‘I go to sleep crying because even educated people do not know enough to use the wide end of a kazoo.’ : Bright Kazoo Dreams
Al Broder is desolate.
“No matter how hard I try,” he says, “two out of three people still put the wrong end of a kazoo in their mouth.”
We are in his tiny office on Fairfax Avenue. There must be 10,000 kazoos in boxes and on shelves. Gold ones, silver ones, red ones, blue ones.
“I go to sleep crying every night because even educated people do not know enough to use the wide end of a kazoo when they try to play.”
Broder stands suddenly and peers out the doorway, a large, balding man in a blue jump suit.
“I’ll show you,” he says.
I try to stop him because I have seen him terrorize passers-by before, but he ignores me.
A middle-age couple in matching drip-dry outfits have stopped to admire the stuffed gorilla with a kazoo in its mouth that stands before his store.
“Hey,” Broder says to them, “c’mere.”
He is a glowering man with an intimidating manner. The couple hesitate.
“Come here ,” Broder says again.
They finally walk over to him and Broder says, “You a teacher?”
He hopes they are to prove that educated people do not know one end of the kazoo from the other.
“No,” the man says nervously, “we’re from New York.”
The implication here, I suppose, is that New York doesn’t have any teachers.
“Never mind,” Broder says, “play these.”
He hands them each a kazoo and, of course, they put the wrong end to their mouth.
“The wide end,” Broder says irritably. When they hurriedly comply, he stares at them and says, “Now say ‘doo.’ ”
You remember Mr. Kazoo. He is an ex-Detroit cab driver who a few years back decided he was going to be to the kazoo what Colonel Sanders was to fried chicken.
That dream has not yet been achieved, even though he claims to have sold 3.5 million kazoos in the past four years.
Twenty-thousand of them were raised to the lips of 20,000 Oakland Athletics fans last May in a birthday salute to the town’s newspaper.
He asked me to come by specifically so he could tell me about it.
“Twenty-thousand baseball fans, 20,000 kazoos,” he says in a rare state of ecstasy, remembering that night in Oakland.
Al Martinez
He is so happy about it I do not have the heart to ask how many of the 20,000 baseball fans put the wrong end to their mouths.
One thing is certain. Broder believes in the kazoo. While he manufactures other items in his little shop, such as the Rollamatic memo pad with a three-use pen, the kazoo is his life.
So naturally he is upset when someone mishandles it.
“I even put a trumpet flare on some of them,” he says, “but they still use the wrong end. You listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Why would anyone put the wrong end of a trumpet to their mouth?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says.
Forget that they try to blow the kazoo rather than hum the kazoo, Broder says sourly. Just getting them to use the right end would be a triumph.
“If there is a God in heaven,” he says, “the word will spread.”
He steps outside again.
“Hey,” he shouts to a man crossing the street. “You a teacher?”
The man makes a “who me?” gesture and Broder says, “Yeah, you. C’mere.”
It is once more a demand that does not invite debate. Even though the guy is young and athletic-appearing, he does what Mr. Kazoo says.
As it turns out, he is also not a teacher but a theatrical agent from Philly who is thinking of moving to L.A.
Broder hands him a kazoo.
“Here,” he says, “play ‘Jingle Bells.’ ”
“What for?” the guy says, refusing to take the red kazoo that is being offered.
I can visualize two grown men wrestling on the street in the shadow of a stuffed gorilla over one man’s right to refuse a kazoo.
“Just try it,” Broder insists.
The man finally shrugs and takes the kazoo and instantly puts the wrong end to his mouth.
“Keep the kazoo,” Broder says, sending him on his way.
He turns to me.
“The kazoo,” he says, “is the world’s greatest tension reliever. It makes people laugh. You listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Where else can you find a single item that will make you laugh without taking drugs?”
It is the kind of question that defies logic and therefore cannot be answered. But when someone keeps asking “You listening?” after each remark, it is best to come up with a response.
So I say, “I laugh just thinking about it.”
Broder nods appreciatively and turns on a tape recorder. Three kazoo players are humming “In the Mood” in ragged rhythm.
“That’s what it’s all about,” Broder says.
He has me talk via telephone to a representative of the Colonial Ice Cream parlors in Illinois, which has bought 5,000 kazoos from him for promotional purposes.
A lady named Chris does a monologue for 15 minutes on something they call a kazooka split.
When I hang up, Broder says, “I’ve got an idea for an Isuzu commercial. They can give away . . . kazoozoos! You listening? It’s a natural.”
As I leave he follows me out and I can hear him hollering at a lady down the street: “You a teacher?”
