“This is the first song on our new album”: “Commander Beef Parched” (microtonal)

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This is the first song we’ve written after taking a break after our last album. This next album will be our 39th & 40th album (double album), called “DO NOT DRIVE OR OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY WHILE LISTENING TO THIS MUSIC.”

This song uses Harry Partch’s 43-note scale on the verses. Some of the sax is in that scale, some is 12-edo. The choruses are in 12-edo, and the whole thing, especially the choruses, are a little nod to Captain Beefheart. Doesn’t really sound like him though. It sounds like BipTunia.

This is the final song, but maybe not the final mix. But almost.

(Let it be known that the above uranium & lock pick photo is 100% Michael. Not any involvement from Phil at all.)

Music: Michael W. Dean
Words and voice: Phil Wormuth


LYRICS:

Commander Beef Parched Quack metaphysical physician convicted of malpractice – don’t cram all that existential, cryptic crap up in my attic! Psyched-out mental management; no valet parking for freaked-out feelings, hollow emotions. Fake, evocative imagery erected to confuse and misdirect; slingshot thoughts that collapse the synapses, clog and congest the parched neural pathways
(thirsty for the glowing safety of the heavenly milky-white electrical connection.)

Unphased by concise scissors, brash ashtrays, and all that heinous, fractured, surgical, magic jazz that no one could ever play, the diverse notations became interesting and intimate
(yet some how inept.) Inarticulate thoughts dispensed in discordant clusters and odd sections without precedence and superfluous ambition that once meant something to no one. Way-out, meandering, echoy cerebral structures; arrhythmic, wet velvet hooves; scatter-shot, track-shock, charting some success.

The rough-licked outer edges of psyche-sensibility ache with ouch. Lumbering, sparkling fingerings and simple drab mental rifts lead to a too-long (bit much) flat-sounding, sleeping powder charge about to blow with lean friction – no remaining spot to remove, rub out, or ignore on that wacky head dress (replete with bouncing moonbeams and strange, brilliant psychedelic projections) subject to strong, pungent, smoked flavors that preserve their own natural, simple, and original beefy strength and integrity.


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