Frank Zappa
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Before he passed away he arranged to have his wife sell his massive catalog, a deal that reportedly brought in $44 million from the pioneering CD-only label Rykodisc. Much of Zappa’s work had been previously issued on the label in conjunction with Zappa Records, but this year Rykodisc has reissued 53 newly remastered and repackaged Zappa CDs. The occasion has generated a mound of glowing press–polite reappraisals asserting that there was more to Zappa than “Valley Girls” and the anticensorship battle. Depending on the article, you’ll hear about the guitarist, the serious composer, the scathing social critic, the fusion pioneer, the proto-alternative rock icon, the sarcastic comic, blah, blah, blah. The list goes on, suggesting that Zappa was one of the great renaissance men of our time. There’s no debating the man’s sharp wit, observant intelligence, dazzling technical facility, and prolificacy, and it’s impossible to knock on his passionate fight against Tipper Gore. But I wonder if anyone who’s been polishing Zappa’s reputation in the last few months has actually listened to the music. I’d rather have splinters wedged under my cuticles.
Hot Rats (1969) is primarily instrumental–with the notable exception of Zappa protege Captain Beefheart lending his inimitable vocal stylings to “Willie the Pimp”–which helped define the following decade of indulgent fusion wankery. It’s a record with many notes. Unfortunately, most of them sit there limply. Its soulless technoid virtuosity is generally appreciated only by other musicians who are envious of Zappa’s dexterity. Guitarist Larry Lalonde of Primus, perhaps the leading Zappa-influenced jag-offs of the alternative-rock world, claims that playing in his Zappa cover band Caca–shit, what a funny concept!–is “a great way to improve your playing.” And hitting a tennis ball against a wall is a great way to better your stroke, but no one wants to watch it on TV.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Steve Shapiro.
