Frank Zappa
Broadway the Hard Way

THE REVIEW

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.