Even the most dedicated of listeners will probably answer the bizarre question in the negative on the first, second and maybe third spin of the track.
Then something strange and indeed magical will happen. It will dawn on the perseverant punter that, yes, the writhing cephalopod would be fast and bulbous in its plastic prison. The image of its efforts will forever be indelibly imprinted on the mind. It will make some kind of sense.
And therein lies the album's unlikely appeal. Its jumble of growling Delta blues, free-form jazz, improvised lyrics and psychedelic dream-poems takes a more concrete shape as repetition beds it in.
What once appeared as difficult to wrangle as a blob of mercury is tamed by familiarity, making it clear that there is structure and form to the band's most notorious work.
Beefheart (Don Van Vliet) had been given free rein by producer Frank Zappa and reportedly became so involved in delivering on his artistic vision that impoverished band members frequently suffered his wrath in the harsh months of rehearsal that preceded a single six-hour recording session to capture their backing tracks.
Van Vliet was bent on delivering something that sounded like nothing that had gone before, mentally cutting and splicing ideas, rhythms and genres, reassembling them as freak-show attractions.
To that end, he certainly succeeded. And wittingly or not, he wrapped his sweaty mitts around the avant-garde and dragged it into rock'n'roll with more surprising and innovative results than even Warhol's gang could muster. From the experimental rock of Pere Ubu and the country-punk of the Meat Puppets to the gravelly musings of Tom Waits, Beefheart's wonderful weirdness has influenced them all.
