...and then there was the time when Josie McCoy was captured by a mad scientist who wanted to hack open the Pussycat's skull and make a powerful narcotic out of her gray matter...
Today's installment of Armagideon Time's ill-conceived holiday countdown features a heartwarming piece of retro-futurism in the form of Max Headroom's 1986 single:
Max Headroom - Merry Christmas Santa Claus (You're A Lovely Guy)
Lovely, isn't it? It makes me want to twitch my head and weep virtual tears each time I listen to it. I'm no expert in audio issue troubleshooting for futuristic artificial intelligences, but it seems to me that Max's sysadmins could probably clear up that stuttering problem by uninstalling the sound card drivers, disabling the onboard sound from the BIOS menu, then getting the updated drivers from the manufacturer's website.
Despite the character having reached a toxic level of overexposure in his mid-eighties heyday, I still retain a certain fondness for Max. As a synthetic personality for a synthetic age, he not-quite-successfully tread a very thin line between satire and symptom of that era's style-over-substance ethos, making subversive wisecracks one moment and serving as a pitchman for New Coke the next.
Such ambiguity was to be expected, I suppose, from a faulty personality simulation based on an investigative reporter from a cyberpunkadelic future, especially one created (by the same people who did the Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love" and Elvis Costello's "Accidents Will Happen" videos) using a be-latexed Matt Frewer and 1980's video editing wizardry with the purpose of hosting a UK Channel 4 music video program. According to a 1985 interview with one of Max's creators, the original intent was to weave the sci-fi backstory in segments between the music videos, but the concept proved too unwieldy to manage and was spun off into a separate project.
As is usual with my retrologistic obsessions, my affection for Max Headroom is best kept at nostalgic arm's length. The specials and miscellaneous host appearances starring the character simply feel dated and only interesting as historical curiosities. My first exposure to the Circle Jerks came via a Cinemax showing of one of the specials, where the band's "Junk Mail" (or a lousy cover of it) was used as a bumper for a "letters to the host" segment. Max's Christmas Turkey special (which includes a performance of today's holiday track) features appearances by "Saint" Bob Geldof and a very Auntie Entitized Tina Turner, and mostly serves to remind me that, yes, 1986 really was that long ago.
The British TV movie, Max Headroom: 20 Minutes into the Future, still holds up pretty well after all these years, and is a minor classic of the presciently quaint genre the kids call "cyberpunk." (One of my more fortuitous popcult finds was a copy of the oversized and photo-heavy "novelization" of the film, purchased at a dollar store in the early 1990's.) The film also featured a great synth-instrumental end theme courtesy of Ultravox's Midge Ure. I had planned to post the theme, but the extraction program I use keeps distorting the sound beyond use.
As a teen, I loved the American Max Headroom television series, which was based on the film but featured different actors (except for Frewer and the lovely Amanda Pays). Having watched it again when it played on Bravo a few years back, I found it to be rather flat and oddly preachy -- the kiss of death, given the cynical basis of the cyberpunk genre. (I could honestly live happily without seeing another attempt to directly reference Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 in a quasi-serious work of sci-fi. The novel only really succeeds as a broad parable, where the threshold for suspension of disbelief isn't as high as it is for similar elements used as ongoing plot points in a less abstract piece.)
To be fair, it's a case of the series being of its era and excelling in that stratified context. Compared to then-contemporary fare like Small Wonder or Full House, the American Max Headroom series seems like high art, and Grand High Poobah of Cyberpunk William Gibson's praise for the show makes a lot more sense. Viewed today, isolated from 1987-88's topographical map of banality, it resembles nothing so much as Lou Grant if filmed by Ridley Scott.
Special bonus: Since I'm already on the subject of Max Headroom, and I doubt I'll ever do another post about it, I figured I might as well toss in Max's other bright shining musical moment:
Art of Noise - Paranoimia (from a 1986 12" single; collected on Best of Art of Noise, 1997)
Ladies and gentlemen, the wait is over.
I'm genuinely curious what this technology entailed, seeing as the ad appeared in the second half of 1981. The ad copy makes it sound like a precursor to Windows Media Player's visualization feature, but utilizing early Reagan Era technology instead of reams of inefficiently compiled code.
1981 also seems a bit late in the trend curve to be pitching a device designed to provide Supreme Disco entertainment. Not that disco ever truly died; it merely retreated back to its underground club roots, where it mutated and adapted and gave birth to a host of splinter genres. But the marketability of the fad was at a low ebb when the ad was published, which makes me wonder if C&E Electronics were aiming for the hardcore fringe holdout demographic -- perfectly coiffed boogie survivalists holed up in hardened bunkers beneath Bay Ridge and Astoria, living off their immense stockpiles of glitter balls, cocaine, and polyester as they attempted to ride out the rockist apocalypse, safely ensconced in a sonic womb of Latin percussion and elaborate string arrangements.
The Buggles - Video Killed the Radio Star (from The Age of Plastic, 1980) - It's more than a song; it's a sparking fragment of unrefined zeitgeist wrapped up in a exquisitely-produced prog-slash-new wave package.
Wilton Place Street Band - Disco Lucy (from a 1977 single) - When Rick Dees came up with the idea for "Disco Duck," do you think he had any inkling what horrors would follow in the wake of his disco novelty hit? (I admit I may be biased in my assessment, as the only thing I ever found even remotely entertaining or amusing about I Love Lucy was the backstage feuding between Vivian Vance and William Frawley.)
Philosophers and the like have long pondered what is the true measure of a hero.
Moral rectitude? The unshakeable courage of one's convictions? How well one can handle a hammer-wielding goon while wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and some funky tattoos?
Jack Knight, a.k.a. Starman, has got the last one covered (no pun intended):
Today is Jim Backus Day here at Armagideon Time.
Why? Why not? The man was a legend, up there with Paul Lynde and Vincent Price in the class of actors whose voices and trademark mannerisms are immediately recognizable to folks in my age bracket. I wouldn't pigeonhole Backus as a character actor, per se, as he did excellent work (Rebel Without a Cause, Deadline U.S.A) outside the parameters usually associated with that label. It was his knack, however, for portraying old money patrician types that would bring him the most fame, specifically his role as the jovial yet shifty uber-capitalist, Thurston Howell III, in the syndicated juggernaut that is Gilligan's Island.
Backus's talents shone bright in that loathed and adored legendary sitcom, where he provided a rare source of wit amidst the stock gags and gimmicky slapstick (not that I'm opposed to that sort of humor, but it does get tiring after a while) that dominated the series' three-season run. "A Howell never runs in the face of danger...he walks very fast." Yeah, it's nothing that Oscar Wilde would have lost sleep over, but Backus's skill in delivery made even such comedic coal sparkle like diamonds. Plus, there are few things that can bring a smile to my face like Thurston Howell's faux native warchant -- "Moola moola moola!"
Backus's other claim to popcult immortality, as the man who provided the voice for the optically challenged Mr. Magoo, has largely faded from the public consciousness, partially (and justifiably) due to the cartoon's insensitive treatment of ethnic minorities and the visually impaired. (The irredeemably awful live-action movie starring Leslie Nielsen based on the property didn't help, either.) That said, I consider Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, which almost completely dispenses with the near-sightedness gags, to be the finest adaptation of the Charles Dickens classic ever made, and the best animated holiday special, too. (Angry fans of the Peanuts Christmas special, please form a line on the right. Angry Rankin-Bass cultists please from a line on the left. All complaints will be resolved via my steel-toed left boot.)
Toward the end of his career, Backus dwelled in the standard character actor ghetto of kiddie fare, voiceover work, and lesser roles in even lesser projects. He set the precedent for harassing (as a prospector in the Grand Canyon) vacationing Brady brats which Vincent Price would later follow (as an archeologist in Hawaii). He played a comically inept white separatist militia leader in Greydon Clark's T&A cash-in feature (and future MST3K fodder) Angels' Revenge. And most importantly, he served as the villainous foil to a robotic crimefighting dog in C.H.O.M.P.S., which I bring up because it was a frequently-played favorite of mine in those bizarre early days of basic cable. (I saw it again recently on one of the Encore channels, and wept openly over my younger self's poor sense of judgement. Great theme song, though.)
He was also in Crazy Mama and Friday Foster, so it wasn't all bad...
A talented man across many venues -- stage, screen (large and small), radio -- Backus also recorded a couple well-received novelty singles in the the late 1950's.
Delicious! (from Golden Age of American Rock'n'Roll: Special Novelty Edition, 2003) - A Dr. Demento favorite, this dipsomanical delight is credited to "Jim Backus and Friend." There's been much speculation over who the friend in question actually was, with Hermione Gingold's and Phyllis Diller's names being put forth (and rebutted) as possible candidates, and it's more than likely the real truth has been lost to the ages.
As wonderful as "Delicious!" is, it doesn't hold a candle to Backus's follow-up effort..
Cave Man (from a 1959 single) - This has made the music blog and bootleg compilation rounds already, but if you haven't heard it already, here's your chance. Backus grunts, quips, and puns (and I strongly suspect is mostly ad-libbing) his way through prehistory backed by some good ol' fashioned 50's pop music. Bizarre and highly entertaining in the way a good novelty record ought to be.
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I'd also like to mention that Progressive Ruin, "the swampiest comics blog since 1969," is celebrating its fourth anniversary today. "PR" or "ProgRu" or "that one blog by the guy who runs a comic shop, no, not THAT guy, the other one" is a consistently entertaining example of comics blogging done right, and Mikester is the closest thing the scene has to a Johnny Carson.
To extend that analogy:
Dorian Wright = Dick Cavett
Kevin Church = Steve Allen
Dave Campbell = David Letterman
Bully = Jack Paar
Chris Sims = Arsenio Hall
bitterandrew = Thinks he's Conan O'Brien, but is actually Chevy Chase
Anyhow, a big congrats to Mikester for hanging in there and keepin' on keepin' on when so many others have fallen by the wayside.
The Super Stocks - Ventura (from Surf Route 101, 1964) - Inspired by the So-Cal paradise where Mikester maintains his hidden lair.
"Say, Mr. Mummy, you're looking a little down in the facial wrappings. How about you tell old Unca Cap what's bothering you. You'll feel a lot better, trust me. Why, just the other day I talked It! The Living Colossus down off a ledge."
"Well, if I had to hazard I guess, I'd attribute that to your poor anger management skills, not to mention your ghastly and hideous appearance. As I used to tell the Blazing Skull back in Dubya Dubya Two..."
"Uh, Mr. Mummy? Are you listening to me, son?"
"Look, the truth hurts, and the sooner you learn to accept it....Hey!"
The Verdicts - The Mummy's Ball (from These Ghoulish Things, 2005) - A lovely bit of vintage Brooklyn doo wop with spooktacular overtones.
Kwentin Quisp - The Way Out Mummy (from the Bent, Batty, & 'Bnoxious compilation, 1988) - Occupying a twisted patch of ground between "Monster Mash" and "King Tut" in the bizarre realm of novelty recordings.
(For the record, this is officially the stupidest post I've ever done for Armagideon Time.)
Today I am going to discuss books, in particular two books that possess a unique resonance for me.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
That’s the final line from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel, The Great Gatsby. It’s my favorite work of fiction, perhaps because it strikes so close to home. As does the film Withnail and I, but while that makes watching the movie much, much harder, there’s something about Fitzgerald’s prose that makes it worth the pain of revisiting those old, uncomfortable memories.
I was once Nick Carraway to a punk rock Jay Gatsby, an inveterate optimist whose future dreams were hopelessly tangled up in a romanticized past. Unlike the literary Gatsby, who “turned out all right in the end” (apart from the fatal gunshot wound), the foul dust which preyed upon him did not float in his wake but was carried – proudly and willingly – in his person.
And I watched. And for a while at least, I believed. Or I wanted to.
Because the truth is that Jay Gatsby was a bit of a fool. Granted, the stuff of his foolishness was more honest and pure than the miasma of corruption and selfishness that surrounded and would eventually destroy him, but it was foolish nonetheless. He fixes himself on recapturing a lost moment, and turns all his energies toward making it happen, shrugging off what a saner soul might consider intractable obstacles as being merely “personal.” It’s the American Dream (which like all dreams, is an illusion at heart) of being able to achieve anything, as long as one wants it badly enough. Literary Gatsby wanted Daisy; my Gatsby wanted fame and fortune, Hollywood-style (and women, too, but those would come with package), but his methods weren’t much different from his counterpart’s – elaborate constructs created in service of an intrinsically doomed plan assembled to a repeated chorus of “if only…”
Except Gatsby had the good sense to lay (or float face-) down after Wilson took his misdirected vengeance upon the man. The literary Gatsby exited the stage with his precious dream intact; the real-life Gatsby to which I refer refused to quit, no matter how many holes reality blasted through him, and continued to stagger aimlessly in pursuit of his desire like a shambling revenant from a low budget horror film. It grew too much to take for even the most impartial of unreliable witnesses, and after a half-dozen unnecessary sequels, I quit paying attention. A sadder but wiser Nick Carraway returned home to the Midwest; I fucked off to suburbs northwest of Boston.
Literature and are in general are deceptive by nature, a vicarious spectacle created through the sleight of hand called “craft.” We feel like participants, but the actual process is that of bearing witness, no matter how much we project ourselves into the work. Reality is never as simple as a fictional construct, no matter how elaborate or true to life a work may feel to us.
I can watch The Wild Bunch and get choked up every time at the part where the gang makes the unspoken decision to take back their comrade from the brutal General Mapache, a course of action made all the more noble by its inevitably doomed nature. In the end Pike, Dutch, and the Gorch Brothers reap nothing for the act of redemption but brutal demises under the hot desert sun. They went out proudly, but it makes little difference to the vultures and other carrion-eaters who feast on their corpses. It’s a great place to visit, but not one I particularly care to live in. Reality is messier (or to put it in more blatantly obvious terms, more “real”) and that applies not only to violent western films, but across the entire spectrum of creative expression, from teen comedy films, romance novels, or even Food TV programs. Gatsby turned out all right in the end because there was an end – a terminal string of perfectly constructed sentences that closed up the narrative, leaving the rest in the imagination of the reader or the critical dissecting pan of the graduate student; in reality the narrative keeps limping along, even when the story really ought to have ended. Such was my experience as spectator in the world of dreams unfulfilled (or unfulfillable).
I’ve always been more content to be an observer than a participant. It’s not so much a sluggishness of the blood or failure of nerve as a natural inclination to bear witness. My father once defined heroism in terms of the grainy newsreel footage of the Hindenburg disaster; “You see all those people running away from the flames,” he said, “but there are a handful of folks running toward the wreckage. That’s what heroism is.” I’d like to think that I’d have the presence of mind to be part of the latter category. I have stepped up, with various degrees of trepidation, to the plate on many occasions, but there have been more times where I’ve simply observed and made metal notes while all hell broke loose.
The one incident I remember most clearly involved a fight in a club I belonged to during college. Two members came to blows over a woman who had long since left the group. They tussled, books and boardgames tumbled from shelves, and I sat impassively on a table and watched it unfold. It was my wife, along with another female club member, who boldly waded into the fray and separated the combatants, and she earned a not-quite-broken foot for her efforts. During the post game wrap-up, she asked me why I chose not to intervene. I didn’t, and still don’t, have a better answer to her question than “because it was fascinating to watch.” The notion of doing, or not doing, something never even crossed my mind.
As I said, it’s not a failure of nerve, though if I were to analyze my pattern of behavior, I’d say it stemmed from a sense of comfortable withdrawal, which brings us to Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall. While The Loved One, Waugh’s morbid satire of the American Way of Death, is and shall remain my favorite of his works, Decline and Fall speaks to me on a personal level unmatched by any other novel. Through no fault of his own, college student Paul Pennyfeather finds himself enmeshed in a series of darkly comedic misadventures that end up landing him right where he started from, only more world-weary and with a better sense of what he really is.
In a conversation with his one time finance toward the end of the novel, he likens the world to one of those giant spinning wheels at a funhouse. Many people are content to keep crawling toward the center, no matter how many times the wheel throws them off, but Paul is content to keep to the room’s edge and not make the effort. It’s an admission of self that closely mirrors my own acknowledgement of my limitations, and I cite Paul’s analogy whenever the subject turns to why I hide my light (the brightness of which is usually exaggerated) under a bushel. (A minor clarification: I’m not hiding it under a bushel. It’s hidden in a steel safe entombed beneath a rockrete bunker covered with camouflage netting, okay?)
My “adventures,” if they could even be classified as such, were far more prosaic than Paul’s experiences with South American brothels and dank London prison cells, but the net results in terms of our psyches were the same – a personal (as opposed to political) conservatism and appreciation of stability within one’s immediate sphere. I admit that doesn’t sound “punk rock” at all, but the notions of non-stop excitement and a life amorphous are luxuries of youth. Far better, I think, to admit the romantic fallacy and work from there than to pay lip service to a false dream. Plus, whether you credit a depressing sense of personal stasis or a reasoned self-awareness, I have managed to stay true to my ideals while other acquaintances have become that which they most despised or gotten lost entirely.
T.S. Eliot, speaking through the mouth of J. Alfred Prufrock, asked "Do I dare to eat a peach?" The real question is “Do I want to eat one?” I’ve enjoyed them in the past, but I think I’ve had my fill. They also tend to make one’s hands all sticky, too.
I suspect the mission statement for Armagideon Time lies hidden between the lines of my above ramblings...
Gary Numan – Observer (from The Pleasure Principle, 1979) - Cold, clinical, and detatched. It's perfect.
Groucho Marx – I’m Against It (from Flashbacks Vol. 2: Novelty Songs 1914-1946, 2000) - The contrarian anthem, you say? I beg to differ.
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