I will always remember the day I was introduced to the Captain. It was the summer of 1987 and I was a young man wasting time in San Angelo, Texas.
The Captain’s effect on me was instantaneous and profound.
*****
Imagine this… It is the psychedelic sixties. Several furry freaks have gathered together in a recording studio. There are two electric guitarists, an electric bass player, an electric drummer and an electric singer. Each is assigned to a separate isolation booth and told to warm up. While they tune and noodle and warble each can only hear himself.
After a few minutes, the engineer’s voice booms over the PA, “Okay, that’s a take.” The tape has been rolling the entire time.
That’s what “Frownland,” the first track on Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band’s 1970 masterpiece, Trout Mask Replica, sounded like to me in 1987. And it was followed by twenty-seven other twisted takes on the blues, jazz, rock and poetry that frequently sounded the same: like four retarded children playing four different songs simultaneously while a werewolf howls extemporaneously—incoherently—on top of it all.
Later the same day, under the cover of Econoline engine noise and with a blanket pulled up over my head, I tried to mimic my new hero, an’ make up lyrics on the fly, which is a very difficult thing to do well, particularly when stone cold sober.
I was encouraged to stop.
And stop I did, but I was a changed man. (I) Started seein’ things so differently. Hardcore wasn’t doin’ it for me no more. (I) Started drinkin’ pop. (I) Thought things sounded better slow, etc.
*****
Late one night, nigh on ten years later, I invited an acquaintance home to drink some pop and listen to music. Must’ve been 2:30 or 3 a.m. when I put on the first CD, The Grifters’ So Happy Together. So, between the late start and the narcotizing effects of the pop, it isn’t all that long until I was feeling very, very weary.
I had a sudden, aggressive need to be alone and drifting merrily, untethered to human niceties such as conversation… Except there was a presence in my apartment to deal with, a presence that seemed to be in love with the world at that very moment.
“Uh, what do you think of that? Parts of it were recorded on a ghetto blaster.”
“I love it!”
Normally, this is an easy problem to solve. You simply say, “Oh my, look at the time. I really must be getting to sleep. We should do this again sometime … if maybe a little earlier in the day, ha-ha.” And maybe I said something like this, but whatever I said, and no matter how loudly I yawned, it did not have the desired effect on my guest.
Finally, in a fit of desperation, I put Trout Mask Replica on, thinking that it would clear the room.
“Hair Pie: Bake One” came on, two bass clarinets locked in a duel of atonal squealing for a minute-and-a-half, then joined by and eventually drowned out by a rock group clanking its way through a mind-melting psychedelic jam.
After four minutes, the song ends and we can hear the Captain outside at night, a jet flying overhead. He is talking to two kids.
Captain Beefheart: What do you think?
Kids [In tandem]: Sounds good.
Captain Beefheart [Chortling]: It’s a bush recording. We’re out recording the bush… [Pause] Name of the composition is Ne … Neon Meate Dream of an Octafish. [Chortling followed by a long pause, then] No, it’s Hair Pie.
“What do you think?” I asked my guest.
“Sounds good” he replied.
*****
Captain Beefheart died in December, twenty-eight years after releasing his final album, Ice Cream for Crow, which, despite being performed by a different cast of characters, sounds an awful lot like Trout Mask Replica. In the intervening years, his creative urges were channelled into painting, apparently to good ends, but I don’t know about that.
This article is a tribute to Captain Beefheart, the songwriter, lyricist and singer whose songs changed the way I think about music, but, more importantly, made me laugh so very hard for so many years.
Originally published in January 2011 on Deaf-Vacation.com (RIP).