Jason Pettigrew

“It’s not the years—it’s the mileage.” —Indiana Jones, archeologist (imagined)

If I had a buck for everytime I quoted that particle of movie dialog, I’d be writing this web entry from my yacht docked in international waters, where I am spearing my own sushi, perfecting the ratio of ice tea and lemonade to make the ultimate Arnold Palmer and waiting for packages of CDs from Bent Crayon to fall down from the sky like the splashdown modules that astronauts return from space in. (I’m not sure if you can actually play vinyl records on a boat. If you’re in that tax bracket, please explain it to me.) 

The other line I always use is “cut off my leg and count the rings” as a tree metaphor to discuss how old I am. The point is this: I’m glad I’m old. Seriously. Sure, I hate all the aches and pains, and am definitely not looking forward to taking 10 steps and dabbing off an albuterol inhaler further down the road, but the stuff and people that I experienced in the decades that got me here? Priceless. 

I remember being in high school and being made fun of, slurred, threatened with GBH (the crime, not the punk band) for liking Cheap Trick (among other things). Then, when everybody decided that At Budokan was the proverbial, acceptable toilet mustard, I cut back on my fandom - though I have seen them more than any other band in life. I've now lost count, I think it's less than 50 gigs but more than 40. But when everybody was railing about how awesome Journey, Boston, Bob Seger, Styx and the entire steamboat flotilla of ‘70s Southern AOR rock was, I went all prog-rock. Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Pink Floyd. Yes, King Crimson. Genesis. And… Frank Zappa.

Now if you would have told nerd-boy, highly opinionated, punchable-faced, 16-year-old PTGRW he was going to be involved in some kind of FZ-related project when he got older, fatter, balder? I would’ve taken a deep breath and thought, How would that even happen? Would I have to move to LA? I mean, that has to be a job, right? Can I keep my hair though? Will I still be able to see my shoes?

No more “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” jokes: I have a substantial piece in the Super Deluxe Edition box set of the 60th anniversary of Freak Out, the debut album by Frank Zappa and The Mothers Of Invention, which will be out into the world on September 25.

This wonderful artifact comes in a plethora of formats including 105 tracks across six discs (five CDs and a Blu-ray) involving newly discovered pre-master and restored mono mixes, recordings from 1966 gigs and rehearsals and something described as “a truly special three-track late-night jam session outtake collage.” There’s also several remastered colored-vinyl variants. And of course, plenty of wondrous unseen photos from Ray Leong and David Anderle, as well as essays from Leong and Earth’s prime minister of Zappavania, Joe “The Vaultmeister” Travers. There’s so much good stuff in here, I’m missing a bunch of it. You may witness it all in its pre-order glory right now.

I am extremely grateful to Tim Plumley (through him all things are great), Professor Travers (for stamping my passport into his realm), Holland Greco (project fulcrum and appreciator of my pun crimes) and Morgan Gordy (cheerful admin) at uME. Thank you to all the folks that spoke with me — Marshall Crenshaw, Ira Ingber and Gary Lucas — and such esteemed facilitators as Michael Ackerman, Josh Mills… and Van Dyke Parks!

Expect another update quite soon. As for the possibility of contributing more verbiage in the Zappa realm in the future? Well, I’d tell you but then… [sound of webmistress Furiosa braining PTGRW over the head with an aluminum chair]