Episode 16 - "Deja Vu" a.k.a. "Show 5"

"Arms out, fingers together, knees bent... Now, flap your arms..." - Graham Chapman as Flying
Instructor Mr. Anemone
 

I'm getting the strangest feeling we've done this blog before...


So, the lads have survived their first season, and by the way, have created a new kind of television show. They have adapted their individual styles to complement each other, creating a stream of consciousness framing device around a bunch of great sketches. Having successfully melded, they began their second season, and two shows into it, they seem to be hitting their (silly) stride. Classics like "Silly Walks" and "Spanish Inquisition" are already behind them this season. What classics will this particular episode bring forth?

Before the unpleasantness...

Sadly, not many. Although the episode is funny in its way, it leans heavily toward the conceptual, as opposed to the humorous. Few of these sketches can stand alone without the strange framing devices that surround them, most of which rely on repetition to be considered funny. Still, there are some (short) gems in here, and the weird Twilight Zone atmosphere of the episode is interesting even without the humor. This piece is stranger and more unsettling than the Blancmange episode from the prior season, which tries to pierce the weirdness with bad jokes. In this offering, the lads let the weird stand. It's a triumph in its own way.

Let's watch the show. Of course, you need the box set to do that. I can wait...

Welcome back! We start, as we start most of the shows, (who says they're unpredictable?), on film, in front of a bland 60s office building, the dreary bauhaus style on display.It's very drab-- I'm not sure, but it looks as though there are a series of balconies looking out on another identical building just inches away. I hope to God I'm miss-seeing that. Seriously-- the place looks like a project in the Bronx, only without the graffiti or drugs to make it bearable. It astonishes me that a society that could create comedy like Monty Python could also create buildings like this. But maybe the comedy is in response to said architecture. Anyway, speaking of bearable, we zoom in on an open window, and

Carol Cleveland begins to dress the place up-- by undressing. "My, isn't it hot in here" (her line) seems to be the standard prelude to a strip tease-- Palin uses it later. But for now, it's just us and Carol as she strips down, starting with the skirt, the long sleeve blouse, the gartered stockings-- Lush, romantic strings begin to play. No brassy horns here-- this is love! Finally, as she unstraps her bra, on a window washers platform Cleese's Announcer is winched into frame. Consulting his script, unaware of the beauty behind him, he gives the tag line as Carol covers up.

We cut to a forest of stuffed animals.  One of them, the elk, explodes. Get it? Yeah, me neither.

Back to Cleese, who has caught on to Cleveland's nudity. She has abandoned her modesty as well, playfully tossing the last of her undergarments out the window. Cleese watches it go-- then gets back to work, promising us something "more completely different." Palin's "It's" Man plays us in, and the titles roll.

Smash cut to another exploding animal in the forest. The script says it's an owl, but I won't verify that. Although there's still nothing here that can be classified as "funny", unless you hate animals, we're beginning to see the pattern. All of these animals will explode. Let's see what they do with this pattern.

Just another day at the office.

Nearby, Plain plays an actor in a bishop's outfit, rehearsing his line "Oh, Mr. Belpit-- your legs are so swollen." He tries every possible variation, pulling out his silliest voices and accents. Jones, in his usual voice and accent, approaches with pleasant diffidence and tries to start the next sketch by asking for flying lessons. Palin, who insists he's not in this show, (ha! He's right there! or is he?) sends Jones off to ask Carol Cleveland, who sits at a reception desk. All of this, by the way, is taking place in an open field, right next to the forest of exploding animals. Carol leads Jones through a brook, where other suited men stand and chat, past a tea trolley, over a beach, where someone asks her to make a copy, and into a cave, where they are greeted by others (Cleveland's perky "Morning", heard in echoey voice over, cracks me up for some reason). The cave leads to a sewer shed in the middle of a busy London street. Crossing the street, careful to look both ways (Safety first!) they finally begin the sketch in studio. Cleveland hands Jones off to her twin (deja vu!) and the twin takes Jones in to the sketch.

And the sketch is a gem! Jones is looking for flying lessons, and Chapman, the instructor, is hovering over his desk. Chapman plays the absurdity marvelously, hanging up the phone from a distance. (Kids, we used to have to hang phones up by putting the hand piece back in its cradle.) He is also ride, abrasive and domineering. It's a great sketch for Chapman as he yells instructions at Jones, which fail, and then berates him for being so bad at flying. "You make me sick, you weed!" Jones says he wanted to fly an airplane, and Chapman mocks him for being elitist. There's a great joke when Chapman, to prove he's flying and not on a wire, throws a broken hula hoop around him. "It's got a hole in it," Jones objects. "Of course it's got a hole in it! It wouldn't be a hoop otherwise!" The sketch devolves from there, mercifully cut off by Cleese's voice over linking us to the future, where Jones is now a pilot in a cockpit, with Cleese as co-pilot.  A caption reads "Two Years Later".

Digging the 'stauche-burns

Now we get running gag #4, (by running gag, I mean the gags exclusive to this show, as opposed to the Announcer or the "It's" Man.) A BALPA (British Airline Pilots Association) spokesman (Idle, in bitchin' sideburns) interrupts the sketch to point out that it takes 6 years to qualify as a pilot. The previous caption is amended by a new caption that states "Four Years Later Than The Last Caption". The BALPA spokesman returns, grateful for the correction, then tries his luck with other misrepresentations in popular culture, including the song "Fly Me To The Stars"; "There are no scheduled flights of this kind."

Back in the airplane cockpit, as Jones and Cleese try to fly the plane, Chapman bursts in, looking for the bathroom. He awkwardly makes small talk, then leaves the cockpit-- by way of the door leading out of the plane. He says at one point "I'm a flying man," but this doesn't quite seem to be the same character as the Flying Lesson sketch, although the similarities are striking. He lands safely on a bale of hay (running gag #5) right next to a men's room. Where's the BALPA spokesman when you need him. "A person leaping out of a jet plane traveling at 20 thousand feet will not be helped by a bale of hay, and the technology to hit the hay does not currently exist." While we're being a fusspot...

Good times.

Back in the airline cockpit (deja vu!), Carol as a stewardess enters, followed by hijacker Palin, who commands that "Nobody move!"-- and then proceeds to amend his command, allowing for movements to control the plane, involuntary movements, an itch, or being in a moving plane, etc. All that amiably ironed out, he wants the plane flown to Luton. Cleese objects "This is the scheduled flight to Cuba." This is a 70s joke-- in that era, many people were hijacking planes in the States and having them flown to Cuba. This got to be such a regular occurrence, the Swedish embassy in Cuba was on speed dial, as they were the ones who negotiated  the return of the passengers and plane. This was just after we broke off relations with communist Cuba, and cold-war era Americans had no better way to get there. Things changed after a disastrous (and very funny) hijacking in 1972, (which I co-wrote a screenplay about-- Anyone?) and security got much tighter. Of course, post 9-11, Americans find nothing funny about plane hijackings, but Monty Python snuck it in just under the wire, so chill out. The sketch is standard reversal-- Palin boards a plane bound for Cuba, and hijacks it to Luton, of all places. But Palin is a British hijacker, and easily accommodated. They're flying over Luton anyway, how about they just drop him off? Palin happily agrees, he is thrown out, lands on a bale of hay (deja vu!) and catches a bus to Luton-- which is then hijacked to Cuba. (BALPA spokesperson? "One cannot drive from Luton to Cuba, but must board a scheduled British Air flight.") The destination flag on the bus switches from "Straight to Luton" to "Straight to Cuba" and as the bus turns around, we pan across to--

What's so bad about Scotsmen, Monty?

The Scottish Highlands. Bag pipes. Stone Bridges. Kilts. An exquisite voice over from Cleese introduces us to Scotland and Ewan McTeagle, the Scottish poet, who wrote such great Scottish masterworks as "Lend us a Quid 'til the End of the Week." This is classic Python racism, which comes so easily for them, as seen in the Blancmange episode (deja vu! They even show the Podgorny cottage from said episode), but it's also a riff on intellectuals back-flipping the ordinary into an industry. Experts enthuse about the majesty of McTeagle's "work", all of which revolves around requests for money and promises to pay it back. Idle, as a Ian McKellan-esque Shakespearean actor reading such a poem is hilarious, as is the camera work. Finally, Jones (as McTeagle) mutters through the forest clearing with the stuffed animals. This time, a lamb blows up. Cleese, in a ridiculous Scottish tam o'shanter, stands up suddenly into frame and complains about inaccuracies, not only  regarding Ewan McTeagle, but about the BALPA sokesman.

Palin's Lunch Hour, Gilliam's Lunch Hour

Palin steps out from under Cleese's kilt and asks to be left alone so he can examine Cleese. This qick tasteless gag (literally) becomes Running Gag #6.

Have you missed Terry Gilliam? Well, here he comes! We cut to a group of Scottish men in kilts. One of the kilts' dressings turns into a little girl devouring the Scotsman. As she looks for her next meal, she is herself devoured by a disembodied mouth. As the mouth flies off, hands grow like trees, sprout leaves on the fingers. Hand geese fly by. A man rides on a hand horse, and throws a lasso. We pan across a couple of bits, including a woman eating a butterfly off another girl's breast, (expert timing on that one, Gilliam-- well done!)  and it finally links us to the next sketch, as Chapman knits with the lasso rope.

Milkman Idle interrupts Chapman's knitting, but when he answers the door, it turns out that Idle is not a milkman, but a psychiatrist. What follows is an odd mix, as Idle shifts effortlessly from psychiatrist to milkman and back. He offers to take Chapman to the dairy for evaluation, for instance, on his psychiatry truck. On the way to the truck, they pass a meowing cat-- which explodes! There's the laugh! Palin's doctor returns, seeking help for his ego-block, and a pint of yogurt.

Now, stay sharp-- things get a little slick. Jones (with half a moustache) complains about the portrayal of psychiatrists. Cleese complains about the prior complaints, and the complainers fight it out. A 16 ton weight drops on Palin as he complains about all the complainers complaining about the complaining, and that wraps up that sequence.

Milkmaid Cleveland, aborting a bad pun, takes Chapman into Jones' office, but he's busy having a breakthrough with a cow (Audrey) and Cleveland instead walks Chapman to the waiting room-- past the tea trolly and bishop (twice! Deja vu!) and the last surviving animal, a lone bunny, which explodes. (Shades of the killer rabbit and the holy hand grenade of Antioch.)

We cut to the last bit, "It's the Mind". Host Palin promises to explain the phenomenon of deja vu-- but can't get past the feeling that he's done it before. This sketch is a study in how to build comedy with a simple idea. New details keep getting added, the re-added-- the glass of water is my favorite-- as Palin becomes more desperate to escape his consciousness loop. He tracks down Idle's psychiatrist truck, but it doesn't help. The show ends with Palin running for therapy over and over again as the credits play.

There are some great bits here, especially for Palin and Chapman. The show is certainly funny enough. But the show functions almost entirely in the conceptual realm, and it never manages to land on its own bale of hay as easily as the hijacker does. The sketches themselves are short and relatively uninspired, and it is the jokes and the energy that hold them together, as well as the frequent repetition, that keep us intrigued and entertained. Meta-humor, not so much funny as compelling, is the call word of this episode, and it shows how deep the Circusians can play. They don't need jokes, or sketches, to keep us engaged. They can fly without a net. After all, it's not "Monty Python's Flying Circus, and Net", is it? Just keep the arms out, fingers together, knees bent... now flap!

Next week; Episode 17 - The Buzz Aldrin Show

Episode 15 - "The Spanish Inquisition"

"I don't think there's a punch line scheduled, is there?" - John Cleese as an arty BBC Man.

Despite the scheduling caprices of the BBC, Monty Python's Flying Circus has returned from its break stronger and more cohesive than ever, creating a second season premiere that manically delivers on both entertainment and revolution. Let's see what they're up to this week. (As if the blog title doesn't give it away...) As always, if you haven't already, just buy the damn box set. If there's a Dad you love, buy it for him. He'll never expect it.

That's one big chicken

It's a beautiful day in the English country side. Way off in the distance, a lone figure races across the horizon. There is a faint rhythmic sound as he runs. We cut to a close up-- and it's Jones, with some weird bicycle contraption on his chest that he peddles with his hands. His mouth is screwed down to the lower right of his chin, reminiscent of Woody Allen from Sleeper. There are wings on his back that scarcely move. He wears flight cap and goggles-- and a tweed coat. He's trying to fly. This can't end well.

But the next thing we know, holy crap! He's flying! Just a few feet off the ground, in a straight line. The rhythmic beating has been replaced by the keening of air being sliced. Then, the triumph turns to ashes as he slams head first into a cliff. His legs dangle and wave comically. But wait-- there's more. The camera twists, showing that the cliff wasn't a cliff so much as the ground. Jones was more falling than flying. Next to him are other failed attempts at proper, tweedy aviation, including other bobbing legs and a red balloon. The camera pans across this no man's land, to find a man-- Cleese's Announcer, promising us "something completely different." Palin's "It's" Man follows, with a close-up, and he petulantly, almost childishly, gives his word, and we're off to the Titles, with Cleese giving his wacky French intro. "Mohnnnn-tee Python's Flyeeeeng Serrrrr-CUS!"

A great bit, easily missed-- We see a picture of a bleak industrial hellscape, with the caption "Jarrow - New Year's Eve 1911." We hear the sound of ringing bells. The caption changes to "Jarrow - 1912". A minor joke, but I appreciate it.

In a sitting room, Carol Cleveland sits in a high neck dress, her hair pulled back, circa 1911/12. She's having a very downbeat New Year's Eve. I am thrilled beyond belief to see Carol Cleveland back amongst the lunacy-- but what's with the high neck dress? Madame Cleveland, if you got it, flaunt it! Chapman steps in, looking more working class in a shabby coat, and announces there's trouble at the mill in a difficult Welsh accent. As Cleveland grills him on what trouble, he whines, exasparated, "I don't know. Mr. Wentworth (presumably a BBC exec) just told me to come in here and say there was trouble at the mill, that's all. I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition."

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

BUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHN! Palin rushes in, with Jones and Gilliam in tow, and announces, dramatically, "Nnnnnobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" And so begins one of the classic Python bits that people quote, and will continue to quote, until the end of civilization and time. Last week was "Silly Walk", this week is "The Spanish Inquisition", and it's beginning to look like these men crap classics at the rate of one a week.

Let's just take a moment and enjoy all the anachronisms. Count them, if you dare. First, the Inquisitors themselves, appearing in Jarrow 1912. Jones, who plays Cardinal Biggles, wears the same flight cap and goggles that he wore in the opening film clip. This is a reference to WWII era childbook hero-- we've seen him before in the previous season, and we'll see him again. The dramatic entrance music and tag line are reminiscent of bad 60s television-- "Batman" comes to mind. And of course, there's Chapman's "Mr. Wentworth" remark. Palin, who wrote the sketch, remarks on the surreal nature of his process. At 6 in the morning, scribbling a couple of lines while the coffee brews, being invaded by 15th century zealots just makes sense. It's another sweet moment of random inspiration, like his "Lumberjack" sketch-- and how awesome it is that his current TV show just happens to accommodate such random lunacy.

"It makes it all seem so stupid."

What follows is really nothing more than a sketch about amateur theatrics, complete with captions for "Diabolical Laughter" and "Diabolical Acting". Palin stumbles over his lines, the unprepared understudy Jones can't fill in, and Gilliam does an "outrageous French accent" and a Cockney song and dance (another anachronism!) They decide to tie Cleveland to the rack (she's already got one. snicker snicker) but Jones has only brought along a dish rack. While Palin winces, they try to continue the sketch, even though, as Palin complains, "It makes it all seem so stupid."

Throughout all of this, Chapman is the bored professional bystander. He's given his cue-- a few times, as the Cardinals botched the entrance-- and now he has nothing to do. Fortunately, a knock on the door saves him. Cleese, as a BBC man in a funky, boho beard, asks if he'd like to open a door in a another sketch, and they leave.

A film clip follows, with Cleese actually saying "We're on film at the moment." Together, they climb in an ugly BBC truck which drives through London, passing a road sign that says "To the Sketch". Some scarcely audible dialogue between Chapman and Cleese can best be summed up as "TV is stupid." Finally, they arrive at a house, and Chapman walks up the garden walk past Idle, who waits patiently with a tray full of novelty items. At the front door, with the ugly truck still rumbling in the background, Idle rings the bell and ever-obedient and game Chapman answers it. Idle delivers a long monologue listing the various items he has in the tray, including a naughty Humphrey;

 "press the button-- it vomits." It's a funny bit, but all monological. Idle works alone. The bit gets inspired, though, when Idle asks for the punchline. Nobody told Chapman about a punchline, and he abandons the sketch to ask Cleese. Cleese consults the script, and sure enough, there was a punchline. We don't hear it, but Cleese, upon reading it, laughs uproariously. "Very good!... Pity we missed that." I love that-- taking the whole self-aware stuff to the next level. Promising to make a series out of the punchline, he then imposes upon Chapman for his head to use in an animated bit. Chapman is held down, a saw brought to his neck--

Note the hand stealing the eyeball

And we're linked to the Gilliamination. Confederate soldiers steal one of his iris/pupil units to attack a Union position. In response, the Union soldiers kill themselves and Queen Victoria before placing plumbing on the naughty bits of a lady. Guess you had to be there. Pictures of other nudes with sundries parade past, and it all links us to the next sketch as Idle puts his book of dirty plumbing away to participate in a meeting.

After a bunch of nonsense initials are tossed about, Cleese facilitates a discussion on taxing sex. Chapman has a great moment, so relieved that they're not taxing "pooh-poohs" that he runs off to relieve himself. Idle delivers the punch line, and it is "very good." A slight offering, but still fun. We cut to some Vox Pops of people discussing what to tax. Cleese, as a Gumby standing in water, suggests taxing people who stand in water. (The books that I have to hand suggest that this is Gumby's first appearance. Readers of the blog know that this is not rue. Still it's a good one.) Finally, Palin suggests taxing "holiday snaps." Snap! (Palin's delivery on this awesome.) And we're on to the next bit.

Old lady Marjorie Wilde shows Palin's polaroid, and more boring photos, to Cleveland, who impatiently tears them up as soon she is handed them. We've all been there. If Carol seems mean, remember, the old lady is near death and must have her place cleaned out. Suddenly, Wilde says "Here's the Spanish Inquisition hiding behind the coal shed." Cleveland gives the entrance line, and BUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHN! Palin and crew rush in with their tag line.

This time, they get a graphic and voice over, promising "violence, terror and torture that m,akes a smashing film!" The graphic is Breugel, apparently, although I can't source it right now, and is suitably dramatic. Now we're getting real.... or are we?

Just look at that lower jaw!

They take the old lady to a musty dungeon, the best the BBC could build, and chain the poor old bird to a stone wall. Majorie tries hard to look alarmed, but it gives her expression a fish like structure. The amateur theatrics gag is put to the side, for the most part, (Palin still gets his numbers a bit confused,) and the new joke is-- they're going to torture her with soft things. Gilliam has a nice moment when he's told to fetch the comfy chair. He grimaces in shock, his lower jaw outstretched with massive effort. Jones, too, gets major laughs as he jabs the old lady with the cushions. (There's a woman in the studio audience who positively cackles with delight.) But overall, this bit isn't as funny as the first bit. We're no longer in a bad TV show with a frustrated actor-- this is the real Spanish Inquisition. And it's not as funny.  Such are the limits of randomness. At some point, we begin to ask "Where's this going?"

"I Confess" head on Dr.s body

It turns out it's going to an animation. Palin's exhortations to "Confess!" are answered by a constable, who is rewarded by having his seat pulled from under him repeatedly. Another confessee gets his body inflated until his head pops off and bounces around the room. A great visual bit follows, with a woman pulling a doctor's head out from under his jacket, asking him to speak up. The doctor's head is replaced by the confessing man's head, still screaming "I confess!" As the scene fills with jibber-jabber, an anonymous, long arm pulls one of the books off the Dr.'s shelf and we cut away to--

A promo for the "Semaphore Version of Wuthering Heights" Jones, great as Heathcliffe, speaks with Catherine across the moor, with flags. Cleveland plays Catherine, and works those flags like a sunnuvabitch! There are great gags in this bit-- a baby crying, with flags; a man snoring, with flags; Idle screaming, with really big flags; Cleveland goes off on Idle, declaring her love for Heathcliff. Her flag waving is interpreted by captions for the flag impaired, and the scene cuts off as she says "And what's more..." What's more what? I have to know! But the lads have exhausted themselves exploring this particular concept, and it's time for other odd bedfellows-- Julius Caesar on an Aldis Lamp, a western in Morse code-- once again, they take this strange concept and explore every possible facet. (Funny bit in the Caesar bit-- Palin's "It's Man appears as the "Ides" Man.)

We cut abruptly to a courtroom scene-- standard court stuff. As always with these court bits of theirs, the gags come like a train. The first car is a game of charades, as the Jury announces their
verdict through pantomime. Judge Chapman calls the next defendant with charades and a giant prop ant. On to the next bit-- the defendant (Jones) is himself a judge, and there's some confusion as to who is running this case. A pretty girl is brought in as an exhibit-- while Carol Cleveland plays a barrister, in a robe, wig and glasses. What's going on here?! Bit three, Chapman does a whole monologue about how great South Africa is, because you can give the death sentence. Bit four, we'll get to in a second. But one interesting bit, not seen before or since in Python, is Cleese breaking the fourth wall to make a funny face at the camera. I'll GIF it if I figure out how to GIF, but see if you can spot it. Bit 4, Chapman delivers the death sentence on Jones' judge, and Jones says "I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition." All eyes turn to the door expectantly-- and nothing happens.

On film, Palin and crew run out of a house and catch a bus to the old Bailey. They anxiously watch the credits roll, knowing that the show will soon be over. "There's the lighting credit! Only five left!" Finally, back in the studio, they storm in-- "Nnnobody expects the Spanish--" and "The End" pops up on the screen. "Aw, bugger."

In his diary, Palin recounts the rehearsal for this show, and how concerned he was over how he dominated it, and how nobody else had much to do. It's true. While the show is heavy with this inspired bit, it lacks in much else. It doesn't matter, though. This show stands as a classic example of great television and great sketch comedy, and created a zeitgeist call that everyone knows. This random 6 in the morning bit was a gift from the Gods, and watching its exuberance is an unmitigated joy.

Note the red briefs.

Oh, and by the way, Jones wears red underwear.

Next week; Episode 16 "Deja Vu"

 

Monty Python's Flying Circus - The Album (1970)

Gilliam's sole contribution-- the Album Cover.

After Monty Python's Flying Circus' first season, which was a critical and ratings success, the lads were politely urged by the BBC to make them an album. Having made the request, the BBC apparently decided that it's work was primarily done. The album is incredibly low rent, with a torpid semi-live audience listening politely to the sketches we've come to regard as classics. Palin talks about it briefly in his Diaries. It was Saturday, May 2nd, 1970, at Camden Theater. (Is this now called the "Camden People's Theatre"? Anyone?) They got there at 10:00, scripts pilfered from the show in hand, and started to rehearse the sound effects for the afternoon taping. They were told it was going to be done on the cheap; no money for music, no money for stereo. (No money for stereo?!) All music cues would be accomplished with the help of an organ, which, says Palin, "reduced everything to the level of tarty amateur dramatics."

But Chapman, the group hedonist, brought along a bottle of scotch, and the recording went off without much of a hitch. The small audience, and the non-audible sound effects made for tepid response from the audience. But it's interesting to see what worked and what didn't, and to speculate on why. We also begin to see the lads creating new material for the albums, messing with the radio medium as  playfully as they did television just a few months before.  We won't go into the sketches themselves, since we've covered them in the show blog, but the variations might be interesting to other obsessed maniacs.

"Flying Sheep" plays just like the show, only without the big laugh at the line "From Harold." The silliness had not infected the audience yet. They keep the sketch going with Cleese and Palin doing the Frenchmen, and it gets scarcely a titter. Then, as in the show, they cut to the Pepperpots discussing French philosophy. But in a twist away from previous material, they compare French philosophers to Germen philosophers. This is a fun bit, despite the  lack of response from the crowd. Idle seems to have adopted the role of MC, bringing his energy and volume way up to try to inject some life into the crowd-lette.

Idle takes us to "A Man with Three Buttocks," with Frampton played by gravelly, working-class Palin, instead of Jones. The laughs are more reliable, until they ask for the "quick... visual..." The lads seem to have forgotten that they're not on television. They probably did the whole piece standing up in front of microphones, and thus the physical bits made no sense. They redo the "continental version", with no reaction, and roller rink organ music takes us away to--

"Crunchy Frog". Cleese pronounces it "choco-laytes", and the first real laugh is Cleese advising what the box should say. Having heard this act many times on live performance albums, and heard laughs at every single line, it's perplexing how little the crowd laughs. Chapman follows with the PSA, cut off by the sound of a toilet flushing.

We come up on the sound of a club, and Idle launches right into "Nudge, Nudge", high speed, scarcely waiting for a laugh. But his "yes" gets a laugh, and the punchline hits hard-ish. We go straight into "The Mouse Problem." Cleese's awkwardness gets the biggest laughs yet. Palin as the announcer adds Cleese's phone number when giving out his personal info. Chapman steamrolls over some laughs in his sociologist bit, and the lads do their "man on the street" interviews, with some new additions; Jones as a Pepperpot says "I didn't say anything, it was just my tummy rumbling," and Cleese's Pepperpot advises the Mice/Men should be kicked in the upper lip with a steel-toe boot. None of the interviews get much of a laugh. The stream-of-consciousness presentation that we celebrate the show for is lost on this audience.

Organ music plays the wedding march, and Jones and Cleveland, panting, start off the "Buying a Bed" sketch. Idle gets a big laugh with his faulty translation. Chapman, instead of a paper bag, puts a bucket on his head, and insists he's "not coming out." (I think that ship had already sailed.) Idle and co. have to get into a fish tank and sing, instead of a tea box, probably because they had fish tank sfx, whereas the tea boxes just sit there silently, and are thus bad radio. These are minor adjustments made to work with the medium, as well as random spoken silliness thrown in. Carol Cleveland gives us the punch line, which gets not a titter. You know, for all the talk about England and their superior senses of humor, they're better at making jokes than they are at getting them.

"Interesting People" is next. Ali Bayar ("Stark... raving... mmmmmad.") is represented by a chicken clucking. The sound effect for the cat with influenza is reminiscent of Alvin and the Chipmunks, quite silly indeed. During the shouting match between Cleese and Jones, there's a big laugh for something we don't hear. The lads are slowly warming these guys up. "No, I fling her," gets a huge laugh. Instead of cutting away, like they do in the show, Palin promises another show next week with, among other things, a politician in a glass of water.

Next, for reasons that surpass understanding, comes the "Barbershop Sketch". Jones actually enters asking for "the barbershop sketch". Cleese provides a hushed voice over-- "The barber is washing and rewashing his hands, trying to remove the blood stains from his coat." It doesn't help. All of the visual gags that this already pallid sketch rely on have been cut away (heh) and the only thing even remotely funny is Palin's psychotic Tourette's outbreaks. Fortunately, it's only a minute and a half of our lives wasted, and Palin launches into the "Lumberjack Song". This sketch is invulnerable to the caprices of an audience. You could sing this song at the Mormon Tabernacle and you'd bring down the house.

Cleese reads the complaint letter, Jones asks why we can't have more art critics, Cleveland grants the wish, and a couple of Pepperpots mutter "Look, an art critic." It doesn't get a laugh, but listening to this little randomness train makes me smile. "Interview" is next, with Palin as the art critic speaking about the place of the nude in his bed... ART! When he says "Bum... Oh, what a giveaway!", it scores like little else has in the show has so far. A boxing bell rings, and Idle, doing his Eddie Waring impersonation, announces "It's the Arts", and Cleese interviews Chapman's Sir Edward Ross. Chapman's terse reactions are great, and when he starts to walk off, he mutters as he goes, getting further from the mic. Cleese's final line lands pretty well, and then Cleese abruptly announces "End of Side 1." I guess any landing you walk away from is a good one.

What's interesting to me is the group's refusal to improvise in this live situation. The lads are being paid (very little) to perform their sketches, as written and as previously performed, and for the most part, that's what they do. I begin to have serious admiration for them as performers, because we see now that they made strong choices when they did the show, that those choices are repeatable, and that they repeat them with such specificity and consistency. It's easy to imagine, in their patented surreal presentation, that they're trying stuff out or just winging it. No. Every bit of randomness is a carefully planned and executed bit of randomness.

Let's move on to side 2. (For those of you reading that weren't around back then, we used to put our discs on vinyl. They were larger, you played them with a needle, and you put content on both sides of the vinyl disc. When one side finished, you had to remove the needle, lift the disc off of a spindle, flip it, slide it back down on the spindle and replace the needle on the outer rim. None of this "slide it in and listen" crap. We had to work for our entertainment back then.)

We begin with Chapman's Colonel character, who introduces himself as the "GOC Commanding Southern Area Relief Force with special responsibility for any waxings or mechanical reproductions of any kind. Don't snicker, Pearson." He's taken it upon himself to test the stereophonic capabilities of the recording, and by walking across the stage chiming "Left" every other step, he tests the mics-- which completely fail, as this is a mono recording. (Did we mention this was done on the cheap?) I'm not really sure where this joke comes from. Did Chapman know that the recording was mono, and he wanted his inept Colonel to show up the cheap ass BBC? Or did Chapman not know, and this was just a happy accident? Palin seems to have known the recording limitations when he mentioned it in his diary, and Chapman did put away some scotch, so maybe he didn't know, or forgot that he knew. But the others would have reminded him, right? Told him not to test the mics-- unless they thought it was funny! Was Chapman improvising, right after my previous paragraph? I don't know. But it's a fun moment, and nor preceded by the TV show.  He finishes the test with an apology to the audience; "Sorry to interrupt your enjoyment, but that's what the army's all about." And then he introduces the next sketch, which, like the last one, begins with a boxing bell ringing. This time, it's Arthur "Two Sheds" Jackson. Idle's delivery is less genteel and polite than in the show-- he's got his performing face on, loud, strident and fast. Jones responds with equal speed and testiness. The embarrassment that highlighted the TV version is replaced with a general anger. It's still funny, though. When Cleese comes to back up Idle, Idle expositions "Good Lord, you're the man who interviewed Sir Edward Ross on the other side." A crashing sound establishes that "Two Sheds" is tossed off stage, and Cleese and Idle whisper endearments to each other, as in the show.

Calliope organ music transitions us to "Children's Stories". Idle is perfect, and the pages riffling is equally funny. The music starts up again, sped up, and Chapman's Colonel tells the engineer to stop messing about with he speeds. So far, Chapman's Colonel is my favorite part of this recording. He switches hats quickly as we launch into "Visitors". Not a lot of laughs, but Cleese and Jones manage to snag a few with their Albee-esque couple. When Cleese sits on the cat, we get another "Alvin and the Chipmunks" sound effect. After Jones' laugh and inadvertent incontinence, we hear a fart sound. Palin yells "The goats gone poohs." Does the fart sound relate to the goat, or Jones? Palin's diary is silent. Finally, instead of "Let's have a ding-dong," Cleese requests "Jerusalem." The second time the song's been sung in this show.

Bad... really bad... organ music takes us into "Albatross", which gets the most consistent laughs of any sketch yet. He finishes with offering other sea birds, like "Stormy Petrel on a Stick"  as well as "Gannet Ripple!" (I thought, until this moment, that in the show, Cleese asks people to "Get it on a stick!" But it's "Gannet on a Stick", isn't it?)

When describing the recording, Palin talks about the "Hilter" sketch as being a sad casualty of the afternoon. He's right. Chapman messes up the "Sorry, Mein Feurher... mein Dickie Old Chum", but the rest of the sketch is right on the money. Cleese moves across the stage when he gives his Minehead speech, fading out and in-- as though he were walking through the audience. The biggest laugh comes from Jones' Gumby saying Hilter has beautiful legs.

A siren sounds in response to Chapman's upper class twit falling over backwards whilst afroth, and as if replicating a Gilliam animation, has SFX of the siren getting closer, further away, then closer, then sounds of a stretcher carried out, all in service to Idle's "Me Doctor" sketch. Seems like a long way to go for such a trifle. Still, Idle's first joke out of the gate does very well, and it keeps getting some laughs throughout. Instead of the chicken-wielding knight, Chapman's Colonel stops the proceedings
with a "What a silly way to carry on." (I can practically hear the scotch in his voice.) Cleese approaches him with a complaint, and Chapman sends him to the pet shop "on the next track." Though he scarcely gets a laugh,  the original lines he has for this album are perfect, right on the Monty.

The next track is, of course, "The Parrot Sketch", and it succeeds like no other sketch on this album. The laughs are consistent, get off to a fast starts, and keep growing. Whether by design or accident, they left out the joke about the bird being nailed to the perch, but that only makes it funnier during the long monologue at the end, when Cleese says "If you hadn't nailed the bird to the perch, it would be pushing up the daisies," which got a big laugh. I wonder if they used a stuffed parrot for the taping-- I imagine they did, because the "Now that's what I call a dead parrot" line gets a big response. Unlike the future live performances, they keep it going, showing us Cleese's trip to Bolton and the discussion with Jones' British Railways person, who Cleese addresses as "British Railway Person". Ain't radio grand? "Jones' line "I wanted to be my own boss" and Palin's "It was a pun" get big laughs. Chapman's Colonel stops the sketch and hands it over to Cleese as the "Self Defense against Fresh Fruit" guy.

The final sketch is decidedly anti-climactic. It gets hardly a single laugh. It's a visual sketch, despite the funny concept and lines, and there's nothing for the audience to latch onto. The sound effect fr the 16 ton weight sounds nothing like a sixteen ton weight. Red currant and raspberry gets switched up in the sketch. His self-explosion ends the sketch-- and the recording-- with a bang. You wouldn't even know the audience was there.

And there we go-- an inauspicious beginning to the recording career of the world's funniest comedy troupe. They march out like good soldiers into the whither indifference of a clueless audience, acquit themselves admirably, and get the hell out of there. They score a few victories-- Chapman's Colonel is the only one that comes to mind-- and of course, it wound up selling over ten thousand copies, proving the market for all things Python. But the next time they went into a recording studio, they did it under the guidance of their own LLC, instead of the BBC, and they jettisoned the useless audience from their strategy. From here on out, they'd do it their way.