And so, with recent posts tending towards the tasteful and worthy, we turn trustingly to Frank Zappa. A highly irregular fellow, and not a great lover of cheese.
Reasons for not liking FZ are easy to muster. First up, the lyrics: misogyny, casual homophobia, wee, poo and a puerile fixation on titties and willies (esp. size thereof) plus a diverse range of colourful sexual practices best left to the specialist practitioner (home appliances, fish, enchiladas….). Add to this, great dollops of self-indulgent soloing and cacophonous everything playing at once wonkiness, and you have the justification for the received wisdom take: a great talent frittered away on childish obsessions and muso pretensions.
This kind of misses the point. As the gent himself – apparently – put it: “The creation and destruction of harmonic and 'statistical' tensions is essential to the maintenance of compositional drama. Any composition (or improvisation) which remains consistent and 'regular' throughout is, for me, equivalent to watching a movie with only 'good guys' in it, or eating cottage cheese."
There are plenty of reasons for liking the art of Frank Zappa. For better and worse, Fillmore East June 1971 is one of them.
Oddi wrth y brawd