The Last Days of Frank Zappa

© Copyright 2015-2019, John Hessburg & The DICTION AERIE.™   All rights reserved. 


I have a little story to share about the weird and wonderful Mr. Frank Zappa, that inimitable Mother of Invention and Iconoclasm, and the godfather of alt-indie jazz-pop fusion.  Zappa, you will recall, released bizarre and ground-breaking albums such as Freak Out ('66), Lumpy Gravy ('67), Uncle Meat, Hot Rats ('69) and Burnt Weeny Sandwich ('70), among a myriad of others.

Back in Seattle in mid-June of '92, I had a dear friend in the hospital, bravely fighting prostate cancer, and his name was Howard Roberts.  Had met Howard years earlier while writing a couple feature stories for Seattle publications.  Howard was among the top jazz guitarists in the country, a revered genius for decades on the West Coast session scene -- who'd toured with the Stones, recorded with Elvis -- and he was a longtime friend of Mr. Zappa's. 

That summer day, I'd helped wheel Howard out onto a patio outside the hospital, and he was hunched in his wheelchair, relishing the summer sunshine and chain-smoking (as usual) when his mobile phone rang... Remember the huge clunky pre-Seinfeld kind that looked like a military walkie-talkie?... Well Howard's caller was Frank Zappa, who said he'd phoned to cheer Howard up, and to share that he also was battling prostate cancer.  I leaned over and whispered to Howard, "Want me to split, man?"  And he just grinned, shook his head no and motioned for me to stay. 

That old dinosaur phone had such a powerful inset speaker I could hear every word of the conversation; and it was epic.  For half an hour Howard and Frank chattered on about gigs gone by, great old jams, and of course, those legendary SoCal after-parties that lingered on to the wee-est of wee hours.  Inevitably, the two brilliant guitar players began talking about their shared illness and they wondered where it came from. 

"I have some ideas," Frank said with a snickering sort of grunt, and Howard replied with his own half-laugh, "Yeah man!"  Then Howard's voice got suddenly softer and he grabbed the phone tightly, leaning forward in his wheelchair.  He was wearing dark aviator shades and the the afternoon breeze lifted his hair and his smoke together into wispy tangles. I could see his eyebrows wrinkle slightly behind the sunglasses.

"Hey Frank, if you had it to do over again, would you do anything differently?"

"I dunno, man," Frank Zappa said, "I dunno... well... maybe get more sleep."  They both gave way to laughter, deep cathartic laughter and then Frank bade his buddy farewell.   Howard clicked the big phone off and laid it in his lap.  The air was getting chillier, the evening shadows longer and it was time... I wheeled Howard back up to his room.

My wonderful and gifted friend, Howard Mancel Roberts, died a couple weeks later at his home in a Seattle suburb; and Frank Zappa followed him into Axe Man Valhalla about 18 months later.  Now, every time I'm burning the "midnight candle," churning away at the office until 3 am, or worse, those gravelly words of Frank Zappa filter back like some grinning ghost... 

"Well...maybe get more sleep."