Go back and read my review of Burnt Weeny Sandwich before continuing, because 1) I certainly had to, considering I wrote it over three months ago and I needed a refresher on the spew that I deemed adequate for publishing, and 2) Weasels Ripped My Flesh is its companion album and a lot of the backstory would be repeated. You certainly don’t need to have heard one album to enjoy the other, but a little background is recommended in order to fully appreciate their similarities and differences and enjoy the project as a cohesive whole.

I use the word “project” loosely. Not to reiterate the Burnt Weeny Sandwich review too much because you just reread it (right?), but this album is nothing more than some cutting room floor scraps of older, unused Mothers of Invention material. While Burnt Weeny Sandwich covered mostly studio tracks, Weasels Ripped My Flesh covers mostly live recordings. In both cases, it’s the last real showcase of the original Mothers that we’ll get for a good long while, but as fed up as Frank was with this band it sure is apparent that he was proud of his accomplishments with them with these archival releases.

Seasoned Zappaphiliacs will readily advise the casual pursuer with caution that this is the most inaccessible Frank Zappa album in the catalog. OoOoooOOOoooOOOOooh, scary. Not only can I think of a handful of albums that are even less accessible (The Yellow Shark, Civilization Phaze III, Playground Psychotics, Dance Me This, Orchestral Favorites, Thing-Fish), but I think going into Weasels Ripped My Flesh on your guard with this knowledge is either going to put you on the defensive (“This stuff ain’t fuckin’ complex, son”) or it’s going to scare you away completely (“AAAAHHHHH, son”), depending on your approach. In either case you’re not even enjoying it anymore. Don’t listen to anybody’s advice! That’s my advice. So let me advise you on how you should react to being advised about this album: Tell the adviser to shove it. When I bought this album 12 years ago I had already heard all the warnings and my approach was purely analytical. Let me set a couple of things straight:

• Almost half the album contains straightforward music that can be recognizable as tunes with melodies to even the most sheltered of Justin Bieber fans. Tracks 2, 5, 8, 9, 10, half of 4, and half of 7 constitutes roughly 18 minutes of music accessible to anybody. On top of that, the other half of Track 4 and the entirety of Track 6 contain music that, while challenging, is unmistakably categorized as “music” by loose definitions. That leaves Tracks 1, 3, 11, and half of 7 that even I will (begrudgingly) label as “noise”. Fine. That’s barely 13 minutes, though, so I hardly consider this something to frighten away the open-minded individual.
• Almost all of it is enjoyable noise. Track 11, the title track “Weasels Ripped My Flesh”, is the only honest-to-God two minutes of the album that is not worth anybody’s time. It’s a live recording of Zappa subjecting the audience to about a minute and a half of pure guitar feedback and then saying “Good night boys and girls, thank you for coming to our concert.” The rest is the applause fading out. The track serves to show what a typical Zappa audience is willing to withstand, but little else.

With that out of the way, I will admit that this album is a grower. I honestly don’t remember being entirely thrilled by it the first time through because it truly does sound like a collage of unrelated bits. Because it is. After a few listens, though, it’s surprising how unified the whole album sounds. Since everything is rooted in blues and jazz traditions, even the most out-there sections (minus the guitar feedback), the overall package doesn’t sound incredibly diverse anymore by today’s standards. It must have been at the time, though, but I wouldn’t know. I’m not 85 years old like every other Zappa fan! Yikes!

Let’s start with the challenging stuff. “Didja Get Any Onya?” is the very first track and it doesn’t spare the weirdness right away. Manic drumming in 7/8 time with screeching, guttural blasts of brass are the first sounds you hear. Then silence. Then brassy bleats followed by inexplicable high-pitched “MOO-AHH”s from one of the band members. Then more odd drumming and jazzy excursions. Then a bizarre monologue in a German accent. Then more odd drumming and jazzy excursions. Then more “MOO-AHH”s. Then it’s over! I guess if you don’t get a thrill out of weirdos being weird on stage, “Didja Get Any Onya?” will prove to be a major 7-minute slog, but I think it’s funny! More antics of a similar achievement occur in “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Sexual Aroused Gas Mask” that turn out to be very humorous as well (“Blow your harmonica, son. *snork snork snork snork snork*“). In my opinion, finding the humor in the abrasiveness is the first step toward appreciation. I mean, it’s meant to be funny too, so that helps. On the plus side, the rest of the album is a cake walk after these two, so ease up homie.

BUT WAIT, don’t let me skip over the bluesy and straightly-played cover of Little Richard’s “Directly from My Heat to You” that’s sandwiched between the above-mentioned tracks. Don “Sugar Cane” “Sexypants” Harris tears it up on his electric violin in ways that would make an ice road trucker blush! I’ve never heard the original tune, but I imagine that this version is more ballsy and aggressive and less “Tutti Frutti, aw rooty, A-WOP-BOP-A-LOO-BOP-A-WOP-BAM-BOOM” if you catch my drift.

I’d lump “Toads of the Short Forest” and “Dwarf Nebula Processional March & Dwarf Nebula” into the same category. Both start out pretty and unassuming. Both end nasty and alienating. The first half of “Toads of the Short Forest” is a tightly-composed bit of folk rock that’s so conventionally melodious and pleasant that the jarring (on purpose) transition halfway through is almost upsetting. At that point, you’re plunged into the middle of a live free jazz freakout. At some point Zappa talks over the band: “At this very moment on stage we have Drummer A playing in 7/8, Drummer B playing in 3/4, the bass playing in 3/4, the organ playing in 5/8, the tambourine playing in 3/4, and the alto sax blowing his nose.” The source material has questionable quality, so I personally can’t hear the organ. I can vouch for the sax guy, though, he’s really laying it on. “Dwarf Nebula Processional March & Dwarf Nebula” is an odd name that at least hints at the song’s two-facedness. Less pretty than “Toads…”, “Dwarf…” is an atonal jam laden with electronics and featuring some Eric Dolphy-esque flute and clarinet flutters before launching suddenly into a complete fest of avant-garde electronic noise. Surprise!

Speaking of Eric Dolphy, “The Eric Dolphy Memorial Barbecue” is a slow-paced drone-jazz number that is, what I can only imagine, a, uh, loving tribute to Dolphy? It doesn’t even sound like Dolphy! Grrrr! The name itself is probably a sarcastic self-aware jab, as in “let’s honor this great contributor to modern music with a song that has nothing to do with him and call it a barbecue, thereby making it sound self-fulfilling”. Zappa was a big Dolphy fan, though, so perhaps he’s making fun of people who create their own self-fulfilling memorial barbecues? Those people need to get knocked down a peg for sure. Anyway, at about seven minutes this piece never moves enough to justify its length, but the sinister undertones keep it from becoming a disposable track taking up valuable real estate in the middle of the record. Kinda like a real barbecue, you don’t really want to show up to it but you’re happy enough that you did. How’s that for a Dolphy tribute?

All that leaves (besides “Get a Little”, which is merely a pleasant, semi-soulful Hendrix-ian wah-wah guitar jam) are the really good tracks. All three are in succession. It begins with “My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama”, which is my personal pick for “single that should have been a hit”. I mean, seriously, “Valley Girl” was Frank’s highest-charting single of his career and “My Guitar…” didn’t even make it? It’s sickening. It’s truly one of the best songs the guy ever wrote; catchy as fuck, gritty enough to give the 1970-era Rolling Stones a run for their money, and dripping with teenage angst! The lyrics are just dumb enough too to be a hit in the charts (“My guitar wants to kill your mama/My guitar wants to kill your mama/My guitar wants to burn your dad/I get real mean when it makes me mad“), but alas. Pay special attention to that un-Zappalike instrumental bridge, it’s all folksy and shit. It’s fantastic! “Oh No” you might recognize if you’re an avid Lumpy Gravy aficionado. It has lyrics this time around, so now it actually wouldn’t sound out of place among the other cynical garage love ballads on Freak Out! Check this phrase out: “You say love is all we need/You say with your love you can change/All of the fools/All of the hate/I think you’re probably out to lunch” Bashing the Beatles with an Eric Dolphy reference! Yow! Finally, a smooth transition into “The Orange County Lumber Truck” yields an excellent acid-blues jam that cooks. I could hang onto it for 10 minutes longer than its meager three-minute run time.

Between Burnt Weeny Sandwich and Weasels Ripped My Flesh, I’ll take the former due to the higher volume of, uh, actual music that holds up better after multiple listens. I love them both, though, and Weasels Ripped My Flesh made a bigger overall impact from an “eye-opener” standpoint once I warmed up to it. It certainly yielded more critical response than Burnt Weeny Sandwich did just from the sheer “what the fuck” factor. If nothing else, Zappa finally proved to the public with this one that no holds will be barred. Nothing after Weasels Ripped My Flesh will hit quite the same way because this release solidified Zappa into the realm of “predictable in his unpredictability” forever. Ah well.

GOOD