Hungry and Weird

Since the 1969 release of Trout Mask Replica, the artist dubbed Captain Beefheart has incarnated the gold standard by which "weirdness" in rock has been calibrated. And with a suitcase like that to lug around, no wonder Don Van Vliet put out his 12th and final album in 1982, before retiring to the high desert or coastal mountains or wherever to paint his broad-stroke nature abstractions and fade away. Nevertheless, any band with stuttered beats, hyperactively ping-ponging blues guitars, and/or in scrutable lyrics growled by a veinbusting bohunk would henceforth be described as "Beefheartian" (I once foolishly bought a James record—a James record—on the basis of this dubious comparison).

So shouldn't the arrival of a lavishly packaged and generously annotated five-CD collection of obscure and inaccessible tracks and Quicktime footage devoted to the weirdo's weirdo—unlike his hero Salvador Dalí, Beefheart always denied his own care fully cultivated eccentricities—provide the opportunity for a thick critical polish of the increasingly bulbous Beef heart mystique? Yes and no.

Grow Fins, packed with rarities recorded between 1965 and 1982, and released on John Fahey's avant-primitive Revenant label, arrives in tandem with a belated, shall we say, adjustment of the myth. Contrary to the hagiography set forth in numerous Beefheart interviews and via such standard references as The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll, Trout Mask Replica did not spring wholly composed from the Captain's piano in precisely eight and a half hours. And no, Van Vliet did not spend the following year teaching it to the Magic Band note by arduous note. John "Drumbo" French's 80-page Grow Fins essay ("There Ain't No Santa Claus on the Evening Stage") and a 1998 book (Lunar Notes) by guitarist Bill "Zoot Horn Rollo" Hark leroad relate a sadder and more interesting story than that, which the music on Grow Fins puts in thoroughly revisionist perspective.


Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band
Grow Fins: Rarities [19651982]

The Dust Blows Forward Rhino

Disc one of Grow Fins is devoted to acetates and demos recorded prior to the first CB&HMB album, 1967's Safe as Milk. Born in 1941, Beefheart steeped himself in r&b and the blues alongside high-school pal Frank Zappa. By the mid '60s he had al ready ditched his deemed name in homage to icons like Howlin' Wolf (né Chester Burnett), whose vocal chops Beefheart could both uncannily mimic and mutate (as demonstrated by a '66 live version of Wolf's "Evil Is Going On"). Beefheart appeared to desire nothing less than to wrest urban blues back from the Brit pop invaders of the day, and make it into something stranger, jazzier, more fidgety—yet accessible. But he couldn't do it alone. Opinions differ about whether or not Ry Cooder was the first Magic Band member charged with translating Beefheart's musically naive concepts to the rest of the band, which even then was in nearly constant flux.

Considered too "negative" by the band's label, Safe as Milk was foisted on Buddha Records by A&M. A strange and still discomforting mixture of pop, blues, soul, and mike-shattering vocals, Milk set the stage for the angular boogie and harp-driven psychedelia of Strictly Personal and Mirror Man, whose collective tracks were recorded just a few months later in '67 with new guitarist Jeff "Antennae Jimmy Semens" Cotton. (Out takes and alternate tracks from those albums can be found on Buddha's excellently remastered new reissues of Milk and The Mirror Man Sessions. For all the restored integrity, however, I still miss the freaky-deaky yet strangely appropriate "phasing" effects then-manager Bob Krasnow added to Strictly Personal.) The two long electric blues jams on Grow Fins's second and finest disc create a majestic creative bridge between the relative safety of Milk and the Trout Mask epiphany. Except for occasional flashes of Zappa-esque derision for the hippie scene (e.g., "Trust Us"), '67 and '68 find Beefheart and the other acid-gobblers in his band (no, they didn't conceive it all on the natch) thoroughly enmeshed in Northern California's cosmic-roots zeitgeist. The 11-minute "Rollin' and Tumblin"' on Fins has much the same atomic- cannon excitement of, say, the Grateful Dead's orgasmic "Viola Lee Blues" jams of that era.

The following year, however, brought Altamont, Charles Manson, Nixon's inauguration, and Trout Mask Replica. This reinvention of the wheel must have been a blast to record, right? Wrong. "My three best friends and I became ensnared in an atmosphere of fear, dread, and misery," recalled John French in an interview in the British psychzine Ptolemaic Terrascope. Over the course of a year, between marathon sessions of brain washing, emotional abuse, and even beatings, French translated his guru-bandleader's whistled, piano-plinked, and sung ideas into musical notation, added his own input, and subsequently taught the result to the rest of the group. Fourteen-hour rehearsal days of "drudgery and grinding poverty" (French) were the norm, with the Captain making only intermittent appearances to offer executive opinion. "I may be hungry, but I sure ain't weird," he sang in "Safe as Milk." His band, however, was both.

Grow Fins's third disc contains the 1969 "house sessions" that tarnish the virgin-birth version of Trout Mask's conception. Improvisation was shunned, except for the Captain's neolithic soprano saxophone and mighty blues harp. But the players translated their own substantial talents into highly complex yet rigorously reproduced constructs of overlapping time and key signatures that burst into existence like one brief sun zoom spark after another. Minus the Captain's ecopoetry and larger-than-life presence, you get a strong feel for the antlike devotion and almost fascistic sense of freedom he instilled.

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