King Crimson
Red

The Crimson King had a soft spot for the stars. For the celestial bodies. For the silky chords. He had a soft spot for the most arcane fantasies. The primordial verses. The King loved the madmen.
And so it was that the stars fell one by one to become red, red, turning into music and watching the sky from down here, discovering that it wasn't so bad, discovering they didn't want to go home anymore.
In 1975, progressive rock died and after three days it resurrected. Red.
Nine, supernovae, nebulae, degenerate dwarfs.
With punk at the doors. With the wave flooding the bedrooms.
Cultured guitars, esoteric phrasings, arthouse rhythms.
Robert Fripp took a stick and measured the distance between the earth and the sky. "Providence".
And then Kurt, Kurt Cobain, who calls it the greatest album of all time. He who doesn't even belong. Whether you like it or not. Whether you like them or not.
The riffs chase each other and Mister Wetton dances on the bass keyboard, digs, sleeps on it, makes love to it with a dry and sweetish throat.
Brufford clatters, meanwhile. Clatters still...on the rock's tomb, from its grave squeezes what's left and what remains is this.
The King Crimson are now a trio, a concentrate.
And they show themselves on the cover. The first time. The last. Because they want to be seen. Now or never again. They'll return in the Eighties but everything has changed. Everything collapses. Everything is silent.
And then the final explosion, lectio magistralis. To those who tell you that "Starless" is not the definitive suite, to those who say there is something beyond, answer that you want to sleep peacefully.
Because beyond there is only delirium.
One more step.
One more step and you wouldn't be there anymore.