Robert Fripp is rock 'n' roll's quintessential English eccentric. Not in a flamboyant, over-the-top way like the late Vivian Stanshall or Keith Moon, but in an offbeat, understated manner -- like a country vicar whose avocation is the study of reptile eggs or quill pens. Fripp's quirky, yet iron-willed sense of individualism has helped him pilot his band, King Crimson, through the choppy seas of pop music ever since the group's 1969 debut. Along with bands such as Yes, Genesis, Van Der Graaf Generator and Emerson, Lake and Palmer, King Crimson was seen as one of the prime exponents of the now mercifully extinct musical genre known as progressive rock, which was neither progressive nor rock, when you get right down to it.
With the arrival of punk rock in the mid-'70s, "prog rock" as a genre went the way of the dodo. But against all expectations, Fripp has managed to maintain King Crimson, amid countless line-up changes, as a cutting-edge musical project through the '80s and '90s, and now into the new millennium. Despite crap lyrics (thank you, Pete Sinfield) and an occasional tendency to typically prog-rock rococo excess (the Mellotron comes to mind), there was always an edge, a dark undercurrent, to King Crimson's music, missing from that of its contemporaries. This does not make for easy listening, it should be pointed out.
The emphasis in King Crimson is on exploring the boundaries of the rock band, in terms of both ensemble playing and improvisation. Fripp is always experimenting with different combinations of players and instruments as he tries to stretch the King Crimson concept just that much further.