Saturday, December 18, 2010

Captain Beefheart, RIP: Absorbine Jr. for President

The good Captain was someone I struggled with for decades, as  his music kept me guessing as to whether he was putting me on with the trash compactor surrealism of the lyrics , the swooping, howling, icon-smashing bark that constituted his singing, or the time signatures, which seemed a rhythmic approximation of what traffic might like in a universe that had a trillion miles of road , an equal number of cars but no traffic lights or stop signs. or if he was indeed the genius his supporters claimed he was, a self starting savant who employed every tic, gesture, sound, click, rattle and hum that caught his attention and assembled them in ways that amounted to a careening challenge to a listener expecting something more down home.

 He resembled no one so much as Ornette Coleman, the jazz player and composer who kept people guessing through his long decades as a music maker, and in the case of both artists I am leaning toward the side that consider them major musical forces of the 20Th century. What likely confounded the music fans of the time, perhaps, was the lack of obvious virtuosity in the playing--no extended guitar solos, no unpunctuated drum essays--and the lack of straight forward beginning , middle, end structure on which a band's gratuitous catalogue of chops can be displayed. His music was about sound, about layering of tones and textures, sweet blues juxtaposed against inverted jitterbug temps and "free jazz" dissonances ala Albert Ayler and the lithe,  sliding alienation of a single blues note resonating from a cheap amplifier under one of the Captain's (nee Don Van Vliet) aqua-urban nightscapes.

All ths in service to a man who was truly one of the very few poets to lead a rock band; while the notable likes of contemporaries Joni Mitchell,  Paul Simon, Tim Buckley or even the Beatles never quite transcended the sense that there was some serious contemplation to the words they would employ to render their "poetic" effects, The Captain was a natural word drunk, a cross between Tristan Tzara, Kurt Schwitters and Howlin' Wolf; a prankster, a conjurer of mood, an organically generated underminer of literal meaning.


Three Months in the Mirror

Three months in the mirror
burning hip
- let's go to the kennel honey
and get one of those cute little moth pups
they flap their little wings
and fly around a light globe
and you can keep 'em in the closet
and feed 'em socks -
six months in the mirror
burning hip
- honey let's go out naked tonight
with our moth puppy
don't forget the socks and the light bulbs
make sure it's not too warm
you don't want to burn his lttle wings -

the lights are soft, streets soft, skies soft,
the mirrors soft
the smell of burnt powder
the moth flies through the mirror
powder falls lightly around around around
and around the sun .
One reads this , finds themselves arguing with the words and the fractured adjectives, the quirky signifiers and surrenders to it , finally, ceasing to ask   "what is talking about" and asking, instead "what is he saying?". The Captain would answer only in ways that were just as inspirationally conflated as the poem/lyric he'd just written. As a guess, I would say a momentarily less zany Captain might offer the advice that a lister should take off the head phones, go outside and trust the authority of their senses if they wanted an answer that helped. The beauty of the Captain's music was that he made you figure it out for yourself--these are your senses, build something!