IN SEARCH OF AMERICA
captain beefheart and the smithsonian institute blues

from usa [and england] 1 april 1971 ROLLING STONE #79
by langdon winner
is second half january and early february 1971 interview / feature

notes:
  * (partly?) reprinted in SPANISH translation as ¿quién es el capitán beefheart? in mexico 1 august 1971 PIEDRA RODANTE #4
* reproduced in usa 2007 (book+4dvd)boxset ROLLING STONE * COVER TO COVER 40 years of rolling stone 1967-2007

part 1 - THIS is PART 2 - part 3 - part 4

they were determined to leave. the first few to pass by were obviously stoned and had nothing to say for the press beyond. 'man, just let me out of here.' the more coherent evacuees stated politely that they preferred hard rock and could not understand what the captain was doing. 'i would have liked it even better if he'd had a funky organ,' one of them told me.

captain beefheart and his funky organ? forget it.

yet it would be a mistake to assume that grand funk audiences did not like captain beefheart or could not understand what he was about. for about a tenth to a fourth part of the audiences had left, the rest always decided to stick it out and try to enjoy the music. on such occasions beefheart, rollo, morton, drumbo and marimba were able to score their greatest triumphs.

the remaining crowd would start by digging the magic band's distinctive high jinks - ed marimba and drumbo playing pat-a-cake in the middle of their drum duo and so forth. then the people noticed a disturbing fact - these fellows really mean that crazy stuff they're playing. from that point on the real education in music began. the magic band would move through its bag of tricks into higher and higher realms of musical investigation. the crowd would sit frozen like little aborigine tribesmen at their first demonstration of an electric light bulb. when it was all over and the band was about to leave the stage, captain beefheart would step forward to deliver the final blow, a poem - 'little golden birdies'. using his most sepulchral tones to heighten the comic effect and gesturing like some over-done 19th century political orator, he would conclude:

those little golden birdies, look at them / the mystic egypt tozzle dangling down / old sleeper man; sssh! don't wake him / up wand hand broom star was uh obie man / revered throughout the boneknob land / his magic black purse split open let go flocks of them / sssh! sookie singabus / snorred like a red merry-go-round horse / an acid gold bar swirled up and down , up and down / in back of the singabus / and the pantaloon duck white goose-necked quacked: / webcor! webcor!

the audience would continue to sit in confused silence. this is the grand climax? 'webcor, webcor'? after a minute or so, they would rise to their feet and applaud.

if one element held the 'lick my decals off, baby' tour together, it was the magic band's unwavering dedication to the opportunity warners had handed them. beefheart, rollo, morton, marimba, drumbo and their manager, grant gibbs, were determined that this time everything would go right. in contrast to its reputation as a group of incorrigible prima donnas, the magic band on tour was positively unflappable.

a crucial test of this determination arose exactly two weeks into the tour. guitarist winged eel fingerling, the sixth member of the group, decided that he could no longer continue playing the magic band's music. winged eel had long felt ill at ease in the ensemble and his bleak moods had begun to affect the sound of the whole group. he was also upset that the tour gave him little opportunity to find the organic foods he usually ate. in wilkes barre, just after the concert, winged eel announced that he wanted to go back to los angeles and begin playing rock and roll again.

in an intense all-night discussion, fingerling and the magic band talked about the circumstances of his departure. the motel room gradually filled with cigarette smoke and sadness as beefheart asked that the members of the group say exactly what was on their minds. 'we don't want any of this to drag us down on the rest of the tour,' he said with a downward swoop of his arm.

drumbo sat quietly in one corner of the room, staring at the floor, and said very little. ed marimba, a veteran of such conflicts in other groups, pointed out that winged eel was a fine blues and rock guitarist, probably the best around, but if he did not feel at home with the music, then it would be best for everyone if he tried something else.

most depressed of all were rockette morton and zoot horn rollo. they had spent many long hours teaching winged eel the songs and had tried to reach through the guitarist's indelible coolness to make him a friend. their remarks indicated a sense of deep personal loss at realizing that fingerling ultimately did not want to play with them.

the parting was amicable but very definite. with the number of players reduced to five, the band's on-stage performance improved noticeably. on the morning that winged eel flew back to los angeles, beefheart observed: 'this has happened to me many times before. after six years in the music business i'm beginning to wonder if it's possible to have two guitarists in the same group.'

as winged eel fingerling boarded the bus which would take him to the airport, the warner brothers film crew caught him mumbling to himself: 'i can be as weird as anyone wants me to be. fucking weirdos..., fucking weirdos.'

*

most delighted of all was beefheart himself. after each performance he would saunter into the crowd and talk endlessly to anyone who seemed interested. most of those who came forward were young fans who wanted to learn the secrets behind his music. 'how long do you practice your horn every day?,' they would ask.

'i never practice at all,' he would respond with an impish look in his eye. 'every time i play my horn i discover new things in there. if i practiced, they wouldn't be new anymore, would they?'

picture by jeff albertson

without exception the next question to come up would concern the use of drugs. 'i've heard that no-one in this group uses dope at all. is that true?' beefheart would suddenly wax very serious. 'no, we don't use that stuff. our music comes from merely breathing in and breathing out, do you know what i mean? you aren't using it anymore, are you? god, you don't need it. it's just another trap. don't kid yourself. you're not as hung up as you'd like to think you are. there are too many people these days who wear their afflictions like a badge. their little marry wanna speed afflictions.' the captain would sigh and make a badge sign with his thumb and forefinger. 'it's just too corny.'

in some areas of the country the drug question seemed less important than another major scourge - the vietnam war. in alexandria, virginia beefheart encountered jerry and ron, two young 'green berets' who had just returned from vietnam. it soon became apparent that the men adequately represented the spirit of the 'new u.s. army', namely: 'get the hell out!'

as the captain nodded his high hat in agreement, jerry and ron told him: 'everybody's trying to weasel a way home now. they realize that it's all a joke.' they went on to say that they had spent the weekend trying to drown their memories of 'nam' in three fifths of booze. 'yes,' said the captain sympathetically, 'i suppose you'll need that much just to forget,' and handed them a freshly autographed copy of his album. 'maybe this will help too.'

beefheart's talents as a conversationalist and raconteur were particularly evident in his meetings with the press. availing himself to any and all requests for interviews, beefheart talked to reporters whenever and wherever they wanted. it was here that a number of incredible misunderstandings arose. possibly because of the requirements of their trade, media representatives are amazingly literal. they ask questions in straight lines and struggle tirelessly to keep the lines in order. beefheart, on the other hand, speaks in an inventive conversational style which delights in bending all lines and squares into broad, sweeping circles. he holds that this is the best way to reveal the truth without at the same time torturing beauty. in new york city the beefheartian way of using language succeeded in baffling members of both the establishment and underground media.

the first incident took place at radio station w.o.r., a middle-of-the-road talk and music operation in the middle of manhattan. beefheart was scheduled to give an interview concerning his visit to the east coast. he was greeted by the announcer in charge, john wingate, a lanky middle-aged gentleman with an affected english accent who quoted frequently from beaudelaire and moliere and whose appearance shouted 'tweed'.

'now, whatever you do,' wingate cautioned, 'stay away from the word 'fuck'. it takes us at least six weeks to get out from under the load of paper work when that gets by. the f.c.c. (federal communications commission; certain kind of media watch-dogs - t.t.), you know.' 'i see what you mean,' replied beefheart sternly. 'add to that a man and a woman ashamed and you've got a war for eternity.'

wingate seemed not to have heard the response. he went about adjusting the microphones and quoted further from beaudelaire. 'how shall we introduce you?,' he chuckled. 'here's captain beefheart, the well-known lesbian? heh, heh, heh.' beefheart grimaced and looked to the corner of the room where his wife, jan, was sitting. 'ah, do that and i'll need eight or ten cockatoos with little rhinestone neck-laces.'

once again wingate's nervous system simply failed to process the message he had just received. the microphones were ready now and he had decided on the interview slant: 'here's one of the men who lead our youth, bringing about the revolution in today's changing life styles.' the idea limped across the floor onto his notepad, leaving a trail of bloodstains on the carpet.

(*)

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