"King Crimson were the only really famous band I'd been in"
About this Quote
There’s a sly humility in the way Jamie Muir frames fame as an outlier rather than a destiny. “King Crimson were the only really famous band I’d been in” lands with the offhand candor of someone who never built his identity around the spotlight. It’s not a brag; it’s a distancing move, almost a shrug at the machinery of recognition. The emphasis sits on “only” and “really” - qualifiers that flatten the mythology of rock stardom into something contingent, even slightly absurd.
The line also quietly reorders the usual rock narrative. In most musician lore, the famous band is the center of gravity: the credential, the passport, the story you’re supposed to keep retelling. Muir makes it sound like a brief weather event. That tracks with his specific cultural position: a wild-card percussionist who joined King Crimson at their early-70s peak of ambition and volatility, then exited the music industry altogether for a period. For him, “famous” isn’t a triumph so much as a peculiar category error - a moment when an experimental, noise-prone sensibility collided with a recognizable brand.
Subtext: fame is not the same thing as meaning. Muir’s career has always suggested allegiance to intensity, risk, and personal rigor over careerist accumulation. By reducing his most legible accomplishment to a simple fact, he punctures the idea that public acclaim is the highest metric. The sentence works because it refuses the expected performance of gratitude or nostalgia; it treats celebrity as incidental, not sacred.
The line also quietly reorders the usual rock narrative. In most musician lore, the famous band is the center of gravity: the credential, the passport, the story you’re supposed to keep retelling. Muir makes it sound like a brief weather event. That tracks with his specific cultural position: a wild-card percussionist who joined King Crimson at their early-70s peak of ambition and volatility, then exited the music industry altogether for a period. For him, “famous” isn’t a triumph so much as a peculiar category error - a moment when an experimental, noise-prone sensibility collided with a recognizable brand.
Subtext: fame is not the same thing as meaning. Muir’s career has always suggested allegiance to intensity, risk, and personal rigor over careerist accumulation. By reducing his most legible accomplishment to a simple fact, he punctures the idea that public acclaim is the highest metric. The sentence works because it refuses the expected performance of gratitude or nostalgia; it treats celebrity as incidental, not sacred.
Quote Details
| Topic | Music |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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