Drew this and then took my bath.
The man who’s embracing me in the street because I have a piece of dust in my eye: yes, I know him. He grips me above the elbows, makes me fix my flickering gaze upward. Through startled tears I look at a square of sky until a big shape—his face—interrupts one corner.
“Relax, I have saline,” he says. “Relax. Can you see me?” Has all my work culminated now, in something as mundane as a man and a woman hugging?
We’ve shared a coffee cart for years. The first time I saw him was in periphery as I finished buying my breakfast.
“Hey, no fair,” he said, so I pivoted in my mud-spattered boots. “That’s what I was going to get!”
I walk dogs. I said “Sorry!” then pulled the dogs aside, thought about my Bavarian creme donut in a new way. From that moment, I’d be watching him; I wondered, with satisfaction, how long he had watched me and I hadn’t known.
I wondered what his briefcase was full of. I tried to remember ever having been watched before by someone with a briefcase. He seemed to own things, and I wondered, What kinds of things does he own? but guiltily, because what should have been enough was that he owned his shoulders, his broad back, the hands that put a dollar on the counter and carried away a paper bag.
Now this man’s body is over me and he is flooding my eye with drops of greasy water from a bottle that was in his pocket. Papers swirl everywhere because he has flung down the briefcase, and it has opened. I have let go of the leashes, thrown the coffee cup; the dogs bite the papers and lap the brown liquid. A horse may be whinnying nearby, or I may be imagining that.
I’ll admit I once thought about making love to him surrounded by things he owned: good umbrellas, leather-bound books, letter openers. Hey, no fair, I heard myself say, referring to some fine shoehorn or vase, but looking at his mouth which I was about to kiss. That’s what I was going to get! We collapsed right into each other.
I know how to recover from dust in the eye, I could have said a second ago. This isn’t the first time dust has been in my eye. But it’s too late. He grips my chin, like a veterinarian giving a pill to a cat. The drops are giant and cool.
“Blink,” he says, his voice disturbing the hairs inside my ear. “You can see me, can’t you?”
The piece of dust floats away in a torrent and I close my arms around him, I smear my wet eyes on his soft, expensive shirt.
During this time, we all have many things to reckon with. My biggest one, so far, has been: How important are our jobs in the city? I have always known that my services as a pet carer are a luxury. That’s not true for my friends the supers, the doormen, and the housekeepers. (Well—more accurately—it’s not as true.) These past two weeks they have been scrambling, disinfecting doors, distributing endless shipments of food and toiletries, and fielding panicked calls from the tenants. My work, up until I began isolating on Sunday, remained stealthy; I slipped in and out. If I had not come to walk the dogs, they might not have noticed. And now, they are with their dogs. Me, I’m parked on the couch.
I’ve arranged my business and my lifestyle on purpose to be like this. I love that they want me, but I don’t want anyone to need me. And now that I have my own guilty luxury—of free time, time to reflect—I am thinking of all the workers we really do need. I hold special regard for the ones that sell us food. My local supermarket has been busy every day. These people need big raises. They don’t get, like, a commission for each item they scan the barcode of. It’s time, too, to be evaluating how to give money to our favorite restaurants now that they can’t serve food at the brisk pace they’re used to. I want to just go around some morning dropping off envelopes of cash, but that is my old way. These days it is risky to “go around” doing anything.
Medical workers, as we know, are heroes under any circumstance and especially now. How will we repay our doctors, nurses and EMTs, not once they’re out of danger, but right now, today?
For us, the (healthy) non-essential, our very notion of “work” has been suspended. Our city will look so different when we emerge on the other side. Just yesterday, I was hugely uplifted by a simple walk around the neighborhood and some time on a park bench, far from other people; how long before I get back to that as my daily routine? In the meantime, I will miss it so much, the animals, the streets… life. A big man at the concierge desk of one of the big buildings where I walk dogs told me two weeks ago that, soon, I wouldn’t see him anymore: he was retiring. I shook his hand. Then in the confusion, I forgot to go visit him on his last day. I’m thinking of him now—his decades of service, and how we will never again see the same Manhattan where he worked.
Here I am on YouTube, watching yet another episode of the British cable show “Away with Words.” In it, a nice bald-headed man travels around England teaching word origins, meeting different people along the way, from falconers to haberdashers to hot-air balloonists. In this one, he has spoken Gaelic in a pub, then walked along a canal, explaining its relation to the words “channel” and chanel. Such a prosaic setting; what is he doing here?! This affable TV host is Neil Innes, a figure in the periphery of both Monty Python and the Beatles. As a driving force of an absurdist Sixties pop band, Innes is responsible for some of the best, oddest music of that wildly inventive decade. Later, he created musical comedy that earned him enduring cult status. He’s arguably the greatest song parodist of all time.
Like all the weirdest kids of my generation, I loved Monty Python and the Holy Grail. My favorite part was the Brave Sir Robin song. It cracked me up, the lilting delivery of the violent list. But I didn’t know the identity of the minstrel, and couldn’t have guessed what a huge hole there would be in the entertainment world when he died last December.
I learned Neil Innes’s name when my family got a cassette called Dead Parrot Society, which we played in the car. I must have been 13 or so. Alongside other British comedians Neil sang “Protest Song,” live—with an F bomb that made my parents roar with laughter. Well into my twenties I’d find myself recalling its charm, the excellent lyrical craft of it, and how strange it was that such a short little fake folk song could be so memorable.
With “Protest Song,” Neil Innes also taught me the concept of it being fun to drink a bottle of wine by yourself. A more valuable life lesson, I can scarcely imagine.
One evening many years later, a fruitless search for Monty Python episodes online led me to watch Rutland Weekend Television, expecting little from Eric Idle’s post-Python series. It was a revelation. Neil’s parodies—some collected on the excellent Rutland Weekend Songbook LP—struck me as both goofy and dignified. Captivating. As a Beatle fan, I had more than a passing familiarity with the Rutles, his and Idle’s affectionate spoof of the Beatles which spawned two albums and a Lorne Michaels-produced 1978 film. But seeing at last where they came from was… well, it got me to here, watching Neil talk word etymology with the barber.
Being American, I was not exposed to his oeuvre the way I assume X-ennials were in Europe. For me it is not a question of it being hard to understand or access, culturally—and this is true of a lot of my American friends too—it’s just that it didn’t reach us. The Beatles and Monty Python, of course we knew. But not the Bonzos, let alone the Innes Book of Records and his solo albums and other TV shows. On behalf of 13-year-old me I remain particularly furious.
It turns out the Bonzo Dog Band, where it all began in the Sixties, are magnificent. They came from art school, with flair for painting and bricolage, and indeed few other bands can evoke such a strong visual sense. While their stage and TV performances were far out, as I can tell through the internet time machine, the sonic worlds in their records are even better. Neil Innes didn’t achieve this success alone, but three huge ingredients were his songwriting, his singing, and his virtuosity at the piano.
In the Bonzos, Innes looked to the future more than the past. ’68 tracks like “Rockaliser Baby” and my favorite, “Humanoid Boogie,” go harder than most glam rock nuggets of years later. (God I love “Humanoid Boogie” so much.) Where the bulk of their debut album, Gorilla, is a jazzy 1930s fever dream, Neil gives us baroque-pop in another favorite, “The Equestrian Statue.” But he also wrote and sang the delightful “Hello Mabel,” as great a trad jazz number as ever was tapdanced to.
Innes was not blessed with a gigantic singing voice like front man Vivian Stanshall; instead, his is precise and pure. Try not to swoon at the leap to the high note in “Equestrian Statue,” or the yodel in “Postcard.” And half the charm of “I’m the Urban Spaceman,” a beaut produced by Paul McCartney that would be the Bonzo Dog Band’s only hit, is in the pretty, slightly self-conscious vocal.
My main plea, though: give Gorilla a fresh listen, focusing on the piano parts (and harpsichord and other keyboards). From the album’s opening seconds, the piano is a lively, confident, ever-changing animal running through it, making the whole raucous jumble hang together. I’d also submit the spoken track “Rhino Cratic Oaths,” from The Doughnut in Granny’s Greenhouse. Stanshall delivers the monologue calmly, as the piano storms away to tell of insanity below the surface. Neil Innes is rightly praised as a lyricist and composer, but he’s underrated as a piano player and we can change this.
Post-Bonzos and pre-Python, Innes released three albums with a semi-surreal group called Grimms, whose personnel also included Stanshall and members of the Scaffold. My second-biggest plea is that you listen to this band—Neil’s contributions to it, at least! The subject matter is weird, approaching Zappa territory (“Rockin’ Duck” is rock ‘n’ roll piano plus duck call; “Backbreaker” is a love song to a lady wrestler), and the sound is freewheeling Seventies pub rock of the funnest order. Grimms members Ollie Halsall and John Halsey went on to be in the Rutles.
Before the Rutles, though, was Rutland Weekend Television. When Monty Python’s Flying Circus ended, Eric Idle launched this sketch show, a much tamer version of the anarchy the Pythons had wrought. He tapped Innes, who had made music for Python and even been on its writing staff for one season, to help him out with the songs.
Innes supplied magic to the no-budget series, through his bizarre costumed performances of which the Rutles’ “I Must Be in Love” was just one. The numbers have range: at one point Neil apes the Who’s Tommy; at another, with castmate Gwen Taylor, he sends up Fred Astaire and Judy Garland in Easter Parade. To boot, he is a powerful onscreen presence, lanky, broad shouldered, with a teddy-bear face. Watching him shine so brightly in this unlikely medium, you might identify Rutland Weekend as Neil Innes at his peak.
And then the Rutles come along.
George Harrison himself, who appeared in the movie and on a Rutland Weekend Christmas special, used to say he liked them better than the Beatles. By now I think I agree with him. The Rutles have the same fascinating quality as all of Neil’s music: for days, a song can stick in your mind as you pore over its many intricacies, singing it to yourself up and down the sidewalk. Rather than getting tiresome, it wears a groove into your memory and lives there forever, always available if you need a little fix of wit. My favorite Rutles tracks are “Piggy in the Middle,” “Get Up and Go,” and “Another Day”—I’d be in awe if the whole Rutles project were just those three songs. Lucky for me, there are dozens more, each waiting to be lovingly picked apart not just for its Beatles similarity, but for its own peculiar merit.
Delve deeper into the Innes catalog and discover him doing the same thing to scores of other artists, often too subtly to qualify straight up as pastiche or parody. I can hear him hover near Hoagy Carmichael, Ian Dury, Supertramp, Roy Orbison, Frank Sinatra, and many more. “Godfrey Daniel,” by contrast, is immediately recognizable as Elton John, albeit an Elton from some faraway dimension where Bernie Taupin makes handjob jokes.
Not everyone has the passion for comedic music that I do. It’s fine. But Innes is admired, even by plenty of grumps, because he was such a good musician. “Randy Raquel,” a ballad for a blow-up doll, is given a gently introspective slant until the romance is believable. “Front Loader,” which is about someone’s lust for their washing machine, would be abominable in the hands of a lesser talent. Innes sets it to a Stevie Wonder riff, rhymes “urgent” with “detergent,” and (forgive me) brings it off.
Yes, he can be corny. As with I like Cezanne, says Anne or knick-knack paddywhack, give a dog a humanoid, nursery rhymes and puns abound, giving the humor a dad-joke bonhomie; naughty it may be, but it is never cruel. On the other end of the continuum, quite a lot of his work brims with tenderness. Hush, hush, half the world is sleeping, he sings to country-rock guitar in a breathless lullaby.
“Time to Kill,” a sublime meditation on mortality and eternity (on IBoR it was set to WWI footage), brings a tear if I even think of it. But so does the painfully normal “Give it Up,” which is about quitting smoking. I can guess why Innes chose to embellish “Love is Getting Deeper” with a French accent and donkey bray: without them, it would be nothing but a domestic scene, just a little too sappy. There are more of these heart-tuggers, the most poignant being “How Sweet to Be an Idiot.” A simple arrangement for piano and voice, it was the title track of his first album and became his most famous solo tune. I have to wonder how much this wriest and funniest of men liked being called an idiot for the rest of his life, in jest, by rock critics trying to be clever.
In 1979, the Innes Book of Records series picked up where Rutland Weekend Television had left off, with songs and interstitial sketches, this time putting the music front and center. Compared to Rutland these films are slicker and more sophisticated, and owe much, undoubtedly, to Neil’s eye as a painter. Not all the clips are funny—actually none are LOL funny, but they’re charming, and some are sad.
In the ‘80s and ‘90s, Innes also poured his efforts into children’s television, writing songs and doing voiceover for several series including “East of the Moon,” a collaboration with his friend Terry Jones. He narrated the cartoon “The Raggy Dolls”—conveniently, one of the dolls has a French accent—and did its theme song. None of these things is as soothing to me as the gentle “Away with Words.” I can think of zero other rock stars who would ever agree to present a show like this. At first I assumed it was for kids, but it’s better suited to the elderly, with its wholesome activities like bingo, a visit to the printing press, and baking an eel pie. “We’ve all heard the expression ‘the eyes of a hawk,’” Neil says, before going on to list names of fighter planes that were named after hawks. He keeps still because a hawk is standing on his head.
The Rutles’ Archaeology arrived in 1996, with both Beatlemania and the shock of John Lennon’s murder worn off somewhat. Yet there had just been another tragedy to grease nostalgia’s wheels—the death of Vivian Stanshall. I’m mentioning this because whenever I study Neil Innes, including right now as I type, I can sense Viv at my elbow beseeching me not to forget him. Viv, baby, who could?
In the aughts, Innes led an emotional Bonzo Dog Band reunion with younger comedians filling the Stanshall role, including Adrian Edmondson and Stephen Fry. He also toured extensively on his own in Europe and the States—appearing at Beatlefest, playing on an outing with Yo La Tengo. (I, meanwhile, started working at a wonderful radio station that smiled upon my 13-year-old tastes.) While Neil’s fan base is a fraction of the Pythons’, those who like him, adore him. In public he honored them, as the many anecdotes attest. Sticking around after the show, concertgoers said, he would sign anything, pose for pictures, and chat at length. All this was slated to continue, and he was planning the first-ever U.S. Rutles tour when he passed away.
What I would tell those who knew Neil, or had the good fortune even to meet him, is how grateful I am that he lived and left us so much beauty. I’ve gotten frustrated in the past—where had he been all my life? Now I grasp that he was always with us fans, and always will be. The ethereal Urban Spaceman; the doomed medieval minstrel; the deadpan folk guitarist emptying his lungs into a harmonica; the quiet, determined soul playing piano in the middle of an art gallery with a plastic duck on his head. It seems to me they are all with us now more than ever.
One word, sweet, seemed to crop up in every tribute this past winter—a way to describe the pleasure Neil Innes gave people, as well as the humility that set him apart from his crowd of ultra-glamorous contemporaries. It doesn’t say enough about how good he was, how rare, but still… how sweet. Thanks, Neil, for rearranging our world and releasing us back into it, our brains dipped in joy.
“Splendid” isolation–the first day of my self-imposed quarantine. Hoping everyone out there is ready for this. Please check in on each other and tell your loved ones you’re thinking of them. Also, make art or write, if you do that. I recommend creativity as a way to reset your brain and focus on something beautiful; it doesn’t have to be seen by anyone else. Sometimes, strangely and at seemingly unlikely junctures, “art” just happens, resulting in a surge of comfort. Anyway. I’m wishing for health and peace within each of us, and for the path there to become clear no matter how long it takes. Love love love to everyone reading my post.
Today is the anniversary of “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen,” the final episode of M*A*S*H. It was 37 years ago that TV’s version of the Korean War ended and all the personnel shipped home, in a cloud of series-finale-worthy tears and hugs. As you may know, I like M*A*S*H a lot; recently we lost its co-creator Gene Reynolds, a lifelong Hollywood figure who produced, wrote, and directed dozens of the shows.
Reynolds had an immeasurable influence on M*A*S*H, the way he did on the many other TV series he made. (“Blossom,” anyone??) He was one of a small handful of people, Alan Alda among them, who saw M*A*S*H through its brilliant middle seasons, preserving the serious overtones necessary in a war narrative without losing the show’s black-comedy foundation. My absolute favorite of his episodes is “Hanky Panky,” which sees BJ Hunnicutt experience a morality lapse, suffering guilt after cheating on his wife with a company nurse.
When I met a group of M*A*S*H fans online, I was surprised to learn this was an unpopular episode with them–BJ is known for his devotion to his wife and family, and being a “good guy” in general, so this seemed out of character. But that’s why I like it. Good guys do make mistakes, and many guys also react the way BJ does the next day, turning icy around his one-night stand and refusing to talk to her, because this is somehow more “good” or virtuous than being her friend. Gene Reynolds wrote and directed this show, on which he was also the executive producer. The actress Ann Sweeny, who played Carrie Donovan, married Reynolds in 1979 and they were together until his death.
2020 has also taken M*A*S*H’s Kellye Nakahara Wallett, whose Nurse Kellye was a part of the series for all 11 seasons. In learning about M*A*S*H, I was always happy to find that Nakahara gave every indication of being like her TV alter ego. In interviews, she was funny, down-to-earth, and sweet, with a strong core of independence. While she did not work much as an actor post M*A*S*H, she continued with her original vocation as a painter. She was a dearly beloved member of the cast, with a robust fan following too.
See a gallery of Kellye’s work here, along with a nice biography.
And here, read MeTV’s article about Kellye’s origins on the show and as an actress.