Zappastan is an enormous country.
Huge. It’s like four airport hubs and a mule just to get through the studio recordings alone. And if you’re not rockin’ a high-speed train, you will not get from 1966 to June 1971 in any kind of reasonable fashion.
And, as big large countries can be, Zappastan is pretty sectarian. Residents of the place often pick a village, toss their tents there, and do not venture into other locations. Those who, for example, live in the hamlet of Apostrophe might scoff and cough and be all like, what is UP with this guy from Utopia? (And then they’ll giggle and tell you not to eat the yellow snow.) Some of us are strictly of the Mothers-land, and while we might have visited Montana on occasion, we do not intend to settle down and start to farming dental floss.
But, once a year, there is a time in Zappastan when we can, and, indeed, are encouraged to move around the place a little. It is a good time to indulge in other cultures in this great and varied nation, to dance their dances and to wear their traditional garb, and, indeed, to listen to their fucking music.
Because. As we all know. Music is the best.
That is what I wanted to do this Zappadan holiday. I wanted to reach and to listen to a Zappa piece that has always eluded me, one that I knew I would find challenging and illuminating and that every damned year I go, oh, I’d love to listen to that, but, like Emperor Joseph II in “Amadeus,” I’m all like, there are simply too many notes, that’s all. Just cut a few and it will be perfect.
To which I’m sure Frank replies, which few did you have in mind, you asshole?
That’s right. This year for Zappadan, I’m listening to The Yellow Shark.
We’ll start tomorrow. See you then.