I woke up this morning to the news that Neil Innes, of the
Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band and The Rutles, as well as being the man affectionately known
as the “Seventh (Monty) Python” died yesterday. I was shocked… and stunned.
(Real fans of Neil Innes would appreciate that last bit.)
I only met him twice, and for mere minutes at a time at that,
but somehow, I feel like I lost a friend today.
Neil was one of my favorite songwriters and artists. He was
the man who was able to give shape to the nostalgic but Dadaesque chaos that
was the Bonzo Dog Doo-Band, acting as musical director amd ringleader while
crafting wryly witty songs to compliment the surreal, found-art aesthetic on
which the band was initially established. And while Eric Idle will lay claim to creating
the Rutles (and yes, he did pen the screenplay to the now classic 1978 mockumentary,
The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash), it
was Innes who pitched the idea of a Beatles pastiche for their show Rutland Weekend Television in 1975, and
it was he who wrote the songs that that were so stylistically spot-on and incisive
that some of them were mistaken for being lost Beatles tracks. Also, Let’s not
forget that he was Sir Robin’s minstrel.
I want to make clear that this is not merely some moment in
which someone I loved in my childhood passed away, causing me to revisit weird
little artifacts from my youth. He has been, and will be, someone that I
constantly revisit, his new work and old. In fact, I had been on yet another
Neil Innes spree for the last month.
It was only a few weeks ago that I received in the mail my
copy his new album, Nearly Really. I
had been expecting it for quite some time, having pledged £25 to his crowd
sourcing campaign over a year prior. The campaign was a success, and I received
an email that my card was being charged and asking to confirm my address. Then
I didn’t hear anything for a while. As I followed Neil on Twitter, I came to
understand that the crowd sourcing platform he used, Pledge Music, had folded,
taking all of our money with it. Well, thank goodness for American Express,
because they got me my money back, even though the charge had been processed a
year prior. I then immediately took my refunded money and went back to Neil’s
website and ordered a signed CD (I
originally had pledged for a signed LP, but after the whole debacle, they
forwent a vinyl pressing). It arrived relatively promptly, and I eagerly opened
the CD up and found a handwritten message reading: “Thank you Robert! (heart)
Neil Innes”
Now, unless somehow managed to miss the byline (and don’t
know me personally, which I imagine most people reading do), you probably know
that my name is not Robert. However, far from being crestfallen, I found it
quite amusing. I had thought for a moment to give him a good natured ribbing
about via Twitter, but figured that it would take up precious time that could
be better spent on another diatribe about Brexit (which was the bulk of his postings).
Also, I supposed that it served me right. The first time I
met Neil and saw him perform, along with old Rutles, Bonzos, and Python songs, he
was performing songs from his then newly released album (and what has now
proven to be his penultimate album of original songs), Works in Progress. I had gone expecting to just hear the old stuff,
but was pleasantly surprised by the quality of his new songs. They embodied so
many of the unique defining characteristics of his best songwriting: Intense
literacy, clever (but not ostentatious) word-play, honesty, and his willingness
to be silly without stampeding towards the joke.
After the performance, there was no question that I was
going to buy the new CD and have him sign it (Interestingly, I had received an
original pressing of his first solo album How
Sweet to Be an Idiot in the mail that very day, but declined to bring it
along). I don’t remember what I said, probably something about how I thought
his new material was excellent and I looked forward to hearing the album. He
was mellow and gracious. He asked me to whom he should sign the album. Being a
little cheeky and trying to look smart, I asked him to sign it to Ethel
Rosenberg. He looked at me quizzically, and then I chickened out. “Nevermind,”
I said, “sign it to Roger. R-O-G-E-R.” (My own aunt misspelled my name, adding
a “D” in the middle, until I was 10. I don’t feel bad for spelling it out for
him.)
I didn’t bring anything for him to sign the second (and last) time I saw him, which was a little
over a year and a half ago. I was actually in the process of writing an article
about the 40th anniversary of the original broadcast of All You Need Is Cash when I just
happened to discover that Neil was playing a gig in town on that very night. Once again, his set was a delight. Wonderful
songs from the past several decades were performed alongside stories of working
with the Pythons, recording next door to the Beatles, and explaining to us Americans
some of the references that we might
have missed. (Urban Spaceman makes much more sense if you know that what we
refer to as “vacant lots” are called “urban spaces” in the UK. And it stands to
reason that if there are urban spaces, then there must be urban spacemen,
right?) As had become his established format, the show began with a solo
acoustic set, followed by an electric set featuring a local Beatles cover band.
This time around the electric band featured The Weeklings (a New Jersey based
Beatles tribute band featuring Glen Burtnik, onetime member of Styx) along with
Ken Thornton, Innes’ band mate in the recent touring version of The Rutles.
At one point, Neil declared that he was going to reach deep
into the back catalog and pull out some deep Bonzo cuts. Caught up in the
moment (and with my tongue loosened by more than a few vodka and sodas) I screamed
out: “Equestrian Statue!” (Again, For those non-rabid fans, “Equestrian Statue”
is a song from Gorilla, the first
album by The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, and the first recorded evidence that Neil
naturally possessed a Beatles-esque sense of melody). Neil looked out at the audience
in much the same way that he looked at me when I brought up Ethel Rosenberg.
When he emerged from the dressing room after the show, I
gently accosted him, confessing that I was “the schmuck who screamed ‘Equestrian
Statue.’”
He just smiled and said: “That’s because you’ve got good
taste,” and he gave me a big hug.
We chatted for a good few minutes before some official
looking guy reminded him that there was a line of people waiting to have a
fraction of the time that I was taking up. One more hug and a “great gig – nice
chatting with you” and he was off.
I don’t know how to tie this up. I don’t know what else to
say. I connected with Neil’s songs, his sense of the absurd, and his sense of
the real. I’m glad to say that I was able to communicate that to him
personally. Pardon me if my words seem scattered. I’m just sifting through memories.
Tomorrow I may have other thoughts, other memories, other associations. Right
now I’m still shocked… and stunned.
