Great observation regarding Fripp’s influence as yolk. Indeed, 3 years prior to making The Host’s acquaintance, I heard a spellbinding track from one of the countless recordings of Fripp on WZBC. My drive was extended by miles, for I could not leave the song, so despite arriving back home to Brighton, the song and the drive continued in loops. Soon thereafter, finding a fistful of possibilities of Fripp’s work at Planet Records (which is still alive in 2019 on Mt. Auburn Street in Cambridge), I took a guess based on intriguing cover art and headed home to get baked and revisit whatever galaxy Fripp had guided me through previously. Perhaps it was too-high expectations, but as the rain poured down on a cold June weekday afternoon, I just wasn’t quite feeling it. Different ensemble, maybe different period, more likely just not the right time, I turned to another album picked up from Planet, the combined Butthole Surfers offering of Rembrandt Pussyhorse and Cream Corn from the Socket of Davis. Creep in the Cellar immediately plunged me deeper under the blankets as I recoiled in horror at this ghastly tale and creepy sound. By the time the bell tolled in the form of Whirling Hall of Knives, I was convinced my end was at hand. A massive day. And perhaps a lesson – the ingredients all make the whole. Each in its own way is essential and joined with the right other ingredients, something delicious emerges. So while Fripp may not have carried that day, his role in it remains vital and honored. And then 1995 rolls around, The Host enters Stage Left and as the visits to the various Great Halls mount, the recurring ambience of the welcome music seeps deeper and deeper, always soothing, calming, preparing for a cascade of Good Times. It was Fripp. Past, Present, Future. The One. Now Today.
May 14th 
Great observation regarding Fripp’s influence as yolk. Indeed, 3 years prior to making The Host’s acquaintance, I heard a spellbinding track from one of the countless recordings of Fripp on WZBC. My drive was extended by miles, for I could not leave the song, so despite arriving back home to Brighton, the song and the drive continued in loops. Soon thereafter, finding a fistful of possibilities of Fripp’s work at Planet Records (which is still alive in 2019 on Mt. Auburn Street in Cambridge), I took a guess based on intriguing cover art and headed home to get baked and revisit whatever galaxy Fripp had guided me through previously. Perhaps it was too-high expectations, but as the rain poured down on a cold June weekday afternoon, I just wasn’t quite feeling it. Different ensemble, maybe different period, more likely just not the right time, I turned to another album picked up from Planet, the combined Butthole Surfers offering of Rembrandt Pussyhorse and Cream Corn from the Socket of Davis. Creep in the Cellar immediately plunged me deeper under the blankets as I recoiled in horror at this ghastly tale and creepy sound. By the time the bell tolled in the form of Whirling Hall of Knives, I was convinced my end was at hand. A massive day. And perhaps a lesson – the ingredients all make the whole. Each in its own way is essential and joined with the right other ingredients, something delicious emerges. So while Fripp may not have carried that day, his role in it remains vital and honored. And then 1995 rolls around, The Host enters Stage Left and as the visits to the various Great Halls mount, the recurring ambience of the welcome music seeps deeper and deeper, always soothing, calming, preparing for a cascade of Good Times. It was Fripp. Past, Present, Future. The One. Now Today.