Mr. Fripp was the most fastidious of guitarists. The most careful, the most precise, the least ‘rock looking’ of all rock guitarists. Seated, always, on a stool of exactly the correct height, one foot on the floor, the other on the left lower rung of afore-mentioned stool, he held his guitar in exactly the proper position, right hand poised with it’s pick, ready to play at considerable velocity.
And he glared. He peered out at the rest of the band, (and the world, in fact) through glasses cleaned to a shiny perfection, his face ruddy from the closest of shaves and perhaps from over-scrubbing, his lips pursed to a straight line, as if to say, ‘What torture are you going to inflict on me now? What musical errors, what lack of focus, what dreadful volume, what pain and suffering will I have to endure because of you?”
The audience was not excluded from these harsh expectations; he expected, no, demanded complete attention, silence, presence, and above all, he insisted that audience members not be so crude as to bring a recording device or camera to the concert, and, god forbid, to use it during the performance.

Proceed at your own risk.

Well obviously, because Fripp presented irrefutable proof that Aliens are among us.