They were even more pre-fabricated than the Monkees. Their Saturday morning kid vid spectacle was a psychedelic nod to the sentiments of flower power by way of Itchycoo Park and Strawberry Fields. For creators Sid and Marty Krofft, this brand new series was a good way to mix music with an environmental message and, hopefully, build on their previous Living Island success. Indeed, The Bugaloos would end up being the only show the brothers produced that would not feature a human protagonist. Instead, they imagined a world of tangerine trees and marshmallow skies, harmonious fairies and a diabolical, determined diva. Together, they would duke it out for sonic supremacy of nearby Rock City, and it would all be tempered by their usually successful good vs. evil moralizing.
Unfortunately, fans raised on H.R. Pufnstuf‘s dada-esque delights did not take an instant shine to these English insects. Lasting only a single season, The Bugaloos is often cited as the sole early failure for the Krofft kin. Now viewed on DVD (thanks to Rhino) in a complete collection of every episode ever made, the lack of success is stupefying. As far as imagination and invention go, these singing creatures with Carnaby Street style (and accents) are far more entertaining that the slapstick Sigmund or the horrible double dose of Far Out Space Nuts/Lost Saucer stupidity.
The only other offering from the prolific puppeteers that even comes close to The Bugaloos level of originality is Lidsville what with it’s abundance of well-rendered characters and magic-based mythos and even then, that pure Pufnstuf retread couldn’t hold an anthropomorphic candle to this series’ surreal delights. The premise was deceptively simple. Four British bugs Joy (Caroline Ellis), Courage (John Philpott), I.Q. (John McIndoe) and Harmony (Wayne Laryea) all live in Tranquility Forest, a place where peace is preserved through a real respect for nature. On the other side of the glen lives Benita Bazarre (the amazing Martha Raye), a disgruntled singer who can’t stand the Bugaloos’ melodious mannerisms. From her jukebox penthouse, she plots with her right hand rat Funky, and a pair of dimwitted speakers named what else Woofer and Tweeter. Both sides typically clash over issues of music, but every once in a while the two teams compete over who will win the attention of influential Rock City DJ Peter Platter.
The Kroffts weren’t exactly wallowing into uncharted territory, here. All throughout the late ’60s and early ’70s, Saturday morning television was inundated with shows focusing on bands, or characters who took time out to play music. Favorites such as Josie and the Pussycats and The Archies, as well as live action fare like The Banana Splits were cross promoting their productions with cheesy, kitschy bubblegum song tie-ins, and the brothers figured that they, too, could attempt something similar. But leave it to the insanely creative duo to deliver the most visually original and contextually creative musical merriment since a group of amiable actors gave the original madcap moptops a run for their teenybopper money.
The overall look of the show, always a Krofft trademark, was unusual and unique. The Bugaloos lived inside giant flowers, and took to the sky (thanks to some bad bluescreen) at regular intervals. They got their news from “the grapevine” (an actual collection of puppet fruits) and shared many of their adventures with a firefly named Sparky (Billy Barty in a bad suit). In interviews for the DVD, cast members Caroline Ellis and John Philpott remark at how surreal the set design was. It was like falling into another world, they claim, making it that much easier to tune into the show’s weird wavelength.
As they went about their day, cleaning up the forest and enjoying their woodland oasis, the Bugaloos would sing a selection of treacly tunes, four-part pop reminiscent of The Mamas and the Papas slathered in saccharine. Ms. Bazarre’s several story jukebox held a living room with its own recording studio (and oversized turntable), and her costumes were a collection of tight fitting cat suits with several feather boa accessories. In many ways, the show resembled a combination of Pepperland and Peter Maxx.
But perhaps the most amazing place was Rock City. Viewed as nothing but a cardboard cut out of arrow shaped skyscrapers, it was a metropolis that literally bopped to the beat (the buildings were always viewed in motion, swaying back and forth as the shot pulled in). Inside was A Clockwork Orange array of pop art presentation. The storefronts offered neon and Day-Glo designs, while clubs contained more discothèque dynamics than several celebrated real life hot spots. But it was the people of Rock City that were the most intriguing. Simply blob like figures drawn onto cardboard, this colorless, vacant citizenry was as comic as it was creepy. Their dead-eyed drone-like delivery (only their mouths moved in inarticulate stammers) and unchanging expression suggested a society overwhelmed by resident music expert Peter Platter’s non-stop melodic mayhem. As the disturbing-looking disc jockey with magnetic tape hair and 45 rpm eyes shouted out another song title, you could just sense his audience growing grayer, and emptier.
Within this amazingly multifaceted concept, something magic was bound to occur and usually, it did. Over the course of the episodes of the show’s single season run, we are constantly amazed at the level of ingenuity and imagination on display. Even the awkward wings that the actors had to wear oversized mechanical backpacks, quite obvious in certain scenes have a kind of simplicity and serenity. This was not a show about action and adventure ala Sigmund or Pufnstuf. The Bugaloos’ battles with Benita were more about aesthetic concerns rather than life or death. Sure, Benita could threaten with the best of them, but no one ever believed she would win.
Unlike Witchipoo or Lidsville‘s Hoodoo the Mad Magician, Benita was not so much evil as envious, and since Martha Raye played her like a campy combination of hepcat and harpy, we occasionally sympathized with this atonal antagonist. In episodes where Benita is fretting over her “beauty” (“Lady, You Don’t Look Eighty”) or almost becomes the featured act for Peter Platter’s annual concert showcase (“The Love Bugaloos”) she’s like a lunatic Lucille Ball, pratfalling and mugging in a sensational display of comic acumen.
Not everything in the show works as well. Sparky, the oversized firefly with the disturbingly out of place Jewish accent, tends to ruin more episodes than he helps. During “The Great Voice Robbery” (hoping to increase her career chances, Benita kidnaps Joy and switches voices with her), Sparky’s lack of courage constantly undermines the episodes narrative drive. Similarly, in “Help Wanted – Firefly” Sparky’s stupidity in falling for Benita’s plans to sabotage Peter Platter flummoxes an interesting idea. During the commentaries that accompany the DVDs, there are constant complaints about Sparky’s slapstick struggles. Even the show’s skillful combination of mirth and missive can be lost inside a lazy storyline (“Our Home is Our Hassle””) or an obvious ploy for social significance (the smog saga “On a Clear Day”).
As the central characters, the Bugaloos are interesting, if not always engaging. Drawn as basic symbols of British archetypes the cockney funster, the clipped, considered intellectual, etc. they are personable and photogenic; all upbeat energy and very little depth. Even their namesake emotions are not used that often to define their characters. In essence, the Bugaloos are the most basic thing in the show that bears their brand. The songs are sometimes memorable, but more times than not sound like carbon copies of the tunes from episodes before. Yet because of all the extra eye candy floating around, because our brains bubble from the rainbow brightness of the beautiful backdrops, we don’t seem to care. As long as the production design stayed consistent, the show seemed like a smashing success.
Indeed, if they made a single mistake in the fundamental facet of the show, the Kroffts failed to consider how strong the helpless human central character is for the juvenile demographic. Kids typically feel alone and scared. It’s a part of growing up. With a witch after his magic flute, Jimmy from Pufnstuf becomes the prototypical Krofft icon. Viewers would respond to him since they saw their own inner fears inside his confrontation with animate objects and beings. Similarly, Johnny and Scott from Sigmund and the Sea Monsters had to battle creatures, and unsympathetic humans, in their never-ending quest to keep their kelp-based pal a secret. But The Bugaloos didn’t have this dimension. Sparky was a hindrance, not a hero, and the title insects themselves were all wholesomeness and happiness. Odd as it may seem, children don’t respond well to joy. They would rather have a little unease in their entertainment. It actually makes them feel better about themselves.
It’s no wonder then that, of all the Krofft series, The Bugaloos has taken the longest time to finally find its fanbase. This was straight out fantasy with just enough preaching to keep the stories from being too silly. The songs today still have a wistful, nostalgic air that, while not very memorable, definitely stirs up AM radio hit parade recollections, and the pop art elements of the design are just as delicious as when they were first served up 36 years ago. While many consider Sid and Marty some drug-addled anarchists out to corrupt the youth of America, The Bugaloos is actually the closest their creations ever came to capturing the spectral and sonic situations of the ’60s. Today, tie-dye and peace signs seem dated and dumb. But as an example of imagination and invention, this series shines as brightly now as it ever did.