Cucuroo carucha (chevy 39) Going to el monte legion stadium Pick up on my weesa (she is so divine) Helps me stealing hub caps Wasted all the time
Fuzzy dice Bongos in the back My ship of love is Ready to attack
Primer mi carucha (chevy 39) Going to el monte legion stadium Pick up on my weesa (she is so divine) Helps me stealing hub caps Wasted all the time
Fuzzy dice Bongos in the back My ship of love Ready to attack Wont you please hear my plea
Primer mi carucha (chevy 39) Going to el monte legion stadium Pick up on my weesa (she is so divine) Helps me stealing hub caps Wasted all the time
Fuzzy dice Bongos in the back My ship of love Ready to attack
Mi dispiace di non aver onorato il 4 dicembre con un post puntuale.
(He succumbed to the disease seven months later, and died in his home on 4 December 1993, Los Angeles, California)
Ricordo bene il grande dispiacere di quella notizia, arrivando in ufficio dopo un week end celestiale, che mi trasportò in un'atmosfera di triste celebrazione. Tornato a casa, quella sera la trascorsi registrando una compilation su cassetta - audio, sì, c'erano ancora - dei miei pezzi preferiti, bevendo in suo onore Porto bianco con succo di limone e scrivendo, probabilmente, pensierini tristi su un quaderno. Diciassette anni dopo, preferisco ricordare quella data con uno dei suoi più influenti capolavori, il doppio concept album Uncle Meat del 1969, da cui ho scelto uno dei brani che mi piace di più canticchiare. Anche se quest'altro mi renderebbe più popolare. Soprattutto con le signore.
Prima ascolta questo pezzo, modernissimo, eppure di 42 anni suonati (alla grande). Sono solo due minuti e sedici secondi. Poi guarda quanta roba ci ha messo dentro Frankie. Eppure è leggero, agile e frizzante. Mozart gli avrebbe fatto i complimenti. Ah, il disco è Cruising with Ruben and the Jets, il terzo album pubblicato dal maestro nel '68. Non il terzo in assoluto - bada - no no no, è il terzo che Frank ha pubblicato solo in quell'anno*. E qui, forse, Mozart avrebbe rosicato.
No No No
Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Makes me cry to see you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Makes me cry to see you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Left me here to cry alone (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) With a bottle of juice & a pork chop bone (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Makes me cry to see you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Gave my money all to you-oo (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) You took my watch and pawned it too-oo (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Three gold teeth and one glass eye (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) You didn't have the nerve to say goodbye (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo You know you treat me funky baby (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) And some day you'll have to pay (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) I ain't such a fool that I would let you go (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) And treat me this way (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) I ain't going to let you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (And some day you'll have to pay) (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (I ain't such a fool that I would let you go) I ain't going to let you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (And treat me this way) (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) I ain't going to let you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) No no no no no no no-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby) I ain't going to let you go-o-o-oo-oh (Boppa dooayyydoo Boppa dooayyydoo) (You know you treat me funky, baby)
* "Cruising With Ruben & The Jets" è , secondo la cronologia ufficiale il quinto album della colossale discografia del beneamato. Qui un inchino ci starebbe bene, non fare complimenti.
Riscolto questa deliziosa suite con stupore immutato e ammirazione sconfinata - soprattutto ora che ho appena rivisto una delle ultime interviste di Frank, provato dalla malattia terminale eppure "chirurgico" nelle risposte, lucido e impeccabile, capace persino di farsi una risata, nonostante l'evidente tributo di dolore accumulato. Lumpy Gravy è cronologicamente il 4° album della discografia di Frank, ufficialmente il primo senza i Mothers Of Invention, anche se diversi elementi del gruppo partecipano a questo ambizioso progetto orchestrale che ha coivolto una pletora di musicisti - per la lista completa rimando a Wiki Jawaka. Come al solito, mi astengo dal recensire il lavoro del maestro, ma linko una review pescata online che mi è sembrata abbastanza esauriente. Ricordo che questa serie di post dedicati all' arte di Frank Zappa precedono - e inevitabilmente seguiranno - la ricorrenza della sua morte (4 dicembre 1993) e, forse, giungeranno all'anniversario della sua nascita (21 dicembre 1940). Forse non saranno a cadenza giornaliera, ma tentativamente seguiranno la cronologia degli album. Per un paio di mesetti buoni, quindi, nientedadire avrà sicuramente qualcosa di buono da farvi ascoltare.
What's the ugliest Part of your body? What's the ugliest Part of your body? Some say your nose Some say your toes (I think it's your mind) But I think it's YOUR MIND (Your mind) I think it's your mind, woo woo
ALL YOUR CHILDREN ARE POOR UNFORTUNATE VICTIMS OF SYSTEMS BEYOND THEIR CONTROL A PLAGUE UPON YOUR IGNORANCE & THE GRAY DESPAIR OF YOUR UGLY LIFE
Where did Annie go When she went to town? Who are all those creeps That she brings around?
ALL YOUR CHILDREN ARE POOR UNFORTUNATE VICTIMS OF LIES YOU BELIEVE A PLAGUE UPON YOUR IGNORANCE THAT KEEPS THE YOUNG FROM THE TRUTH THEY DESERVE . . .
Pochissimo da aggiungere a questo gioiellino (tratto dal terzo album di Frank registrato con i Mothers nel '68, "We're only in it for the money") che condensa in poco più di un minuto un messaggio terrificante, servito con leggiadria doo-wop. A chi si riferiva Frank? A chi dedicava questa canzone? Alla generazione precedente alla sua - evidentemente - alla classe media, benpensante, moderata, WASP e bigotta che costituiva (costituisce?)lo zoccolo duro del sistema americano. Possiamo noi oggi, più di 40 anni dopo, vedere forse delle attinenze con la nostra attuale, evolutissima realtà sociale?* L'orazione civile c'è stata ieri sera. Io non ho contributi rilevanti da aggiungervi. La lascio echeggiare nella mia mente - la parte più brutta del mio corpo, come canta Frank - e spero di trasferirne gli effetti positivi nel mio fare. Sarà difficile, altrimenti, offrire a mio figlio un sistema migliore di quello fantasmagorico in cui stiamo sprofondando.
*(qui ci sarebbero andati degli emoticon per non rischiare di essere frainteso, ma correrò il rischio.)
Brown shoes Don't make it Brown shoes Don't make it Quit school Why fake it? Brown shoes Don't make it...
TV dinner by the pool Watch your brother grow a beard Got another year of school You're okay--he's too weird Be a plumber He's a bummer He's a bummer Every summer Be a loyal plastic robot for a world that doesn't care... Smile at every ugly Shine on your shoes & cut your hair
Be a joik And go t' woik Be a joik And go t' woik Be a joik And go t' woik Be a joik And go t' woik Do your job & do it right Life's a ball TV tonight... Do you love it? Do you hate it? There it is... The way you made it... YARRRRRRRRRRRGH-H-H!
A world of secret hungers Perverting the men who make your laws Every desire is hidden away In a drawer... in a desk By a naugahyde chair On a rug where they walk and drool Past the girls in the office
We see in the back of the City Hall mind The dream of a girl about thirteen Off with her clothes and into a bed Where she tickles his fancy all night lonnnnnnnnng
His wife's attending an orchid show She squealed for a week to get him to go But back in the bed, his teen-age queen Is rocking & rolling & acting obscene Baby baby Hratche-plche Hratche-plche Baby baby Hratche-plche Hratche-plche
And he loves it! He loves it! It curls up his toes She bites his fat neck and it lights up his nose But he cannot be fooled, old City Hall Fred She's nasty! She's nasty! She digs it in bed!
Do it again and do it some more That does it by golly, it's nasty for sure Nasty nasty nasty, nasty nasty nasty (Only thirteen and she knows how to nasty...)
She's a dirty young mind Corrupted, corroded Well she's thirteen today And I hear she gets loaded P-pum-m-mum-m-mum-m-mum P-pum-m-mum-m-mum-m-mum P-bum
If she were my daughter, I'd... What would you do daddy? If she were my daughter, I'd... What would you do daddy? If she were my daughter, I'd... What would you do daddy? Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup And strap her on again, oh baby! Smother that girl in chocolate syrup And strap her on again She's a teen-age baby and she turns me on I'd like to make her do a nasty on the White House lawn Gonna smother that girl in chocolate syrup - And boogie till the cows come home
Time to go home - Madge is on the phone Gotta meet the Gurney's And a dozen grey attorneys TV dinner by the pool I'm so glad I finished school Life is such a ball I run the world from City Hall!
Era il 1967 - l'anno della Summer of Love, del primo album dei Doors, del tripudio della psichedelia - e Frank con i suoi Mothers sparigliavano con questo capolavoro, che altri hanno già descritto con una competenza per me inarrivabile (un esempio al volo lo trovate qui). I motivi per cui ho intrapreso questa minidivulgativa cronologica sono due o tre: il primo è, come al solito, che ho nientedadire; il secondo è di carattere celebrativo - a dicembre ricorrono gli anniversari della morte e della nascita di Frank (pbuh); il terzo è per confortare la mia retrograda convinzione che il rock, al giorno d'oggi, abbia veramente poco di originale da esprimere. E me ne dispiaccio, ma sono aperto a suggerimenti, if any.
Well I'm about to get sick From watchin' my TV Been checkin' out the news Until my eyeballs fail to see I mean to say that every day Is just another rotten mess And when it's gonna change, my friend Is anybody's guess
So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin' Hopin' for the best Even think I'll go to prayin' Every time I hear 'em sayin' That there's no way to delay That trouble comin' every day No way to delay That trouble comin' every day
Wednesday I watched the riot . . . Seen the cops out on the street Watched 'em throwin' rocks and stuff And chokin' in the heat Listened to reports About the whisky passin' 'round Seen the smoke and fire And the market burnin' down Watched while everybody On his street would take a turn To stomp and smash and bash and crash And slash and bust and burn
And I'm watchin' and I'm waitin' Hopin' for the best Even think I'll go to prayin' Every time I hear 'em sayin' That there's no way to delay That trouble comin' every day No way to delay That trouble comin' every day
Well, you can cool it, You can heat it . . . 'Cause, baby, I don't need it . . . Take your TV tube and eat it 'N all that phony stuff on sports 'N all the unconfirmed reports You know I watched that rotten box Until my head begin to hurt From checkin' out the way The newsman say they get the dirt Before the guys on channel so-and-so
And further they assert That any show they'll interrupt To bring you news if it comes up They say that if the place blows up They will be the first to tell, Because the boys they got downtown Are workin' hard and doin' swell, And if anybody gets the news Before it hits the street, They say that no one blabs it faster Their coverage can't be beat
And if another woman driver Gets machine-gunned from her seat They'll send some joker with a brownie And you'll see it all complete
So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin' Hopin' for the best Even think I'll go to prayin' Every time I hear 'em sayin' That there's no way to delay That trouble comin' every day No way to delay That trouble comin' every day
Hey, you know something people? I'm not black But there's a whole lots a times I wish I could say I'm not white
Well, I seen the fires burnin' And the local people turnin' On the merchants and the shops Who used to sell their brooms and mops And every other household item Watched the mob just turn and bite 'em And they say it served 'em right Because a few of them are white, And it's the same across the nation Black and white discrimination Yellin' "You can't understand me!" 'N all that other jazz they hand me In the papers and TV and All that mass stupidity That seems to grow more every day Each time you hear some nitwit say He wants to go and do you in Because the color of your skin Just don't appeal to him (No matter if it's black or white) Because he's out for blood tonight
You know we got to sit around at home And watch this thing begin But I bet there won't be many live To see it really end 'Cause the fire in the street Ain't like the fire in the heart And in the eyes of all these people Don't you know that this could start On any street in any town In any state if any clown Decides that now's the time to fight For some ideal he thinks is right And if a million more agree There ain't no Great Society As it applies to you and me Our country isn't free And the law refuses to see If all that you can ever be Is just a lousy janitor Unless your uncle owns a store You know that five in every four Just won't amount to nothin' more Gonna watch the rats go across the floor And make up songs about being poor
