Remembering the Captain

"Trout Mask Replica," considered by many to be Don Van Vliet's masterpiece, is No. 58 on Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

The same year that the Beatles were tearing up the charts with their first American release, an oddly charismatic Lancaster man, Don Vliet, was playing dances at the Antelope Valley Fairgrounds in the personae of Captain Beefheart, with a backing group dubbed the Magic Band.

Decades later, "Meet the Beatles," would be named Number 59 on the Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. One place higher, at Number 58, is Captain Beefheart's breakthrough album, "Trout Mask Replica."

That year, 1964, I was deep in throes of that malady some people have never recovered from: Beatlemania. The Fab Four were ruling the airwaves and conquering American television. I was 10-years old, and the British Invasion totally shaped my rock and roll aesthetic. I like my songs to be 3 1/2 minutes long, with a hook and a bridge, and my collection is heavy on power pop.

So it was a huge leap for me when I transfered from Simi High School to Royal in 1970 and fell in with a group of boys totally dedicated to the weirdness that was Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and the GTOs.

I was Wendy among the Lost Boys, and they mocked my fondness for English trad-rock bands like Fairport Convention, the Strawbs, and Steel-Eye Span. When they put on "The Captain," as they called Beefheart, I groaned. His ranting and atonal noodling just gave me a headache. When they were done, I'd play some Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

I came to love Frank Zappa, but mostly the stuff that was less experimental and more pop, like "Hot Rats," or "Just Another Band from L.A." But I never could get into Beefheart, not that I tried too hard. When I protested yet another playing of "Trout Mask Replica" or "Lick My Decals off, Baby," the Lost Boys would say things like "But, he's a genius!" or "He has a four-and-a-half octave vocal range!"

For some reason they thought that I would be impressed by the Captain's odd time signatures, when really, all the music I liked was in 4/4.

I've always been somewhat of a reactionary when it comes to music. When I first heard the B-52s, Devo, and Sex Pistols, I believed that I had never heard such rubbish in all my life. Now, I love them all.

When I moved to the Antelope Valley and found out that Beefheart was a native son, if not a celebrated one, I was intrigued. I always planned to write a comprehensive story about Don Van Vliet, before I left the paper. My friend Lynn loaned me a DVD on him that sat on top of my bookcase for years.

But like so many things, it never came to pass. So yesterday, after I heard about his death, I finally watched the 2006 release, "Captain Beefheart: Under Review," which features many of the local musicians, biographers, and British rock critics talking about each LP.

I learned many things from that viewing: mostly that I still hate "Trout Mask," but there are more accessible albums that I'd really like to hear all the way through, like "Clear Spot." I love his voice now that I am older, probably because I was broken in by years of Tom Waits.

I called Congressman Buck McKeon's former field representative, Lew Stults, who knew Vliet before he added the "Van," and booked Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band back in 1964-65. He said that even then, the Captain could work a crowd.

"He was a bit of a con man," Stults said. "He had an air about him that was all for the stage." That was, when the Captain wasn't at his day-job selling shoes at Kinney's on Sierra Highway.

Stults was part of a car club called the Cordials when he went to Antelope Valley High School, and they put on dances at the Exposition Hall at the AV Fairgrounds. The club hosted a Battle of the Bands, which Van Vliet's band easily won.

"They were doing covers of blues songs, like Howlin' Wolf and Lightnin Hopkins, and somewhat edgy versions of popular songs," Stults remembers. "They did the Rolling Stones better than the Stones themselves."

On the DVD, someone recalled Van Vliet's vocals as being like "Howlin' Wolf on acid."

The Magic Band was a big draw when the Cordials booked them for dances, and "Captain Beefheart growled and prowled the stage. We'd get 200 or more people on a Friday night. We used to pack the place."

A 1975 promotional photo.

Eventually the band put out the "Diddy Wah Diddy" single, the "Safe as Milk" LP and started playing the Whiskey A Go Go. Then came the years of musical innovation and experimentation that gave Van Vliet and a revolving cast of band members notoriety and slavish devotion from legions of other Lost Boys, if not huge piles of money.

Ultimately, the visual art that Van Vliet had been doing since he was child, and practiced at Antelope Valley College, became a more sure source of income than rock and roll and he left music behind, at least professionally. His abstract art was very successful.

"He was a guy who refused to go mainstream," said Stults. "Now he's considered a genius."

Remembering Beefheart

I'm working on an appreciation of the late Don Van Vliet, AKA Captain Beefheart, who got his start in the Antelope Valley, and it is taking longer than I thought. Check back, and if you have any remembrances, leave a comment below, or email me at kim_rawley@hotmail.com

Thanks!

Family photos take a holiday

 

Kim's Santa photo taken at John Wanamaker's in Philadelphia, circa 1959.

Editor's note: End of the semester classes and grading left me exhausted, so my loving husband, Jim, offered to pinch hit for me this week. I hope you enjoy his offering.

The other day we took boxes of Christmas decorations out of storage and brought them home. Although this will be our third Christmas together, it is the first we will celebrate in our own place. Kim eagerly began decorating our apartment. I, not quite in the holiday spirit yet, was content to watch her almost childlike joy, pulling things out of boxes she had not seen in quite awhile and finding appropriate spots for them in the living room.

As decorations went up on our bookshelves, photos came down. Down came photos of my daughter Kat, one taken of her at a Sea World summer camp getting a kiss by a Beluga whale, another of her with a chattering lorry perched on her shoulder. Down came pictures of Megan and Allison, my two stepdaughters, looking very much like they do today – tall, pretty, and smart – only a few years younger. Down came a cute picture of the granddaughter Charlotte, who seemingly can only be captured looking cute.

The author's daughter, Kat, with her charge "Mama Llama," at Moorpark's Exotic Animal Training and Management teaching zoo.

I was actually appalled at the removal of those photos. Surely the decorations and the photos can co-exist, I asked my wife. “Oh, don’t worry, they will go back when the decorations come down,” Kim said.

It’s only been a couple of days, but I truly miss those photos. I love photography. I am a big fan of the Hollywood glamour portraits of George Hurrell done in the 1930s. I often find myself spellbound by the photos in National Geographic of the wonders of the world.

I appreciate good photojournalism, including the work of my colleagues at the Antelope Valley Press. I admire the work of good family portrait and wedding photographers, including our friend Valeri Estrada, whose work, including shooting our wedding, is fantastic. And I love family snapshots, even the cringe-worthy ones of myself and my loved ones.

One of the things that I’ve noticed about our family shots is that the really good ones are of people being happy, or in their element, or both. The photos from our wedding, for example, are fantastic – the result of a terrific photographer shooting people having a great time.

A photo by Valeri Estrada, Little Blue World Photography, of the Rawley clan having a good time at the Rawley/Skeen wedding.

My wife hates having her picture taken and that disdain is often evident in the photos. Now put her with someone or something she loves, her granddaughter or her MG, for example, and the results are remarkable. One of the items Kim pulled from the Christmas boxes was a photo of her, about age 5, I think, on Santa’s lap. It’s a great shot – who doesn’t love Santa?

A photo of the author's wife that she doesn't hate, by Valeri Estrada.

With my daughter Kat, photos work best when she’s with animals – which is most of the time. All my photos of her the last few months have been at her school, Moorpark’s Exotic Animal Training and Management program, where she’s with animals virtually 24/7. The shots I’ve taken there show a young woman at ease, confident, and having the time of her life.

Charlotte? Well, I’m biased here, but I think she is naturally photogenic. The best shots of her are the ones where she has a mischievous smile, making you wonder if she’s up to no good and masking it with cuteness.

I, like Kim, am not fond of the camera, but I submit to it a bit more willing. I try to bear the cringe-worthy shots with good humor. The best ones of me, I believe, are when I’m with the people I love – my beautiful Kim, Kat, Megan, Ally, Megan’s Chris, and, of course, Charlotte.

I am getting into the Christmas spirit and do love the decorations Kim has put up. Now, I just need to find temporary homes for those photos.

To Santa or not to Santa?

Jolly Old Saint Nick sleeping off a bender?

Pity poor Santa Claus. I mean, being morbidly obese is bad enough, but having only one suit of clothes (shapeless red velvet, at that) must be depressing. And then there are all those kids asking you for stuff. I don't think I'd ever leave the North Pole, if I were him.

The newest insult to the jolly fat gent is that some in the new generation of parents have decided they don't want to "lie" to their children about where their gifts really come from. They figure that kids will say, "Well, if you were lying about Santa, what else isn't true?"

In the religion section of the paper this week, a reverend recounted the story of a woman trying to console her young grandson who had experienced the death of his friend. She told him what Christians believe about death, and he asked if that was a just a make-believe story, like Santa Claus.

The author's take was that grown-ups would not be seen as "trustworthy" to children when they talked about Jesus, "if we have hyped a belief in mythical figures."

Uh huh.

I can understand how the idea that Jesus isn't mythical might be confusing, what with all the raising from the dead, walking on water, and mass-replicating foodstuffs, but there was plenty of room in my childhood for Jesus and Santa Claus.



Jesus was the one born in a manger, visited by wise men; who grew up to die for our sins and lives in our hearts. Santa flies around the world in one night, has a naughty/nice list like some metaphysical hall monitor, and lives at the North Pole with his wife in a house that smells like gingerbread  24/7.

My daughter is still on the fence. She figures she's still got time before Charlotte figures it all out. She's feeling a little squeamish about the lying part, too. Frankly, I think it's impossible to be 100% honest with children— hell, with anyone.

There are lies we tell to grease the skids of civilization: for example, how do you really feel about the new partner of your friend and/or family member or the bratty children of your acquaintances? And then there's the infamous "does this outfit make me look fat?" If you answer that with unflinching, withering honesty, you're just evil, a fool or barking mad.

I guess what I'm saying is that I have no compunction about telling the Santa Claus story. I made a Santa Claus video for Charlotte at the Portable North Pole website and any Christmas Eve she's with me, we're totally tracking Santa with NORAD. The video message is free, but you can buy a download. I regret not buying the video I did last year, because Santa has apparently been feeling the results of the recession.

Last year, Santa's office was opulently decorated. This year, there's a tree, but otherwise, the background is a little bare. Guess he had to lay off the art director.

You can send a Santa Claus message of your own by going here. It's free and very fun.

In the December issue of Vogue, there's an article about a food event held in Lapland. Master chefs and yuppie food writers preparing and eating reindeer and other Lappish delicacies are not very interesting to me, but the part where the author's wife gets two Amanita muscaria mushrooms confiscated because they are psychotropic made me pay attention.

Apparently, Santa Claus in the Arctic is an aboriginal shaman-like being, and the idea for his flying reindeer came from hallucinogenic visions seen under the influence of amanita muscaria, those red mushrooms with the white spots you see in fairy tales. Man, I'm a product of the 60s, and this is the first I've heard of Santa doing shrooms.

I guess I never really thought too much about Santa when my kids were growing up. I was too busy coaching them to ask for something I could afford, that the grandparents hadn't already bought. All I know is that after I found out that Santa wasn't real, some of the magic went of the holiday for me, and things were never the same again.

Some people never really get over the kindly old gent in red. When I asked students to write about a "significant event" in one of my classes, I got more than I bargained for. Among the papers recounting assaults, devastating car accidents, and deaths of family members, some by violence, was a 20-something who write about the day she found out there was no Santa Claus.


A decade later, and she was still disturbed by it. So maybe the mommy-bloggers have a point. I just hope that incident continues to be the worst thing that's ever happened to her.