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Saf Publishing, London
2005
ISBN: 0 946719 79 9
Pages: 256
Language: English Category: About
|
Among these who participated and enjoyed the happening a lot of well-known names in FZ fandom world. Dominique Juenot, Simon Prentis, Franceso Gentile to name just a few and Mr. Watson himself. And mostly it's a typical watsoninan stuff. I'm not a big fan of his mind-boggling games but anyway I must admit the he is truly zappauesque in his approach. I mean he uses FZ material to enjoy himself happily generating the great amounts of pseudo-scientific Dada word structures. I think Frank will be proud of the man because he also preferred bogus stuff to what we common folks call information. The only requirements it should be fried, well, oops, funny, of course. So come to test, anyway. As a side note, I was, myself, invited by Simon Prentis to send a paper too. As you can imagine I maliciously produced the most anti-intellectual ditty possible. Of course, it was rejected by Ben. But I think it ain't harm no one being presented here. What I like most of all about Frank Zappa music that it crushes all boxes. And put them in garbage can. Good night. Sleep tight. And forever. All the boxes that they used for years or even for centuries to pack music in. To seal. To isolate behind second-signal system labels. Romantic, impressionist, intellectual, and so on, and so on. What music is not. Because music is of the first-signal system domain. Like heart, lungs and liver. Balls and cock. It's your direct link to Mother Nature. Like circus or Olympic games. I never bought the idea that musicians are some special bread. Mediators so to say between here and there. High and low. Like poets or philosophers. There are not. They are just hard working people. Sort of clowns. Acrobats or equilibrists. You know all of them study for years, learning to play the violin. Or not to fall from high flying trapeze. There are no difference in approach. Everyday exercises. And the very same goal. Just to give us instant feeling of life. As the result. Overwhelming and physical. Through our own vertebral column. The real! I don't know how obvious it was for say Strav fans half century ago? It seems that for some of them Petrushka is still a Berdyaev but written backward in Chinese characters. Something to contemplate upon, to keep your brain busy, and not something for your coccyx to go happily vibrate with. No. I'm talking about new-born Huns of the sixties, with their mouth opened on all the goods of rock'n'rolls megastore. It sold Hope, it sold Happiness, it sold Knowledge conveniently presented in form of pop-stars music albums. And Listening wasn't the first requirements. The average customer could be even deaf, but he was good as far as he was able to Imagine. That musician was God. And a music is a sort of the Nouveau Zen Testament. The real industry of the Mr. Green Genes' fake I.D. What I like most of all about Frank Zappa that he put it straight. From a brain tumor to a normal swift blood circulation. I think he is Surgeon General of the musician and their audience as well. He made them healthy. Cure all these useless old musicians with their brown fiddles and little horns. By giving them a task. Saving from Hope, Happiness and Knowledge. And offering long horse, parallel and wall bars instead. And left the only real joy. The physical but one hundred percent natural. The Joy of absolute and impossible perfection. Known only to a trained circus men. Acrobats or equilibrists. The art of body control. That's the core of Frank Zappa magic. The highest and purest of all possible on Earth. And a greatest side of it that you can share the feelings. And very easy. Just shut up. Shut up and play your favorite record. And play it again. And do it once more. Until all the boxes will be crushed. And put in a garbage can. And forever. Good night. Sleep tight. And you feel fine. And no fake I.D. needed anymore. The winner is someone who win! |
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