Being Frank Read Online Free PDF Page A

had a stylized face, like an actor playing a medieval Venetian nobleman in a European silent film: square jaw, sharp nose, black mustache and Imperial goatee, thick, squiggly ink-black curls pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes were the most startling thing about him — Large, deep-set burnt-sienna pools, dark-circled, externally and internally reflective. The usual social boundaries didn’t seem to exist for him; when helooked straight into me with those laser eyes, there was no doubt that he was attempting to make a direct connection.
    His manner towards us was reassuring, though — jovial and kindly in a droll sort of way. He seemed to relish playing the comic role of a somewhat demented philosopher-king attempting to explain the facts of life and art to a couple of raw young disciples. The monarch even had a crown — I couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a green — feathered lady’s hat. (“Junk store item,” he explained, when I remarked on it.) On any other six-foot male with his appearance, that hat would have seemed aberrant, but it lent Zappa a cartoonishly jaunty at that fit him perfectly.

    Looking at him sitting there regarding us solemnly, but with a strange humor, I had an ill-defined, unsettling feeling about him, the sense that although he was quite approachable, he was also rather distant. No matter how long someone might know him, there was no way they could really get into his mind.
    Meanwhile, there he was, patiently waiting for me to speak up and say something coherent, and I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. I was too mesmerized by his proboscis. What a honker! It was narrow at the bridge, but its downslope was so precipitous that it really seemed to defy gravity. Coupled with those glowing, laser-beam eyes, it gave him the look of a hawk that had gone without dinner one night too often.
    Frank couldn’t help noticing that I was gaping like an idiot. He inquired elaborately, “Something the matter?” I managed to stammer out a few incoherent syllables to the effect that I found his nose fascinating.

    Where upon he leaned across the desk toward me and stuck the organ in question right in my face. “Wanna feel it?” I reached out a rather unsteady hand and gave it a feeble tweak. “You OK now?” he asked afterward. I giggled and nodded.
    With this weighty matter duly resolved, Zappa reached into the pocket of his brown tweed blazer and pulled out a piece of paper on which there were copious notes in fine, crabbed script — the deviant linguine again. Then he launched into the first couple of lines of “The Bones Go Down”! I was totally disarmed; between the nose-fondling ritual and now actually hearing him sing my lyrics, he could have knockedme over with his hat.
    He regarded me gravely for a moment, waiting until I regained some semblance of composure, When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and began, “My father said that the road to hell was paved with good intentions.” He gave me a knowing look and continued, “I like some of these songs...”
    â€œDo you want to produce them?.” I blurted out. Zappa shook his head. “They’re not ready to record yet” he replied. “You’re still just farting around; you need to get serious about what you’re doing.” He spoke precisely and and a little dryly, with ironic emphasis on certain words that made his comments seem extremely humorous or else somewhat threatening, if you happened not to have a sense of humor.
    I felt very confused. I was having trouble concentrating — there was something about his voice that seemed to be tickling me in embarrassing places. I glanced up. He was looking right at me, and his eyes were gentle, droll, and more than a little affectionate. How did he know?
    He wanted to know who had played the guitar on the tape. I told him I had. “In a few more years you might be a good