Woody Bop Muddy
16 March 2003
Comedy has been the new rock ‘n roll for about 20 years now and doesn’t seem to be showing signs of slowing. The Porter Cellar Bar becomes The Comedy Cavern every Sunday night and on this night, like most Sundays, it was rammed with punters looking for a laugh. These are paying punters, I should add; pubs are rarely this full for music even when it is free. Being a musician and music writer, I find this a bit galling.
The laughs began with Martin Beaumont, a middle-aged man looking like Rory Bremner in blue Levis, a big, baggy T shirt, and white sneakers. Obviously an impersonation of an American tourist, I thought, but no, it’s just how he dresses.
Martin started conveying that slightly nervous, trying-too-hard feeling I get from many comedians; I was worried. But he very quickly got into gear and we were sailing.
Martin Beaumont is a pro. He knows how to pace his delivery, how to use the audience, how to make hecklers part of the show, all that stuff that comes with years of experience.
On the other hand, Martin Beamuont is a pro. You know, the tried and true jokes, the common targets, the feeling that this is just a succession of jokes about people on drugs, tourists, take my wife… please. But still, no denying it: funny as hell.
There was a brief interlude when a fledling comic was introduced and did the world’s shortest set – mercifully. He, who shall remain nameless, was nervous in the extreme and didn’t get over it. He’s probably stll not over it. The audience was very good-natured, clapping him well, not destroying his self-esteem. Who says the English are cruel? New Yorkers would have been on him like wolves on a straggling lamb.
If comedy is the new rock ‘n roll, Woody Bop Muddy is where they meet. Mr. Muddy, looking like a less vague Ozzie Osbourne, is a direct descendent of the late, great Sam Kinison, a living, fire-breathing vehicle for completely over-the-top wildman comedy.
His schtick is trashing records with the aid of the audience. We vote on the records he pulls from his car boot sale supply; winners get tossed into Heaven (backstage) while losers are smashed to bits with a golden claw hammer. Surprisingly, some are saved, as was the Bee Gees’ Saturday Night Fever, possibly in respect to the recent death of one of them, I forget which.
Surprisingly too, Oasis was not saved, though it was a close vote. Very satisfying, seeing Morning Glory smashed to bits.
My favourite moment came with the album The Sound of Bread by David Gates’ schlocky 70’s band. 'You’ve heard of The Sound of Music' bellowed Mr. Muddy, 'but who ever heard of the sound of bread?'
With that, he hurled slices of Wonder Bread over the audience and then, in the best Ozzie-hapless manner, tried to play one on his much-abused turntable.
This wasn’t the only foodstuff the audience was in receipt of. Mr. Muddy has a strange fascination with rice. He lovingly pours it over his hammer, throws it like a benediction over the audience, hurls it like a laser blast at records on the turntable. It sets up his act on a very surreal plane and leaves you to imagine all things ritualistic and sexual Mr. Muddy might be doing when he’s backstage in Heaven.
Charlie Dunlap