Don’t Forget His Toothbrush; Memories of Ron Mael’s Face
Last night heard the first installment of what may become an irregular series on Mr. Bailie’s Radio Ulster show. The delightful host and I spoke for several minutes on the topic of Sparks and played some illustrative extracts. It will happen again next month too, although we might talk about a different act instead.
In conjunction with this, I thought I would share some thoughts that I didn’t get to share last night. An accompanying essay will appear here after each slot. This is why there is only one at the moment. There may be a second, who knows?
For now… some thougths on Mr. Mael Snr.
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It doesn’t matter what Mr. Mael says about his toothbrush moustache (and I don’t know that he says anything much about it these days), but the comparisons to Mr. Hitler, he of the Third Reich, were inevitable. Foreseeable, really. And unavoidable. The recent show from Mr. Herring questioned whether or not that mode of facial hair could be reclaimed for good, but, of course, Mr. Mael already did so. For it was not the moustache that kept This Town Ain’t Big Enough For Both Of Us off the top spot in 1974, it was Sugar Baby Love by The Rubettes.
Mr. Mael’s saving grace was, of course, Mr. Chaplin and the kinder of the critics made that connexion instead. There is a duality in the moustache, suggesting, at once, The Little Tramp and The Great Dictator; a duality recognised early enough by Mr. Chaplin for him to make the latter-named. It is the absurdity of the tight, downy square that gives away the subject of the satire in the film (it’s not Mussolini and it’s not Hirohito) and becomes, afterwards, an obvious indicator that satire is afoot. Less forthrightly controversial than Mr. Bowie’s later Nazi salutes or, even, Kula Shaker’s innocent adoption of the Swastika, Mr. Mael’s Hitler moustache is a symbol of his own willingness to look ridiculous for the cause of the lampoon.
Like Mr. Chaplin‘s, the face beneath Mr. Mael’s lip-warmer is actually quite attractive. Both well-defined and handsome; strong cheekbones, like humpback bridges. I will refrain making any such claim for Mr. Hitler, lest I am visited by the wrong sort of people. However, in the case of all three, the camera eye’s focus on the moustache fulfils the same purpose: on one side, to make an absurdity of the traditionally acceptable; on the other, to make absurdly acceptable the traditionally evil. If Mssrs Mael and Chaplin appeared clean-shaven, we may take them too seriously, whereas, if we thought of Mr. Hitler too seriously, we might all cry.
The severe side-parting, which Mr. Mael surely laboured over, is unlikely to have helped matters either. But this is the heart of it, really. That anyone would choose to spend their time plastering each hair in place and winnowing down the edges of their moustache so each is one third of a nostril across shows organisation and dedication. But, to do so and just end up looking silly, shows real lack of perspective. This is what we see, now, when we look at Mr. Hitler: dedication to delusion. It is the same comic trick that lets Mr. Mael wither an interviewer with a well-sprung putdown, where a regular rock’n’roller might just sound petulant.
Once, appearing on American Bandstand, the beautiful young Russell Mael answered questions from Mr. Clarke, while the moustachioed Ron stalked silently in the background. Turning quickly to the elder brother, Mr. Clarke asks him “Who’s older?”, to which Mr. Mael replies, without hesitation, “You are.” Had a Mr. Vicious said this (and, of course, Sparks later sing: “When do I get to feel just like Sid Vicous did?”) it would have sounded belligerent and evasive and the interview would have limped on weakly from there. But Mr. Mael’s silliness of appearance allows such a cutting response and, in fact, the particular appearance he has chosen demands that very tone, making tone and façade all the funnier. Mr. Clarke laughs. Mr. Mael mugs and the audience applauds.
A guitar player might not be able to pull-off the same look. Certainly not in 1974. They are meant to be cool, romantic, and romantic leads. The keyboard player probably had lessons, which makes them inherently square; they know what the rules are and most likely follow them. This is fine if they are a peripheral figure, playing one-finger hooks at the side of the stage, but, if they use both hands (melody and bass!), that is a statement of intent and of control. Everybody must follow their lead, as they did Mr. Mercury, Sir. John, and Mr. Ferry (and everyone now knows he thoughts on Nazi style). Even the Bonzo Dog Band visualise the Führer “looking very relaxed… Adolph Hitler on vibes,” which is much the same principle.
Mr. Mael characterises the dominance of the keyboard player in almost fascistic terms. Even the vocal lines that his brother sings sound like a form of torture; the songs stay in the key in which they’ve been written and Russell will just have to sing them that way, whether he can reach the notes are not. Thus, Mr. Mael can move through a wardrobe of guises: the white-coated scientist, the v-necked geography teacher, the roll-necked Film Studies lecturer… etc., each one still suggesting at the core a thwarted craving for power and control; the keyboard like a desk, a lectern, the position from which he directs, pettily.
It is the absurdity of the implied power struggle that makes it amusing. No other member of the band could get away with those stretches of awkward silence or expressing boredom with so little subtlety. But boredom is an expression of power, because only those in a position of power can control the tension of the situation. The silent tension of Mr. Mael’s menacing glare is relieved only when he pulls a face at the camera or when he breaks forth to tap dance briefly. It is a relationship exemplified beautifully in Mr. Lynch’s video for I Predict, in which Mr. Mael plays the most bored and unhappy of strippers, who are an unhappy and bored lot anyway.
This is the duality in the moustache: Mr. Hitler, the sadist, and Mr. Chaplain, the entertainer. Or, perhaps, it is all Mr. Chaplain, as he appears in The Great Dictator, because even the malevolence is there only for our amusement. And, ultimately, the performer is at the mercy of the audience, who allows the entertainer to play only with that imagery the audience deem fit and control the tension between the act and the applause.
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But, goodness, the dialectic of that moustache could just as easily have been Europe and America, ‘Pure’ Art and Hollywood Schlock or Fanatical Devotion and Critical Acclaim. All of which is immaterial now, as Mr. Mael sculpted his facial hair into a pencil moustache some years ago, which contains, within, the more interesting dialectic discourse between Mr. John Waters and Private Walker from Dad’s Army.
