On this Day: Emerson, Lake, and Palmer at Madison Square Garden, 1977

The Heights of Pretension

My crumpled little stub

The date 7/7/77 was predicted to be a day of prophetic significance — supposedly a day of “judgment,” based on a prediction attributed to Marcus Garvey. The prophecy caused real anxiety in Jamaica; people stayed home from work and school, and some businesses even closed in anticipation of apocalypse. The day, of course, came and went without cosmic catastrophe — unless you count the Emerson, Lake & Palmer concert I attended that night, 49 years ago, at Madison Square Garden, the opening night of a three-night run. The world didn’t end, but subtlety certainly did.

Someone is selling their ticket stub on eBay for $100. I'll take $50. Seriously.

1977 was a pivot year for me. It was my last year of high school, and back then your musical taste wasn’t just a preference. It was your identity. I had entered John Dewey High School in 1975 and I fell in with a cool crowd. Nixon had resigned, Saigon had fallen, but our playlists were still heavy with the previous decade: CSNY, Dylan, Joni. Classic rock was sacred scripture: The Doors, The Stones, Zeppelin, The Who.

I was at the Zeppelin show June 8, the CSN show June 21, and the Yes show Aug 5. I had tickets to see Pink Floyd on July 4, but I saw the Kinks in Asbury Park instead.

Then came the progressive phase. Pink Floyd, Yes, King Crimson, Jethro Tull (still my favorite), and of course, ELP — purveyors of what was pompously called “classical rock.” By 1977, though, something had shifted. Punk had entered my bloodstream. Three chords and a sneer felt honest. Twenty-minutes of keyboard noodling began to feel, um, inflated.

ELP did not disappoint in the inflation department that night. A 60-piece orchestra flanked them all around. Keith Emerson stood surrounded by enough keyboards to power Con Edison. Carl Palmer levitated on an enormous drum riser. There were two hour-long sets that included Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man, and an extended drum solo that thrilled me at the time. Today, I marvel at my tolerance. In fact, I recall a joke that people told at the time.  How do you spell “pretentious”?  E-L-P.

Some of the music of my youth has aged beautifully. Jethro Tull doesn’t just hold up; it actually sounds better than ever. But a recent attempt to revisit ELP? It was more of an archeology dig than a nostalgia tour. The song Lucky Man is still okay.  Welcome Back My Friends, and Karn Evil 9?  No. Nails on a chalkboard.

Still, we were there. We were stoned. We were 17. And a good time was had.

Eight months later, I’d be at CBGB’s Second Avenue Theater watching The Jam rip through This Is the Modern World. The cape had been discarded. The transformation was complete.