Toomorrow (1970) (part 3 of 10)

Right, so here we go. It’s that trope where technologically superior but dickless aliens rediscover the value of emotion from a bunch of colorful Earthlings. You know, it really says a lot about us that our sci-fi essentially always boils down to, “Hey, we know we humans might not be the smartest mooks in the galaxy. But we sure can teach you a thing or two about rock-and-roll music and punching people in the face!”

God, I miss Farscape.

Sorry, where was I? Right, right, dickless aliens.

Observer snarks that “young Earthlings” produce scads of this thing you call “music,” but Uptight Superior responds that in only one case has the blending of vibrations produced curative qualities. Listen, if the name “Adam Duritz” comes up in the next sentence, I’m pulling this recap over and shooting myself.

They’ve managed to get a brief mpeg of the source of the vibrations. Uptight Superior calls up a big diamond-shaped screen on which we now get a clip of the aliens’ salvation, which is… God, I can’t say it… Toomorrow, performing “Toomorrow”! Okay, buddy, I was almost willing to buy that human music could save your people, but—hahahahahahaha!! This is the point at which Observer should punch him in the face, if only he’d only been taught to do so by John Crichton.

Caption contributed by Mark

Even dickless aliens enjoy the gentle comedy of That Thing You Do!

To read the rest of this article, support the Agony Booth on Patreon.
This is an archived post. This post is available to patrons who pledge at least $2 on Patreon. Pledging this amount gives access to all archived articles published after 2010. (For access to articles older than 2010, pledge at least $5.)

Click “Unlock with Patreon” to sign up with Patreon or to log in with your existing Patreon account.
Already a qualifying Patreon member? Refresh to access this content.

Mark "Scooter" Wilson

Mark is a history guy, a graphics guy, a guy for whom wryly cynical assessments of popular culture are the scallion cream cheese on the toasted everything bagel of life. He spends his time teaching modern history at Brooklyn College, pondering the ancient Romans at the CUNY Graduate Center, and conjuring maps and illustrations for ungrateful bankers at various Manhattan monoliths. Readers are welcome to guess at reasons why he's nicknamed Scooter, with the proviso that all such submissions are guaranteed to be rather more interesting than the truth. Mark lives in the Midwood section of Brooklyn with a happy-go-lucky, flop-eared dog named Chiyo who is probably, at this very moment, waiting patiently for her walkies.

Multi-Part Article: Toomorrow (1970)

You may also like...