In the 1970s and ’80s, at a time when the comedy world was dominated by white men with a few exceptions (Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy), Merle was as much a social commentator as he was mocking Wonder Bread’s middle-of-the-road America, but he didn’t realize it until he found himself laughing at his own neighborhood.
Check out the mustache wink when, during his tour of suburban homes as a sweater-wearing mockumentary host, he spots a pile of Wild Goose drink coasters on a coffee table. “The History of White People in America” And he acts like he’s found the Dead Sea Scrolls. The coasters are “here to protect the natural wood, just in case,” he says, holding up one as a visual aid.
Merle would go on to steal leading roles in Veep and Arrested Development, but for me his best performance was as sleazy TV host Bass Gimble in Fernwood 2 Night, a satirical late-night talk show created by Norman Lear that aired in the summer of 1977. During his Johnny Carson years, Gimble was the precursor to Garry Shandling’s Larry Sanders and Zach Galifianakis’ Two Ferns personas, and also featured the now-deceased Willard as a foil to the crimes.
I would like to write another message of gratitude about Mars. PaintingWe’ll talk about his time at the Rhode Island School of Design and how, over the years, Malle has built a career where his hyperrealist work has been exhibited in galleries and museums and even featured on book and album covers.
But as we mourn Merle, I want to focus on his music, because in the 1970s Merle produced some of the greatest song parodies ever put to vinyl. No half measures allowed here. He played a Gibson archtop guitar well, Swap ricks for Glen CampbellHowever, he was not shy about picking up the tuba or sousaphone when the instrument was needed. During his career, Merle has opened for Bruce Springsteen, Frank Zappa and Billy Joel.
These records and performances built a bridge between MIT professor-turned-parodist Tom Lehrer and the emergence of “Weird Al” Yankovic in the MTV era.
What Mull understands is that to poke fun at a form, you have to submit to it. So in “Do the Nothing,” he takes what appears to be a catchy song about a popular new dance move, but as the title suggests, the dance is completely meaningless, and he showers the audience with applause. He even stops the performance at the chorus to prove his point, but the applause continues awkwardly. When the audience is told to applaud the star performer, they do so whether there’s something happening to applaud or not. Mull begins praising each member of the band, even though they haven’t played a single note.
In another song, “Jesus Christ Football Star,” after Satan takes an onside kick and Matthew “thinks fast” to recover and Christian gets a 10-yard first down, he sings in a gospel-like voice: “Give Jesus Christ the football/Let’s tie the score/Slide it through the crossbar/No more crosses.”
Whenever I have the opportunity to play Mull songs for friends or family who don’t know anything about them, “Ukulele Blues” Recorded in 1973, he manages to so perfectly mock the white tradition of cultural appropriation at a time when countless black blues artists were watching Eric Clapton, Led Zeppelin and even Ram Jam cash in on original material that “Ukulele Blues” sounds almost obligatory, like a kind of wisecracking sermon. But it’s not that at all.
As Merle reminds us in his lengthy introduction, the blues is all about returning to one’s roots, and in this case, he stays in character and says he’s thinking about his grandfather, who was “doing very well” in real estate and lived in the heart of Cleveland’s Lake Erie Delta.
“A lot of people think you have to be poor to play the blues,” he says with a disdainful laugh. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Then Mal, who often performed in a yellow tuxedo and bow tie, begins strumming an open-tuned ukulele on his lap. Mississippi’s Fred McDowell sawed off the neck of a Gordon’s gin bottle for a slide. Mal? He’s using a baby bottle, and he manages to provide a compelling musical accompaniment to his tale of suburban woe.
When I woke up in the afternoon, both cars were gone.
I woke up this afternoon, Mom, and both of my cars were gone.
I was so heartbroken that I threw my drink across the lawn.
By the end of the ’70s, Malle had stopped recording music, but he never gave up the tools that made those records special – his knowledge, skill and dedication to the role – that helped him continue to defy cultural norms on screen, making him a true, irreplaceable original.
