THE SPOTLIGHT KID MOVES ON

I first saw Captain Beefheart in 1970. He was playing at a gymnasium in Boston with the Magic Band. Ry Cooder was opening. I didn't know much about Captain Beefheart, but some friends said it would be a good show, so we went.

It was a decent crowd, but not what you'd expect. After all, it was in a gym, and there wasn't that much publicity. Ry Cooder played a great set to open. When he was done, everyone just milled around. The crews packed up Ry's equipment and started setting up for the Captain. The band wandered in and went up to sit at the back of the stage. No one paid much attention to them. Then the Captain came in. He was wearing a tuxedo and a top hat, with a beautiful woman in a gown on his arm. Everyone watched as they climbed up on the stage and sat with the band. People who'd never seen him before were poking each other, saying, that's him. They all hung around on the back of the stage, had some snacks. maybe a soft drink. After a while one of them went up to the front of the stage and sat down at the drum kit. He started playing, easy at first, then harder. He soloed for about five minutes and by then the whole gym was clapping, cheering him on. The rest of the band ignored him. Then one of the others walked up to the front of the stage and started playing another drum kit that the crew had been setting up. The two of them started dueling away on the drums, trying to outdo each other. The crowd was going wild. Finally, the first drummer got up and walked over to the marimba and started playing that. He was Ed Marimba, and he played the marimba in the band. He wasn't the drummer.

After a while each of the band members went up to the front, picked up an instrument and started playing. They were just improvising, working off each other with no plan at all. The Captain just sat back there with his date, paying no attention. Finally, he got up, walked to the center of the stage where his mike was set up. He was carrying a cornet. He stood there and blew one long note into the mike. Then he smiled a little and nodded.

That was sound check.

Captain Beefheart — also known as Don Van Vliet — was a high school friend of Frank Zappa's. Zappa gave him the nickname. They played music together, and when Zappa made it big, he helped his friend to get started. The Captain formed the Magic Band. They played a combination of blues, swamp rock and surrealism that's hard to describe even now. The Captain sang like Tom Waits with a four-octave range and the band was tight and smoking hot. One of their albums, Trout Mask Replica, was ranked #58 on Rolling Stone's 500 Best Albums of all time. His other albums, like "Lick My Decals Off, Baby," "Doc at the Radar Station," and my own favorite, "The Spotlight Kid," got great reviews and cult status. The band mostly played clubs — and gymnasiums — and they never sold a lot of records. But they never gave in. They never sold out. And their fans loved them for it.

I was one of them. Every time they came to Boston, I was there. And so were all my friends. One show, they played the Music Hall and the New York Dolls opened, followed by Larry Coryell, the fusion jazz guitarist. Most of the crowd thought the Dolls were a comedy act, but they warmed up to Coryell. They were all great shows. The last time I saw the Captain some years had gone by. It was the late seventies. He was playing a club, doing new material with a new band. It was a good show, but it just wasn't the same.

The Captain retired from music in 1982. He took up his real love, painting, and became a successful but reclusive artist. His paintings were as uncompromising as his music, dramatic expressionist canvasses that reached out and grabbed the viewer, shook him. Like his music, his paintings weren't pretty, but they were unforgettable.

Captain Beefheart died last week. He was 69, and he had Multiple Sclerosis, an incurable disease of the nervous system that causes a wide range of neurological symptoms, leading to physical and mental disability and, ultimately death. Victims often live for thirty years or more, declining in stages. It's a hard way to go.

I don't know what Captain Beefheart's final years were like. It has to be hard for someone like him, to go through that decline, knowing where it leads. The Captain knew the highs of performing live, cheered by thousands of adoring fans. And he knew what it was to die slowly, without hope, his body betraying him day by day. I hope he was at peace. I hope he was able to accept his fate, to see it as simply a part of a life well-lived.

This is blog about what it means to be a Buddhist. It's not an entertainment blog or a rock-n-roll blog. It's not a way of remembering my own favorites. But the Captain's death is a reminder for me. Things go wrong. That diagnosis can come at any time. That bolt of lightning, the one you didn't see coming, might be just around the corner. All we can do is live our lives the best we can while we have them. We can make the most of what we have.

I think Captain Beefheart did that. I hope he did.