The Idiot Bastard Band - Review

Written by: Si Hawkins
Published: Monday 3rd December 2012

Si Hawkins reviews The Idiot Bastard Band at the Alban Arena, St Albans...

Probably not angling for a slice of One Direction's action, The Idiot Bastard Band are a sort of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young of musical mirth, albeit a supergroup with only one well-established musician in the line-up. No matter, as the mid-song mishaps are all part of the fun here, likewise the between-song banter: you don't get a line-up like this on stage very often.

"I'm an idiot, and these three are bastards," explains Adrian Edmondson (lead guitar), the nominal bandleader. He has a fair bit of musical history, in mock heavy metal outfit Bad News and his own folky collective The Bad Shepherds - although note the common word there. Phill Jupitus (bass) used to support bands during his early days as a performance poet, while Rowland Rivron (drums) was in French & Saunders' epic backing duo Raw Sex, alongside the late, much lamented Simon Brint.

Watching Yoda-like over these relative youngsters is the thankfully still with-us Neil Innes (keyboards), the brilliant songwriting brain behind The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, The Rutles and - part time - the Pythons. It's a curious combo then, and a curious evening, but oddly compelling. The Idiot Bastards are actually a fairly tight unit but don't take themselves too seriously, thankfully: this show is very much a love-letter to comic songs, both self-penned efforts and a varied array of their own favourites.

It serves as a useful modern history of the genre, featuring everyone from Flanagan & Allen and the unsung Jake Thackray to Flight of the Conchords and, most surprisingly, a larky effort by a current indie band. The quintet's attempts at these myriad genres are frequently hilarious, occasionally half-arsed and haphazard, but there's always something interesting around the corner, particularly the interaction between these aging anarchists. Indeed, you wonder if the language might be a tad fruity for this sell-out suburban crowd, who are knocking on a bit (you'd think Jupitus's Buzzcocks work might have enticed a few under-forties).

But no, it's all thoroughly festive, and there's even a minor standing ovation come the end, if not from the two self-important women behind me who blathered away loudly and tediously between songs, blissfully ignorant of the fact that these were often the most interesting moments. Ooh, I gave them such a look.