Still Figuring It Out

Slightly odd coincidence: a couple of days ago I was waxing lyrical on the genius of Frank Zappa in this Far Place and today, reading my journal for early March from twenty years ago, I found that I had Mr Zappa and his work on my mind way back then. On 4 March 2001 I note: I got a book on Frank Zappa from the library and it appears to be a worthy tome. Zappa is one of those figures you have to come to terms with. Or maybe he's too big to come to terms with so you have to foster some largeness of vision to stay reasonably comfortable with him around, or at the edges of your awareness. It's odd the way in which there seems something so sane and healthy about the man and his influence; and then two days later I refer to the book I'd been reading that had engendered these reflections: Surprisingly I have completed Neil Slaven's Zappa, Electric Don Quixote. It gives a lot of interesting basic information on Zappa, but is a little lightweight in terms of incisive comment on Zappa as an artist. The abrasive personality of Zappa is enough to provoke lots of thought though.

At a distance of two decades I can say that I still haven't really come to terms with all that FZ rather wonderfully represents, but if anything the music has become even more meaningful and splendid for me. And that's what counts. (By the by, I have almost zero recall of the book in question, which just shows how little I retain of what I read.)