Nothing, sweet nothing, sounds the foghorn of incoming marijuana haze like the gong and a whispered “Zig Zag,” blasting us, however gently, into the frozen-fogged world of Captain Beefheart’s streetrat take on “Puff the Magic Dragon.”Freakout go-go beats and guitar figures on repeat couple with the lost hipster Beefheart bark, circa someone’s Summer of Love, reading toilet paper-poetry to hazy demon-chick runaways, who may or may not crash out with The Family, past Topanga, in some squatter pad where the bath water is heated on engine blocks.
One, two, three bass lines curl their fingers through that cat’s cradle of Sears catalog fuzztone guitars, popping bastard shapes in and out of our aural view. A hippie Greek chorus warbles on in, egging on and sanctifying the over-extended billion-bar blues ruminations on locking eyes with the man and the mother and seeing no relation.
Forget the lights and the nights. De-seed, de-stem. Fuck this scene, man, I’m checkin’ out. I’m gonna roll up the coast and find a commune to drop in. I’m taking Safe as Milk, you can keep Revolver.
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