The Secret Policeman's Ball

 Python Live!

“The Secret Policeman’s Ball”

The year is 1979. The theater (or “theatre”-- we’re in Blighty now), Her Majesty’s Theatre, in London. The event is billed as “The Secret Policeman’s Ball”, a fundraiser for Amnesty International. The goal– Laughter! And money.

“The Secret Policeman’s Ball” references the common practice of bribery– if a cop pulls you over, you give them cash and say it’s for the Policeman’s Ball, a charitable event. “Secret” might refer to the secret police, as in the ones who torture dissidents. (Amnesty International is a human-rights anti-torture organization.)That feels a bit dark, however. Another possibility is that “secret” means underground, not sanctioned by authority, illicit– a comedic speakeasy.

This is the third “Secret Policeman” show, although this is the first time the title is used. The original titles were “A Poke in the Eye” (Show #1, released in 1976 as a movie under the name “At Her Majesty’s Pleasure”, which was a euphemism for incarceration, as well as “Monty Python Meets Beyond the Fringe”), and “The Mermaid Frolics” (Show #2, 1977, a.k.a “An Evening Without Sir Bernard Miles”). While the prior two shows were collections of sketch comedy and monologues, this show would introduce music into the proceedings rather spectacularly.

John Cleese created this series with Amnesty International Assistant Director Peter Luff and industry insider Martin Lewis. While the worthy work of Amnesty International was the rationale, it’s also clear that the comedy performers, mostly British TV performers past their peaks of popularity, truly enjoyed getting their material back on its feet and in front of a live audience. The musicians, on the other hand, look like they do this sort of thing all the time.

John Cleese was joined on this show by Michael Palin and Terry Jones, which makes it a half-Python.

There were four shows overall, and the released film boiled down the highlights. You can stream it on YouTube here. But if you enjoy the utter boredom of having jokes explained to you, I’ll do a not-brief-enough recap…

The movie starts with the Secret Policeman, a cartoon cut-out, playing peek-a-boo with the audience from around the stage right curtain. The cartoon, a creation of Colin Wheeler, is a furtive, frowning, fedora-d figure in a trenchcoat, but the audience seems to enjoy him. As they laugh and hoot, the credits roll, with a “staged and (slightly) directed” credit for Cleese.  

The first sketch is Cleese on a park bench being assailed with useless facts and observations by Peter Cook from a tiny book he carries. “Did you know you’ve got four miles of tubing in your stomach?” “If the giraffe could leap, pound for pound, as high as the grasshopper– they’d avoid a lot of trouble” That sort of thing. The interplay between them is hysterical, and at one point, Cleese nearly loses his composure. Cleese abides this parade of nonsense until the end, when he long-windedly insults Cook. Cook replies “Is that a fact?” and writes it in his book. Blackout.

Next, Clive James, a writer and TV critic, takes the stage to read telegrams from stars who couldn’t be there. He throws some shade at Kate Bush, but mostly it’s one-note and a bit mean. Of course, I like Kate Bush, and although James died in 2019, Bush lives on, so… karma?

Next, a short bit with Eleanor Bron and Peter Cook playing a couple arguing about whether she is pregnant. When Cook is forced to (literally) burst her balloon, she snipes “Prick!” Get it? Cook is the straight man to Eleanor Bron, who is so grounded in her insane insistence that the balloon is their bundle of joy. “I’m going to have a bay-bee,” she blissfully intones like a female Forrest Gump. A wonderfully simple sketch with a spot-on performance.

In the first musical segment of the show, Pete Townsend plays an acoustic version of “Pinball Wizard”. It’s amazing to see how fast and furiously he mad-strums those chords. He finishes the song with a demented yet endearing flourish to the crowd, which responds in kind. 

Rowan Atkinson appears next with an English comedy mainstay– the funny monologue. Even more British, it’s a headmaster monologue. Priests and headmasters (and as we’ll see later, judges), are a huge part of British comedy. Headmasters in particular were low-hanging fruit– many of these men were sent to schools with stern and pompous headmasters. The funny students got very good at mocking them, thereby entertaining and avoiding getting beat up by the other students. The headmaster could still beat them, however, so they had to be discreet. Thus, at a “secret” ball, out come the headmaster impersonations.

The sketch is simple– roll call, with ridiculous names such as Hemoglobin and Undermanager, then teaching said class. He speaks the names with Atkinson’s trademark rubber-faced grimaces of contempt. “Babcock… Sediment…” But the really fun part is when he uses the names to then teach and berate the class. “Dint, your answer was unreadable, put it away, Plectrum.” Despite Atkinson’s masterful performance, it’s a very British sketch, hilarious to the English and just kind of silly to Americans.

Speaking of silly, Cleese and Palin emerge for the wonderful Cheese Shop sketch. If you’re a Monty Python fan, you are very familiar with this sketch, but it’s fun to see Cleese and Palin play it before a live audience. The only surprise for me was what a cathartic release we get when Cleese abruptly screams at the Turkish dancers. Cleese seems a bit hoarse as he plays to the gallery. After he shoots Palin through the head, as promised, he gives the last line to the audience; “What a senseless waste of human life,”, and then throws in a bow and a “Thenkyew.” That’s entertainment!

Classical guitarist John Williams is next, with a classical guitar song that I can’t identify. Chime in, Python Heads! But his fingers are all over those frets, and it’s a very pretty song.

Oh, what to say about this next bit? It’s like the theater version of Jackasses. Billed as the Ken Campbell Road Show, it consists of a balding impresario, Ken Campbell, in a tux and t-shirt, MC-ing and narrating an anarchical series of stunts performed (mostly) by Sylveste McCoy. First, McCoy walks out into the audience, leaping onto the armchairs Roberto Begnini-style, grabbing a guy, and promising to perform the “Indian Shirt Trick”. McCoy wears a kilt with tux jacket, smeared with bangles and medals, and a brown Napoleonic hat. (At least, that’s what he wears for now.) The guy is an audience plant named Phil, and McCoy grabs Phil’s shirt and pulls it off of him, without removing Phil’s jacket. Then he grabs someone else from the audience, not a plant this time, and does it again (with more difficulty.) The look on the man’s face as he is physically mauled by these people is almost too good to be true. Maybe it is? (Why is this the “Indian” short trick? Racism.) 

By now, McCoy has been joined by David Rappaport, an actor and little person who will play Randall, lead thief, two years from this show in Gilliam’s “Time Bandits”. Here, Rappaport mostly functions in a support capacity, cheering McCoy on and holding down the audience “volunteer” as McCoy performs the shirt trick. McCoy then hammers a nail into his septum. Live theater, folks– nothing like it! More stunts follow, as they are joined by Marcel Steiner, a tall, bearded, prophet-looking dude reminiscent of Richard Libertini. (Steiner will be excellently cast in the last sketch, as we’ll see.) Now, it’s a model train aimed at McCoy’s testicles, which are very vulnerable indeed as McCoy has shed the kilt and the jacket and is walking around in his tidy whiteys, as Campbell nasally growls at the audience “Here we are, sensation seekers!” Finally, a giant elephant balloon gets knocked out into the “sensation seekers” by Rappaport, and the Road Show hits the road. 

It’s a wild ride, to be sure. I’m not sure how funny it is. The laughs that they get from the crowd are laced with anxiety. “Please don’t pick me for the shirt trick!” There is a hostility to this whole scene that betrays us. Nobody wants a sanitized theater experience, but the lowbrow county fair sadism feels like they’re breaking the bonds of creative faith. Despite all that, the audience cheers when the elephant bounds out at them– perhaps in relief that they survived. 

Following that is a young Jesus-y Billy Connolly, back in his folk-singer phase. He plays a silly country song (“My Granny is a cripple in Nashville…”), complete with yodeling and a lonesome whistle “Woo-hooo”. He tosses in asides and jokes, keeping the audience eating out of his hand as they join him in the yodel-y chorus. It’s a sweet, if slightly foul-mouthed, reconnection with the audience, after the tension of the previous entertainment. 

The spotlight finds Eleanor Bron, a housewife amidst a confession. No priest interlocutor, she’s asking penance of the all-knowing God himself. And things get difficult as she tries to parse what she needs to say, what He already knows, and what the purpose is of confessing when he already knows. The monologue doesn’t build much, but the conceit itself is sweet. “... And Janice turned around and gave me one of those looks of hers– well, of course, thou sawest the whole incident.” She finally expresses confusion– if thinking of herself too often is a sin, then isn’t confession a sin?-- but throws it all to God. “Whichever it is, I’m really and truly sorry about it– aren’t I?” Smart, introspective, and well-delivered. I’m becoming a fan of Eleanor Bron.

Rowan Atkinson next, in a tux with white gloves, mimes playing a Beethoven sonata. His expressions are hilarious, and he gets a few causal jokes in– checking his watch as the tempo picks up, making a mocking face on the point and counterpoint sections, as if the music is arguing bitchily with itself. It’s all reminiscent of the Jerry Lewis “Typewriter Song” bit, only more mime than slapstick. 

Cleese comes out next with a game show spoof, “The Name’s The Game”, wherein players from the audience, in this case, Terry Jones as ratbag pepperpot Simon YetiGooseCreature, must guess the name of the celebrity guest beating the crap out of them. Once he explains the rules, Cleese gives a ridiculously thirsty little softshoe to an organ fanfare, getting applause from the audience– but the sketch hasn’t even begun yet. 

British TV actress Suzanne Church plays Vanna White to Cleese’s Regis, ushering Jones out. After some getting-to-know-you banter, they blindfold Jones and bring out a celebrity– Anna Ford, a TV news anchor, who starts to pummel Jones, kneeing him in the groin and kicking him to the floor. I don’t know why I was so surprised– Cleese told us exactly what would happen. The star of the show is Jones, who screams out the names of various celebrities while taking a pretty good fake beating. (I hope it was fake– these cameo performers are not trained stunt people. I’m sure there was some substantial bruising going on.) After Jones guesses the name, he (she) curls up on the stage. Cleese kicks him over– “Would you like to come back next week?” 

“Yes, please, Brian,” she responds.

That’s the pattern, and in standard “rule-of-three” fashion, they do it three times. The last time, soccer star Michael Brearly not only mauls Jones but (in a poorly timed felony), shoots her in the head. (The second headshot of the evening, both starring Cleese as a co-conspirator at least.) It’s a funny, angry, vicious little sketch, but it gives the guest celebrities a way to be funny without having to be funny. 

Next, another musical interlude with folksinger Tom Robinson singing an angry satirical song, “Sing If You’re Glad to be Gay”. It effectively captures the burgeoning pride and outrage of the moment– pre-AIDS, pre-Clause 8– but it feels dated in the current times. That could change with the next election, of course, but we probably have a less “on-the-nose” way of pointing out injustice done to non-heteronormative people in today’s post-modern world. The song’s chord structure reminds me of Elvis Costello’s “God’s Comic”– minor chords that resolve into major chords– but not as funny. It feels like an uncomfortable sermon. I’m glad it’s over, because–

Next we get Peter Cook in a classic monologue, portraying a pompous and very biased judge summing up his case to the jury. It’s an instructive sketch. I had no idea “playing the pink oboe” meant masturbation. The gist seems to be that a highly placed politician took out a contract on somebody to have them whacked. There are witnesses, a money trail, and apparently the plot failed. (With a hit man named Olivia Newton John, I’m very surprised– she had a lot of hits.) But the judge throws shade on all of the evidence, calling one of the witnesses someone “with a criminal past, but no criminal future.” “You may choose, if you wish, to believe the transparent tissue of odious lies which streamed on and on from his disgusting, reedy, slavering lips,” he instructs, “That is entirely a matter for you.” It hit big with the crowd, and even Peter Cook seemed to fight cracking up as he referred to the hitman’s “pagan limbo dancing.”

Billy Connolly returns with some straightforward stand-up, telling a story about two Glasgow men chugging creme de menthe because that’s what the Pope drinks. It’s fun and engaging, with Connolly’s shaggy dog style as he breaks from his joke to tell other jokes. Not particularly memorable. Between Cook’s rigid but brilliant material and Connolly’s more improvisational style, we get the meeting of two different eras of comedy. I prefer the heady brand of Cook’s satire, but I also appreciate the breath of fresh air from Connolly. Not every moment has to be a classic.

Speaking of classics– Monty Python takes the stage with their favorite non-Monty Python bits, the Four Yorkshiremen. Hawaiian luau music sets us up, and the four Yorkshiremen take the stage in white dinner jackets and black tie, smoking cigars. Representing our heroes are three Monty Python alums– Cleese, Jones, and Palin– and standing in for one of the absent three, Rowan Atkinson, ably disappearing into the role of the entitled millionaire trying to establish his superiority over the other wealthy bastards with his tales of childhood abject poverty. It’s a standard “one-upsmanship” sketch, brilliantly sending up the self-mythologizing upper-class twits who need to remind anyone who will listen that they deserve their privilege. Great exchanges like:

“You were lucky to have a room. We used to live in a corridor.”

“Oh, we used to dream of living in a corridor! Would have been a palace to us.” 

And on and on until finally, they are bragging about working 28 hours a day, being killed by their parents for their trouble, and grateful for the treatment, of course. It’s a solid crowd-pleaser sketch marred only by how Cleese strains to shout out his last monologue. The poor man seems to be the resident bellower in this show, and it’s starting to cost him vocally.

Next, we get the real benefit of a concert film– the unexpected duet. In this case, it’s Pete Townsend performing an acoustic “Don’t Get Fooled Again” with classical guitarist John Williams backing him up. Townsend’s vocals seem prayer-like, with a soft falsetto on the chorus. When he sings “We know that the hypnotized never lie,” he tosses out a jaunty challenge to the crowd: “...do you?”

Finally– The End. Most of the cast take the stage as a bunch of penitent monks carrying placards that read “The End is Night” etc. They surround Peter Cook, the prophet of this sad group. For a long time, they stare at him expectantly as the winds whip around them. Finally, he is asked by one of his followers what the fast-approaching End will be like. The setup is a platform for Cook’s understated responses, juxtaposed with his followers’ turgidly portentous questions. It’s fairly reminiscent of Life of Brian, where the followers are the objects of ridicule, and not the leader. A hilarious exchange between Cook and Atkinson takes the sketch to the heights of absurdity. In a slow waltz-like cadence, Atkinson asks in a voice reminiscent of the Muppet Show “Will the wind… be so mighty… as to lay low… the mountains… of the Earth?”

“You’re speaking too softly for the human ear,” Cook replies, “which is what I’m equipped with.” The back and forth goes on a bit as the Follower tries to get his question out in the face of Cook’s impatience. Finally, he manages and gets his answer. “No.”  

When the time for the End passes and everyone is still there, they resolve to try again tomorrow. They leave the stage in a muddle, leaving one sign– “The End is Nigh”. Someone tears the bottom off the sign. It’s “The End”. 

In the audience, a young Bono watched. The concert inspired him, as well as Sting and Bob Geldof, to use the Amnesty International model to aid humanitarian causes. While there have been other benefit concerts in the past, none of them were quite so star-studded or repeatable. The sales of film and audio rights to entertainment outlets only added to the bottom line. Comic Relief, Farm Aid and other large comic/rock performances all owe their creation to this first example of sustainable charitable performances and fundraising.

This, then, was our visit to the illicit comedy speakeasy, a return to the revolutionary era of ten years before, and the first of the rock n’ roll benefits from Amnesty International. Despite their passion and hard work, this concert also ushered in the era of Reagan and Thatcher, who would become the powerful villains in AU’s underdog story. Sometimes, no matter how much fun you have at the expense of others, you are unwittingly the joke. 

Monty Python Live at City Center (1976)

 "This is the longest continuous vomit seen on Broadway since John Barrymore puked over Laertes in the second act of Hamlet in 1941." - Michael Palin as the Whizzo Sketch Narrator

Okay, this is where things get personal...

Most of what we've discussed heretofore all happened before I had any awareness of sketch comedy, television, or anything else. I was born in 1963, and thus way too young for any Python appreciation. Monty Python's Flying Circus aired from 1969 thru 1974. "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" was released in 1975, but my parents would never have taken me to see that. My father didn't even like the fact that I read Mad Magazine. "Why do you spend your money on that crap?" he would ask. "I like crap," I would silently reply. But by late 1976, I was a full-fledged teenager looking for something new, and I found a new supplier-- Columbia House!

For those of you familiar with the phenomenon, Columbia House was a record club. They would send out a monthly catalogue, and you would buy the latest in records from them. Pretty straight forward so far-- but Columbia House would lure you in with a dozen albums for a penny, to start. All you had to do was buy three additional albums at regular price. A dozen! For a penny! 

This will all seem quaint to younger readers who grew up with Amazon and Spotify. But Columbia House was the seed from which both of these phenomena grew. It was essentially a music subscription service, without the means to distribute digitally. And instead of going to the mall, the music would show up at your door, like a gift from a loved one! Sure, you paid like $19 bucks for the albums, and you quit as soon as you purchased your mandated three, but getting those first dozen felt like Christmas morning.

Now, my dozen records included mainstays of the 70s-- the Carpenters, Tony Orlando and Dawn, Barry Manilow. My musical tastes were not all that adventurous. But half of the albums (8 tracks actually-- I have no idea why that was my preferred listening method, but it was. There were essentially 4 sections in each album, and when switching from one section to the next, often in the middle of a song, the chapter would fade out, there would be this ugly "click", and the song would fade back up again as the start of the following section. It was a grisly way to listen to music or comedy, but that's how I listened. To this day, as I remember various albums I used to listen to on my 8 track player, I still insert the fade outs, pauses and "click"s. In fact, think of this whole digression on the horror that is 8 track listening as a fade out and click. Now, back to the original thought...) half of the albums were comedy albums, and there, my taste improved. Redd Foxx! Steve Martin! And Monty Python.

I had seen some of the Python film clips on various variety shows, and had finally glimpsed "The Holy Grail" on HBO, another new concept in television. I wanted more. This album was the latest thing they had done. The performance had only happened the year before. I had finally caught up with Monty Python!

At this point, the sketches were entirely new to me. I had not seen them on Monty Python's Flying Circus, as my local PBS station hadn't yet made the Python leap. That would happen later that year. So, without the challenges of the "stream of consciousness" format they used in the TV show, with blackout lines and laughter to cue my 13 year old neurons, I immersed myself in this record. I listened to it constantly, and could soon recite it. I didn't get all the jokes, much to the-- delight?-- of the savvier adults in my vicinity. (Imagine your 13-year old spewing phrases like "Constable Clitoris"-- I had no idea that "Constable" was even a dirty word.) More to the point, I didn't understand the context of who these men were, and what they meant. 

One of those contextual details that is so apparent to me now that I've watched the TV show-- this album/show is really foul-mouthed! After years of relative restraint at the BBC, they came to the US in full potty-mouth mode. I suspect that this particularly school yard interpretation of their own material was designed to appeal to the lower class American citizenry-- and it worked! Every obscene departure from the usual script was greeted with screeches and howls of surprised approval from the liberal elite of New York City. It's one of the fun things to note as we go through the tracks. 

I suspect that this show was the brain child of Eric Idle, who was more beholden to the British Music Hall tradition than the others. There are almost as many songs as there are straight sketches. In this show, you can see the origin story of "Spamalot" and the live shows to follow. It also captures the moment in time when Monty Python exploded here in the states, and as it turns out, I was a part of that. 

Enough personal prologue-- let's get to the professional prologue. 

The year is 1976. The Pythons have finished with the TV show, made their first movie, and have fully graduated out of the tiny BBC realm into the international celebrity realm. To cap off their transformation, they decide to do a New York City show, a follow up to the Drury Lane show. They met in 1976 on Central Park East, decided on the line up, and that was that. They were hosted by the New York City Center, right around the corner from Carnegie Hall. 

They made some changes to the line up. Cleese did not want to work so hard, and asked Palin to do more, so we got Blackmail and lost the Secret Service Interview. There seemed to be a drive towards limiting the material to stuff that had been on the TV show, with only the Four Yorkshiremen sketch, the Wrestling sketch and (apparently) the Pie Throwing sketch avoiding that cut. 

The Lads had a mixed experience of New York City. Cleese had his pocket picked, Innes was burgled, Chapman was mugged-- but hey, that's what NYC does best! On the other hand, they experienced their own rags to riches story in the city that created the genre. At the start of the run, they might see one or two people hanging out by the stage door for an autograph. By the end, they needed security to get into the theater. A star-struck woman fainted on Palin. Theater critic Clive Barnes wrote a rave review ("A bunch of lunatics calling themselves Monty Python have taken over the theater and are forcing unsuspecting people to laugh. Almost at gunpoint.") Leonard Bernstein was backstage. John Cale. George Harrison joined in the Lumberjack Sketch, incognito. They met the original cast of Saturday Night Live. Martin Scorsese. Jim Henson.

A couple of funny anecdotes; Harry Nilsson heard about George Harrison joining in the Lumberjack Sketch, and he wanted in. But that night, he put a little too much lime in the coconut, refused to take off his shades during the song, and when everyone else backed up to avoid the closing curtain at the end of the sketch, Nilsson stepped forward and landed in the orchestra pit, earning a broken wrist. I'd have loved to see that, or even hear it on this recording. Alas. And one night, during the Argument Clinic sketch, one of the audience members got a bit rambunctious, and threw fireworks up on the stage. Chapman got fed up, raced out to the audience and started heaping abuse on him, as he does in the sketch. He chased the man out of the theater. Ah, what a loss-- that man was truly mad.

Listen along. If you don't have the album yet (and it's not part of the "The Instant Monty Python CD Collection" box set, which you can buy here!), GO BUY IT NOW! Let's do this...

We begin with a rebellious riff on the warning not to record this. The announcer says "photographs and recordings are prohibited", and I believe Palin chimes in with "But are encouraged nevertheless," This is, of course, a joke. No sketch comedy group controls their shit like Monty Python. But it plays into the revolutionary tone. As pigs and sheep took over the TV studio at the start of the Flying Circus show, so now do the Circusians mess with the announcements a theater is legally mandated to make, even though said announcements directly benefit the Python IP. You know what would be funny? If there were some bootlegger in the audience who distributed an album of this performance, and made a million dollars. I bet Monty Python's lawyers are hilarious!

Just as in the Drury Lane show, we launch right into The Llama sketch. Cleese brings all the energy he brought in when they did this in the show, his voice climbing and falling, trilling and yelping. Palin gives the voice-over narration, and it's pretty straightforward. The lads aren't having as much fun with post-production as they did in the previous live album yet. It's all sketches, no mixers here. The audience responds with laughter and applause at every line, except, ironically, at Cleese's terrified "Cuidado!" His volume overwhelms the audience. But they come back at the final song and Chapman popping the paper bag. 

Just as at Drury Lane (they've got a real structure here,) we go to Gumby Floral Arranging. Idle announces him on, giving his bonafides as having studied at "the Kishoto Institute of Floral Arrangment". I don't get this joke, and a cursory search left me no wiser. P.T. Gumby is a hit with the audience, but the sketch feels over before it has begun.

Neil Innes is next, with "Short Blues". The title says it all-- maybe a fifteen-second song that abruptly ends after the first line. It seems strange to bring in the relief pitcher so soon in the show-- did Palin need a costume change? If so, Neil could have made the song a bit longer, adding "I climbed out of bed" to the song would have doubled its length, and he could have repeated that, making it a full minute. Give Palin a break, or don't give him a break. 

Palin, presumably rested, comes back on in full MC mode, welcoming us to the "Abraham Beame Institute of Advanced Finance." This is a New York joke-- Beame was the Mayor of NYC during the 70s, and NYC was struggling financially. It was assumed they would have to be the first city to declare bankruptcy. Palin goes on to announce that the following wrestling match is sponsored by SCUM, an improbable mix of salad dressing and foot ointment. This is reminiscent of Saturday Night Live's "Shimmer"-- a floor wax and a dessert topping. Was this a thing in the mid-70s? Taking two incompatible products (one of them food) and cramming them together with a goofy name that starts with "S"? Let me try-- "Squeal! A sugar substitute and hammer!" "Splendor! Glass cleaner and top-shelf gin!" Look at me! I'm writing jokes in the 70s! There are other off-color products, but to my taste, the Pythons have never been all that great at spoof ads, from the early Whizzo days to now. Advertising is dumb-- old news, even then. 

What follows is the relentlessly visual Chapman wrestling sketch, with Cleese giving the color commentary. It is funny, since the Wrestling Sketch was never shown in Monty Python's Flying Circus, to hear the audience catch on that there's only one person fighting. It doesn't get many laughs, or the soundtrack of wrestling fans cheering drowns it all out, but occasionally, Cleese sneaks in a topical reference or two-- "The over right shoulder Gerry Ford... the double Edie Gorme..." But for the most part, the audience seems perplexed. On behalf of New Yorkers who only like their comedy regurgitated, I apologize. 

World Forum is next, and the audience is more prepared, enjoying the familiarity of this classic sketch. Idle, as the portentous announcer, introduces everyone with the appropriate gravity, and then lightens it all up beautifully! No surprises here-- Jones as Marx says "Shit!" when he loses the lounge suite, as he did at the Drury Lane show, but it was clearly new to the City Center crowd, who erupted in howls of laughter and applause. Instead of "Sing, Rittle Bildy," Mao identifies "Gleat Barrs of Fiyah" by Jerry Lee Lewis. I think that's Gilliam playing Mao again, although it may be Chapman. 

Albatross is next, with a maddening calliope sounding score underneath him that (mercifully) fades out. Jones asks for "Good Humors" instead of choc ices. But when Jones asks for two, Cleese replies "I've only got one, you cocksucker!" Ah, the cerebral humor of the Pythons! Even at the age of 13, I got that joke. Especially at the age of 13. Chapman comes out (sorry) as the un-silly general, to end this sketch and get the next one started, with little resistance from Cleese. "Start the vignette. Go!"

So far, we've had little warm-up bits, holding back on the classic sketches. Now, we start digging into the Python canon. This seems to be the pattern for the live shows. It is of note, however, that there is very little new material here. No "MI6" sketch, no "Bar" sketch. The Lads are playing it very safe, only improvising with their foul-mouthed eruptions. Did they know that they were on the precipice of very big things? Was this, their second attempt at a first impression, meant to right the ship and control their own American image?  

Nudge Nudge is next, and the audience is on board, cheering at the end of Idle's first line. It's interesting that this character, so specifically British, translates so well here in the states. We don't have "clubs" like this, and social climbing isn't quite the same phenomenon here. But they love Nudge, Nudge. No changes or Breakaway tags-- just a reference to Jones' wife being from Scarsdale. "Say no more!" 

Next, in a departure from the Drury Lane lineup, we get Crunchy Frog, with Terry Jones apparently just sitting on stage and having a new seat moved in around him. This is his second consecutive turn as "straight man", this time to Chapman (taking over from John Cleese) as the Constable from the Hygiene Squad investigating the suspicious Whizzo chocolate assortment. A few changes here, to accommodate American sensibilities; first, Superintendent Parrot is now dubbed Constable Clitoris (get it?); and when Jones asks "What about our sales?" instead of replying "I'm not interested in your sales," Chapman screeches "Fuck your sales!" Chapman takes his performance all the way to eleven, playing to the balconies, even forcing it a little bit. But the sketch still works beautifully. Another minor addition-- hardly even worth mentioning-- instead of acting all queasy, Gilliam (as the aforementioned "Clitoris") actually vomits into his helmet, and then puts it on his head. Gives new meaning to the term "highbrow comedy." This actually works in performance, giving this sketch, which doesn't really escalate, a true, powerful, visual climax. Palin gives us a voice-over as the audience roars and moans, putting this particular vomit session in a historical context. They rush through the remainder of the sketch-- I imagine Gilliam needed a shower-- and with a reprimand for talking to the audience, we are handed off to the Bruces. 

This is our first song in a while.  It sounds like it's just Idle and Palin up there, but there must be more. Neil Innes, I presume? Having created a musical context for the Bruces with the Philosopher's Song, Idle shifts into full cabaret gear, throwing out jokes and Fosters to the audience. The song is fun-- a bunch of philosophical name drops in the context of drinking, with the word "fart" thrown in at the end. Because what else rhymes with Rene Descartes? They try to get the audience to sing along, with only a crumpled piece of paper to guide them. The audience gamely, lamely claps. One member (with a British accent!) calls out "We can't read it!" But that doesn't stop Idle's joke about the "smart, suave New York audience". The lyrics get bigger somehow, and the audience sings along. There is some hilarity going  on that I can't quite figure out-- maybe Palin careening drunkenly through the audience?-- but the singalong works, getting the audience into a raucous interactivity. 

Next, and I don't know how Idle managed this, he starts the next sketch with what must have been a costume change. Did he duck out of the Philosopher's Song early? I don't think so-- I think I hear him at the end. Besides, Idle would never walk away from a song. No, there must be some filler that is not represented on the album. At any rate, he gets us going with the Travel Agent sketch. Or rather, Carol Cleveland gets us going when she asks "Have you come to arrange a holiday, or would you like a blowjob?" This is her first appearance, and she has upped the ante after Cleese's "cocksucker" line. After this, things go pretty much as they went in Drury Lane, with the tour de force rant from Idle at the end closing the act. There are specific local references-- "Bolumbia University" and "Boney Island", and Palin's straight man performance is wonderful, with his forced laugh over his "Smoke Too Much" joke, and his attempts to interrupt Idle's monologue. "Shut your face!" 

The next bit is also new to the live shows-- The Camp Judges. Palin's voice over explains the visual joke to the audience listening in. "If you have any ladies underwear at your house, why not slip it on during the track?-- It's fun, and only slightly illegal." Idle and Palin perform the sketch very well, and they have really taken center stage with this show, performing two "duets" in a row. Palin keeps the streak going with Blackmail-- "The game in which you can play with yourself." The sketch plays out pretty much like the show. Some minor additions-- the name of the organ player is "Onan", famous biblical masturbator-- but no acclimating to the new venue here. It would have been easy to place this show in New York. You'd need some new footage for the "Stop the Film" spot, but the rest would be line changes; Mrs. Teale could call in to stop Palin from revealing the name of her lover in Brooklyn. They did Palin's commentary during the "Stop the Film" bit in post, clearly-- jokes like "Look at the size of that... briefcase" get no laughs, and are delivered in a near whisper. 

Next, Eric idle introduces Neil Innes as "Raymond Scum", (Where the hell did the rest of the Pythons go? Was it nap time?) who comes on to sing "A Protest Song". "Ladies and gentlemen, I've suffered for my music-- now it's your turn," he says as he painfully tunes his guitar. The song itself is funny, a Dylan pastiche complete with harmonica that he occasionally misses. But the song is less funny than the performance itself. Innes bridges the gap between spoof performer and Python performer. The lyrics are abashed non sequiturs, more inane than funny, the stoner singing more loving than judging, and he gives us a tour de force of a long single harmonica note at the end, reminiscent of the stunt theatrics of Idle's monologue at the end of the Travel Agent sketch. A sweet and very singable nonsense song. 

But then-- ah, but then-- Cleese re-emerges from his self-isolation, plunks a parrot cage down on the counter, and the audience erupts before a single word is said. It's the Dead Parrot sketch, with Cleese and Palin doing their thing. This is the parrot sketch monologue I memorized when I was young (every version is slightly different,) and it still works for me on every level. The audience agrees, bursting into applause every few lines. Cleese breaks a few decibels when he repeats "Pining for the fjorrrrrds?!" and he stays in the stratosphere throughout the monologue. They finish with "You want to come back to my place?" Glorious to hear, it is so exquisitely constructed as a sketch that it jolts us with an energy as surprising as it is expected. 

We go from here to the Four Yorkshiremen, rendered as it was at the Drury Lane. Cleese is not in it-- Jones, Chapman, Idle and Palin (again!) The audience was not familiar with the sketch, and the laughs are slow in coming. But Palin gets us there with "We used to dream of living in a corridor!' From then on, the audience is with them, giving Idle's final story an small ovation. 

Palin turns around to make his entrance on the argument clinic. Cleveland's "he's a little bit conciliatory" joke doesn't register, but Chapman wakes the audience up with his "Abuse" service. The sketch speeds along from there. The bell ringing at the "end" of the argument gets a huge laugh. They finish the sketch with Palin and Cleese "No you didn't Yes, I did" ing each other as the lights (I imagine) go out. 

Gilliam's "Two Legs" song comes next, with him getting shot and disemboweled. Nice bit of theater there. And then, mysteriously, they use their stage time to play us a radio drama-- the Death of Mary, Queen of Scots". It's funny, I'm a fan, but not all that applicable to the live show. Maybe they were using it for a costume change. At any rate, Radio 4 explodes, and we get to the Salvation Fuzz. 

I confess, I have never found this sketch to be particularly good. It has a nice moment in the TV version, where the finger of God sweeps in to point out Idle as the killer. But most of this sketch is a rambling collection of running gags that never seem to find any traction. Yet here it is, part of their American foray, and it became a regular part of their live shows-- they performed it at the "O2" concert in 2014. Even the single standout moment, the finger of God, is slowed way down in the live version, with a chorus of angels ramping us up to the finger. It's not bad, in an absurdist sort of way, but it's not good. I am convinced that Jones insisted they do something that was less sketchy, more rambling and obscure, and that it devolve into the chaos that Jones admired. It is the only appearance of the Pepperpots, with Jones playing the wife. There are numerous time lapses in the piece, narrated on stage by Carol Cleveland. The audience laughs at the gross-out lines, but you can tell they were a little dumbstruck by the whole thing. Finally, the Church Police arrest Society, dragging everyone off stage but Eric Idle. "What a stroke of luck."

Annnnd the Lumberjack Song! A great finish to the show. Once the song is over, the Monty Python theme plays them off as the audience applauds.

I would love to get a little insight from the Pythons as to why they chose these pieces to perform in these live shows. I know that Cleese, Idle and Palin regularly did little cabaret show excerpts in London to make a little extra cash. Was there similar audience research done in the states? There seem to be very specific choices as to what to bring over, and what not to bring over. It's particularly interesting comparing this show to the Drury Lane show, performed only two years earlier. So many original pieces fallen by the wayside. Did the live show resort to using only classics? Or did the live show essentially create the classics as classics? 

Still, this was a great trip down memory lane for me, reliving my first immersive Monty Python experience anew.  Thanks for joining me on the journey, and we'll see you in the next life.

Next; "The Life of Brian"

Thank You, Terry Jones!

 

"Well, it was coughing up blood last night." - Terry Jones as Woman.

It's been well over a year since Monty Python hosted the second in their series of deaths. 

Graham Chapman left us in 1989, lured away by cancer. His demise was seen as tragic, as he was still very young and vital-- he'd only done "Life of Brian" ten years before. 

Terry Jones' passing, on the other hand, was accepted more casually. He had been enduring dementia, declining mentally as well as physically. Unlike many Monty Python jokes, we totally saw this coming.

There is a cruelty to age, beyond the affronts to health and dignity. People are less appalled by your death. It reminds me of a Louis C.K. bit-- he talks about hearing that someone's grandmother had passed away. "Awww, I'm so sorry. How old was she?" 

"Ninety-eight." 

"Oh... why'd you even bother telling me?"

While his death might seem an organic, inevitable, part of the whole "circle of life" thing, I'm guessing that it was a big deal to Terry Jones, had he the wherewithal to notice it. Google says he died of complications due to dementia. I don't know what this means. It's one thing to forget your own identity, but apparently you can forget to be alive. 

At any rate, he has kicked the bucket, and it is only right that we take a moment to assess his gifts to us. For they were substantial.

Monty Python was conceived as a sketch comedy television show. Of all of the performers and writers in the group, Terry Jones was the least dynamic. He lacked the depth of Palin or the sheer talent of Cleese. He wasn't as silly as Chapman, nor as quick as Idle. Even Gilliam blew him away. Jones was frequently cast as the straight man, the anonymous doctor, the housewife. Though he occasionally was given a broader role, such as the Bishop, ("It's the Bishop!"), his portrayals seemed to sag somehow. Two exceptions; his turn as Trotsky in the Cycling Tour, and his frequent "Mrs. Ratbag" portrayals. But for the most part, he underwhelmed as a performer.

As for his sketch contributions, less is known about that. But usually, if there is a classic sketch, there is an anecdote behind it. Nudge, Nudge was written by Idle, Palin wrote The Spanish Inquisition, Cleese and Chapman wrote the Parrot Sketch. We don't have any Jones anecdotes that I know of. His contributions were usually more along the conceptual line.

This opinion isn't just mine. It was also shared by Jones, He was insecure, both as a writer and performer, and frequently teamed up with Palin to help sell his work to the group. In this heady realm of comic gods, Jones was a demi-god at best. 

But if Monty Python had ended as it had been conceived-- a sketch comedy show-- we would not be discussing it today. In fact, for a sample of what Monty Python might have looked like without Terry Jones, check out John Cleese's "How to Irritate People". It is a straightforward sketch comedy collection, and it is dreary and dull. Monty Python went further, did much more than their contemporaries. In fact, Monty Python still does more, 50 years later, than most sketch comedy shows. This is almost entirely due to Terry Jones. 

Jones, invited on board by Palin, planted his flag early. He saw that the BBC had given them unprecedented freedom, and he saw that potential more clearly than anyone else. In fact, it might have been dissatisfaction with his own work as a sketch comedian that urged him to go beyond sketch comedy, into avante-garde television and film. He created a niche for himself in the group, and in doing so, defined Monty Python as "something completely different" for all time. 

This led to many fights over the years. Jones would often solicit opinions, but would rarely listen to them, so fervent was his belief that he knew the correct way to proceed. "I really feel..." he would say, as if his feelings were God's truth. It made for testy collaborations. If, for instance, there was a scarcely noticed prop in a sketch that depicted a lamb turned into a chandelier, Terry might "feel" that it should be a bobcat instead of a lamb. Cleese might disagree, saying the lamb was funnier, whereupon they would argue for days about a prop most people would never notice. Terry once admitted that he may have thrown a chair on one such occasion, probably at poor Cleese. But Jones "felt", without any doubt, things had to be a certain way. His stubborn, Welsh way.

While working with Palin and Idle on "Do Not Adjust Your Set", he found himself inspired by the stream-of-consciousness animations of Terry Gilliam and wanted to mirror that dynamic with the sketches and the shape of the show itself. He wanted to do away with format and typical sketch structure. Given how frustrated the others were by the relatively stilted sketch comedy tradition in Great Britain at the time, Jones' ambition folded in nicely with their own wishes. 

This led to some unsettling, almost dangerous shows, especially in the third season. The episodes seemed ready to spin right off the reel as order and form dissolved under Jones' anarchic tendencies. Remember "Spam", where the sketch seems to end, only to invade Palin's Historian's presentation. The sketch returns, like a relapse of herpes, with floating characters, Vikings, and confused Hungarians wandering around, the audience kind of laughing, and a caption reads "In 1970, Monty Python lay in ruins..." 

It's not funny. It's odd and strange. We get none of the resolution dopamine that the more structured episodes give us. But it stays with you-- for decades. It's memorable in a way that most shows are not. I wasn't there during the assembly of this show, but I gotta say, this feels like Jones.

It was Jones who pushed the group out of the TV studio and out on film locations. It was Jones who hectored the show's director, telling him where the camera should be. It was Jones in the editing room, putting the episodes together. While the other writers were scribbling away, scratching for content, Jones was forging their material into a dynamic, format-less presentation, creating new possibilities for connections, jokes, bits. Jones shaped the show, and as it turned out, the shape became an important part of its enduring success. 

Beyond the TV show, it was Jones who pushed the look of their movies to convincingly reflect the setting. In "Life of Brian", you could practically taste the dust, while "The Holy Grail" is still regarded as one of the best and most truthfully depicted medieval films ever made, decades before CGI made a film's look much easier to accomplish. Of course, Gilliam had a lot to do with all of that, as well, but Jones' ambition pushed that envelope to the very limits. To this day, the other Pythons look back in wonder at the "Every Sperm is Sacred" number from "Meaning of Life". It's a not so subtle send-up of "Oliver", but Jones, the director, took it far beyond homage, leaving spoof and satire in the dust, and gave us an old-school, opulent, overblown musical number that could stand up to the best of Hollywood's golden era. 

It was also Jones who, with Palin, created the Monty Python discography, which added a few dozen classics to the Python oeuvre. Because of the reluctance of some of the others to bother with the records, Jones had more of an opportunity to fine-tune his audio game. While the "Worry Song" was a bit forced, Jones' "I Like Traffic Lights" from the Contractual Obligation Album was a pitch-perfect demonstration of creative despair, and the Aggressive Church sketch he performed with Chapman was sublime. "Did I hit it?" "Yeah, right up the aisle." 

I'm a sketch writer/performer (accent on the "former",) so I've always had more affinity for the sketch work Python produced. My Python heroes were Cleese, Gilliam, Palin, and Idle. But it must be said that without Jones' gravity working its will on the sketches, Monty Python might never have broken through the noise generated by all the other sketch shows in late 60's Great Britain. I will be grateful for his opinionated, stubborn Welsh ass until I join him in the Choir Invisible-- and he tells me he really feels I'm singing the song wrong and throws his halo at me. Thank you, Terry Jones! 

Plummet-- An Imaginary Conversation

 

The two men sat in an apartment rental in Ibiza. Though they could not see the Mediterranean, they could hear it. It was summer, and the moist heat throbbed in through the open French doors.

They had squandered the last two days. One of them spent it riding a bicycle all over the island. The other had mostly slept, having been up late the nights before. But they had come to Ibiza to get some work done during the break, and this was their first attempt. 

One sat looking out of the French doors, hoping that something would spark creative inspiration. A gull with a body part in its beak. A downed power line. The sun exploding, only funny. All that met him was the promise of a warm, relaxing day that he could not enjoy.

The other man enjoyed everything. He had his pipe, a silk robe over his cut off jeans, and slippers. He gazed at the wall with an idle concentration, making small pf pf sounds with his mouth around the pipe lip as he reclined on a pool lounge he had dragged to his apartment. 

Apart from the occasional pf pf, nobody had said a word for the last 47 minutes.

The man with the pipe removed it from his mouth. "Plummet," he said with proper Cambridge diction.

"Beg your pardon?" the other man replied, wiping the back of his neck. He spoke with a high-pitched, almost helpless softness, as one afraid to offend, or be noticed-- a side-effect of his height. 

"It's a good word, that. 'Plummet'. He said it again, slower, musing. "Plummet."

They both nodded, governed by the same inner rhythms. Silence took over again as the man without the pipe looked out the beckoning French doors. Anything? But the word echoed in his brain.

"Yes... yes, I suppose it is... It says it all, really. Encapsulates the fall itself, and suggests the messy landing."

"Exactly. The messy landing. The best part."

The man looking out the French doors laughed silently, smudging a nascent tear from an eye. "Puhhh-lummet. Plummet."

"They say it's not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop."

"Well, yes, they would, wouldn't they? They're not wrong."

"They never are."

Sensing that they were getting off track, the man by the French doors unfolded himself from the stiff-backed chair. God, he was tall! Thin, lanky, yet he moved with an adept grace as he grabbed an empty glass and crossed the room in three strides, careful to avoid the other man's outstretched legs and slippered feet. The other man was tall, as well.

"Right, then--" he said, filling his glass with water from the fridge. "What plummets?"

"My socks," replied the slippered man. "My virtue."

"Your virtue hit rock bottom years ago. It's plummeting days are long past."

"I can always find new depths in Ibitha," he said, pronouncing it with a lisp like the locals.

"It's television-- let's think more visually. What plummets, which can be seen plummeting?"

"Members of the Exchange, having a bad day?"

"Yes," replied the man with the water as he returned to his stiff-backed chair. "There'd be a lot of them. A deluge of derbies." He regarded his glass. "Would water plummet?"

"Oh, no!" said the man past his pipe. "Dribble, maybe. Plop. Yeah, plop is as close you'd come to plummet, and it's really no contest."

"Frogs?"

"Oh, we're getting biblical. Frogs are well-known to plummet if there are Egyptians about. Sheep?"

The man laughed so abruptly that he had to put down his water. A loud "Haw!" of a laugh. The man with the pipe chuckled himself, pleased to have cracked his friend up. 

"Yes..." the man by the French doors said as he recovered. "Sheep... and they're so fluffy, you'd think they'd bounce."

"Do you suppose, as they plummet, they give one long bleat? 'Mehhhhhhhhhhhhh!' Or lots of tiny little ones? "Meh! Meh! Meh! Meh! Meh!"

The man by the French doors had doubled over, heaving with laughter. He righted himself, wiped both eyes. and gasped with satisfaction. "The poor sheep," he said, breathlessly. "Just grazing in the field, and we have them plummeting."

"Don't cry for them. The unshorn bastards."

"We're doing them a favor" the man agreed, sipping his water. "Just standing around waiting to be eaten. Not a very bright future for the more clever sheep."

Now the man with the pipe laughed, a barking laugh. "Clever sheep."

"But why? Why are the suddenly plummeting? I mean, what's their motivation?"

"Because the mother sheep pushed them out of the nests."

The man by the French doors doubled over again. The man with slippers stretched out, laughing deeply. 

"So," the man by the French doors wheezed as the laughter ebbed, "the sheep are laboring under the misapprehension that they are birds."

"Yeah."

"Where did they get that idea?"

"The clever one. Harold."

The man by the French doors laughed again, shifting his chair away from the beckoning day, his longing replaced by sheer joy. "I think we have something here, but I don't know what."

"Type it up, old cock. I've got plans tonight."  

The Album of the Soundtrack of the Trailer of the Film...

"We did have to put her in the fridge between takes." - Graham Chapman, as director Carl Frinch, re; Marilyn Monroe

It's strange-- there is almost nothing written about this album. And when this blog is written, that will probably still be true. 

Monty Python finally did it-- they made a movie, an actual, honest to God movie with a narrative thru-line, as opposed to the loose collection of sketches that is "And Now For Something Completely Different". The movie would become a cult classic, still quoted almost 50 years later, still as edgy and fresh as the day it was first released. We've discussed this.

But in the wake of this movie, they released a "soundtrack" album that is essentially a collection of some of the greatest (and least visual) sketches in the movie. In addition to those audio clips, they created a lot of new material, most of it connected to the medium of film. Some of my favorite Python material ever is on this album. And apart from the existence of the album, I know almost nothing about it. It's not mentioned in the source books I have (yes, I have source books, I'm not ashamed.) So, I'm calling all cars. If you, or anyone you know, knows how this gem came into being, I want to hear from you. Mr. Palin, Mr. Cleese, Mr. Idle? I'll buy you lunch, with an open bar tab. Within reason. 

I imagine it was Idle's idea, with total buy in from Palin and Jones. I imagine it was a hoot getting back together and writing some new sketch material. But I only have one little factoid to share, and I'll share it when the time is right. So without further ado-- BUY THE ALBUM! 

We begin with treacly 60s elevator music. Graham Chapman promises us, in his most velvety voice, that we have purchased the "Executive Version" of the album, and parades the perks past us; hand crafted jokes, no foul language (heh) and a Swiss-crafted spindle hole. It ends, predictably, with a fart. This is audio comedy.

A portentiously yelled announcement loses steam, and transitions us to news coverage of a screening of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"-- the 3:10 performance, specifically. Despite the over the top coverage, the screening seems to be no big deal-- it's playing in a double feature with another movie, and Palin, the commentator the first, is broadcasting from the bathroom, emptying his bladder before he has to sit through a movie. We all know the feeling. In fact, excuse me a minute...

Palin references a film, "Bring Me the Head of Don Levy". This is based, I believe, on the film "Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia", a 1974 Peckinpah movie ("Salad Days", anyone?) Don Levy was a British experimental filmmaker that I have never heard of. I don't know why Python mentioned him in such a hostile way. There's a story there, but I don't know it. Have we spent enough time on this throwaway non-gag?

Palin gives a brief history of the theater, specifically the theater lavs, "opened by Gary Cooper in 1957". This is mercifully cut short by Eunice and Maureen Zapper, the intermission salesgirls tag team who start making the rounds in the theater, selling ice creams and broken glass. No albatrosses, however-- they must have run out during "Bring Me the Head of Don Levy". Palin spots audience members, most not famous, some Pakistani Prime Ministers, one of them an armed terrorist. Theater shootings were funny in 1975, apparently. 

Then, we get some context-- Palin is part of the B Team, covering a random matinee. This film already premiered at London's West End, and Idle (A Team), playing reporter Bob Gandhi, covered that night, replayed now for our benefit. A grisly Peckinpah-esque massacre follows, (audio only; this is a record, remember?) where stuntmen wannabes Burt Reynolds and Steve McQueen start crashing their cars, all in the context of a great gala opening. Idle breathlessly narrates; "And who's this coming through the windscreen?... yes, it's lovely star Barbara Streisand!... yes, all the stars are here tonight!" We fade away from the carnage as Shirley Temple is caught under a spinning wheel, and come back to Palin, who hands off the color commentary to Cleese as the "lights are dimmin'." Please note the "Njorl's Saga" references in both Palin's and Idle's commentary. That's just for you!

Cleese has a difficult job-- to narrate a film as it plays. In a great meta moment, we hear the first few mostly silent moments of the movie. Cleese says little about what's happening on the screen; "...And it's going quite well, for the moment..." When King Arthur bellows "Whoa there!", the audience bursts into laughter. Cleese, laughing along, wonders whether the soundtrack will do justice to that outstanding visual joke. Those of us very familiar with the film will be aware that the visual gag is the coconuts, and we see the gag well before Arthur says "Whoa, there!" but come on. Get a life, my wife says to me. 

Having proven useless for the visual comedy, he then talks over the next scene, which is dialogue driven. We can't hear it because of his commentary. "The castle is 120 to 130n feet high, 14th century..." It goes to show you, there's never a commentator when you need one, and when you don't, they won't shut up. (Actually, he does shut up when Palin, now an audience member, tells him to do so.)

We get a solid chunk of the movie now. "Bring Out Your Dead" without commentary or interruption, is hilarious even without the visuals. The "Constitutional Peasants" bit, equally entertaining, and the "Witch Burning" is only a little worse for wear without the sight of all the villagers trying to figure out why witches burn. But after the Witch Burning scene, we get a new gem!

Cleese (I think), playing a "professional logician" with a high-pitched nasal twang, explains the logical fallacies that were on bold display in the prior scene. "All wood burns, states Sir Bedevere, therefore he concludes, all that burns is wood. This is, of course, pure bullshit." In the strangest accent, Logician lays out all the (I assume) philosophical terms-- "invalid propositional constructions and syllogistic forms." "Universal affirmatives can only partially be converted." But he throws in "bullshit" as well, a nice paradox. It turns out that his hostility is motivated. His libidinous wife who regularly screws the milkman (a better fate than the Milkman sketch in season 1!) uses "cloth-eared syllogisms". There's a nice moment wherein he displays a bit of inadvertent vulnerability; "My wife does not understand this necessary limitation of conversion of a proposition. Consequently, she does not understand me. (gulp.)" In playing out why these syllogisms don't work, Logician replays for the audience a tempestuous argument, with a bit of logic commentary thrown in, that resolves into a Happy Ending, both literal and figurative. The conclusion, because logicians need conclusions, is that "Sex is more fun than logic." For all those people who make their friends cackle by reciting the parrot monologue, please consider this as a worthy back up. When the conversation turns to "The Holy Grail", trot out this not-as-well-traveled gem, and they will howl!

Next, we get the arrival at Camelot and the accompanying song, not quite as funny as in the movie-- there's no cruelty to cats represented in this song. But still, a solid ear treat. The conversation with God follows. Cleese returns as the film narrator, handing us off to Palin during a visual bit, and Palin gives us the deets on the parking lot at the Classic Silbury Hill theater; It's self-draining! Back to Cleese, who again is told to shut up, and we get the limp horn that announces the arrival at the French Castle. The funny scene plays out very funnily, right up until the French soldier's threat to "taunt you a second time" when the soundtrack slows and stops. 

Terry Jones, his first appearance in the new album material, announces that there may be a bomb in the theater. (I'm looking at you, Bhutto!) He urges everyone to leave, but to stop off at the concession stand first. As he describes what's for sale, the bomb explodes, killing everyone-- except Terry jones, who keeps pitching, pushing the broken glass, of which there must be more. An "Executive Version" announcement promises us that this announcement is only available on the Executive Version. And that's Side 1.

So far, it seems to be the Palin/Cleese show, with Idle as guest star. Chapman has only done the Executive Version" bits, and Terry Jones only had the one announcement. And I haven't heard Gilliam at all! Of course, Gilliam is on full display on the album cover, bold yellow letters which spell out the longest album title ever erupting from a orange sun, while Arthur and his Knights float around in a giant grail carried by the Holy Headwaiter, with the banner "Executive Version" pasted on the lower left corner. On the back, it looks like the front was just wrapping paper, and the poorly taped rear exposes a black and white credits card, with a warning that the record can only be played once. The fake reviews that accompany most Holy Grail merchandized product are there; "I laughed until I stopped." etc. Good job, Terry!

Side 2 gives us a callback to the "Executive Version" gag. Palin shouts at the listener "This is Side 2!" Then, the lush cheery music pops up, and Chapman (!) apologizes for the brusque tone, which "was meant for buyers of the cheaper version." 

Idle gives us a quick "The Story So Far" bit, with a story we haven't seen. It turns into a dizzying display of weird names, situations and locales that loops back on itself not once but twice. Idle reads it all very well, but what do you expect from the man who cowrote the Travel Agent's sketch? Overall, it's just silliness for it's own sake, but it's fun to try to follow.

Back without preamble to the movie, and now we're at "The Tale of Sir Robin", which means we get that hilarious song! His nostrils raped. His bowels unplugged. This takes us straight into the three-headed Knight. Not one of my favorite bits in the movie, and as it turns out, not one of the Pythons' favorites. Though mostly dialogue, it is not included in this comedy album. Terry Jones steps in and, in a dramatic voice over, recounts how the fight went. (Spoiler Alert; He ran away.) We follow up with the funny "Sir Robin Ran Away" follow up. 

The Knights who say "Ni" are next-- again, not my favorite part of the movie, but it is reproduced here in all its mediocrity. The bit in the middle, where they meet Idle's Shrubber, is left out. We cut right back to the delivery of the shrubbery, When they get to the part about chopping down the tree with the herring, the film unspools again. In a moment reminiscent of Terry Jones fighting off a bear while trying to manage the train track switches, the projectionist must fight off some wild beast while getting the reel back on the spool. 

And it's the wrong reel. The film plays a domestic dispute between husband Palin and tearful wife Jones. But the film turns out to be just a clip introducing an interview with the director, Carl Frinch. Here we get an actual sketch, co-written by Douglas Adams of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" fame. (Here's that factoid I promised you at the top.) The sketch itself is pretty good, in the dark vein that Chapman tended to go. The premise is simple; Chapman (Frinch) claims that his latest movie stars the long late Marilyn Monroe. Palin, the interviewer, keeps pressing him on this obvious lie by asking him questions like "Was decomposition a problem?" Finally, Palin gets an admission that this is a lie, calls Chapman a gay pedophile in very confrontational language, and then asks for contacts. We fade out as Chapman tries to get the interview back on track. "We've got James Dean in it, in a box."

The projectionist now gets the correct movie back on the spindle, and we get the Swamp Castle sequence, without the more visual Lancelot scenes. The scene with Idle and the hiccupping Chapman as the easily confused guards works best in this exclusively audio context. You can feel Palin's frustration better than in the movie, which plays in one long wide shot. Here, though, you feel closer to the action. 

Next we get a truncated version of the scene with Tim the Enchanter, again breathlessly narrated by Terry Jones. Truncated, it seems, to make room for a review of the performance. John Cleese, a drama critic, starts to compare his own performance as Tim the Enchanter to other great performances, such as "Burt Lancaster's extraordinary Tinkerbell...at the Globe in '65..." He focuses on Gielgud's Lear, but then grafts the play on to a soccer match, with characters blinded near the penalty box, etc. As Gloucester supporters boo and chant, Gielgud gives the "Every Inch a King" monologue. It's pretty funny, if a bit hard to listen to. Then Ralph Richardson (played again by Cleese) chimes in idiotically. Finally, Zhou Enlai gives a militarized version of the Knife monologue from Macbeth. Richardson takes us back to the movie, just after the Killer Rabbit sequence, to the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch scene. 

There weren't many spoofs on church sermons in the TV show, but post "Flying Circus", Michael Palin gives us a couple of classics. This, the litany of the Holy Hand Grenade, is one of them. It wanders, as Palin is wont to do, through unimportant detail of the feast, before finally getting to the instructions, which are simple enough until the Bible gets through with them. As Pythonic afterthoughts go, Palin's take on pompous religiosity is right up there with Fawlty Towers. 

Chapman returns with another "Executive Version" gag, promising that the cheaper records are already over, while this version has three more minutes of content! Introduced by Kenneth Clark! I can't tell who voices Kenneth Clark, but he's very funny! It sounds like a post-adolescent, post-lobotomy British Yoda. "This is a very nice record, this is." Chapman has to reassure a skeptical caller that it was indeed Kenneth Clark (an historian and TV host) before throwing us back into the movie. 

The last scene they play is the reveal that the Castle Argh is already occupied by the French Taunters, who apparently did indeed already have the grail. We hear the second round of taunts, and as Arthur goes off to regroup, Jones intercedes. "That's about it," he says. "The film ends mainly visually." Ah, Jones-- the master of anti-climax! 

That is where the album that I had also ends. But in a newly remixed version, there is some additional content! Did I just blow your mind?!

First, "Arthur's Song," a very silly Idle-esque creation probably written for Spamalot. "Arthur, King Arthur! The legendary King!" What follows is a list of where Arthur wasn't from (Belgium), and what he never did (ride a moped.) And at last, another silly song, the "Run Away" song. "You can always borrow from the dream called tomorrow if you can't win today-- Run Away!" The songs are cute, sure, but nowhere near the level of the Holy Grail-- they're just silly clever songs. 

If I may...

I'm not a huge fan of Spamalot et. al. I support Eric Idle entirely, and admire the hell out of him for so thoroughly devouring the corpse of Monty Python, creating a cash cow for the whole team that has sustained them through career droughts and divorces. When we speak of artistic integrity, it's not just about doing what you want when you're young, but making serious bank when you're old! However, in terms of the actual content, it is amazing to me how far below the bar these songs crawl. They lack any inspirational fire, and seem suffused with a need to comfort and delight an audience of the well-heeled tourists and bougies that stroll the West End and Vegas. This was never a trademark of the Monty Python TV show and movies. Intrinsic to the spirit of Monty Python was the urge to challenge and provoke, even confuse. Nothing brings this point home more that listening to this album. Hearing the Lads riff so kinetically on all the tropes that accompany these film rollouts, folded in with the first rate material from the film, makes these later canned songs feel empty and soulless. I really hope the money was good. 

In between these two songs, we get excerpts from a documentary interview with Jones and Palin, at the location of Castle Anthrax circa 2000. It's fun to hear them reminisce and joke. The friendship that they clearly had for one another is evident in every inflection, every pause. Jones enthusiastically recounts all the frustrations they ran into, while Palin tosses in frequent self-deprecating remarks about the glamor of shooting a movie. One of their stories involve the indignities that they thrust upon Chapman during shooting, making him walk through the bog that surrounds the castle, complete with armor and all that heavy muslin. Very little guilt, just school-boy delight in their inadvertent prank in their dead friend. It's kind of sweet.

Overall, a nice classic comedy album, featuring some of the best bits from the movie blended with a meditation on the extreme silliness of film fandom and promotion. The real highlight for me is the Professional Logician bit, but even Palin's rhapsodic descriptions of the ultra-ordinary are funny, with the Executive Version gags tying most of it together, and an album ending that strangely echoes the movie ending without repeating it. Well worth a frequent listen.

Next time; "Live!" at New York's City Center!