Halloween 77

(. . . two . . . one, two, three . . .)

Alright! Happy Halloween! . . . Alright. Calm down, now. Calm down . . . I'd like to introduce the members of our rocking teenage combo to you tonight. Patrick O'Hearn on bass; Adrian Belew on guitar; Tommy Mars on keyboards; little skinny Terry "Ted" Bozzio on drums; Peter Wolf on keyboards; and Ed Mann on percussion. And what is my name? . . . No, all together now. One, two, three, four . . . Not bad. Not bad. It's nice to have an a— It's nice to have a little identity in the world of rock. I suppose you're ready, and we will now begin . . .

Flies all green 'n buzzin' in his dungeon of despair
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes and scratch their matted hair
A tiny light from a window hole a hundred yards away
Is all they ever get to know about the regular life in the day;
An' it stinks so bad the stones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the room where the giant fire puffer works
'N the torture never stops, yeah
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops

Slime 'n rot, rats 'n snot 'n vomit on the floor
Fifty ugly soldiers, man, holdin' spears by the iron door
Knives 'n spikes 'n guns 'n the likes of every tool of pain
An' a sinister midget with a bucket an' a mop where the blood goes down the drain;
An' it stinks so bad the stones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the room where the giant fire puffer works
'N the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops

Flies all green 'n buzzin' in his dungeon of despair
An evil prince eats a steamin' pig in a chamber right near there
He eats the snouts 'n the trotters first
The loins 'n the groins is soon dispersed
His carvin' style is well rehearsed
He stands and shouts, alright!
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
And disagree, no-one durst
He's the best of course of all the worst
(He's the best of course of all the worst)
Some wrong been done, he done it first
(Some wrong been done, he done it first)

An' he stinks so bad, his bones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops,
In the night of the iron sausage,
Where the torture never stops, yeah
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops

Alright! You people wanna get tortured tonight? . . . You will!

Flies all green 'n buzzin' in his dungeon of despair
Who are all these people that he's locked away down there
Are they crazy?
Are they sainted?
Are they zeros someone painted?
It has never been explained since at first it was created
But a dungeon just like a sin
Requires naught but lockin' in
Of everything that's ever been
Look at her
(With the tongue over there!)
Look at him
(That meatball with the little hat!)
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in

City of tiny lites
Don't you wanna go
Hear the tiny auto horns
When they tiny blow
Tiny lightnin'
In the storm
Tiny blankets
Keep you warm
Tiny pillows
Tiny tiny tiny tiny sheets
Talkin' bout them tiny cookies
That the peoples eat

City of tiny lites
Hey, maybe you should know
That it's over there
In the tiny dirt somewhere
You can see it any time
When you get the squints
From your downers and your wine
You're so big
It's so tiny
Every cloud is silver line-y
The great escape for all of you
Tiny is as tiny do
Tiny is as tiny do
Tiny is as tiny do
Tiny is as tiny do

City of tiny lites
Don't you wanna go
Hear the tiny auto horns
When they tiny blow
Tiny lightnin'
In the storm
Tiny blankets
Keep you warm
Tiny pillows
Hey, tiny tiny tiny tiny sheets
Talkin' bout them tiny cookies
That the peoples eat
That the peoples eat
That the peoples eat
That the peoples eat

And it's over there
And it's over there
And it's over there
And it's over there

Tommy:
Watch him eat
And while he's eating
Talk to him
While he's eating
And ask him what he's doing

Patrick: What's he doing?
FZ: He's eating.

Tommy:
Now
Ask
Him what he's doing

FZ: Talk to me while he's eating and ask me what he's doing.

Tommy:
He's eating

FZ: What's he doing?

Tommy:
He's eating

FZ: What is he doing?

Tommy:
He's eating

FZ: What is he doing?

Tommy:
He's eating

FZ: He's eating, isn't he?

Tommy:
He sure is

FZ: Now, watch him eat, and while he's eating, talk to me while he's eating, and ask me what he's doing. What's he doing?

Tommy:
He's eating

FZ: Ask me again.

Tommy:
What's he
Do-ing?

FZ: What's the answer?

Adrian & Audience: He's eating.

FZ: You don't know what that means yet, but wait till the movie is finished.

FZ: What's he doing? . . . That's what I thought.

Roy: Oh . . . Woah . . . Oh . . . Oh-ah-woah . . .
Patrick: You don't say.
Roy: Oh . . . oh hah hah . . . It must have been a police [...] . . .
FZ: Where is the gas mask?
?: It's eating.
FZ: It's right there. Oh, good.
Patrick: It's nothing to watch, Frank.
FZ: Give me the gas mask.
Roy: I had too much. Oh ho ho . . .
FZ: Thank you. Thank you, doctor.
Roy: I had too much.
FZ: Ladies and gentlemen, Roy Estrada . . . This is the part of our program that is dedicated to the theory that Grand Opera is not dead, it just smells funny . . . We're now going to perform a piece—this is the tragic part of a very— Huh? Wait, wait, what'd he say?. . . Turn off the light? No! We can't turn off the light because we're making movies of you . . . What, you guys don't wanna be in the movie? . . . Hey, put them in the movie.
Roy: Oh . . . oh, be on the, be on the movie, be on, be on, be on the mo-vie, be on the . . .
FZ: Right!
Roy: Be on the movie . . .
FZ: That's why the lights are on, you understand? Even up there, get those people up there in the movie. And those people over there need to be in the movie too . . . Alright, now, look. Now that you all realize that you are in the movie—and I'm glad that you're in the movie—forget about the light. You can do it with the lights on—I've done it myself a number of times—it's a lot of fun. Now sit down . . . Now, let's get serious, folks, this is Grand Opera time—this is our Halloween Grand Opera . . . I mean, you don't wanna have a regular Halloween, do you? Right. You want the best. You deserve the best. You're gonna get the best. Ladies and gentlemen, Roy Estrada and the Demise of the Imported Rubber Goods Mask.
Roy: Too much, too much, monkey, too much, too much . . . Oh, looord . . .
FZ: In this scene, a lonely boy of European extraction . . . is falling in love with a sexually aroused gas mask.
Roy: Hee haw hee! Hee haw hee! Hee haw heeee! Hoo. Hee-oo. Oh . . . It's all . . . Ah, bee, why, bee, why, wing, brown, cack, crack, oh, oh, just . . . oh hee oh eee. "You must have been a beautiful baby, baby" . . . Please. Please, anybody. Please help me, please help. Please help me. Please help . . . Please help . . . Heh hu heh uh . . . ha ha ha ha ha . . . You— (cough) You did it. You. I can't. I can't. I can't can't. Oh oh oh oh . . . Please, please, oh, it's gone, it's gone. I can't, Frankie, I can't. I can't do . . . I can't . . . I can't . . . Heh heh heh heh a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha . . .

Roy . . .
Roy . . .

And the name of this song is "Flakes."

Flakes! Flakes!
Flakes! Flakes!

They don't do no good
They never be workin'
When they oughta should
They waste your time
They're wastin' mine
California's got the most of them
Boy, they got a host of them

Swear t'God they got the most
At every business on the coast
Swear t'God they got the most
At every business on the coast
They got the Flakes

Flakes! Flakes!

They can't fix yer brakes
You ask 'em, "Where's my motor?"
"Well, it was eaten by snakes . . . "
You can stab 'n shoot 'n spit
But they won't be fixin' it
They're lyin' an' lazy
They can be drivin' you crazy

Swear t'God they got the most
At every business on the coast
Swear t'God they got the most
At every business on the coast
(Take it away, Bob . . . )

I asked as nice as I could
If my job would
Somehow be finished by Friday
Well, the whole damn weekend
Came 'n went, Frankie
(Wanna buy some acid, Bob?)
You know I don't do that stuff
I write my songs on a typewriter

Well, you know, no matter what you do,
They gonna cheat 'n rob you
'N they'll send you a bill
That'll get your senses reelin'
And if you do not pay
They got computer collectors
That'll get you so crazy
'Til your head'll go through th' ceilin'
Yes it will!
Just like in [...]!

There's a big dilemma
About my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
There's a big dilemma
About my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
She used to knock me out
Until her face broke out

There's a big dilemma
About my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
There's a big dilemma
About my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
She was my steady date
Until she put on weight

Dip!
Too-koo-too koo-too-koo
Too-koo-too too-koo-too

Dip!
Boogedy boogedy
Boogedy boogedy

There's a big dilemma
About my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
There's a big dilemma
About my Big Leg Emma, uh-huh, oh yeah
She used to knock me out
Until her face broke out
She used to knock me out
Until her face broke out
She used to knock me out
Until her face broke out
And then I said . . .

And the name of this song is "Envelopes."

Terry: I might as well do this now. Watch him eat, and while he's eating, talk to me while he's eating, and ask me what he's doing.
FZ: What's he doing?
Crowd: He's eating!
Terry: He's eating. Now ask me what he's doing.
FZ: What's he doing?
Terry: He's eating.
FZ: What's he doing?
Terry: He's eating!
FZ: Play your drums.
Terry: Thank you.

Disco Boy
Run to the toilet, honey,
Comb your hair

Disco Boy
Pucker your lips,
'N check your shoulders,
'Cause some dandruff might be
Hidin' there!

Disco Boy,
You're the DISCO KING!
Aw, the Disco-Thing
Made you think
Someday,
That you
Just might GO SOMEWHERE!

Disco Girl!
You're 'out-a-site'!
You need a Disco Boy
To treat you right
He'll do a little dance;
Take you home tonight
(Leave his hair alone,
But you can kiss his comb)
(Ah, kiss his comb now!
Get all the flakes off of it!)

Disco Boy!
Run to the toilet, honey,
Comb your hair

Disco Boy!
Shake it more than three times 'n yer playin' with it
(WOW!)
While yer standin' there!

Disco Boy!
Do the Bump every night, 'til the Disco Girl
Who's REALLY RIGHT
Gonna fall for yer line,
'N feed you a box fulla
Chicken Delight!
(Ah, eat it up now!)

Disco chit-chat; so demure!
Pump that booty all across the floor!
A disco drink
A disco wink
"You never go doody!"
(That's what you think)
"You never go doody!"
(That's what you think)
"You never go doody!"
(That's what you think)

Doody
Ah, go doody
Doody
You never go doody

ROCK 'N ROLL!

Disco Boy!
You got one more chance
To comb your hair again

Disco Boy!
They're closin' the bar,
And she's leavin' with your friend!

Disco Boy,
That's the way it goes,
So wipe your nose,
'N try it again,
To get a little pussy tomorrow!
(I know you can do it)

Disco Boy,
No one understands,
But thank THE LORD
That you still got hands
To help you do that jerkin' that'll
Blot out yer Disco Sorrow!
(That's right)

It's Disco Love tonight
Make sure you look all right
It's Disco Love tonight
Make sure you look all right
Awright!

Many well-dressed people
In several locations
Are kissing quite a bit
(Yea-ah!)
Later in the evening
Leaves will fall
Tears will flow
Wind will blow
Some rain; some snow
A fireplace maybe
A kiss or two
And down they'll go
But that's the way it goes sometimes
You just might find yerself in the clutches of some
Wild Love

Mama stroked his dinger
Daddy got a stinky finger
In those days of long ago
(Yeah-ah!)
Later in the evening
She'd complain
They'd refrain
He'd go home 'n hone his bone
A tragic case maybe
But also true
I'm sure you know
That's the way it goes sometimes
You just might find yourself in the clutches of some
Wild Love

Now'days you get dressed up
'N later you get messed up
But still you're pretty hip
(Yeah-ah!)
Later in the evening
You'll explain
She'll remain
You're real modern
She's the same
A frantic pace maybe
But who's to say
Where it will go

Adrian: Watch him while he's eating. Talk to me while he's eating. What is he doing?
Patrick: He's eating, you jerk!
Adrian: You sure he's eating? I thought I was playing the guitar! I don't know . . .

Terry: Ooh wee!
FZ: Do you read me devil?
Terry: Oh yeah! What? Am I supposed to be scared, man?
FZ: Oh yeah, Reety aw-righty?
Terry: Oh yeah, that's real tough! I bet you're real bad! Listen fool, you got to prove to me that you're rough enough to get into Hell, that you got the style enough to get into Hell, so start talkin' . . .
FZ: Alright, lemme tell ya somethin'.
Terry: Alright!
FZ: I'll prove to you that I'm bad enough to go to Hell.
Terry: Yeah!
FZ: Because I have been through it!
Terry: Yeah!
FZ: I have seen it!
Terry: Yeah!
FZ: It has happened to me!
Terry: Yeah!
FZ: Remember, I WAS SIGNED WITH WARNER BROTHERS FOR EIGHT FUCKIN' YEARS!!!
Terry: Tell me about it! Now you're talkin' my language!
FZ: Now how bad is that?
Terry: That sounds good to me, motherfucker!
FZ: A— And not only that! I know Mo Austin personally!
Terry: Oh, no!
FZ: Yeah!
Terry: No!
FZ: I've been personally abused by Mo Austin.
Terry: You don't know Mo Austin personally.
FZ: Yeah!
Terry: You haven't been personally abused by Mo Austin.
FZ: You know him too, don't ya?
Terry: Listen, man . . .
FZ: What? . . . Say it louder!
Terry: That fool is my brother.
FZ: Say it louder! . . . That's right, you got the right idea. Thank you— Oh, just what I need. Thank you. Hey, look, I'll— I'll show you how bad I am, look at this—look at this.
Terry: I can't see.
FZ: You know—Yep. Have you ever been to Japan?
Terry: Have I ever been to Japan?
FZ: Yeah.
Terry: Just once, yes.
FZ: You were over there on that lucky l— lucky deal, alright?
Terry: Yeah . . .
FZ: Okay, look. Let me tell ya.
Terry: Oh, no . . .
FZ: This do anything for ya?
Terry: Is that Rodan or Woody Woodpecker?
FZ: Hah hah . . . Is a little bit of both.
Terry: Yeah.
FZ: It's Rody Woodpecker, actually.
Terry: Hah!
FZ: Am I getting my point across to? Because this song is going on for far too long—these people want rock, you know?
Terry: Okay, man. So move right along, tell me what your interests are, you know . . . if we're gonna come to some kind of agreement, I've got to know what you're all about, you know . . . 'Cause I don't know if you're the right cat for the . . . for the place, you know.
FZ: Look . . . lemme tell you what my problem really is, you see.
Terry: Okay . . .
FZ: My problem is that I don't belong anywhere.
Terry: A-ha . . .
FZ: You see . . . I don't even belong where you are, you see.
Terry: I hope not!
FZ: I, I'm a simple person, you know, I have very small desires in life, Titties 'n beer, you know.
Terry: No! What?
FZ: Titties 'n beer!
Terry: No! No man, you're joking . . .
FZ: Titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer . . .
Terry: What? No!
FZ: Titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer . . .
Terry: No please . . . No! Not that!
FZ: Titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer . . .
Terry: Oh no man, no, please, ARGH!
FZ: Titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer . . .
Terry: No! No! No! No!
FZ: Titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer, ti-dit-de-dunt de-dunt de-dunt . . .
Terry: No! Not titties 'n beer!
FZ: Titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer, titties 'n beer . . .
Terry: Oh, I can't stand titties 'n beer! . . .
FZ: Ay-ya hey-yah! Ah-titties 'n beer, ah-titties 'n beer, ah-titties 'n beer, ah-titties 'n . . . (I'M IN YOU!) . . . titties 'n beer . . . (I'M IN YOU!)
Terry: Oh no! No! No! Wait . . .
FZ: Ah! Look at this! What am I gonna do with this thing?
Terry: . . . Wait, wait, please no!
FZ: Hey! Look at this!

FZ: Hey, John, more agony! More agony, John! This really hurts, John! It's terrible. It's painful. Get down, John. John, you're a wonderful actor. An academy award is yours, John. Plead.
Roy: Dominus vobisc— biscum . . .
FZ: Alright, John, John, hold it, hold it, hold it. Alright, wait a minute. No, just a moment. John, hey, John, okay, John . . . My name is Frank Zappa. I have a new— I have a new record company, it's called Zappa Records, it's gonna be distributed by Mercury Phonogram, and since Warner Bros. was so mean to you, I think we can arrange to give you a record contract with a fair deal. Yeah, you. You've been through it. You've already been through with Warner Bros. You give up on them, right? Fuck the guy with the big black button, you know what I mean? Alright. Now look . . . Yeah, some of them are scratchy, yeah . . . Can you dance?
John: Yeah, I can dance.
FZ: Are you good? Wait a minute . . .
John: . . . Can-Can. The Can-Can.
FZ: The Can . . . The Can-Can? Wait a minute. Can you guys dance? You can . . .
Janet The Planet: In a horizontal position.
FZ: You can, oh, hey! Say that again, wait a minute. I've just asked this girl if she can dance and she said:
Janet The Planet: In a horizontal position.
John: Frank!
FZ: What?
John: You don't wanna wear this, do ya?
FZ: . . . no, hell, no. My nose is big enough already. Alright! This is chaos, stop it! Stop! Stop! Alright. It is now time to get into the meat of our performance, and that is the Dance Contest. Now, last night we had ten people up on the stage, maybe twelve, who knows. They were dancing and twirling and trying to keep the beat to "The Black Page #2." Unfortunately, this stage is too small to accommodate the type of spectacle that I wanna put into this film. We don't want just a few people on the stage, we want everybody in the audience trying to dance to this stupid song, so stand up! Stand up! Stand up! Alright! Everybody dance to this song, but remember, hey, keep, keep, keep the aisles clear, keep the aisles clear, you never, you never know when there's gonna be an emergency. Okay. The name of this song is "The Black Page #2." One, two, three, four!

Alright! Now . . .
Hey! Do you know what you are?
You're an asshole! ASSHOLE!

Some of you might not agree
'Cause you probably likes a lot of misery
But think a while and you will see . . .
Broken hearts are for assholes
Broken hearts are for assholes
Are you an asshole?
Broken hearts are for assholes
Are you an asshole too?
Whatcha gonna do, 'cause you're an asshole . . .

No no no, yeah yeah yeah
I said
You . . . are . . . an ASSHOLE!

Maybe you think you're a lonely guy
'N maybe you think you're too tough to cry
So you went to The Grape,
Just to give it a try
And Dagmar
(Hi, homo)
Was his name . . .
(Oh, Charlelle is back in town)
The whiskers sticking out from underneath of his Pancake make-up
(Bigger, fatter and wetter than ever before)
Nearly drove you insane
(Nice)
And so you kissed a little sailor
(Reverend Buddy Love speaks now)
Who had just blew in from Spain
([...])
You pull the chain attached to the permanently-erected nipples of Jimmy
([...] not judge a home by his [...], scarf or haircut)
In a bold salute to pain
([...])
You sniffed the reeking buns of Angel
(Not only that, but [...] . . .)
And acted like it was cocaine
(. . . wristwatch or long fingernails [...])
You were dazzled by the exciting new costume of Ko-Ko
In a way you can't explain
(Tomorrow night, Conan is back!)
And so you worked the wall with Michael
Conan!
(Two-hundred and forty-five kilos of hot Mexican dynamite, hah hah)
Gave your back an awful strain
(In an all nude, all new exotic exciting [...] all male wrestling)
But you came back on Sunday for the gong shows
But you forgot what I was sayin'
(Hah hah hah, nice . . .)
'Cause you're an asshole, you're an asshole
That's right
You're an asshole, you're an asshole
Yes, yes
You're an asshole, you're an asshole
That's right
You're an asshole, 'n you're an asshole

Well, now you been to The Chest, been to The Grape
Now I think you know what you are: you're an asshole

You say you can't live with what you've been through
Well, ladies you can be an asshole too
You might pretend you ain't got one on the bottom of you
But don't fool yerself girl
It's lookin' at you
(That's right, Angel)
Don't fool yerself girl
It's winkin' at you
Don't fool yerself girl
It's blinkin' at you
That's why I say
I'm gonna ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
(P. F.)
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
(P. F.)
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
(B. L.)
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
(Fist Fuck)
Don't fool yerself, girl,
It's goin' right up yer poop chute
Don't fool yerself, girl,
It's goin' right up yer poop chute
Don't fool yerself, girl,
It's goin' right up yer poop chute
(Ay ay ay ay)
Don't fool yerself, girl,
It's goin' right up yer poop chute
(Ay ay ay ay)
Don't fool yerself, girl,
It's goin' right up yer poooop chute
(Ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay)
Don't fool yerself, girl,
It's goin' right up yer . . .

Aw, I knew you'd be surprised . . .

(Mmm . . . hah hah hah . . . Leather . . .)

In today's rapidly changing world rock groups appear every fourteen or fifteen minutes, utilizing some new promotional device. Some of these devices have been known to leave irreparable scars on the minds of foolish young consumers. (True.) One such case is seated before you: non other than little skinny Terry "Ted" Bozzio, that cute little drummer! Terry recently fell in love with a publicity photo of a boy named Punky Meadows (Oh Punky!). Lead guitar player from a group called Angel. In the photograph, Punky was seen with a beautiful shiny hairdo in a semi-profile which emphasized the pooched out succulence of his insolent pouting rictus, the sight of which drove the helpless young drummer mad with desire!

I can't stand the way he pouts
'Cause he might not be pouting for me!

Patrick: Al Santos thinks that Bonnie Prince Johnny is gay. Hah hah . . .
Terry: Oh, Punky, please be pouting for me.
Patrick: Hey, Terry, what do you think about that?

His hair's so shiny and it's done real nice
'Til I squirm with ecstasy

I wonder if Punky is rehearsin' today
I'll just go over 'n hear him play
His hair is so pretty . . . I'd like to bite his neck
I've heard a rumor he's more fluid than Jeff Beck
But . . .
I AIN'T QUEER
I AIN'T GAY
(He's a little fond of chiffon in a wrist array
A wrist array)
That's all it is, I swear

Thanks for coming to the show . . . Now we're gonna do another song . . . 'Cause I— I promised that guy out there that we would do it . . .

Name of this song is "San Ber'dino."