Striking from every sonic angle, the mega- (or magna depending on who you ask) opus Uncle Meat is the casual music listener’s most horrid experience. Over the course of four sides of recorded wax we find quick thematic interludes, improvised woodwinds, arranged orchestration, demented doo-wop, tape tricks, hedonistic guitar rock, and dialog clips from the belated film of the same name. In other words, it’s an aural trash heap for anyone who approaches this record wanting to discover a few cool tunes.
Take “Dog Breath in the Year of the Plague,” for example. It’s here, five ‘grooves’ into the record that we encounter our first pop moments. It begins with wailing horns and a pleasant guitar strum, then a catchy, climbing vocal melody line, then the chorus hits and a female faux-opera singer joins the mix. As the mantra-like verses progress, the vocals turn to groaning men and helium clowns. At the conclusion of the song, vexing slurs of horns unravel. And with that our culture of song-downloading, album-dissectors roll their cursors away from the ‘Buy’ button and call Zappa and The Mothers a wash. What may or may not be heard following this is Frank’s indifferent chuckle rising or descending onto us (I make no assumption as to where deified producers go when then they die). “Fantastic,” he says.
The genius that dwells amid Uncle Meat’s multiple personalities is its cohesion. The skill at capturing this trait unsurprisingly goes to Zappa’s production and editing abilities, which masterfully corral the collection of renegade musicians, sounds, improvisations and characters in this fevered film score. The cohesive devices themselves are both found in the thematic and instrumental portions of the record. Its theme, intended to be the score for a film that wouldn’t come into fruition for another two decades, revolves around the life of a talented collection of visionaries who reside in the sunny abundance of suburban LA. The songs and pieces of Uncle Meat document the mini-sagas of these people as they examine groupie life, the quest to create transcendent music and the all-American tradition of “Cruising for Burgers.” We meet the disenchanted Suzy Creamcheese and the budding Ian Underwood who Zappa urges to “whip out” his alto saxophone. Without question the Mothers’ signature commentary-laden absurdity thrives on Uncle Meat.
Musically, the glue of this record resides in the unhinging, and original, woodwind and organ playing. The quick movements of clarinets and saxophones create an urgent pulse that frames the music and fosters the miscellany in between. This design builds momentum toward the magnificently titled “King Kong,” which occupies an entire album side using these exact devices. Within this cocoon of tweets and organ haze, we find everything else. “Nine Types of Industrial Pollution” showcases hypnotic acoustic guitar soloing with a gentle, building organ in the background. There are irreverent renditions of “Louie, Louie” and “God Bless America” that make use of the Royal Albert Hall pipe organ and a kazoo respectively. “Mr. Green Genes” uses a proclaiming alto sax and twittering vocal harmony and “Ian Underwood Whips it Out” exposes us to some mean slabs of Coltrane-esque improvisation amid a maniacally groovy rhythm section. “Electric Aunt Jemima,” “The Air,” and “Cruising for Burgers” are off-kilter sunshine pop songs that would later find tremendous translation in Zappa’s live shows. “Uncle Meat Variations” and “Project X” both begin as pretty jazz pieces before evolving into avant-mayhem. And yet for all of its diversity we’re left with a record that has flawless fluidity.
If there ever were, records like this aren’t made anymore. Uncle Meat, purveyed by a master composer/producer/guitarist/editor, is a zany vision, carried out by a large collection of musicians who diverge and improvise to such an extent that it all makes sense. Music critics tend to laud works that influence -- ones that are used a foundation upon which other works or even whole genres are built. The prize in Uncle Meat is in fact the opposite. It represents a sonic exploration so keen, unifying, and rousing that, aside from Zappa himself, no has dared to follow in kind.