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Illustration: Tatyana Apraksina. Men in Hats. Pastel on black paper, 2017
Starting with my discovery of his music at about age 12, Captain Beefheart became one of my childhood heroes. I listened to his then about twenty-year-old album "Trout Mask Replica" obsessively, determined to achieve acclimation to his unconventionality. It seemed likely that I was the lone Captain Beefheart fan in my small town in the Pacific Northwest. I took it upon myself to become his apologist for the people around me, who rarely warmed to the Captain's music but often bravely tolerated it, responding to my passion with amusement. I won't attempt to define here whatever Captain Beefheart influence may remain in me, but apparently it's there... Recently I had a dream including the train encounter described in this song, with echoes of "Bob Dylan's Dream."
Regarding his monicker, Beefheart (Don Van Vliet) explained that he had a "beef in his heart against the world." He called his coterie of accompanying musicians the "Magic Band"... That might seem intentionally trite, in keeping with the tongue-in-cheek approach that runs through much of the Captain's work. Listening to the Magic Band at their best, though, you might suspect that the tongue-in-cheek part is actually a kind of stealth decoy: there really is magic at work, in the form of incredibly inspired musicianship, somehow holding all the off-kilter parts together. Hence what my tribute refers to as "magic control" — an art I'd certainly love to learn.
lyrics
While riding on a train heading West,
I heard a name dearly known to me:
Captain Beefheart. A traveler said
She'd seen him play on late-night TV,
And his performance was terrible.
Or so she claimed. But in me her words
Hit harbors hidden but powerful
Whether or not to an onlooker absurd.
Maybe he simply had felt unwell.
Maybe he'd ruffled complacent taste.
Why do we style ourselves admirals,
Shutting off seas to fair terms of trade?
Until I've heard how he sounded myself,
I'd rather cultivate silence,
Happy to know he was spotted at all,
Buoyant bizarrely on billows of prejudice.
Thanks to the tribe for a timely reminder
Of how a beef in a man's heart can form.
Count it a blessing when we don't sail blinder,
Barreling through as we howl down storms.
Crossing the spine of the broad continent,
Telegraph poles lashed by gusts of sharp snow,
Veritably we begin our descent,
Roughening rosin to harness raw bows.
Somewhere around San Francisco Bay,
Masters amend ailing instruments.
In a big basement, they tend a gas flame,
Solder and burnish replacements and splits.
Underground, soundposts and saxophone souls
Reap rearrangement for real resonance
Inside odd vessels of magic control
In the armada Invictus.
Translator, writer and musician based in Arroyo Seco (Monterey County) + Oakland, California, as well as St. Petersburg, Russia. Native of Port Angeles, Washington. Part of the cultural community "Apraksin Blues" (www.apraksinblues.com).
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