Episode 40 - The Golden Age of Ballooning

"It's not a balloon, you stupid little thickheaded Saxon git! It's a Zeppelin!" -  Graham Chapman as Mr. Zeppelin. 

The Pythons have enjoyed cult success of the like the BBC has never seen. Their albums are bestsellers, their books are high on the novelty lists, their live show has toured Great Britain and Canada, and they've sold out a West End Theater. They are in the midst of writing and developing their first original movie, which will become known as Monty Python and the Holy Grail. They are the toast of swinging London after three years on the BBC--

And now the BBC is going to give them a shot at a fourth year.

Why the trepidation on the part of the BBC? Simple-- the band is not complete for this particular series. John Cleese, the man who was offered the show in the first place, no longer wishes to do it, for reasons outlined previously. And although Cleese had been determined from the start to make Monty Python an ensemble effort, he was a huge part of the success of the show, both as a writer ("The Parrot Sketch") and a performer ("The Ministry of Silly Walks"). Can the lads get along without him?

They say yes. Jones and Palin, the two most disciplined and prolific writers, see an opportunity here to create more long form content. Jones, in particular, had always butted heads with Cleese over how the show should go, and by default, Jones wins. Now the dominant visionary in the group, Jones could pretty much call the shots. Idle had plenty of material ready to go, and Python was the best platform for him. Chapman seemed interested in proving himself as a writer who could stand alone, without Cleese, his partner. Plus, they had an ace in the hole-- Gilliam, who had not had much of an opportunity to perform, and was as explosive a performer as Cleese, if not as controlled. Finally, they brought Neil Innes in, to create more music for the show. It would be a different Python, but it would still be a funny, ground-breaking and surprising television show.

Let's see how they did. As always, if you haven't already, you can buy the box set here! Your sponging days are over-- no more living vicariously through this blog. It's time for the richer experience of watching the show yourself!

One of the usual signs of a show trying to redefine itself is the discarding of the old. In this particular episode, this means "No opening titles." We launch instead into the opening titles for a different show, "The Golden Age of Ballooning". Accompanied by classical music, hot air balloons crowd the air. It is a Gilliam-esque illustration, and gives us our only hint that this is Monty Python. But fear not-- more hints are coming. The title of this particular episode, we are shown in a graphic, is "The Beginnings".

Sharp cut to Palin as a mustached, mushroom-capped working class plumber dealing with a troublesome toilet whilst narrating the show, interrupting the narration every now and again to urge the toilet to let itself be fixed. He tells us of the Montgolfier brothers in 1783, the inventors of the hot air balloon, preparing their first launch. All about the juxtapositions here, plumber and stodgy BBC educational program, more strange than funny, but worth a laugh.

Idle and Jones play the Montgolfier brothers in the next scene, in flouncy period clothes and long grey wigs, full of import on the eve of their big day, looking out over the field and imagining their place in future encyclopedias. Jones has a little trouble with the French accent, riding it like a bucking bronco, but he manages.We get our first "joke thread" when Idle announces he will go and wash. This is hysterical, because, you know, he's French. Soon, the brothers have forgotten their big historical day and can only talk about bathing. Idle is too excited to do it, and Jones has been having trouble washing for years, to his great shame. "I am filthy! You are the cleaner of the Montgolfier brothers!"

This is (temporarily) interrupted by Chapman as an extraordinarily English butler, announcing a Mr. Bartlett-- only Chapman can't get the name right. Bartlett peeks in to correct him, wearing a "Gas Cooker" trenchcoat and hat, (played by Peter Brett?). After all that struggle to get the name right, Jones says "We don't want to see anyone. Tell him to go away." Nice little gag there.

And we're back to washing. Jones asks Idle what he will be washing, and Idle stops himself before he gets to the naughty bits. (There is a period plumber working on pipes behind Idle, echoing Palin's introduction-- not particularly funny, or even noticeable, but there it is.)  Idle then wraps the scene up with a dramatic monologue about the history they will make, and calls back the encyclopedia gag-    "Balloon-- just after Ballcock and just before Bang. What a position!"

But we miss most of it, because an anachronistic AV crew walks in through the balcony to set up a projector and screen, completely stealing focus. They wear black turtlenecks, and are ignored and ignoring. The projector plays some Gillaimination of two naked boxers bathing and boxing, bouncing in a tub of soap suds, while a Chapman voice over recounts the bath in fine historical detail; "Joseph Michael Montgolfier went on to scrub his torso, his legs, and his naughty bits..." (Yay, naughty bits!) "The End" pops up.

A cheesy 60s title card for "The Golden Age of Ballooning" cuts in, with Chapman's VO announcing

all the attendant merchandise that must be purchased to avoid jail and fines. There's a book, an audio book, crochet, and a talking frog. Yeah, I agree, lads, the constant push towards merchandise is egregious. And I love your books and albums and live shows and t-shirts! (As I write this, I'm looking at my talking Grail.) It's a cute if hypocritical gag, but it does go on a bit.

Another episode of "The Golden Age of Ballooning" starts, "The Montgolfier Brothers in Love." (Another graphic has to clarify "Not with each other, obviously.") Our deepest, darkest fantasies come to life when we see Carol

Cleveland, strapped horizontally hanging from a balloon. It's a shame she had to wear such a form-concealing French costume-- or anything. She complains in a fetching French accent to Jones, who works at a desk nearby, that all he thinks about is balloons. She gives many examples, while he measures her with a large tong-like instrument. He seems to spend a lot of time measuring her breasts, and frankly, who can blame him? As he crawls beneath her to get yet another measurement of her balloons, Idle walks in, and stammers, embarrassed at catching them in such a compromising position. "It's all right," Jones reassures, "We've done the difficult bit." This gag would work great in a sit com. We expect better from Python.

Idle announces that their benefactor, Louis XIV, is coming to visit. "Isn't he dead?" Jones asks. "Evidently not," Idle replies huffily. Idle extracts a promise from Jones that he'll was for the King, and a title card dissolves us to "Later That Evening"

Doesn't Palin look Scottish?

Later that Evening, Chapman announces to Idle the arrival of Louis XIV of France. (Mr. Bartlett tries to piggyback on this occasion, but Chapman chases him away.) Louis steps in-- and it's Palin, with scars on his face and a Scottish accent, which gets the biggest laugh of the show so far. His two footmen seem equally street-worn and suspicious. Idle sends Chapman away for some claret, and a long uncomfortable (and unfunny) pause follows. Making small talk, Idle asks "You have come from Paris?" "Where?" Palin responds.

Chapman rescues us with a goofy bit, as his Butler tries to figure out where the claret is. Idle describes with all his night, but Chapman just ain't getting it. Finally, they work it out. Chapman exits, and returns with meaningless exposition about an Egyptian canal. The Pythons are showing off their Cambridge degrees. Idle shoos him out.

Finally, Palin cuts to the chase. He wants the maps, ostensibly to put in the archives of (what's it called?) France, but clearly to steal them. Jones steps in dramatically-- "Just a moment!"-- wearing a towel and a bath cap, and gleaming with wetness. He was washing! And apparently, studying history, because, he announces a la Richilieu in Episode Three, that Louis XIV died in 1717. "Oh," Palin covers in his brogue, "Did I say Louis XIV? I meant Louis XV." But the jig is up. Palin headbutts Jones, (which is apparently a Scottish thing,) and races out with the plans, just as Chapman arrives without the claret.

The AV crew returns, showing footage of Palin and his posse running off. Chapman's Voice Over asks all the cliff-hanger questions, and announces the next episode... NOW!

And now things get weird. Episode 3, "A Great Day for France", starts with a modern panel show. Chapman, Sir Dividends, argues for a military presence if lieu of the collapsed government, and Idle, as Sir Interest, agrees provisionally, provided the army doesn't interfere with street executions, "which I feel have been the shot in the arm that the British economy so desperately needed." This is a topical reference to the political issues going on in England circa 1974, although I'm not sure what the street executions reference. While they blather, the Moderator Palin continues the narration of the "Golden Age of Ballooning", setting the stage for George III's court in England.

Back in period, Idle reads King Chapman a children's book. Chapman's deranged but pleased expression is priceless. A knock at the door alerts them that hey're not alone, and Idle switches out the book for a larger book of state business. Jones (as Lord North, apparently,) announces Palin as Louis XVIII, but when George III denies there is such a person, Palin (off screen) headbutts his way past Jones. Poor bastard is getting his nose kicked a lot in this episode. Palin, now in a wool tam o'shanter, tries to sell the plans to Chapman, but Chapman insists on pomp and circumstance that the fraudulent Palin would rather avoid. Finally, Jones (again) as Montgolfier, still in towel and bath cap, scotches (see what I did there?) the proceedings. "This man is an imposter!"

"Oooo, no, I am not,"Chapman whines, holding a hankie to his ear."Honestly!" (My daughter used to hold a hankie to her ear. Ergo, my daughter is King George III, and America belongs to her.)

Things devolve from there. Gilliam the footman announces the Ronettes, who come in and sing "George the Third" over and over in a Neil Innes written song, Palin headbutts everyone, Mr. Bartlett tries to get in, and Chapman curls up on the floor, confused that his insanity is running ahead of schedule. This is my problem with stream-of-consciousness narrative... inevitably, we wind up in chaos and anarchy, as all the jokes pile on top of each other.

Fortunately, this is a fake series, and we can keep going. The AV crew has snuck in with a title card, taking us back to France, where Idle Montgolfier reads with fake ears while Cleveland paces the floor, worried about Jones. It's been six months. The plumber is still there. And Chapman's Butler is still looking for the claret, although Mr. Bartlett has finally left. Idle dismisses him with a "Thank you, O'Toole," eager to put his tongue in Cleveland's mouth. "Not at all, sir," Chapman replies. "I've

enjoyed being in it." As he leaves, a burst of applause brings him back onstage for a curtain call, to the shock of Cleveland and Idle, and he repeats the last few lines, to great laughter, acclamation and flowers. Even Jones (still in a towel) and Palin come out to congratulate him. An odd ending to this bit, but somehow engaging. Roll credits, with a quick voice over announcing that Neil Innes is for sale by the BBC.

This relatively single-minded narrative has taken up more than half the show, and there's been little deviation from the central story line. Even Gilliam's animations (the title sequence and the bathing sequence) were in service to the story, with little straying, apart from the two lines in the panel show discussion. We've had the standard silly deviations that keep getting called back in-- the washing, the awkward pauses, the Scottish thug trying to teal the plans (I'm including the head-butting in that), the self-aware historicity, the BBC merchandise, and of course, the balloons  But now that the narrative is over...?

The BBC graphic plays under Chapman's VO shilling GAB (Golden Age of Ballooning) suppositories, and then announcing a party political broadcast from... the Norwegian Party? Idle, with a picture of a snowy pond or lake behind him, speaks to us in Norwegian, with titles, extolling the virtues of Norway-- especially the woman, with big knockers, who will do anything. "They'll go through the card." He's cut off with a buzz, but Chapman's VO promises that the highlights will be discussed by... a lot of people with a very thin connection to Norway, including "Mr. Brian Waynor, whose name is an anagram of Norway..." More silly than funny, this, but they're giving Chapman a lot to read, so he must be sober.

Another episode of GAP follows, this one about Ferdinand Von Zeppelin. We begin with silent-ish footage of Jones as Barry Zeppelin, "the least talented of the Zeppelin brothers." He blows up baloons, only to have them plummet to the ground as though they were made of lead. But he keeps trying larger balloons. Finally, he tries a man-sized balloon-- which retaliates by inflating him, in a very cleverly shot and conceived special effect scene. Once inflated, he floats with no problem, although his balloon is left behind.  Nice one joke bit there.

Palin's VO transitions us to the first flight of the Zeppelin in 1908. Ferdinand, played by white-mustached Chapman, is approached by various German types who compliment him on his balloon. "It's not a balloon, you stupid little thick-headed Saxon git! It's a Zeppelin!" Frustrated by their inability to call it by his name, he tosses them out of the Zeppelin, where they land in the dressing room of a German cottage. It's great to see Chapman in fine form, yelling and screaming as in The Flying Lesson sketch or the Argument Clinic, but it's over before we know it, and the rest of the sketch takes place in the German cottage. There is a Gilliam animation of the bodies being thrown out of the zeppelin-- once again, in strict service to the surrounding material.

Those specks are people being pushed out. 

In the cottage, Palin and Jones play the man and wife, respectively, that live in the German cottage. Palin's reading of exotic recipes is interrupted by all the dead bodies landing in his drawing room-- not sitting room, as he corrects Jones. They try to figure out what to do about the bodies, and the best they can come up with is to sort them. The big laugh comes when Jones says "We should call the government," and Palin points out "This is the government." The performances of Palin and Jones are nuanced, but the sketch never seems to land (unlike the bodies), and the energy, after Chapman's rants, drops with an inexorable and lethal momentum (just like the bodies.) I've heard and read Python apologists referencing this scene when they try to validate the last season-- isn't it a great and interesting concept, to have this German couple sorting all

the dead bodies? Perhaps, but I don't get much of a laugh out of it. Between the odd editing into the scene, and the muted quality of the scene itself, there just isn't much about it that's funny.

We end with a photo montage showing a result of the mass murder that Zeppelin committed that day; one of the deaths was responsible for the birth of the producer/director the GAP. Life goes on. Or does it? The balloons crowding the sky are all popped by hypodermic syringes and other medical instruments, as a new, edgy title appears-- the Golden Age of Colonic Irrigation! Not the shortest title, but the kids love it. A pair of upended buttocks rise up to great one of the instruments, and in the interests of good taste, we cut away. This feels more like Gilliam, breaking from the narrative with violent tastelessness. We've missed you, sir!

Chapman's VO, over black, still lists the Norway commentators, the connections to Norway growing thinner and thinner. Finally, a Masterpiece Theater type of movie, "The Mill on the Floss" starts. Music swells as the Part 1 title pops up; "Ballooning". (Thought you'd escaped, eh?) Jones and Cleveland in Victorian costume hold hands in the brush of an English meadow. So deeply in love are they, they float up into the sky with an ease that would make Barry Zeppelin green with envy. Fade to black.

Well... some funny bits, and the performances and production value are all there, with brief moments of comic inspiration lighting up the rest of the content. But the show seems to have lost its edge in all the randomness. Monty Python has always been silly, but it's never been pointless. Though some through lines are played out exhaustively, they never really pay off. Maybe the conflict that Cleese brought to the proceedings was more valuable than anyone knew. Or maybe the lads are just rediscovering their balance after his departure. One things is clear-- for better of worse, Cleese won't be coming back.

Next week; The Return of Cleese! (sort of.)

Monty Python Live at Drury Lane

"And so, the show had begun! For these seven young boys and a girl, it was their chance of a lifetime, their dream come true! The spotlight was on them. Fame stood tiptoe in the wings. The audience gurgle gah..." -  Terry Jones as the Narrator.

The year is 1974, a watershed year for the lads. Five of the Pythons were busy creating material for the next BBC series. One of them wasn't. In many ways, this year marks the beginning of the end of Monty Python.

But, the year before, Idle had taken the group on the road. (Ostensibly, it was Tony Smith and Howard Goldsmith who approached them with the idea, but I'm convinced if Tony and Howard hadn't done it, Eric would have done it anyway.) Inspired by the rock n' roll life style of many of his contemporaries, and something of a musician himself, he put together a tour, creating and refining a live show from three years of Python television, (or, as Palin referred to it in his diaries, " a second hand collection of old TV material,") along with some songs. Did I mention he was a musician?

Palin and Jones tried to keep the free-wheeling style intact, Cleese showed up and Chapman got drunk and laid a lot, up one side of England and down the other, as well as through the wilds of Canada and even dipping a toe into the frigid shark tank of Los Angeles (with disastrous results). The lads noticed a marked appreciation that bordered on cult. Idle wanted Monty Python to be rock stars, and by the end of the tour, that's what they were.

What better way then to follow up that experience with a short run on the West End? Tellingly, they played some huge theaters in Canada, theaters that seated 3,000, which is what gave them the confidence to believe they could occupy a stodgy old London theater. The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane is a London theatrical legend that has housed the most famous and iconic musicals in the modern history of theater. (It's currently owned by Andrew Lloyd Weber, according to Wikipedia.) There were Doric columns and porticos and balustrades, statues of famous theater legends, oil paintings-- the place dripped with history and social approbation. And now, the Pythons were coming.

This represented a huge burst of establishment acceptance for the Pythons. It must be a very sweet phenomenon to make your living and reputation as a mere sketch comedian, in the land of Shakespeare and Pinter, and wind up at the friggin' Drury Lane. Suck it, Olivier! (Laurence Olivier is now dead, and does not suck.) But perhaps higher on the pros list was the convenience of it all. It was like a regular job for them, especially family men like Palin and Jones. They'd go to work, do their jobs, and take the tube home. But the Stones and Floyd would still come to hang out in Idle's dressing room. It was the tail end of the era, but this was still swinging London.

The show was initially booked for two weeks, and it ran four, with scalpers out in front of the theater hawking coveted seats. The reviews were good, or at least kind, and startlingly extensive. Apparently, the Pythons as a phenomenon were more print-worthy than they were as a TV show. (Palin, in his diaries, was a bit miffed that the reviewers tended to get him and Jones confused, and said that they "screeched" a lot.) For this huge endorsement to come while they were prepping for a hobbled show at the BBC must have seemed like good fortune for the PMCs (Pythons minus Cleese). It must have inched the BBC towards greater confidence in the marketability of the upcoming series, if the BBC ever worried about such things as ratings.

But, apparently, it was also fun, to find a new context for their madcap-ism. They called the show "Monty Python's First Farewell Tour (Repeat)" and had an overprint announce "Not Cancelled". They maintained the zany, free-association they had developed on the show, as well as the silliness. They put a dummy Queen Elizabeth up in one of the balcony seats, making the show unmistakably rrrregal. They established what would be their standard line-up, and they even recorded this particular show, making it the first non-bootleg Monty Python concert on album. (If anyone has an earlier bootleg, drop me a line.) The album was available only in Great Britain, and not in the US until they released it as part of the "Instant Monty Python Record Collection" in 1994. It's now available on CD, and you can buy it here!

But let's get to it. You've paid the price of admission by sitting through all this tiresome prose. Now let's check out the show together, via more tiresome prose!

We start with a hushed and portentious introductory voice over from Idle, setting the "stage". "Amongst the glittering audience here tonight, I can see, uh... what's his name?... the fellow with the glasses on telly." He can't remember the name of the lady next to the fellow with the glasses either, although she's the one with the big knockers on the jam commercial, and it's more forgivable. Ah, television fame is so fleeting. It's clear that despite the Python's new positions in the television industry, they never lost sight of how silly it all is. Good for them.

The audience cheers as the dummy queen raises her hands. "Another great chapter is about to be written in the history of Drury Lane." And out comes the Llama sketch!

With a voice over from Idle giving the English translation, the lads, led by Cleese, give the raucous and outrageous sketch their all. Of particular note is Cleese screaming "Cuidado! Llamas!" with true terror in his timbre. He may be diffident about continuing with the Pythons, but on stage he is committed! Or should be. I'm unclear on how the audience got the translations-- must be a visual thing.

Idle introduces the "Reader in Comparative Flower Arrangement at the University of Lynn Redgrave", Mr. D.P. Gumby. Palin gets huge laughs before he says a word, but when he speaks, even more. It's clear the audience loves Gumby as much as the Pythons do.

Jones buys some time with a stirring announced summation. "And so, the show had begun!..." After trotting out the hilarious show biz cliches, he is apparently strangled or kicked (by Cleese?) so that they can start the next sketch. This is, in some ways, a new sketch, one that I hadn't heard before. But it's also an old sketch, in that it follows the Cleese-ian playbook established by the Moutaineering Sketch, the Job Interview Sketch, the Merchant Banker Sketch, and the Selling String sketch, said playbook being "Normal Guy walks in for a job (or something) and meets Insane Authority Figure." In this instance, Idle applies for a job with the Secret Service. Cleese must determine if he is up to snuff. (Literally. The first question is "You have a good nose, do you?") and Cleese be crazy. It's a fine sketch, a bit on the prosaic side for Cleese, but he performs it to the hilt, earning the first burst of spontaneous applause of the evening. The joke is a cricket anecdote. Cleese describes being hit in the head with a cricket ball, and apparently the concussion and trauma are still fresh in his bruised mind as he stammers and starts the story over again, multiple times. Finally, he describes it yet again; "He put his left foot down the wicket, hit the ball back at me like a bullet, never had a chance to move, couldn't protect myself, ball hit me straight smack plumb between the eyes.... 'Course, I was getting used to it by then." He wasn't repeating himself-- he's been hit in the head dozens of times. Cue laughter and spontaneous applause... You had to be there. Idle earns a great laugh when Cleese asks him if he can stand up to physical torture. "Oh, yes, I hope so!" Idle responds with much more enthusiasm than the question should merit. But, as with the crazy authority figure sketches, there's rarely an easy out. Cleese accidentally shoots Idle.

Palin steps up next as a wrestling announcer. He gives it his all, too, but when he starts talking gibberish, it doesn't seem to land as well as Cleese's, but it's very funny. This is the Colin "Bomber" Harris sketch, where Chapman wrestles with himself if hilarious and strange yoga positions, ultimately knocking himself out. I recall hearing this sketch on the City Center album, but on this album, they cut in with another Idle voice over. "Whilst this mainly visual sketch is going on..." Idle gives us a brief history of the Drury Lane, as well as his wardrobe. We get a nice call back when he tells us "Many of England's most greatest actors have performed here, including... um... you know, that fellow on telly with the glasses." We also get a scratchy recording of the famous Sir Henry Irving doing the Parrot Sketch monologue. Henry Irving is played hilariously by Palin in his stodgiest acting since the Prime Minister sketch.

"It's a stiff?"

Idle steps out next and announces World Forum with appropriately stentorian tones. The sketch kills, as always, and Jones/Karl Marx's "Oh, shit!" at the end sends the audience into delirium. Gilliam appears as Mao Tse Tung; "Sing, Ritter Bildy?" Finally, Idle introduces Neil Innes as "John Kissinger, brother of the famous Ronny Kissinger!" Neil Innes sings "How Sweet to be an Idiot", giving the lads time to change into something more pertinent to the next sketch.

A quick word about Neil Innes, as he will be playing a role in things for the rest of Pythonia. He was a novelty songwriter, famous for "I Am an Urban Spaceman" (produced by Paul McCartney, amongst others) and "Death Cab For Cutie" (which inspired a current same-named band,) as part of the "Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band". Said band (don't make me type it again) was the house band on the television show "Do Not Adjust Your Set", which starred Jones, Palin and Idle, with animations by Gilliam. I think that wannabe rocker Idle is the key word in that last clause, and when it came time to put together live shows, Neil Innes was a perfect fit-- a self-contained act with

his own silly lineage, he added more music to the proceedings, thereby recreating the cabaret structure that the lads cut their teeth on, as well as creating a respite in the show so that everyone could change costume. He generally performed two of four songs. "How Sweet..." is one of them, a silly yet sentimental homage to societal misfits. And while the songs are cute, I often find myself jonesing to get on to the good stuff. I'm sorry, I think that rock musicians have it so much easier than writers. "She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!" Really? That's a great song? (Of course it is, I'm just saying...) And don't get me started on "Gabba-Gabba-Hey!" But Neil's "How Sweet..." is pleasant enough, and I get ab occasional whiff of Lennon as he sings. (Did Neil Innes have much to do with the historical songs on the "Matching Tie" album? If so, I take it all back!)

Albatross is next, apparently played by Cleese in the audience, with Jones on stage. Cleese is all foul-mouthed belligerence, with audience members asking "How much?" only to get spat on. Chapman steps out as the unsilly Major, to stop the sketch, reprimanding Cleese; "You're not even a proper woman." "It's not my fault!" Cleese replies bitterly. Chapman gets the show back on track with Nudge, Nudge-- which gets a burst of applause at the first line. The sketch plays as expected, with the exception of a brief toss-in by Idle. "Mmm... Breakaway. Ewww!" This is a reference to the commercials Idle has been doing as the Nudge Nudge man, and it gets the second burst of spontaneous applause of the evening.

Goofy music plays us out-- ironic because playing out sketches with goofy music so irritated the Pythons five years ago that they rejected the necessity of punch lines in their sketches, and now here they are, using the goofy music they so condemned. Yet the music is so goofy, it almost plays as a spoof of the goofy music cliche, as Idle's voice over tells us the show is going well so far.

The next sketch is another bit of new material, called Cocktail Bar. It's hard to make out what happens on the CD, it being a pretty visual sketch, but apparently they order drinks with dead mallards and squeezed lemmings in them, and drink them, and vomit them all over, and then ask for more, all amongst the standard British gentility of a cocktail bar. Cleese orders a Harlem Stinger at one point, and Gilliam comes in as a black man by way of Louie Armstrong/Zulu Warrior named Rastus. (Nice, you gap-toothed, inbred Nancy Boys.), and then, according to Eric Idle's "Monty Python Live" book, Rastus puts all the liquor in his mouth, swishes it around, and spits it out into a glass. Expectorated, not stirred. The lads let their harshness out at one point-- Cleese mentions that "Nixon's had an asshole transplant," and Palin replies that in more recent news, "The asshole has rejected him." More spontaneous applause. Finally, a lady, (Connie Booth?) steps out an apologizes for the sketch. "We're very sorry... We're so fucking sorry."

We move on to the Travel Agent's Sketch, which plays as expected with a few additions; After Palin suggests replacing the letter "C" with the letter "K", (Idle can't say the letter "C",) Idle calls himself "a silly bunt." Idle also has added to the long monologue at the end, which is how they end the act. The monologue is impressive, another gauntlet thrown to the obsessive fans that has not been picked up as often as the much more manageable Parrot monologue. Idle finishes with a reference to the Labor government, which gets a burst of applause, and his voice over tells us we have twenty minutes to go to the Drury Lane bar and get pissed.

Cleese starts off Act 2 with the "Spot the Brain Cell" game show, the one where Jones the Ratbag asks for the Blow on the Head, instead of the "dagger up the clitoris." (Adapted for the stage.) The darkie joke is still offensive, but it plays well at the Drury Lane. I'm guessing Paul Robson never played there. Cleese draws the laughs from the crowd with every unctious fake laugh of his own. As the giant hammer comes down, I think you can hear Cleese crack up, along with Jones' skull.

Idle and Palin (and others, I assume,) step out as the Bruces, to sing the Philosopher's Song. Having heard this song in many future concerts and films, this one felt a little stiff to me. But I definitely heard melody-- was that Palin, or has Innes snuck into the action?

Cleese and Palin zip through the Argument Clinic next, interrupted by the "I've Got Two Legs" bit-- did his guts spill out, even then? The Four Yorkshiremen sketch comes next-- Palin has been in the last three sketches, and I'm wondering how he made the costume changes. Next, we get Cleese narrating Election Night Coverage (Sensible Party vs. Silly Party), apparently included because 1974 was an election year in Great Britain. This must have been great to see on stage, although it moves too fast for the audience to keep up. Funny story; Neil Innes played one of the losing Silly Candidates, and started singing "Climb Every Mountain" when asked for a comment, cracking everybody up. That's fine in a live show, I guess, but they were taping this one, and when they started selling records, they had to pay a ton of money to the studio that made "The Sound of Music." Not so silly now, is he? They finish the sketch with everybody walking off, saying "I'm bored, I don't want to do this anymore..."

Cue Idle and the Lumberjack Song, which earns a big burst of applause at the mention of the mighty Scots Pine. The Monty Python theme plays them all out, to the raucous in-time clapping of the audience.

But wait! There's more! The Parrot Sketch, with the audience laughing at almost every line. Seriously. Every line. They love this sketch. It's hard to imagine the sheer infectiousness of the Lumberjack Song could be overwhelmed, but it happened that night in London. You can hear Cleese trying hard not to crack up. Palin throws in a "pecker" joke, and Cleese responds in a "he's fuckin' sloughed it!" Finally, at the end, when Cleese asks of the slug "Does it talk?" Palin replies "Yes." "I'll have that one then,"

A voice over sends us home, and stuff happens on stage that we can't see but is apparently funny. A great show, a great celebration.

How could Cleese be a part of this, and still not want to continue the TV show? It beggars the imagination. But one thing seems clear-- these guys love and are completely comfortable with each other. The CD exudes a joy that you rarely get from the best stand-up acts. Everyone gets their moment, although Chapman and Jones seem to be a bit lost in the shuffle, and Idle and Cleese in particular seem to really step up a few million rungs. The live show-- all the live shows-- are a testament not only to the great material, but to the fellowship of the creators. Bravo, the six of you, and thanks, Neil, for letting them breath during the costume changes.

Next week; The Golden Age of Ballooning.