There are people who think the film 'This Is Spinal Tap' is

When Rick Wakeman said, “There are people who think the film This Is Spinal Tap is simply a very funny ‘mockumentary.’ Well, with Yes, we lived it. Take the hilarious scene in the film in which the bass player is trapped in a giant pod — that actually happened to Alan one night,” he spoke not only with humor, but with the weary and knowing wisdom of one who has seen the fine line between art and absurdity blur beyond recognition. His words are not a boast, nor even a complaint, but a revelation: that sometimes life itself becomes so exaggerated, so filled with chaos and irony, that it begins to resemble the very comedy we create to mock it.

The origin of this quote lies in Wakeman’s reflection on This Is Spinal Tap, the 1984 film that parodied the self-serious excesses of rock musicians — the vanities, the mishaps, the endless tours, and the towering egos. Yet Wakeman, keyboard wizard of the legendary progressive rock band Yes, recognized in that parody a mirror far too accurate to be dismissed. What others saw as fiction, he had lived as truth. For in the wild golden age of rock, even the ridiculous could — and often did — happen. The bass player trapped in a stage pod, the misfiring effects, the confused managers, the elaborate spectacles collapsing under their own weight — these were not fantasies, but real events, half tragic, half comic, wholly human.

The ancients, too, would have understood this truth. The Greek dramatists taught that comedy and tragedy are twin faces of the same god, that laughter and despair are born from the same soil. In the festival of Dionysus, where wine flowed and masks were worn, the line between performance and life dissolved — as it does in Wakeman’s words. The musicians of Yes, like the heroes of myth, reached for grandeur — for music that transcended time, sound that could touch the divine. But with grandeur comes folly, for those who climb too high risk the laughter of the gods. In Spinal Tap’s humor, Wakeman sees not mockery, but reflection: the comedy of mortals trying to summon eternity through amplifiers and light shows, and discovering, mid-performance, that even their glory is subject to farce.

Yet beneath the laughter lies tenderness. Wakeman’s admission that “we lived it” is not an act of shame but of understanding. For the folly of ambition is also its beauty. To dream so big that one becomes ridiculous is still to dream. The ancients would have called this the pathos of heroes — men who chase immortality and find only their own reflection in the absurd. In that, there is both humor and holiness. The musician trapped in his stage pod is not unlike Icarus, whose wings melted as he flew toward the sun. Both dared, both fell, and both left behind stories that still make us smile in wonder.

In the story of Yes and Spinal Tap, then, lies a lesson for all who seek greatness: beware the seriousness that blinds you to your own comedy. The world will laugh not only at your failures but at your earnestness, your determination to make meaning out of noise. Yet it is better to be laughed at for trying than to never try at all. Wakeman’s recollection reminds us that to create, to perform, to strive, is to walk a tightrope between glory and absurdity — and that both are necessary for a life well-lived.

Let us also remember that humility is the balm that turns embarrassment into wisdom. Wakeman does not deny the foolishness of it all; he laughs with it, not at it. That is the mark of the seasoned soul — the one who no longer fears looking foolish, for he has already faced the laughter of the world and found freedom within it. The wise artist knows that the greatest performances are born not of perfection, but of human imperfection embraced with grace.

So, my listener, take this teaching to heart: in all your endeavors, whether in art, in love, or in life, expect that what you build may sometimes crumble, that what you design to inspire may, on occasion, amuse. Do not fear being a character in your own comedy. The gods themselves laugh at human ambition, not out of cruelty, but out of affection for our daring. Like Wakeman and his companions, learn to laugh when the pod won’t open, when the grand design falters, when life itself feels like parody. For laughter, when born of understanding, is not mockery — it is enlightenment.

And thus, the story of Rick Wakeman’s words becomes an immortal parable: that the boundary between the sublime and the ridiculous is paper-thin, and that those who live boldly will inevitably walk both sides. Embrace it. Build your art, live your dreams, endure your follies — and when the world laughs, laugh with it. For in that laughter, you become not the fool, but the philosopher, and your life — like the finest song — becomes both comedy and hymn.