It was a cold early December night in 1969. I was standing outside the Whiskey a Go Go on the Sunset Strip (soon to be infamous thanks to one Charles Manson). The marquee glowed with neon dreams and musical delights, and simply read "King Crimson December 3- 6th." Penniless, hippified, I was pulling one of my cheapskate tricks, standing outside the venue on the sidewalk and listening to the act non-gratis; keeping one eye on the West Hollywood Sheriffs, another eye on the front door in case the management got pissed at my loitering, possible preventing paying customers from entering the club.

Lo and behold, along came an old friend down the street. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "I'm hoping to hear some of the set by this new English band, King Crimson," I replied. "They sound like an evil Moody Blues," I added. My friend was the bass player with a band I had hung out with since high school, The Abstracts. They played a lot of Hollywood high school dances, and later on in their careers a I would play a small insignificant part in some unreleased recordings under their new name, The Hobbitt. My friend had free entrance to the Whiskey, and generously invited me to be his guest for the evening King Crimson performance.

I had no idea what I was in for. We took our seats to the strains of the 1969 hit parade played on the Whiskey's public address system. The lights dimmed and four gentlemen walked onstage and assumed their positions. Only the sound of the leads being plugged into their instruments was heard as the recorded music faded out. In what seemed like forever and a millisecond the band launched into "Twenty-First Century Schizoid Man" and blew my nineteen-year-old brain out of the top of my head. I had heard "Epitaph" and "In the Court of the Crimson King" on the Long Beach FM station KNAC, but nothing could have prepared me for the Twenty-First Century sonic assault. Needless to say the walk home that inter evening gave this enthusiastic, aspiring, would-be musician a lot to think about.

Two months before the Crimson Whiskey gig I had been given my first acoustic guitar for my birthday. When I got home in the early house of the morning, I put the Lyle Gibson knockoff guitar in the closet along with what was left of my brain for three months, while contemplated what I had seen and heard that evening, and what my concept of music had been up till then (musicians getting loaded and boogying). What Crimson presented was more than music, it was truly a way of doing things. Pardon an over-used phrase.

Flash forward forty-five years. My wife and I are motoring eastbound on Beverly Boulevard. It's October first and our destination is the Orpheum Theater. On the journey we reminisced about all the Crimson gigs we had attended. (She started her Crimson gig history in 1981, while I had seen all but one Crimson show since the Whiskey show.) The drive was smoother than expected, L.A. traffic being what it is in 2014. Soon we were pulling into the tiny car park across the street from the Orpheum Theater where the marquee read "An Evening with King Crimson September 30th and October 1st." We got out of the car and began our short walk. Downtown Los Angeles is now an architectural treasure trove of sights and different eras that blend together all in the space of a city block. A short wait in line, and into the newly restored Orpheum, which is a former movie palace and historical monument.

We found our seats and begin our admiration of the theater, when out of the corner of my eye, just to the right of the stage, a small door opened. A well-dressed gentleman appeared and proceeded down the small wooden rail less stairs to the aisle on the far right of the stage. A small group of audience members took no notice of this man as he made his way to the sound board at the back of the facility, and appeared to have a conversation with one of the techs. He then disappeared into the lobby where the merchandise tables were set up and doing a booming business. I kept asking my wife to look over my shoulder and tell me who she saw, but even she did not detect Robert Fripp passing through the theater. To my knowledge, neither did anyone else.

We then adjourned to the bar for refreshments. Returning to our seats with libation in hand, I noticed the unknown guitarist returned and reentered the stage door. This time my wife recognized the one member of King Crimson who had been in every incarnation since January of 1969. Gradually a small crowd of people (mostly men) gathered around our third row seats, snapping iPhone photos of Crimson's massive arsenal of exotic instruments (photos and amateur recordings of the band were prohibited). A nice gentleman of basically our age group introduced himself. He asked if I knew anything about King Crimson. My reply was, "a little." In the course of conversation he revealed that someone associated with the California Guitar Trio had recommended this Crimson gig as a must-see. I must admit that I found it refreshing that not only would someone of a certain age take a chance with music that they had never heard, but show up at a gig with no preconceived ideas about an unknown act and be open to new musical adventures. Surely that is what King Crimson has always been. The chap went on to say that he was a guitarist and that his friends who inspired him to attend this performance told him he should keep a special eye out for one Roger Fripp. I politely corrected him with, "It's Robert Fripp." It was hard for me to explain the Crimson experience to an uninitiated listener, but I tried the best I could with inadequate verbiage. The best I could muster was, "Crimson might change your view of music."

Suddenly a voice from the speakers began informing the audience that no photography or personal recording would be allowed. It was Robert Fripp. He advised the crowd to mentally vid-e the show, and to have fun and rock out. It became a group affair with the band members chiming in on the ills of recording and photography, which was delivered with much hilarity. Tony Levin plaintively announced he had a photo pass, which provided much laughter for the audience. The lights in the house dimmed and the front line of three drummers filed on to their kits, and began the finger piano Intro to "Larks Tongues in Aspic Part One."

For the next two hours, Crimson played selections from all phases of their career, with an intensity the younger bands would envy. All the players were on point, with Fripp’s playing being beyond description. Standing ovations followed every piece of music.

As we filed out of the Orpheum I wondered if our pre-show friend had his perception of music change. One can only hope.

Copyright Jan Alan Henderson 2014
Los Angeles, California