ZAPPA in New York

The Selections:

Titties & Beer

A popular concert event with cheesy choreography and a rubber mask with little nub-like horns that Terry wears when he's pretending to be the Devil.

It was the blackest night
There was no moon in sight
You know the stars ain't shinin'
'Cause the sky's too tight
I heard the scarey wind
I seen some ugly trees
There was a werewolf honkin'
'Long the side of me

I'm mean 'n I'm bad, y'know I ain't no sissy
Got a big-titty girly by the name of Chrissy
Talkin' about her 'n my bike 'n me . . .
'N this ride up the Mountain of Mystery, mystery

I noticed even the crickets
Was actin' weird up here
So I figured I might
Just drink a little beer
I said, "Gimme summa that what yer suckin' on . . . "
But there was no reply
'Cause she was gone . . .

"Where's those titties that I like so well, 'n my goddamn beer!"
Is what I started to yell, then I heard this noise
Like a crunchin' twig, 'n up jumped the Devil . . .
He's about this big . . .

He had a red suit on
An' a widow's peak
An' then a pointed tail
'N like a sulphur reek
Yes, it was him awright,
I sweared I knowed it was
He had some human flesh
Stuck underneath his claws
You know, it looked to me
Like it was titty skin
I said, "You sonofabitch!"
'Cause I was mad at him,
Well he just got out his floss
'N started cleanin' his fang
So I shot him with my shooter,
Said: BANG BANG BANG

The sucker just laughed 'n said, "Put it away . . .
You know, I ate her all up . . . now what you gonna say?"
YOU ATE MY CHRISSY? "Yeah! Titties 'n all!"
WHAT ABOUT THE BEER THEN? "Were the cans this tall?"
EVEN HER BOOTS? "Would I lie to you?"
SHIT, YOU MUSTA BEEN HUNGRY! "Yes, this is true."
WELL DON'T THEY PAY Y'ALL GOOD FOR THE STUFF THAT YOU DO?
"I can't complain when the checks come through . . . "
WELL I WANT MY CHRISSY, 'N I WANT MY BEER
SO YOU JUST BARF IT BACK UP NOW, DEVIL, DO YOU HEAR?
"Blow it out your ass, motorcycle man! I mean, I am the Devil,
Do you understand? Just what will you give me for your
Titties and beer? I suppose you noticed this little
contract here . . . " YER GODDAM RIGHT, YOU
SON-OF-A-WHORE,
THAT'S ABOUT THE ONLY REASON I LEARNED WRITIN' FOR
. . . GIMME THAT PAPER . . . BET YER ASS I'LL SIGN . . .
'CAUSE I NEED A BEER, 'N IT'S TITTY-SQUEEZIN' TIME!
"You can't fool me . . . you ain't that bad . . .
I mean you shoulda seen some of the souls I had . . .
Why there was Milhous Nixon 'n Agnew, too . . . 'n both
of those suckers was worse 'n you . . . "
WELL, LET'S MAKE A DEAL IF YOU THINK THAT'S TRUE
I MEAN, YOU'RE THE DEVIL SO . . . WHATCHA GONNA DO?

(improvised dialog)

"No! Don't sign it! Give me time to think . . .
I mean . . . hold on a minute, boy . . . that's Magic Ink!"

And then the Devil puked
'N out jumped m'girl
They heard the titties PLOP-PLOPPIN'
All around the world, she said:

"I GOT ME THREE BEERS 'N A FIST FULLA DOWNS,
AN' I'M GONNA GET WRECKED, SO FUCK YOU CLOWNS!"

And then she gave us the finger,
It was rigid 'n stiff,
That's when the Devil, he farted
An' she went right over the cliff
The Devil was mad
I took off to my pad
I swear I do declare!
How did she get back there?
I swear I do declare!
How did she get back there?
etc. repeat

 

I Promise Not To Come In Your Mouth

A sensitive instrumental ballad for late-nite easy listening. The guitar solo is F.Z., the Moog solo is Eddie.

Big Leg Emma

Just so you'd have a stupid song to tap your foot to in the middle of this other stuff . . . and also for nostalgic purposes, as this was one of the pieces regularly performed when we lived in New York and worked at the Garrick Theatre in 1967.

There's a big dilemma
'Bout my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
There's a big dilemma
'Bout my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
She used to knock me out
Until her face broke out

There's a big dilemma
'Bout my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
There's a big dilemma
'Bout my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
She was my steady date
Until she put on weight
etc.

Sofa

An arousing waltz, originally released on the album "ONE SIZE FITS ALL." Since that album was not very popular, this presentation might guide a few curios listeners back in that direction to check it out.

Manx Needs Women

An arrangement of the exercise published in GUITAR PLAYER MAGAZINE, with a few alterations and additions.

The Black Page Drum Solo/
Black Page #1

Opens with an improvisation by Terry. Ruth and Dave join in on the written part, along with wood and metal, percussion over-dubbed by John, Ed & Ruth.
The exact same rhythm patterns you have just heard are now the metric spacings of a melody that sounds like the missing link between "Uncle Meat" and "The Be-Bop Tango."

Black Page #2

And, once again, our theme re-orchestrated, rhythmically modified, and set to a cheap little disco vamp, against which the polyrhythmic anomalies become yet more enchanting.

Honey, Don't You Want A Man Like Me?

Just another love song.

Honey honey
Baby don't you want a man like me
Honey honey
Baby don't you want a man like me

He was the Playboy Type (he smoked a pipe)
His fav'rite phrase was "OUTA-SITE!"
He had an Irish Setter

It was a singles bar, a Tuesday night
The moon was dim, the band was tight
They did the Bump together

What a splendid sight, her teeth were white
The drinks were cheap (it was Ladies Nite)
He was glad that he met her

She was an office girl (her name was Betty)
Her fav'rite group was HELEN REDDY
(They discussed the weather)

CHORUS REPEAT

She was a lonely sort, just a little too short
Her jokes were dumb and her fav'rite sport
Was hockey (in the winter)

He was duly impressed and was quick to suggest
Any sport with a PUCK had to be 'bout the best
As he jabbed his elbow in her (get it honey?)

Later on they went off to where the music was soft,
The candles were drippy, they saw a REAL HIPPY
Who delivered their dinner

The rice was brown, and soon they found
That the crowd around that had jammed the room,
Well it seemed to be getting thinner

CHORUS REPEAT

He took her home to a motor court
She wouldn't kiss him, he tried to ignore it,
But it made him angry!

He called her a slut, a pig and a whore
A bitch and a cunt and she slammed the door
In a petulant frenzy!

On the sofa she weeps
BOO HOO HOO HOO
She weeps and she weeps
BOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO
She weeps and she peeps
Through the curtain

He just got in his car
But the battery's dead
So he asks to use the phone
And she gives him some head
And that's the end of the story

CHORUS REPEAT

The Illinois Enema Bandit

The basic story is true, some of the mechanical details of the bandit's processes had to be guessed at, and the final courtroom verse is a parody of traditional blues mythology where some girl has got to have her man go free, no matter what he's been accused of. This part of the story has been fictionalized, as well as the final philosophical conclusion. The little "Wanna-wanna-wannanennema . . . "postcript for Roy Estrada is a reference to a statement Roy made occasionally to Jimmy Carl Black in the Garrick Theater days. Ray White sings lead.

Michael H. Kenyon, 30, the suspected enema bandit who terrorized coeds at the University of Illinois for 10 years, has pleaded guily in Urbana, Ill., to six counts of armed robbery. Has has admitted administering enemas to woman victims in at least three of the six robberies.

The Illinois Enema Bandit
I heard he's on the loose
I heard he's on the loose
Lord, the pitiful screams
Of all them college-educated women . . .
Boy, he'd just be tyin"em up
(They'd be all bound down!)
Just be pumpin' every one of 'em up with all the bag fulla
The Illinois Enema Bandit Juice
He just be pumpin' every one of 'em up with all the bag fulla
The Illinois Enema Bandit Juice

(repeat)

The Illinois Enema Bandit
I heard it on the news
I heard it on the news
Bloomington Illinois . . . he has caused some alarm
Just sneakin' around there
From farm to farm
Got a rubberized bag
And a hose on his arm
Lookin' for some rustic co-ed rump
That he just might wanna pump

(repeat)

The Illinois Enema Bandit
Some day he'll have to pay
Some day he'll have to pay
The police will say, "You're under arrest!"
And the judge would have him for a special guest
The D.A. will order a secret test
And stuff his pudgy little thumbs in the side of his vest
Then they'll put out a call for the jury folks
And the judge would say, "No poo-poo jokes!"
Then they'll drag in the bandit for all to see,
Sayin' "Don't nobody have no sympathy . . .
HOT SOAPY WATER in the FIRST DEGREE!"
And the Bandit might say, "Why is everbody always pickin' on me?"

WELL DID YOU CAUSE THIS MISERY?
WELL DID YOU CAUSE THIS MISERY?
WELL DID YOU CAUSE THIS MISERY?
One girl shout: "Let the Bandit be!"

BANDIT ARE YOU GUILTY? TELL ME NOW, WHAT'S YOUR PLEA?
Another girl shout: "Let the fiend go free!"

ARE YOU GUILTY? BANDIT, DID YOU DO THESE DEEDS?
The Bandit say, "It must be just what they all needs . . . "
etc. repeat

The Purple Lagoon

A special arrangemente of a piece we played on the "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE" tv show in December (featuring John Belushi as a Samurai Be-Bop Musician). Two themes are played agains each other . . . "The Purple Lagoon" versus "Approximate" (an unreleased composition dating from the days of The Grand Wazoo).
The first solo is Mike Brecker on tenor sax, the second is FZ on guitar (over-dubbed, since there was no guitar solo played during the concert in this tune, and the quiet little percussion track in the background was sort of boring so it became a case of inevitable insertionism), followed by a transition featuring the steaming re-processed grunts of Ronnie Cuber on baritone sax, leading to a piquant protruberance of a bass solo by Patrick O'Hearn, culminating in the mystery and spellbinding grandeur insinuated by the bionically modified trumpet solo of Randy Brecker.

all selections composed by Frank Zappa
copyright 1977, published by MUNCHKIN MUSIC ASCAP
(except "Big Leg Emma," which was copyrighted in 1967, published by FRANK ZAPPA MUSIC, BMI)

inquiries should be addressed to GLOTZER MGMT.,
824 N. Robertson Blvd., Hollywood, California 90069 . . .

---

Cruisin' For Burgers

©1970 Frank Zappa Music BMI

Punky's Whips

A song about Terry's lithoeroticization via a Japanese fanzine called ONGAKU. A full page photo of Punky Meadows (lead guitarist of "Angel") tweezed his mind so badly that a commemorative oratorio had to be construted. Terry is simultaneously singing the lead vocal, playing the drums, and turning pages of his sheet music in a rare display of punkoid frenzy.

I can't stand the way he pouts
("Cause he might not be pouting for me!)
Hah! Punky pouts for no one!
His hair's so shiny and it's done real nice
(Til I squirm with ecstasy!)
Isn't it romantic, Punky?
Punky, Punky, give me your lips
To die on . . . I promise not to come in your mouth
Punky, Punky,your album's the shits
It's all wrong . . . but this is no laughing matter.

I ain't really queer
But if he ever got near
Steven Tyler would PAY to see!

Punky's whips, Punky's whips
His hair's so shiny, I love his hips
I love his teeth, 'n his gums 'n such . . . PUNKY
Yeah, baby, that's what I like to hear.
You're an ANGEL . . . you're too much

He's been havin' a rash
That keeps the girls away
Skin soom is what the doctors say

I wonder if Punky's rehearsin' today
I'll just go over, 'n hear him play
His hair is so pretty . . . I'd like to bite his neck
I've heard a rumor he's more fluid than Jeff Beck
(But dig this . . . )
I AIN'T QUEER
I AIN'T GAY
(He's a little fond of chiffon in a wrist array)
Wrist array

Punky's lips, Punky's lips
They make me squirm, eatin' dunk-y chips
I love his skin and his blank-blank-blank
Maybe he'd like to yank my crank?
YANK IT PUNKY! YANK IT FASTER!
YANK IT ALL NITE LONG!

I AIN'T QUEER
I AIN'T GAY
(He's just a little fond of chiffon in a wrist array)
etc.

I'm The Slime

One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four
Alright

I am gross and perverted
I'm obsessed and deranged
I have existed for years
But very little has changed.

I'm the tool of the governement
And industry too,
For I am destined to rule
And regulate you.

I might be vile and pernicious
But you can't look away.
I make you think I'm delicious
With the stuff that I say.

I'm the best you can get.
Have you guessed me yet?
I am the slime oozin' out from your . . .

Take it away Don Pardo

YOU WILL OBEY ME WHILE I LEAD YOU
AND EAT THE GARBAGE THAT I FEED YOU
UNTIL THE DAY THAT WE DON'T NEED YOU
DON'T GO FOR HELP NO-ONE WILL HEED YOU
YOUR MIND IS TOTALLY CONTROLLED
IT HAS BEEN STUFFED INTO MY MOLD
AND YOU WILL DO AS YOU ARE TOLD
UNTIL THE RIGHTS TO YOU ARE SOLD!

TAKE IT AWAY, FRANK!

That's right folks . . . Don't touch that dial.

Well I am the slime from your video
Oozin' along on your livin' room floor
I am the slime from you video
Can't stop the slime, people, look at me go.
Will I am the slime from your video
Oozin' along on your livin' room floor
I am the slime from your video
Can't stop the slime, people, look at me go.
(laughs)
(solo)

Thank you Don.
HEY FRANK.
Hey, we did it.

Pound For A Brown

© 1970 Frank Zappa Music BMI

The Torture Never Stops

Flies all green 'n buzzin' in his dungeon of despair
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes and scratch their matted hair
A tiny light from a window hole a hundred yards away
Is all they ever get to know about the regular life in the day;
An' it stinks so bad the stones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the room where the giant fire puffer works
'N the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops.

Slime 'n rot, rats 'n snot 'n vomit on the floor
Fifty ugly soldiers, man, holdin' spears by the iron door
Knives 'n spikes 'n guns 'n the likes of every tool of pain
An' a sinister midget with a bucket an' a mop where the blood goes down the drain;

An' it stinks so bad the stones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the room where the giant fire puffer works
'N the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops.

Flies all green 'n buzzin' in his dungeon of despair
An evil prince eats a steamin' pig in a chamber right near there
He eats the snouts 'n the trotters first
the loin's 'n the groin's is soon dispersed
His carvin' style is well rehearsed
He stands and shouts
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
And disagree, well no-one durst
That's right
He's the best of course of all the worst
He's the best of course of all the worst
Some wrong been done, he done it first
Some wrong been done, he done it first

An' he stinks so bad, his bones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops,
In the night of the iron sausage,
Where the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops.

Flies all green 'n buzzin' in his dungeon of despair
Who are all these people that he's locked away up there
Are they crazy?,
Are they sainted?
Are they zeros someone painted?,
It has never been explained since at first it was created
But a dungeon like a sin
Requires naught but lockin' in
Of everything that's ever been
Look at her
Look at him
Yeah you!
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in

©1976 Munchkin Music ASCAP