R.I.P. Captain Beefheart

Yes, there's a whole world of music out there besides Patty.

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R.I.P. Captain Beefheart

Postby Our Kid » Sat Dec 18, 2010 12:09 am

Don Van Vliet, better known by his stage name - Captain Beefheart, has died.

The blarney refuses to flow yet, so I will simply share one of my favorite things by him. This is from his 1982 album "Ice Cream For Crow". There is no music on this cut, just Don and that voice, rolling along as I sit breathless...

"81" Poop Hatch
My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a silver bar
Big poop hatch with a cotton hatch
Hatch holes that the light shows in and the light shows out
and the little red fence
and the wire and the wood
and the barbs and the berries
and the tires and the bottles and the caruponrims
and the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold

Trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts
Its bell was blocking an ant’s vision
and the mice played in its airholes and valves
A ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece
standing out red and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower
its hum heard just above the ground
Black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree that originally held a tree house full of
a building with one small window

Birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper
"My sun is free from my window," said the god the green dabbers
Rice wires mouse tins and milk muffins
Cereal and stone
Matches and mass and mace and clubs
and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust-jeweled penlet
Cobwebs collect down plaster
run into a hole and find
collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon midway between
telegraph lines

A silver wing
a cloud
a rumbling of a cloud
A crowd of various violins strum from next door
through my wall
into my ear
obviously artificial

Neighbors laugh through sandwiches
Harlem babies their stomachs explode into roars
Their eyes shiny with starvation
Spreckled hula dance on my phonograph
My door rattles windy
Sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear
A typical musician’s nest of thoughts filter through dust speakers

"Why don’t you go home? Oh Blobby, are you great,"
exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock ‘n’ roll tune
and wears a spot I cannot scratch
The surface of a friend
This high book a friend laid on me
On the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still life pond
with plenty of bugs and lily pads
Slurred in mud banks and boulders
Tin cans and raisins warped by thought
Strain on the spoon like a wheat check
check Biff –
cotton popping out of his sleeve
Poop hatch open
Big poop hatch with a cotton hatch
Hatch holes –
gotta pick up the horns
but the head won’t move until it walks
"You could write a song about some kind of emotional problem you are having, but it would not be a good song, in my eyes, until it went through a period of sensitivity to a moment of clarity. Without that moment of clarity to contribute to the song, it's just complaining."

-Joni Mitchell-
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Postby Ian » Fri Dec 31, 2010 12:32 pm

Creativity, individuality, eccentricity? it aint exactly the 21st century X-Factor dream is it?

Maybe the likes of Frank and Don will never be seen again but I was there... I stared down that crazy, wonderful musical kaliedoscope of theirs.

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