Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman strike me as a very happily married couple, an impression their live cover of Makin’ Whoopee supports.
What’s their secret? As anyone with an interest in romance or Earth Science will tell you, opposites attract. On the surface of things, the exhibitionistic, highly theatrical, always controversial Palmer is quite different from her unfailingly discreet husband of the last two-and-a-half years. (Watch him mine his reticence to great comic effect at the 2.52 mark.)
That’s not to say they don’t have things in common.
He was raised in a Scientologist household. She scrawled Nope. Not planning to fund Scientology with my Kickstarter money. That would be dumb on her nude torso, then posted a selfie on her website, thus pouring gasoline on the fires that power that portion of the internet devoted to spreading misinformation about their religious affiliation.
And while he has three children from a previous marriage, the Gaiman-Palmer union has yet to produce any little Neil or Amandas. Which brings us back to Makin’ Whoopee. Whether or not the lyrics jibe with one’s personal outlook, the song’s enduring popularity (85 years and counting) might suggest its central dilemma is evergreen. Its biological observations are certainly above reproach: sex often leads to babies, who lead to the sort of responsibilities that signal the end of the honeymoon, if not the marriage.
Perhaps an open relationship in the whoopee department will continue to keep things playful between the Gaiman-Palmers, regardless of what their future holds. It’s really none of our business, is it?
(Those drawn to speculation, could do so live, when the alt.power-couple (Namanda? Ameil?) bring their “intimate night” of spoken word, songs, stories, audience chats and surprises to New York City’s Town Hall.)