Anatomy of a Failed Joke

This article may be a bit esoteric. But it's my blog. So deal.

Last night, my parents and I attended a showing of "The Adams Family," a new musical adaptation of the New Yorker strips/television shows/movies, currently in its Pre-Broadway run here in Chicago. The cast, featuring Nathan Lane, Bebe Neuwirth, Krysta Rodriguez, and a spectacularly under-utilized Terence Mann, was the obvious highlight, and the show was enjoyable enough. It was by no means spectacular, but I was rarely less than entertained. It's still early in the run, so as the show continues to tighten up, it can only get better; I like to give faith to such things. But I'm not here to write a review of the show. I'll leave that to the pros.

I'm here to give you a spectacular example of how a joke can fail, on every possible level, and yet still draw a massive laugh from the audience.

Over the course of the show, I counted three jokes which relied on current events as a reference. Two were easy, and none felt like they belonged in the show. Yet all three drew massive laughs from the audience. In fact, they were probably the biggest laughs of the night.

1. Gomez is told that a boy Wednesday has a crush on will be taken back to Ohio by his parents, and Gomez replies, "Ohio! A swing state! Monstrous!" I, admittedly, giggled here.

2. A character comments that love is something "we all need, and that there isn't enough of." Morticia replies, "Like healthcare." This drew a huge laugh from, seemingly, everyone but me.

3. The grandmother is telling Pugsly about a potion which "takes the lid off the Id." She says that "One sip of this stuff'll turn Mary Poppins into Madea." Pugsley, and I do give the writers credit here, replies, "I don't understand your references." The grandmother replies, "Well, if you kids'd stop all the damn texting and pick up a book..." The rest of the line was lost in the uproar of laughter and, I'll add, a stunning amount of applause.

This third one is the one I'd like to focus on. It is the best example I've ever seen of a joke failing on every level, as far as a writer's concerned, and I'd like to take the opportunity to analyze it. Also, what afflicts the first two jokes is evident here, and so it would be redundant to review all three.

First and foremost, and here is where all three jokes err, the joke shows complete disregard for the characters involved. This is a play about The Adams Family. Their biggest, basest factor is that, as far as the world goes, they are completely aloof. Gomez wouldn't know what a swing state is. Morticia would not know about healthcare. Grandma Adams certainly wouldn't know who Mary Poppins is, let alone Madea. Pugsly doesn't have any friends except his sister, so he wouldn't be texting anyone. We never once see any of the Adams using anything electronic. It fails on truth to the characters, the most important factor in comedy.

Second, the joke relies on Grandma Adams admonishing Pugsly for not knowing who Mary Poppins and Madea are, which is fine, except none of the audience knew who Madea was either. So... right. If the joke had stopped at "I don't understand your references," this actually would have been a decent joke, as there is a running gag in the play that suggests Grandma Adams isn't a part of the family at all, which would explain how she knows who Mary Poppins and Madea are, and it would have been true to the family, with Pugsly's admitting that he doesn't know what she's talking about. It also would have been a sly wink to the audience that the authors figured most of them wouldn't know who Madea is. But it didn't stop there, so never mind.

Finally, Grandma Adams references two movies, only to admonish Pugsly for texting too much and not reading enough. Yes, I know Mary Poppins is also a book, but we all know it from the movie, and don't pretend you don't. So she references a classic Disney film and a certifiably non-classic, modern comedy film, and then chastises Pugsly for not reading enough... the connection does not exist between the two points, and the comedy shouldn't work. It doesn't, actually. If you're paying attention. Clearly I was the only one who was.

Yet, this drew the single largest laugh of the night. It drew the longest howls of approval. It drew rampant applause and cat calls. It was the worst joke in the play. It was out of character and out of situation. It was as broad as comedy gets. Somehow, our attention spans have gotten to the point where no one heard anything prior to "Well, if you kids'd stop..," and decided they approved.

This is why soundbites work.

American Saturday Night

Fact of the matter is, most of us write off country. This is not entirely our fault, collectively; There are two kinds of country, and one of them really, really sucks. The kind that sucks, "country," is the sort that tends to dominate the airwaves today. It's bland pop with a twang and lyrics that not only aim, but pander directly to, as much as I hate to bring politics into this, "Real America." The music is boring, and the lyrics are "folksy" in that patronizing sort of way. But I've been told I just don't understand the concept of easy entertainment, so maybe this is my shortfall.

At any rate, the good kind of Country, "Country" (with a capital "C," as opposed to the lower-case), is Johnny Cash, Willy Nelson, and Hank Williams. I refer to this, with the wonderful sense of superiority you can only get from a condescending maxim, as "Real Country." What separates Country from country? Well, there are a lot of things. There's a genuine element in Country which is sorely missing in country. And country sounds like someone took a belt sander to Country, removing all the interesting bits that gave it a feeling all its own. They, and by "They" I suppose I mean "The Country Man" or some equally ambiguous, omnipotent bastard, made it really boring.

The future of "Country" is looking pretty bleak, really. Which brings me to an exception to the rule.

My parents listen to country. They don't enjoy Country, though both will lie to you and say they do. The point is I spent a lot of time in the car with them during high school, and most of the music was less than enjoyable. I started grabbing onto certain songs I could find a thrill in. This was during my musical awakening, of course, and anything I could grasp, to make the ride less torturous, was appreciated. There was "Friends in Low Places," which is just a great song, no matter your tastes. There was a nice cover of "Here Comes My Baby" by, uh... that band... yeah. But there was also "I'm Gonna Miss Her." It started simply enough, and, being fair, it started with a roll of my eyes. It opens slow, a man discussing his proclivity for fishing, and his wife's disapproval of said fishing. She meets him at the door, and gives him an ultimatum; you go fishing today, and I'm leaving. I listened to all of this with the withdrawn disdain only high schoolers seem capable of mustering (the rest of us have learned it's really not worth all the effort). But then the song did something unexpected.

The tempo picked up, and Brad Paisley, as that was his name, declared, "Well... I'm gonna miss her." It's such an inspired moment, so well-realised, so without artifice, that you smile. I smiled. Yes, I broke my condescension, my ever-important sense of superiority, and smiled. I even enjoyed it. So "I'm Gonna Miss Her" joined my list of exceptions to the rule, those country songs which I could enjoy. (For the record, I consider "Friends in Low Places" to be Country)

I started keeping an ear out for more Brad Paisley. Over the ensuing months, I started noticing not just that his songs were funny and had a personality, but that his guitar was on fire, seemingly as a regular condition. This is a man I would rank in the Top 100 guitar players going today, with a strong, strong eye on my Top 20 faves, all time. He's that good. And that subtle, too. These are country songs, after all. So there are solos, but they are short. It's his lead work during the verses that really impresses. Limber without being showy.

This year, Brad Paisley released his seventh album, American Saturday Night. The reviews for it were splendid, and so I decided to venture forth and acquire a copy of a country album. This is new territory for all of us, I'm sure. Before I continue, I should note, that this album is brilliant, and you should buy it. Now.

One of the things Nashville albums are known for, to the extent that it has to be accounted for when reviewing a country album, is filler. A typical Nashville record has four or five singles, and the rest is detritus, used to fill the space. This album doesn't have any of that. Every track here, and I never say this, could be a single in the right context. A few are too slow, too subtle for that to happen, but they could be.

The songs here manage to be clever and heartfelt. They're original while staying familiar, which is a high compliment for country. Remember, this is meant to be enjoyed. It's not Animal Collective; you aren't supposed to work at it. It is simply meant to be. And it is. The melodies will stick in your head, and so will the lyrics. Is it schmaltzy? Of course, but in just the right dosing. "Anything Like Me" is about Paisley's first son, saying "It's safe to say that,/ I'll get my payback,/ if he's anything like me." At the moment, it's my favourite song on the album. Paisley's greatest strength is his honesty; "The years are gonna fly by./ I already dread the day,/ he's gonna hug his momma, he's gonna shake my hand, he's gonna act like he can't wait to leave./ But as he drives out,/ he'll cry his eyes out,/ if he's anything like me." Say what you want, but not only is it enjoyable, it's affecting; it made me feel fuzzy inside. The only other album to do that this year? Merriweather Post Pavillion, by Animal Collective. I just blew your mind.

So here we have an album that's hits, and only hits; this could have been released as a best-of, and I'd have believed it. And here we have a formidable songwriter operating at what I can only assume is the peaks of his powers. And here we have a backing band in peak shape, sounding like their having fun! Weird!

Brad Paisley makes country. He does. I can't pretend he doesn't. Yet, yet, his music, it's clever, it's original, it's genuine, it's touching, it's fun, for fuck's sake! And it has a bit of a honky tonk, swingin' personality to it, which makes it musically interesting. So maybe it's Country after all, and maybe the future isn't looking so bad as far as that goes.

This American Life

"This American Life" is a program hosted by Ira Glass. Some of you will be familiar with it. Most will know it from National Public Radio, where it has been broadcasting for the last (almost) fifteen years now. I've listened to the program once or twice, though I can't claim to be a regular contributor to the ratings.

For two seasons, one in 2007 and one in 2008, This American Life was a television program on Showtime. Each season consists of six episodes, all but one of which are just shy of thirty minutes long. Each consists of anywhere from one to four stories, all revolving around a loosely observed theme for the evening. I'll not that these themes were very, very loosely observed.

It is, I should warn you, a quiet program. There's no flash to any of the stories, as they are all, get this, real. They are all true-to-life things which could happen to any of us at any time. The narrators are subdued, and the stories are refreshingly bereft of an angle. It's all honest reporting, or very natural story telling. This is not to say This American Life doesn't have a sense of humor; the second episode of the first season closes with five minutes of a woman reading her (real) eighth grade diary to a crowded room, and it is hilarious from start to finish.

Whether laughs are had or not, the real magic in This American Life is its honesty. The people under the watchful eyes of the cameras don't hide anything. They don't attempt to, either, which is just as important. The stories are varied, taking in retirement home residents who decide to make a movie, a pair of boxers fighting for their low-level careers, a thirteen-year-old who has vowed never to be in love... the most stunning episodes are also the most unexpected. There is an episode which started as a film about the filmmaker's favorite people, but ended up capturing the implosion of a marriage. Another, possibly the most touching episode, was started as an attempt by the filmmaker to illustrate how terrible a person his stepfather was, only to end up restoring some of the balance and honesty to his entire family. It was incredible.

This is a show that revels in the small, the seemingly insignificant things. The last episode is masterful, a story following the lives of seven separate John Smiths, each at a different age between 11 weeks and eighty. It serves as a wonderful epitaph for the program, and, because of the amount of footage taken of each individual, features some of the most honest moments. There is a beauty in a seventy-year-old John Smith watching footage of his children, taken in the 1960's, commenting on his daughter, and then noting his son. I want to bring your attention to how he describes his son's story: "He, well, he fell into a lifestyle I don't understand, and... he got sick from it." To watch this line spoken is to have your heart broken. He isn't judgmental of his son, he isn't upset that his son was gay; he is simply honest about it. He doesn't understand the lifestyle, but the boy was still his son, and he loved him. John and his wife visit the grave frequently, and when the son asked if he could come die at home, his parents didn't even give it a second though. Of course he could, he was their son.

The diary reading I mentioned is one of the funniest things I've seen in some time, and the final episode is one of the truest. In between, you'll find every aspect of American life shown in unexpected and delightful ways. It's a shame the production schedule was such that Ira Glass asked it to be removed from Showtime for the future, but rest assured I will be contributing to those ratings soon enough.

Up and Coming

So, listen, I'm not reliable. I know. And as my schedule gets busier, it gets worse. But, here's the deal; I just finished reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, and I'm going to give it one hell of a review. It may take me a month or two to write it, though. So bear with me. Because it should be worth it.

I've seen Men In Black maybe five times in my life. The first time I saw it, when it was in theaters, I thought it was great. The second time I saw it, I didn't like it that much. The third time, I thought it was great. The fourth time... etc. You may see a pattern developing.

Ignore the Ignorant is like Men In Black, but with extra Johnny Marr for flavor. Yes, The Cribs have been joined this time around by the former Smith, Pretender, Modest Mouser, Electronic(er?), none other than Johnny Marr. It's almost easier to list the people he hasn't worked with, to be honest. Come to think of it, he's been on every Pet Shop Boy since the mid-nineties, as well. But I'm getting off the point.

Ignore the Ignorant is, I suppose, good. The first time, I loved it. The second time, I thought it was thoroughly uninspired. The third? Well, it seems to be leveling out at "good." "Decent," maybe. The point is, if you like a punk attitude with slightly less-punk wrappings, this is the album for you. It's a step up from where they've been, certainly. But I probably won't remember it within the next six months.

I will most certainly remember the newest from The Flaming Lips, Embryonic. You don't really have a choice, honestly. From the moment Wayne Coyne starts talking about the difference between us on "Convinced of the Hex," this is clearly not the same Flaming Lips we've been exposed to for the last decade; they've cleaned up their act by getting really, really messy, and it's brilliant. It's haphazard, certainly, and overwhelming the first time, but once you sort it out, it's a great trip. Getting in a room and jamming it out suits these boys quite well. Not, by any means, for everyone, but if it were, it wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

Pure Pop for Now People

NOTE: The grading system has been eradicated. I began to feel it was too arbitrary, and when I was spending five minutes sitting at my keyboard deciding between a B- and a B, I knew it was a silly pursuit. Just read the reviews. They should give you the idea.

Thank you, patient readers, for waiting for me for so long. I apologize, it's been three weeks since my last post, but I have a pair of Power-Pop reviews, and this will be followed up in the coming days by reviews of the latest from The Flaming Lips, The Cribs, and Raekwon. Yes, that Raekwon.

My Old, Familiar Friend
(2009)
Brendan Benson

Brendan Benson, for those in the know (and who isn't?), is the other leader of Jack White's Raconteurs project. He used to be, at any rate, before White did that thing he inevitably does where he takes control. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but it's a habit worth noting. At any rate, Benson is responsible for "Steady As She Goes," the best moment in the Raconteurs' collected output, and he was behind much of the first album. His is a very pure pop style; this is a man who listens to a lot of Big Star. The early Big Star, that is. Or, if he does listen to Third/Sister Lovers, he doesn't let it show.

At any rate, this is perky, perky, perky stuff. Emphasis on that last "perky." Opener "A Whole Lot Better" is a barnstormer of a single. It has the instant familiarity of a great single, sounding like it came out sometime around, oh, 1976. Yeah, that sounds about right. It also, as a perk, features a legitimately wonderful, simple lyric; "I change my mind every time that the wind blows," he sings with such enthusiasm that you can't help but think that may not be such a bad thing. It's on the radio from time to time, and you, yes, you, should check it out.

Unfortunately, for me at least, the album goes downhill from there. Not because it fails in its mission; far from it. I have a love-hate relationship with this kind of pop; the same influences that propel Benson forward are also responsible for Spoon, but Spoon had the sense to listen to some Pixies records once in a while, which keeps things, erm, grimy. It's too Pure, this pop is, which isn't really the problem; Elvis Costello's "Oliver's Army" is a Pop record, no bones about it, but Costello included weird harmonies, and wasn't afraid to use "nigger" in a sentence. Benson would probably shrivel into a ball, which is to say his lyrics don't make up for the sugar. This is a problem I will undoubtedly be alone in having, as is often the case. A very good Pop record, then, but not something I'll listen to much. Well, "A Whole Lot Better" may prove an exception...

The Boy Who Knew Too Much
(2009)
Mika

Let's be clear, "Grace Kelly," Mika's debut single from, what, 2007?, is brilliant. If you're its audience, it fills you with energy, enthusiasm, glee, vim and vigor, and if you're not its audience, it must just annoy the piss out of you. These are the things Great Pop is supposed to. Well, Great Pop which is aware of its existence as Great Pop is supposed to, anyway. This is why Coldplay are brilliant at what they do; Mika, Coldplay, U2, and Queen are all of a similar vein. Keep in mind, Mika is definitively the least deserving of that company, I'm not putting these people in tiers. I'm simply referring to the particular race they run; music written for the masses, not for the writer. There's nothing wrong with this, in principle. "Bohemian Rhapsody" is God coming through your speakers.

I bring up Queen because Mika and Freddy Mercury were cut from the same overtly melodramatic clothe, and Mika doesn't hide it. This is mostly because he finds the thought comforting, and a sort of Manifest Destiny. At any rate, his songs are Pop to the point where even I cringe. Listening to Mika is a lot like listening to an entire ELO album; when you're done, your brain kinda hurts, even though you're pretty sure you had a good time, and you think you want to do it again, but you don't know why. Each Mika album contains one ringer, though, and if his first had "Grace Kelly," The Boy Who Knew Too Much has "Rain," which is just Euro-Disco Pop, but better. It's all minor-tones, with whirling synths and a pulsing back beat which will get your feet moving whether you want it to or not.

Much like Mr. Benson, the album is immaculate in its construction, and every track is a technical ringer. Whereas Benson aims for guitar hooks which could land a whale, Mika uses everything, and there isn't an aspect of his songs which couldn't qualify as a hook; it depends on how you feel about hooks. I, for one, am cynical that way. Pure Pop is the hardest to pull off; you have to make it tricky while allowing everyone to think they could do it themselves. Both boys succeed wildly at that.

There is a stack of CDs sitting on my desk. I am falling behind. Thanks to work and academia, my rate of musical, literary, and cinematic consumption has dive-bombed into the basement. It is not a coincidence that my posts for this blog have dropped off as well, but beyond that, most of what I've listened to lately has failed to inspire. Here are two higher-profile albums I've listened to that didn't seem inclined towards a full-length review, and a book I know none of you will read, but I'm inclined to recommend anyway.

The new album by The Dead Weather, better known as Jack White's most recent project, goes by the ominous moniker of Horehound. Great name, but I'm not so sure about the album. It's more unusual than it is good or bad, which for some is a great thing. For me, that means it's alright. I don't typically appreciate weird for the sake of weird. It's a throwback to lo-fi sixties garage groups, combined with elements of straight-forward rock for which White is known, and while it succeeds spectacularly in that capacity, that's not a sound I necessarily needed back. So it could go either way for you, really. (Grade: B-)

The latest from Muse, The Resistance, is quite the disappointment. I enjoy not just the music of Muse, but their attitude in pulling it off. They take Over-the-Top to a whole new level, and firmly have their tongue-in-cheek while doing so. I love Absolution and Black Holes and Revelations, their last two, both of which served to provide the audience with a sense of the absurd mixed in with killer singles. Muse seem to have taken a step sideways with this one, and possibly a few steps back. Is it more grandiose than before? Unquestionably. The music is filled with the flourishing accompaniments of a real orchestra, and songs like "United States of Eurasia" are inherently ridiculous, as one expects from these space cases. But the lyrics are urbane where they used to be negligible, and the music is bland in places where it used to surprise. Not their best, then. (Grade: C-)

In books, I've finally finished volume 1 of Tocqueville's Democracy in America. It may have been written just short of 200 years ago, but this in-depth look at the American system of government as it came into adulthood is fascinating, and well worth the time. A balanced critic and admirer, Tocqueville never comes across as one-sided, always giving air time to all pertinent perspectives. None of you will read it, I know, but it's really rather brilliant. (Grade: A)