» Zappanale #10
Zappanale 10 - 1999
Dear friends, the following text is so wonderful, I couldn't help it. These lines must be published. Unfortunately, the author of these wonderful lines has "lost" to us. I hope, however, that the author of these lines will read this publication and please get in touch. (I really want to load up a few Rostocker Pilsners with you at the next Zappanale.) So friends, have fun consuming the following lines.
PART ONE: TAKE A HIKE IN THE EAST (AND A FLYING FUCK AT THE MOON)
A journey is about movement in space, but what about a military operation or on a rock music mission? In any case, the topography changes. We start in the southwestern mountains and end in the northeastern tundra with a strong taste of chewing tobacco and cowboy lager.
Time and space combine in a train to nowhere. The stranger finally gets out. The length of the journey and the hardships of the journey are a thing of the southern past. The arrival fades the unzappanal elements of the person. Zappanal thinking shall prevail from now on. The hiker dusts himself off to be back for the first time.
The train steams off towards the Baltic Sea.
Following him will not be necessary until much later. The stranger lights a first Zapparette and familiarizes himself with the hosts. The base camp at the end of the fake world becomes the real thing, if only for 48 hours. It soon becomes clear what matters to the generals. Consumption of the ASTRA pilsner is meant to expand, like the cost of STAR WARS and the total eclipse, but with one crucial difference, here at the Zappa Center, one fights for the "true" (whatever that may be).
The boys are tough, but soft at heart. You can laugh and analyze yourself without using your head. Everything happens from the stomach and is emptied into the throat. The women try to keep up but threaten to drown in a post-feminine puddle. The groupie left the plastered cock masks at home and some men are like
" Maybe I should stay with my mama -- "
The foreigner will soon no longer be a newcomer. He no longer tries to analyze, he ASTRALizes. Bong pulls and ricochets circle the base camp. Soon it does ZONX, the ultimate starting signal that calls the men onto the battlefield.
FICKEN calls the fool, a deflated signal that becomes the secret code of the attack. One urges the musical battle. The guitars replace the phallus. The codes flow like this, as do equals signs and (') apostrophes. Loaded with Zapparettes and ROSTOCKER Pils, the soldiers stagger onto the grass and try to find a horse. ZONX does it again, then the army music battle begins.
ISTHEREANYTHINGGOODINSIDEAANYTHINGGOODINSIDE ANYTHINGGOODINSIDEADOYOUKNOWWHATTIMEANDO YOUKNOWWHATMEREALLYTRYINTODOYOUREALLYIT WASSUBLIMENOTTHEWRONGKINDWASTINGMYTIME WASSUBLIME
DIETER DIETER GIVE ME YOUR WHIPS TO DIE ON
I PROMISE NOT TO COME IN YOUR TENT HOUSE
(I'll just finish your beer)
It's trapping ahead in the zappanal time while the red sun falls into the Baltic Sea. Syncopated song copies, they're better than the real thing, although MUZAK IS THE BEST
Jazzrock from hell
Hellzappoppin in endless loops
Marimbaphones hopping flourishes
Keyboards lift the headless anchors
I'll take the ZAPWAY gonna do it my way
I'll go down to Broadway gonna try it the hard way
unfortunately a (still) unknown Author
