
As lame as it seems (and, to be honest,
feels) to delve into the catalogue of someone who recently died, there's a certain comfort to it as well. Selfishly, it's nice to know that what you're listening to is part of a finite corpus, something that - no matter how messy and globular it seems - has definite boundaries w/r/t its beginning and end. Even though, e.g., Alex Chilton and Capt. Beefheart were anything but prolific in their later years, there was still - for me, at least (and certainly this says more about me than it does about anything else) - a lack of closure, of uncertainty, of constant shift in
trying to listen to the classics. And then there's the matter of distance. For some reason, right now Don Van Vliet's records seem more like documents to me of a time and place, whereas listening to them before they just seemed part of vast continuum of music, certainly
of a time and place, but not any time or place I could relate to. As much as I dislike the idea of fixing something in place, of not allowing movement and vivaciousness to influence my interpretation of art or whatever, the fact that the book is now - eesh - closed on Captain Beefheart, is just enough of an anchor for me to moor myself to while listening to this music. I find it easier, for whatever reason, to love this music right
now,
posthumously, then I did, y'know, two months or a year or a decade ago.