I know I have.
I seem to imagine I first saw Frank with the Mothers in 1966 in the East Village at a place called the Balloon Farm that was near a place that was later accidentally leveled when a bomb factory run by the Weather Underground exploded in a house where a poet named James Merrill, son of one of the Merrill Lynch founders, once lived.
The blast killed Theodore Gold, Diana Oughton, and Terry Robbins. Kathy Boudin and Cathlyn Wilkerson (daughter of the owner of the building) escaped, naked, by stealing clothes from a neighbor who thought they were victims. Some assholes still think the Weathermen were evil doers. Of course, most people are ignorant assholes.
Dustin Hoffman, starring in Little Big Man that year, lived next door at the time of bombing and Bob Dylan was never questioned about his responsibility for the group who took its name from Subterranean Homesick Blues, which had other more memorable names for revolutionary groups in it, such as the coon-skip cap, Maggie says, watch the parkin meters, short pants romance, the handle vandals, and twenty years of schoolin.
I also saw Frank with various personnel in New York over the years at the Garrick, the Paladium, the Factor (in the Bronx, where he performed Aida), and Stonybrook, but I basically left NYC for good in the early 70s, although I think I caught Halloween, Mother's Day, and Christmas shows up there into the mid-70s.
The New York shows were the best ones I ever saw. I remember being lucky enough one night to hear Black Page four times before Frank was satified he had what he needed on tape.
I also saw one or another of his bands in South Carolina, Georgia, and Oregon. I was never disappointed. I had tickets for the final Broadway The Hard Way Tour that was cancelled before he made it to Portland.
Back to the first concert, it was a small venue, and Frank's opening act was Autosalvage, which presented the excuse for having the entire back of the stage occupied with various pieces of automotive gear that Billy Mundi, Roy Estrada, Jimmy Carl Black, and maybe even Artie Tripp got to fuck with. There were two complete drum kits on stage, along with an assortment of kettles and timpanis. I was in heaven. I always wanted to be deaf.
I remember in particular hearing versions of Trouble Coming Every Day, Call Any Vegetable, and The Invocation and Ritual Dance of the Young Pumpkin (for which there are no lyrics) that had people running from the theatre to puke. I still listen to his tunes every day, and although I appreciate the beauty of music, it's the bestial audacity of the lyrics and their unwavering commitment to his individual vision that keep me enthralled. I can't share this music in the same room with many people because it so fucking offensive, but beauty is like that.
It took many years for Mrs. Faustroll to play his shit on her own, and it always makes me smile to come home to hear The Illinois Enema Bandit screaming through the windows on the front porch.
When Zappa kicked the bucket in 1993, my only living mentors were Charles Bukowski, W. S. Merwin, and Kurt Vonnegut. Only one of those survives today. None of them particularly liked my work, although Buk occasionally sent a postcard telling me to kill myself, which I appreciated for the sincere feeling it expressed at a time in my life when I thought I wasn't important enough to warrant a swift boat up the ass.
Lest there be any confusion concerning my lasting commitment to introducing new listeners to the music of Frank Zappa, I wrote this post while listening to Harbinger from Mike Oldfield's studio version of The Music of the Spheres while watching the Village People ciip on Amy Oops. Try it. If you don't like it, write me about how bad the experience was. It made my penis limper than usual.
Tomorrow: my predictions for your financial and romantics entanglements perhaps wrapped in a vicious Twitter virus and smothered in sauteed sweet onions.