Captain Beefheart & The Magic Band
Lick My Decals Off,Baby

Lick away all the labels, baby...

Year 1 A.C. That is After Trout...

After the trout...

Even though the trout was actually a carp.

...

(One) There is no mask without a replica. There is no captain without a trout. The trout is a mask, but above all it is a carp.

(Two) Can a carp function as a trout? Can it somehow be a replica? Well, if the answer is yes, we’ll have “Trout Mask Replica.”

(Three) There is no captain without a band, nor a band without a captain. There is no heart without beef, nor beef without heart. Thus, Beefheart is a perfect name for a captain, especially if the aforementioned band is a magic band.

(Four) The captain has the attributes, he inspires, but before inspiring, he chastises. His ancestry is mysterious and lost in the mists of time, perhaps a grandfather, perhaps an old uncle, in any case, someone who, referring to his shining package, would say something like “it's big and pounding like the heart of a steer.”

“It’s big and moves fast and bulbous, that is fast and bulbous”...

...

“Trout mask replica” forever...

Since at fourteen I happened to stumble upon a page of Riccardo’s that extolled its splendor, then gradually all the other gurus: Lester Bangs, John Peel, Mary the smirky, Teddy Bear.

I've had a love-hate relationship with this masterpiece for years, full of “maybes,” “yet,” and “we’re almost there.” In short, a series of frustrated listens seeking revelation.

Then one day it happened that the revolting chaos revealed itself to me for what it was, indeed revolting chaos and as such beautifully in focus.

And after listening to it three times in a row, I left the house in search of the first Waitsian available to tell him “compared to the captain, your Tom is a prudish virgin.”

Music without target and without direction, or rather, the target always changes and the direction too. Same with the rhythms, same with the (dis)harmonies.

For the voice, take all the animals from the zoo the captain loved to visit as a child, then add wolf, owl, crow, and owl. And perhaps others of your choosing.

But, above all, imagine that voice in constant out-of-sync, as if to say that poetry arrives ad michiam, but damn it, it arrives and when it does, there is no need to set things right.

For spiritual fathers, take Howling Wolf, Ornette Coleman, Jackson Pollock. The music painting is a lab of micro explosions.

…

Ok, the trout...

The captain's masterpieces are at least five. “Safe as Milk,” with its wicked and sly garage blues. “Mirror Man,” jammy and sneering, with all those free quirks beginning to take the stage. “Strictly Personal” for which, honestly, I am at a loss for words.

And finally “Lick My Decals Off, Baby”...

“Lick” is a sort of trout with a human face, meaning the same atmospheric condition, but with a less arduous landing. The beast leaves the infernal workshop and enters the alchemical laboratory. And although moments of true ferocity are not missing, there is something more fun and less yelled, a sort of deviant wisdom, a salty and mocking refinement.

…

But now the scoop...

I had a dream...

I dreamed of the captain's plea to his troops.

...

I will teach you the chemistry of music, which then is painting, and the music of painting, which then is chemistry.

I will draw for you the notes in wave form, in spiral form, I will assign a color to each number and a number to each color. I will give you, in a nutshell, the manual instructions and that manual will change every day.

Today, for example, you could go to the railroad crossing and pay attention to the clang of the lowering gates, that is our sound and you must recreate it similarly, or rather not the same, but more badass, more unhinged, more yellow.

Everything must be stirred, everything must be twisted. A rhythmic and mental shock treatment.

And, while you peasants learn the science, I will devote myself to magic fishing and I’ll catch all the fish in the air, something that, believe me, only I can do. My fishing, in fact, is not done with a rod, but with the senses of the beast and balls like these.

No hook, but a darting and hyperactive eye, and above all no worm, as I already think about twisting myself in the mud’s dampness. The lowliest animal is more human than the best of men and if Ornette Coleman is interesting, a goose is more so, if Howling Wolf is God, then imagine the proper wolf.

And anyway yes, blues is the base and free jazz the height, but we are not a rectangle, we are the bottom of a well ravaged by a beam of light.

And now what the hell are you staring at, you rabble of fools? And above all, what is this crap you’re playing? Haven’t I explained how to squeeze all the tubes and mix them? Haven’t I bestowed, you damned ones, microgranules of illuminations, cadavers of moments? What are you waiting for then to transform them into screeches, in clangs, in horrific sound machines? To work, beasts!!!

...

But now, scoop within the scoop, the last part of the plea is basically a review of “Lick” done by the captain himself, a zot of sorts.

Enjoy it...

Ah, one more thing, we have one last mission to accomplish, that is to get out of the trout's trap. The mood will still be that, but, by diluting with a hint of oddity, we will better illuminate the mocks. “Lick” will thus be less lumpy and clattering... we will leave the reds and yellows and face the blues, purples, and earth tones. We will offer the handhold of some limping serenade, circus carillon effects and spastic and lots and lots of marimba. And now go throw the trout back in the river, it is just the most insidious of the labels they stuck on me.

Lick away all the labels, baby...

Year 1 A.C. That is After Trout...

After the trout...

Even though the trout was actually a carp.

...

Oh, the captain has always declared that, amongst all, “Lick” is his favorite.

Abba Zaba...