Being Frank: My Time With Frank Zappa

By Nigey Lennon

Since his untimely death from prostate cancer in 1993, the legend of iconoclastic musician Frank Zappa has continued to grow. The years following his passing have seen the publication of numerous books, both sacred and profane, which examine his life and work, but the best, and only, up-close-and-personal account of the man and his music remains the original: Nigey Lennon’s Being Frank: My Time with Frank Zappa. Musician/author Lennon maintained a personal and professional relationship with Zappa during the period which is generally agreed to have been the composer’s most creative, and she invests her recollections with considerable musical and emotional insight. The fact that Lennon is an accomplished musician and composer in her own right enables her to perceptively analyze Zappa's complex music, and her previous experience as a biographer of Mark Twain and Alfred Jarry is evident as she examines the complex conditions of Zappa's turbulent life. But above all, Being Frank is simply a great read: filled with wry humor, poignancy, and, of course, a plethora of the juicy road stories that Zappa himself didn't dare to include in his own autobiography. The e-book edition of Being Frank is certain to find a new audience for this classic title, which has been in great demand since its third print run sold out several years ago. “Irreplaceable...is the word to describe Being Frank...[Lennon's] memoir is both spiky and musically literate...Lennon’s previous books were on Mark Twain and Alfred Jarry, which indicates the kind of cultural perspective required to get a grip on Zappa: something brighter than rock-journo pedantry.-–Ben Watson, author of Frank Zappa: The Negative Dialectics of Poodle Play

• Language: English
• Publisher: Airstream Books
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780983488408

Nigey Lennon

Nigey Lennon is a professional journalist whose work has appeared in publications such as The Village Voice. She is also the author of seven books.

Book preview

Introduction

Time and those waves again. It only seems like yesterday (and it probably was if you’re dealing with the Zappa zen/beatnik time-is-all-and-in-everything concept) when I first had the pleasure of meeting Nigey Lennon. I further aver that it scares me to acknowledge that it’s been thirty years since I encountered her while she was in residence under Frank Zappa’s Bosendorfer piano in Laurel Canyon in the hills above Hollywood, California. Happily, and as it was supposed to happen, this is precisely the subject of the book you are holding in your hot little hands, and is a memoir of that bittersweet time when she, the red-haired waif, encountered the only Frank Zappa, a man who needs no introduction, as an imperssionable young girl. [NB. Not to make too fine of a point, but if Zappa needed any introduction at all, you certainly wouldn’t be perusing these words in the first place as this is the new millennium and people are lucky if they remember what happened last week if not thirty years ago, but then again biography and memory is getting to be a lost art … but that’s a subject for another forword for another Lennon book.] On this auspicious occasion, she wanted me to remind you of the fact that dreams do happen, though sometimes you’re not sure who is dreaming what or how it’s going to turn out.

There a few ways to approach the information and observations contained in this book; many ways in which to read this book, to process the information contained herein. On the one hand, it can be appreciated solely as a piece of hot rock and roll gossip about a legendary sixties musical iconoclast. On the other hand, and more constructively I think, Being Frank can be viewed as a cautionary tale, a cinema verité. rock-and-roll moral fable, an historically accurate emotional portrait of one of America’s most enigmatic modern musicians during an important transitional period in his life when he was free of the emotional/financial baggage of the original Mothers of Invention and could do as he creatively wished. It gives early testimony to how Zappa would be continually creatively conflicted by straddling the zones between classical and contemporary pop music, and how and why he ended up tap-dancing on the edges of both though ultimately never being satisfied with either position. And if you’ve got eyes to see it and the mind to accept it, this is the Frank Zappa that Nigey encountered so long ago and far away during her period of residence under the Zappa piano. The learned reader must be cautioned that of course none of these events fit into the standard Zappa myth. I say sucks to them, get a life!

Ever since Being Frank’s initial publication, controversy was attached to this book by those in the alt.fan. frank-zappa universe as well as by others who live in the real world (or think they do). They say that what you are reading is all lies, that Frank Zappa never had a girl guitar player in his band, much less one with whom he was intimate with for an extended period of time. I sympathize, having been in that position with No Commercial Potential, my biography of Frank Zappa which has been in print lo these thirty years. Controversy has also swirled around my own book, strangely, believe it, voiced by some of the same people, but at least I had the personal experience to back it up, the interviews from the master’s lips, scrupulously un-edited in some cases to allow points to be made. Frank might not have liked what my book disclosed and thought I had some kind of axe to grind and spent most of the Seventies denigrating me and the book, but even his close friends admitted that indeed it was accurate, and presented a human being in a human universe. And since I’11 assume I’m among friends here, I’ll admit that it tickles my fancy that with all the post-modernist bullshit that has been laid on Zappa’s head posthumously, all those guys still have to read my book first to get themselves fixed whether they want to or not. And that even at this late stage, even Frank by this time (if he gives a rat’s ass about such things wherever he is), has grown to accept that my portrait is far better than others.

The same is true here; Nigey obviously has her own unique view, Moreover, if you read our books in tandem, you’ll begin to get a three-dimensional picture of Zappa in his early formative years, comparatively speaking to time and those waves, you understand: mine, hers, his, and most especially yours.

It is hoped that our books (Nigey’s as well as mine) will make you eager to re-experience the music of Frank Zappa with new ears and points-of-view; if not new, then at least nuanced ears; if not nuanced ears, at least with an altered perspective from which to view Zappa’s emerging project-object since his work rests within a larger framework of time and those waves (can’t get away from them!) though perhaps we will not be able experience it in this time and space if you’re following me. l am making no brief for any kind of revisionist thinking, or any other kind of thinking save to remark yet again that what makes Zappa such a quirky individual and his music so irresistible (once having experienced Zappa one is forever after spoiled) is precisely what Nigey has patiently and passionately documented, and that between the two of our books is a valuable portrait of one of the more intriguing and enigmatic cultural figures of the Twentieth Century, god help us all.

— David Walley

    Author of No Commercial Potential: The Saga of Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention

What I Did On My Summer Vacation,

Or How I Met Nigey Lennon

Actually summer had nothing to do with meeting Nigey Lennon. Her book, Being Frank: My Time With Frank Zappa was given to me as a Christmas gift. Little did I know it would be the gift that kept on giving! I was so fascinated by Nigey’s musings about Frank and her relationship with him, that I had to contact her and meet this interesting and highly witty lady. I was given her phone number and alas only reached her answering machine. I left a message saying who I was and asked if she would like to meet, Nigey responded immediately, and in January 1997, Nigey and her then husband Lionel Rolfe, another wonderfully talented author of several books about the Los Angeles literary scene, came for dinner at my place. When she appeared at the door with her shiny red hair and dark glasses, I felt like Frank would soon come in behind her. He almost did, in the form of a wonderful photo by photographer Phil Stern which Nigey had put into a burgundy frame. I look at it and burst into tears — it was still hard to not be upset over his untimely passing. She hugged me and said she understood. After that meeting, things just jelled rapidly. Nigey listened to a recording of my singing and asked if wanted to record a few songs on her up and coming CD Reinventing the Wheel. Well how could I turn that down! Finally in February of 1998, we went into the studio and the rest is history.

Nigey is one of the few people that knew Frank and was close enough to know him well and could tell me about my own brother. As I have stated in my book and the forward to Greg Russo’s book Cosmik Debris I wasn’t allowed to hang with Frank and so any information I could glean from someone about him was a special treat for me. I envy anyone who was close to him during the ’70s, ’80s and at his time of death.

The one thing I can say about Nigey is this: Nigey knows.

— Patrice Candy Zappa

    Author of My Brother Was A Mother

A Must Re-Read Book

You know, sometimes the best people are there when you least expect them. In May 2001, I went to my first concert by The Ed Palermo Big Band in which Ed played Frank Zappa music at The Bottom Line in New York City. After both shows, the inevitable Zappa-related small talk ensued with people that were falling to convince me that they were really into Zappa, After the second of two shows was performed, Ed Palermo introduced me to Nigey Lennon and her inseparable partner in crime, Eric Weaver. A strong positive connection was made immediately. This was not two Zappa book authors in preparation for a battle; this was a mutual appreciation of the work done by two people whose interest in Frank Zappa’s music has driven them to further exploration of Frank’s entire output. How did he play that? When was this done? How does this all make sense? We found that we wondered about Frank Zappa’s music in much the same way we wondered about things as children.

Of course, Nigey was a lot closer to the crux of the biscuit, and her perceptions are just as valid today as when her book was originally published in 1995. We also discovered that our Frank Zappa books were really given the once-over by the Zappa intelligentsia before they were grudgingly accepted into the realm of respected books on Frank Zappa. I wish there was another way to do it, but you really have to piss people off in order for a book on Zappa to be recognized! I applaud Nigey Lennon for her braveness in encapsulating her first-hand Zappa experience in book form and emerging from the whole experience with her chin up and clothes intact! Thanks to Nigey’s Being Frank, I had the guts to make the final decision on releasing my own book on Zappa.

This edition is a reaffirmation of Being Frank’s validity as a must read book, and hell, even a must re-read book! Just like Frank’s music, the deeper you get into this book, the more you will get out of it. Dive into it right now!

— Greg Russo

    Author of Cosmik Debris: The Collected History & Improvisations of Frank Zappa

Meet Mr. Honker

In 1966, as an eleven-year-old eccentric in Manhattan Beach, California, I underwent a religious experience at the Unimart department store.

It was a lazy afternoon, and I had rather aimlessly hiked a mile or so uphill from my parents’ house to the crossroads of the world — the corner of Sepulveda and Manhattan Beach boulevards. From the traffic signal at the northwest corner of the intersection I could see an endless stream of Ford Rancheros, metal-flake pickup trucks, Big Daddy Roth-customized surf wagons, and convertibles, all full of blonde people headed for the beach. I disliked the beach — not so much the sand and waves, but the rancid, oily smell of Coppertone and the horselaughs from the naugahyde-skinned adolescents who clogged the shoreline, boards in hand, praying for a tsunami.

The coolly-lit interior of the Unimart store was more anonymous, and for a few minutes, as I prowled the aisles, now fingering a set of brightly-colored acrylic yarn pot holders knitted in Taiwan, now crossing over to the hardware section and gingerly hefting a socket set that seemed to be made from cast iron, I could envision myself doing anything: living in a cottage in a Kansas cornfield, with frilly curtains at the windows, and salvaging scraps of the past to sew beautiful quilts from; or laboring long into the night to construct an immensely complex machine, a vast network of galleries and pulleys and billowing steam towering hundreds of stories high and requiring endless adjustments which only I could make. I imagined myself accepting the Nobel prize wearing greasy coveralls, wrench in hand, having just saved the world from imminent disaster by the turn of a single screw.

In the record department, The Troggs were whining Wild Thing. Adenoidal Brits had become a real problem lately, clogging the airwaves with dreary, drippy exudations all too evocative of their dismal little island. I hated rock ‘n’ roll (although I kind of liked the ocarina solo in the break of Wild Thing) — my personal hot pick at the moment was a 78, probably recorded some time during the 1920s, that I had scrounged from a pile of rejects at the Salvation Army. On the B side was a lilting waltz called In Blossom Time with a lovely contralto vocal by an entirely unknown singer, Mary West, and Full Orchestral Accompaniment by, I think, Harry Golden. On the A side, Harry and his orchestra performed without Mary, a hot jazz number which I only listened to once. It was on the Conqueror label, and listed on the wrinkly brown paper sleeve were many other Conqueror discs, available for fifteen cents. I spent a great deal of time poring over the titles and artists and wishing I could still buy the records at places like Unimart. I liked everything about 78s — the big round labels with the exotic lettering, the thick weight of the shellac, the stylized vocals of the singers, the ticks and pops accenting the music, the way the needle raced like crazy across the wide, shiny grooves, finally running out of space and slapping furiously against the little ridge that separated the playing surface from the label. In sharp contrast to this thrilling shellac universe, rock music came on thin plastic 33 1/3 r.p.m. stereo discs with tiny grooves and dull, mass-produced looking, non-hand-lettered labels — light in weight and in content. The whole idea of it bored me.

I drifted down the bins of albums, looking at the covers. There weren’t all that many records; this was about five years before the profitability level of rock ‘n’ roll was discovered by multinational conglomerates. The paltry stock was segregated by plastic dividers with black block letters announcing TEEN FAVORITES, EASY LISTENING, DIXIELAND, GOSPEL…

In the TEEN FAVORITES ghetto I flipped through Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, the Rolling Stones’ latest release, a couple of collected-hits packages, and altogether too much Sonny & Cher. Cher was no Mary West, and Sonny certainly no Harry Golden. (Tiny Tim and his ukulele weren’t yet a cloud on the pop music horizon.) Suddenly I stopped cold. A black-and-fuchsia-and-blue album had literally and figuratively jumped out at me! I had never seen anything remotely like it in my life. From the cover glared the menacing faces of savages with long, matted hair and beads, the photo crudely colored over with what looked like a smeary crayola. They bore no resemblance whatsoever to the simpering, Prince Valiant-coifed rock groups on every other album cover — these guys looked like they’d steal your dog and eat it alive and kicking, if they got the chance. On the back cover was a typewritten note with a hand-printed signature by one Suzy Creamcheese, describing how these degenerates had been hired to play at her high school prom and had ruined it. The band was called The Mothers of Invention, and the album entitled Freak Out!. Without knowing why, I felt I had to own it.

Freak Out! was a double album, two discs in a foldout cover, price $7.98. I checked inside my little green vinyl coin purse and found a quarter and a dime (I’d skipped lunch at school that day). Back home I had four dollars and some change stashed in a jewelry box, my life savings. I sighed and hiked back down the hill.

My mother was in the living room, watching Dark Shadows on TV and shortening a secondhand dress, turning it into a blouse. She made all her own clothes, not from patterns but by creating new things from old ones. At the time I thought this was extremely tacky and wished she would use patterns like anybody else. Later I would come to realize that the motivation for her idiosyncratic tailoring was a strange and complex convolution of childhood poverty (even though we were staunchly middle class and she could have afforded new clothes if she’d wanted them), her own inherent creativity, and a fierce defiance I never fully understood.

I told her there was a new record I wanted to buy, but that I was about a dollar and a half short. She looked up from the sewing machine with faint irritation. You’ve got lots of records was all she said, and went back to her work.

For the next two weeks I went without lunch. This wasn’t much of a hardship — the food in the school cafeteria was famous up and down the state for being the worst in California, perhaps in the nation, at least in my humble opinion, and there was always the solace of cookies or bread and cheese when I got home from school, to tide me over until dinnertime.

Finally, one Wednesday afternoon, I toiled back up the hill to Unimart and went straight to the record department. I paged through the selections in front of the TEEN FAVORITES divider until I got to the plastic card itself. Nothing, No Freak Out!. Somebody richer had beat me to the punch.

I survived the disappointment somehow, and Unimart eventually restocked. The first time I played my very own copy of Freak Out!, I didn’t know quite what to think. The dog-killer image was certainly appropriate, but there was also a strong intellectual context. As for the music, it wasn’t quite rock ‘n’ roll, or I wouldn’t have listened to it more than once, but it definitely wasn’t In Blossom Time, either. There was too much shouting, mumbling, and fulminating, for one thing, not to mention a lot of percussion, and a xylophone on some of the songs. I was used to xylophones; I had a little three-octave student model, received one year as a Christmas present (I still don’t know why), and on which I had been attempting to play the xylophone theme from Danse Macabre for at least three or four years. (I never could get past the place near the beginning, where the sixteenth notes started, without getting tangled up and dropping at least one of the mallets.)

Then there were endless liner notes in very small type on the inside of the album; I read them studiously, over and over, trying to understand what they meant By the

Reviews for Being Frank

[plappen_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Lennon was your average rebellious teenager in 1960s California, until she discovered a strange looking album by someone named Frank Zappa at the local record store. She bought everything she could find by him, and wore out the albums due to playing them over and over. A budding songwriter, she and her boyfriend recorded several songs on reel-to-reel tape and sent them to Zappa.Months went by, until the phone call came asking if they could stop by at the offices of Zappa’s record label. That would be enough for most people, but to realize that Zappa actually listened to the tape was overwhelming. His general opinion was that she didn’t stink, but that she wasn’t ready yet. On thing led to another, and a trip to the Zappa residence led to an invitation to be a substitute guitarist on his next tour.On tour, Zappa rarely, if ever, indulged in the alcohol and drugs that are part of any tour, if only to keep that boss/employee distance. He was obsessive/compulsive and a perfectionist who, because of constant stomach problems, drank kaopectate by the gallon. Lennon’s time on the tour was rather short, only a couple of months. Zappa sent her home after word got to Mrs. Zappa that their relationship wasn’t exactly platonic.Time went by, and after Lennon got thrown out of the house (the relationship with her parents was not good), she was able to crash in the basement of the Zappa residence, on the understanding that she not disturb him while he was composing. He had been seriously injured at a concert in England, and, physically and emotionally, things had changed. The arrangement lasted for a while, until Zappa went back on tour.More time went by, and Lennon attempted to continue her music studies at a local college. She again ran into Zappa while he was rehearsing a grand, orchestral piece called The Great Wazoo. She tried to be as helpful as possible, while also learning as much as possible. Zappa seemed to tolerate her, more than he actually wanted her around. The relationship between them ends badly.Zappa fans should read this book. He is shown to be a lot more than just someone with strange ideas about music. For rock music fans in general, this is a gem of a book.