A quick look around the Eden Court bar and the ghost of Christmas future is revealed to me one baldy bonce/double denim hero at a time. A sobering thought for a Wednesday night as I choked on my impending elder status and metabolised my gluten-free beer.
You could hear the knee cracks and backaches echoing across the town and slowly descend on Eden Court from across Inverness. Like a scene from Dawn of the Dead (1978), they had come to feast, not on human flesh, but on session IPAs and some big tunes from rocker-in-resident Francis Rossi from the now mythical Status Quo. Prepare to set hearing aids to ‘Rock’.
My knowledge of the Status Quo songbook is much like my knowledge of my mum’s erogenous zones – just the stuff I’ve picked up through my bedroom wall when dad had been drinking. So don’t expect this review to be a blow-by-blow account of what deep cuts he played (Rossi, not my dad), because I’ve no fucking idea.
Francis begun with what all men in their 70’s chat about – the state of his prostate. “Pumpkin seeds help keep your prostate neat and tidy”, according to Rossi. A top Status Quo tip I wasn’t expecting to go home with, but I guess rock ‘n’ roll ain’t what it used to be. Once the Echinacea chat came out, I was fearful this was going to be a night with Grandad, chatting about ailments and how things were better before we had Tescos. But after much kidding-on about various afflictions, Francis finally picked up his guitar and battered out a version of ‘Pictures of Matchstick Men’ that was braw. I’ll admit, I didn’t know that song was one of theirs. But seeing Rossi doing his thing, it all somehow slipped into place. A wholly different vibe from their more modern (80s/90s) stuff. Of its time and that’s a very good thing.
What followed was a rhythm of anecdote, song, anecdote, song, with an occasional teasing of his bandmate Andy Brook thrown in. There were just the two of them on stage sitting in a couple of big red armchairs, with Francis occasionally making a break for the end of the stage to batter out a couple of jokes aimed at his aging audience. More grandad patter, but a grandad that was actually alright craic. The kind of grandad that would slip you a Tennent’s when mum wasn’t looking and tell you stories about women he ‘knew’ before your gran.
Francis states in the programme that his anecdotes are all unprepared, and “what comes up, comes up”. And what comes up on a balmy night in Inverness is quite charming. Especially if you like patter about old OXO adverts and close-to-the-line Indian accents. That old adage about comedians wanting to be rock stars, and rock stars wanting to be comedians has never been more evident than in Rossi’s performance.
The interval was 30 minutes late, a fact we knew only because Francis kept giving us a countdown to when the interval was going to be and that there was “no chance” we’d make it. He runs late every night, he tells us: “Sometimes I don’t get my avocado and Ryvita on the bus til after 10.30!” – rock ‘n’ roll definitely ain’t what it used to be…
I nipped out before the interval for a pee and as I sauntered to the bogs I was accosted from behind by a very nice employee of the theatre asking where I was going. “To the toilet” was my answer.
“Toilets are this way”, she demanded, despite me knowing that there were indeed toilets in the direction I was sauntering.
“Have you moved stuff around, like?” I quipped like a cunt, already knowing the answer.
“No, you’re just supposed to use this one”, was her bewildering response.
Being a good Highland boy I didn’t argue, and shuffled towards the bogs the nice lady told me I must. What is it with the militant view of Eden Court and which toilet must be used and when? Is it a wristband situation I’m not aware of? VIP pisses for friends of Eden Court perhaps? Whilst we are on the subject, why can’t we nip out for a pint mid-show and bring it back in? Fair play if it’s a play, but a gig? It’s the same for the cinema – ‘Admittance with drinks from the bar will not be permitted once the show has started’ says the sign in an officious font.
When questioned, Eden Court employees will gaslight you into thinking that it’s ‘always been policy’, but I call pure shite on that one. A top tip I got in the queue for a drink at half time is to go to the downstairs bar and buy a can of Black Isle Blonde and you can sneak that in no bother.
The second half was more deep cuts mixed with backstage anecdotes, plus big tunes I actually managed to recognise. Albeit they were 10-minute versions of the big tunes so Francis could show off his mad fingering. Perhaps to dispel the 3-chord wonder moniker Status Quo endured for decades amongst the now-dead music press (who’s laughing now NME, eh?!).
When the big songs that every cunt knows were trotted out, Francis encouraged the audience to sing the choruses and clap along. Activities I have zero time for. Why the fuck have I paid cash to hear Tracy from Aldi belt out ‘Down Down’, when I could hear a nutter do that for free in R&B’s any Saturday going? This was a sitdown gig, and a sitdown gig requires attention, not bellowing the chorus to ‘Rockin’ All Over The World’ in a key that could open the gates of Hades itself. But, not wanting to seem like the curmudgeon that I most definitely am, I dutifully clapped along like the social coward mamma raised me to be.
The gig ended a full hour late, finishing with a Marc Bolan dah-dah style singalong and a standing ovation. The cries for an encore fell on deaf (that’ll be his age again) ears as Francis was already tucked up in his tour bus, eating avocado on Ryvita, and watching Only Fools and Horses – or whatever aging cockney rock stars watch on tour buses these days.
I enjoyed this gig. I may even revisit the Status Quo back catalogue after this event. Francis is likeable to a fault, and you forgive his occasional mid-patter, especially if it is indeed all unplanned. “Let those who are without amateur patter cast the first shite joke.”
Inverness Tourist Board 
Leave a comment