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A few weeks ago, a user lashed out against those who praised the "songwriter" Zappa, accusing them of doing a disservice to the genius of the mustached author of instrumental pages worthy of the greatest contemporary composers. As er Pomata would say: this is the biggest bullshit since man invented the horse.
Frank Zappa is a freaking genius just like our Totò, who is even greater in box office movies (a few titles? "Totò, Peppino e la dolce vita" or "Il monaco di Monza," among many others) where he can unleash his creativity without being stuck in the constraints of a limiting script. Those who cannot understand this will never enter the Zappa universe and will never be worthy even of tying his ponytail, just as even monsieur Jean Luc Ponty wasn't worthy of carrying his guitar on stage, as he left complaining about not being hired to score stories about smelly feet or girls who let puppies lick them.
In short, we know that in 1988, Zappa began releasing the album series "You Can't Do That On Stage Anymore," which collected the best tapes of live recordings scattered in order, and we also know he hadn't been on stage for at least four years. Suddenly he decides to set out on a world tour with the good reason that he felt like an idiot wasting time with a baton in hand while others enjoyed playing. Those who had already despaired of seeing his Stratocaster deliver solos for a paying audience were surprised, especially the Italians who remembered the messes during the '81 tour, to once again have the opportunity to enjoy it live. Indeed, because at a concert with Zappa, you don't go to be an intellectual but to revel, even when he takes notes from Bartok's "Third Piano Concerto" or Ravel's "Bolero." It's about losing all inhibitions, especially when you finally realize, as he did, that it's better to enjoy the imperfection of musicians with human features rather than the infallibility of a cold machine (the infamous Synclavier 900). Features that correspond to those of rogues long since filed in his personal archive: his trusty (alas, only for him) lieutenant Scott Thunes on bass, Ed Mann and Chad Wackerman on percussion, the Fowler brothers on trumpet and trombone, his vocal alter egos Ike Willis and Bobby Martin. Add to this a batch of new hires on winds and especially the skilled Mike Kenneally on keyboards and support guitar.
The joy of having a small rock orchestra at his fingertips leads the mustache to write sillier scores than usual. To realize this, just listen to an amusement like "Rhymin' man," which is a pretext for unnatural musical combinations, stuff that smoothly transitions from a quote of Chopin's "Funeral March" to the big riff of "My Sharona" by the Knack, from the theme of "Mission Impossible" to the festive "La Cucaracha." And polemics are also the essence of this collection of live tracks from the most disparate origins and then reassembled like a studio puzzle (for example "Dickie's Such An Asshole," with the old acquaintance Riccardino "Bucodiculo" Nixon, in its scarce six minutes is composed of fragments from at least five different live sets between the USA, France, and Sweden) yet of a disconcerting linearity, as if the whole album came from a single rousing concert. Polemical essence because, with a repertoire of one hundred six songs, uncle Frankie purposely left out the entire Mothers period from the album: a raspberry to the fetishists convinced that the good stuff he had done was only with Estrada and the like (so to speak... given the ugly faces of that gang). And so we won't hear Madge calling her husband a beast once more ("Harry, you're a beast") nor see the water turn black ("Let's Make The Water Turn Black"). But we will enjoy the western&country waltz of "Elvis Has Just Left The Building" with Presley moonlighting between his office on Earth and his rightful place at the right hand of the Father; the mockery ("Why Don't You Like Me?") of Michael Jackson to the refrain of "Billie Jean"; of that "What Kind Of Girl" resurrected from the legendary Fillmore concert in 1971 and here embellished by the gay falsetto and doo-wop choruses; of a wonderful "tender" love song like "Any Kind Of Pain" dedicated to the ideal American woman: blonde, blue-eyed, red-lipped and... empty-headed! Here the mustache's solo spreads like a crazed pinball among the crowd, which proves to enjoy it. He even manages to make Sting seem likable, introduced to him in the afternoon in Chicago and invited to take the stage for a jazzy version of "Murders By Number" (preceded by an extraordinary trumpet solo by Walt Fowler) that the Police could only dream of.
What can I say guys, there is much unreleased material but above all there are some of the best stupid songs of the latter Zappa, who once again massacres America of Nixon, Reagan, and the Bushes, of the doctor general C.Everett Koop and his crusade against secondhand smoke, of the reactionary televangelists like Pat Robertson, of people who still believe they see Elvis wandering around the city! If you are among those who believe that the sublime Zappa pages, conducted by masters of contemporary avant-garde like Kent Nagano, are sullied by these strictly commercial little songs... well, steer clear of Broadway! But if you think nobody else can do these things on stage anymore then come brothers and sisters: the ethereal/eternal "Outside Now" from Joe's garage is the last moving testament of Uncle Frankie's guitar-driven verbosity on a stage.
And it was at the Palasport in Genova on June 9, 1988.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
07 Promiscuous (02:02)
Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)
The Surgeon General, Doctor Koop
S'posed to give you all the poop
But when he's with P.M.R.C.
The poop he's scoopin'
Amazes me
C-Span showed him, all dressed up
In his phoney Doctor God get-up
He looked in the camera and fixed his specs
'N gave a little lecture
'Bout anal sex
He says it is not good for us
We just can't be promiscuous
He's a docter -- he should know
It's the work of the Devil, so
Girls, don't blow!
Don't blow Jimmy, don't blow Bobby
Get yourself another hobby
(If Jesus practiced medicine
I'm sure he'd do it
Just like him)
Is Doctor Koop a man to trust?
It seems at least that Reagan must
(But Ron's a trusting sort of guy --
He trusts Ed Meese
I wonder why?)
The A.M.A. has just got caught
For doin' stuff it shouldn't ought
All they do is lie and lie
Where's Doctor Koop?
He's standin' by
Surgeon General? What's the deal?
Is your epidemic real?
Are you leaving something out?
Something we can't talk about?
A little green monkey over there
Kills a million people?
That's not fair!
Did it really go that way?
Did you ask the C.I.A.?
Would they take you serious,
Or have THEY been
Promiscuous
08 The Untouchables (02:26)
Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)
Monologue by Ike Willis
Rico! Youngblood! Wake up!
Prohibition is over, but the country's still a mess!
They need us out there!
We've got some cleaning up to do --
especially when it comes to
THIS GUY...
Get those sport coats on with the big lapels...
They're back -- they're fashionable again!
Okay -- let's look at some mug-sheets
of the suspects from the 80's...
ADMIRAL POINDEXTER!
Get back on Felix The Cat where you belong!
Get the damn pipe out of your mouth!
You're history, you're gone!
OLIVER NORTH!
No more "Secret Government" for you, buddy!
You're over! you're trough!
BILL CASEY!
You're dead!
BUSH!
You're still a wimp --
I'm sorry -- you're history!
DEAVER! NOFZIGER!
You're crooks! Book 'em Dan-o!
Dan-o? How'd he get in the show?
Get outta here!
REAGAN!
You're asleep! Wake up!
The country's in a mess!
You're history anyway, buddy --
You're meat -- you're trough!
You're vapor -- you're baloney without the mayo!
You're outta here, buddy --
In fact, it's Robin Leach!
"I don't know why..."
Hey, fellas -- take me to the bridge!
I want it now!
Rico! Youngblood!
Let's get outta here!
It's all over!
10 Bacon Fat (01:29)
Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)
While I was down in W.D.C.
Certain folks were not glad to see me
I just tried to get out the vote
But some little weasel must 'a dropped 'em a note
It said:
"Check out the politics
Practiced by this oaf
And if they ain't just right
Feed him Confinement Loaf."
They wanne be
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
LOAF...loaf
(3X)
14 Outside Now (07:49)
Frank Zappa (lead guitar)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Ray White (guitar, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, saxophone, vocals)
Alan Zavod (keyboards)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Act II
SCENE FOURTEEN
OUTSIDE NOW
JOE: (somewhat exhausted)
These executives have plooked the fuck out of me
And there's still a long time to go before I've
Paid my debt to society
And all I ever really wanted to do was
Play the guitar 'n bend the string like
Reent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee
I've got it
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll lay on my back here 'til dawn
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
That would irritate
An executive kinda guy...
And sure enough JOE dreams up a few of those guitar notes
that every executive despises...those low ones...every exec
knows it's only the records with the high squeally ones that
get to be hits (except for Duane Eddy)...
Well, I guess that one did the trick
If they only coulda heard it
Half-a-dozen of em woulda strangled
While they was suckin on each others' dick
But that was just a bunch of imaginary
Notes I played
Just a little extra somethin'
To keep me goin from day to day
That's okay
I'll be gettin outta here pretty soon
Then I won't have to live
In this ugly fuckin room
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Outside now . . .
And JOE just lays there, dreaming imaginary guitar notes for years
on end, until finally they let him out...
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