This just appeared in my FB feed, the original Rolling Stone review of Lark's from back in.... 1973? I remember reading it back in the day, the whole Fripp as 'mad scientist' intro stayed with me. He's not loving it right off, and thinks John Wetton played the violin, but basically I recognize an honest response to the album.
ORIGINAL ROLLING STONE REVIEW
Remember art rock? Well, it still lives. Every year or so Robert Fripp claws his way from a graveyard of past musical fads, emerging like something out of a Weird Tales Comic book, to snivel in an educated English accent that classicism in rock music lives on. He invariably brings with him a new band of recently interred English music veterans, a pretty new album cover, and a snide remark for the interviewer from Melody Maker. After a hastily conceived tour and small flurry of attention, he disappears for another year or so.
Larks' Tongues in Aspic is nothing if not a real live return to this still-cherished genre. You can't dance to it, can't keep a beat to it, and it doesn't even make good background music for washing the dishes. To fully appreciate the album, you have to sit right up there with your head wedged in between the speakers, approach it with a completely open mind, and then try to decide whether it's a legitimate, near brilliant musical experience or just another whole trainload of rotting codfish. I'm still not sure, although I suppose the truth lies about smack-dab in the middle.
Robert Fripp and King Crimson do not write or play songs—they perform compositions. The typical K.C. composition these days is a total study in contrasts, especially in moods and tempos—blazing and electric one moment, soft and intricate the next. Even the volume level is controlled for you. One moment you think your stereo is on the fritz because the Chinese wind chimes are tinkling so softly, the next the mellotron and guitar lurches half knock you out of your seat. Delicate interweavings pervade both sides of the album, with a tasteful John Wetton violin solo in the best classical tradition (sounding surprisingly competent to these admittedly untrained ears) juxtaposed against a screaming God-knows-what blast of white noise and staccato drumming.
Does such a near-patchwork quilt of noise and technology amount to anything? The answer is yes, although one might get an argument from a diehard fan of Top 40 radio. I find myself often returning to this album that I hated the first three times I played it, and now merely dislike intensely. But I know I'll play the damn thing again sometime tomorrow, if for no other reason than that I've always found albums that are hard to enjoy in the beginning sometimes offer the most rewards and lasting pleasure in the long run. (RS 142)
~ Alan Niester (August 30, 1973)