07/22/09
Text: Scott Indrisek
The arrival of The Mighty Boosh in NYC—for their first-ever US appearance following a stateside resurgence on Adult Swim—gave new meaning to the term ‘cult following.’ The occasion was a Myspace Secret Stand-Up show at the Bowery Ballroom. With a line stretching down and around the block, this was some serious British invasion shit; we were afraid that if Vince Noir himself were to visit the sidewalk it’d cause a wave of teary, epileptic meltdowns. Every single kid who’d ever spent a semester abroad and returned with a sudden disdain for the puerile flatulence of American comedy was in attendance.
By the time the Boosh took the stage the packed room was in the mood for love. Vince Noir and Howard Moon were wearing a dashing, dandyish maroon shirt and an impressive beer paunch, respectively. They waved. The crowd cheered. They waved some more. The crowd cheered some more. There were approximately 3,908 camera phones raised aloft, taking pictures of other people holding camera phones. It was clearly going to be one of those nights in which drunken people yelled out things—like “I’ma from Scooootland!”—that clearly should never be yelled in public. Yet it would also be one of those nights in which a grown man would dress up as a ram and, prancing about, would eloquently woo female members of the audience, including the aforementioned soused Scotswoman. In short: awesome.
Other highlights included the excellent Bob Fossil (Rich Fulcher), who gave impromptu dance lessons (including moves like “catching flying sandwiches” and “screaming like an ocelot”) and then impersonated a nonsensical cabdriver speaking a made-up, faux-Russki patois. Later in the evening 'the Hitcher' stabbed Naboo to death, and a gorilla sang the “suckin’ on my titties” lines from Peaches’ electroclash hit. Howard Moon caterwauled about pies. A frighteningly authentic hip-hop anthem was unleashed, featuring back-up singers wearing what looked like sperm masks. Speaking of sperm: Bob Fossil delivered the best zinger of the night, something about “raining down on you like a semen-filled piñata.” We’re flubbing his exact words, but you get the awful intent.
The night hit a lull when Naboo—no longer dead—took over the DJ booth. General confusion reigned: was the night over? Was this just a Boosh dance party, minus the Boosh, who—I hoped, I hoped—were doing New York’s finest cocaine and seducing Europhile F.I.T. students in the green room? We left a bit early, but Anthem contributor Matthew Phelan stuck it out and reported on the evening’s finale. “They came back out at midnight and there were people dancing on the stage and general bedlam. Julian Barratt complimented my shirt and shook my hand,” Phelan says. (And with good reason—it was one damn intense shirt, featuring cantering horses and some top-notch bedazzling work.) “All I could think to ask him was if he’d be in Nathan Barley series two, to which he said its very existence is up in the air.”
A bit of a bummer, that one—considering that Nathan Barley is perhaps the best send-up of the cultural magazine industry ever invented. But hey, at least for one night, we had the Boosh in person. Check out this footage of the post-midnight shenanigans if you missed it.
