DOUBLE IT UP!

The story behind one of Bobby Bird's most iconic albums

Lotsa food on this one! Whoopie! This was my first, and sadly not my last, encounter with mousse.

DOUBLE IT UP !

This albums' been a bit of a mystery to people since I've always been known as a glutton, but never a gourmand. Some obvious-minds have extract the obvious metaphor that it's about having a threesome. Can't really blame them, as I've gone to the old sex well to pull up a bucket of booty far too often. Then there's the recipes in the albums liner notes, and all the songs about cooking like, "Sizzlin' Sausage" and "Toothachin' Sweet Tea." People took that as a metaphor for drugs. WHAT? The real story of this album and how it came about starts with teabags.

One evening, Seth called me out on the fact that I always use two teabags at a time cause I like my tea strong as hell. In defense of this practice, I simply said, "I double it up!" with a whole lot of gusto. He laughed pretty hard at that, which I noted. If it gets serious-ass Seth, it'll get an audience. Over the years I've learned this as a rule.

The next morning, Seth saw me adding extra raisins to my Raisin Bran. "What're you doing, man?" He said.

"I double it up!" Even more flair, more Creole twang.

He laughed even harder.

A couple days later, a bit coked-out and mixing up some chocolate chip cookie batter, I get so generous with the chippies that Seth grabs my wrist to slow my pour. "What're you doing?"

"I double it up!" I say.

Again, Seth loses it.

Then, as those cookies are baking, spitting black choco all over the baking sheet cause I did indeed use way too many chips, I start drumming the range with wooden spoons and singing, "Well I double it up, and you gobble it down. I double it up and you gobble it down. I double it up and..." And on and on like that. At a certain point, drunk Seth stops laughing, starts staring at me all serious, and says, "'Scuse me," and goes to his room.

I keep singing the dumb song to myself, over and over. And I sing it to myself as I take a pee the next morning. As dumb as it is, thing's got a "ring" to it.

When I move out to the kitchen I find Seth standing by the coffee pot in a real business stance—arms crossed and legs bowed like a gunslinger's. And he's watching that coffee drip like a pistol apt to draw.

"You look like you're thinking," I said. Thinking's a dirty word at El Saguaro Manor and Seth knows that. Can only lead to trouble.

Thought, Bobby,” Seth says. “Thought a whole lot last night and doing a little more now even."

"Bad boy," I said, grabbing my old chipped Beetle Bailey mug, fillin' 'im up.

"Double it up," Seth said. "I think there's a whole lot of money in that phrase there, bud. Maybe more than we've ever made before."

"How so?"

"Tele-vision."

This was the eighties, you see. It's not like now with a thousand and one shows made by wage-slaves living in condos. There were maybe two hundred shows on the air total at the time, and if you could make one of them yours you'd get an oceanside mansion out of the deal.

Seth's idea was simple. A Bobby Bird cooking show called "Double it Up." That would be my catchphrase too. And the second he pitched the idea I could see it all. Me in a chef's hat mixing up a bowl of brownies. The recipe calls for one cup of toasted pecans. I consider the amount, making a long, thoughtful, "Hmmmmmmmm." Then I shake my head, almost kinda angry, throw in TWO cups of toasted pecans, and shout out,"I double it up!" I do it with all the tasty ingredients. Double the green onions on the nachos, double the fennel in the sausage, the taco seasoning in the taco meat. "Double it up! Double it up! Double! It! Up!" The applause sign flashing brighter and brighter, all those smiling teeth and eyeballs reflecting back it's golden light from dark risers.

Seth flopped open his trusty red notebook and started writing down more ideas. We figured that as soon as I put whatever dish I was cooking in the oven or pot, I'd set the timer, and it's ticking would provide a rythym as I danced around the kitchen, using a celery stalk or a whisk as a microphone, singing, "Well I double it up and you gobble it down. I double it up and you—" I stick the celery out towards the studio audience and they yell, "Gobble it down!" I leap off the stage to a six piece band ready and waiting amongst vinyl booths and formica tables in a cool, ma and pa diner style set. They all wear aprons and chef hat's too. ‘Cept the drummer's in a hairnet and dishwashing gloves cause he's got that thankless job back there just like the dishwasher does. And a grumpy, greasy short order cook muppet named Mean Mitchell pops up every once in a while just to set a plate of eggs in the window and ding that little bell at the perfect time in the song. "Order up!"

Mean Mitchell and his puppeteer, Garret. He was also mean.

Me and the band play a tune that's superficially about the item we're cooking, and when I'm done, I walk over to the oven, whip out the steaming dish. I take a whiff of it and lock eyes with the camera. "Bon appetit!" I wink, hard, and the frame freezes. Roll credits over that ugly pumpkin head of mine that makes albums go gold!

Seth and I brew pot of coffee numero dos, drink it down to the bottom, and by the time I'm mixing up the tuna fish for lunch, doublin' up that mayo fo sho, we've got a meeting set for that morning Friday with the head of N B C! A guy named Brandon Tartikoff.

After parking somewhere confusing and traversing the Hollywood studio maze, we find Tartikoff in an office as big as a hunting lodge at the top story of a building named after Fred Astaire. Guy's got a three piece suit, a stylish comb-over, and a window that looks out at the whole of the San Fernando valley blanketed in mustard gas, brought to you by Ford Motors and Exxon.

We pitch to him with all the passion and gusto I just used to describe the show to you, and he buys it in the room, promises to produce a pilot episode even. And just as we're leaving, just to show him that I'm the kind of guy who's always got food on the brain, I say, "See you on set, Brandon Tartar Sauce."

The smile drops from his face and his whole body goes rigid as a rattler ready to strike. "What?" He says, planting fists on his desk, rising up before the big yellow window. "What did you just call me?"