Norbert Fragg Answers Your Burning Questions


Date: Mon, 15 Feb 1999 02:01:46 EST
From: Bknt at aol dot com
Subject: Norbert Fragg Answers Your Burning Questions
Dear Team,

	A tape has passed into my possession, allegedly
recorded by a cruel, rapacious fan of the noted but not
overly quoted, petulant but rarely ebullient, spiteful and
almost never contriteful digressive rock guitarist, Norbert
Fragg. According to the fan's whining confession, extracted
only after I played all 16 CD's from the Compleat Barry
Manilow Boxed Set, the tape was obtained during a concert in
which Mr. Fragg was appearing with Projyecch 3.1415 and,
mirable dictu, was not flash-photoned during the entire
evening.  When Mr. Fragg reappeared on stage, the fan
shamelessly activated a SECRET TRANSMITTER that he had
plugged in an unmentionable orifice, and, captured, with
added descriptive detail, a wry and witty Q&A between the
acrimonious Spikey Tike and selected audientals. So wormy is
this tape with insights into Fragg matters that I just had
to transcribe it and fling it into the far reaches of
fiberspace.

Thus:

Norbert Fragg Answers Your Burning Questions

Audient 1(earnest, no longer young man, facial hair): I have
an unpleasant nature and don't like people. Is this an
obstacle to work?

NF (severely peeved): That is not a burning question. In
fact, that isn't even warm. I want burning questions, and
not from hirsuit earnest young men who have are concerned
with the evolution of progressive rock. I want burning
questions from the ladies. Are there any ladies out there? I
see a gentleman with a violin.

Audient 2 (comedian, ancient): That's no lady, that's my wife.

NF: That, sir, is not a question. Burning questions, please.

Audient 3 (ingenuous female, peculiar facial piercings,
passively vibrating due to massive overdose of serotonim
reuptake inhibitors): How can I get started in the music
business?

NF: Beginnings are invisible. Therefore, make yourself
invisible. Then stand in front of a train. The effect of
being ground under the inexorable wheels of British Rail has
remarkable congruence to the manner in which I was received
as a contract player with FeeGee Records. What, you don't
know that the music industry is sewn with indigestion and
stitched with tweed and and yet, it is possible for the
sincere musician to survive in the marketplace without being
in the market for a place. If you are a person who lives on
the first floor, spits in the cellar and mucks around in the
garden, this will appear with some clarity. If you are a
dope, you're a dope all the way from your first recording
contract to your last royalty.

Audient 4 (angry, sexually ambiguous): Mr. Fragg, I live in
a cellar and I believe your persistent use of architectural
metaphors in your diary to explain your neo-platonic
metaphysical class structure to be demeaning to those such
as myself who feel quite comfortable in dank, grotty
spaces. In an effort to comprehend your tetchy importunings,
I left my happy hovel to view this garden of which you speak
so highly. I found it to be dark and filthy, pest infested
plot littered with scraggly vegetation. Upon gazing upward I
noticed only a dark and distant ceiling pocked with tiny
holes that admit light from the floor above. Are these holes
actual gaps in the ceiling, or are they merely the absence
of darkness?

NF: No and no.

Audient 5 (large and under the impression that Carey Grant
impressions are easy): Norbert, Norbert, Norbert, in your
diary you mentioned a concert in Protuberance, Ohio in which
you, a performer, found that the music died, and yet, you
kept performing. I attended that concert. I was the one who
threw a rhubarb pie in your face. When this failed to get
your attention, I climbed up on stage, waved to my
girlfriend and took numerous flash photos of your grimmacing
face. After this, I bludgeoned you repeatedly with a bullet
microphone that I was using to record your performance. I
then asked you why you broke up your first band. You didn't
answer me. Why?

NF: I don't care for pie.

Audient 6 (Female, stunning and not too much eye make-up)
Oh, Mr. Fragg, I'm afraid the spark has gone out of my
marriage. My husband and I met when we were listening to
your music and we thought you were so intellectual and
philosophical and apocalyptical and polyrhythmical, and
whatever else is in that Robert Palmer song. But I had to
leave my husband when I finally found a vinyl copy of that
record you made when you were with The Meagre Gentlemen, you
know, God Shave the King, and I listened--really listened,
with my eyes closed, my ears opened, my expectations
unimprisoned, my soul exposed, every critical facility in my
consciousness tied up in some great and terrible bondage to
your utterly selfless desire to BE A PERFORMER and TO NOT
KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING WHEN YOU'RE DOING IT--and I
really listened, just like the audient I was born to be, to
that part on the record where you have that girl sounding
like she is having this great, big, incredible--you
know--MOMENT--and I figured that any man who would devote
his entire life to an inquiry into how music
might--umm--come into the world, well, and, can I be your
Foaming Terror Lady? Can I I respond like a limousine,
brought alive on a silent screen? Can I sit in a chair in my
sad America? Can I be your number one fan? Can I PLEASE
fetishize and reify your every bleat? Can I, can I, can I
have your autograph?

NF (impersonating Steven Seagal impersonating Clark Gable):
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

At this point the sound on the tape becomes indiscrete, if
not indiscreet, as numerous audientals let fly a variety of
pies, cakes and cheese-injected dessert items that fall
lavishly upon the rapidly retreating guitarist, who, when
last heard of, was solemnly holding his pic so as to better
hold his tongue.

Bill Kent


Mike Stok