by Mike Madrid
It was a classic Northern California evening. We sat on a gently sloping hillside, under towering eucalyptus trees. A rugged tree stump served as our table for the picnic dinner and bottle of cabernet we had brought from across the bay. We were in the exotic suburb of Orinda, a half an hour away from the urban jungle of San Francisco. In another half an hour, we would be seeing Shakespeare’s Pericles in an open-air theatre under a starry California sky. We were in the midst of a heat wave, so the night air would be unseasonably pleasant.
As we sat and talked and finished the last of our cold chicken, I heard an unfamiliar voice ask a question. “Excuse me, did you go to those shows?” I looked up, and saw the querent was a member of the intelligentsia I had noticed earlier. Despite the warm weather, he was wearing a uniform of long black wool coat, beret, and green turtleneck. I was confused by his question, until Bob pointed its source.
“He’s looking at your shirt.” I had forgotten that I was wearing the t-shirt I had bought at the Sparks concert I had attended just a few weeks prior. I often have a habit of forgetting what I’m wearing as soon as I’ve put it on.
Gathering my wits, I answered. “Yeah, I went to five shows.” My new friend made his way over. He asked which shows I’d seen. “Indiscreet, Whomp That Sucker, Angst In My Pants, In Outer Space, and Pulling Rabbits Out Of A Hat.” I answered, adding, “Whomp That Sucker was the best.” Mr. Beret said that he had seen Sparks when they toured for Indiscreet in 1975, and that a friend from New York had told him about the series of shows that the band was playing in London. Bob, by this time undoubtedly feeling like he was watching two people conversing in an alien language, made another comment to further fuel the weirdness.
“The shirt has the dates of all of the shows on the back.” My new friend was intrigued, and asked if he could see. I turned so that he could survey the list of show dates printed on the back of the t-shirt. Twenty-one in all. As he studied the text on my back with glee, Bob excused himself to get another glass of wine, no doubt thinking the whole scene was too freaky.
I had been spotted by one of my people, picked out in a crowd by one of my brothers. We were those rarest of birds on our American shores-the Sparks fan.
For the vast majority of you reading this, let me explain what Sparks is. Sparks is an American band formed by brothers Ron and Russell Mael. They released their first album in 1971 under the name Halfnelson, before renaming themselves Sparks, a play on the Marx Brothers. The brothers achieved major success in England, where they lived in from 1973-1976, recording what many regard as the classic Sparks albums-Kimono My House, Propaganda, and Indiscreet. They returned to their native Los Angeles in 1976 to evolve their style into a more American sound, the results of which disappointed many fans. Sparks’ music underwent a drastic change in 1979 with the release of No. 1 In Heaven, which used only synthesizers and predated such electronic bands as Depeche Mode and the Pet Shop Boys. Their 1983 collaboration “Cool Places” with the Go-Go’s Jane Wiedlin was the peak of their popularity in the US. Sparks continued to produce albums with a more mainstream sound until 1988, at which time the band went into hiatus. 1994’s Gratuitous Sax And Senseless Violins was heralded as a return to form for the band, and reestablished a large following in Europe. Sparks continues to record albums that are challenging and are often a bizarre fusion of rock, pop, classical. Electronica, and dance music.
The Sparks style is hard to categorize, marked by witty, acerbic, and self-deprecating lyrics that utilize brilliant and hilarious wordplay. Their songs touch on a variety of bizarre subjects. “Bon Voyage” was sung from the perspective of the luckless, rain-soaked masses left behind when Noah’s Ark sailed off. “Tryouts For The Human Race” was the anthem of the 250,000 sperm who dream of being the lucky one to create a life. “T*ts” told the story of a dejected husband no longer allowed to pleasure himself with his wife’s breasts now that she was a nursing mother. The operatic “I Thought I Told You To Wait In The Car” tells the story a dominating, powerful woman who likes to keep her man in the shadows, out of sight. A search on YouTube will reap scores of clips of Sparks’ appearances on Top Of The Pops or other European music TV programs of the 70’s. There one can see the Sparks dynamic-older brother Ron, the silent mastermind behind the “Sparks sound” Looking like the love child of Ayn Rand and Adolph Hitler, Ron acts like a peeved wax statue, glowering behind his keyboard. And there is exuberant Russell, the boyish front man with his floppy mane of curly hair and wide-eyed pretty looks, singing in falsetto at an impossible speed and dancing as though he were leading a marching band.
Like skydiving, Fassbinder movies, and oral sex, Sparks is definitely not for everyone. For a band with a career spanning almost forty years, they are still relatively unknown in the US. The band’s wildly eclectic styles, along with Russell’s distinct and unique vocals, are not terribly inviting for the casual listener. I discovered Sparks over twenty-five years ago when I was in college. I absolutely fell in love with their music. The lyrics were so cleverly written and hilarious, and the band sounded like nothing else I’d ever heard. It’s egghead rock.
The irony is that in those intervening twenty-five years, I only met one other person who liked Sparks-my friend Matt. He once played one of my Sparks compilation CD’ nonstop for the entire week that it took him to tile my bathroom. Since he is a musician, Matt appreciated Sparks on a different level than me, but he also loved the artful writing. We both loved the line from 1974’s “Amateur Hour” that explained the trauma of puberty and sexual experimentation-
“It’s a lot like playing the violin
You cannot start off and be Yehudi Menuhin.”
As much as I loved Sparks, I never got a chance to see them perform live. And, the band has played fewer and fewer shows in America over the last years. A couple of years ago my friend Chris e-mailed me that Sparks was playing a show in San Francisco to support their Li’l Beethoven album. It was the only show that the band had booked to play in the US. Since Matt had moved to Ohio a few years earlier, naturally I had no other friends to go with. So, I bought a single ticket, and went solo. The band was playing at a small venue, and I thought maybe I should arrive a little early to get a good spot. Waiting in line, I finally got to meet my fellow Sparks fans. People had traveled from across the country to see this show. There was a woman who had come from Atlanta, wearing the Sparks fan club button she had gotten in 1974. There were two guys who had flown in from Hawaii, another guy from Seattle, a couple from New York. Everyone was talking about Sparks, how much they loved tem, their favorite albums, shows they had seen. Finally, a group of people that I didn’t have to explain myself to.
The next two hours that followed were amazing. I had talked to a guy earlier in the evening about how much we loved Sparks, and our favorite songs and lyrics. When Russell sang the line about Yehudi Menuhin, my new friend raised a hand to “high 5” me. This is not something that I normally do, but in this case, I lived in the moment, and slapped his outstretched hand. At one point I noticed that I had had the biggest smile on my face for the past two hours, and I’d only had one beer. I felt happier than I had in months. I left feeling so exhilarated, and of course I had no one to talk about it with. Because no one knows who Sparks is, except for that roomful of strangers that I had just left behind.
Anyway, a couple of months ago, I was listening to some Sparks, and I got to thinking about what a great time I had at that show. I decided to take a look at the band’s website to see if there was a slim chance that they were playing any more shows in the future. I saw that the band had a new CD coming out in May of this year. I saw that they were doing something called the Sparks Spectacular. They were performing twenty-one shows in London over the course of a month. Each night the band would perform one of their albums in its entirety, starting with the first one, and culminating with a performance of their newest album. It sounded great, and I wished that I lived in London to go see of the shows. But I don’t, and I stopped thinking about it.
Only I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I remembered how happy I had been at the Sparks show I’d seen a few of years before, and how I wanted to feel that way again. This way of thinking is precisely why I would never casually try heroin. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” The following day I took a look at the Sparks website again to see if any tickets were still available. The Kimono My House and Propaganda nights were sold out, but the rest were available. Here was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I thought. I’d buy the tickets and sort out the details later. I had tentative plans to go to Europe anyway, so I bought tickets for three nights: Indiscreet, Whomp That Sucker, and Angst in My Pants. I was committed. The day the envelope with the Royal Mail stamp arrived was like a visit from Santa Claus. I had the tickets, and it all seemed real to me now.
Fast forward to two months later. I’d spent a sleepless night in my hot, pokey yet oh-so-charming London hotel room. Since I was staying in perhaps the most expensive city in the world, next to Dubai, I had booked myself to arrive only one day before my first Sparks show. So, as my jet lag kicked in, and I started to get drowsy at 8AM, I steeled myself, and went out to spend the day wandering around balmy London like a zombie. I had to stay awake for this show. My anxiety was starting to kick in, but I was too tired to succumb. After a quick “disco nap” in the afternoon, I headed out for my date with Sparks.
The show was in Islington at a place called the Carling Academy. With that name, I was expecting some charming old brick learning institution covered with ivy that had been turned into a concert hall. After spending half an hour wandering the streets looking for the address on the tickets and unsuccessfully asking passers-by for directions, I finally sought help in that tried and true safe haven of the world: a Gap store. The very nice young lady folding jeans told me the address that I was looking for was right nearby. On further inspection, I found the venue. It was in the shopping mall where the Gap store was located. I was starting to feel iffy about this. Was this going to be some sad nostalgia show like I had seen when I was a kid, where they trotted Bill Haley and Connie Francis out to sing their hits? I had started to feel my age when I had heard the b-52’s interviewed on NPR. I cringed as the interviewer with that earnest NPR voice asked the band about their hits like “Rock Lobster.” I hoped I had not gotten myself into a middle-aged “glory days” situation. Suspiciously, I took my place in line, which was not that long.
The guy in line ahead of me looked like a typical British football fan to me: wide working class features, shaved head, track pants. The kind of guy who would respond to a question with a hostile “Wot?!” But after half an hour or so, I said hello, and asked if he’d been to any of the other shows. A look of nervous, almost embarrassed glee came over his face, like a little boy who had seen his first porn mag. He’d seen two shows. “Woofa, an’ Keemono.” I saw how the lingo worked, people had shorthand for the albums names. When I asked how they were, he gushed. “Fuckin’ brilliant, they were!” Two guys behind me piped in that they had seen the Propaganda show the night before. The burlier of the two had come from Amsterdam, and was traveling back and forth to see several shows. They all found it hard to believe that I had traveled all the way from the US to see these shows. But I heard some American accents in line ahead of me, so I knew I was not alone in my obsession.
Indiscreet was the final show of the triumvirate of classic Sparks albums, and it was sold out. Once inside, I saw how the status quo worked. There was a group of fans that wore big laminated tickets around their necks. These were the holders of the “Golden Ticket,” one for all 12 shows. These were the hardcore Sparks fans, and they all immediately staked out spots in the very front, as close to the stage as they could get. Once positioned there, they traded stories about old Sparks shows they’d been to, and passed their digital cameras around to show off the pictures they had taken at the previous nights. There was a guy from Austin, Texas, who regularly traveled to Amsterdam and Paris to see Sparks. There were two middle-aged ladies from Hawaii who had rented an apartment in London for a month, and were seeing every show. Behind me was a tiny woman whose first concert was when Sparks performed the Indiscreet album in Brighton, in 1975. She was there with her thirty-year old son, a second-generation Sparks fan who had bought tickets for all of the shows. My fear of this being a nostalgia act diminished as I overheard skinny twentysomethings with expensive asymmetrical hairdos discussing how they had gotten into Sparks five years earlier, and knew their entire catalog of music. Sparks was still vital and thriving here in the UK, while in the land of their birth, their CD’s weren’t even stocked in music stores. And, while in the US they were perceived as strange, and somewhat fey, the fashionable young music authority behind me referred to Sparks as always being very much a “lad’s band.” A far cry from the days when a spiteful college friend speculated that the two Mael brothers were lovers.
Then Sparks came out. There was Ron, the genius, still looking like a wax figure frozen in time, with shirt, tie, high-waisted trousers, and pencil thin moustache. And there was Russell looking somewhat older, but still exuberant and charming. Then I heard the opening notes of the first song, and the first line —
Some day we’ll have one extra coastline
We’ll tire of the Atlantic
I felt all strange and giddy, and it wasn’t the jet lag. My eyes misted over. How may times had I listened to this song, “Hospitality on Parade,” alone in my old bedroom at my parents’ house, on my computer, on my iPod, and I never thought I’d hear it performed live. All around me, the 4000 fans in the room were adding their voices to the falsetto background chorus of “Hospitality.” Now, I have a terrible singing voice, and I’m the type that never wants to sing “Happy Birthday” at a celebration. I just mouth the words and assume that my voice will be lost in the crowd. But here, I sang out with abandon. When the grinding guitars kicked in after the second verse, I was sucked back to being nineteen years old and hearing this song for the first time. I instinctively bit my lower lip and turned into a headbanger again. The whole trip was worth it for this moment alone.
A few years ago I went to see Madonna in concert. There was a big, elaborate stage with a high tech video display, and raised catwalks that ran over the audience’s heads, on which Madonna and her dance troupe raced to and fro. Perhaps my least favorite moment was when Madonna took a quiet moment to tell the audience that she had not written the song she was about to sing, but she wished that she had. She then proceeded to give us her rendition of John Lennon’s “Imagine,” as images of impoverished children’s faces filled the video screens, No, Madonna, you didn’t write “Imagine,” you wrote “La Isla Bonita.” And that’s what paid for your homes in London, New York, and Los Angeles, your designer wardrobe, and your private jet. And that’s what your fans paid ungodly amounts of money to hear. I know “artists” may have regrets about work that they have done in the past, but it gets irritating when they shortchange their fans because they’re too good to perform their old material.
That’s what was so great about these shows. They felt like a gift to the fans who had stuck with Sparks through they years. These songs have such oddball subjects and lyrics, yet every time I looked around, I’d see that everyone knew the words and were singing along. One guy that I would study every night was barely even looking at the stage, he’d just be standing there with his eyes clothes, singing his heart out, as if he was performing La Traviata. I wasn’t the only one who knew the secret. I left the show elated, especially since I knew I had two more ahead of me. On the underground, I ran into the football hooligan guy I’d seen in line. When I asked how he liked the show, there was that sheepish grin again. “Brilliant.” he answered gleefully.
I rushed back to my hotel to jump into bed, since I had an early morning fight to Berlin the next day to meet my friend Marlene. The shows that I was missing were not my favorite albums — Big Beat, Introducing Sparks, and Terminal Jive — although I would have liked to see the all-electronic No. 1 In Heaven. But a summer tour of beer halls in Berlin and Prague awaited Marlene and me. I was still giddy about the show I’d seen the night before when I got to Berlin. But Marlene, naturally, had never heard of Sparks, so it was solitary pleasure.
So one week later, I was back in London, back in line at the Carling Academy. Tonight was 1981’s Whomp That Sucker. I was standing in line behind a mysterious wan female who looked to be about nineteen. She wore a black and white ensemble, harlequin glasses, and cropped blonde hair. She was joined by a diminutive friend of the same age, wearing a blue wig. They were both wearing the coveted Golden Tickets, and I learned that they came from Finland to see all of the shows. Every subsequent night, they’d be dressed exactly as they were that night. A peroxide blonde further up in line showed off her 50’s style circle skirt, imprinted with pictures of Sparks. I also met Liz, a pretty 40ish grade school teacher and single mother who reminds me of Kylie Minogue. She told me that sometimes she used the lyrics from Sparks songs in her class lessons. Her friend Dave was quiet but amiable, and wore one of the Golden Tickets. He seemed completely normal, and almost made me reconsider my opinion that all Sparks fans must somehow be oddballs.
After my experience at the first show, I wondered if lightning would strike twice. Then I hear the lines of the first song, and my fears subside-
I’ve got a snapshot of your Aunt Maureen
She’s 90 and you’re a teen
I’m trying to cheer you up
Don’t be so mean
“Tips for Teens”, another song that I absolutely love. And I’m right back in that euphoric state. What follows is another great show. The high point for me was perhaps my favorite song, “That’s Not Nastassia,” the tale of an oft-imitated young beauty. But it was interesting to see which songs the crowd loves: “Susie Safety,” “Don’t Sheet Me,” “I Married A Martian.” And there was a bonus. “Where’s My Girl,” a song that I for some reason used to skip on the album, now sounded great to me, maybe because of the reception it got from the audience. It was like getting a new Sparks song.
On the way out, I picked up the latest Sparks CD, Exotic Creatures OF The Deep. As I sat on the underground, perusing the liner notes, Liz and Dave came by to ask how I liked the show. Everyone agreed that this was perhaps the best one so far. A tall, doughy guy with a Golden Ticket sauntered up and asked if he could look at my CD. “Tonight was the best show afta Woofah,” our new arrival concurs. He seems to be a friend of Liz and Dave, and when I ask how they all know each other, Liz answers, “From Sparks.” When we transfer trains at Kings Cross, Liz turns to ask me one last question as we rush to off on separate ways, “Are you OK from here? Do you know where you’re going?” Ever the schoolteacher, she wants to make sure the lone American won’t get lost in the London subway system. When I tell her yes, she smiles and rushes off. “All right. See you next time!”
The next night should be my last night, but by now I was so swept up in the Sparks excitement that I went to the box office the next day and bought tickets for two more nights. 1982’s Angst In My Pants was another great evening. In line I talked to a woman around my age who came from Northern England with her teenage daughter. The daughter seemed a bit embarrassed and texted messages feverishly when her mum took off her jacket to show off the Sparks t-shirt she has owned for the last twenty-five years. The mother was beside herself with anticipation. The blonde from the night before was in a vintage strapless prom dress with a petticoat, and wearing Disneyland mouse ears, a nod the hit single “Mickey Mouse” from tonight album. I met Terry, a fellow American in his thirties who was visiting from Boston. He’d left his partner behind in their hotel room to see Sparks. We later chatted with a woman from New Jersey, also around my age, whose husband let her make a quick trip over to London to see this show because it’s her favorite album. His only condition was that she not spend any money. Liz and Dave once again were positioned up by the stage. This was the last show for the guy from Austin, who had to return home to Texas the next day. He and the ladies from Hawaii got people to take pictures of all of them together on their digital cameras.
I don’t mind traveling alone, except for the nights, which always seem long and lonely. But now, I had a place to go every night where I knew people. At breakfast the next morning, I saw that the mother and daughter from the night before were staying at my hotel. It was strangely comforting, and changed the feel of my vacation. As it began to wind down, I felt like my days were just about killing time going to museums or wandering the streets of London until I could get to another Sparks show. At the next show, 1983’s In Outer Space, a little homesickness began setting in. I was hanging out with Terry again, and we struck up a conversation with a young American couple. I had seen them the night before wearing great old Sparks concert t-shirts, and now they were wearing different t-shirts that look twenty years old in design, but pristine in condition. When I asked the guy, he told me that they collect old Sparks t-shirts, and buy them off the Internet. The one he was wearing that night had never been worn; this show was its maiden concert voyage. We got into an “Americans abroad” thing, and commiserated about how expensive London is. Then the show begins, and I’m once again transported back to college days back in California, twenty-five years earlier, probably around the time the nice young couple in the perfect t-shirts were being born.
My last night had arrived. Pulling Rabbits Out Of A Hat is not one of my favorite Sparks albums. But since I was here in London, I thought I shouldn’t miss the opportunity. By 1984, both Sparks and I were moving in different directions. Their sound was going more commercial, and I had transitioned from student life into my first job. I lost track of the band around this time, and didn’t reconnect with their music for a few years. I see Terry again, and we’re both a bit preoccupied about returning home to the United States tomorrow. We chat with a jovial Irish guy named Joseph who had been commuting back and forth to London to see these shows. He also can’t believe that Terry and I have traveled this far to see Sparks. But he can understand it.
I’m not expecting a great show, since I’m not crazy about all of the songs on this album. But a strange thing happened. The band starts to do “With All My Might”, which I had always thought of as one of their attempts to do a commercial, radio friendly hit, devoid of the biting wit of most of their music. I suddenly hear it in a different way. In this environment, among this room full of people singing along, I suddenly hear what a great song this is, how achingly romantic it is, and how it’s actually tinged with a sad longing and sense of tragedy. I get swept up in all of these emotions, and I feel myself starting to cry. You’d think I was at a Fiona Apple concert or something. I shouldn’t have doubted Ron and Russell.
I collect myself for the rest of the show. A few songs later, my favorite song on the album, “A Song That Sings Itself”, begins. Again, since I never talk about this band with anyone else, I assume I’m the only one that likes this song. You’d have thought they were playing the national anthem. The entire room sang along, and my eyes got misty again. Even the band was surprised at the audience reaction. This was the perfect sendoff for me.
When the show was over, I took a last look at the crowd. The ladies from Hawaii were giddy and talking excitedly about the next show. Liz must have been home with her kids, but Dave was there, his Golden Ticket still dangling around his neck. The two little Finnish girls were jabbering away in their Northern tongue. I took a last look at this sea of faces that had become familiar to me this past week. We were the faithful masses united in our devotion to Sparks. Terry and I made our way back to the underground, where we said good-bye, ready to leave Albion and the Mael brothers behind to return to the wide streets and efficient plumbing of America.
Once back in sunny California, I went back to my life as a cloistered Sparks fan. I didn’t even bother telling a lot of people why I had really gone to London, since it would require so much explanation. I did call my friend Matt in Columbus, my sole Sparks connection. After I had told him about the shows and answered all of his questions, he had on last one. “How can there be so many people that like Sparks, yet you’re the only one I’ve ever met?”
I had no answer for Matt, and it reminded me of the Sparks song, “Those Mysteries” that deals with some of those unanswerable questions in the universe-
And why am I here and not over there
And why are there nuns
And why do they pray
And where do we go when we pass away
I don’t know why I don’t know more Sparks fans. But they’re out there somewhere, and I guess that’s good enough for me.