LIVE IN CONCERT AT
ARMADILLO WORLD HEADQUARTERS
AUSTIN, TEXAS
May 20th & 21st, 1975
Plus
Selected Studio Wonderment
Side One
1. Debra Kadabra* 3:54
2. Carolina Hard-Core Ecstasy* 6:02
3. Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top* 2:50
4. Poofter's Froth Wyoming Plans Ahead* 3:06
5. 200 Years Old 4:34
20:26
Side Two
1. Cucamonga 2:24
2. Advance Romance* 11:20
3. Man With The Woman Head* 1:29
9. Muffin Man* 5:37
20:50
MUSIC SUPPLIED BY:
FRANK ZAPPA—lead guitar, vocals; CAPTAIN BEEFHEART—harp, vocals, shopping bags;
GEORGE DUKE—keyboards, vocals; NAPOLEON MURPHY BROCK—sax, vocals;
BRUCE FOWLER—trombone, fantastic dancing; TOM FOWLER—bass, also dancing;
DENNY WALLEY—slide guitar, vocals; TERRY BOZZIO—drums, moisture;
CHESTER THOMPSON—drums (on 200 Years Old and Cucamonga)
*Recorded live at ARMADILLO WORLD HEADQUARTERS, Austin, Texas, May 20th & 21st, 1975
Remote recording by THE RECORD PLANT, L.A.; Overdubs and mixing at THE RECORD PLANT, L.A.
200 Years Old, Cucamonga and Muffin Man intros were recorded in January and February, 1974 at THE RECORD PLANT, L.A.
Engineered by KERRY McNAB, MIKE BRAUNSTEIN, KELLY KOTERA, MIKE STONE, DAVEY MOIRE, and FRANK HUBACH
Photography by JOHN WILLIAMS; Design: CAL SCHENKEL
Special thanks to the kitchen staff at THE ARMADILLO, especially JAN BEEMAN
All selections written by Frank Zappa except Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top and Man With The Woman Head written by Don Van Vliet
All selections ©1975 Munchkin Music, ASCAP except Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top and Man With The Woman Head ©1973 Beefheart Music, BMI
PRODUCED BY FRANK ZAPPA
Debra Kadabra
Say she's a witch
Shit-ass Charlotte!
Ain't that a bitch?
Debra Kadabra—
Haw, that's rich!
(Ione, a rancho granny
Shook her wrinkled fanny . . . )
Shoes are too tight and pointed
Shoes are too tight and pointed
Shoes are too tight and pointed
Ankles sorta puffin' out
Cause me to shout:
Oh Debra Algebra Ebneezra Kadabra!
Witch Goddess of Lankershim Boulevard!
Cover my entire body with Avon Cologna
And drive me to some relative's house in East L.A.
(Just till my skin clears up)
Turn it to Channel 13
And make me watch the rubber tongue
When it comes out
Of the puffed & flabulent Mexican rubber-goods mask
Next time they show The Brnokka
Make me buy The Flosser
Make me grow Braniac Fingers
(But with more hair)
Make me kiss your turquoise jewelry!
Emboss me!
Rub the hot front part of my head
With rented unguents!
Give me bas-relief!
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
Learn the Pachuco Hop
And let me twirl ya . . .
Oh Debra Fauntleroy-Magnesium Kadabra!
Take me with you . . .
Don't you want any of these?
I coulda swore her hair was made of rayon
She wore a Milton Bradley Crayon
But she was something I could lay on
Can't remember what became of me . . .
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
She put a Doobie Brothers tape on
I had a Roger Daltrey cape on
There was a bed I dumped her shape on
Can't remember what became of me . . .
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
Somewhat later on
I woke up and she was gone
There was dew out on the lawn
In the sunrise
Later she came back
With a rumpled paper sack
Which she told me would contain
A surprise
She stuck her hand right in it to the bottom
Said she knew I'd be surprised she got 'em
Take a Charleston pimp to spot 'em
Then she gave a pair of shoes to me . . .
Plastic leather, 14 triple D
I said: "I wonder what's the shoes for?"
She told me: "Don't you worry no more!"
And got right down there on the tile floor
Now Darling STOMP ALL OVER ME! . . .
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
Is this something new
Having people stomp on you?
Is it what I need to do
For your pleasure?
"What is this, a quiz?
Don't you worry what it is
It is merely just a moment
I can treasure . . . "
By ten o'clock her arms and legs were rendered
She couldn't talk 'cause her mouth had been extendered
Looked to me as though she had been blendered
But was this abject misery?
No! No!
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy!
It might seem strange to Herb and Dee—
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy!
Poofter's Froth, Wyoming
March Eleven Sixty-Seven
Take a letter,
Ms. Abetter,
As our pigeons
Will be homing
To our jobbers in Dakota
And to Merwyn, Minnesota
This is merely just a note about
Performance to our quota
Well, we all come out
To show dem,
An' the Elks have helped us
Load 'em . . .
Little packets full of jackets
Little rackets, little rackets
Little Poofter-Cloth Appointments
Little Poofter's Froth Anointments
Little hoods, little goods
Little doo-dads from the woods
The entire stock is shipping
(Oh, our shod is hardly slipping!)
To the markets of the world
Our wrinkled pennants are unfurled!
T-shirt racks, rubber snacks,
Poster rolls with matching tacks,
Yes, a special beer for sports,
And paper cups that hold two quarts!
Everything a nation needs
For making hoopla while it feeds
The trash compactors, the small reactors,
The mowers, the blowers, the throwers & the glowers
This is Buy-Cent-Any-All Salute (HYULK!)
Two hundred years have gone ka-poot!
(Ah but we have been astute!)
Signed:
Anon. —Wyo. Galoot
I was sitting in a breakfast room in Allentown, Pennsylvania . . .
Six o'clock in the morning . . .
Got up too early . . .
It was a terrible mistake . . .
Sittin' there face-to-face with a
75¢ glass of orange juice
About as big as my finger
And a bowl of horribly fore-shortened corn flakes
And I said to myself
"This is the life . . . "
Well she's 200 years old
So mean she couldn't grow no lips
She's 200 years old
So mean she couldn't grow no lips
(Boy, she'd be in trouble if she tried to grow a mustache . . . )
She's 200 years old
Squatting down
And poppin' up
In front of the juke box
Like she had true religion
Boy
She's 200 years old
Squattin' down
Poppin' up
Front o' the juke box
Just like she'd had true religion
Boy
200 years
Half of this, none of that
Was 50 . . .
Oh squat, yeah
She got religion now
Oh, she told me
She just, she just can't grow no lips
Squat
Down
She told me that she
Can't grow no lips
200 years old
Whaddya mean she can't grow no lips . . .
(etc.)
Out in Cucamonga
Many years ago
Near a Holy Roller Church
There was once a place
Where me and a couple of friends
Began practicing for the time
We might go
(AH-AH . . . AH-AH . . . AH-AH)
On TV
And as fate would have it
Later on we got a chance to play,
All we ever really knew
That it was crazy
To be doin' it any other way
No more credit
From the liquor store
Suit is all dirty, boy
Shoes is all wore
Tired and lonely, my
Heart is all sore
Advance romance
I can't stand it no more
Told me she loved me
I believed what she said
Took me for sucker, boy
All corn-fed
Next thing I knew
She had a bolt on the door
Advance romance
I can't use it no more
She took George's watch
Like they always do
(It was a Timex, too!)
No more money, boy
I shoulda knew
The way she do me, boy
She might do you, too
Advance romance
People I am through!
Potato-head Bobby
Was a friend of mine
Opened three of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Opened four of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Opened five of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Opened six of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Said she might be a devil
But she sure was fine
Advance romance
He wanna try it one time
Later that night
He drop on by
Told her all he wanna do
Was come up and say "Hi"
Half an hour later
She had frenched his fry
Advance romance
Bobby, say good-bye
The Muffin Man is seated at the table
In the laboratory of the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen . . .
Reaching for an oversized chrome spoon
He gathers an intimate quantity of
dried muffin remnants
And, brushing his scapular aside,
Proceeds to dump these inside of his shirt . . .
He turns to us and speaks:
"Some people like cupcakes better. I, for one,
Care LESS for them!"
Arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot
of a fully charged icing-anointment utensil,
He poots forth a quarter-ounce green rosetta
Near the summit of a dense-but-radiant muffin
of his own design
Later he says:
"Some people . . . some people like cupcakes exclusively,
While I myself say there is naught, nor ought
there be,
Nothing so exalted on the face of God's grey earth
As that Prince of Foods . . . The Muffin!"
Girl, you thought he was a man
But he was a muffin
He hung around till you found
That he didn't know nuthin'
Girl, you thought he was a man
But he only was a-puffin'
No cries is heard in the night
As a result of him stuffin'