In one of his last on-stage performances, Frank Zappa leaves us a beautiful and extended solo for the memory banks: his guitar gently weeps; his cigarette smolders away. It's hard to listen to this and not feel a familiar lump-in-the-throat. Before I came across this clip, my boys and I watched a segment of FZ's appearance before Congress during which he argued that words were simply words; that anything and everything--from a hairdo to a phrase to a certain-colored chair--could potentially set off the antisocial behavior of an insane person; and that, at the end of the day, censorship was wrong.
And that's the main reason for the familiar lump-in-the-throat, really: we need Frank's voice now more than ever, but upon hearing his beautiful music, we're reminded, all over again, that he's gone.
And that we're alone (but not really), so we're going to have to keep fighting the same fights without him (but not really).
Bon Weekend, everyone.
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