The Dust Blows Forward and the Dust Rolls Back

Quentin Tarantino: A word, please.

I recently finally sat down to watch your film “The Hateful Eight.” I loved it of course. I don’t know how it is possible, sir, but your talent for broad storytelling only grows more powerful as you continue your craft.

Nor can I wait for the sequel, “The Hateful Eight 2: HOLY CRAP WHAT HAPPENED HERE, OH, THE HUMANITY!”

Now I am not calling you out on wrecking an irreplaceable antique guitar on set. Although, Quentin. Tsssk tsssk tsssk. What a shame.

No, dude, I am calling you out for missing an obvious music selection for you fine film: “The Dust Blows Forward and the Dust Rolls Back” by Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band, found on the oft-ignored masterpiece, Trout Mask Replica.

This song, which features a crudely recorded Don Van Vliet, absolutely should have been included in your film’s soundtrack.

Imagine a broad shot of your travelers headed toward Minnie’s Haberdashery, crunching in the just pre-blizzard snow, and a gruff voice is heard, singing:

“There’s ole Gray with her dove-winged hat
There’s ole Green with her sewing machine
Where’s the bobbin at?
Tote an old grain in a printed sack
The dust blows forward and dust blows back”

This odd poem reflects a gruff naturalism and a cruel poverty. It brings to mind the exact time and place portrayed in your film. I’ll go even further in saying that this song IS your film.

“And the wind blows black through the sky
And the smokestack blows up in the sun’s eye
What am I gonna die?
A white flake riverboat just blew by
Bubbles popped big
And a lipstick Kleenex hug on a pointed forked twig
Reminds me of the bobby girls
Never was my hobby girls
Hand full o’worms and a pole fishin’
Cork bobbin’ like a hot red bulb
And a bluejay squeaks, his beak open an inch above a creek
Gone fishin’ for a week”

Or how about this: Have Michael Madsen sing “The Dust Blows Forward” to while away the time while they’re all holed up, just a haunting tune that helps to fortify the character.

“Well, I put down my bush
And I took off my pants and felt free
The breeze blowin’ up me and up the canyon
Far as I could see”

I mean, not even in the closing credits? Quentin. Dude. This song is begging to be in your movie.

“It’s night now and the moon looks like a dandelion
It’s black now and the blackbird’s feedin’ on rice
And his red wings look like diamonds and lice
I could hear the mice toes scamperin’
Gophers rumblin’ in pile crater rock holes
One red bean stuck in the bottom of a tin bowl
Hot coffee from a crimped-up can
Me and my girl named Bimbo Limbo Spam”

Go back, dude. Edit. It’s worth it.

Is That A Real Frank Zappa or Is That A Sears Frank Zappa

So I sleep next to my iPad.

I’m not proud. I have this pillow that stands it up and it’s there next to me, usually helps to assist in the transition from busy brain to weird dreams, and sometimes I awake in the middle of the night and check it just for the time. Then it’s there in the morning for that first social media check.

This morning’s drowsy perusal of social media was saying some stuff about a Frank Zappa hologram.

Seriously? I rubbed my eyes seeing some posts about this Frank Zappa hologram tour. It’s gotta be a hoax. No way would anyone think this was a good idea.

By the time I was pouring coffee down my gullet, Rolling Stone had confirmed the story.

Color me aghast.

Rolling Stone quotes Ahmet Zappa:

“I’m thrilled that Frank Zappa will finally be going back out on tour playing his most well-known music as well as some rare and unheard material. We can’t wait to bring his creative work back to the stage with the musicians he loved to play with … who are committed to being part of this epic endeavor. When I spoke with them, they were excited at the prospect of performing alongside Frank once again and can’t wait to give fans an unforgettable experience.”

The specter of the dead-artist’s hologram being shuffled around “on tour” ton continue cashing out on their image and works is a horrifying development in entertainment. That Frank Zappa might be the artist to sufficiently pioneer this, thanks to his shitty children?

This is unspeakable.

Dweezil’s Twitter response:


If for no other reason then that he would hate the living shit out of this.

Sunday Session

Pssst. C’mere. I’m going to tell you a secret.

The best two hours of radio anywhere is on Sunday nights. And it broadcasts from Rochester, N.Y., on 88.5 FM, WRUR, from 6 – 8 p.m. Sunday.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Sunday Session, hosted by the fabulous Ruth Elaine.

There is little available online biographically of this DJ powerhouse, whose delivery is reminiscent of Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman and takes a listener some time to adjust. For a time she was name-checked in our house as “that crazy jazz lady.” A Google search brings up a D&C feature done on her on October 20, 2009, but the rest of the article ain’t available. Disappointed. But the search did unearth this from her, regarding her cool style:

“It really is my voice,” Ruth Elaine assures me, clearly accustomed to the question. There’s no hint of exasperation in her answer; she knows that her distinctive sound-a slow, snaking alto dripping with cool-cat enthusiasm-is instantly recognizable to anyone who has heard her hosting “Sunday Session with Ruth Elaine,” her weekly jazz radio show on WRUR-88.5 FM.

But if I am near a radio or other contraption that will deliver a broadcast at that time, I will be listening. Because Ruth Elaine succinctly delivers in those two hours some of the best jazz you will ever hear. As a taste-maker, as a person whose ear you trust absolutely, as a friend of yours to go hey, listen to this, she is the finest. I am a resolute Ruth Elaine fan and by gosh, her show is on the radio right now. Here. You can go listen right here.

Which brings me briefly to yet another item for the Zappadan.

Zappa is often quoted as saying “jazz is not dead, it just smells funny.” As noted in the hour-28 radio documentary I’m about to share with you, Zappa’s relationship with the form was, well, odd. But, the truth is, among the things one could accuse him of was that he was essentially a jazz band leader.

Take the time, kids, I’m telling you. This is one meaty documentary. It’s British, of course.

Jazz from Hell – His Bizarre Relationship with Jazz

And if you’re not gonna listen to that, at least give Ms. Ruth Elaine a shot. You will gain a lovely education.