He brought home this album one time. It was pink and had the profile of three gentle looking men. It was called Emerson, Lake and Palmer. It was lyrical, it was gentle, it was classical sounding, it could be bombastic and of all these, he didn’t seem to be any of these accept perhaps the last. The first title he came with was “Tarkus.” This one carried the image of a mechanical giant armadillo on the cover in multi-colors. This I could understand. He liked machines, he liked things that attacked each other. He attacked me with some regularity.
But “Trilogy” I couldn’t understand for him. The desperate emotion, the deep lyrical longing, I didn’t know this could affect him like it could me. And it was based in piano, my instrument. He’d only squawked on the clarinet, a screeching horrible sound. Using sound as a weapon, that was more his speed.
But inside, he was lyrical, had the heart of a poet, the longing of a loser. Inside he was so full of rage, so full of love, so full of life.
“I’ve sent this letter hoping it will reach your hand and if it does I hope that you will understand that I must leave in a while. . . goodbye.“