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Like the Secret Policeman's Ball, for Amnesty International, Fundamental Frolics was another one of those gala charity extravaganza thingies, this time in aid of Mencap, the organisation which helps the mentally handicapped ("fund-a-mental," geddit? Don't worry if you don't). Elvis Costello and Ian Dury were the main attractions, together with the Not The Nine O'Clock News team who supplied wacky interludes to the entire proceedings. The show was also filmed and recorded.
The Apollo being right opposite the New Boots And Panties cover shop, it was fitting enough that Mr Dury opened the evening, and with "Clevor Trever" at that. Sadly though, he didn't have the Blockheads — just The competent, anonymous house-band who served throughout the night. Second up was an unfamiliar number, "Spasticus Autisticus" — Dury at his most explicit, on a topic obviously close to his heart; utterly unlikely for the subject of a raw rock 'n' roll song, but effective none the less. Sadder still, those two things were all he did. It was a fast-moving show.
The rotund Alexei Sayle came next, first of the "alternative comedians" whose appearances were scattered around the occasion, in tandem with the NTNON lot. Sayle ("I'm an experimental comic, and bits of me aren't finished yet") scored with a variety of routines — like the impression of St Winefrede's School Choir impersonating George Formby singing a song by Mussolini ("Oh, I'm hangin' from a lamp-post at the corner of the street...") and his celebrated "'Allo John, got a new motor?" sketch.
Better on the night, though, were 20th Century Coyote, aka The Dangerous Brothers, with a cruel satire of Time Out culture and a very long joke I couldn't even begin to explain. Third of the new wave funnies was Chris Langham: obviously a chap to watch, or better still, to listen too...I pissed myself. (New Musical Express).
Other turns: Chas And Dave wheeled out some more of their Oi-For-Pensioners. Neil Innes put on silly hats and did a few chirpy skits. Alan Price gave us serious stuff and "Simon Smith." Stephane Grappelli smiled and fiddled. Jon Anderson drove me round the bend.
The Nine O'Clock crew mastered ceremonies with assurance and success, more consistent than the patchy TV efforts. There were a couple of greatest hits, like Rowan Atkinson's schoolmaster routine and the sketch about Constable Savage, the over-zealous policeman. Talking of which, Police persons Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland were to be found in assorted cameo roles throughout. And what else? Pamela Stephenson got an award for being "The best performance by a woman in a 30-minute satirical programme," against all the competition, plus the vague "Robert Langley award," Bob of Pebble Mill being the TV celebrity, they said, most associated with a mental handicap...
Elvis Costello, the final act, stuck out of all this jolliness like a very sore thumb, and he was perfect.
Attraction-less, he strolled on in dark suit and glasses to match, and performed two new songs with just an acoustic guitar. They were extraordinary. The first, "Gloomy Sunday" (I think), was a black romance, full of those intricate chords and swirling melodies he's becoming fond of. A sort of old-style torch song, it burns out at the end in bleak lyrical images of death. "Don't laugh," he muttered after (though nobody had). "It might be me next."
The second piece was even stranger, and genuinely chilling: it's eerie just to recall the story-line, riddled again with horror. "You think I'm psycho don't you, mother? / You better let them lock me up" — sung with total detachment.
Where Costello is concerned, take nothing for granted. Ever.
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