 King Crimson
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Artist rating: 81.16 % (ranking: not set)
Highest rating: 84.18 % (1969)
Most recent trend: 76.71 % (1981)
Highest trend: 89.18 % (1969)
Works
Tracks (A-Ö)
Statistics
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DataFormed: 1969-01-13
Formed 55 years ago
External links | GenresProgressive Rock, Art Rock, Experimental Rock, Jazz Rock, Avant-Prog, New Wave, Art Pop, Funk Rock, Hard Rock, Progressive Pop, Symphonic Prog | 
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MembersAdrian Belew, Bill Bruford, Boz Burrell✝, Mel Collins, David Cross, Robert Fripp, Michael Giles, Gordon Haskell, Greg Lake✝, Tony Levin, Andy McCulloch, Ian McDonald✝, Jamie Muir, Peter Sinfield, Ian Wallace✝, John Wetton✝ |
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72.98 %
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80.50 %
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In the Court of the Crimson King
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94.18 %
(2012-06-12) |
Date released: 1969-10-10 Type: studio In collection: CD (2004-02-09)Average track length: 08:50 Average track rating:  |
Ranking
King Crimson:
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8
Year (1969):
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50
Decade (1960's):
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206
Overall:
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2711 |
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Tracks
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1 lyrics  07:26 | 2 lyrics 06:09 | 3 lyrics 08:51 | 4 lyrics  12:17 | 5 lyrics 09:26 | Total time: 44:09 |
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Credits
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Band members
 Ian McDonald (23)saxophone, flute, clarinet, bass clarinet, Mellotron, harpsichord, piano, organ, vibraphone, backing vocals Producers
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Lyrics
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21st Century Schizoid Man 07:26 |
Cat's foot iron claw
Neuro-surgeons scream for more
At paranoia's poison door
Twenty first century schizoid man
Blood rack, barbed wire
Polititians' funeral pyre
Innocents raped with napalm fire
Twenty first century schizoid man
Death seed, blind man's greed
Poets' starving, children bleed
Nothing he's got he really needs
Twenty first century schizoid man |
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I Talk to the Wind 06:09 |
Said the straight man to the late man
Where have you been
I've been here and I've been there
And I've been in between
I talk to the wind
My words are all carried away
I talk to the wind
The wind does not hear
The wind cannot hear
I'm on the outside looking inside
What do I see
Much confusion, disillusion
All around me
You don't possess me, don't impress me
Just upset my mind
Can't instruct me or conduct me
Just use up my time
I talk to the wind
My words are all carried away
I talk to the wind
The wind does not hear
The wind cannot hear |
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Epitaph 08:51 |
The wall on which the prophets wrote is cracking at the seams
Upon the instruments of death the sunlight brightly gleams
When every man is torn apart with nightmares and with dreams
Will no one lay the laurel wreath as silence drowns the screams
Confusion will be my epitaph
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Between the iron gates of fate, the seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those who know and who are known
Knowledge is a deadly friend, when no one sets the rules
The fate of all mankind I see is in the hands of fools
Confusion will be my epitaph
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying |
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Moonchild 12:17 |
Call her moonchild
Dancing in the shallows of a river
Lovely moonchild
Dreaming in the shadow of the willow
Talking to the trees of the cobweb strange
Sleeping on the steps of a fountain
Waving silver wands to the night-birds song
Waiting for the sun on the mountain
She's a moonchild
Gathering the flowers in a garden
Lovely moonchild
Drifting on the echoes of the hours
Sailing on the wind in a milk white gown
Dropping circle stones on a sun dial
Playing hide and seek with the ghosts of dawn
Waiting for a smile from a sun child |
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The Court of the Crimson King 09:26 |
The rusted chains of prison moons are shattered by the sun
I walk a road, horizons change, the tournament's begun
The purple piper plays his tune, the choir softly sing
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue for the court of the crimson king
The keeper of the city keys put shutters on the dreams
I wait outside the pilgrim's door with insufficient schemes
The black queen chants the funeral march, The cracked brass bells will ring
To summon back the fire witch to the court of the crimson king
The gardener plants an evergreen whilst trampling on a flower
I chase the wind of a prism ship to taste the sweet and sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand, the orchestra begin
As slowly turns the grinding wheel in the court of the crimson king
On soft gray mornings widows cry, the wise men share a joke
I run to grasp divining signs to satisfy the hoax
The yellow jester does not play, but gentle pulls the strings
And smiles as the puppets dance in the court of the crimson king |
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