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404Запрашиваемая страница отсутствует на нашем сайте. Possibly the greatest rock musician of all times, and certainly one of the most original and influential geniuses of the 20th century, Don Van Vliet, also known as Captain Beefheart, completely erased all musical dogmas and simply reinvented music on his own terms. Van Vliet has forged a musical language that draws upon various recklessly diverse sources, such as the folklore of fairy tales, the abstract paintings of Jackson Pollock, the free association of surrealism, the symphonies of Charles Ives, children nursery rhymes, Van Gogh, free-jazz, and commercial music. But he used the Delta blues, in its most primitive and roughest expression, as the foundation and scaffolding of his artistic construction. At the same time, Van Vliet performed a prodigious operation of physical and psychological abuse on those sources, and in particular on the blues, obtaining the musical equivalent of a frightful visual deformation, a sort of demented exaggeration of the artistic dogmas of surrealism, Dadaism and cubism. In order to realize that crazy deformation, that spatial-temporal warping, that apocalyptic and blasphemous perspective, Van Vliet exploited his outrageous vocal versatility that allowed him to impersonate all kinds of different and extreme characters in a subliminal performance of schizophrenia, often within the same piece, and to visit states of psychic depression and hallucination with all the grace of a charging rhinoceros. While a great part of rock music was assuming a mythological quality that ultimately reduced itself to shamanism and alchemy in opposition to distressing reality, Van Vliet proceeded in the opposite direction, emphasizing the psychic imbalances caused by that reality, pushing them to the excess of madness, feeding on them like a spiritual cannibal.
Van Vliet laid a theoretical bridge between the animal that still churns within our genetic inventory and the synthetic man of the year two thousand. His was a form of hyper-realism grafted to the anxieties and phobias of the atomic age, a hyper-realism that surged in a grotesquely pagan representation of that era. Van Vliet also differed from the rest of the musical scene in the mundane aspect: Van Vliet who was one of the most colorful characters of 60s rock, later on became one of its most reclusive characters. Born in Glendale, near Los Angeles, in 1941, Don Van Vliet moved to Lancaster, in the Mojave Desert, in 1954. Safe As Milk, with a young Ry Cooder on guitar, delivers the sugar-coated version of Beefheart’s ideas. Compressed into three-minute song format, the primitive blues of the Magic Band acquires comical connotations, typical of the subculture of the Freaks. The instrumental and vocal impetuosity, barely contained, releases its passions in a caricature of commercial pop music. The record presents itself as a drift of relics that survived some devastating force.
Van Vliet died at a hospital in Arcata, California on Friday, December 17, 2010. Most modern milk comes from more recent breeds of cattle producing milk abnormally high in A1 beta casein. I’ve sort of wondered about Goat’s Milk. I am now out of debts and experiencing the most amazing good fortune with lottery. I buy delicious raw milk and cream from my dairy farmer.
Un’altra differenza superficiale e` nella strumentazione, aumentata ai fiati. Homogenization is a process whereby all the fat molecules are mechanically forced to be the same size. My name is Mr Luis Bright,i live in mexico,and I’m happily married with a lovely wife and three children. It was built in the early 6th century on the site of a palaeochristian necropolis. Van Vliet claimed that he never attended public school, alleging “half a day of kindergarten” to be the extent of his formal education and saying that “if you want to be a different fish, you’ve got to jump out of the school”.
The occult personality of the leader communicates a Dadaist touch and a hallucinogenic joy that from time to time reminds one of a bluesy Zappa, or alternately, a blues-rock version of the Holy Modal Rounders. Perhaps the most hilarious piece is the supersonic blues Sure Nuff’ n Yes I Do, another shouted song where the traditional riff of Rollin’ And Tumblin’ sustains a breath-taking cadence. The comic element is indeed the epicenter of the obsessive rhythm and blues Dropout Boogie, where the threatening energy of a sinister syncopated riff couples together a demonic growl and a vaudeville xylophone, and Zig Zag Wanderer, where the blues shouter’s heritage is more obvious, backed by a soul chorus. More faithful to tradition are the doo-wop vocalizations in I’ m Glads, and the melodramatic sentimentality of Autumn Child. Some styles and attitudes are more abusively mocked than others. A relentless drive powers Beefheart’s vocal histrionics, as he changes personality from one cut to the next, as he shifts from caricature to caricature. The trasformation ends in the lycanthropic tap dance Yellow Brick Road, with xylophone and Broadway-style chorus, and in Abba Zaba,a tropical sabbath, with African tribal dance rhythms, a jazz solo for bass, and Hawaiian slide guitar.
Although in this period the group produced great freak-music, almost no one noticed. Well received only by the few radicals in his circle, Beefheart felt like a solitary cactus in a desert full of quick sand. He had the folk-rock of the Byrds – followed by San Francisco flower-power – on his tail, while the Mersey Beat was spreading from coast to coast. His tour failed miserably and the record executives bolted. The long jams on the album give a hint of how the Magic Band played live. Mirror Man contains four long cuts. The nineteen minute long Tarotplane is a poster for Beefheart’s creative blues.
The great bedlam of guitars and percussion, and the “shenai” that Van Vliet blows atonally, shapes an aesthetic of ugliness that could serve as a prelude to a revolutionary non-music, or anti-music, if Beefheart, distant light years from any form of historical or artistic musical consciousness, were not so opposed to intellectual labels. The lyrics of these cuts, in the brief parts that are sung, are surrealistic and intentionally idiotic, a call to infantilism and acid trips in service of a musical theater of the absurd. This music is the most faithful expression of the Freak culture, of its marginalization more than its rebellion, of its inexhaustible creativity, of its academic disgust, of its infantile ferocity, of its desecrating vision of the world. The end of Mirror Man consists of fifteen minutes of anarchical improvisation, a free-jazz jam for four wrecked blues men, in which the instrument that astonishes the most, in its brilliant genius, is Beefheart’s voice. The poison, the spasms, the pain of that voice showcases the most impossible sonic range, a black, visceral vocalization like that of a demented epileptic on the verge of a crisis.
As for the collaborators, John French behaves like a child who has just discovered a set of drums and is delighted to bang on them in any way possible, without a moment of pause, but also with virtually endless eclecticism and fine jazz intuition, while Alex St. Clair follows at his own pace, imperturbable, skipping along with his warped slide guitar, seldom aware that he belongs in the band, and engaging every so often in infernal duels with the sooty, choked harmonica of the leader. Ry Cooder, is ruined by the effects added by the producer during the mix, that render unlistenable a great part of the work. Van Vliet ultimately disavowed the album. Beefheat’s rejection notwithstanding, the album ventures beyond every previous experiment: vocal gargles, orchestral swoons, and cannibalistic rhythms are used to distort the blues, iliciting the atmosphere of an infernal happening.