Jimmy Carl Black

So I’m trying to figure out why Geronimo Black never caught on. They were really good.

The record debuted in 1972 and went nowhere. The leader of that band chalks it up to “promotion wasn’t what it should have been.” After that, he became a doughnut maker in his home town of Anthony, Texas, then went on to front many other bands. He toured Europe. He had a full musical life, certainly.

But we all know why he’s actually famous.

You know it.

Say it with me:

“Hi, boys and girls. I’m Jimmy Carl Black, and I’m the Indian of the group.”

I have often wondered why this line has such staying power. It’s a weird throwback, isn’t it? A dig to the music industry, certainly, and one that blends with the album and its intent, or perhaps, just plainly, that it doesn’t. Or is it just that goofy laugh after? Or is it what follows, “Who Needs the Peace Corps?” Why-ever. It is certainly the “Baba Booey” of the Zappa cosmos.

I think he was more than that mere one line, however. Much more. Matter of fact, I think Black’s solid, distinctive drumming contributed largely to the Mothers’ sound. As Black used to say, when he got to play next to a virtuoso like Art Tripp, ferget it.

But Jimmy Carl Black I think has a perceived lack of gravitas. Perhaps it’s the line, or the character he portrayed in his Mothers career (see 200 Motels), or perhaps just because Frank really kind of screwed those guys. I don’t know. But let me ask you this. Who is the one musician that Steely Dan’s Walter Becker went out of his way to name-check at their Rock Hall of Fame induction speech in 2001?

Yuh-huh. Gravitas.

Jimmy Carl Black died on November 1, 2008. Before his death, he gave an interview that I found to be rather enlightening. There are similar interviews of other mothers such as Don Preston and Bunk Gardner. All of these interviews are excellent, but JCB’s is the first one to watch.

Sadly, it is split up into 14 parts on YouTube. I think the best way to navigate it is to follow it at YouTube itself, so have at it. It is a wonderful interview, and we’re lucky to have it.

Louis Cuneo

If you have ever listened to “Lumpy Gravy,” you will know who Louis Cuneo is when I say this about him: He is known for laughing like a turkey.

Here you can hear Mr. Cuneo here discuss his tribulations with ponies with Roy Estrada. These weird bits of dialog are a backbone to the Lumpy Gravy album and other subsequent works. Others in the chorus include Spider Barbour, All-Night John, and a woman named “Gilly,” who is advocating dark clothes.

But it is Cuneo who is most visible on the album, due to his trademark howl.

These days, Cuneo makes his name as a poet.

I hear he’s having trouble with pigs and ponies.

Louis Cuneo, thank you. You are a tremendous part of my life because you are on that album. And I am grateful for you. And the rest of you piano people, too.

Iola, Who’s That Great Rock Composer That I Like So Much?

When there’s a death in the music world reported during the holiday, one must, I think, do a little cross-Googling.

Lookie what happens when you Google “Zappa Brubeck.” This is so damned interesting.

When I think of Zappa cast in a Brubeck light, I think of this version of “Take Your Clothes Off When You Dance” from the Lost Episodes album.

Don ‘Sugarcane’ Harris

When you’re a music fanatic, it’s difficult to broach the “favorites” issue. There are some areas, however, where I have the question nailed pretty much down.

Favorite Led Zeppelin song: It’s taken me decades, since I first heard Led Zeppelin in junior high school, to figure this one out. But when I get a Zeppelin sample going in my auditory cortex, 9 times out of ten, it’s “The Ocean.” This song in my book is Zeppelin perfection.

Favorite Zeppelin album: Presence. Yes, Presence. I’m serious.

But I haven’t ever had any problem nailing down my favorite performance(s) on a Frank Zappa album(s). It is (pair of) performance(s) that I make sure to highlight every Zappadan. It is, in my opinion, the most brilliant musicianship ever to be exhibited on a Frank Zappa project, or, perhaps, anywhere. And we know that’s a statement that stretches from here to the moon Europa.

It is actually a set of two performances: The performance of Don “Sugarcane” Harris on “Directly From My Heart” on Weasels Ripped My Flesh and of Don “Sugarcane” Harris in “Little House I Used to Live In” on Lumpy Gravy. Number one in my book. Always and forever.

I always write about “Directly From My Heart” on December 5, the second day of Zappadan. Because December 5 is the birthday of Little Richard, the man who penned this amazing song. His performance of this song invents the visceral soul that this song invokes. Listen for the most brilliantly performed syncopation you have ever heard.

This song drags its hideous left foot. But it does it gracefully somehow, making it beautiful. And Mr. Penniman’s lilting voice shoots out over it and drags you in like an undertoad. Undertow. Whatever.

So. The source material is sublime. I love this song.

Then, I always haul out the Fenton Robinson version.

How could one not? Fenton, I think, lends the song considerable gravitas.

Then, there’s Sugarcane.

Don “Sugarcane” Harris, the “Don” of Don and Dewey of the mid-1950s, signed to the Specialty label, but the band did not score a hit. He was named “Sugarcane” by none other than Johnny Otis, the man who inspired Frank Zappa’s killer mustache. Funny how the dots connect in the Zappa cosmos.

Harris’ better known Zappa contribution was likely his part on driving “Willie the Pimp” on Hot Rats. Most people really like this song. I find it to be an annoying interruption on an otherwise brilliant album.

Regardless: Both the other contributions the one from Weasels Ripped my Flesh and Burnt Weenie Sandwich came out of those recording sessions. These are inspired, driving, passionate performances: The sound Charlie Daniels actually needed but sorely lacked on “Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

The Sugarcane bit on Burnt Weeny Sandwich starts right here. Gail Zappa apparently does not like there being any copies of Weasels Ripped My Flesh on the YouTube. So go put in yer own copy and listen!

Here’s an early example of Mr. Harris’ soulful fiddle:

Go ahead; have a listen. Then a few examples of Mr. Harris’ solo work follow.

“Song For My Father” is one of those that you probably know but don’t know you know.

If I could someday shake this gentleman’s hand I would probably become a puddle on the floor. I would be more cool meeting Frank himself. But Don Harris. He is to the Zappa cosmos what Billy Preston* was to the Beatles.

I’ll never get the opportunity, sadly. Harris died in November 1999. But what amazing recordings for him to have left behind.

*Another one of my very very favorites. Billy was the shiznit. I am astounded that Mr. Zappa never snapped him up.

Smoke On The Water

1971 really sucked for Frank.

From the Wiki:

The lyrics of the song tell a true story: on 4 December 1971 Deep Purple had set up camp in Montreux, Switzerland to record an album using a mobile recording studio (rented from the Rolling Stones and known as the Rolling Stones Mobile Studio—referred to as the “Rolling truck Stones thing” and “the mobile” in the song lyrics) at the entertainment complex that was part of the Montreux Casino (referred to as “the gambling house” in the song lyric). On the eve of the recording session a Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention concert was held in the casino’s theatre. In the middle of Don Preston’s synthesizer solo on “King Kong”, the place suddenly caught fire when somebody in the audience fired a flare gun into the rattan covered ceiling, as mentioned in the “some stupid with a flare gun” line.[7][8] The resulting fire destroyed the entire casino complex, along with all the Mothers’ equipment. The “smoke on the water” that became the title of the song (credited to bass guitarist Roger Glover, who related how the title occurred to him when he suddenly woke from a dream a few days later) referred to the smoke from the fire spreading over Lake Geneva from the burning casino as the members of Deep Purple watched the fire from their hotel. The “Funky Claude” running in and out is referring to Claude Nobs, the director of the Montreux Jazz Festival who helped some of the audience escape the fire.

A week later on Dec. 10, Trevor Charles Howell charged the stage and shoved Frank into the orchestra pit. The attack left Frank’s voice lower and one leg shorter than the other for the rest of his life.

Of course, Dec. 4 of 1993 sucked for Frank even more than that. This was the last day he refused to die. We of course call it “bummernacht.”

My favorite version of the song was not recorded by Deep Purple. My favorite version of the song was recorded by these Asians.

Zappadan Miracle #1

At my job, they have declared the entire month of December as a “free jeans” day. This greatly relaxes the usual dress code, which requires men to wear trousers and a tie and women to wear whatever they fucking please.

This however means that for the entire duration of Zappadan, I get to wear Zappa gear. I had lots of Amazon points, so I ordered some Christmas presents and also several Zappa t-shirts. I already own three. Now I’ll have a whole week’s worth.

Today it’s the Bummernacht shirt. Just a black shirt with a big Zappa face. Frank Zappa would have been 72 this year had he not quit refusing to die. Imagine what he would have done with the time.

Off to work soon. I’ve called in late for the first time in ages. Bygones. It’s the holiday.

I Wish Motorhead Would Come Back

As I have no real talent for drawring or creating mashups, I have taken to creating short essays, with 2012 as no exception. I would like this year to appreciate some of the fine, fine people in the Zappa universe besides the Man with the Iron Mustache.

Starting with Jim “Motorhead” Sherwood.

Of Sherwood, one of Frank Zappa’s oldest friends, he said, “He’s one of those guys you say, ‘I know this guy who’s really weird and I want to show him to you.”

Sherwood, like me, was a Kansas boy who likely rarely ever went back once he escaped. Euclid James Sherwood, born May 8, 1942 in Arkansas City, Kan. He died last Christmas. Just days after Zappadan. So we didn’t really get to mention it.

Motorhead first met Mr. Zappa in 1956 at Antelope Valley High School in California. Sherwood was in the same class as Frank’s brother Bobby. Zappa and Motorhead had a fondness for blues and R&B. Zappa, at the time fronting a band called The Blackouts and Sherwood would regularly jam with Zappa.

A few clips, from the BBC show “Colour Me Pop.” Motorhead is on baritone sax and also brings the phrase “I gotta have more tambourine” to mind.

Also, here’s an excellent clip of the Mothers: 1968-10-23 Paris (embedding disabled).

(Other personnel apparently includes: Art Tripp and Jimmy Carl Black on drums. Roy Estrada on bass and vocals. Don Collins on keys. Bunk Gardner and Ian Underwood on saxophones.)

As you can see, Sherwood was a dancer, a performer. He always was. It’s how he started in the band, then known as the Black-Outs:

From the Barry Miles biography:

He did “The Bug” in which he attempted to shake off some horrible creature that was tickling him; he twitched and shook and rolled around the stage trying to get it off. Eventually he managed to trhow it into the audience, hoping that some of the girls would pick up on it.

A personal note I dug up from Zappa sister Candy:

This time of year always brings good things and sometimes very sad things. a very sad thing for us, we lost another member of the Zappa troup, Jim “Motorhead” Sherwood, one of Frank’s longtime friend and early Mother’s member, passed last night around 10pm, on Christmas. i remember when Jim and Frank would come over to our house in Montclair, CA, when i was about 11 and of course, Frank would have his coffee black, and when i asked Jim how he wanted his coffee, he said “Just pour sugar in it till it comes over the side” which today still makes me laugh to tell it. his wife Lynn, Jim’s son and his wife were with Jim when he left. say some healing prayers for Lynn and Jim’s family today, they need them.

So a year later, we say “thanks” to the Sherwoods and start out our Zappadan adventure in remembrance.


Sherwood ain’t the only talent from his earliest days that Zappa used to tap. There’s also Denny Walley.

Walley moved to Lancaster, Cali., when he was 12, by which time he was already somewhat of an accordion master. He met Frank Zappa (and Motorhead) via brother Bobby at 14-ish. He went on to become a bitchin’ slide blues player, just in time to ride along on the Bongo Fury tour.

Maybe I ought to let him tell the story.

I mean, before you count this guy out, let’s keep in mind: He married Janet Planet.

I know!

ZAPPADANAPOCALYPSE*!

Frank Zappa In A Funny HatI cannot help but think that the convergence of the end of the world as fortold by the Mayan calender, which is, of course, absolutely true, and the first day of Zappadan, which falls on the 21st, is no mere coincidence.

By way of quick, obligatory exposition, via the FGAQ—Welcome to Bummernacht, the first day of the Zappadan holiday, a time of remembrance and Freak-Out-Ology that lasts from Dec. 4 to Dec. 21, the day he died to the day he was born, blah blah blah:

The first (or 17th) day of Zappadan was originally known as Enttäuschung Nacht – German for ‘bummer night’ – but over the years it has been Americanized to the much simpler BummerNacht. This being the anniversary of Mister Zappa’s death, the original meaning is rather obvious, and we shall not delve further into it here.

Far from being a day of mourning, however, it is a day of great joy, for Zapptists know that a mere seventeen days later, on December 21st (Zero Day), Frank Zappa was born.

Usually, my friends, we merely count upon Zappadan miracles to buoy our spirits during this wonderful time. This time, I am convinced we are coming upon the Zappadanapocalypse*.

It may, I think, begin with some stupid with a flare gun. Or, it may begin with the efforts of a simple Eskimo, armed only with a handful of goopy yellow snow in his efforts to protect his favorite baby seal. Why, Rance Muhammitz himself may very well surface from the charred embers to serve you a beer! It shall certainly be a well-scrutinized event, and it shall be strictly commercial.

Regardless of how it starts, friends, I see no way around it. This convergence is no coincidence. There is no way to delay. Zappadanapocalypse* is coming every day.

Snork.

* Note: Not quite the same as RoseanneRoseannadannapocalypse.


A quick note for Bill Tchakirides, blogger at Under the LobsterScope, where he often celebrates Zappadan with the rest of us. Bill’s blog currently documents an apparently exhausting round of brain surgery he’s undergone. Just thought I’d mention it.

Merry Merry Christmas

Wherever you are, whoever you are, I’d like to kick off this holiday season by wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas.

I was a child reared in the full ecstasies of this fine holiday, just like you probably were. We had the tree, with the ornaments, many of which I made out of egg cartons, glitter, and glue. We had stockings. I spent as many hours as possible watching television specials regarding the mythology of one Santa Claus and the other usual suspects, such as Rudolph, such as Frosty the Snowman, and all the rest of them. I think this mythology captured and haunted me most of all.

Through all of it, through all of the slipper socks and hot chocolate, and the fine, fine bicycle I received one year (denim-themed, I believe, with a banana seat, that bike is probably still being tooled around on by some young cousin I’ve never met in Scammon, Kansas), there are themes that come through to a young, impressionable mind. Universal themes. Peace. Love. Goodwill.

There were other mythologies that were not at work in my house. I was reared without religion. My parents did not have me study the Bible growing up. The first time I experienced the Bible, I think I was 6, and I was tagging along for Sunday school with friends after a sleep-over. And this batty old lady was going on about this old guy who built this big boat when it started raining or something. I was all like, huh?

I have to my ripe old age of 44 maintained a belief in secular humanism, or, as some might call it, “atheism,” and I have had reason recently to feel reinforced in that belief. This is not from a lack of seeking. I have read and studied the Bible. I have prayed. I have attended religious observances of many flavors, from Seders to Catholic services to Christian Science, and just for shits and giggles, I have cast a few circles under the full moon. At this point, this is where I have landed. The genesis story I put faith in sounds like this: Billions of years ago, something happened. And then space, time, and matter existed.

It doesn’t really sound that much different from the one in that book, actually.

Anyway, I can tell you that a secular kid can have some trouble with the whole Christmas thing during his development, at least, that was my experience. I was conflicted, though there was no reason to be. Because there has been and is a growing cultural meme that Christmas is some sort of exclusive club, and that only those who believe in the Christ need bother. I mean, look what we’ve already got this year from Maureen “Pat” Robertson, commenting on a brush up they had in Santa Monica over a public Nativity scene. Santa Monica had to end up scrapping the whole thing because last year the Atheists won like 80 percent of the available booths in the lottery they had, and that only after protesting for years that a public forum needs room for those voices.

The Grinch is trying to steal our holiday. It’s been so beautiful, the nation comes together, we sing Christmas carols, we give gifts to each other, we have lighted trees and it’s just a beautiful thing. Atheists don’t like our happiness. They don’t want you to be happy. They want you to be miserable. They’re miserable so they want you to be miserable. So they want to steal your holiday away from you.

I have news for Pat. In the United States, most nonbelievers also at least acknowledge Christmas. I, for one, celebrate it with full throat.

In 2010, Lifeway Research polled that: “…nine in 10 Americans (91 percent) personally celebrate Christmas and those aren’t all self-identified Christians. A majority of agnostics or those claiming no preference (89 percent), individuals claiming other religions (62 percent), and even atheists (55 percent) celebrate Christmas along with 97 percent of Christians.”

I’m not sure that Lifeway liked its own results. But it indicates to me anyway that Christmas is too grand and too universal to be considered only in the light of the Nativity. It is, I think, our nation’s winter holiday as a whole. I have come to the conclusion that there should be no reason to wrinkle one’s nose when wished a Merry Christmas instead of a more generic Happy Holidays. There should be no reason. But there is. There is, because each year Bill O’Reilly does his segments on the “war on Christmas,” and because there is always this perennial tug-of-war and statements of the notion that if you’re a non-believer, you don’t deserve to decorate that tree.

I think it’s a shame. Because Christmas, considered as a national, all-inclusive holiday with powerful stories and themes of generosity and noble intentions, is a far more powerful and joyous holiday than one that keeps pointing fingers and lecturing about the “reason for the season.”

So. Merry Christmas. I myself can’t wait.