More coverage of the recently departed Don Van Vliet, aka Captain Beefheart.

Here’s a nice remembrance in the New York Times.

Finally, if you’re going to read just one piece to understand the appeal of Captain Beefheart to those relatively few of us who care, this is the one to read. Writing for the Los Angeles Times, Randall Roberts notes: “on first listen the best of Van Vliet and band, even 40 years later, sounds wrong – but only in the way that, say, Marcel Duchamp’s cubist painting ‘Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2’ looks wrong.” That’s exactly right. As Van Vliet noted in a radio interview 30 years ago, the 4/4 mandate of rock music sounded so boring, and so he wanted to break that up. And that’s something he did to great distinction with every album.

I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how much coverage the dearly departed Don Van Vliet has been getting.

Today’s LA Times had a large obit smack on the front page of the Calendar section. Here it is.  I especially appreciated the degree to which Richard Cromelin noted the Captain’s influence (although I couldn’t help noting that the band Talking Heads is referred to as “The Talking Heads” — despite their having once released an album entitled “The Name of This Band is Talking Heads”).

Early this evening on NPR I heard a rather lengthy coverage of Captain Beefheart’s career, including a bit of audio from one of his last interviews, conducted  in the early 1990’s. In that interview at least, Van Vliet, who suffered from multiple sclerosis, sounded greatly weakened, and barely able to speak intelligibly. That, in addition to his frustrations with other performers and the general state of his musical career, made it easier to understand why he quit music for a highly successful career as a painter. Still, it was an odd experience hearing what I’d always considered a rather obscure and nigh “unlistenable” favorite act of mine profiled so lovingly on NPR.

Finally, I caught Henry Rollins’ show on KCRW. Although the online setlist doesn’t mention Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band, Rollins spoke passionately about the impact of their music, and played three tracks — one from the band’s first album, “Safe as Milk,” one from the masterpiece, “Trout Mask Replica,” and one from “Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller)” — spanning their career. All three were exciting and showed the impressive range of their inventiveness. Rollins said that all the Captain Beefheart albums are worth listening to (I agree), even though some are out of print. (Including the debut, “Safe as Milk.”) He said that often when an artist as significant as Beefheart does, someone will do a reissue or a compilation collection, and he’s hopeful for that. But then, more importantly, he said that he’s got ten 90-minute tapes of unreleased Captain Beefheart music and that he’s going to start digitizing it and throwing on the air. Some of us have been waiting almost 30 years for new Captain Beefheart music. Stay tuned.

It was with great sadness that I learned a minute ago of the death of Don Van Vliet, a.k.a. Captain Beefheart. The music the Captain made with his Magic Band was unlike anything before it, or after it: an odd mix of jazz, R&B, zydeco, avant garage rock ‘n’ roll, and everything in between, all of it wonderful when mixed together.

Captain Beefheart’s last album, “Ice Cream for Crow,” was released almost 20 years ago, and no more were planned. Disgruntled at low sales and a sense that his sound had been ripped off by punks without his getting any acknowledgement (check out “Ashtray Heart” and draw your own conclusion, although it should be said that The White Stripes did later cover this song), he retired from music, focusing instead on his burgeoning visual art career. I didn’t expect any more music, but I liked knowing that he was around. And now I’m hoping that the Magic Band will resurface for a tribute concert.

Although I went on to delight in such albums as “Trout Mask Replica” and “Doc at the Radar Station,” it was “Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller)” that was the LP that introduced me to the Captain, and it remains close to my heart. Here are two representative tracks that highlight both the Magic Band’s fearsome musicianship and Captain Beefheart’s astonishing vocal range. The cover painting is by Beefheart.

Lately, zombies are getting all the attention. This holiday season, mummies are tired of being kept under wraps.

Oh, to be in London on February 12th to see “Carnival of Souls,” screened with a live underscore provided by David Thomas & Two Pale Boys.

Mr. Thomas, as longtime readers of this blog, is to me the most important figure working in music today. Whether it’s with Pere Ubu or with Two Pale Boys, his off-kilter music and sensibility thrill me and speak to me deeply. There are certain sounds that speak deeply to individuals who take the trouble to tune into them. For me, it’s Glenn Gould’s piano, it’s Robert Wheeler’s theremin, it’s one of Thomas Dolby’s specific keyboard noises, it’s Robert Fripp’s guitar, and it’s the certain sound sets that only Brian Eno’s studio wizardry can result in. I can pick these things out from any haystack, because somehow they seem so tuned to me that the haystack disappears and the sound becomes iridescent. Chief among these things is David Thomas’s voice. And by voice, I don’t mean just the singing instrument — yes, that beautifully expressive warble, but also the delightfully blinkered worldview so specific to him that comes through all his work, his unique take on the culture we all live in, but which only he sees in his particular way. To listen to David Thomas sing about, for example, U.S. Route 322, which fronted our house when I was a boy, is to learn anew something you thought you understood but never did.

I also find with artists that I follow that when I arrive someplace newly exciting — they are already there. The skewed sensibility that attracts me to them seems to lead us to the same places. Who produced that first Devo album that I could not get off the turntable? Brian Eno. Of course.  When I discover the era of Beach Boys music that truly speaks to me, I find that it’s all associated with Van Dyke Parks — and who appears in David Thomas’ oddball but thoroughly enchanting live “Disastodrome” extravaganza but Van Dyke Parks? And now, who is providing underscore to “Carnival of Souls,” a relatively little-known movie that got a small rerelease about 20 years ago, which I went out of my way to see at that time? David Thomas.

About four years ago, my son and I went to see Pere Ubu provide live underscoring for “Man with the X-Ray Eyes” — another great low-budget black-and-white horror movie — at UCLA. I had seen the movie several times before, but now it’s forever linked in my mind with the live performance by Pere Ubu, especially when the band played “Drive” during the final big chase scene, as Ray Milland’s character goes insane from everything that he can now see. Does it detract from the film, having it now associated with a song performed forty years after its release? Is the film harmed in any way? No — it was thrilling. The evening provided a new way to experience something I thought I’d already known (again, a specialty of Mr. Thomas’). And this is completely in the tradition of film. Silent movies came with suggested scores for organists to play, but many improvised their own scores; your enjoyment of Buster Keaton was often amplified by the aptness and originality of the attack by whatever organist you drew. I’m sure it will be this way with David Thomas & Two Pale Boys — another fine band that Mr. Thomas plays with, with a sound radically different from that of Pere Ubu — as they bring a fresh approach to a little film that is simple and terrifying in its own right, and which deserves every bit of attention and care that I’m sure the event will bring to it.

“Carnival of Souls” was filmed in and around the SaltAir Pavilion in Salt Lake City, Utah. In 2002, I was in Salt Lake City on business and rented a car so that I could drive out and see the SaltAir Pavilion. Salt is essential for life, but salt flats, of course, kill. Stretched far and wide were the salts left by a distantly receded lake; a flat bitter tang hung in the air, enclosing a pavilion that was remote and almost abandoned. This is the backdrop for the film, and provides to my mind a promising platform for the simultaneously anxious and affectless music of David Thomas & Two Pale Boys. I just wish I could be there for it.  Here’s hoping that some point, they bring it to the states.

Every night, I have vivid dreams and am able to remember them when I awaken. (There’s a term for having that ability:  sleep disorder.) Usually, what I dream is related to what I was thinking about when I fall asleep. But for two nights in a row, I’ve dreamed that I’ve been making music with famous people, even though that hasn’t been on my mind at all.

On Thursday night, I dreamt that Paul McCartney and I were hanging around in my bedroom recording some songs. I should say, I’m not a particular fan of Mr. McCartney’s music. Yes, I like The Beatles. But I haven’t given his solo career much thought. I own two Beatles CDs, and that’s if you count the version of “Let It Be” that McCartney took it upon himself to revise a few years ago. (Theoretically, Ringo was consulted, but what was he going to say? Except for, “Thanks for the call.”) In my dream, Paul is playing guitar and I’m working the studio controls much as I think Brian Eno does:  using his own instrument (the studio) to improve the song while co-writing it. In the alternate universes of my dreams, even when the people are familiar, the logic of the situation falters. So in this case, while I’m making music with Sir Paul, it gradually occurs to me that, hey, this guy was in the Beatles. (Whereas in our world, this would be our very first thought.) And since he was in the Beatles, maybe I might like to have my picture with them. And then I realize that if I can get my picture with Ringo, I’ll have my picture with half the Beatles. But then I realize that I don’t care if I have my picture with Ringo, and actually I don’t care if I have it with Paul, either. If John were still around, that would be good, or if I could get photographed with John and Paul, and all the while I’m thinking this I’m trying to get the song I’m doing with Paul McCartney, the most celebrated and successful songwriter of all time, to sound less… saccharine. Then I wake up.

The next night, I dreamt that my lamp grew taller. I woke up at 3:08 a.m. (yes, I always check the time) to see that my nightstand lamp, which ordinarily peaks at only about 18″ in height, is suddenly far far taller — the lampshade now towers four or five feet over my head. I realize this can’t be so, and that I’m still dreaming. So I sit up and look at it. And look at it. I really stare at it. Because I’m sure that at some point my vision will return to normal and the lamp will scale down to its correct size, because I know it cannot have grown while I’m asleep. But it never shrinks to respectability, no matter how hard I look at it, so I roll over and go back to sleep. This is unfortunately common for me:  being awake, but still seeing what I was seeing in the dream. For 47 years, I saw some very unpleasant things, even while I was still awake.  But hypnosis seems to have solved that; now the night terrors are gone, and while I don’t enjoy seeing things that can’t be there, at least now they’re less ominous.

When I gave up on the lamp returning to scale, and fell back asleep, I dreamt that the band Metallica had confused me for their bassist.

Much as with Mr. McCartney, Metallica is not a favorite of mine. I have no Metallica CDs. And I enjoy no Metallica music. If you like them, that’s fine with me. Enjoy. But I do not. My dislike for their music carries over into the dream, where the other three band members keep insisting I’m their bassist, and would I quit fooling around, because they’re getting ready to go on. I think they’re playing some bizarre practical joke, and I’m wondering why I’m even at their concert, which seems to be playing in a small basement club. No matter how hard I try to convince them that I’m not their bassist, and how could I be since I don’t know their songs and don’t even know the names of the people in the band who are insisting that I play with them, they keep walking me along backstage toward the band platform. Along the way we pass a mirror and they almost have me convinced that I must be their bassist, but I look into the mirror and I can see damn well that I’m him and not me. But when they look they see him, or at least that’s what they say. So finally I give up. I figure:  “You know what? It’s playing bass and it’s Metallica. How hard could it be?” I was in a band once where the bass lines in one of our songs went like this:  C, C, C-C-C. C, C, C-C-C. Even I could play that. And maybe, hey, I’ll get to participate in the hedonistic after party. So I say yeah, sure, hand it over, give me that bass guitar. I get the bass and I go out on stage and I start to try to play — and that’s when I notice that the strings are made out of cloth, like wide flat shoelaces. And now my bandmates are all staring at me because I’m not playing anything, and I’m not playing anything because the guitar won’t play anything. That’s when I woke up.

I’m not a morning person, and I never have been. Would you be, if every morning you woke up from something like this?

NPR is offering streaming of a number of new releases. Regular readers of this blog will understand why I’ve selected the one I have.

Here’s the place to hear the entirety of Brian Eno’s new disk, “Small Craft on a Milk Sea.” (So far it sounds like outtakes from the soundtrack to Myst. And yes, I bought the soundtrack to Myst forever ago.) Fair warning: This particular small craft will be available to you only until November 2nd, when the disk goes on sale (and free streaming thus ends).

Surprisingly, Best Buy had the CD, and in two versions. (“Deluxe” and the other one. “Normal”? “Pedestrian”?)  I just bought one (and bought just one).

I got an email today from Bryan Ferry that his new CD “Olympia” had just been released and that I should go buy it. Which I wanted to do, right away. I’m happy downloading most CDs that I want, but I wanted an actual physical copy of this one, to go with the actual physical record-label copies I have of all his other CDs both as a solo artist and with Roxy Music. I figured I’d stop on my way home and pick it up. And that’s when I realized that Burbank, with a population of 108,000 people, probably no longer has a record store where I could buy this.

Yes, we have several stores selling used CDs (and LPs). And yes, we have a small music store that sells hip-hop and urban music. But Music Plus and the Virgin Megastore  went out of business, and The Wherehouse has devolved into a store that carries mostly used CDs and only a smattering of new releases. Best Buy carries some CDs, as do Target and KMart, but I’m not betting they’ll have this. Which means I would have to go to Amoeba Records in Hollywood to get this.

It seems odd in an era of more choices and more convenience to suddenly be faced with fewer and less. I guess I’ll wait a week before going to Amoeba, because then I can get Brian Eno’s new disk, which comes out November 1st, as well.

In which the band Atomic Tom compensates for having their equipment stolen — by substituting it all with iPhones. (Wish we’d had that option in the ’80s — would have saved a lot of effort lugging around all that heavy band equipment.)

Thanks to Joe Stafford for making me aware of this.