FEATURE: Can Rubberbandits stretch their comedy to the UK?
COMEDY is about ‘timing’. Father Ted, Lenny Bruce, Jim Davidson, On The Buses … they were ‘of their time’.
Bruce would not be as offensive today as he was in the 1960s. Davidson was not as offensive in the un-PC 1980s as he is today. On The Buses was perfect for the mildly misogynistic 1970s.
Father Ted emerged as young Irish people realised their future wasn’t confined to tarmacking John Bull’s driveway. Italia 90 and Euro 88 had started the ‘ball rolling’. We discovered confidence. Ted and Dougal made the English laugh — on our terms. Before the Irish comedy explosion of the 1990s, the Irish were the joke.
The Rubberbandits are of their time: the YouTube generation (they have racked up 25m hits). YouTube bypasses paying your dues at crappy venues, hoping to be discovered. The laptop is the new stage. The Rubberbandits have played to 25m YouTubers and are setting their sights on the UK.
Their big break came last November, when Channel 4 aired their pilot TV show. It was the station’s first Irish production since Father Ted. It got mixed reviews.
The reviews of their live act — including their recent run in Soho — have been positive. The Guardian newspaper is besotted with them. So is the London is Funny website: “The Rubberbandits … are fun, smart musical comedians”. They sold well at Edinburgh and lifted a Malcolm Hardee award for original comedy.
The Rubberbandits are Blindboy Boathouse (aka Dave Chambers) and Mr Chrome (Bob McGlynn). They sing about drug-taking and how owning a horse is more effective at ‘scoring’ with girls than owning a car. “F**k your Honda Civic, I’ve a horse outside.”
Their act was born partly in response to Limerick’s gang reputation. “The media portray Limerick as like Compton, in LA,” Chambers told The Guardian last month. “We’re taking the piss out of that.” The Rubberbandits are parodying a mindset rather than a place.
“You put something smart beside something stupid and see how it works,” says Blindboy. They place their wannabe, LA-style gangstas against a provincial Irish backdrop. It’s not an original concept. Sasha Baron Cohen did it when he created Ali G — an urban ‘wigger’ who lives in middle-class Staines with his mum.
This cultural ‘tension’ fuels the Bandits’ humour. Limerick is not LA. Ireland is still more ‘Crystal Swing’ than ‘crystal meth’.
The Bandits’ Irish apotheosis came in 2010 when Willie O’Dea went on Liveline to defend the song Horse Outside. When ‘bad ass’ Will E.O.D. (stage name) defends you, you know you’re in trouble. Willie probably thinks the phrase ‘I’m gonna pop a cap in yo ass’ is a reference to flat caps — possibly made of Harris tweed.
It was classic radio. The normally razor-sharp Joe Duffy was blind-sided by criticism of the duo. He hadn’t been told they were a parody. Middle Ireland didn’t get them.
Willie knew the song was a parody. Another caller, Anthony, did not. He was outraged at the duo’s portrayal of his home town. He kept repeating, “It’s a joke, Joe,” which it was — although he didn’t realise it. Blindboy rang in to explain that Rubberbandits were being ironic.
“It’s a joke,” said Anthony, bitterly.
“Yes, it is a joke,” said Blindboy, but Anthony still didn’t get it.
McGlynn referred to this ‘controversy’ in The Guardian interview. “It was [just] a song about a horse.”
McGlynn does himself a disservice. It wasn’t just a song about a horse; it was far more nuanced than that. More importantly, it was very, very funny.
The Bandits are not one-trick ponies: they are also accomplished musicians. Musical comedy is a different beast to stand-up. Nobody likes to hear old jokes being retold.
The same doesn’t apply to satirical songs. One critic at their recent show remarked on how the audience were calling out requests. This gives their act another dimension that may help them in the UK.
If the audience doesn’t understand the more parochial aspects of their act, they can, conceivably, come along just for the music.
This cultural chasm, however, is the main stumbling block for the Bandits. Irish references, such as ‘Double Dropping Yokes With Éamon de Valera’ and mock paeans to six-pint Republicanism (‘Up Da Ra’), may leave English audiences scratching their heads.
The Liveline brouhaha of 2010 forced Blindboy to come out of character to explain himself. It was a dangerous precedent. Every comedian knows that you never explain a joke.
Father Ted never explained itself — it didn’t need to, as the writing was so strong. British audiences were left to figure out who Gay Byrne was, and why Pat Shortt was wearing an ‘I Shot JR’ tee-shirt. Whether the Bandits’ material is strong enough, or not, to overcome the ‘lost-in-translation’ hurdle remains to be seen.
Comedy is all about timing, and the Rubberbandits’ time has come. They’ve had the mass adulation here, now they have to move on. “In Britain,” says McGlynn, “We can survive on just a hipster audience for a lot longer.”
Only time will tell.
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