In 1976, when I read “Who’s Who in the Cast,” by Marshall Brickman, I was astounded. The piece, a “casual”—which is what The New Yorker called its wry humor pieces—satirized a benign institution, the Broadway Playbill, specifically the section featuring self-written bios of cast members. The piece was dense with jokes—around one per inch:
It was filled with atomized humor particles (a fictional movie called “Nostril from Outer Space”) and packed with names worthy of Dickens (Monroe Parch, Sir Giggling Fatbody). From Brickman, I learned that satire can be friendly, even cheerful, and that anything was a suitable target, including the innocuous pages in the back of a theatre program.
But that was not why I was astounded. I had first heard Brickman’s name thirteen years earlier, when I was seventeen, and he was a bluegrass banjo player, not yet a successful comedy writer. Along with his musical partner Eric Weissberg, he had released “New Dimensions in Banjo and Bluegrass” (1963), perhaps the second or third most influential banjo record ever made. The premise was that two banjos simultaneously playing distinct harmonies—which you’d think would be awful—was beautiful, especially to a budding banjoist like me. (Listen to a track called “Reuben’s Train.”)
Twenty-five years later, I moved into Brickman’s Manhattan building. We connected, and one afternoon he stoically listened as I struggled to play one of his tunes, “Riding the Waves.” Finally, a little disgusted, he said, “That’s not right.” Then he showed me the correct chords.
During his long, prolific career, Brickman co-wrote movies with Woody Allen, including “Annie Hall”; later, he co-wrote the books for Broadway’s “Jersey Boys” and “The Addams Family.” When he died, last year, I learned that he was the originator of Johnny Carson’s eternally fresh routine “Carnac the Magnificent.”
Consider this a friendly, and even cheerful, salute to Marshall Brickman. ♦
Broadway biographical notes—with apologies to Playbill.
