Rob Gilroy: Making A Stand #22

I have a confession to make: I’m not, what you would call, a rock and roll fanatic.

For a start; I pronounce it ‘rock AND roll’ – everyone knows it should be ‘rock ‘n’ roll’.

Although, to be clear – I put the ‘and’ in capitals to emphasise my point, I do not go round screaming ‘rock AND roll’.

That would not be cool, and would certainly do even more damage to my already flagging reputation.

I don’t mind not being a rock and roll-ster.

I’ve never had that anarchic, punk-y attitude to life – I’m no rock chick, no sk8r boi, no Darius Danesh.

If I was given the option of ‘sticking it to the man’, I would think long and hard about which man I’d be sticking ‘it’ to and also what the ‘it’ I’d be sticking would be.

I’d usually come to the conclusion that it’s never worth sticking anything to any man as most household cleaners are absolutely useless at getting adhesive materials out of men’s clothing.

What I’m saying is; I’ve never really been at the forefront of the music scene.

When everyone was buying the latest cassettes and listening to ‘Now That’s What I Call Popular Music 12’, I was buying blank tapes and recording myself doing silly voices.

OK, I wasn’t invited to many parties, but who cares? Who needs friends when you can create your own with Swedish accents?

As a young boy I didn’t have much of an agenda, so it’s fair to say that music wasn’t on the agenda I didn’t have. Somehow it had passed me by.

The only real music I had was Smurfs Go Pop and a karaoke classics tape that came free with the cassette player.

There’s nothing sadder than making up voices while listening to instrumental versions of 80s classics. (Interesting fact: This is why I can no longer listen to ‘Careless Whisper’ without wanting to cement my ears shut.)

The only interest I really had was comedy, and yet the funny thing is that, at certain times in my life, comedy has managed to come in and fill certain gaps in my education.

This was certainly the case with music, when – aged 11 – I first sat down to watch The Rutles.

For those that don’t know what The Rutles is, I am not going to spell it out here – have a Google and sort yourself out.

I sat down to watch The Rutles and it was at that precise moment I found one of the great loves of my life – Mr. Neil Innes (I’ve told him this several times, he does not reciprocate.)

I initially went into The Rutles as a fan of all things Monty Python, but when the credits rolled I was so enamoured with Mr. Innes and the wonderfully vibrant and catchy songs he had created I was not only a fan of him, but of music.

I instantly set out to listen to all the music of The Beatles.

Firstly; so the comedy nerd in me could better appreciate the elements of parody in the songs, but secondly; because it had introduced to me a type of song writing that I hadn’t really come across before.

Or at the very least, paid any attention to.

The reason I bring this all up is because, last week, I went to see The Rutles live in concert.

I was instantly transported back to that first time I heard classics such as ‘Another Day’, ‘With a Girl Like You’ and ‘Get Up and Go’.

I hadn’t really given the concert much thought, I booked the tickets and then put it out of my mind until the night of the show.

But as I drove to the gig listening to Archaeology – one of the greatest albums ever, in my opinion – I suddenly realised how momentous this event was.

This was me seeing my Beatles – live.

As I parked up and stepped into the venue, my heart was pounding. It could be the fact I’d rushed my tea – pasta carbonarra in 30 seconds flat and washed down with un-diluted orange squash is not clever – but it was more than likely because I was about to see Ron Nasty and Barry Wom live in concert.

And, I can tell you now; I was not disappointed.

I stood there for the two hours they performed, nursing an incredibly warm larger-shandy, transfixed by the sight of Neil Innes and John Halsey, two sexagenarians, rocking it out harder than a bag of stones at a Status Quo gig in a quarry.

It was truly an amazing night.

Marred somewhat by the fact that I was on such a high when I left the gig, that I reversed over half the audience on my way out of the car park, but you can’t win them all.

That night made me realise, not only how much I love The Rutles and the brilliant work of Neil Innes (if you haven’t heard ‘How Sweet to be an Idiot’ listen to it now – it’s beautifully stupid and stupidly beautiful) but also how much that great man and that great band have informed everything I listen to now.

It sounds silly to say it, but it’s true.

If it wasn’t for comedy, I would never have stumbled upon Neil Innes and if it wasn’t for him I would never have stumbled upon music.

OK, maybe I would have liked music at some point, but I’d never have learnt guitar and I would have ended up as one of those people that taps their foot to lift muzak, and no one wants that.

To be truly honest; if it wasn’t for Neil Innes, my comedy act would not be what it is today.

That’s not to say I’ve nicked all his jokes, I will never openly admit to that, but his work has had such an impact on me that if it weren’t for him I would never have thought the protest singer could be funny.

While my character, Jerry Bucham [pictured], is a slightly different beast to his, Bob Nylon, they are certainly cut from a similar mould.

Where Jerry is well-meaning but naïve and misguided, Bob is deadly serious and unaware of his own stupidity.

However, both can be summed up with the immaculate Innes line – “I’ve suffered for my music. Now it’s your turn.”

As the gig was drawing to a close the other night, Neil said something that really struck a chord with me (‘struck a chord’, get it? God I’m good).

He said that, to him, the world ‘rutle’ is a verb, meaning ‘to imitate or be inspired by someone you admire’.

So, if that’s the case then, Mr. Innes, if you’re reading this; I’ve been rutling you for a very long time. Thank you for everything.

(I’ve just read that last line back to myself. I’m not sure it came out like I intended.)