Over Lumpy Gravy en het ontstaan is elders op
deze site nog veel meer te lezen, klik hier:
Op die set staat ook de originele Capitol Release en meer extra's.
Ook op de LM-set te vinden is de originele Capitol hoes met het
onleesbare verhaal. De vraag, nu het leesbaar is, is af dat nu veel
toevoegt en welke grillige afwijking hieraan ten grondslag ligt.
Respect voor je ouders OK, maar op deze wijze? Tijd voor Sigmund!
De oude bekende Lumpy Gravy ken ik als elpee nog met het erg foute opschrift op de voorkant: Francis Vincent Zappa. Zappa dacht dat hij zo genoemd was door zijn vader en hij vond dat vreselijk. Later bleek dat niet zo te zijn en is het van alle toekomstige hoezen verwijderd. Lumpy bestond - ooit - uit twee kanten met elk een deel, resp. 1 en 2. Het was een collage van geluiden, opmerkingen, muziekstukken en dito stijlen. Een amalgaam aan gebeurtenissen en boeiend vanaf de eerste groef tot en met de laatste. Grijsgedraaid heb ik die plaat. Later kregen stukjes namen of werden herkend en nog later zelfs herleid tot pre-Mothers/Zappa muziek (surf).
De gesprekken vonden plaats in een vleugel met een zandzak op de
pedalen voor de vibraties van de snaren. In feite zo bizar dat pas
met de technieken uit de jaren '90 verder gewerkt kon worden met dat
idee (Civilization aka Lumpy Gravy Phase III) . Die gesprekken gaan
over werken, benzinestations, Zappa's theorie over de Big Note
(alles in dit universum is muziek, immers een grote noot die
vibreert geeft trillingen en dat is ook muziek - een John Cage
invloed...). Op de binnenhoes in echte Cal Schenkel-collagestijl
zien we Schenkel zelf met een arm om een etalagepop en Sid Sharp in
dirigeerpose. Tussendoor gemonteerd een negatief beeld van Roy
Estrada om nog eens extra de link naar We're Only in it for the
Money te benadrukken. Lumpy was immers Phase 2 van die plaat. De
titel schijnt te maken te hebben met een reclame voor instant-saus
van: Aloma Linda Gravy Quick, en als je dan niet goed roert krijg je
Lumpy Gravy is basic Zappa en verplicht voor iedereen die iets meer met diens muziek wil.
het verhaal in de originele Capitol-versie - niet uitgebracht, misschien maar beter ook - zie beneden
It has been raining all night. A black car is driving through the damp woods. The wind is blowing and it is chilly outside. We can hear the rain. We cannot hear the car.
There are two people in the car. One of them is dead. He is 19 years old. We can see what is left of his eyes. It is as if some strange, soft instrument had struck them, causing the eyelids to become translucent and gray and swollen. We can barely see the pupils beneath. His name is Bernie and he used to work on a farm.
It is very late. The silent black car finds it way through a maze of hastily planned streets in a tract of new homes. The Cinderella Gingerbread Wonderland Estates are all empty. The little plywood curlycues on the eaves of each dream castle are splitting and peeling. The stingily spaced nails that hold them on are bleeding rust. The windows are mostly broken. The tract is held together by chicken wire and cheesy strands of cotton string and screaming neon pennants ... in every direction from one to another and up and down and sideways: little plastic triangles on those marvelous never-rot cables, from house to house, providing God knows how much necessary structural support.
The silent black car stops at a turquoise house on the corner of Wanda Parkway and Thornhaven Court. The driver gets out and walks slowly to the door of the turquoise house. It is still raining. He opens the buckled plywood door and turns on the living room light. We can see from outside that the turquoise house is furnished. The driver beckons from the doorway. Bernie gets out of the silent black car and walks up the path to the door, carefully avoiding the muddy spots between each uniquely wonderful, hand-cast, circular concrete stepping-stone. We hear some frogs and the rain.
By the light of a lamp shaded like a covered wagon with a
bucking bronco painted on the shade, we see the grim face of the
driver clearly for the first time. He looks like everyone's personal
image of their father when he gets mad. He speaks: "Bernie ... why'd
you run away, son?" Bernie doesn't look at him. He shuffles his feet
a bit and looks around the room at the furniture ... through his
translucent bulges. He seems to find things just as they were
before ... the naugahyde vibrator chair, the three color
reproduction of the Grand Canyon in the embossed maple frame over
the brown sectional with metallic threads that used to get caught on
the buckles of his jacket, the walnut step-end tables with the old
magazines and doilies and the Kleenex box with the matching mahogany
low-boy coffee table with the contrasting doilies and book matches
from all over in a little brass silent butler. He gets up and goes
into the kitchen, silently thinking to himself (and hating to admit
it) that it felt good to sit in the old green platform rocker again,
but he knew he needed a Coke.
Bernie nervously gulps his Coca-Cola. It foams within him as he turns to answer, "I dunno, dad ... I just dunno. Why'd you have to go and use that thing on my eyes? They hurt sort of ... and I feel weird all over." Another hearty snort of his beverage and Bernie continues, "How'd you find me?"
"Don't ask me questions! I'm askin' the questions! Tell me why you'd run off like that! Wasn't this a good enough home for you? Everything in here: brand new ... we never had brand new stuff before we moved in here! I work my butt off at that place for the government and get enough money to buy all new stuff ... new house, new furniture, portable record player ... everything like we never had before ... and you go work on a farm!"
"I had to, Pop. I missed things they used to be when we lived in the country. I missed the animals and everything. I wish you'd never taken that job in the Alabama plant ... then they never would of transferred you here ... and I never would of had to run off and get caught ... and never of got my eyes hurt. Did Mom buy an baloney this week?"
"It's in there somewhere. You know what I did to your Mom?"
Bernie bites through the tough plastic baloney wrapper with an expertise known only to people who love baloney and hate to get a knife out to cut it open. Years have taught him just where to bite it. We hear the plastic rip and the teeny-weeny "poof" of the vacuum breaking. Bernie takes three slices and rolls them up. While chewing, he says, "Whatdja do to her? Her eyes like me?"
"She wanted me to quit and move back. I got her in the eyes and in the mouth ... two weeks ago. She won't do shopping any more so Sharva's got to do it."
"Sharva buy this? How come she got this brand?"
"She might've been worried about you and Mama. It's hard on a kid seein' her Mama's eyes and mouth like that. I give her a little more for her allowance now. She bought a basket for her bike so she won't have to carry everything from the supermarket. She makes it in three trips now."
Bernie takes three more slices of baloney and rolls them up, only this time he gets the mustard out and dips them in while he eats them. "Boy, I sure feel funny. I don't know whether I'm gettin' sick or I been sick or what. What's her mouth look like?"
"That's a hell of a thing to ask about! What you think it
looks like? It's all puffed up ... and grayish-like ... and you can
sort of see her teeth all the way up to the roots ... and both of
her eyes are like yours ... and she's already made THE TRANSITION.
We get along a lot better now, so don't you go smartin' off about
her! Your transition's due shortly too. I'll teach you your
DISCIPLINE and MANNERS and RESPECT FOR YOUR ELDERS."
dutch tekst 2010 Paul Lemmens
orginal texts © Frank Zappa