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Despite his wild reputation, freak persona and ‘filthy’ lyrics, Frank Zappa was one of rock’s most serious and progressive composers. In 2013 Jon Anderson, Adrian Belew, Mike Keneally and former Mother Don Preston told Prog about the musical method behind Zappa’s perceived madness.

On the Mothers of Invention’s 1969 Uncle Meat, you can hear Frank Zappa exhort keyboardist Don Preston to climb up to the Royal Albert Hall’s majestic pipe organ and belt out the riff to Louie Louie. Preston is now is part of all-star tribute band the Grandmothers Of Invention. “Musicians, guitarists mostly, often come up to me and ask, how do I play like Zappa? I say, it’s simple – just listen to all the music Zappa listened to!”

Like most teenagers growing up in California in the 50s, Zappa loved doo-wop, R&B, blues and early rock’n’roll. But his adolescent musical imagination was truly set alight by Ionisations, a piece of percussive avant-garde music by French-born composer Edgard Varèse. This gave him a taste for 20th-century modernist composers, from Charles Ives to Igor Stravinsky.

“He’d listen to that stuff like other kids were listening to the latest rhythm and blues song,” remembers Preston. “That music, the complexity of it, matched the complexity of his own mind. In the opening phrase of Stravinsky’s Petrushka, the flute is in 5/8 and the orchestra is in 2/4. On The Little House I Used To Live In from Burnt Weeny Sandwich [1970], the bass and drums are playing in 11/8 and the melody is in 12/8.

“One of the things that made him a genius was that he could play experimental music and get it over to the audience, by throwing in doo-wop or pop music. He’d use real popular music to play real unpopular music.”

If there’s one thing that unifies the extraordinarily pluralist catalogue he created over his lifetime, it’s the combination of ‘popular’ and ‘unpopular.’ From his 1966 debut Freak Out! to landmark titles like Hot Rats, Apostrophe and bestseller Sheik Yerbouti, he would create a progressive musical universe where every style – from rock to reggae, surf-rock to Schoenbergian, free jazz to musique concrète – was up for grabs.

“When you’re adopting or adapting a style in order to tell a story,” he once said, “everything’s fair game. You have to have the right setting to the lyric. The important thing at that point is to tell the story.”

His lyrics also reflected his complexity. Drawing on sex, deviance, politics and social concerns, he would satirise, parody and mock, well, pretty much everyone. Zappa’s absurdist universe was populated by fake hippies, charlatan gurus, corrupt politicians, dental floss farmers, dumb groupies and even dumber rock stars. If his overarching quest was a search for truth, he did it by exposing its opposite.

Jon Anderson contends that progressive music began with Zappa. “It was a combination of things,” he says. “If you listen to Zappa, The Beatles, Vanilla Fudge, Buffalo Springfield, and Charles Mingus and Roland Kirk, there was such a plethora of interesting music around the mid-60s, and that all inspired me when Yes started to do long-form music. His music was really meticulously put together, and he was a comedian at the same time.”

Freak Out!’s blend of chart-friendly tunes (You Didn’t Try To Call Me), outré psych-rock (Who Are The Brain Police?), experimental jazz (The Return Of The Son Of Monster Magnet) and social comment (Trouble Every Day) pointed the way. Keyboardist/guitarist Mike Keneally played in Zappa’s band for his last-ever tour in 1988, but was in single figures when he first heard Freak Out!

“Half of it is easy to get hold of, the other is absurdism. Frank was combining things in different ways; he was reading the zeitgeist nicely and expressing attitudes that a lot of people felt. It was surprising to see an artist who was of the scene but also apart from it, and commenting on it so acidly.”

The Mothers borrowed from the Sgt Pepper cover – with fans Lennon and McCartney’s blessing – for 1968’s We’re Only In It For The Money, ridiculing the prevailing hippie scene on the hilarious Who Needs The Peace Corps? “That album is Frank’s greatest and most sustained piece of social commentary,” says Keneally, “and a startling musical and technical achievement. But he was using naughty words too, and there were sped-up voices!”

With its advanced multi-tracking and production techniques, 1969’s Hot Rats would become considered a jazz-fusion landmark, and contained one of the composer’s best-known works. “Listen to Peaches En Regalia,” says Anderson, “It’s magnificent work. He was brilliant – there’s no question.”

Zappa disbanded the first Mothers line-up that year, and over the next decade his sound benefited from evolving production smarts and his growing reputation as a grandstanding, idiosyncratic guitar hero. 1973’s Over-Nite Sensation features some of his best-known songs – Camarillo Brillo, I’m The Slime and absurdist masterpiece Montana – and the following year’s Apostrophe’ proffered Don’t Eat The Yellow Snow and Cosmik Debris.

They’d featured progressive orchestrations and virtuoso playing from drummer Aynsley Dunbar, keyboardist George Duke and violinist Jean-Luc Ponty; but they also showed their composer’s increasing, censor-baiting fondness for bawdy, scatological lyrics.

“Oh, he’d go for the jugular,” says Anderson. “He wouldn’t mess around. A lot of time as a writer it’s difficult to say exactly what you’re thinking. I would use metaphors all the time, but Zappa didn’t give a damn. He just said what he thought.”

Zappa recruited newcomer guitarist Adrian Belew for the concerts that produced 1979’s Sheik Yerbouti. Belew recalls the band had a show in Cincinnati, where his mother, a Sunday school teacher, was living. “She was so pleased for me – but I told her I didn’t want her to come to the show, because of the things I’d be singing. She said something that shook me to the ground. She said, ‘Is it true he’s got a song called I Promise Not To Come In Your Mouth?’ ‘Yes, Mom, that’s true.’ She didn’t go to the show!”

While accessible, Broken Hearts Are For Assholes, Bobby Brown (Goes Down) and disco-pastiche Dancin’ Fool feature knotty musical ideas, but the seemingly cold misanthropy of the lyrics might deter the fainthearted. I asked him about it once,” says Belew. “He said he just reflects the craziness around him. He’d see other people go nuts and then write about that. There’s a part of the audience for whom that’s the appeal: that he’s really putting it out there with radical tunes like that.”

Zappa encouraged Belew to play in unusual time signatures. “Without that I don’t know how I’d have made it into King Crimson,” he says. “A lot of our stuff is based on polyrhythms and odd time signatures, me singing in one and playing in another. He taught me how to be a professional musician, and drew out of me that I could play more complicated material. He challenged me.”

As for Zappa’s proggiest moments, Keneally goes back to 1973’s One Size Fits All. “Inca Roads is the quintessential Zappa tune. The subject matter [aliens landing in Inca times] is cosmic, but it’s not social commentary, it’s not cynical or sexual, and the music’s a multi-part suite that goes through endless time and key changes. The sound of George Duke’s keyboards is very prog and the playing on there is virtuosic and exciting. It all sparkles.

“Then for people into Henry Cow or Canterbury, Uncle Meat is ground zero. I think it was a huge influence on Fred Frith and Chris Cutler. Burnt Weeny Sandwich too – for Frank that’s almost pastoral. I can see Genesis fans getting into that. Some of Ian Underwood’s piano work is just as beautiful as the intro to Firth Of Fifth.”

In a 1992 interview, The Simpsons creator and lifelong fan Matt Groening asked Zappa if he thought music should make progress, if a composer should do things that hadn’t been done before. Zappa argued that, rather than be progressive, it was more important that a creator’s art should be personalised. Music, he said, “should be relevant to the person who writes the music. It has more to do with the composer than with the style of the times or the school that might have generated the composer.”

By that time, Zappa, in failing health, had come full circle, throwing himself into contemporary orchestral music with Civilization Phaze III. An ambitious work composed on the then-cutting-edge digital sampling system, the Synclavier, it was complex, socially charged and, yes, fearlessly personalised. It would be the last artefact from a seemingly inexhaustible imagination that offered up in excess of 60 albums over nearly three decades.

“He will eventually be remembered as one of the great composers of our time,” Belew contends. “Civilization and The Yellow Shark [his suite performed by the Ensemble Modern in ’92] are beyond anything anyone else has done. His use of Synclavier to create a new universe of sounds was incredible. He had so many sides to him, and the orchestral stuff is my favourite part of Frank’s work.”

“He’s very well respected,” says Anderson. “I recently did some shows with [youth orchestra project] School Of Rock, and they’d just come back from doing a Zappa festival in Germany. These 30 kids could play Zappa music at the drop of a hat. Young people dig what he did.”

As for Preston, 35 years after his Albert Hall moment, he’s touring with the Grandmothers, grappling with the Zappa catalogue. “Every night we ask the audience to applaud Frank’s brilliance. I’m just grateful to be out there playing this brilliant, challenging music.”

A music journalist for over 20 years, Grant writes regularly for titles including Prog, Classic Rock and Total Guitar, and his CV also includes stints as a radio producer/presenter and podcast host. His first book, ‘Big Big Train – Between The Lines’, is out now through Kingmaker Publishing.

Arthur Brown is one of rock’s greatest showmen. Having arrived on the scene with his classic 1968 hit Fire, he has remained an eccentric, provocative and unique figure. In 2008, he sat down with Classic Rock to look back over some of the more memorable people he had crossed paths – and one occasional spears – with down the years.

Jimi Hendrix

Pete Townshend saw us [Arthur’s Band] playing at the UFO club and he picked us up for Track Records, who also had Hendrix. So Jimi came down to see us play, and we ended up doing various gigs and TV spots together.

In 1969 we hung around a place called The Scene, a legendary club in New York, where all the musicians went to jam. When Jimi went there he liked to play bass – and he was a very good bass player. And he didn’t like to sing. I remember one occasion playing with him and John Lee Hooker. It was a dream come true.

At one time Jimi proposed that we put a band together, with me, my keyboard player Vincent Crane and The Experience. In the background he wanted tapes of Wagner and a number of big visual screens. It would be a mixture of classical, rock, jazz and R&B. But there were two things that prevented that. One was that shortly after we came up with the idea, Vincent went into a mental home. And although I loved Jimi I wanted to go in my own direction. So I missed out on it.

Jimi was very humble and he also felt very responsible for his audience. If anyone started going on about how great he was he’d just say: “I’m just a song and dance man. Don’t fuck with me.”

Looking at it from the other side, Jimi was also a paratrooper, a soldier – that isn’t all gentleness. Once in New York I spent the night with one of his girlfriends, and when she got back home Jimi locked her in cupboard. He had his moments. On his personal side you had to know him quite well, and there were issues there.

Captain Beefheart

One of my best friends was Jimmy Carl Black, who was with the Mothers Of Invention and also played in Captain Beefheart’s band. He told me a wonderful story about the Captain. Beefheart was married, and at one juncture his wife was put in charge of looking after his hats. He was quite grumpy one day when the band was at the airport, and he turned round to his missus and growled: “Where’s mah hat! You’re supposed to be lookin’ after mah hats.” She’d obviously had this thrust in her face all day, because she just suddenly turned round and lamped him one; laid him on the floor. Totally astonished, he looked up at her and laughed, and continued laughing as a crowd gathered round. He saw humour in every situation.

Frank Zappa

I used to go and visit Frank. We played quite a few concerts together, and I think the theatrical side of our show got transmitted to bands he had on his label, like Alice Cooper.

I remember one time after the Miami film festival we went down to this bar where there were all these small round tables. At some point during the evening these young ladies would get up on them and start to do their go-go dancing. I thought: “That’s a bit sexist, just having the girls doing it,” and decided to get up on one of the tables and started to dance while undressing. There were a lot of straight people in the room who didn’t quite dig this. Frank looked up at me and said, with a mock stern voice: “Arthur, control yourself.” We then made our excuses and left.

I believe Frank was thinking about standing for president just before he died. A perceptive fellow who didn’t jump into any camp whatsoever.

Alice Cooper

The last time I saw Alice Cooper he said: “The next time you’re in Arizona, pop by for a round of golf.” Like I’d be passing by in a bus or something [laughs].

We toured with Alice in ’68, before my song Fire was a big hit, but we already had a reputation in the American underground movement. We played at a festival where we were second on the bill and Alice was down much lower; and, as I recall, so was Iggy Pop. They thought what we were doing was great. And then, of course, Alice went on to borrow the make-up. Then we did a concert at the Rainbow in ’71, and from that he borrowed the psychodrama. Alice’s early stuff was really dangerous and had energy, and then like everyone else he went Hollywood. One thing about Alice is that he’s always pretty honest about where he gets stuff. I’ve always rather liked him, actually.

The Who

The fucking ’Oo. Moony was in your face all the time. He couldn’t help himself. I went to Keith’s for dinner and he would start the proceedings dressed as a cowboy. Then he’d go upstairs come back down dressed as a sailor. Go back up and return as an Apollo astronaut. He couldn’t not perform even in his own house. He was this maniacal, joyful presence, and people wanted to see these excesses. And although he was capable of being quite nasty, he usually did all his pranks with a smile on his face. Of course, later on there were times I would see him and he was quite ill; it was like his skin was almost transparent.

Roger [Daltrey] was much straighter, never got into the dope. He was quite violent in his early years. I was at the premiere of Tommy in Hollywood. Everyone was there: Jack Nicholson and the crew. It was a glamorous affair. When I got there I bumped into Roger sat outside on a bench. I said: “I thought you told me that you’re going to be a film star? You should be in there chatting to the showbiz folk, ligging.” He just looked up and said: “I can’t stand this fucking stuff. I’m waiting here to be picked up by my mum in half an hour and then we’re going for a cup of tea.” That was Roger. A walking paradox.

Peter [Townshend] is the sensible one and unpredictable at the same time. You know that Tommy was originally written as an opera. I was the singer he had in mind when he wrote it. We were all set to do it until Kit Lambert [one half of The Who’s colourful management team] decided he should do it with the band.

Kit Lambert

Shit my boots, there’s a character. The Baron, as he was known. Totally neurotic, a drug addict, exceptionally talented and as gay as a button. A total visionary. I remember one night I had just taken my first acid trip, and I had an African spear and a Chinese Warlord outfit. I went down to the legendary London nightclub The Speakeasy, and Kit was sitting at a table right at the entrance. I was at the top of the stairs, and I threw my spear and it landed on the table right in front of him and went ‘BOING!’ And Kit just completely passed out.

When he came too he proceeded to explain why the incident was so traumatic for him. He said, in his posh theatrical voice: “I was once in the Guards, and we were out in Africa and we were being hunted by this tribe of people. We were running away, trying to get back to camp, when I suddenly heard this whistling and then a thud. I looked around and there was this spear in my best friend’s chest. And when that spear hit the table it brought all that back to me and that’s why I fainted.”

David Bowie

When I was playing in Paris in 1965, he came over and did a gig. Then he was known as David Jones And The Lower Third. In ’67 he was around the UFO club and we were all doing mime. I was cross-dressing and all of that shit. Later he distilled that stuff into his act. At one point we lived around the corner to each other in Beckenham, Kent. I remember one day his ex-wife, Angie, came round to my house and announced: “One day I’m going to fuck you silly!” To which I replied: “See the roadies for that.”

Robert Calvert and Vivian Stanshall

Bob and Viv committed themselves to mental asylums at the same time. When they came out they were speeding like mad. I remember Bob came down to visit me in Puddletown, Dorset. He arrived at the house and he’d had all his hair cut off. He was wearing a complete black leather outfit, with a black attaché case which had all his lyrics in it. He looked like a German officer. We went down to the local pub and he started doing press-ups in the middle of the bar. Both him and Viv were bipolar and had ginger hair. In fact when Vivian came down to visit me he was also in black leather with a black brief case.

I actually introduced them to each other. Viv’s wife rang up one day and said: “Viv’s in a real bad way. He’s depressed and he hasn’t moved.” So I said: “I know an interesting chappie who might be able to help. I’ll bring him around.”

So we got there, and Bob went up to Viv’s room; it was too small to accommodate all of us. About 30 seconds later we heard the windows smash. Then suddenly Bob came tearing out of the room and Viv’s behind him in his pyjamas, screaming: “Come back here, you fucking bastard!” Viv’s wife turned round to me and with a smile said: “That’s the first time Viv’s been out of bed in six months.” I don’t know what Bob said to him but it must have been on the nail.

Originally published in Classic Rock issue 121, June 2008

Pete Makowski joined Sounds music weekly aged 15 as a messenger boy, and was soon reviewing albums. When no-one at the paper wanted to review Deep Purple‘s Made In Japan in December 1972, Makowski did the honours. The following week the phone rang in the Sounds office. It was Purple guitarist Ritchie Blackmore. “Thanks for the review,” said Blackmore. “How would you like to come on tour with us in Europe?” He also wrote for Street Life, New Music News, Kerrang!, Soundcheck, Metal Hammer and This Is Rock, and was a press officer for Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, Motörhead, the New York Dolls and more. Sounds Editor Geoff Barton introduced Makowski to photographer Ross Halfin with the words, “You’ll be bad for each other,” creating a partnership that spanned three decades. Halfin and Makowski worked on dozens of articles for Classic Rock in the 00-10s, bringing back stories that crackled with humour and insight. Pete died in November 2021.