Being Frank Read Online Free Page B
Author: Nigey Lennon
began to mount. What exactly was I going to say to Zappa when I saw him? It was one thing to fantasize about being produced by my musical idol, but I had no idea, beyond whatever impressions I could gather from his records, what he was actually like. I had yet to attend one of his concerts; Iâd just started to learn to drive. I hadnât mentioned my age in my letter. Maybe heâd laugh me out of the office when he saw that I hadnât even turned sixteen.
Around the time I thought Zappa would probably be back from Europe, I called Bizarre Records at the phone number on the letter. Trying to sound mature and somewhat supercilious, I asked the woman who answered if I could speak to Mr. Zappa. She had a cultured British accent and was admirably evasive, so I tried reading her the letter. It was obvious that she thought I was making it all up, but I did manage to get her to take my name and number; Mr. Zappa was due to stop by the office at the end of next week, she said distantly.
The next afternoon the phone was ringing as I came through the door after school. I got to it around the eleventh ring, and much to my amazement there was the cultured British accent. She said that Mr. Zappa had received my message and wanted to know if next Wednesday at 3:30 p.m. would be acceptable. Here was an immediate obstacle: my last period at school didnât end until 2:30, and the address on the letter said that Bizarre Records was located on Wilshire Boulevard. To get from Manhattan Beach to the Miracle Mile in an hour was possible, but not on the bus. I hadnât yet obtained my driverâs license. In those innocent days suburban teenagers didnât routinely cut class or drive without a license, and neither could I.
I quickly said that 3:30 p.m. would be fine, and asked for the cross street, since I had only been on the Miracle Mile a few times in my life (one of those times being the trip to the La Brea Tar Pits). Then Iambushed my father when he came home from work and proceeded to bludgeon him with histrionics. If he didnât give me a ride next Wednesday afternoon, I assured him, Iâd never have a music career and Iâd be a total stumblebum and disgrace him in his old age. (At least Iâve made one or two accurate predictions in my time.) He grumbled considerably, but it was worth rt. At 2:33 p.m. the following Wednesday, my boyfriend and I jumped into my dadâs Iâm-over-40-to-hell-with-it-Iâm-getting-a muscle-car Buick Riviera in the Our Lady of Guacamole parking lot, and at 3:21 we were in the elevator of the nondescript skyscraper where Bizarre Records had its offices.
The woman with the British accent turned out to have flaming red hair and was wearing a plum-colored paisley velvet mini-dress. I thought she gave me an arch look as she indicated an overstuffed, tapestry-covered sofa in the reception area, but I was too busy being terrified to care. I had dressed in my hippest clothes â cowboy boots, tight jeans, a gold silk shirt with flowing sleeves, and a paisley scarf tied elaborately around the neck of the shirt. While we waited for Zappa, I tried to calm myself by studying the framed concert posters on the wallpapered walls, but it was no use. I could barely stay on the sofa. I lit a cigarette, but when I nearly set my sleeve on fire I hastily snuffed it out and stuffed it, minus two puffs, into an ashtray.
Fortunately I didnât have to suffer long: it probably wasnât a minute past 3:30 when Frank Zappa strode through the door, greeted Miss Accent, told her to hold his calls, and raised an eyebrow at us. âHiyaâ he said. He had my tape box under his arm. I donât think I ever felt so important in my life â or so fraudulent.
We traipsed behind him down a short hall into an office, and he shut the door behind us. He brushed against me lightly as I awkwardly turned to sit down, and l looked up at him. He was 29, fourteen years my senior, and he
Around the time I thought Zappa would probably be back from Europe, I called Bizarre Records at the phone number on the letter. Trying to sound mature and somewhat supercilious, I asked the woman who answered if I could speak to Mr. Zappa. She had a cultured British accent and was admirably evasive, so I tried reading her the letter. It was obvious that she thought I was making it all up, but I did manage to get her to take my name and number; Mr. Zappa was due to stop by the office at the end of next week, she said distantly.
The next afternoon the phone was ringing as I came through the door after school. I got to it around the eleventh ring, and much to my amazement there was the cultured British accent. She said that Mr. Zappa had received my message and wanted to know if next Wednesday at 3:30 p.m. would be acceptable. Here was an immediate obstacle: my last period at school didnât end until 2:30, and the address on the letter said that Bizarre Records was located on Wilshire Boulevard. To get from Manhattan Beach to the Miracle Mile in an hour was possible, but not on the bus. I hadnât yet obtained my driverâs license. In those innocent days suburban teenagers didnât routinely cut class or drive without a license, and neither could I.
I quickly said that 3:30 p.m. would be fine, and asked for the cross street, since I had only been on the Miracle Mile a few times in my life (one of those times being the trip to the La Brea Tar Pits). Then Iambushed my father when he came home from work and proceeded to bludgeon him with histrionics. If he didnât give me a ride next Wednesday afternoon, I assured him, Iâd never have a music career and Iâd be a total stumblebum and disgrace him in his old age. (At least Iâve made one or two accurate predictions in my time.) He grumbled considerably, but it was worth rt. At 2:33 p.m. the following Wednesday, my boyfriend and I jumped into my dadâs Iâm-over-40-to-hell-with-it-Iâm-getting-a muscle-car Buick Riviera in the Our Lady of Guacamole parking lot, and at 3:21 we were in the elevator of the nondescript skyscraper where Bizarre Records had its offices.
The woman with the British accent turned out to have flaming red hair and was wearing a plum-colored paisley velvet mini-dress. I thought she gave me an arch look as she indicated an overstuffed, tapestry-covered sofa in the reception area, but I was too busy being terrified to care. I had dressed in my hippest clothes â cowboy boots, tight jeans, a gold silk shirt with flowing sleeves, and a paisley scarf tied elaborately around the neck of the shirt. While we waited for Zappa, I tried to calm myself by studying the framed concert posters on the wallpapered walls, but it was no use. I could barely stay on the sofa. I lit a cigarette, but when I nearly set my sleeve on fire I hastily snuffed it out and stuffed it, minus two puffs, into an ashtray.
Fortunately I didnât have to suffer long: it probably wasnât a minute past 3:30 when Frank Zappa strode through the door, greeted Miss Accent, told her to hold his calls, and raised an eyebrow at us. âHiyaâ he said. He had my tape box under his arm. I donât think I ever felt so important in my life â or so fraudulent.
We traipsed behind him down a short hall into an office, and he shut the door behind us. He brushed against me lightly as I awkwardly turned to sit down, and l looked up at him. He was 29, fourteen years my senior, and he
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