Four young men have been asked to stand in front of a brick wall in what appears to be either a charming European alleyway or the world's most atmospheric municipal detention facility. The results are exactly what you'd expect from four jazz musicians who were told to "just look natural" in front of a photographer. Dan Gottlieb on the left has committed fully to the sheepskin coat and the thousand-yard stare of a man who has just been told the van broke down again. Pat Metheny, second from left, appears to have wandered in from a completely different photo shoot — possibly one involving a flannel shirt and some light farming — and is the only one who looks even remotely like he's considered smiling and then thought better of it.

Lyle Mays, arms crossed, has the energy of a philosophy graduate student who will absolutely challenge you on your interpretation of the chord changes, while Mark Egan on the far right appears to be slowly merging with the brick wall itself, which is a bold artistic choice. Together they look less like one of the most celebrated jazz fusion groups of their era and more like four guys who all happened to show up to the same castle at the same time and were too polite to leave. The ECM Records aesthetic is fully intact: cold air, old bricks, excellent musicianship, zero smiling. Produced by Manfred Eicher. Warmth not included.

Van der Graaf Generator, a band already known for making music that sounds like the inside of a malfunctioning space station, apparently decided that wasn't unsettling enough. So for their 1978 live album Vital, they made sure the cover art captured the true essence of the concert experience: one man, one flimsy café table, and a glowing blue orb of unknowable origin hovering menacingly nearby. The orb is not credited in the liner notes. The orb does not need to be.

Meanwhile, up top, a gentleman in enormous white-framed glasses stares into the middle distance, presumably because he has already seen the orb and has made his peace with it. This is the prog rock experience distilled to its purest form — slightly grainy, vaguely threatening, and absolutely committed to the bit. No one on this album cover looks like they're having fun, but they all look like they are extremely serious about whatever is happening, which is honestly more compelling anyway. Vital indeed.

The Brondesbury Tapes — the pre-King Crimson artifact that answers the question: "What if three men who look like they've just been asked to leave a philosophy seminar decided to form a band?"

From left to right:

Michael Giles is holding what appears to be a crumpled paper bag, suggesting he either just finished a sad desk lunch or is about to produce evidence in a court case. The turtleneck/wide-lapel jacket combo says "I have opinions about Camus." Hard to believe this man would go on to be one of the most inventive drummers in progressive rock — he doesn't even appear to be holding sticks. Just a bag. A mysterious bag.

Robert Fripp in the center is wearing a bow tie, a double-breasted coat, and round glasses, and has the energy of someone who has just silently and devastatingly corrected someone else's music theory. He is not looking at you. He will never look at you. This is his default setting and it will not change for the next fifty years.

Peter Giles on the right is wearing a camouflage jacket with a shredded scarf and holding a cigarette with the nonchalance of someone who burned the scarf himself, deliberately, as an artistic statement. He looks the most dangerous of the three, which is ironic given that he's the one who didn't end up in King Crimson.

This is the back cover of Steve Hillage's Fish Rising (1975), and it's a goldmine of prog rock absurdity.

Pierre Moerlin, credited here as playing "Batterfish, Drum, Marimba, and Darbuka" — because when you're in the prog world, just saying "drums" is embarrassingly pedestrian. He plays the Batterfish, which sounds less like an instrument and more like something you'd order at a chippy.

Meanwhile, the center panel features what appears to be a deeply serious young man using a fluffy white dog as a chin rest, gazing into the middle distance as if contemplating the cosmic significance of the Octave Doctor (helpfully referenced at the bottom: "...d to Shamballa and the Octave Doc...").

The whole vibe is: "We are journeying to a higher spiritual plane, and yes, the dog is coming with us."

This is an album where the credits include the word "Fishy" as an apparently legitimate musical descriptor, the drummer plays something called a Darbuka, and someone felt it necessary to reference Shamballa in the liner notes.

Peak 1975. Peak prog. The dog looks mildly concerned.

Four guys who played on literally every album you loved in the 1970s, but you had no idea who they were.

Meet the Mellow Mafia — Danny Kortchmar, Russ Kunkel, Craig Doerge, and Leland Sklar — pictured here looking like they wandered in from four completely different parties. From left to right: the guy who showed up in a leather jacket thinking this was a Springsteen shoot, the enthusiastic one who clearly just heard his own drum solo for the first time, the tall sober friend waiting to go home, and the man who appears to have absorbed the entire 1970s into his beard.

Together they played on Tapestry, Sweet Baby James, Running on Empty, and approximately 4,000 other records you own — yet somehow remained so anonymous that Rolling Stone had to call them "The Mellow Mafia" just so people would remember they existed.

The wood-grain table they're leaning on contains more musical talent than most rock bands.

"Bewitched" (as it says at the bottom, which explains everything)

Andy Summers and Robert Fripp have wandered onto a beach, apparently without anyone's permission, dressed in their finest "I own a yacht but I also enjoy philosophy" attire. Neither of them owns a comb. Neither of them cares — they are, after all, two of the most influential guitarists in rock history, and combs are for lesser mortals.

Andy is grinning like he just told a joke that only he understood — which, given that he spent years in The Police, is entirely plausible. Robert, meanwhile, appears to be mid-sentence, possibly explaining his theories on music, the universe, and why standing on a windy beach in a leather jacket was, in fact, the correct decision.

Together they radiate the unmistakable energy of two guitar legends who just finished a very long recording session and someone said "let's do the album cover on a beach" and they said "sure, we'll just wear whatever we have on."

The soft focus suggests either an artistic choice, or that the photographer was also being blown sideways by the wind and was frankly too intimidated by Fripp to ask for a reshoot.

Bewitched indeed.

When your outfit says 'I raided a ninja's closet' but your shoes say 'I also raided a clown's closet.'

The legendary Chick Corea has fully committed to the 1980s aesthetic in a way that demands respect. Draped in what appears to be a silk karate gi that whispers "I am both relaxed AND dangerous," he gazes into the camera with the quiet confidence of a man who has absolutely no regrets — and why would he? He's Chick Corea.

The ensemble is completed by fire-engine red shoes — because nothing says "I am a jazz fusion icon" like footwear that could stop traffic.

And then there's the Yamaha keytar — slung across his body like an air guitar that went to Berklee — reminding us all that in the '80s, keyboards weren't just instruments. They were weapons. Worn diagonally.

The pose says: "Yes, I am Chick Corea, I am about to shred a synthesizer solo, and no, I will not be taking questions about the pants."

A true icon of the era.

When your crew said 'dress to impress' but everyone had a different interpretation of the memo.

From left to right: "I brought a towel in case things get wild," "I'm going to the gym but make it fashion," "I showed up fashionably late and had to stand in the back," "I just wandered in from the neighborhood," "I found my dad's blazer," and "I borrowed the Statue of Liberty's outfit."

Together, they are six men who collectively own twenty-three white garments and zero matching outfits — yet somehow still look cooler than anyone you've ever met.

Three jazz musicians walk into a photo shoot, and none of them got the memo that it was a photo shoot.

John Abercrombie (left) arrived dressed like he just won a newsboy cap at a Renaissance fair and is deeply reconsidering it. He's holding a cigarette with the energy of someone who just remembered they quit smoking.

Peter Erskine (center) showed up in a patchwork sweater that appears to have been sewn together from three different sweaters that couldn't agree on anything. He's smoking and holding his glasses simultaneously, which is the universal jazz musician signal for "I am extremely cool and also cannot see."

Marc Johnson (right) is giving full "I asked to not be in this photo but legally I had to be" energy. The turtleneck and the reluctant ponytail say I am here under protest. The crossed arms say this will be over soon.

Together they look less like a celebrated ECM jazz trio and more like three guys waiting for their number to be called at the DMV. Which, honestly, makes the music even more impressive.

Six Men, One Album, Zero Smiles

A group of very serious men have gathered to let you know that they are deeply concerned about something — possibly lawyers, possibly love, possibly the state of their hair in 1983.

Arranged like a staircase of mild existential dread, each musician has been photographed in their natural habitat: leaning on motorcycles, staring into the middle distance, holding guitars with the energy of someone who has seen things.

Russell Kunkel in the top corner appears to be judging your life choices. Craig Doerge is giving the camera the look of a man who left his wallet at the restaurant. Rick Vito is crouching with a guitar like he's about to explain the economy to you. Bob Glaub seems genuinely startled that a photo was being taken. Doug Haywood is simply… processing. And Jackson Browne himself, bottom right, has his hand to his face in what can only be described as "I wrote all these songs and I'm still not sure about any of this."

The album is called Lawyers in Love, which raises many questions — none of which any of these men appear ready to answer.

One man. One guitar. One sweater that contains every color known to science.

John Scofield is hugging his archtop guitar the way most people hug a life raft — with complete conviction and zero intention of letting go. The expression says "I have listened to your guitar playing and I am processing my feelings about it." The beard says "I have opinions." The teal, white, and purple striped sweater says absolutely everything else.

Behind him on the orange wall hang several mysterious blue shapes that may be decorative, may be art, or may simply be what happens when a jazz musician is allowed to choose his own backdrop. Nobody asked. Nobody will ask.

The album is called Electric Outlet, which is either a reference to the plugged-in energy of his playing or a subtle warning that this much harmonic sophistication requires its own power source.

The small fragments of other photos visible around the edges — a black and white image, some color swatches — suggest this is a collage layout, which is exactly the kind of artistic decision that pairs well with a man wearing a rainbow sweater while staring you down with a semi-hollow body guitar.

He looks like he's daring you to request something from the Great American Songbook. You will not do it. You will simply sit quietly and be grateful.

When the interviewer asked Herbie how he felt about synthesizers replacing traditional instruments, he said nothing. He just slowly crossed his arms, adjusted his digital watch, and let the unzipped jacket do the talking. The interviewer did not ask follow-up questions.

It's 1984, and Herbie Hancock has just sold a million copies of "Rockit" and won a Grammy. He has nothing left to prove to you, to me, or to anyone in this room. That jacket has more zippers than your entire wardrobe, and every single one of them is making a statement. The statement is: I was playing jazz with Miles Davis while you were still figuring out the recorder in third grade.

The digital watch alone is doing a full TED talk on the future of music technology. Herbie doesn't just know what time it is — he knows what time it's going to be. And those aviators aren't blocking the sun. There is no sun in this photo. Those aviators are blocking your energy, specifically, because he simply does not have room for it right now.

Somewhere behind him, just out of frame, is a bank of synthesizers the size of a small apartment. They are also crossing their arms.

Five jazz musicians walk into a photo shoot. The photographer says, "Okay gentlemen, we need something for the album cover — very cool, very sophisticated." There is a long pause. Someone spots a ladder. Nobody questions it. The ladder is now in the photo.

That ladder was not supposed to be there. It was left by a maintenance worker who was very confused to return from his lunch break and find himself credited, spiritually, on a jazz album. Lonnie Plaxico is leaning on it with the casual confidence of a man who brought the ladder himself, on purpose, as a statement. The statement is unclear but undeniably compelling.

Jack DeJohnette is wearing a diamond-pattern sweater with a tie, which should not work, and yet somehow he is the most put-together person in any room he has ever entered. Gary Thomas is beaming from the back row with the energy of someone who just remembered a truly excellent joke but has decided to keep it to himself indefinitely. Greg Osby has crossed his arms, having apparently attended the same orientation as Herbie Hancock. And Mick Goodrick, in a beret and suspenders, is the only white guy in the group and has fully committed to the bit.

Together they look less like a jazz ensemble and more like five guys who just won a very specific trivia contest. The prize was the ladder.

This is what happens when you assemble six of the greatest jazz musicians alive and then photograph them in what appears to be someone's attic. Nobody booked a studio. Nobody called a photographer with a backdrop. Someone just said "there's good light up by the rafters" and everyone nodded like that made complete sense, because in jazz, it does.

Pat Metheny is on the far left looking like he drove here directly from a different decade, jacket half-zipped, hair operating entirely independently of the rest of the situation. He is thrilled to be here. He is always thrilled to be here. Pat Metheny has never not been thrilled. Kenny Kirkland is next to him with the quiet confidence of a man who knows he's the best pianist in the room and has decided that information requires no announcement. Don Grolnick in the center is giving off the energy of a beloved high school science teacher who also happens to be a genius, which is essentially what he was.

Michael Brecker, tall in the back with his glasses, looks like he just remembered he left something on the stove but has decided the photo is more important. Jack DeJohnette next to him is wearing a striped sweater that suggests he got dressed in the dark and arrived anyway, because when you play drums like Jack DeJohnette, the outfit is merely a formality. And Charlie Haden on the far right, in a blazer and tie, is the only one who got the memo that this was supposed to be a professional photo shoot. He is clasping his hands together with the serene satisfaction of a man surrounded by old friends in an attic, which is, when you think about it, exactly what he is.

Collectively they have more combined Grammy nominations than the attic has square footage. The rafters are honored.

This is Jerry Peek, Bass Guitarist, and his photo appears in the liner notes of Steve Morse's 1984 debut solo album The Introduction, which tells you everything you need to know about the era. Steve Morse got a solo record deal and his first order of business was to make sure Jerry Peek had a purple backdrop and a moment. That is the kind of bandleader Steve Morse is.

And Jerry Peek is having the absolute time of his life. Whatever is happening just off camera to his left, it is the funniest thing Jerry Peek has ever seen, and he has seen a lot of things, because it is 1984 and Jerry Peek plays bass in a fusion band.

The purple backdrop was a choice made by someone with great confidence and no regrets. It is the exact shade of purple that says "we have a smoke machine but we're not going to use it today." Jerry's herringbone blazer over a white t-shirt says "I understood the assignment but I also wanted to be comfortable." The single earring says "I am a serious musician but I also read Rolling Stone." All three of these statements are equally true and Jerry Peek has fully committed to all of them simultaneously.

There is something deeply trustworthy about Jerry Peek. He is not crossing his arms. He is not staring into the middle distance with the thousand-yard gaze of a man who has transcended conventional time signatures. He is simply smiling, genuinely, at something delightful, in front of a purple wall, in a blazer, with his bass guitars presumably nearby. He is the guy in the band who remembers everyone's food order and also plays a sixteen-bar solo that makes your jaw drop and then immediately goes back to being completely normal about it.

Jerry Peek, Bass Guitarist. Never forget.

This is Ronald Shannon Jackson, drummer, bandleader, and a man who has clearly just heard something in the middle distance that the rest of us are not yet equipped to understand. The album is When Colors Play. The background is playing colors. Shannon Jackson is not impressed by the colors. Shannon Jackson has seen colors before.

The lighting in this photo took at least forty-five minutes to set up and was worth every second. There is a soft golden halo emanating from behind his left shoulder that suggests either a very committed photographer or the universe itself acknowledging his presence. The mustard yellow of the surrounding album sleeve frames the whole thing like a Renaissance painting, except instead of an angel or a saint, it is a man who played with Ornette Coleman and would like you to think carefully about what that means.

The arms are crossed. Of course the arms are crossed. We have now established that crossing one's arms is simply what you do when you have reached a certain level in jazz. It is not aggressive. It is not impatient. It is a posture that says "I have already processed everything that is about to happen and I have opinions about it." Shannon Jackson's crossed arms are specifically saying "I invented a genre called Decoding Society and I named my band after it, and if you need that explained to you, we may be here for a while."

The denim shirt is doing quiet, dignified work. The watch catches the light just enough. Shannon Jackson did not come here to be subtle. He came here to play drums like the building is on fire and also to look exactly like this while doing it.

This is Jan Garbarek, saxophonist, ECM recording artist, and a man who is grinning at you from the cover of Places like he just thought of something extremely funny approximately two seconds before the shutter clicked and decided to go with it anyway. This is not the face you expect from a man whose music sounds like Norwegian fjords contemplating their own existence. And yet here we are.

The hair is doing something bold and geometric, a perfect dark curtain swept across the forehead with a decisiveness that suggests Jan Garbarek does not second-guess his hair any more than he second-guesses a note choice. It simply lands where it lands and that is where it was always supposed to be. The bowl cut as spiritual statement. ECM Records probably had thoughts about this and kept them to themselves.

Everything else Jan Garbarek has ever done — the glacial soprano saxophone, the vast Nordic silences, the albums that feel like standing alone in a very large and beautiful room — absolutely nothing prepared you for this grin. This is the grin of a man who knows a secret. Not a troubling secret. A delightful one. Something about the nature of time, probably, or a very good fish he ate recently. It is impossible to tell and that is entirely the point.

The background is a soft blur of nothing in particular, which is appropriate, because when Jan Garbarek is in the frame, the background has the good sense to step aside. He is smiling directly at you. You are not entirely sure what to do with that. Neither was the photographer, but they took the photo anyway, and they were right to.

This is Billy Cobham, Drums, appearing in the liner notes of Bobby and the Midnites' Where the Beat Meets the Street, and he looks exactly like what he is: a man who has played on Bitches Brew, basically invented jazz fusion drumming, and is now very relaxed about it. This is the face of someone who has nothing left to prove and has known that for quite some time.

The aviator glasses are doing serious work here. We have now established, across multiple albums and multiple decades, that the aviator frame is the official eyewear of jazz musicians who have transcended ordinary human time signatures, and Billy Cobham is no exception. Behind those lenses is a man who can play in seven against four while thinking about something completely unrelated, like what he wants for lunch.

The necklace deserves its own paragraph. It is a delicate chain with a pendant that appears to be some kind of geometric symbol, which is absolutely correct, because Billy Cobham does not wear a simple cross or a plain medallion. Billy Cobham wears a pendant that looks like it might be the logo for a concept he invented. It catches the light with quiet authority. The pendant knows what it is.

The slight smile is the most important detail. It is not a full grin. It is not a stern gaze. It is the precise expression of a man who just heard someone describe another drummer as technically impressive and has chosen, out of pure generosity of spirit, to say nothing at all.

Billy Cobham, Drums. He invented several things you enjoy and he is fine with you not knowing that.

Three guys walk into a jazz-fusion bar in 1978...

Barry Finnerty is clearly the mysterious brooding one who just stepped off a motorcycle and is way too cool to smile for the album photo.

Neil Jason showed up to the photo shoot in his Oldsmobile shirt, forgot he was holding a bass, and is mid-sentence explaining why his beard alone deserves its own Grammy nomination.

Terry Bozzio came dressed like he's either the world's most sophisticated drummer or a French maître d' who accidentally wandered onto the wrong album cover.

Together they look less like jazz-fusion musicians and more like three guys who just lost a bet and now have to explain to their parents why they're on an album called Heavy Metal Be-Bop.

Four guys who have collectively played in more prog bands than you've had hot dinners...

Jeff Berlin (top left) showed up in his finest rainbow-striped sweater, looking like he just invented a bass line that has no business existing and is quietly pleased about it.

Bill Bruford (top right) is perched up high in his dad shirt like the substitute teacher who is somehow also the coolest person in the room. He's played in YES, King Crimson, AND Genesis and wants you to know he's completely relaxed about that.

Allan Holdsworth (bottom left) has the energy of a man who is about to correct your guitar technique whether you asked or not. The unbuttoned shirt says "casual Friday." The eyes say "I've been practicing since 1962."

Dave Stewart (bottom right, not that Dave Stewart) put on his most serious sweater and his most intellectual glasses because someone needs to look like they actually read the sheet music.

The album is literally called One of a Kind — which is either a bold artistic statement or just four guys agreeing they could never find anyone else willing to play in 17/16 time.

Five jazz musicians walked into a Victorian portrait studio and nobody stopped them...

John Patitucci (back left) is leaning on the settee in his chunky knit sweater like a man who can play a 6-string bass without breaking a sweat but still wanted to look cozy for the photo shoot. Completely reasonable.

Eric Marienthal (center, standing) has fully committed to the bit — hands clasped, blazer immaculate, staring into your soul like he's about to inform you that your understanding of the alto sax is insufficient. The posture alone has won three Grammys.

Frank Gambale (back right) has the haircut and the jacket of someone who spent 1988 shredding sweep arpeggios very, very productively. The chain necklace is doing important work.

Chick Corea (front left) — one of the greatest pianists who ever lived — is sitting sideways in the ornate chair with his glasses on, radiating the energy of a man who just invented a new time signature and is patiently waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Dave Weckl (front right) is seated with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows that no matter how still and composed he looks in this photo, the moment the camera goes down he will play a drum fill so technically precise it will make the Victorian curtains reconsider their life choices.

And then — at the bottom of the frame — there is a small ceramic cow. Nobody has acknowledged the cow. Nobody will acknowledge the cow. The cow is simply part of the composition now.

Phil Spalding: Bass Guitar, Backing Vocals, and Deeply Contemplative Headwear

Phil Spalding has arrived at the photo shoot with two things fully prepared: his finest pinstripe shirt AND a flat cap tilted at the exact angle that says "I've read Kerouac and I also slap a mean bass line."

The chin-on-fist pose is doing a LOT of heavy lifting here. This is not just a man. This is a man who is thinking. About what? Probably the perfect bass tone. Or perhaps the meaning of life. Or whether he left the oven on. We may never know.

The slight smirk suggests he absolutely knows something you don't — likely a walking bass line so groovy it should be illegal in several countries.

The black and white treatment was a very deliberate choice to make Phil look like a 1940s French novelist who somehow ended up in a prog rock band, and honestly? It works.

The hot pink border around the photo is the chef's kiss finishing touch — because nothing says "serious musician" like being framed in neon pink on a black album insert.

Three men standing outside a suburban house, but make it deeply spiritual...

The man in the center — Sri Chinmoy — is wearing a magnificent flowing red tracksuit/robe situation that somehow exists in both the athletic and the divine simultaneously. He has his arms stretched wide around both men like he's about to either deliver a blessing or say "and THIS is my house, number 85."

On the left, John McLaughlin is dressed head to toe in white, hands clasped in a picture of serene devotion, smiling the smile of a man who has found inner peace AND can play guitar at 300 beats per minute. A rare combination.

On the right, Carlos Santana is also in full white, hands clasped, sporting a magnificent mustache and — most crucially — a small button badge on his chest with what appears to be Sri Chinmoy's face on it. Because when you're devoted, you wear the merch.

The setting is gloriously, magnificently ordinary — a brick suburban house, a white front door, some scraggly winter bushes — which makes the whole thing even better. The most spiritually transcendent album cover in jazz fusion history was shot outside what appears to be a perfectly normal house in Queens.

Seven jazz musicians, zero consensus on the dress code...

The memo clearly said "come as you are" and everyone interpreted that VERY differently.

Charles Ellerbee (back left) arrived in a crisp white shirt and tie so sharp it could cut glass, wearing sunglasses indoors like a man who has transcended the need for ambient lighting. He is the only person here who looks like he has somewhere to be afterward.

Al MacDowell (back center-left) went with the classic "blazer over pink shirt" look — the most normal outfit in the photo, which in this context makes him the most suspicious person in the room.

Denardo Coleman (back center-right) is just absolutely beaming, the happiest man at the entire session, grinning like someone just told him his dad invented a whole new genre of music. Which, to be fair, is exactly what happened.

Bern Nix (back right) is also grinning while casually resting his chin on his hand — together he and Denardo are providing crucial emotional balance to the entire photo from the back row.

Calvin Weston (front left) — arms folded, white cap, glasses — looks like a beloved professor who is mildly amused that everyone showed up in such wildly different outfits to his class.

Ornette Coleman (front center) is draped in a magnificent multicolored striped stole, hands clasped serenely, radiating "I have reinvented jazz twice before breakfast and my knitwear is also revolutionary."

Jamaaladeen Tacuma (front right) came in a FULL golden satin outfit with a red turban and leopard print shoes and honestly? He won. He simply won the entire photo.

Three guys who collectively own every denim item ever manufactured in 1978...

The Mark Leonard (seated left) has chosen the "thoughtful lean" as his pose, glasses on, expression saying "I've heard your chord changes and I have some notes." The white sock peeking out from his shoe is doing its best.

Delmar Brown (center) is sitting on what appears to be a wooden box, staring directly into your soul with the intensity of a man who has played every keyboard ever invented and is merely resting for this photo. The denim-on-denim double down is fully committed and absolutely correct. He has the look of someone who arrived three hours early, already has opinions about the lighting, and has mentally rewritten everyone else's parts.

Kenwood Dennard (standing right) has arrived with the most magnificent afro in the tri-state area, a boldly patterned shirt that is fighting heroically against the grey background, and is perched on the arm of a chair with the casual confidence of someone whose drumming has been described as both "muscular AND effervescent" — a combination previously thought impossible, like being simultaneously a bulldozer and a glass of champagne.

All three men are wearing denim. This was not coordinated. This is simply what 1978 looked like.

Robert Fripp: Guitar God, Discipline Incarnate, and Man Who Dresses Like Your Bank Manager

Robert Fripp has arrived at his own album insert looking like he is about to either revolutionize avant-garde music OR deny your mortgage application. Possibly both. Simultaneously.

The suit is immaculate. The tie is striped and perfectly knotted. The expression says "I have calculated exactly how much eye contact is required for this photograph and I am deploying precisely that amount." Not a hair out of place. Not a single concession to rock and roll excess.

This is a man who invented Frippertronics, played on Heroes with David Bowie, and co-founded one of the most cerebral bands in rock history — and he showed up looking like he's chairing a board meeting at 9am Monday.

The lyrics on the left are wonderfully existential — one song is literally titled "I May Not Have Enough Of Me But I've Had Enough Of You" — which is the most Robert Fripp sentence ever committed to vinyl.

And then — stamped right at the top of this deeply serious artistic document — is someone's sticker from a record shop in Baltimore, Maryland. Belair Road. 488-5513. Call them maybe.

Robert Fripp's gaze suggests he has noticed the sticker. He is not pleased about the sticker. He will never mention the sticker.

Carlos Santana: Guitar Legend, Spiritual Seeker, Surprise Hockey Fan

Carlos Santana has chosen to appear on the back of his jazz fusion album wearing what is unmistakably a St. Louis Blues hockey jersey, and absolutely nobody in the room stopped him. This is the correct decision.

The orange background perfectly matches the energy of a man who is mid-explanation of something very important with both hands fully deployed. This is not casual hand gesturing. These are precision hands. These are the hands that played Oye Como Va and they are currently making a point that cannot be adequately expressed in words alone.

The mustache is operating at full capacity.

The expression is pure joy — Carlos looks like he has just said something genuinely delightful and is watching you process it in real time. He is sharing wisdom. He is also wearing a hockey jersey. These two things coexist perfectly.

The credits on the right casually list Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Ron Carter, and Tony Williams as sidemen — which is essentially the entire jazz universe showing up to play on your album — and Carlos is celebrating this fact in a Blues jersey like a man who has absolutely nothing to prove and everything to enjoy.

The orange. The jersey. The hands. The mustache. This album cover has everything.

Five figures standing before a monumental arch, dressed entirely in black, collectively radiating the energy of a very dramatic 1988 music video...

The photographer clearly said "look powerful and mysterious" and everyone delivered — though with wildly different interpretations.

Robert Berry (far left) has his arms crossed, wearing what appears to be a long black coat AND white sneakers, which is the sartorial equivalent of writing a symphony and then signing it with a smiley face. Robert is a multi-instrumentalist and vocalist of considerable talent who apparently drew the line at formal footwear. The sneakers are doing so much work in this photo.

Keith Emerson (center) is gazing into the middle distance with windswept hair, hands in pockets, fully committing to the "I have seen things you wouldn't believe" aesthetic. The man who once stabbed knives into his keyboards on stage has chosen brooding archway as his next artistic statement, and honestly it tracks perfectly.

Carl Palmer (far right) stands ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, the most silhouette-ready of the three, looking like a man who has played in ELP and Asia and has therefore earned the right to stand however he pleases.

And then — nestled between these three titans of prog — are Kim Liatt and Jennifer Steele, backing vocalists, with magnificent blonde hair catching the only actual light in the entire photograph, like two exotic birds who have accidentally wandered into a council of wizards. They are clearly unbothered. Their heels are magnificent.