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Louco

Posted in Biographical, Music with tags Alfredo Marceneiro, Fado on June 12, 2011 by telescoper

I’ve been saving this remarkable old record for a rainy day, and since it’s been tipping down all morning I think it’s time to share it.

Just a few months after I moved to my house in bit of Cardiff called Pontcanna I went with a friend to a little Portuguese restaurant just around the corner. The food was pretty cheap, fairly simple, but very tasty. The staff were friendly but extremely disorganized, taking ages to produce the food even though the place wasn’t at all busy. They also had some Portuguese fado music playing while we waited. I normally don’t like music in restaurants because even if the music’s worth listening to – which it usually isn’t – you can’t hear it properly anyway over the chatter and sound of knives on plates. In this case, however, towards the end of the meal, I heard, for the very first time, a record featuring an agonized voice – as much haunted as haunting – which immediately sent cold shivers down my spine. I asked the waitress who was singing on the record we were listening to, and she told me it was the great Alfredo Marceneiro.

I’m not going to pretend to be any kind of an expert on fado, although I have at least heard of Amália Rodrigues (the greatest female fado performer of the classic era), and am a big fan of her wonderful modern counterpart Mariza. I hadn’t known until that night in the restaurant that there were any male fado singers at all. However, Alfredo Marceneiro’s career spanned a half a century, from the mid 1920s, and he has been an immense influence on younger generations of musicians since then. His compositions have also become part of the standard repertoire. I suppose you could say that Alfredo Marceneiro is to fado what Robert Johnson is to the blues.

Fado is very much a Portuguese genre and I suppose it’s difficult to “get” if you’re not brought up with the tradition or even the language. I barely know a word of Portuguese myself, and have no idea what the words of the following song actually mean. I think it’s a testament to the power of the music that the actual words don’t seem to matter all that much when you can sing out of your very soul like this man could.

I’m afraid the Youtube version of this track is a bit truncated, but I’m putting it up anyway because it’s exactly the recording I heard that night three years ago. I think it’s a riveting performance, by an extraordinary artist who is celebrated in his own country, but who in my opinion deserves much wider recognition.

P.S. I know that the title “Louco” means “Crazy” in Portuguese, but I’d be very grateful if someone could supply a translation of the rest of the song…..

P.P.S. I went back to the restaurant about six months after the time I mention in the post, but it had changed name and ownership. It’s now cleaner, but has much less character and no music. I haven’t returned.

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Whippin’ that Jelly

Posted in Jazz with tags State Street Swingers, Washboard Sam, Whippin' that Jelly on June 3, 2011 by telescoper

Summer has most definitely arrived. It’s a gorgeous day and most of the students have finished most of their examinations, so I’m sure will be taking a well-deserved break and enjoying the sunshine. It’s also Friday, and time, I think, for a little frivolity.

I’m indebted to young Miss Liggins for drawing my attention to this old record via Facebook. It’s by a relatively obscure swing band called the State Street Swingers, which was based in Chicago during the mid-1930s. From a technical point of view the musicians weren’t anything like as proficient as the leading bands of the Swing Era, especially in the horn section, so they usually tried to make up for their relatively limited abilities by playing for laughs behind various vocalists. It doesn’t say who it is on Youtube, but the singer sounds to me like Washboard Sam. He made a lot of records with other bands for the Vocalion label, which is what this one came out on, so that’s at least consistent with my hypothesis.

The State Street Swingers only ever recorded 14 tracks, most of them involving euphemistically raunchy titles, like this one, Whippin’ that Jelly. It may not be the most sophisticated music, but I hope it at least brings a smile to your face, as it does to mine every time I listen to it!

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Turandot

Posted in Opera with tags Puccini, Turandot, Welsh National Opera on May 31, 2011 by telescoper

On the way to the Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff Bay this evening it struck me that it was quite fitting to be going to see Welsh National Opera‘s production of Turandot so soon after Friday’s concert. After all this was Giacomo Puccini‘s last Opera and it was incomplete at the time of the composer’s death in 1924. It’s a work most famous for the rousing tenor aria Nessun Dorma from Act III , which was made even more famous when, sung by the great Pavarotti, it became the theme tune for the Italia 90 World Cup. But there’s also the gorgeous Signore Ascolta in Act I and, even better, the dramatic fulcrum of the Opera, and one of the greatest Puccini’s arias of all, the climactic In Questia Reggia. Puccini undoubtedly had a great gift for writing memorable songs but there’s much more to him than that, as this opera proves. Turandot is a particularly dark and troubling story, with music to match the drama at every stage, and it contains some extremely interesting “modern” ideas alongside the classic showpiece numbers.

The story is set in China (“in legendary times”). Princess Turandot (definitely pronounced “-dot” rather than “-doh”) is a tyrannical ruler who challenges potential suitors to solve three riddles. The penalty for failure is death; no resits allowed. The Opera begins with the Prince of Persia being led to his doom. You know the sort of thing – girl meets boy, boy falls in love with girl, girl beheads boy, etc. Calaf, Prince of the Tartars, arrives with his elderly father Timur and faithful servant Liu. Crazy fool that he is, he decides to have a go at the riddles. Three sinister ministers, Ping Pang and Pong, prepare the trial, letting on as they do so just how many others have died in the attempt to woo Turandot. Calaf, of course, succeeds, but Turandot doesn’t want to go along with her side of the bargain. Calaf sets his own riddle – Turandot simply has to guess his name by dawn and he’ll give up his suit and let Turandot execute him too. She tries everything she can think of to identify the mystery contestant, including keeping the entire population of Peking up all night and torturing Liu to the point where she kills herself rather than risk giving away her master’s name. Liu loves Calaf herself, you see, so naturally she dies for her beloved’s sake. That’s what women do, in Opera. Moved by Liu’s sacrifice, Turandot feels the power of love and agrees to marry Calaf. And they all live happily ever after. Apart from Liu, of course, who’s dead.

That’s one of the thing’s that’s so problematic about this Opera for me. If Calaf is meant to be so noble and courageous, so why does he fall for Turandot who, at least at the beginning, is cruel beyond belief? And if he’s such a good egg why does he let the innocent Liu die just so he can get his leg over? This isn’t the only Puccini opera in which the romance has a dark undertone and in which the hero isn’t all that heroic when you look hard enough at him. Calaf isn’t quite as bad as the ghastly Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly, but I still think he’s basically a prat.

This production is a revival of one first performed in 1994. The setting spans a number of epochs, ancient Chinese costumes mingling with 20th century dress, and the minimal set periodically hung with mugshots of slain suitors evoking the “disappeared” in a South American dictatorship. Turandot’s dress and hairstyle in Act II made her look a lot like a cross between Ymelda Marcos and Eva Peron. In the crowd scenes, the chorus writhe with stylised anguish of an almost masochistic nature, as if their oppression by the brutal regime has become a sort of fetish for them.

Star of the show was dramatic soprano Anna Shafajinskaia as Turandot. With a name like an Icelandic volcano and a voice of exceptional power to match, she sent shivers down my spine on several occasions, especially in Act II. Gwyn Hughes Jones was a fine Calaf. Rebecca Evans being unfortunately indisposed, Liu was played by Michelle Walton. She started very hesitantly, and I wasn’t at all impressed with her rendition of Signore Ascolta; what she sang was quite nice, but it was only a vague approximation to what Puccini wrote. She did settle down as the performance went on, however, and was much more impressive in Act III. The rest of the cast were good and, as always, the Chorus of Welsh National Opera were superb throughout.

It’s difficult to explain to people who don’t “get” Opera how it can possibly work. People don’t actually sing to each other in real life, after all. All I can say is that, when it’s good, you somehow just fall into it and it takes on its own dramatic logic. That doesn’t always happen, of course, but for me it certainly happens sufficiently frequently to make it worthwhile. This one took a while to get going, and I didn’t really start to get involved until Act II, but thereafter I was gripped.

I should also say that it was very nearly a full house. Not bad for a Tuesday night!

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Final Thoughts

Posted in Music with tags Anton Bruckner, bats, BBC National Orchestra of Wales, Bute Park, Jac van Steen, Katarina Karneus, Richard Strauss on May 28, 2011 by telescoper

I decided to round off the working week last night with a trip to St David’s Hall in Cardiff to hear the BBC National Orchestra of Wales under the baton of guest conductor Jac van Steen in a programme of music by Richard Strauss and Anton Bruckner. Both pieces featured in the concert are longstanding favourites of mine and I’d been looking forward to the event for some time. The concert was billed Final Thoughts as each piece was in fact the respective composer’s last.

First up were the Vier Letzte Lieder (“Four Last Songs“). Richard Strauss had a particularly wonderful gift for writing music for the female voice and these pieces are perfect demonstrations of his art. Only published posthumously, they were never performed in Strauss’ lifetime but they quickly established themselves as concert favourites. In fact there’s no evidence that they were ever intended to form a set; the last – which happens to be my favourite, Im Abendrot, a setting of a poem by von Eichendorff, was completed before Strauss decided to set the other three, which are poems by Herman Hesse. There is more unity in compositional approach in the first three of the four, but nothing for me matches the sheer gorgeousness of the last. I freely admit that I quite often burst into tears listening to it, it’s so beautiful. I posted a favourite version elsewhere on this blog, and I have six different versions on CD.

Last night’s performance featured Swedish mezzo soprano Katarina Karnéus who has a very fine voice. They were performed at a slightly brisker tempo than is often the case (which is no bad thing) and the orchestra was in good form. The only problem was that the singer was standing so far back into the orchestra that she had difficulty projecting her voice, particularly since she was almost behind the conductor from where I was sitting. Some of her singing was barely audible, but when she did break through she brought out the beauty of Strauss music in fine style. Overall, a very nice performance. But no, I didn’t burst into tears this time.

After the interval we had Anton Bruckner‘s monumental Symphony No. 9, which was unfinished at Bruckner’s death in 1896. Insufficient material was recovered after the composer’s death to enable a reconstruction of the missing 4th movement, so this work is generally performed in its incomplete state with only three movements. Even so, it’s an immense work in both length and ambition. The majestic first movement (marked Feierlich, Misterioso; solemn & mysterious) with its soaring themes and thunderous climaxes always puts me in mind of a mountaineering expedition, with wonderful vistas to experience but with danger lurking at every step. At times it’s rapturously beautiful, at times terrifying. It’s not actually about mountaineering, of course – Bruckner meant this symphony to be an expression of his religious faith, which, in the latter years of his life must have been pretty shaky if the music is anything to go by.

The second movement (Scherzo) is all juddering rhythms, jagged themes and harsh dissonances reminiscent (to me) of Shostakovich. It alternates between menacing, playful and cryptic; the frenzied animation of central Trio section is especially disconcerting.

The last movement (Adagio) begins restlessly, with an unaccompanied violin theme and then becomes more obviously religious in character in various passages of hymn-like quality, still punctuated by stark crescendi. In this movement Bruckner doffs his cap in the direction of Richard Wagner, especially when the four Wagner tubas appear, and the movement reaches yet another climax with the brass bellowing out the initial violin theme. This dies away and the movement comes to an unresolved, poignant conclusion. With a long pause in silence as if to say “that’s all he wrote”, the concert came to an end.

Although I’ve loved this work for many years I’ve only ever heard it on CD before last night. The live performance definitely adds another dimension and I enjoyed it enormously. The BBC National Orchestra of Wales may not be the Berlin Philharmonic but I was generally very impressed, especially with the strings, who brought warmth and colour to a piece some people find a bit cold. On the other hand, on the way out people were raving about the four Wagner tubas, which I thought sounded ill-at-ease and unconvincing.

The concert was broadcast live last night on BBC Radio 3 (you can here it here for the next week or so), which is why it had to start at 7pm. A crazy decision by the controller of BBC Radio3, in my opinion, to insist that live concerts all start so early. There being no time to go home first, I just went straight there from work. I was deeply disappointed to see such a low turnout – the Hall was less than half full. Curiously, though, when I had tried to book a ticket just a week or so ago the vast majority of seats were sold and I had to settle for a place upstairs. I’m told that large numbers of seats are kept back for corporate guests and for BBC employees, of whom there are many in Cardiff as Auntie Beeb is a big employer here. Since these folk haven’t paid anything they often don’t turn up. The effect of this is that no matter how interesting the programme is, how fine the venue is, and how cheap the tickets are (top price is less than £30), the place is often pretty empty. It’s a shame.

Anyway, the one advantage of a 7pm start is that the concerts finish quite early, just after nine in this case. It was still twilight when I emerged from St David’s Hall, so I decided to take a crepuscular perambulation along the Taff embankment past the cricket ground at Sophia Gardens (where England are currently playing a Test Match against Sri Lanka). When I got near the SWALEC Stadium I was beset on all sides by a number of bats, no doubt feasting on insects flying over the river. They didn’t bother me at all. I find them fascinating creatures, in fact. At one point however, one of the critters flew into my leg at about knee level and fell back onto the path, apparently stunned. I stopped to find out whether it was badly hurt but after a bit of a struggle getting airborne it flapped off into the murk. It was a tiny little thing and, judging by the poor standard of its navigation, I suspect it was merely a trainee.

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Pump up the Volume

Posted in Music with tags MARRS, Pump up the Volume on May 26, 2011 by telescoper

In the course of an archaeological investigation into one of the cupboards in my study last night I unearthed a box full of old vinyl 12″ singles, including this, Pump up the Volume by MARRS. Clearly inspired by the theory of cosmic inflation, it was very popular in dance clubs way back when I was a graduate student living in Brighton, then it got into the charts and climbed to Number 1 thus endowing MARRS with the status of One Hit Wonder. I was shocked when I realised that all this happened in 1987, before most of my students were born. Sigh. Anyway, it was nice to see the cute video again so I thought I’d share it for the benefit of other oldies out there, with the excuse that it’s slightly space-related. Try playing “spot-the-sample” as the record plays – it’s entirely cobbled together from bits of other tracks..

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Move

Posted in Jazz with tags bebop, Denzil Best, Jazz, Lou Donaldson, Move on May 23, 2011 by telescoper

Well, it’s 1pm and my third-year students are just sitting down for two hours of fun with their Nuclear and Particle Physics examination. For my part I’m obliged to sit by the phone for the next two hours in case there’s a problem with the examination paper. Ideal excuse for a quick blog post while I eat my sandwich.

I also notice from my trusty wordpress dashboard that this is my 1000th post since I started blogging, way back in late 2008. Time to indulge myself, then. I haven’t posted much jazz recently so I thought I’d share this classic recording with you. It’s from my favourite era of jazz – the late 1950s – and my favourite kind of jazz, bebop, which by then had matured, ripened and hardened considerably since its birth in the 1940s.

This gives me the excuse to mention a nice article in Saturday’s Grauniad about the poet Philip Larkin, his love for “trad” and his hatred for the “modern” jazz exemplified by bebop. It’s entirely a matter of personal taste, of course, but speaking for myself I can say that I’ve never had any problem loving jazz of all ages. For me, though, it reached a peak in the late 50s with musicians of the calibre of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Ornette Coleman.

This particular track features alto-saxophonist Lou Donaldson whom many jazz critics regarded as a pale imitation of the pioneering be-bop icon Charlie Parker but whose playing I’ve always admired. In my book, anyone brave enough to follow Charlie Parker deserves the highest esteem. In any case when Lou Donaldson walked into the Van Gelder studio in Hackensack, New Jersey on July 28th 2008 he clearly had fire in his belly.

The tune is entitled Move and it was written by drummer Denzil Best. It’s quite unusual for a drummer also to be a composer, but Best wrote a number of classic jazz tunes. I even managed to find the chords that make up this one’s 32 bar AABA structure…

Many bebop compositions are based on the chord progressions of standard tunes, such as How High the Moon or I Got Rhythm, but with the melody replaced by something much more intricate than the original tune. I don’t recognize the chords above from anywhere else so it may be an entirely original composition by Denzil Best. I’m sure there’s a jazz buff out there who will correct me if I’m wrong. In any case the jagged melody is archetypal bebop stuff – complex and angular, very difficult to play but intensely exciting to listen to.

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Cosi fan tutte

Posted in Opera with tags Cosi fan Tutte, Millennium Centre, Mozart, Opera, Welsh National Opera on May 21, 2011 by telescoper

It’s been a long time since I posted an opera review. That’s because neither of the operas offered by Welsh National Opera earlier this year appealed to me very much and since then I’ve been too busy doing other things to take in an opera anywhere else. However, the summer season of WNO has now started so now at last there’s something of an operatic nature to write about. In fact, I was lucky enough to get tickets for the first night of WNO’s new production of Così fan tutte by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and duly went along yesterday evening. The Millennium Centre was pretty full – as you’d expect for a first night of an enduringly popular opera.

In case you weren’t aware, Così fan tutte is a masterpiece of comic opera (or, technically speaking, opera buffa) written in collaboration with Lorenzo da Ponte who also wrote the libretti for Don Giovanni and The Marriage of Figaro. The title can be loosely translated as “That’s how all women behave”; the -e on “tutte” indicates a feminine plural. The plot -such as it is – revolves around two pays of lovers: Guglielmo, who is engaged to Fiordiligi, and Ferrando, who is engaged to Fiordiligi’s sister, Dorabella. Both Guglielmo and Ferrando are sailors. All four are friends with the scheming Don Alfonso, who orchestrates the unfolding events, presumably for his own amusement.

Don Alfonso suggests to Ferrando and Guglielmo that their beloved fiancées are not as faithful as they seem to imagine and the three agree a wager. Ferrando and Guglielmo pretend that they’ve been called up for active service. Don Alfonso joins Fiordiligi and Dorabella in the sumptuous trio Soave sia il vento as the men appear to sail off for battle. The ladies are heartbroken and pledge fidelity to their departed lovers. However, the two sailors soon return in disguise in order to attempt their seduction. After various goings-on the men succeed in seducing each others fiancees and a mock wedding is staged. The marriage is interrupted by the sound of the sailors’ return. After the quickest of quick changes the two men re-appear without their disguises and confront their unfaithful women. Don Alfonso has won his bet.

Like all opera buffa the plot sounds faintly ridiculous – which it is – but of course the key to its success as a piece is not just the comic action, but also the gorgeous music which carries it along. In this particular opera there’s almost no end to the musical loveliness as Mozart has each principal singing alone, and in combinations of twos and threes. Mozart’s writing for two, three or four voices is truly wonderful to listen to, and there are many fine examples of such in this opera.

In this production Guglielmo and Ferrando are sailors who are stationed in a British seaside resort, complete with promenade, pier, Punch & Judy show and Italian ice-cream parlour (named Botticelli‘s). This setting takes it quite a long way downmarket compared to the original location of Naples, especially when the Butlins-style redcoats appear, and this is carried through to the much coarser way the comedy is handled than you find in many productions of this piece. This approach does provide enjoyable moments of slapstick hilarity but also causes some difficulties.

For example, it is key to this opera that the character of Don Alfonso has to have some sort of power over the four main protagonists. In other words, it has to be credible that they believe what he says and go along with his suggestions. In this production, however, Don Alfonso is meant to be a “local pier entertainer” – in fact he actually looks more like Flash Harry. I found it hard to accept that anyone would believe anything that this particularly dodgy spiv had to say, and his interaction with the two ladies in particular lacked all credibility.

Another thing I didn’t like was the way the opening of the piece was handled. Like most of Mozart’s operas, Così fan tutte is blessed with a splendid overture, perhaps not as brilliant the other Da Ponte operas but full of playful exuberance and very much worth listening to. You can call me old-fashioned, but I do like to hear the overture, preferably with an empty stage or with the curtain down. In this production, however, as soon as the overture started, the stage began to fill with various extras doing various (admittedly comic) things. A particularly funny sequence of people walking dogs backwards and forwards got a huge laugh, but which drowned out the music entirely. What a waste.

I suppose the overall point I’m trying to make is that this production tried too hard to get cheap laughs. It’s just not necessary to milk it like that – it’s funny enough anyway!

However, these are relatively small objections. I’ll temper them by adding that some of the comedy in this production is inspired. Ferrando wore a false nose that made him look like Barry Manilow and Guglielmo’s false moustache gave him the appearance of Comrade Stalin. The latter looked particularly louche in white tennis shorts and ghastly red blazer.

Neal Davies (baritone) was Don Alfonso, amusingly played but lacking the deep sonority in his voice really needed to carry the role off. Ferrando was played by Robin Tritschler (tenor), whose light agile voice is ideal. Gary Griffiths (baritone) as Guglielmo was outstanding, with an excellent voice and obvious flair for the comic touches. Fiordiligi (Camilla Roberts) and Dorabella (Helen Lepalaan) were also good. Despina – a waitress in Botticelli’s ice-cream parlour and Don Alfonso’s accomplice (often in disguise) – was pert and feisty but her voice lacked projection; at times she was barely audible.

Anyway, in view of the fact that the comedy dog-walking interfered with last night’s overture I thought I’d end by posting a version here. I love the way that little phrase is thrown around among the wind instruments!

Der Abschied

Posted in Music with tags Das Knaben wunderhorn, Das Lied von der Erde, Der Abschied, Glenn Gould, Gustav Mahler, Maureen Forrester, Urlicht on May 18, 2011 by telescoper

A little dickie bird (or, more accurately, quite a large one with impressive plumage) emailed me to point out that today, 18th May 2011, is the 100th anniversary of the death of Gustav Mahler. I couldn’t let the date go unmarked, so thought I’d post something here. I couldn’t decide which of two bits to put up, so decided to go with them both.

Although it’s long (and I don’t really like posting segments of things) it seemed appropriate to offer Der Abschied (“The Farewell”), the last movement from Das Lied von der Erde. I picked this version, featuring the legendary mezzo soprano Christa Ludwig.

Incidentally, Das Lied von der Erde is a symphony and it was written by Mahler after the 8th Symphony. However, it isn’t the 9th Symphony, which is a different work, or indeed the 10th which was unfinished at Mahler’s death and which I heard here in Cardiff recently.

If you haven’t got time to listen to all of that one, try this remarkable recording instead. It’s Urlicht, one of the songs from Das Knaben Wunderhorn which appears in Mahler’s 2nd Symphony (“The Resurrection”), sung by the late Maureen Forrester (contralto) and conducted by none other than a (very young) Glenn Gould.

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Mr PC

Posted in Jazz with tags Dave Holland, Jazz, Mr PC on May 16, 2011 by telescoper

I came across this just now and it completely blew me away so I thought I’d share it here. It’s a solo version of the John Coltrane tune Mr PC by the amazing (British-born) bassist Dave Holland. Words totally unnecessary. Wow will do.

Ba-dum Ching!

Posted in Music with tags comedy, drums, percussion, rimshot, Sting on May 15, 2011 by telescoper

One of the good things about having a blog is the chance to bore the entire internet with your own peculiar obsessions. As regular readers of In the Dark will be aware, one of my fascinations is the origin and evolution of words and phrases. This morning I had an interesting exchange on Twitter with neuroscientist and comedian extraordinaire Dean Burnett, which revolved around the word “rimshot”…and a similar word with quite different meaning which I won’t repeat in polite company.

Ever wondered what the name is for the (often ironic) drum effect often used in cabaret or night club acts to puncuate a joke, like this?

Well, the answer is “rimshot”.

Or at least that’s the word that’s pretty universally used by comedians.

Curiously, though, if you are a percussionist rather than a comedian then a rimshot is something quite different. My father was a drummer so I had a lot of relevant terminology (flams, paradiddles, chokes, you name it) drummed into me when I was a kid. Technically, in fact, a rimshot is a single sound created by hitting the head of the drum and the rim at the same time with a drumstick. It’s an effect probably used more frequently in jazz than in other forms of music, and a good example can be heard on Miles Davis classic Summertime on which the excellent Philly Joe Jones applies a rimshot to every 4th beat of the bar. The clicking sound is something similar to that produced by claves. Nothing much to do with the word as used by comedians, then…

The word used by drummers for what comedians call a rimshot is actually a sting. That’s certainly what my Dad always called it anyway. He often had to play in Working Mens’ Clubs and didn’t really like being on with comedians, most of whom were terrible and also told extremely blue jokes. In fact, I’m pretty sure he only ever used a sting in the ironic sense, when the gag was exceptionally poor.

There are many possible variants of the sting but the basic “ba-doom ching” is this:

which involves a tom-tom, closely followed by a kick on the bass drum, then a short pause followed by the bass drum and snare played together at the same time as a choked cymbal crash. Some stings are more elaborate than this, and a sting can indeed involve a rimshot, but most I’ve heard don’t.

Of course it’s not at all unusual for one word to have different meanings in different fields, so I’m not arguing that “rimshot” is wrong, but it’s interesting (at least to me) to wonder how when and why this divergence of meaning happened..

Incidentally, at the risk of boring you all even further, I’d add that the comedian’s rimshot has also evolved via a metonymic shift to refer not only to the sound the drummer makes but also to the joke that provoked it. In other words, an exceptionally good (or, more likely, bad) gag is often itself referred to as a rimshot.

And with that, my time’s up. You’ve been a lovely audience. Thank you, and goodnight.

Ba-Dum Ching!

P.S. If you’re ever in need of a ~~rimjob~~ rimshot, you can get one here.

In the Dark