How Frank Zappa turned me from a 98-pound weakling

into a 98-pound weakling obsessed with Frank Zappa

By Adam Goldstein
goldstea@mscd.edu

I will never forget the lunch period in ninth grade when I discovered Frank Zappa.

I was a socially awkward and alienated teen in the midst of puberty, a perfect target for any number of petulant performers or genres. On that day at the local record store, however, I would find an artist who did not stand for morose nonsense.

As I thumbed through the CD racks, I stumbled upon a mustachioed face gazing earnestly from an Arabian headdress. The title Sheik Yerbouti was scrawled on the corner. I had heard of Frank Zappa and, impressed by the novelty and humor of the cover, I paid the requisite $13.

I instantly fell in love. The record boasted a brand of music filled with contradictions: Bawdy humor coexisted with stern musicality, inspired improvisation functioned over precisely orchestrated movements, raucous and raunchy guitar rang over vibrant and dense xylophone lines. This was music that was utterly insane even as it was irrefutably logical.

As I delved deeper and deeper into Zappa's vast oeuvre and learned about his unconventional career, I felt more and more that I'd found an undiscovered gem of American music. With a discography that included over 70 official releases, his work seemed a secret waiting to be unlocked, a mystery that beckoned to be solved.

With influences that varied from Igor Stravinsky to Johnny "Guitar" Watson, Zappa's dense musical vocabulary spoke to my diverse roots even as it opened new doors. Along with Frank's records, I found I was buying albums by Edgar Varese, Eric Dolphy, Guitar Slim, Bela Bartok and Georges Bizet.

At the heart of my fascination was Zappa's purity as an artist. Here was a prolific and profound composer, who didn't need drugs to be weird. Here was a self-proclaimed freak who managed to make a living as an independent artist for 30 years and never had to compromise his integrity. Here was first-rate musician, a guitarist who could keep a 12-minute solo fresh and engaging, someone who could conduct the London Symphony Orchestra just as easily as he could lead an onstage dance contest at a rock show. Here was someone who defied the corporate rock scene, who fought for the rights to his own master tapes and successfully ran his own record company for half of his career.

For all my passion, for all my interest, it seemed no one else got it. Friends would sport confused expressions before telling me to turn the music off when I blasted Frank in my car. Others would be nonplussed by dirty lyrics or strange instrumentation. It seemed more and more as if I was in on some grand musical secret, some hidden genius only a select few could understand.

Eleven years after that fateful freshman day, I am still thankful for all I have learned from Frank Zappa. As a music lover, I still marvel at the complexity of his compositions. As a guitarist, I still shudder at the sheer beauty of his runs. As someone who still feels socially awkward, I am constantly grateful for the defiant and honest example he set as an artist and as a public figure.

Thanks, Frank.