Ax appeal

Zappa's guitar rescues Läther from bombast

by Richard C. Walls

Genius or jerk? The question arises again as one contemplates, enjoys, slogs through, tries to absorb yet another posthumous Frank Zappa release, this time the three-CD, two-and-a-half-hour-long Läther (Rykodisc). It was originally intended as a four-record boxed set to be released in '77; Warner Bros. balked at the project, and much of the material ended up, in one form or another, on four separately released albums -- Zappa in New York ('78), Studio Tan ('78), Sleep Dust ('79), and Orchestral Favorites ('79). This scenario plays well for those who lean toward the genius answer, because everybody knows genius gets screwed, and it gives Läther a kind of Magnificent Ambersons or Greed stature -- an ambitious work, years ahead of its time, and now restored. The original sequencing of the planned four-LP release is followed, and four bonus tracks are added, because now, as opposed to '77, releases can't be big enough.

Another reason for the bonus tracks is that Zappa devotees will have heard much of this before. Which is something liner-booklet writer Simon Prentis puts in the best possible light, suggesting that "you have to keep your eye on the recombinant potential of Zappa's work." As well as your ear, one supposes. Elsewhere, in the same gassy but well-intentioned manner, he writes of "the entire output microstructure" and how we can now thrill at the way it's been "realigned in a series of interlocking pieces, generating new forms and resonances appropriate to a particular circumstance or theme." Nice try, Simon, but I ain't buying. Läther is a typical late-Zappa (meaning post-'74) smorgasbord of adolescent satire, intriguing "orchestral" passages, and masterly guitar solos. It doesn't cohere, and neither, as Prentis would have it, does it newly resonate. Jarring juxtaposition was a Zappa trademark -- obsession even -- but no matter how you toss the salad it's going to maintain its essential, uh, saladness.

Which brings us back to the genius-or-jerk thing. Zappa was an original, a groundbreaker, the type of innovator who after making an initial impact had a coda career consisting mostly of reiterations. The most original music Zappa made during his last 20 years were the chamber-orchestra pieces (not represented on Läther, though "Aviation in Art" is in the mode) -- most everything else sounded vaguely familiar. Which isn't bad, if you like it. The small-group compositions here are particularly satisfying with their scent of the glory days of Hot Rats and Burnt Weeny Sandwich (both 1970). Pieces like "Duke of Orchestral Prunes" and "Revised Music for Guitar & Low Budget Orchestra" don't trot out old inspirations so much as re-imagine them. That means recombinations of Zappa touchstones -- '50s R&B parodies, nimble instrumental melodic sequences, unique, scrabbling interludes for percussion (including marimba and xylophone), and signature voicings of woodwinds with electric guitar and bass.

As far as lyrics go, however, the guy was a misogynist and gay basher. There's no point in quibbling about it. He could be satirical and surreal and very funny, but inevitably -- especially during the late period -- his jokes turned mean and nastily aggressive (on the subject of Zappa's misogyny Prentis, so creative when explicating Läther's significance, is in deep denial). Routines like "The Legend of the Illinois Enema Bandit" and "Punky's Whips" start out in a bracing taboo-busting way but quickly take on a creepy, gloating aura.

Which leaves Zappa the guitarist, and Läther does have a shitload of his consistently inventive guitar work. Zappa the soloist has no other equivalent in any other area of his music -- improvisation appeals to his oceanic sense, time stands still and self-consciousness dissolves. No quick retreats into absurdity (or meanness). He'll flirt with outer textures but can't disguise his baldfaced swaggering Romanticism, the naked emotional outpouring. Ax in hand, Zappa the detached mad musicologist disappears, and the artist heaves throbbing sensitivity. It's something you hardly notice because it's in the tradition -- most classic guitar heroes' best solos sound like martyrs' last speeches. Still, there's a redemptive air to these improvs. And it's not just that they imply depth of feeling -- it's that they make this big messy hunk of Zappa-isms worth hearing.