Jaco in Lauderdale


A wonderful photo of a young Jaco Pastorius on his home turf in South Florida.
Still trying to find more information about this picture, so if anyone has any clues, post in the comments.
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The Essence of Moon, 1970


Rock File contributing editor Dr. Pedro Santos had this to say about listening to Live at Leeds recently:
So, what the fuck is Keith Moon doing? It seems like he’s off playing his own goddman shit and is only mildly aware of what the rest of the band is doing. He’s kinda there for the key moments but otherwise, who knows?” 
 I can’t think of a better way to describe the Essence of Moon.
 Today, we share the original inserts that came with Live at Leeds, one of the greatest live moments ever put to tape.

leeds_live_photoleeds_agency_letter leeds_bio_photo leeds_delivery_notice leeds_emi_letter leeds_goods_notice leeds_lyrics_sheet leeds_marquee_list leeds_talent_contract leeds_tommy_notes leeds_tour_dates leeds_tour_payments


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Not Recommended for Republicans: Zappa Plays Zappa, 2015

Zappa Plays Zappa
Ponte Vedra Concert Hall
Ponte Vedra, Florida
September 13, 2015
Finding Frank
I first heard Frank Zappa at the time everyone should hear Frank Zappa, which is when you turn 15.
Killer guitar solos?
Fuck yeah.
Songs about girls doing nasty things?
It’s really the perfect age to dig Zappa, because at 15 you’re a smart ass, subversive little pissant, and that’s a pretty good way to describe Zappa’s music, at least at first. Spend some quality time with some of the more than 60 albums he created, and you realize Zappa’s music is a universe unto itself.
There is music, and there is Zappa Music.
My cousin Chris turned me onto Zappa. He was always showing up with something wild that I hadn’t heard before; Stormtroopers of Death, Flotsam and Jetsam, D.R.I.
Then there was Sheik Yerbouti.
It was my introduction to the Zappa Universe. I’d never heard anything so fucking weird and awesome. My mind was uncorked, I was instantly hooked. Listening to Sheik Yerbouti made me feel like I was doing something illicit, possibly illegal, and definitely immoral.
This is the single best feeling a 15 old can have.
Digging Dweezil
The guitar speaks for itself.
That was my feeling watching and listening to Dweezil Zappa perform his father’s music on a humid, mosquito buzzed night in Ponte Vedra, Florida.
For those not in the know, Zappa Plays Zappa is dedicated to the preservation and performance of the Frank Zappa canon, which is an extremely important mission, in this age of fake politicians and dumb politics (or is it fake politics and dumb politicians?) Dweezil’s band is in its tenth year of celebratory tours, and tonight it’s the 1975 classic One Size Fits All.
Center stage is a beautiful Gibson SG, and I wonder if it’s one of Frank’s original axes from the 70s.
The set begins with the epic “Inca Roads,” and the beloved solo is the first revelatory statement by Dweezil, who takes the original arch of its narative and stretches it out, moving it across time and bending its trajectory. In fact, this is a recurring theme—the original songs are expanded upon in a way that fits Frank’s own aesthetic and live approach, who regularly pulled his songs apart, reassembling them into entirely new compositions.
The solo is met with glowing adoration and awe.
The band is tight but loose, gliding through Zappa’s tortured melodies and unhinged sonic concepts. They’re also having a shit-ton of fun.
Dweezil introduces “Sinister Footwear” as One of Frank’s most complex songs…no joke, which is a massive understatement considering the Zappa catalogue is one long piece of complicated, mindfuckable music. The band crystallizes into a trio as they let fly a jam that is absolutely scorching. Nobody wants it to end.
Frank Zappa once said he didn’t care if he was remembered.
The Rock File is happy to report Dweezil Zappa feels differently.
Frank Zappa photo by Heinrich Klaffs
Zappa Plays Zappa photos by the Rock File
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Wonderous Stories, 2012


Today we honor Chris Squire with the Rock File’s review of Yes live in 2012.

Originally posted on :

July 28, 2012
St. Augustine Amphitheatre
St. Augustine, Florida
Yes fans are a special breed.
They are the aging hippies smoking Borkum Riff in wonderfully smoked and deep-wooded pipes who turned on early to the radical cross-pollination of classical music idioms with the rock revolution of the late 60s.
They are the corduroyed college professors (maybe even the same aging hippies) waiting for tenure but not really caring as long as they can continue to teach The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway and How It Might Have Gotten There.
They are the geeky teenage guitar nerds who studied the riff to “La Villa Strangiato (An Exercise in Self-Indulgence)” rather than studying the girls field hockey team during warm-ups.
They are the ones who played “21st Century Schizoid Man” on the flute at the high school talent show without irony because well, this was pre-irony.
They are the ones…

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Good Night, Chris Squire

The music will suffice…

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Where Were You When You First Heard Swordfishtrombones?

The first time I heard a Tom Waits record I wasn’t prepared. In fact, I distinctly remember not liking it.
At all.
It was 1988.
I was working the late shift at the Empire State Building, shuffling tourists around the observatories, trying to keep the peace between the Excitable Italians and the Pleasant Australians. Every once in a while I’d spend the day riding the elevators, just to get away from the madness and the questions about why there weren’t any public toilets on the lower floors of the building.
Why were there no bathrooms down there?
I made friends with a fellow tourist-wrangler who was a music obsessive like me. Bo was about ten years older than I was, so his frame of reference was broader, deeper. We bonded over the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix, and he’d routinely lend me tapes of bootleg Beatles sessions, or Hendrix jamming at Electric Ladyland with Band of Gypsies. We spent the dead hours of our shifts discussing the venom in Lennon’s voice on “Mother” and the sting of Jimi’s guitar on “Machine Gun.”
After my shift at The Building I’d take the 12:15am Metro North train to Pelham, stopping first at the platform bar-cart to grab a few Foster’s Oil Cans for the ride home, and the come-down after a long day of banging heads with tourists. Once home, I’d head up to my attic room where I’d commence a nightly ritual that involved drawing, playing guitar and finishing off the remaining Aussie lager.
I was doing my best to live the life of an art school student.


One day my buddy Bo hands me a cassette and says “check this out, give it a few listens.” I guess Bo felt I was ready for something a little different.
So I’m digging into my routine—I remember this moment very clearly—and I load the cassette into the tape deck, pop that second oil can, dip the crow quill pen, and…
They’re alive
They’re awake
While the rest of the world is asleep…
Bang, boom, clank.
I thought the cassette was damaged—the tempo seemed off, the sound garbled—so I popped the tape out and stuck my finger in the tape ring to tighten it up. The tape wasn’t shredded, it seemed fine. After another whirl I realized this is what this guy sounds like.
I was annoyed, uncomfortable, a bit creeped out.
The next day Bo asked me what I thought. I honestly didn’t know what to say. After years of listening to music and analysing every aspect of it, I had no way to describe how this cassette made me feel.
But I kept listening.
All that stinking, hot summer, cramped in an attic with no A/C and no fans, I listened to Swordfishtrombones. Just me and the bleeding oil cans and my shittly little tape deck and an album that sounded like a guy rumbling around a garbage dump talking to himself.
What kind of world was this, and who the hell was this guy?
I got hooked on its primitive surrealism, its blacker than black humor, and its back from the grave instrumentation.
It was a revelation.
I still listen to Swordfishtrombones regularly. Mostly when I need a jolt from the everyday. It reminds me of that feeling when you stumble across something essential, something you knew you needed but had no idea what it was, or where to find it.
And I still have no idea what a Swordfishtrombone is.


Photos by Michael A. Russ
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Joe Popp Jumps!

Joe Popp–Rock File contributor and Punk Rock Godfather–has been known to jump off an amp or two,
and his rowdy stage presence is ledgendary and heartfelt.
Popp turns fifty on June 11, so we’ll celebrate his passion for the Rock & Roll Lifestyle with some classic
photos of Joe in action.
Happy Birthday Joe Popp!
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