Frank Zappa's "Packard Goose" and why I'll never be a rock writer

“Rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, in order to provide articles for people who can't read.”

-       Frank Zappa, 1993

 

“The Ultimate Rule ought to be: 'If it sounds GOOD to you, it's bitchen; if it sounds BAD to YOU, it's shitty'”

-       Frank Zappa, The Real Frank Zappa Book

 

Every now and then, some song will come on the ol’ iPod that will really get me thinking, and it’s generally something that I haven’t heard in a while and it’ll usually wind up with a full-fledged attempt for a blog entry, if not a successful one, which this should be.  While cruising down Route 1 in Milford, CT, this gem of a tune from Mr. Zappa entitled “Packard Goose” came on and I was reminded not only of why it’s such a fantastic song but also why I could probably never wind up as a rock and roll journalist for the rest of my life.

 

“Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose

Or the Ronald MacDonald of the nouveau-abstruse

Well fuck all them people, I don't need no excuse

For being what I am

Do you hear me, then?”

 

First, a few words on the song.  Maybe it’s because of the swearing, the fellatio references, or the somewhat overlong guitar solo in the middle (the whole thing is eleven and a half minutes long), but I really can’t figure out why this song isn’t one of the man’s most beloved works, at least not outside his hardcore fanbase.  It comes as the climax and conclusion of the Joe’s Garage saga, where Joe has the great revelation that makes up the core of the song’s content and essentially ends the story (although there’s roughly twenty minutes of album after that, but that’s just another guitar solo and a really stupid (read: great) song about muffin frosting).  Plus, it contains perhaps the greatest mantra of Zappa’s career, read by Dale Bozzio, one that I’ve taken so close to heart that I have it inscribed on the back of my aforementioned iPod, because I’m a cheeseball at heart.

 

“All them rock 'n roll writers is the worst kind of sleaze

Selling punk like some new kind of English disease

Is that the wave of the future?

Aw, spare me please!”

 

So, I also suppose a few words on Frank Zappa are in order as well.  Really, he is probably rock and roll’s greatest philosopher (a title he’d probably despise) and its greatest cynic (a title he’d probably despise a little less).  Despite his somewhat radical ideas, almost anything that came out of his mouth was right on the money.  I’d go on, but instead I’ll just recommend that you all give his pseudo-autobiography The Real Frank Zappa Book a read.  It’s utterly fascinating and almost always hilarious, and it’s not so much an autobiography as it is a discourse on his social, political and philosophical ideas.  But anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that, for all intents and purposes, Zappa may very well fit the prototype of the “punk” – non-conformist, free-thinking, doesn’t-take-shit-from-anybody-especially-not-the-government, musically-gifted, dark-yet-well-humored and autonomous.  Maybe if he were alive now, he’d appear on some celebrity reality TV show and sell his soul to VH1 for eternal interviews like poor John Lydon, but with Zappa (and really no one else because he was so damn sincere), it simply seems disrespectful to imagine such a fate to fall upon him.

 

“Oh no, you gotta go

Who do you write for?

I wanna know

I believe you is the government's whore

And keeping peoples dumb

(I'm really dumb)

Is where you're coming from

And keeping peoples dumb

(I'm really dumb)

Is where you're coming from”

 

And “Packard Goose” is certainly one of his greatest platforms for his punkish ideologies, despite insulting the genre in the second verse way up there (although that’s no doubt a greater stab at the rock and roll writers thank at punk itself).  In the context of Joe’s Garage, the titular character, played by Ike Willis, was just released from prison after plooking a tiny chrome-plated machine that looks like a magical pig with marital aids stuck all over it to death.  Oh yeah, and the big thing is that this all takes place in a post-apocalyptic world where music is banned in all forms.  That’s the important part.  The gay robot sex is stupid in the great Zappa tradition, but Joe’s revelation when he leaves prison is simply, “fuck all those guys” because he can sing whatever he wants to and play whatever he wants to and run through all the beautiful imaginary guitar solos in his head that he wants to, goddamnit.  And that’s the crux of the biscuit right there.

 

“Fuck all them writers with the pen in their hand

I will be more specific so they might understand

They can all kiss my ass

But because it's so grand

They best just stay away

Hey, hey, hey”

 

WARNING: TRAIN IN DANGER OF DERAILING

 

On several different occasions in the last week, I’ve found myself at different bookstores, perusing about and eventually flocking over to the “Music” section of each.  And each time I’ve left, I’ve wound up feeling depressed, even after merely looking at the titles of some of these books.  Clearly, there are some rock writers who really know what they’re talking about, who’ve done all of the research they can and compiled thorough, comprehensive works of near literature. But honestly, how many Pink Floyd biographies does the world really need, especially if there’s already an extremely detailed one written by their drummer (famously the non-partisan one, and also the only one who was in the band for its entire existence…)?  Do we need biographies of bands that are barely into their second decade of activity, still presumably going strong?  And I’m sincerely trying not to offend anyone, but what sort of person spends their life’s work chronicling the life and times of some group that no one will remember ten years from now?  I can’t recall the specific artists, probably because I’ve tried to block them out, but there were some titles that left me wondering, perplexed, why in God’s name someone cares so much about this particular artist.

 

“Hey, Joe, who did you blow?

Moe pushed the button boy

And you went to the show

Better suck a little harder or the shekels won't flow

And I don't mean your thumb

(Don't mean your thumb)

So on your knees you bum

Just tell yourself it's yum

(Yourself it's yum)

And suck it 'till you're numb”

 

But those publications are by and large factual, or as close to being factual as anything else out there.  What are worse than those are those books that push opinions.  You know, list books.  Books that try to falsely, objectively sum up rock and roll culture in fifty albums or one hundred solos or five hundred songs, rendering the presumed objectivity impossible immediately.  Sometimes, these are okay.  I own that 1,001 Albums You Need to Hear Before You Die book because it’s just so ridiculously sprawling that it’s as close to covering all of popular music as anything else I’ll find.  But the sheer multitude of these books is astounding, and yes, ultimately depressing, particularly when they seem to have no damn clue what they’re talking about.  I found Elliott Smith in a book of “bands you’ve never heard of” and even that 1,001 Albums book not only gives the shaft to Zen Arcade but also includes Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit.  Christ, that is almost unforgivable (seriously, the editor has the good judgment to include five Tom Waits albums and all three Dexys Midnight Runners releases, but after 2000, he has no idea what is going on.  Even in 2006, you’d have to live in a cave to think Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit are essential listening experiences.  Gahh).

 

“Journalism's kinda scary

And of it we should be wary”

 

But hey, who am I to subject other lousy opinions to my own?  Like Frankie says, “If it sounds good to you, it’s bitchen.”  So, there.  Well, after that, he also says, “The more your musical experience, the easier it is to define for yourself what you like and what you don't like. American radio listeners, raised on a diet of_____ (fill in the blank), have experienced a musical universe so small they cannot begin to know what they like.”  This is also a valid argument, and there’s no doubt that the rock writers, journalists and critics have some greater degree of authority on the subject than most people (let’s assume that; sometimes I doubt this is true), which I guess gives them a right to get their opinions published under the guise of a definitive guide to trick people into objectivity…?

 

“If you're in the audience and like what we do

Well, we want you to know that we like you all too

But as for the sucker who will write the review

If his mind is prehensile

(Mind is prehensile)

He'll put down his pencil

(Put down his pencil)

And have himself a squat

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

Give it all you got

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

Sit 'n spin until you rot

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

He really needs to squat

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

(Cosmic Utensil)”

 

The bottom line is, I can’t do it.  Maybe rock criticism could be a lucrative outing for me someday, but I could never see it as a profession (then again, I never thought I’d get into the music program at CWRU, and I did, and I also used to think I wouldn’t live past age 30, which I’m doing just fine with).  I wouldn’t want to get stuck either foisting my opinions on people who couldn’t care less or spending my entire life devoted to detailing the minor incidents in a music scene that, again, no one will care about ten years after the book gets published.  Why even blog?  Well, I do personally enjoy writing about music.  It’s something I’m passionate about.  It’s a way to kill time.  It’s a means to try and become a better writer.  Reviews to me aren’t so awful either, particularly because it’s clear that those are merely opinions (and it’s particularly obvious if the writer has a distinct style, which is why Mark Prindle is a genius).  Plus, I just bank on the fact that next to no one reads this, anyway, so I’m not contributing greatly to the sludge.

 

“Information is not knowledge

Knowledge is not wisdom

Wisdom is not truth

Truth is not beauty

Beauty is not love

Love is not music

Music is THE BEST . . .

Wisdom is the domain of the Wis (which is extinct)

Beauty is a French phonetic corruption

Of a short cloth neck ornament

Currently in resurgence . . .”

-       Frank Zappa, “Packard Goose,” 1979

 

And I guess that above passage is what it’s all really about.  Music is the best, there are no objectives and the rock critics are all bullshit artists.  Well, that’s all just speculation.  Until then, let the Bangs’ and the Prindle’s and many lesser authors keep doing their thing and let the artists make the real statements.  Now, pardon me while I go squat on the cosmic utensil.

 

 

In other news: Proof of my theory that no one reads this blog was made evident by the fact that my over-a-year defunct Wilcophilic first blog attempt has been getting way more hits than this.  Why?  Because somehow, google’s top image result for “Wilco A.M.” leads to it.  Life’s a funny thing, innit it?

On Beauty in Ugliness or Music Major Woes

Disclaimer: If this runs off the rails, I'm sorry.  I haven't really planned this entry out well at all.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the common area of my suite, reading for class and listening to music.  The John Peel sessions recording of Pavement's "Date W/ IKEA" found on the deluxe reissue of Brighten the Corners came on.  It sounded awful.  Stephen Malkmus was playing all sorts of wrong notes in his solo.  Spiral Stairs certainly had a string on his guitar that was tuned way too sharply, and his voice was completely out of key.  The whole affair sounded completely ramshackle and reckless.  And I loved it.  And I thought I should write about it.

As a music major, and I guess in the world of classical music in general, emphasis is quite understandably placed on perfection, or I suppose, as close to perfection as is possible.  No wrong notes, everything has to be in tune, everything is formal.  My particularly cynical view (probably shared by millions of like-minded cynics) is that classical performers are expected to perform music with the efficiency and accuracy of a computer.

In the 1980s, Frank Zappa wrote a bunch of classical pieces and had the London Symphony Orchestra perform them for a studio release.  Zappa was extremely unhappy with the results of their performances and very heavily edited the recording in post-production, covering up out of tune instruments and wrong notes and whatnot.  He also simply did not enjoy working with the orchestra musicians, and so for his next set of classical compositions, he decided to do away with the orchestra entirely.  For many of his classical works after this incident, Zappa used a synclavier, an early synthesizer, as a replacement for human musicians.  His synclavier-performed album Jazz From Hell won the man a Grammy.

Now, most people, for better or worse, do not think like Frank Zappa, and the Cleveland Orchestra won't be replaced by robots anytime soon.  This is due to the powerful "human" factor, which Zappa identifies (sorry I can't pull any quotes directly from the book, I can't find my copy right now, so this is all paraphrasing) as some sort of weird notion that music should be performed by humans so that it maintains some sort of warmth or emotion or something like that.  The inherent and obvious problem with this is that humans are flawed.  Big time.  They make mistakes.  They play wrong notes.  Percussionists slowly change tempos.  Oboists squeak.  Trumpeters miss partials.  But it's all caught up in this paradox of perfection that even the greatest orchestras of the world fail to achieve much of the time.

And so, naturally and almost unnoticeably, I've been gravitating toward listening to music with glaring flaws.  Furthermore, I'll gravitate toward music that not only embraces its humanity and imperfection but tries to achieve absolute ugliness.  The whole matter has been extremely liberating, and I've learned an awful lot from it.  Music does not need to be tonal.  More music should contain squalls of deafening, piercing feedback.  Singers do not need to hit notes, nor do their lyrics need to mean something profound or even distinct.  More singers should scream non-sequiturs and obscenities in wrong keys.  Hell, musicians don't even need to know how to play their instruments.  If they've written a good song, then that's what matters.

And it's Zappa's "human" factor that makes such ugly music so appealing.  Steve Albini and Calvin Johnston and David Yow know they're imperfect.  They're not trying to be anything else.  They are going for power, for sincerity, with guts and gore and passion, and that's what matters.  This is why when I hear fellow music majors perform at recital class each week, I almost want to hear them play wrong notes, just to prove that they aren't totally automated just yet.  And so long as they can get into their performances, no matter how poorly they may perform, I can never judge them harshly.  If they've got that passion, and if the music itself is good (which is almost always is), then it's a job well done by me.  (I also can't really judge them because that would be rather hypocritical since I'm not much of a clarinet player by any means but that's a different subject for a different day that will probably never come.)  And all this is why I could never go into the classical music industry.  Oh well.

And then after hearing people try to achieve perfection for an hour, I can go back to my suite and, much to the chagrin of my suitemates (sorry), figure out new ways to make godawful noise on my guitar.  And then later on in band, I'll be one of the few to enjoy the weird, modern, kind of atonal piece just because it's a fresh break from the normal routine.  I'll gladly embrace tritones.  Minor seconds are my best friends in those moments.

Geez, have I just summed up my philosophies on music?  I sure hope not.  That was too damn easy.  I'm sure there will be glaring omissions/contradictions.

I guess my love of noise rock was inevitable.  Zappa's Varése and Stravinsky-isms worked their way into my head, and Tom Waits probably has the worst voice in rock and roll.  It was just a matter of time until feedback would have the same beautiful timbre as the vibrato of a violin.  And now, as it stands, Scratch Acid and Drive Like Jehu sound like Beethoven to me, even if to you it sounds vomit-inducing.  That No Age concert last year was something of an epiphany too, even if I only noticed it long after I left the Grog Shop.

Obviously, I'm not outright rejecting tonality, nor am I listening to the Butthole Surfers just to get a rise out of people.  Many days I need a good shot of Neil Hannon for a good balance.  As I write this, Scott Walker is crooning out of my speakers.  Early Scott Walker.  Not the weird modern atonal stuff.

But, I guess my message is that limiting yourself to preconceived notions of what music should sound like is silly, and even sillier than that is the notion that everything needs to be pitch perfect.  If it has that fervor behind it, and if you dig the composition, then that's what should matter.  Humans should embrace their imperfections and work with them.  There's an absurd amount of beauty to be found in ugliness.  You know all this already.  None of this is profound or revelatory, but maybe we all need a good reminder of all this every now and then.  Basically, if you can't get past the noise of The Birthday Party, you're missing out on a lot of fun.

So, Mr. Kannberg, keep singing out of key.  Don't you dare tune your guitar.  And then maybe, just maybe, can you get Pavement back together?  Sorry, we're all just desperate.

Next entry, I'll stop writing about myself.  It'll be a music review.