Frank Zappa: Sheik Yerbouti
By Richard C. Walls
FRANK ZAPPA
Sheik Yerbouti
(Zappa)
It’s not surprising and only a little disappointing that Zappa’s new two-record set deals with the same old shit. Not surprising because it’s been a long time since Zappa surprised anyone and a little disappointing because, after all, this is his own label and everybody knows how, throughout his recording career, Frank has urinal about not having enough control over his product. It’s disappointing to see such a solid excuse for grubby records disappear.
But even tho it’s the same old shit, some of it is fairly good shit. Considering that it’s very difficult, almost impossible, to be effectively outrageous these days, what with most constant media suckers having callouses on their tastebuds and a brutalized palate, and considering that the stance of Zappa’s satire, the hip sneering at straight ineptness and the amused leering at sexual aberrations, is continually becoming more dated more rapidly, then it’s surprising that the old grouser can pump up his phlegm as often as he does. A piece of inflated slime like “Jewish Princess,” wherein Zappa yearns for “A horney little Jewish Princes / With a garlic aroma that could level Tacoma,” and weds the snide turn of phrase with a hookish melody, shows that his ability to make crassness hip hasn’t entirely deserted him. But more often the scuzz is boring. The anal barbs of “Bobby Brown” and “Broken Hearts Are For Assholes” take a too childish delight in being naughty to satisfy as jokes, let alone songs, while the disco parody at “Dancin’ Fool” and the punk parodies “I’m So Cute” and “Trying To Grow A Chin” don’t have as much humor as the real thing. Disco is much too silly for light spoofing and punk’s conscious anarchy undermines the efforts to make it look pointless.
When Zappa’s not trying to be particularly funny, just surrealistic, he’s more successful. “Baby Snakes” and “City Of Tiny Lights” generate a pleasant mindless energy and make a pleasing nonlinear musical statement simply because they are independent of the kind of extraneous attachment to an idea that keeps the satires from taking off. It’s here that Zappa’s originality can flow freely, allowing him to create his own sublimely silly world without worrying about making any points.
The instrumental cuts, which feature Zappa’s guitar, are as disappointing as the comedy stuff. He’s done it all, cleaner and with more ideas, elsewhere.
It’s a pretty mixed bag, but the dull cuts outnumber the solid ones. The eclecticism that once made Zappa’s music seem brilliantly kaleidoscopic now make it seem hopelessly limited. The widely scattered shots keep hitting the same targets. And the targets quit moving years ago.