King Crimson
Lizard

In a discography like that of King Crimson, speaking of "minor albums" is highly inappropriate; each production orchestrated by Fripp is indeed a well-thought-out and calculated equation to bring, so to speak, music beyond music through music; the fundamental step of a kind of map devised by the mind of a genius since 1969. Yet this "Lizard" from 1971 is considered by many to be a minor work, curious yes, but decidedly inferior to the debut and the previous "In The Wake Of Poseidon." Surely it is an album that is difficult to assimilate and comprehend, bewildering at first listen, so striking and sudden that it can even seem confusing at times. In reality, Lizard is one of the King's greatest achievements as well as a progressive peak with no precedents or worthy heirs; I personally consider it even better than the renowned "In The Court Of Crimson King."

The historical line-up has undergone a clear reshuffle; with Greg Lake and Mike Giles gone, the three remaining members, namely Fripp, Sinfield, and Collins, recruit the singer-bassist Gordon Haskell, only a guest on the previous album, and the highly skilled drummer Andy McCulloch. The band also surrounds itself with excellent guests, all jazz musicians of high caliber (such as the pianist Keith Tippet) that already clearly show the new direction the despot wanted to give to his music, decidedly free-jazz. But it is the atmospheres, the tones, and the imaginative power filtering through every instrument that make this album unrepeatable; the arrangements become more elaborate, pushed to the extreme, sometimes paroxysmal, the climate is oppressive, agitated. Fripp devotes particular care to the mellotron, his second instrument, and in his hands, the legendary tape sampler becomes a sort of generator of emotions, a mechanical altar that evokes delirious visions of deep unease and sinister modern charm.

You can appreciate all of this already in the opening track, Cirkus, one of the King's best pieces ever. A nervous but graceful piano accompanies Haskell's particular voice for an intro with romantically macabre tones; the entry of the drums accompanies a powerful mellotron riff and a fleshy bass that digs in the background and nails the listener. Fripp arpeggiates the guitar with enchanting mastery and sound, battling with Gordon who sings in a neurotic, dazed, compressed way, while the perfect drumming cements every single note. Stunning is the dramatic mellotron solo intersected with the sax: these two instruments constantly vie for the forefront of a track with intense emotional charge and admirable jazz streaks.

Followed by a duo of tracks that resumes the "free" lesson of Cat Food on the previous album. Indoor Games is a nervous piece, slippery in its jazzy agility, introduced by sax riffs and VCS3 inserts and supported by refined drums that march in jolts. The guitar accompanies the voice (strained and twisted, complete with a mad final laugh) with skewed arpeggios; the whole might suggest chaotic contamination, but the song works very well and presents exceptional interpretative clarity. Guitars and reverberated synthesizer notes open the next Happy Family, which can be admittedly difficult to listen to as the very free piano inserts itself violently and apparently without sense on a treated, jerky, and absolutely non-linear vocal part but still consistent with the piece's setup. It is perhaps the album's hardest track, as syncopated and skewed as ever, with a somewhat overloaded arrangement that is nonetheless ironic and particular, even in the lyrics that treat the Beatles (hidden on the cover) with caustic irony. Of a completely different tone is the subsequent and wonderful Lady Of The Dancing Water, opened by a sweet flute loop and dreamy minimal arpeggios; Haskell excels with his slightly nasal voice, but it is delicate and gentle, superb the wind inserts that inlay this little gem of melancholic melody.

It is a brief moment of light gentleness before reaching the King's Symphony, the grotesque madness that takes form with a journey into the absurdity of human life and epic vision. Lizard comprises five magical movements perfectly fused together, creating an atmosphere that only the greatest can suggest. The music splits into two planes, one revealed and evident, at first impact, and a second more diffuse and hidden, penetrating with the notes but able to delve much deeper. More than a musical track, it is a parade of emotions that begins with  Prince Rupert Awakes, opened with unsettling mellotron echoes that welcome the wonderful voice of a memorable guest, a Jon Anderson not yet launched into the progressive empyrean. The guitar weaves dream threads with a subtle dark background, while the drums are varied and excellent; it seems the song of an unknown world that greets us mockingly in the awakening of life. An epic opening of mellotron and McCulloch's hypnotic drumming open part two, Bolero, a sort of funeral march dominated by the poignant tones played by the oboe that draw suggestive figures and soundscapes of wide breath. The mellotron conspires in the shadow of a background made of fleeting piano notes, making the Bolero a pulsating emotion that unfolds with a majestic crescendo. The third section, Peacock's Tale, is mixed with the previous and is characterized by various winds carving elusive and tense solos, even if the painful oboe melody resurfaces towards the end. Also surprising is The Battle Of The Glass Tears, divided into three sub-themes, introduced by a mysterious, distressing but captivating litany sung with a monotone and estranged voice by Haskell. It is an unparalleled moment of compression that subsequently unleashes with a very powerful wind phrasing supported by a mellotron score as distressing and pressing as ever, while a subtle and sharp flute gracefully embroiders above the turmoil. Big Top sees the winds fall silent to make way for a distant guitar echoing over the timpani blows and creating a sound current of Judgment Day; a final, cacophonous explosion seems to approach, but out of the shadows emerges the skewed, caricatured, and paroxysmal sound of a circus march, less than a minute of unexpected madness that leaves us stunned and solitary in the silence of the conclusion. The absurd parade of life, from awakening, to battle, to night, remains suspended like the destiny of the soul, in the mad abandonment to an inextricable and unresolved enigma; a representation of human existence transformed into a true work of art with a memorable performance.

Lizard is a work I find very underrated, one that clearly fulfills the osmosis between the dreamy lyricism of the first album with the disturbed jazz suggestions of the previous album and which for this reason has always seemed to me the best artistic testament of King Crimson part 1. It is the result of a formation that lasted briefly and was forgotten, but also of a moment of inspiration and unrepeatable cohesion between Fripp and Sinfield. If you are looking for the evocative visions of elegiac and imaginative dreams, this album is not for you; but if you are not afraid to listen to the anguish of life, dive in without fear.