Some albums carry a heaviness in their name. They are allegedly significant, important, inspiring. They take on a relevance and reverence that perhaps the creators did not intend. Maybe it’s just a big joke.
Late one night, namely Tuesday night, I had a desire to hear No Pussyfooting by Robert Fripp and Brian Eno. It has been at least twenty years since I last heard it. I started thinking about it, I remembered how it made me feel, slightly uneasy and yet relaxed. I turned to on-line shopping, as Mr Fripp tends to not allow things to be available for streaming. Discogs and eBay had copies that were silly priced, now I was sweating a little in desperation to hear the album again. In despair I turned to Amazon, they had it new. Sanctioned by Fripp and Eno even.
It’s strange what the memory of music can do to you. I can remember sitting in my small room at the top of the stairs, sliding No Pussyfooting out of it’s sleeve and placing it on the turntable. Prior to that I can remember finding it in the library in Huyton. Comparing the card of surface scratches and scuffs, to the vinyl, reading the notes of the librarian about condition and making the decision to borrow based on the names on the front. Fripp and Eno, two enigmatic musicians coming from two different branches of the same tree. I rode the bus home looking at that strange repeating image in mirrors, two aliens facing each other. A tarot deck on the table in front of them. There was something mysterious going to happen here. It was going to change my life in some way, make things different, better more intense. The instuments listed as guitar and tape deck, synthesizer, the titles enigmatic and ridiculous at the same time. There was something whimsical and simultaneoulsy irreverant about the whole album.
So I played it again, all these thoughts came back to me and I was 16 again laying with headphones on the floor of my small room as this strange music invaded my brain. It’s an album that causes your mind to wander, pick up thoughts and let them drop, forget what you were thinking and then think again. It’s music that seems to move at it’s own pace. Intangible and yet solid, it is the dialectic, the strange orchestral sounds and searing guitar.
Thats bullshit, it’s a cool weird messed up trip of an album, that unlike psychedelia is fueled not by the attempt to take you out there but the attempt to take you in there, wherever there may be.
That’s bullshit too, it’s just a great experiment that was largely ignored by the record company, an excursion by two maverick’s intent on doing what they wanted.
My favorite thought is that it was recorded with a picture ripped from a pornographic magazine featuring naked nazi’s in order that the musicians not take themselves too seriously. It’s the beginning of Frippertronics and the start of Eno’s fascination with ambient music it’s a divergence that became the beginning of something else.
Now that’s pretentious B.S. if I ever wrote it…
Just remember it’s the soundtrack to a shabby ripped out porno pic…