Biography
Beyond Homer & Jethro, Brother Dave Gardner ranked as the foremost comedian rooted in Southern traditions. From the late 1950s through the mid-1960s his albums turned up in sophisticated collections across northern cities where few would have predicted their presence, while his approach quickly shaped countless imitators. Frequently labeled a "Southern Lenny Bruce" or "Billy Graham with a sense of humor," his strongest material still feels inventive and immediate, underscoring his singular creative vision. Far more than a diminutive stand-up trading in standard hillbilly gags, this performer arguably represented the authentic trailblazer of polished Southern comedy.
After cutting several modestly received singles as a drummer and vocalist around his hometown of Memphis—including the original version of “White Silver Sands”—Gardner discovered his real vocation once Chet Atkins encountered him in Nashville delivering comedy between drum solos. His stage persona, which matched most descriptions of his offstage self, blended hipster detachment with Sunday-morning preacher cadences and delivered unexpected reflections on history and daily life that challenged conventions as far as the era permitted. RCA issued his first comedy album, Rejoice, Dear Hearts!, in 1960 at the peak of the comedy-LP boom, and the follow-up, Kick Thy Own Self, achieved even greater commercial success.
His national television appearances proved so effective that Ray Stevens adapted entire Gardner routines into songs that became major hits through the late 1960s, among them “Ahab, the Arab” and “Speedball.” Later in the decade the Memphis rock band the Hombres expanded a single line from one of Gardner’s routines into the hit “Let It All Hang Out.”
Onstage Gardner operated as a singular force. Although his initial rise rested on tightly shaped set pieces akin to those Bruce employed, these gradually yielded to spontaneous yet incisive commentary; unlike Bruce, however, he retained the core elements of his nightclub and recording repertoire. Continued club work prompted him to enlarge those pieces, and dedicated listeners can contrast the early-album version of “The Motorcycle Story” with its expansive treatment—nearly filling an entire side—on his penultimate LP, Out Front. Rather than delivering a rote recitation, he sounds as though the tale has just occurred to him, his energy leaping from the grooves. His timing remained flawless, and audience cues often triggered extended free-association passages lasting several minutes. One noted onstage habit was his refusal to clock performances conventionally; although he wore a costly watch, he never consulted it. He is often credited, curiously, with originating the 100-millimeter cigarette, which he had custom-produced in bulk beginning in the early 1960s; lighting three in quick succession from a matching custom case signaled the end of his set.
A 1962 marijuana-possession arrest disrupted his momentum. Though he never flaunted the subject as Bruce did, Gardner maintained a reportedly intense and exploratory interest in drugs and occasionally slipped guarded allusions into routines. Acquitted, the ensuing publicity nevertheless eliminated major television bookings and large northern engagements, relegating him to smaller southern clubs. A brief prison term for tax evasion in the early 1970s—during which his defense to the judge was, “I didn’t know how much money I made, so I figured it was a fraud to fill out one of them things”—left his career stalled after moves from RCA Victor to Capitol to the budget Tower imprint and finally to no contract at all. Performing in modest venues, his skewed perspective endured, the work of an unbowed iconoclast now managed by a racist billionaire intent on reshaping him for the Hee Haw audience. He continued recording for an array of small labels, including a final Four Star session in which he asked a startled Nashville crowd, “I wonder if Johnny Cash turned Billy Graham on?” and another for the short-lived record arm of the Tonka toy company. At his death in 1983 he was developing a low-budget film titled Chain Gang. Though rarely recalled today except by veterans who smile at the mention of his name, Gardner’s impact across comedy remains substantial.
After cutting several modestly received singles as a drummer and vocalist around his hometown of Memphis—including the original version of “White Silver Sands”—Gardner discovered his real vocation once Chet Atkins encountered him in Nashville delivering comedy between drum solos. His stage persona, which matched most descriptions of his offstage self, blended hipster detachment with Sunday-morning preacher cadences and delivered unexpected reflections on history and daily life that challenged conventions as far as the era permitted. RCA issued his first comedy album, Rejoice, Dear Hearts!, in 1960 at the peak of the comedy-LP boom, and the follow-up, Kick Thy Own Self, achieved even greater commercial success.
His national television appearances proved so effective that Ray Stevens adapted entire Gardner routines into songs that became major hits through the late 1960s, among them “Ahab, the Arab” and “Speedball.” Later in the decade the Memphis rock band the Hombres expanded a single line from one of Gardner’s routines into the hit “Let It All Hang Out.”
Onstage Gardner operated as a singular force. Although his initial rise rested on tightly shaped set pieces akin to those Bruce employed, these gradually yielded to spontaneous yet incisive commentary; unlike Bruce, however, he retained the core elements of his nightclub and recording repertoire. Continued club work prompted him to enlarge those pieces, and dedicated listeners can contrast the early-album version of “The Motorcycle Story” with its expansive treatment—nearly filling an entire side—on his penultimate LP, Out Front. Rather than delivering a rote recitation, he sounds as though the tale has just occurred to him, his energy leaping from the grooves. His timing remained flawless, and audience cues often triggered extended free-association passages lasting several minutes. One noted onstage habit was his refusal to clock performances conventionally; although he wore a costly watch, he never consulted it. He is often credited, curiously, with originating the 100-millimeter cigarette, which he had custom-produced in bulk beginning in the early 1960s; lighting three in quick succession from a matching custom case signaled the end of his set.
A 1962 marijuana-possession arrest disrupted his momentum. Though he never flaunted the subject as Bruce did, Gardner maintained a reportedly intense and exploratory interest in drugs and occasionally slipped guarded allusions into routines. Acquitted, the ensuing publicity nevertheless eliminated major television bookings and large northern engagements, relegating him to smaller southern clubs. A brief prison term for tax evasion in the early 1970s—during which his defense to the judge was, “I didn’t know how much money I made, so I figured it was a fraud to fill out one of them things”—left his career stalled after moves from RCA Victor to Capitol to the budget Tower imprint and finally to no contract at all. Performing in modest venues, his skewed perspective endured, the work of an unbowed iconoclast now managed by a racist billionaire intent on reshaping him for the Hee Haw audience. He continued recording for an array of small labels, including a final Four Star session in which he asked a startled Nashville crowd, “I wonder if Johnny Cash turned Billy Graham on?” and another for the short-lived record arm of the Tonka toy company. At his death in 1983 he was developing a low-budget film titled Chain Gang. Though rarely recalled today except by veterans who smile at the mention of his name, Gardner’s impact across comedy remains substantial.
Albums
