I read this book for no reason that is very clear to me anymore, since when I bought it I was neither a left-wing academic nor a Zappa fan. I think the sheer obsessive folly of the whole thing got me hooked. And in fact, quite apart from it's virtues as a treatise on philosophy (which, among other things, it is) or a book about Zappa, it's one of the best books ever written about rock music. Watson's brilliant inspiration was to try to bring together his dedicated left-wing politics and his love for the vast and ungainly oeuvre of the decidedly non-left-wing Frank Zappa. It's a heroic attempt, and the amazing thing about it is that it's persuasive. Zappa's hatred of religious fundamentalism, his dedication to music, his humour, his indomitable determination to stick to his guns, his courage in opposing repressive government policies, are what get Watson really enthusiastic. It's true that there's not all that much here about the music qua music, although Watson considers Zappa to be an important composer and the finest rock guitarist since Hendrix (and he's not far wrong about either); but the minute attention to Zappa's lyrics produces some of the most unlikely and brilliant literary criticism since William Empson. The section when he goes to visit the ailing Zappa in LA is remarkable (Zappa seems to have generally approved of the book, and is a gracious interviewee even when he claims that he can't stand Shakespeare.) "Preposterousness is an underrated quality" claims the author in a letter to Zappa's wife, and this book bears him out. It also turned me into a Zappa fan. Now that has to be a good thing.