I discovered â via The Criterion Collection website, via filmmaker Juhyun Pak â that a university is offering a degree in David Lynch. Or David Lynch is teaching about his work. Or something. You get an MA in Film, learning from David Lynch. Possibly about his work. I think itâs a fair estimation he will offer extensive examples from his oeuvre.
Iâd love to attend.
Iâd hand in all my assignments wraaaaaaapped in plaaaaaaastic.
Aren't you pleased MasterChef is making a return! And with such a groundbreaking, non-gimmicky new format. We're particularly happy here at Stand & Deliver! because we get to compile another bunch of food-related songs. For now, Volume 4 of this series will be a slow-release degustation menu of food-related songs.
As the story goes, FZ encountered one of his blues heroes while touring with the Mothers of Invention. Rather than living it up as a well-regarded superstar, the old bluesman was scratching out a living painting a music studio. Some kind of despair must have ensued, as Zappa promptly disbanded the Mothers and recorded and released his first 'solo' album â featuring a supporting cast of virtuosi. 'Peaches En Regalia' is the track that kicks it off.
The title makes it sound like a juicy dessert or a delicious cocktail âbut weâre talking Zappa here, so assume his intent regards a different variety of peach altogether. Or at the very least, the other variety of tail. Since itâs an instrumental, it doesnât really matter. However, if you do consider it to be part of the genre, it is one of the more subtle of the euphemistic âyummy dessert=delicious womanâ songs. And if you dig that kind of thing, check out the cherry-related songs that appear in Bastard Chef III: Just Desserts.
Since Zappa did reconvene the Mothers - well, not the Mothers, but other line-ups of musicians under that name ('Others'?) - and toured them extensively while releasing albums prolifically, there are a number of live versions available on various collections. The most interesting is 'Peaches III', so-named because it was the third version released up to that time (the second was the live version on Fillmore East - June 1971, credited to 'The Mothers'). Located on the mostly live Tinsel Town Rebellion, 'Peaches III' is delivered with mostly synthetic instrumentation and squared-off rhythms, sounding as though it was inspired by Devo, who were big at the time.
A cynical observer once suggested Paul McCartneyâs first solo album, McCartney, marked the point where the erstwhile Beatles bassist finally achieved something heâd been attempting as early as Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band: heâd finally produced an album upon which only he appeared, performing everything himself. By the time of Sgt Pepper there had been songs that featured one Beatle and session musicians â George Harrison fronting an Indian musical combo, as on âWithin You Without Youâ, Paul and the string quartet on âYesterdayâ. But The Beatles (aka âThe White Albumâ) frequently featured songs created by the Beatles working in pairs or solo.
Thus, while John Lennon and Ringo Starr were enconced in another studio and George was away on holiday, Macca doodled for the sheer fun of it on this little ditty. The short song, described by McCartney as âan experimentâ, sounds like a novelty: silly, over-the-top multi-tracked voices in American accents, spring-like sound effects of bent guitar strings. âWild Honey Pieâ was apparently included on The Beatles because, like the songâs protagonist, Patti Boyd (Mrs George Harrison at the time) happened to like it.
More than a precursor to the similarly doodled-for-the-sheer-fun-of-it McCartney, âWild Honey Pieâ seems in the first place to be yet another cross reference to the Beach Boys: bass players of both bands seemed to inspire each otherâs subsequent albums throughout the â60s, Pet Sounds and Sgt Pepper famously upping respective antes until Smile failed to appear, the Beach Boys ending 1967 with the album Wild Honey (the title track was its lead single). It could be a passing reference.
In the second place, it is also a pre-emptive defence of âHoney Pieâ, a song that came later on âThe White Albumâ â but more of that later.
Muffins occupy an interesting place on the food spectrum. Or perhaps two â since on the one hand, theyâre that bready substitute you toast for brekky, to have hot with butter and the spread of your choice or with sausage and egg. But then theyâre also a kind of cake â sometimes with fruit, so you can kid yourself that youâre having something healthy with your coffee or tea.
Although it takes its name from an innocent nursery rhyme (âdo you know the muffin man/Who lives on Drury Lane?â) Frank Zappa brings a different muffin conundrum to the fore:
Girl, you thought it was a man But it was a muffin. The cries you heard in the night Was on account of him stuffinâ.
The tack piano that accompanies the mad narrative, reminiscent of the original soundtrack to Fritz Langâs Metropolis). But combined with Zappaâs declamatory narrative, it is a b-grade horror movie â about the Muffin Man in question, ensconced in his Utility Muffin Research Kitchen, working on âthat prince of foods: the muffinâ.
Every chefâs been in a similar situation. And not just chefs: every creative identifies with the archetypal âFrankensteinâ scenario of the mad scientist bringing their creation to life. Even Zappa himself â whoâd use horror movie nomenclature for his work: follow-up songs and albums may be titled âSon ofâ¦ and âReturn of the Son ofâ¦â (as in the Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar series). He also named his home studio the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen.
Itâs significant that the song graces Bongo Fury, the live album commemorating the mid-â70s tour undertaken with Captain Beefheart. The good Captain â entangled in contractual purgatory at the time â was a childhood friend of Zappaâs and they shared a love of music and cinema. Indeed, early on they sought to collaborate on a b-grade movie their own: Captain Beefheart vs the Grunt People. Beefheartâs dad used to drive a bread van, which the teenage pair would break into in order to steal pineapple buns. Muffins of their time, no doubt.
So â d'ya reckon anyone in the MasterChef utility research kitchen will have a stab at âthat prince of foods, the muffinâ? Who cares. Itâs more exciting when the monstrous culinary equivalent of Frankenstein rises from the slab.
The Mind Games album dates from the beginning of Lennonâs âlost weekendâ, its origins lying in Yoko Onoâs album Feeling the Space. Lennon dug the musicians her assistant May Pang had assembled. Turns out Lennon dug May Pang: by the time heâd written a bunch of songs and was ready to record, heâd split from Yoko, whoâd somehow given her blessing on his taking May as his mistress. How did this affect John? Take a look at the album cover: Yoko still looms large over lonely Lennon.
So rather than wholesale butcheries with massive cool rooms featuring acres of fresh flesh on display, it would seem âMeat Cityâ is about Lennonâs visit to the world of singledom: pick-up bars, swingers parties and the massive hotbeds featuring acres of fresh flesh on display.
True to that period of unfocused rage, there are still elements of random political activism left over from previous album Sometime In New York City: that weird interlude that sounds like a synthesised chipmonk speaking alien is in fact Lennonâs own voice, sped up and run backwards, suggesting all pigs ought to be loved very much (my paraphrasing). The version on the flip side of the Mind Games single is a slightly different mix, where the synthesised chipmonk turns out to be saying âcheck the albumâ backwards.
Whomever said, 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach' wasn't lying. All men are hungry men. But none more so than late-â60s David Bowie: hungry for success, and, to look at him â âBiafra-thin rabbit-in-the-headlightsâ as one cultural commentator described him â literally hungry.
The hunger to make it as a recording artist meant the former David Robert Jones toyed with various styles and genres including cockney music hall, mod beats and whatever category this vision of a future dystopia fits into. The song opens with a Kenneth Williams impression (so itâs not meant to be taken so seriously, clearly), delivering the bleak news of over-population. Then Bowie takes on the role of a young, charismatic, crackpot leader offering more-or-less the same Modest Proposal as Jonathan Swift as a means to overcome the multitude of starving poor.
The early âhungryâ â or âleanâ period â of Bowieâs work includes a stack of songs that have been repackaged in various compilations over the decades. While the artist has all but disowned his oeuvre from that time, the collection was finally given its rightful release as a deluxe double CD collection, much to fansâ pleasure. Bowie himself cherry picked his favourites and re-recorded them for an album called Toy earlier this century â that still remains officially unavailable.
Following on from the high-camp Bowie song about infantricide, âWe Are Hungry Menâ, comes the darker, down-beat bad acid trip of Funkadelic.
Are they proclaiming, on a metaphoric level, that America has failed its youth? The dark mutterings donât quite lend themselves to transparent interpretation.
Instead, sit back and enjoy â as best you can â the grunted insinuations and squealed backing vocals as they slowly build to a grinding, faded frenzy. It helps if you imagine it the soundtrack of Matt Preston discovering the fish is still raw, the omlette contains eggshell and the rice hasnât been fluffed; time to send the dish back, and the chef away in tears.
And if it gets too much, relax: a far more upbeat food-related funk will follow, courtesy of Mick Jaggerâs âToo Many Cooksâ.
If itâs a Rolling Stones song about anything other than getting some nookie, you can bet that it is in fact a metaphor for getting some nookie. This is also the case with almost all of Mick Jaggerâs solo oeuvre. âToo Many Gooks (Spoil the Soup)â appears to be a more explicit reading of âCook Cook Bluesâ. 'Cook Cook Blues' is an â80s Stones blues jam that took a long time to prepare - finally served as a single flip side in 1989 (and features on BastardChefVolume 1) that uses food as its metaphor. But the funky âToo Many Cooksâ was not written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, and its recording predates âCook Cook Bluesâ by about a decade â even though it took even longer - almost another decade! - to see the light of day. It has a far more interesting pedigree.
The song was produced by John Lennon during his âlost weekendâ â some 18 months of separation from Yoko Ono that involved revelry, debauchery and recording with various buddies. The sessions for âToo Many Cooksâ must have been quite debauched indeed, since Mick Jagger claims to have had no recollection of them, unaware the song existed until an acetate of it turned up many years later (and, knowing Mick, then taken back into the studio for tweaking, polishing and finishing properly before subsequent release).
If the food-as-sex metaphor is annoying, play this song on and on; what with the strange eroticism on display when you watch Nigella Lawson taste everything sheâs preparing, and Matt Preston tasting absolutely anything, the appetite may sicken and so dieâ¦
6: Cookinâ (In The Kitchen Of Love) - Ringo Starr
Stepping out first with an unlikely collection of old-time croonerâs standards, Sentimental Journey (ârecorded for me mum!â) and then the country album Beaucoups of Blues, by his third album Ringo the erstwhile Beatles drummer had hit upon a system thatâs pretty much served him well ever since: treat each album as a party and invite all your mates to rock up with a song (or, in Ringoâs case, âeasy listening' up with a song).
Hence John Lennonâs contribution for Ringoâs 1976 album, Ringo's Rotogravure: a party song about getting through life, with Lennon himself guesting on piano.
Initially, the âcooking in the kitchen of loveâ metaphor sounds as though it might reside in the same region as the Stonesâ âCook Cook Bluesâ or Mick Jaggerâs âToo Many Cooksâ (and more specifically, whichever Kiss song demands âlet me put my log in your fireplaceâ). But by the second metaphor, "truckinâ down the highway of lifeâ and subsequent philosophical exposition âItâs got to be high, itâs got to be low/âCause in between we just donât goâ it turns out that there's no hidden message or any depth to these words whatsoever. Lennon saved that stuff - in songs like âImagineâ, âInstant Karmaâ and âPower to the Peopleâ - for himself.
Donât hold it against him. It's been noted that Lennon â and Lennon & McCartney for that matter â were, more often than not, 'dozy lyricists' when tossing off a ditty for Ringo. And besides, by this stage the working class hero was about to go into musical hibernation; heâd spent his âlost weekendâ being high and was about to settle into being low for the next half-decade, the sessions for this song proving his last until he started recording Double Fantasy.
And remember: Lennonâs time away from the music industry as househusband and dedicated father would be marked by such domestic activities as baking bread, about which heâd speak at length when he finally came out of retirement. Cooking in the kitchen of love, indeed.
After John Lennon handed the hitherto âunreleasableâ Get Back tapes over to legendary âWall of Soundâ producer Phil Spector â who refashioned them into Let It Be â both Lennon and George Harrison were keen to have him produce their post-Beatles solo albums.
Sessions for a proposed solo album for Spectorâs wife â and former Ronette â Ronnie Spector followed on from George Harrisonâs triple album All Things Must Pass. Unfortunately, the album was shelved after only a handful of songs were recorded, the total official result being the 1971 single âTry Some Buy Someâ.
While that song had been demoed by Harrison for All Things Must Pass and was given the Wall of Sound treatment, the flip side, âTandoori Chickenâ sounds, lyrically, musically and instrumentally, pretty much as thrown together as the dinner arrangement that gave rise to it: Harrison sent Beatles roadie Mal Evans out for some takeaway during the recording sessions. Suddenly itâs a blues based b-side. Itâs nice that Harrisonâs Indian influences arenât limited merely to instrumentation.
Find it: on the flip side of the âTry Some Buy Someâ 7-inch single; sadly not available on CD right nowâ¦
8: Saturday Night Fish Fry - The Coasters
The Coastersâ âSaturday Night Fish Fryâ is another hard-to-get food hit. The original version by the songâs author, Louis Jordan, and his jump blues backing band the Typany Five, is considered by some to be the very first rockânâroll record. Itâs the story of a party that gets out of hand and ends with an arrest.
A âfish fryâ is a kind of poor folks fundraiser â the person throwing it will cook and anyone willing to pay for the feed (and, no doubt, sly grog) is welcome. (The song takes place âdown in New Orleansâ, which, enjoying an excellent fishery until the BP oil spill pretty much killed the Gulf of Mexico, had access to excellent cheap seafood.) If you can help provide the food and drink, or serve it, or present some live entertainment, you get in free. In this song, the protagonist is the singer of the song, telling of a Saturday night fish fry that was so good, it had to be shut down by the cops. Although the protagonist never wants to hear about fish again, listening to it makes you hanker for a piping hot fish burger.
Jordanâs original version was over 5 minutes long, so it had to take up two sides of a 78rpm record. The Coastersâs version lived on the flip side of the single âSheâs a Yum Yumâ, dating from 1966 so part of the material recorded when they were signed to Atco â making it harder to get your hands on.
9: The Rhubarb Tart Song - John Cleese/At Last The 1948 Show
Some people have never been subjected to the [dis]pleasure of rhubarb, but apparently itâs good for you, which is why it doesnât taste particularly nice. And itâs used to make dessert-type foods, despite being a bitter vegetable thatâs allegedly good for you. This alone makes it the perfect subject of a silly song, and who better to deliver it than John Cleese? The song gives the rhubarb tart a great deal of pomp and majesty, not just by listing great historical personages as fans of the food, but by accompanying the doggeral with one of John Phillip Sousaâs finest marches.
The song dates from 1968 sketch show At Last the 1948 Show, in which Cleese partook with fellow Python-to-be, Graham Chapman, and future The Goodie Tim Brooke-Tayler as well as Marty Feldman, with whom theyâd all written for David Frostâs various satirical shows. (Frost in fact produced At Last The 1948 Show and was later slighted that he couldnât be part of Monty Pythongâs Flying Circus.)
At Last the 1948 Show contains many elements that would go on to be seen as prime Python characteristics. Inded, The Four Yorkshiremen Sketch, so beloved of Python fans, originated in At Last the 1948 Show and the fact that it is still identified as a Python sketch continues to irritate Tim Brooke-Taylor, who co-wrote it.
As opposed to parodying a popular song with a new set of lyrics, âThe Rhubarb Tart Songâ specifically takes a pre-existing instrumental and marries it to foolish words. This is a motif to which John Cleese would return. The song âOliver Cromwellâ, for example, appearing on the 1989 album Monty Python Sings, began as Frederic Chopinâs âPolonaise No. 6 Opus S3 in A flatâ. The borrowing of a Sousa march also becomes a motif: the Pythons borrowed Sousaâs âThe Liberty Bellâ to serve, this time wordlessly, as the theme to their television show.
Find it: âThe Rhubarb Tart Songâ lives on the original album tie-in of sketches and songs from the television program, At Last the 1948 Show.
10: Sugar Suger - The Archies
Pure bubblegum pop at its best, âSugar Sugarâ is said to have been offered to the Monkees, who turned it down as being too cheesy just as they were maturing to a point of playing their own instruments on far more mature albums. Although there are rumours of Monkee Davy Jones having sung lead on an instrumental backing recorded by session musicians (as most of the earlier Monkees songs were constructed) and Mike Nesmith punching a hole through a wall in anger at being expected to record the song, nowadays both stories are considered myths. Indeed, itâs more likely the Monkees resisted recording an entirely different song entitled âSugar Manâ, but over the years their dummy spit at âSugar Sugarâ has proven the more entertaining anecdote.
Irrespective, Don Kirshner, the producer behind the launch of manufactured band The Monkees was also behind the manufactured band The Archies, which he prefered more since, being cartoon characters, they were far more easy to control than The Monkees. The Archies were never gonna complain that they should be writing their own songs, and playing their own instruments on the recordings. Although the session musos behind The Archies might have wanted to ark up, especially after âSugar Sugarâ proved a massive hit.
Although Ron Danteâs lead vocals melt in the mouth more like fairy floss, they live up to the sweetness promised by the song title. And as any chef worth his weight inâ¦ well, weight, really, will tell you: there is no substitute, in the end, for cooking with sugar. When the recipe calls for it, use it; none of that chemical substitute, thank you!
You most likely wonât remember him as Gareth Blackstock in the BBC show Chef! irrespective of how fitting it would be for our purposes here. And just as likely you donât remember Lenworth George Henry â or âLennyâ, as heâs better known â for his daliance with the music hall standard âBoiled Beef And Carrotsâ.
Fact is, Lenny would also prefer you donât remember it. But it shouldnât be so surprising that he had a go with a novelty hit, given his rise to showbiz success began on a telly talent show (New Faces) and included regular appearances on kids show TISWAS. The synthesiser arrangement dates this recording but also adds to its charm.
Itâs fitting that Lenny would make the cut of BastardChef given his former Missus, Dawn French, is currently appearing in ads for MasterChef sponsor Coles. Part of me is asking, does she really need the money so badly? Maybe. She couldnât afford to get her hair cut evenly on both sides. Could it be terms of the divorce? Does Dawn need to pay Lenny off? Whatâs a Lenworth after all? Maybe he is back to living on boiled beef and carrotsâ¦
Find it: alongside far more novelty songs by British comedy and light entertainment types than youâll ever consume in one sitting, entitled You Are Awful But We Like You.
12: Bread and Butter - The Newbeats
If food can be a tool of seduction, it can also be the cause of a break-up, as evidenced in the Newbeatsâ hit single of 1964, âBread and Butterâ. It sounds like another bubblegum hit with its precise and economic instrumentation, but it predates that movement by a few years. Indeed, in 1964, all pop was bubblegum pop; there was no sophistication to it just yet, so rockânâroll hadnât given way to rock. And besides, unlike âYummy Yummy Yummyâ and âChewy Chewyâ, thereâs a lot more going on in âBread and Butterâ.
The protagonist is a simple man, given to simple needs, which his âbabyâ provides perfectly: âbread and butterâ¦ toast and jamâ. But one day he comes home to the ultimate betrayal: his baby âwith some other manâ. Not caught in flagrante delicto, as such. Or rather, yes, caught in the very act: if bread and butter and toast and jam are the proof of true love, then âchicken and dumplingsâ with the other guy is gross infidelity.
Lead vocalist Larry Henley (who would go on to serve as a co-writer of âWind Beneath My Wingsâ) has a voice so thick youâd have to leave it out a while before you could spread it on a piece of bread; brothers Dean and Mark Mathis â if aliens attempted to replicate the Everly Brothers, thisâd be them â provide the perfect bed for it.
I know âKick Out The Jamsâ is a song â and indeed, an album â by the MC5, a call to arms, a proselytising of the youth-, counter- and sub-culture to rise up against âThe Manâ. But I didnât always.
Initially, I knew it as a lyric from a David Bowie song called âCygnet Committeeâ â an epic saga of a song that lives at the end of side one of the album Space Oddity. Now I realise itâs kind of a reply to âKick Out The Jamsâ â painting a bleak image of the kind of cult that follows an out-of-control messianic figure advocating slogans such as:
Kick Out The Jams Kick Out Your Mother Cut Up Your Friend Screw Up Your Brother or He'll Get You In the End.
And even though I didnât recognise the reference to MC5, there were other references and influences close to Bowieâs own heart. For example, when
If âCygnet Committeeâ didnât seem to be so obvious a reply to âKick Out The Jamsâ, I would cite the reference as a nice little tribute also. I donât know that Bowie was a particular fan of the MC5, but he was fond of other Detroit-based punks, like Iggy Pop and the Stooges.
But as I say, at the time I didnât realise the line âKick out the jamsâ had any life beyond the Bowie song. Now Iâm kind of surprised I didnât see â or imagine â some sort of link between the line in the Bowie song, and a line in a Beatles song: the John Lennon-penned âCome Togetherâ refers to âtoe jam footballâ. Toe jam is the gunk that accumulates between dirty toes; kicking a football may lead to jamming your toes; neither of them amounts to âkicking out the jamsâ. But âCome Togetherâ seems, like âCygnet Committeeâ, to be another âanswerâ song to âKick Out The Jamsâ, albeit a much more peaceful one. Recall that although Lennon identified, to a degree, with revolutionaries, he was never quite sure if, when the time came to lay it on the line, he wanted to be counted âinâ or âoutâ. His ambivalence is outlined in the different versions of the song âRevolutionâ.
The most interesting version of âKick Out The Jamsâ I ever heard was so unexpectedâ¦
Back in 1995 the angelic-voiced Jeff Buckley appeared out of nowhere charming the world. He visited Australia on a promotional tour, and, serving at the time as the music reviewer for an independent newsweekly called The Sydney CityHub, I managed to blag my way into his gig at the Phoenician Club. That venue, originally situated on Broadway, is long gone, but I still remember that day well: the venue crammed well beyond capacity, me surrounded by a heck of a lot of chicks making out (who knew that was his demographic? Well, the chicks did, probably.)
Everyone was in thrall to Buckleyâs softc*ck shtick as he wooâd them with those gorgeously wussy ballads like âGraceâ, âSo Realâ and âHallelujahâ. But he won me over when he returned for his encore, because he hit the stage with guns blazing as he led with his version of âKick Out The Jamsâ. You can hear him do it on the expanded Legacy Edition of the album Grace, but here he is delivering it live at Sin-Ã¨:
When I got to write about Super Detox Foot Patches for my job at JigoCity Australia, âKick Out The Jamsâ was the obvious cool reference to drop. Since the product is about jettisoning the toxins and stuff that jam you up via the feet, you are more-or-less kicking âem out â so itâs the perfect call-to-arms. Or, in this case, call-to-feet.
A buddy pointed out that she leaves detoxing to her liver â politely telling me that, as far as sheâs concerned, this product appears a bit dodgy. Iâm not interested in engaging on that level â but when I do have a liver cleansing product to write copy about, I know that my starting point will be âLiver Let Dieâ.
Although, judging by the product image, it looks more like a case of âKick Out The Teabagsâ!
For the last week and a half, I can say that Iâve been âhanginâ with Mr Rhodesâ â the full meaning of that phrase isnât quite worth chasing down, suffice to say that Tom Rhodes is a brilliant comedian and Southern gentleman whose live performance I saw three times and enjoyed each time.
The second time, he introduced a nice new subroutine while talking about Hinduism. He has a great piece about the origins of Ganesh, the elephant-headed boy deity, which he follows with the comment that heâd love to convert to Hinduism. But of course, he canât convert â you need to be born into Hinduism. Or ârebornâ into it.
So the subroutine was the comment about how George Harrisonâs âconversionâ to Hinduism made him akin to Sammy Davis, Jr. My paraphrasing makes it clunky â Rhodes delivered it perfectly, in a concise and clever way which made a whole two of us in the audience, hip to the fact that Sammy Davis, Jnr converted to Judaism, roar with laughter. The following night, Rhodes delivered the line again, at the same point in the Ganesh piece, and again, about two people laughed. âThatâs all right, nobody liked it last night, either,â he said. That got a massive laugh. Even though it was a lie: I had loved it.
As it happened, weâd gone out drinking after the second performance. That is to say, weâd stayed in drinking â since it was a Tuesday night and everything in Sydney closes early on a Tuesday night â imbibing what turned out to be an incredibly yummy Argentinian red wine that might have been called 33 Degrees (sorry, donât know how to make the little circle on my Mac), named for the latitude at which Mendoza, the wine-making region of Argentina, is situated. In passing I mentioned the George Harrison bit, which I liked. I confessed that Harrison was quite possibly my favourite Beatle.
âYeah, Iâd eat him last,â Rhodes said.
There was what felt to me like an awkward silence that followed, but to Tom, was merely a dramatic pause before he launched into his explanation of the strange comment.
âImagine you were on a plane with the Beatles, and you crashed in the Andes and ran out of food, and you had to start eating themâ¦â
Of course. Given that set of circumstances, I guess George is the one Iâd eat last.
âBecause youâd eat Ringo first,â Tom continued, âsince heâs the least necessaryâ.
I canât remember if Rhodes made the observation at the time, or if itâs the standard observation that gets made at this point â âI mean, if you quite the band, and nobody notices for a few daysâ¦â â referring, of course, to Ringoâs walk-out during the recording of the so-called âWhite Albumâ, which led to Paul McCartney thumping the tubs for a couple of songs â ââ¦then the band can get by without you.â
There is, of course an irony: piss pot Ringo, who at one point had to issue injunctions to prevent the release of substandard recording heâd made while muddling through life in an alcoholic haze, would be the one that would last the longest, inadvertantly pickled in his juices. Sure, youâd kill him first so as not to tax the rations of whomever youâd eat second, but you could get away with eating him next-to-last, depending upon who you chose next.
Who youâd eat second was rather contentious. Surprisingly, Tom and I agreed on this point, although for different reasons.
Popular opinion would be PaulMcCartney; his post-Beatles output, though prolific, would not be described by most as prodigious. I donât agree, of course; Rupert the Bear ditties, the 1972 âMary Had A Little Lambâ single and some of those painful mid-90s albums (Off The Ground in particular) notwithstanding, the time will come when everyone gives Paul McCartney the respect he deserves. John Lennonâs oeuvre, on the other hand, gets by unscathed because, âImagineâ, âJealous Guyâ, âStand By Meâ, âHappy Christmas (War Is Over)â and â(Just Like) Starting Overâ aside, nobodyâs really heard it. He did so little and made so little. If people did try to listen to John Lennon to any extent, theyâd hate most of his work. Theyâd be wrong, of course, it ought to be loved. But it oughtnât be loved without being heard and understood, and it oughtnât be loved at the price of hating Macca.
âIâd eat John Lennon second because he was a dick!â Tom announced, and I didnât argue. There was no need to go into the finer points.
Macca was the third course on the Beatles menu and George, fourth. Although, when you think about it, there wouldnât be much difference between them from a gustatory point of view, since theyâd both spent the last few decades of their lives as millionaire vegetarians. So weâre talking organic, grain-fed, free-range Beatles. And both of them would have a fine, smokey flavour.
Having determined, logically, in which order to consume the Beatles, it became clear that this game could be applied to any collective, and the most obvious application at this point was to Monty Python.
âIf youâre going to devour the dickheads first,â I offered â the change from âdickâ to more Aussie âdickheadâ made necessary by the fact that the phrase âif youâre going to devour the dicks firstâ sounds like weâre going for specific apendages, which, even given this context, sounds downright sickâ¦ â âit would appear that John Cleese would be the first to go.â
âWhich is a pity,â Tom pointed out, âsince heâs the funniestâ¦â.
âYeah, but Michael Palinâs the nicest; youâd want to keep him around the longestâ¦â I argued.
âSo youâd eat Palin last?â Tom demanded in disbelief.
Six is a lot more difficult to deal with, but if you think it through, you can make a good case for the following:
Graham Chapman, lamented, demented genius that he was, lead actor in all the films, produced the least amount ultimately, even if you only measure up to his time of death in 1989. So heâd be the first to go, even if, like Ringo, his love of the sauce meant that heâd preserve the longest.
I stand by Cleese going next, although itâs hard to mount a strong case as to why it shouldnât be Terry Jones. Then Cleese. Then Eric Idle, who is actually probably the funniest, albeit less successful if you only judge him by what gets to the screen. Apparently he makes a lot of money as a script doctor in Hollywood, making utter crap somewhat more palatable. Remember, he used to write alone. I reckon if he had his version of a Connie Booth, he would have cranked out a cracking good Fawlty Towers. Instead, he had Neil Innes, which isnât a bad thing, since it led to making things like Rutland Weekend Television and The Rutles. Maybe after Eric, it should be Michael Palin and then Terry Gilliam.
At this point, having had plenty of Argentinian wine, there was a lull in conversation; while I was thinking it through I realised a few more ironies:
if you were in a plane crash in the Andes with either the Beatles or Monty Python, and you ran out of food, despite their internal squabbling, their jealousies and their grudges, chances are theyâd pull together and eat you first;
this ridiculous conversation really should end by us playing the âLifeboat Sketchâ (or whatever it]s called) from the album Another Monty Python Record. It didnât end that way because neither of us had the recording â released on CD as Another Monty Python CD â with us. But I can at least link to it.