Post by starshyne on Mar 21, 2006 18:24:37 GMT -5
I was going through my magazine collection today and found the Nov 8, 1996 issue of Goldmine which has a very long article about the Rutles! I am going to try to type it out, but it is very long and may take several posts before I am finsihed. Enjoy!
The Rutles: Turn left at Greenland by Dave Thompson
Britian, 1964. Harold Wilson's Labour Government had just been returned to power with their promises of a brave new society, forged in the white heat of techonolgical revolution. The winter following the coldest winter since weather records began was over, and London was beginning to swing again.
In the coffee bars of Soho, the last generation of surly young Mod was preparing to meet its media maker, and perish on the sands of Bank Holiday Brighton, and "oop north" four lads from Liverpool were about to visit an American named Ed Sullivan. It was all a long way from Rutland.
Rutland is one of the great jokes in British geography. The smallest county in the country, it existed in a kind of political no man's land between the wealthy shoe farmers of Northants and the poor soccer players of Leicester, unparalleled in its pointlessness. By 1974, it has ceased to exist, the victim of the then incumbent Conservative Government's attempts to rig the forthcoming election by concentrating all its most loyal supporters in one place. They failed, and ad=midt the jubilation that followed, Rutland was forgotten.
But it was there, amidst the scheming squires of Rutland's rural heartland, that another four lads, Dirk McQuickly, Ron Nasty, Barrington Womble and Stig O'Hara, had a dream, a dream which would see them take on all corners, conquer the world, and still be home in time for tea.
They were, of course, the Rutles, and as the entire Western world braces itself once again to meet the full force of Rutlemania head on, only one man dares to speak out against them. One man remains unconvinced that this is "the reunion of the century." that might well be "the most significant even in modern western culture," that it represents any of the many other laudatory labels with which excited commentators have greeted the most eagerly awaited incident in your, or anyone else's entire lifetime. The Rutles are back, and Spiggy Topes doesn't care.
Spiggy Topes?
"Oh God, I remember Spiggy Topes," muses a puzzled, but nicely greying moptopped Ron Nasty, following a brief silence during which it was plain he didn't have a clue who Spiggy was. "But he didn't really exist, did he?"
Britian, 1964. Harold Wilson's Labour Government had just been returned to power with their promises of a brave new society, forged in the white heat of techonolgical revolution. The winter following the coldest winter since weather records began was over, and London was beginning to swing again. Et. cetera, et cetera.
But this time, the coffee bars of Soho are hosting a group of journalists staggers at the satirically inclined Private Eye magazine, who have casts a jaundiced eye over the current pop scene, and decided to lambast it in the only way they can.
"We will form our own pop group." announces a loconic Peter Cooke (the same). "Their singer will be named Spiggy Topes," insists a compendious William Rushton. "they will be called the Turds." continues a sententious Richard Ingrams. "And they will not exist," choruses an epigrammatic everyone else "But that won't stop us from writing about them."
Spiggy Topes and the Turds were great. Long hair, yeah yeah yeah, everything a real band did, the Turds would do better, or at least funnier. They even made a record, released through Private Eye, and today worth absolutely zillions on the collectors market.
And though it's true that they were never more than figments of some writer's imaginations, remember all those lonely housewives who send wreaths to the funeral s on "As the world Turds..." sorry, turns." Figments can and often do become fact in many peoples' minds. And for millions of lifelong Turd fans, neighter convinced nor perturbed by subsequent claims that the wasted three decards digging a dream. Spiggy Topes (who may or may not have been modelled upona marginally popular singer named Lennon, and is, therefore probably dead) lives forever.
And Spiggy hates the Rutles.
Which makes sense.
"The Rutles? They stole everything from the Turds. Even the first three letters of their name. They stole their look, their songs, their instruments, their trousers. That movie they did. That wasn't their story, it was the Turds'. Those songs. They just took songs we wrote, mucked around with the chords a bit, changed a few words. It was daylight robbery, and they didn't even have the decency to wait until it was dark."
He leafs through the Rutles disography as thought it were a catalog of war crimes. "Those record jackets. All ours. Those movies. We made them first. Spelling out an album title in semaphore. We did that. "A Hard Day's Rut?" "A Hard Day's Turd." "Judy in disguise with Rutles?" "Lucy is the Lavvy with Turds." Need I go on? No, but I will.
And he does, growing even more obscene, ever more obstreperous, ever more obscure until it because apparent (even to the horde of middle aged secretaries who gathered around this rather, sad, spectacle in the heard of London's cardboard city, in the vague hope that someone might be having embarrassing convulsions) that the poor old rocker is off his rocker.
It is, indeed a far cry from the swish uptown hotel in NYC where Ron Nasty and Barry Wom and holding court to the American press. It's just as sad, and just as pathetic, and the gathered horde of secretaries is just as middle-aged. But if these men have convulsions, it's art. And if things get embarrassing, they jsut take the party elsewhere.
"I'd forgotten about this side of it," Ron sighs as he gaves up at two pendulous beasts (giraffes, probably, or maybe tall llams), and contemplates his forthcoming schedule of interviews and video shoots. "All we wanted was to write some songs."
"Turn left at Greenland, " deadpans Barry Wom. "Or was that a different question?"
The Rutles story, of course, needs no retelling, although few authors are paid by the word cann't resist doing so anyway.
Ron Nasty and Dirk McQuickly met, literally bumped into one anotherin 1959. Discovering a mutual interest in alcohol, they became drinking partners first, song writing partners later.
Theirs was a temestuous relationship. According to the recently published book "The Day Ron Met Dirk" (Flightless Arctic Bird Books, 1995). by the time they formed their first band, The Quarrelmen, they had already fallen out three times, twice with each other and once through a window.
But they persevered and by 1960, with guitarist Stig O'Hara, drummer Barrington Womble and a fifth member remembered simply as Leppo now in tow, the Quarrelmen had become the Rutles.
The Rutles: Turn left at Greenland by Dave Thompson
Britian, 1964. Harold Wilson's Labour Government had just been returned to power with their promises of a brave new society, forged in the white heat of techonolgical revolution. The winter following the coldest winter since weather records began was over, and London was beginning to swing again.
In the coffee bars of Soho, the last generation of surly young Mod was preparing to meet its media maker, and perish on the sands of Bank Holiday Brighton, and "oop north" four lads from Liverpool were about to visit an American named Ed Sullivan. It was all a long way from Rutland.
Rutland is one of the great jokes in British geography. The smallest county in the country, it existed in a kind of political no man's land between the wealthy shoe farmers of Northants and the poor soccer players of Leicester, unparalleled in its pointlessness. By 1974, it has ceased to exist, the victim of the then incumbent Conservative Government's attempts to rig the forthcoming election by concentrating all its most loyal supporters in one place. They failed, and ad=midt the jubilation that followed, Rutland was forgotten.
But it was there, amidst the scheming squires of Rutland's rural heartland, that another four lads, Dirk McQuickly, Ron Nasty, Barrington Womble and Stig O'Hara, had a dream, a dream which would see them take on all corners, conquer the world, and still be home in time for tea.
They were, of course, the Rutles, and as the entire Western world braces itself once again to meet the full force of Rutlemania head on, only one man dares to speak out against them. One man remains unconvinced that this is "the reunion of the century." that might well be "the most significant even in modern western culture," that it represents any of the many other laudatory labels with which excited commentators have greeted the most eagerly awaited incident in your, or anyone else's entire lifetime. The Rutles are back, and Spiggy Topes doesn't care.
Spiggy Topes?
"Oh God, I remember Spiggy Topes," muses a puzzled, but nicely greying moptopped Ron Nasty, following a brief silence during which it was plain he didn't have a clue who Spiggy was. "But he didn't really exist, did he?"
Britian, 1964. Harold Wilson's Labour Government had just been returned to power with their promises of a brave new society, forged in the white heat of techonolgical revolution. The winter following the coldest winter since weather records began was over, and London was beginning to swing again. Et. cetera, et cetera.
But this time, the coffee bars of Soho are hosting a group of journalists staggers at the satirically inclined Private Eye magazine, who have casts a jaundiced eye over the current pop scene, and decided to lambast it in the only way they can.
"We will form our own pop group." announces a loconic Peter Cooke (the same). "Their singer will be named Spiggy Topes," insists a compendious William Rushton. "they will be called the Turds." continues a sententious Richard Ingrams. "And they will not exist," choruses an epigrammatic everyone else "But that won't stop us from writing about them."
Spiggy Topes and the Turds were great. Long hair, yeah yeah yeah, everything a real band did, the Turds would do better, or at least funnier. They even made a record, released through Private Eye, and today worth absolutely zillions on the collectors market.
And though it's true that they were never more than figments of some writer's imaginations, remember all those lonely housewives who send wreaths to the funeral s on "As the world Turds..." sorry, turns." Figments can and often do become fact in many peoples' minds. And for millions of lifelong Turd fans, neighter convinced nor perturbed by subsequent claims that the wasted three decards digging a dream. Spiggy Topes (who may or may not have been modelled upona marginally popular singer named Lennon, and is, therefore probably dead) lives forever.
And Spiggy hates the Rutles.
Which makes sense.
"The Rutles? They stole everything from the Turds. Even the first three letters of their name. They stole their look, their songs, their instruments, their trousers. That movie they did. That wasn't their story, it was the Turds'. Those songs. They just took songs we wrote, mucked around with the chords a bit, changed a few words. It was daylight robbery, and they didn't even have the decency to wait until it was dark."
He leafs through the Rutles disography as thought it were a catalog of war crimes. "Those record jackets. All ours. Those movies. We made them first. Spelling out an album title in semaphore. We did that. "A Hard Day's Rut?" "A Hard Day's Turd." "Judy in disguise with Rutles?" "Lucy is the Lavvy with Turds." Need I go on? No, but I will.
And he does, growing even more obscene, ever more obstreperous, ever more obscure until it because apparent (even to the horde of middle aged secretaries who gathered around this rather, sad, spectacle in the heard of London's cardboard city, in the vague hope that someone might be having embarrassing convulsions) that the poor old rocker is off his rocker.
It is, indeed a far cry from the swish uptown hotel in NYC where Ron Nasty and Barry Wom and holding court to the American press. It's just as sad, and just as pathetic, and the gathered horde of secretaries is just as middle-aged. But if these men have convulsions, it's art. And if things get embarrassing, they jsut take the party elsewhere.
"I'd forgotten about this side of it," Ron sighs as he gaves up at two pendulous beasts (giraffes, probably, or maybe tall llams), and contemplates his forthcoming schedule of interviews and video shoots. "All we wanted was to write some songs."
"Turn left at Greenland, " deadpans Barry Wom. "Or was that a different question?"
The Rutles story, of course, needs no retelling, although few authors are paid by the word cann't resist doing so anyway.
Ron Nasty and Dirk McQuickly met, literally bumped into one anotherin 1959. Discovering a mutual interest in alcohol, they became drinking partners first, song writing partners later.
Theirs was a temestuous relationship. According to the recently published book "The Day Ron Met Dirk" (Flightless Arctic Bird Books, 1995). by the time they formed their first band, The Quarrelmen, they had already fallen out three times, twice with each other and once through a window.
But they persevered and by 1960, with guitarist Stig O'Hara, drummer Barrington Womble and a fifth member remembered simply as Leppo now in tow, the Quarrelmen had become the Rutles.
