All right, all you hungry freaks and wonderful winos. OK, all you Dukes of Prunes. No worries, all you Muffin Men and Camarillos Brillos with your fuming incense stenchers. Today I come with some project for your object.
For today is the culmination of the Feast of Zappadan, meant to commemorate the lifetime of one of the most icococlastic and beloved people ever to make Art of any kind, anywhere.
Born in 1940 and gone since 1993. Recorded in excess of 105 albums under his own name, and that list continues to grow as his nutty family cracks open the vaults. Even as they war openly in public, trying to sue each other out of existence for the rights to the man's unfathomably tremendous, completely unique legacy.
I have blogged him many times and he's one of those that gets a post every year, because he's just that necessary. As long as I have this page, I will continue to do so. Count on it.
Yes folks, it's time to descend into the trusty depths of the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen and put on the Jazz Discharge Party Hats once again, as we celebrate what would have been the 77th birthday of one Francis Vincent Zappa.
There's no need to explain who he is because everyone already knows. All that need be said is that he is gone a quarter century and if there was one like him today, the depredated nonsense we see kickstepping across our vapidity-view these days like a Macy's Day Parade of Puerility would not go unchallenged.
But no one ever got rich underestimating the American capacity for vacuous imbecility, so I won't go into detail about how he'd likely be president by now, and how things would be very different from the global Hellscape transformation currently underway at the behest of the wealthy, white and wisdomlessly wankerrific.
In fact, he once averred that he wasn't Black but he sure was oft-ashamed to be White, and I concur 101%. There are days when I'd give anything I have to have him back with us to kick these theocapitalist mooching cocksuckers through the goalposts of Hell itself.
It isn't superstition to say that he predicted all of this, down to the demise of the Arts and the central role their absence has played in the mortal Death Spiral of our country here. This man wasn't just an exemplary bandleader, composer and conceptualist... he was an avatar of the most unapologetic stripe. Compared to him, the cultural "leaders" of today are but thinly veiled profit motives on spindly, lip-synched legs, devoid of a single drop of real juice.
I was lucky enough to be introduced to him at the impressionable age of 12, at the height of his impact, and I've never looked back. His music and ideas are never far from my playlist and my palette, and they never will be.
When he passed in 1993 from cancer I wept and I'm still weeping. What he left for all of us stands alongside any musician ever to exist in all of human history, both in terms of quantity and quality. He was also as shit-hot a guitar player as has existed in our lifetimes.
So enough of my statings of the obvious, let's share unissued, top notch tunes. Today we have a CD's worth of unreleased acetates dating from his prolific period of 1968/69, curated and compiled by yours truly for your ongoing auditory stimulation.
Revenge of the Knick-Knack People
01 Hamburgers Make Me Sleepy
02 Revenge of the Knick-Knack People
03 Wipe Out
04 East LA
05 Weasels Ripped My Flesh
06 Kung Fu
07 Igor's Boogie
09 Copenhagen Night Music
10 Help I'm a Rock
11 Chocolate Halvah
12 Prelude to the Afternoon of a Sexually Aroused Gas Mask
13 The Cookie Jar Lecture
14 It Must Be Your Breath
15 Albert Hall Spoken Introduction
16 Chamber Music Piece 1
17 Mozart Ballet
18 Some Zany MOI Bullshit
19 Chamber Music Piece 2
21 Bognor Regis
23 The Dick Kunc Story
24 My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama
Total time: 1:19:01
acetates cut for the construction of the Weasels Ripped My Flesh and Burnt Weeny Sandwich LPs, including unreleased tracks and mixes
449 MB FLAC here
Watch out for the slow, funkified version of My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama and the lone outtake from Hot Rats ("Bognor Regis") during this 79 minutes of Motherly mayhem.
I shall return in a couple of days with more flavor for your funhouse favela, but for now you better get to clicking. And when you do you better wish at the moment your finger depresses that mouse that 1000 Frank Zappas are born to save our dying world from the Plastic People for whom The Torture Never Stops.--J.
12.21.1940 - 12.4.1993