Gross, look at that album title. Gross, look at that album cover. Why does everything have to be ugly and gross with this guy, with his music and his art and his face. Where are the songs about peace and love and *checks album release date* *checks Wikipedia* uh the Tongai earthquake and *squints* Mick Jagger’s marijuana possession punishment? Whoa, hold on here, Burnt Weeny Sandwich‘s release pre-dated Black Sabbath’s debut by only four days? Cool! Frank Zappa made and released eight whole records before Black Sabbath discovered a new genre on their first try. Zappa probably didn’t even discover his own dick by 1970. Just ask his wife and his only two children at the time. Hey now, that’s not very nice and/or doesn’t make any sense!

The ugly cover brings to mind the Uncle Meat album, which had its own ugly cover in a similar vein to match the collage of diverse and cohesive ideas within. Absolutely fitting in that case. For Burnt Weeny Sandwich, in my opinion, not so much. The music here ranks among Zappa’s prettiest, but it’s not conventionally pretty. It’s Zappa-pretty, so it’s still rough around the edges and you’ll find a few cigar burns but in the right light it’s absolutely magnificent! More magnificent than that ill-suited album cover for sure, which leads the potential listener to expect industrial hard-nosed German electronica or something. I can’t think of a larger disparity in Zappa’s catalog between an album’s art and its musical contents. That’s the whole point though, you can bet your FUCKING CUNT.

Sorry, clearly I’m waaaaayy too comfortable writing these Frank Zappa reviews. Burnt Weeny Sandwich and Weasels Ripped My Flesh (another album to be released later the same year) can be considered companion albums. Both compile recordings of the original Mothers of Invention before Frank broke up the band prior to the Hot Rats release. Burnt Weeny Sandwich contains more stringently-arranged studio compositions while Weasels Ripped My Flesh showcases more freeform and experimental improvising in a live setting. I once read a review that described the former as a “classical approach to jazz” while the latter is a “jazz approach to classical”, which I think is a complete donkey turd made up by someone who has no idea what he’s talking about. And even if he did and it was actually accurate, does that vague piece of horsefuck clear things up for you? Here, let me try: “Oh, it’s a rococo modicum of painfully self-effacing musique concrète designed to, at best, chip away the social implications of neoplasticism and its ambivalent attitude toward the functional aesthetics of supremacism and, at worst, comment wryly on Aleksandra Ekster’s tendency to subvert the laughable, albeit entrenched, mores of inescapable technopolitical ramifications of the response to ennui in modern times.” Eat my shit.

So, yeah, Zappa’s obviously conscious effort at creating a “classical approach to jazz butts butts butts” yields the first favorable representation of his orchestral side. While Lumpy Gravy was fine enough in spite of its messy presentation, there’s actual good flow on this record EVEN THOUGH he Frankensteined some of these tracks by piecing together odds and ends from different recordings. Not only that, it’s damn accessible, and there’s enough variety to maintain your attention even if a lot of this isn’t necessarily your kind of music. Hard to say that about many of the records in Zappa’s canon.

Burnt Weeny Sandwich isn’t entirely made up of formally composed orchestral arrangements. The album is book-ended by two doo-wop covers, “WPLJ” and “Valerie”. The first one is a fun, upbeat piece of business, featuring raucous backing vocals from a rowdy group of rambunctious miscreants singin’ about white port and lemon juice! The second one is a romantic, smarmy little number. These are the only two tracks with lyrics.

The two shortest tracks, “Igor’s Boogie, Phase One” and “Igor’s Boogie, Phase Two”, each run under a minute. Reminiscent of a lot of the tracks on Uncle Meat, the plinky percussion and hooty woodwinds playfully complement each other. The Igor in question is Frank’s butt-buddy (he wishes) Igor Stravinsky, but if these two interludes are meant to be homages to the composer himself then I don’t see the connection. The music is pretty atonal, more like the “avant-garde” modern classical piece from the likes of Schoenberg or Webern. Pretty BOURGEOIS to think otherwise, wouldn’t you say?

“Overture to a Holiday in Berlin” serves as a short preamble to the longer “Holiday in Berlin, Full Blown” a few tracks later (The Uncle Meat connection strikes again – “Prelude to King Kong” before the big suite). “Overture…” is rudimentary and plinky like the aforementioned Boogies, while the “Full Blown” version fleshes out the melody with some additional piano and saxophone variations and a guitar solo section. Note just how whimsical and light it all seems on the surface until you really listen in on the complexity of the intertwining parts. He makes it sound so fucking easy.

The most underrated gem according to MINE OWN TWO EARS is “Theme From Burnt Weeny Sandwich”, which overlays a guitar solo leftover from the We’re Only in It for the Money sessions onto, basically, a improvised percussion/organ restrained freak out. Not like a Freak Out! “Return of the Son of Monster Magnet” freak out, more like a mellow Uncle Meat “Nine Types of Industrial Pollution” freak out. Clocking in at 4:30, I wish it went on much longer. I find this track immensely relaxing.

Speaking of relaxing, “Aybe Sea” (get it? A B C!) is the contender for the single-most played-straight song Zappa ever wrote (even “Strictly Genteel” has jokes during live performances). There’s no edge, no snarky notes, no harsh tones, no brash noises, just Ian Underwood playing an absolutely gorgeous piano solo with guitar and harpsichord accompaniment. And buried in there on Burnt Weeny Sandwich as a thematic lead in to “The Little House I Used to Live in”, never to be released (or even played?) live, it’s a shame that it didn’t get more noticed.

Oh yeah, I forgot about the most forgettable song on this whole forgettable album, the forgettable 19 minutes of “The Little House I Used to Live in”. It’s so chock full of great, jaunty melodious sections and fantastic virtuoso improvisational soloing from a bunch of forgettable musicians (including another forgettable violin performance from Don “Forgettable Sugar Cane” Harris), seamless and forgettable live and studio transitions, and a really cool, rare, extended, and forgettable, extended organ solo near the end, that I forgot to talk about it! The last couple minutes of the track features an audience member shouting through the applause about some nonsense, to which Frank calmly responds with a faux-sympathetic “You’ll hurt your throat, stop it.” It will still be a while before a regular release of live concert recordings will allow us to really become acquainted with Frank’s on-stage personality, but these little inside peaks early on are pretty neat. We’ll get more of that in Weasels Ripped My Flesh as well. Stay tuned!

This is all about as whimsical and fanciful as Zappa’s able to get, and an absolutely quintessential album for the early period. You could tell that he was proud of these recordings; they showcased his prowess at pushing his band to new uncharted territories. It was ultimately his downfall with the Mothers, of course, since he was sick of their inability to keep up with him. This is ironic, since the next major period in Zappa’s career sees the music getting dumbed down — most people agree that it’s a big fat low point. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Enjoy the next two records while we’re still young, green, and naive about what’s to come. It’s going to get rocky.

VERY GOOD