt, who isn't completely devoted to either the 60s or 70s incarnations to the exclusion of all else Crimson, either has this in their collection, or has a gaping hole where this album should be. It is a necessity.