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"Finding [Jamie] Muir's approach far outside his experience, [Bill] Bruford quickly realised that he was now operating in a new world of serious music-making."

"For Muir, this meant widening Bruford's musical horizons, partly by exposing him to records by Nigerian drummers and sessions in Muir's maisonette, with the pair crawling around on hands and knees, "playing" household appliances and domestic furniture..."

"Bruford outlined the modus operandi... 'We define the various areas in which we play - for instance, a lot of the time he's playing non-kit instruments... There's a lot of different ways we can employ it; we can even phrase together which gets very heavy. Basically, Jamie skims along the top of the music most of the time, while John and I anchor it down.'"

"Despite the confident tone, however, this transformation was not achieved without some personal pain and soul-searching, reducing Bruford to tears on one occasion."

From In the Court of King Crimson by Sid Smith

My dad is watching Dead Boy Detectives and he’s asking the real questions.

“What does the uptight guy have that is bringing all of those other guys to him? Is that rizz? Sabrina is that what rizz is? Does that kid have the rizz?”

is it ever?

It's dawn of the 5th day when your son breaks down. It's later than you expected; you thought it would happen after he hung those servants. He's angry, and you know it. It is not a loud anger, not like the one you toiled with for 10 years in Troy, walking with Agamemnon, or the many years you lamented at sea. It is quiet, and you fear it. He is justifiably angry. "Father, why were you gone? Why did you make me suffer, your wife-my mother- suffer so much as you spent your days with Circe?" He spits it out, no hesitation in his voice. He's bitter, and you know it. "Has your mother never told you of the plow?" He shakes his head. You feel a warmth bloom in your chest. Your beloved wife still left one story, maybe more, for you to tell your son. He knows so much now; you've missed so much. This small knowledge ripens sweetly in your chest, like the grapes that grow full in your garden. Your voice cracks as you tell him what you did, what Agamemnon did, how you rushed to scoop him into your arms because he was more important than the decades of toil you know you will go through. When you finish, he cries, his tears rolling down the face that now looks so much like yours. "Why didn't you let me just die? You knew you would suffer. Why?" You crack a grin- not the wily one you were known for, a sweet one, the one shared with your wife, and now your son. "I would go through every day of those 20 years another time if it meant you would live, my boy. I would lose all my men again and face the wrath and abandonment of gods once more if it meant you could flourish and grow to something that would make me proud."

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