Nigh-on twenty years before the first of the Batman blockbusters hit the big screen, the TV series was broadcast in the UK; and if ever an American import epitomised the one-man’s-meat-is-another-man’s-poison adage, this was it.
Due in no small part to the advance razzmatazz, the public expectation was of action-packed, edge-of-the-seat tales of the Caped Crusader’s derring-do. And so when each and every episode turned out to be a slapstick parody in which the villains were camped up by aging or little known actors, it was no wonder that the sound of disappointment rang loud … fast forward forty-plus years and the fight scenes remain famous for the introduction of words like ‘zap’ and ‘wham’ and ‘pow’ plastered across the screen – a neat trick which served to mask wide-of-the- mark punches and sets and furniture that were reduced to smithereens simply because they were cobbled out of cardboard and balsa.
And yet, in keeping with the one-man’s-meat mindset, the series has achieved cult status with a growing number of fans ranking it amongst the all time TV greats.
Now, in the light of The Sopranos and Black Adder, even the current re-runs of the Old Grey Whistle Test, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, but when it comes to tongue-in-cheek humour, there’s no denying it rivals the best.
Take for example the episode in which the Joker is sprung from jail by his henchmen who drive a tank through the prison wall. On hearing news of the dastardly escape, the bemused-looking Boy Wonder starts the ball rolling with: ‘But where would they get a tank from, Batman?’
Now picture the scene: the Dynamic Duo and the perpetually perplexed Commissioner striking deep-in-thought poses so OTT as to make Rodin’s Thinker look like a bit of a jack-the-lad. Suddenly Batman slaps the palm of his hand with a gloved fist; ‘Of course …’ he exclaims as if chiding himself, ‘… Frank’s Used Tank Lot, downtown Gotham City!’
Genius! … and not to be outdone, Robin does a spot of palm slapping himself before treating us to another comic gem: ‘Holy arsenals, Batman, why didn’t I think of that?’
Now, although I fell off my chair at the time, I don’t for one minute imagine everybody saw the funny side … which amply illustrates the fact that humour – like art and gastronomy and music – is subjective.
My two Jackson Pollock prints, for example, give me endless hours of pleasure and yet have been rubbished by some who claim their granny could do better. (As a matter of interest, a mate of mine who studied modern art at college was taught to expect that kind of brush-off and to defend his work with the one-liner: ‘but she didn’t.’ … I’ve always liked that.)
Anyway, regarding different tastes in food, some people rave about stuff like haggis, and yet I’d gag on the merest mouthful even if I was being spoon-fed by Amy Macdonald.
And when it comes to music, I wouldn’t say that I favour the obscure, but some notable gaps in my record collection would suggest I’ve not always been on-trend, so to speak.
Believe it or not, the only Beatles albums I own are a copy of Sgt. Pepper which sticks at the beginning of Fixing A Hole, and Revolver on vinyl which might have been worth a few bob if somebody hadn’t drawn a proper beetle on Ringo’s cheek.
I rate Tim Armstrong big time, and although he does a spot of rapping on the Rancid album as well as on his brilliant Poet’s Life, no matter how often I play them, it’s not going to convince anyone that I’ve become an overnight fan of hip hop.
And while I’m on the subject of genres, if I were to say that Ozzy Osbourne once gave me a gold disc, you might start thinking I’m a bit of a head banger. Wrong. I have bought a few of the old classic albums in the past, but nowadays heavy metal plays second fiddle to Cajun, if you’ll excuse the pun … and please don’t laugh; it’s bad enough having my biggest best friend who owns the Robin Hood pub in Cardiff winding me up about it. He can’t speak French, let alone the Louisiana patois so, whenever I’m playing any of my favourites, he chants the names of some French wines – usually Beaujolais and Chablis – and mixes in expressions like sacre bleu and s’il vous plaît and pâté maison. He reckons it’s funny, and just because he puts on a squeaky voice and sings as if he’s got a stinking cold, he seems to think it makes him sound like Nathan Abshire. It doesn’t. He sounds just like that Chinese lady who works Friday and Sunday nights at the Peking Dragon takeaway – the one up the road where they give you a free bag of prawn crackers with every order over a tenner … sometimes she gives me two bags.
But getting back to this business of likes and dislikes: it goes without saying that record collections mirror musical preference and when it comes to ranking artists’ popularity, a simple album count could serve as a rough guide – applying this rule of thumb to my own motley mix of CDs and vinyl’s, Tom Waits, Pete Gabriel and the Cure would be my big three, but – and here hangs the rub – as any rock star’s agent knows only too well, nothing nurtures devotion better than a beltin’ live set.
Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not about to suggest that when any of these legends take to the stage they don’t come up to snuff. Far from it. Their reviews tend to verge on the orgasmic – when Tom Waits last performed in the UK as part of the Real Gone tour, some critics hailed his concerts as the best ever staged on these shores … and how I’d love to lend my voice in support, but I can’t. I wasn’t there: when the sold- out signs were posted, my application was somewhere near the bottom of ticket-fairy’s bran tub. Same for Pete Gabriel’s last two concerts, and although I did get hold of tickets to see the Cure in Orange, I never made it to the gig. I’ll spare you the unpleasant details, but let me just say that if you find yourself in that part of Provence and are drawn towards the Bar du Pêcheur on the north side of town, stick with the sandwich du jambon, and avoid the soupe de poissons like the plague.
So now that live performances are part of the equation, obviously Spingsteen and Van Morrison are in contention, but although ‘Barry Manilow with a flick knife’ and his E-Street buddies are brilliant on stage, I’ve only ever seen them twice; and as for the ‘Van the Man’, I’ve never forgiven him for disbanding the Caledonia Soul Orchestra and denying us the chance to marvel at the tightest live band of this or any other generation.
All of which leaves one name in the frame … and colour me excited, he’s recently announced three London gigs in October as part of his European tour.
Although I’d been a fan since the late ‘70s, almost twelve years passed before I got to see him in the flesh.
I won’t pretend that my memories are crystal clear, but I do remember thinking that the Mean Fiddler looked more like one of those original Shakespearean playhouses than it did a rock-your-socks-off club in the north end of London.
Considering the star of the show hadn’t had a hit record since 1978, I’d expected the place to be no more than half-full of exiles from the Sweeney, looking to jump-start memories of post-punk days; so imagine my surprise to find the place was swarming with youngsters who were only getting to grips with long division when New Wave first hit the scene.
There was no support act or backing band. He carried an acoustic guitar which he played quite often, and his Cuban heels rendered a drum kit redundant.
I remember when he’d finished his first song his face bore a momentary look of childish dread – as if he was worried the audience might scold him. It began to fade with the first cheer and by the time the ancient rafter’s were rattling to the sound of rapture, his grin was like a slice of fresh-cut melon … much the same as every adoring fan looked after being treated to over two hours of joyous entertainment.
I’ve seen him seven times since that gig in 1990, and each time he seemed better than the last … but that’s what comes natural to great entertainers, and take it from me, those greater than Jonathan Richman are few and far between.
And if the name means nothing to you here and now, no shame. He’s only ever had three hit records and refuses to have anything to do with the internet. But if I mention the film Something About Mary, picture the forlorn-looking guitarist who pops up every now and then….
And now you can put a face to a name, I suppose you’re a tad curious to know what he’s like as a musician; well, the best I can come up with is: ‘he’s quite a good guitarist with a warm-sounding voice.’ But ask me to explain the attraction and his ability to make people feel better about themselves, and others, about sums it up.
He prefers small venues, and at £17.50 a pop, tickets are a steal – you would probably pay ten times that to see a shrink if you were down in the dumps, with no guarantee you’ll be feeling any more chipper.
So contact Stereoboard toot-sweet … oh, and a cautionary word before I sign off: if my own experience is anything to go by, you’ll be sneered at by those who talk a lot about meaningful music. Given half a chance they would have you listening to The Jesus And Mary Chain and if that didn’t make you feel like kicking the dog, just you wait until they give you a double-dose of My Bloody Valentine.
You could mention the appeal of joy and wit and warmth in song, but don’t bank on them listening; these folk are life’s funsuckers … go ahead and ask them what they think of that sixties Batman series; odds on they’ll say it’s rubbish.
NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
We don't run any advertising! Our editorial content is solely funded by lovely people like yourself using Stereoboard's listings when buying tickets for live events. To keep supporting us, next time you're looking for concert, festival, sport or theatre tickets, please search for "Stereoboard". It costs you nothing, you may find a better price than the usual outlets, and save yourself from waiting in an endless queue on Friday mornings as we list ALL available sellers!
So now that live performances are part of the equation, obviously Spingsteen and Van Morrison are in contention, but although ‘Barry Manilow with a flick knife’ and his E-Street buddies are brilliant on stage, I’ve only ever seen them twice; and as for the ‘Van the Man’, I’ve never forgiven him for disbanding the Caledonia Soul Orchestra and denying us the chance to marvel at the tightest live band of this or any other generation.
