Pryor, Radner shine in Warner Bros. comedy album re-releases
Other releases, however, are not worth the price
By Michael Tatum
Daily Bruin Senior Staff
"Let's talk dirty to the animals!" coos the woman in her most Mary Poppinsesque voice. A cheesy, chipper musical arrangement, framed by a piano straight out of "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood," bounces behind her, while a tart xylophone dances between the her vocal lines. "Fuck you, Mr. Bunny! Eat shit, Mr. Bear!"
It's hard to believe, but it's been nearly 15 years since Gilda Radner first performed her classic "Let's Talk Dirty To The Animals." It originally appeared in her Broadway show "Live From New York," and then later on the 1979 soundtrack album of the same name.
Through its special reissue label Warner Archives, Warner Bros. is releasing this record, as well as five other comedy records, in CD format for the first time. The remaining titles in the series, which were released last Tuesday, include the Warner or Reprise debut records from Richard Pryor, Bob Newhart, Steve Martin, Bill Cosby and Don Rickles.
Reviewing comedy records can be tricky. The mass audience's sense of humor has changed in the years since some of these records first appeared it's become more sophisticated or more juvenile, depending on how you look at it. What might have been a non-stop laugh riot in 1960 may be a snore now.
And often, a performer's stage show won't translate well to the audio medium. That's certainly the case with Radner's Live From New York, which was probably hysterical on Broadway, but on record lacks the visuals that were probably half of the joke. You don't see Emily Litella hunched over reading Tiny Kingdom, or Roseanne Roseannadanna's monstrous hair, or the druggy, wacked out facial expressions of Candy Slice (Radner's Patti Smith parody), who collapses at the end of "Gimme Mick." And the audience participation on Lisa Loopner's "The Way We Were" just isn't a scream in the privacy of your own home.
Steve Martin's Let's Get Small, a tremendous commercial success in 1977 even if the critics mostly despised it, fails for slightly different reasons. Given Martin's relatively sober film performances as of late, it might surprise young people to learn that he got his start as a intensely manic and outlandishly bizarre stand-up comedian.
The catch is, Martin's record just isn't funny. It's hard to believe that it would hold any appeal for anyone who wasn't drunk to the point of incomprehensibility, watching Martin perform live. Much of it sounds improvised, but not in the Robin Williams way, where something of substance usually results; it's more in the vein of Howie Mandel, who surely must have been influenced by Martin's approach.
Too much time elapses between the big laughs, and Martin's stage persona is so smug and smarmy, you feel guilty when you actually guffaw: "You know a lot of people come to me and they say 'Steve how can you be so fuckin' funny?'" Think again.
By contrast, Richard Pryor's 1975 record ... is it something I said? still remains relevant, not to mention hysterically funny; it stands as vivid proof of why Pryor was the greatest comedian of the 1970s.
From his cynical observation that the Vietnamese are "the white people's new nigger," to the surprisingly self-critical monologue "When Your Woman Leaves You," this is humor of the first caliber, probably because its humor is deeper and richer than what normally passes for stand-up comedy. With any luck, Pryor's subsequent records, the brilliant That Nigger's Crazy and Bicentennial Nigger, will be forthcoming.
The Button Down Mind Of Bob Newhart (1960) was, until the Australian band Men At Work came along, the most successful debut album in history. Like many of his contemporaries, Newhart didn't really talk about himself very much, instead structuring his routines as a series of dramatic monologues, each from the point of view of a different character.
While the contrived corniness of much of that era's comedy has not lasted, Newhart's humor remains surprisingly sophisticated even now: Marketing and ad men are villains in no less than half of his pieces. But Newhart does share one salient similarity with his early '60s peers: His monologues aren't as jam-packed with jokes as members of the post-Airplane! generation would prefer. So while this CD may not require or induce multiple listenings, it comes recommended regardless.
Avoid Bill Cosby's early '60s debut, Bill Cosby Is A Very Funny Fellow Right!, which comes off painfully obvious at its best, and excruciatingly innocuous at its worst. Granted, black America needed a nonthreatening face to put them into the world of mainstream comedy Richard Pryor just wouldn't have been popular in 1963 but that only serves to explain why Cosby's humor, at this stage anyway, wasn't durable.
Admittedly, Cosby would later find his great subjects childhood and the family and sharpen his humor (if not his edge), and would a few years later, release the far funnier, if equally harmless, records Why Is There Air? and Wonderfullness. No doubt, these records are forthcoming on the Warner Archives release list.
And put Don Rickles' Hello Dummy! (the title says it all) on your boycott list. It's repulsive enough that this 30-minute barrage of hateful, race-baiting tripe first made its appearance the year Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy were assassinated. It's no more useful now. This man doesn't belong in Vegas; he belongs on a spaceship bound for the Sun.
Although some of these recordings are more than 30 years old, the sound is surprisingly good, with the usual tape hiss and "drop-outs" associated with older recordings an occasional, inevitable annoyance. Though contemporary liner notes putting each release into a historical and social context would have been worthwhile, these CDs are at least in packages similar to their vinyl counterparts, a plus for the audiophile.
In short, an important reissue program. Let's hope that other Richard Pryor re-issues are in the works, and that someone at Mercury/Casablanca gets the hint about Robin Williams.