I always appreciated Frank Zappa for the solemn determination embodied in each of his performances, even if I didn't understand where things were going once his cigarette was planted atop the headstock. What was, to me, often an aural cacophony (audio anarchy?) of chaotic and tortured chords would later appear as volumes of carefully etched out musical notations - was it some mysterious, coded language daring to rewire the prefrontal cortex? A paean to a torn cuticle pulled across a G-string? An expression of space-time compression?
It all seemed ferocious,
fearless - and somehow correct, if indecipherable. It was an attitude that also carried on
to his prescient observations on the state of American politics, where he could
slice and dice the right-wing talking heads of the Reagan era. He
crammed a lot into his 52 years... if he had only not regarded cigarettes as a food...
Frank Zappa - Crossfire - 1986
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| Time flies |
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