Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-Goosesteps

The wrap-up to the UNDER THE BIG TOP saga, the vaudeville that paired with the revival of DOWNFALL OF THE UPRISING OR WHO DO THE VOODOO?, my first show at the Ville.

So it's time to address the German elephant in the room. 

During our first vaudeville rehearsal, director Phil De Angelo ran down his lineup of the show, mentioning that there would be a big production number smack dab in the middle featuring the entire cast. The name alone gob-smacked me into next Tuesday: "Springtime for Hitler" from Mel Brooks' first movie, the comedy classic THE PRODUCERS. At the time, Brooks was primarily known for BLAZING SADDLES and YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN. His debut had still been pretty of a cult film and it would be almost 25 years before a musical adaptation opened on Broadway.

I love THE PRODUCERS, considering it to be a near masterpiece of film comedies as well as being crazy about the "Springtime" number itself in the film. The fact that this would be considered to be part a Pollardville production seemed to me at least ill advised. It's all a matter of context. The crooked Broadway producers of the source material purposely search for the most offensive and worst stage property they can find in order to raise the money, close the show early and collect what's left over. It's supposed to be gawdawful given the subject matter alone. Would an audience get the obvious parody of the song taken out of its natural element? And not just any audience, but a Pollardville audience?

For some reason, my recollections of the number itself including the rehearsals thereof are sketchy at
best. I don't recall the choreography (though there might have been a goosesteps thrown in for "good" measure) or how it had been staged. I do remember wearing a cheap plastic Nazi helmet along with my fellow cast members and a few odd bits here and there. To introduce the number, Bob Gossett as Groucho Marx began: "Ah, Germany, home of Hansel and Gretel and war!" (the funniest line or bit in the whole thing as far as I was concerned) Out we came singing the opening verse of this satirical song until in walked Hitler just in time for the chorus. In the film and subsequent productions, this part was merely a stormtrooper, but Phil promoted him to the Fuehrer himself. He was portrayed by Vincent Warren, who it should be noted, is African American and wore a dash of white paint to give the appearance of Schicklgruber's mustache or at least a negative version of it. That was basically the big joke of the piece and did garner a decent crowd reaction, though it might have been a tension reliever since they reacted pretty close how the audience did in the movie. While we managed to garner polite applause, it frankly wasn't very enthusiastic.

"Springtime" had problems to be sure which were addressed at brush up rehearsals. At the first run through, Grant Phillips barely made it onstage in time, losing his pants in the process. Phil yelled out, "Leave it in!" He also suggested a kicker to the piece. Hitler and Eva Braun (possibly to be played by  Monica Dale in a blonde wig as I recall) would join Groucho Bob on a side stage and drink a toast to each other as The Karl Marx Brothers. Then Adolph and Eva would keel over dead from their poisoned cocktails. Groucho would then quip: "Well, I always wanted to be a single." It didn't fly, but the dropping of the pants remained since it didn't require a fly.

To the best of my knowledge, we didn't receive any complaints from the audience initially nor did this result in any walkouts. However, during one performance, we finally did get some blow back. Hoo boy, did we ever. Attendance that Friday night was not  the best, maybe a third full, just above the cancellation level. The show moved along swimmingly until the midway point when it was time again for "Springtime for You Know Who". One of the audience members obviously didn't get the joke and utterly blew a gasket. He stood in the fourth aisle and maniacally began thrusting his arm forward in a Nazi salute and yelling, "Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!" From the stage, we could only stare in disbelief and confusion as we struggled through the number. Whoever had accompanied this gentleman attempted to get him to return to his seat, but he was having none of it, remaining standing in the fourth aisle, continuing to holler and saluting his Germanic karate chops. He gave me the impression he might rush the stage at any moment. Thankfully, we got through it and moved on with the rest of the olios, unaware of what happened to our "critic". As it turned out, he managed to last all the way through to the finale, sticking around afterward because maybe he wanted some answers from somebody, anybody for that matter. I believe Phil took it upon himself himself to have a spirited conversation with this gentleman after the show. He found that this guy had no clue in the world about THE PRODUCERS or the song itself, so in his eyes and ears, this was a full blown tribute perhaps? To put it bluntly, this caused him to totally lose his shit. Phil managed to appease him. He went away, maybe not happy, but at least mildly relieved our show wasn't underwritten by the American Nazi Party.  Fortunately that was the only time something like that occurred, but it did leave some of us a little gun-shy, so to speak.

We finished the show with a gospel finale, quite the turnabout from that earlier number. Wiping off his white moustache and leaving Hitler behind, Vincent came out on top regaling one and all with his spectacular rendition "His Eye Is On The Sparrow" while the rest of us joined in, banging our tambourines in the name of the Lord. Maybe it was enough to redeem ourselves and soothe our angry patron or anyone else for that matter enough so as to not rejoin the French Resistance.

As a post script, I should add that ten years later in my last show, the olios were ALL THIS AND WORLD WAR TWO directed by Carmen Musch. In it was another Hitler number, this one DER FUEHRER'S FACE, an old Spike Jones parody song also featured in a anti-Nazi propaganda Walt Disney cartoon featuring Donald Duck. The context of this song was immediate, involving a lot of wet raspberries spit into the lead singer's face, me. The audience, immediately in on the joke, ate it up. And as for me, I just realized that my time at Pollardville was bookended by Nazis. Oy vey.

So ended UNDER THE BIG TOP, a roller coaster of a vaudeville that served, along with the melodrama DOWNFALL OF THE RISING, as my debut on the Palace Showboat stage. As tumultuous as the experience had been,, I couldn't have had a better or more memorable experience as my first show. Sure, there was drama o' plenty, a lot of slapstick, some injuries, but also a whole lotta laughs and, for me, wish fulfillment. I always said that Pollardville allowed me to do everything I ever wanted to do in show business and this show was only the beginning of a wild ride. So, in essence, this is my origin story.

PART ONE OF UNDER THE BIG TOP-BE A CLOWN

PART TWO-THE ADVENTURES OF CRASH POLLARD

MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE

Robin Dead Breast

He rocks in the tree tops all day long

Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singing his song
All the little birds on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet

Rockin' robin (Tweet x 3)
Rockin' robin (Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee)
Go rockin' robin
'Cause we're really gonna rock tonight
(Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee)
"Rockin Robin" written by  Jimmie Thomas (Leon Rene), sung by Bobby Day (1958) and Michael Jackson (1972)

Spooky-ass spring so far here in the Pacific Northwest. Here's the reason why.

We're being terrorized by demonic bug-eyed robins. They pound into our front windows and door,  scratching them from their muddy talons or flapping away with dirty wings. Yesterday it was the patio door and the side of the Volkswagen. Often, they just perch on the window sills and stare in with their sick dead eyes.These seem to be targeted attacks. Nobody else's cars or homes have been touched by these rob-zombies, and we live in a town home next to several others. There's probably a "logical" explanation for this, but not what I suspect:

It's witchcraft. Not the touchy-feely, incense burning, I-used-to-be-a-hippie-but-now-I'm-not Wiccan type of wiches either. Okay, maybe not the pointy hat, but the cauldron for sure or a crock pot version of same.

We have some neighbors who live at the end of our street on the corner of the main thoroughfare. I would say they were Russian or from some east European country like Pottsylvania or something. They have a couple of toddlers that they like to traipse over to our minuscule courtyard and romp about like it's goddamn central Park. There's a larger, more open area just a half a block down, but they like ours for some reason, mainly so that the kids can draw on the sidewalks with their chalk. The grandmother who watches the lil' tykes encourages them to do so and it does leave a mess.

This annoys my wife who has gone out after they are gone and cleans the chalk drawings off the walls and sidewalk. She thinks they should use their own area for their artwork. A couple of weeks back, they were at it again when Laurie went out to tell them to please stop. The grandmother, who may or may not speak any or little English, just looked up and said, "Thank you."

They haven't been back since.

BUT....

The next day, the crazy ass robins appeared and haven't let up. These creatures sit on the bench outside our front window or perch on their windowsill and peer in with their sick wet eyes, taunting us the entire time.

"Hey! Whatcu doin'? Drinkin' coffee? Watchin' TV? What's on? What's on Animal Planet? Is that David Attenborough I hear? Turn 'im up!"                 

Hitchcock missed a good bet when he didn't include these maniacal sky bastards in THE BIRDS.

But it's not voodoo. That's just silly. Somebody already has a voodoo doll of me. I know the difference I've had mysterious aches and pains for years that can only be attributed to a doll with my likeness, prodded, stabbed and violated in various fashions. Whoever has it I'm sure is going to give it to the dog for a chew toy.

But I'm Hungarian. I know that old dame put a gypsy curse on us or at least on the robins, telling them in her best Maria Ouspenskaya:

"They hate the children. Now you hate them. Go! Attack! Fly, my robin warriors, fly!"

Then she checks the palms of the children for the sign of the pentagram.

Okay. It's nesting season, sure. We had barn swallows built a nest in the corner of our porch a few years back. I asked the Audubon Society how I should get rid of them and that told me to leave 'em be. They were protected. We weren't when we tried to get out the front door. Once they flew the coop, I evicted them once and for all. These robin red breasts (not even fucking red but umber, for God's sake) have the spring crazies alright, but I think the witchy woman's tapped into their vulnerability and bent them to her will.

I'm beginning to sound like the concierge in the 1968 Mel Brooks classic THE PRODUCERS. These demented fowl are definitely "Dirty, disgusting, filthy, lice-ridden boids."

Rockin' robin, my ass. Rotten robin's more like it.

But what the hell do I know? Maybe it is voodoo.

Ouch!

See?