Sparks Spectacular: Whomp That Sucker
Posted in Concert Reviews, Music, Reviews, Sparks Spectacular |By a-anne
While the whole of the Sparks Spectacular was destined to be infallible and heavenly, the holy eighties trinity of Whomp That Sucker, Angst In My Pants, and In Outer Space were always earmarked as the ones where I’d lose my cool and fall writhing to the floor in shameless ecstasy. I love these albums. I’ve been known to cry while listening to “Moustache;” some combination of incredulity, adoration, and too much dancing. I acknowledge that I may have problems, but judging by this past month, I’m not the only one.
Whomp was, quite simply, the best concert of the series. Ten albums into the run, the audience had slimmed down from the hyper-crowds of the Island Three, and we—punters and band—had relaxed, gotten to know each other, and settled into a most extravagant routine. In fairness, the first five tracks on this album couldn’t fail in any context. The sound for once was spot on, we all danced in idiotic fashion, and to be honest I can’t remember a lot more. The opportunity to bellow, “Don’t eat that ice cream!/Is it vanilla?/GIVE IT TO ME!” was seized by the entire audience, grateful for the opportunity to finally sing such a thing in public. O, happiness!
Photo © Rachel Lipsitz
This series of concerts has been a golden opportunity for everyone who’s had a lifetime in their bedroom singing along to records to air their obsessive lyrical knowledge. The call-and-response on “Funny Face” and “The Willies” (“Physically! Mentally! MORALLY HE’S LAX!”) were tailor-made for overexcited fans, and Russell sounds particularly splendid backed by a chorus of about 400 people singing tunelessly and much lower than he does. It shows his voice off very well, and it’s damn fun.
Whomp is a particularly demanding album to sing at points and while we didn’t expect any less, Russ effortlessly hit every note in glorious fashion, with Jim and Marcus impressively close behind. “Where’s My Girl” and “Upstairs” in particular, left me torn between standing open-mouthed in awe, and falling at their feet sobbing in appreciation. Predictably I did neither of those things—standing still in “Upstairs” is a physical impossibility—I thus resolved to dance my way out of a dumbstruck corner. Sparks! You band of gods!
The highlight—and given that the entire set was stupendous, this was not only very subjective but highly unexpected—was “The Willies.” “The Willies!” I turned around in the midst of all this glee to see how my friends were coping with the unstoppable barrage of joy, and witnessed a sea of people, all of them eyes closed and heads cocked to the side, mouthing, “They call it The Willies!” And then I collapsed laughing on the barrier, unable to sing or dance for the rest of the song. For all the unforgettable, magical things that happened in May and June 2008, this moment represented the personal pinnacle of the whole month. It’s probably the pinnacle of my entire life.
Alas, then came my three least-liked Sparks songs: “Don’t Shoot Me,” “Suzie Safety,” and “That’s Not Nastassia.” (Why Ron! Why!) And yet, even they transcended their hellishly-irritating recorded selves, and became live tracks which still annoyed the hell out of me but in the most charming manner possible. “Someone looking like her stole a bike/That’s not Nastassia!” still remains a class lyric, while Russell’s hilariously bungled spiel about Giorgio Moroder just about rescued the rest of the song. My wringing of hands by the fiftieth “Nastassia!” symbolized a particularly affectionate frustration, and any pain I experienced was immediately countered by the immense rush of love I felt towards this damn band for managing to annoy me so much at such a happy moment.
Whomp is an album of silliness. While it contains waves and rivulets of increasing degrees of silliness, topping “Wacky Women” would be an impassable impossibility. I have spent my life waiting to hear Russell Mael sing the immortal lyric, “Hello everybody this is Russell! And right before I sing I’m gonna make a muscle!” When the moment came, a tear arrived in my eye. And the rest is a frenzied blur, a blur of arms and legs, of simultaneously dancing and crying, of yelling, “MEDIC! MEDIC! MEDIC! MEDIC!”, a blur of having three of the greatest minutes of my life. The encore was “Get Crazy” and that was faultless, too. I can’t say much more.
Click to read. . .