In the fall of 1966, four guys from L.A. calling themselves Radio Free Oz broadcast a manic three-hour improvisation on KPFK. For most listeners, it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to them. The comedy of Radio Free Oz didn't flow like a river; it evolved like a living organism, spinning off random bits and pieces but always keeping its own bizarre, internal coherence. When the first of many albums the group recorded as The Firesign Theatre came out in 1968, new records were set for sustained stoned giggling worldwide. But even before smoking all that grass, it was almost impossible to describe their appeal.
Which is not to say they were without influences. Their freeform montage format drew heavily on pre-war radio drama and the emerging late-nite UHF spectrum. Their bits were built around ordinary things like RVs, game shows, channel surfing and fried chicken. And they were full of a kind of cock-eyed mock-patriotism that allowed them to take cheap shots on their favorite malignant superpower without really making any serious political statement. Hearing their lengthy streams of altered consciousness was like watching the Marx brothers do a James Joyce impression; in a lot of ways, they prepared the world for Monty Python. And their stuffed-shirt straight men were always really, really straight, which was doubly funny if you were high. And, back then, you were.
From the tender age of three, I was weaned on Firesign albums with titles like Waiting for the Electrician or Someone Like Him and Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers. What first struck me was the texture of the old-time radio dramas they spoofed: the distorted and insipid orchestral themes, the nasal and oblivious announcers, the squinting sleuths, snake-oil salesmen, and ingénues-- and that hiss and crackle that made it all seem so present. Then, I started to latch on to little bits of language, whose total freedom from context didn't perturb me in the slightest-- like the moment when a confused straight-man asks the patriotic chorus, "Who am us, anyway?" and they reply, "We're one of you!"
But it was the hints of satire that kept me listening, as I started to sense a certain distance between what was being said and what any reasonable person could possibly mean, such as when a faithful choir sings, "Oh blinding light/ Oh light that blinds/ I cannot see/ Look out for me!" Of course now, hearing one of the early broadcasts where the Lone Ranger ducks behind a rock to smoke a doob with Tonto, or hearing a children's how-to record outlining the "four basic methods of acquiring marijuana: buying it, growing it, receiving it as a gift, and stealing it," I can't help but wonder what my parents were thinking exposing me to this stuff at such a young age. Right on, mom and dad.
The guys have stuck together, pursuing side projects but releasing material of varying quality on and off since the 60s, and most of it doesn't suck. In fact, their 1998 album Give Me Immortality or Give Me Death, an uncanny look at a top 40 radio station on the brink of apocalypse, is quite good. But they're not exactly a laugh riot anymore. I remember a big reunion show in Berkeley about ten years ago, which was bearable because they were willing to repeat the old shtick like "Nick Danger: Third Eye" and "Beat the Reaper" to please the aging crowd. But when they try...
Okay, hold on, hold on. I've gotten this far without so much as mentioning the new album, All Things Firesign, a collection of clips that aired on NPR in the last year or so. I don't want to mention it, because the whole thing-- starting with the stupid title and ending with a stupid, stupid sketch called "A St. Nick Dangerous Christmas Eve"-- was so difficult to get through that I don't feel right judging it. But I will: It sucks.
In a fit of political fervor spurred by 9/11, it seems, Firesign signed on for the occasional radio "column" on All Things Considered. In these forced five-minute segments, the boys are always on-topic, flashing their liberal credentials and filling their quota of laboriously up-to-the-minute political references. All traces of the old unhinged wit have been crushed in order to make the segments topical in the worst possible way. To make things even worse, the group's stale insight and crappy wordplay are launched into the territory of genuine unlistenability by the very relentless pacing that once made them great.
The end result is a lot like trying to read The Nation on nitrous oxide: Certainly not instructive, and quite possibly not bearable. Now it's possible I don't have the proper historical distance, or that current events are too serious to merit the usual surreal treatment. But the problem became clearer when in the middle of an awful segment one of them yelled out of the blue: "Don't forget, comedy is heavier than gravity!" Even they know their new material is falling flat. If they ever stop suffocating under the burden of earnest commentary, I might start listening again.
