This review
taken from HermAphrodite #10.
FRIDAY
3rd
When we arrive at the theatre, I ask the citrus-t-shirted
Information Counter youth for directions to the room for the play we want to
see. ‘Are you in it?’ No. It’s a one-man show. With a man. But if I was
in a production, I’d probably make a point of finding out where I’d be
performing BEFORE it got to be ten minutes before the curtain. Probably.
‘St.
Nicholas’
Assembly Rooms
14:20-15:35
‘Sex, vampires and theatre critics’ you say? Alriiiight…
Conor McPherson’s ‘St.
Nicholas’ is a one man monologue, as told by the theatre critic of the
tag-line, a Dublin man ripe with age and beer. One chair, two ashtrays, that’s
all the props he gets. That’s enough. For it’s the story that’s holding our
attention. The 75 minutes of life unfolding before us, too many words to have
learned by rote, so many words the story seems real by its very length. From
Dublin to London, from a life of corpulent alcoholism and self-congratulatory
reviews to one of charm and ultimate debauchery. From the leeched-out world of
criticism – feeding off others’ work as your only creation – to one of real
vampires, who drain a night’s life from their young party guests but never
finish them off (as the critic himself can with a swipe of the pen…). It’s a
testament to the tale and its teller that when I think back to it, I can see
the scenes played out in my head, brought alive onstage and then kept
flickering in my imagination. (Jackanory for growned-ups…) Magnetism is there
in the least likely places…
When we make it to the
next theatre, I ask in the bar for “a coke, and directions to ‘Jazz And
Jokes’”. The barmaid thinks I’ve asked for a liqueur, or cocktail. No. Only
when she brings over a fellow worker – ostensibly to check how such a drink is
made – is it established that I am looking for a performance to be on in their
very building. Gnash (of teeth) gnash.
‘Jazz And Jokes’
Café Royal Fringe
Theatre
16:20-17:20
Now for this performance, we were in
attendance mostly through a combination of curiosity and bargain-mindedness.
‘Pon this day, ‘Jazz And Jokes’ was free. Which was more than enough incentive
to grace the three performers with our good selves as audience… though we were
also interested as to whether the set would be “I wouldn’t say my mother in
law’s fat, but…” 
jokes,
with the punchline separated from the build-up by a slinky ‘boom-boom’ bit of
bass. Thankfully(/alas), the set actually comprised of diva songs from the 30’s
and 40’s – as performed by a breathy blonde, keyboard whiz, and man with a
bongo – with a bit of messing around inbetween. It was lemon-sharp enunciated
Peggy Lee a-go-go, with the jazz better than the jokes. (Jokes?) Though with
the slinkily dressed singer, I can imagine such nit-picking technicalities (!?)
won’t put off their (soon-to-be-many) male fans. (Who may possibly get equally
excited over the cross-dressing be-wigged Grover, onstage to sweep up in the
garb of a blue-rinsed slut; cleavage wasn’t as impressive as the lovely lady
singer, but the bob was nice). Pleasantly diverting, really.
Somewhere along Cowgate (I believe), there’s a hairdressers with
the word Boosh inscribed repeatedly along its frosted glass windows. I love this.
For it is the word Boosh in its traditional context – of haircut – and because
if they were good at what they do, you genuinely could say, upon leaving such
an establishment, that you had an officially Mighty Boosh.
Adam
Bloom – ‘…And God Created Adam’
Pleasance Courtyard
19:05-20:00
I’d heard rumours, of
course, but I never believed the hype until I could see it with my own eyes.
Darius, Ego Boy from the Popstarz fame-trail, here in Edinburgh, in the
Pleasance Cavern. 
Giggling along with the onstage
merriment. As if seeing Adam Bloom weren’t excitement enough…
When he came onstage, it
was to a room full of cheers and one lone raspberry, which threw him somewhat.
As did the yells of “I wanna shag you up the arse” from the Darius side of the
room (well it could be a threat, could be a threatening come-on…). And this at
a seven o’clock show, when the audience ought to be, well, sober in their
playfulness. Proceedings are paused, so as he can joke-scrub the tension stain
away – “Next time someone offers you penny for your thoughts mate, sell” – but
even with the nastiness behind us, it seems to have unsettled him, and it’s a
while before he finds his rhythm again. In moments like this, Bloom comes
across as hyper-self-aware as to his onstage role (ie ‘comedian as Pied Piper
of laughter’); evidently, he takes this job is very seriously. As is proven by
the salient points he makes about stand-up, and the impermanence of the results
of your success (smiles fade, whereas other creative professions leave a durable
marker… like a wall…). And of course, when he does the material about the utter
ridiculousness of folks wanting to be famous for fame’s sake – instead of
accepting it as a by product of success, rather as a poo comes after a nice
meal – folks turn to see if Darius is still laughing. He’s not. Those around
him are less inclined to his pursed-lips stance, however. (Haha.)
Of the set itself, I’d
heard some of the material before (the naughty young scamp) which deadened its
impact somewhat, but what was new (to my ears) was very much applauded[1].
Particularly the bits of Edinburgh cleverness; costume changes and playback
intricacies are possible in a venue such as this, and you can always try out
something new. Like doing fresh material to a musical backing… or under-scoring
pre-recorded jokes with your astonishing flute prowess. Or proving your point
about a think-pink Eminem, in the most potent visual manner possible. Even just
for the feathered-up faery-wings, I salute him…
Beyond the acts which it holds, and the stained-glass windows it
features, there are two interesting things about the Pleasance Over The Road.
The first is that the basement bar is actually more of a church-fete counter
than a place of hard drinking, being as it is well stocked with cordial. The
second is that, while the toilets for both sexes are given the universal stick
figure signs – man carrying invisible shopping legs apart, woman in triangular
flared skirt – the boys also have a helpful paper label beneath that, stating
GENTLEMEN. In case they don’t understand the internationally recognised
stick-figure symbol for ‘Come In Here To Wee Standing Up.’
‘Dan Antopolski 2000’
Pleasance Over The Road
20:35-21:35
‘Dan Antopolski 2000’ – not
an anachronism, just an example of the man entertaining himself… And then
letting us kind of come with him. For within this show, it’s very much His
World that you’re given entrance to. A world where upper-class leather is
‘shoe-pastry’. Where peanuts can hold entire personalities. Where surprise can
be expressed – by the eyebrow-less – in a manner most salacious. But this isn’t
just a stream of ‘offbeat’, ‘wacky’, and ‘surreally hilarious’ meanderings
(N.B. true but lazy descriptions), spliced 
together for a three-week residency
stand-up. This is a SHOW. As such, it has special effects. (I love a man with a
Mystic Orange.) It has clever use of sound. (He has a variety of words
programmed into his keyboard, so as to create a cuss-word-tastic train-announcement-esque
rap piece.) It has interactive video-playback. (He can chat to other comedians
behind his incongruously placed centre-stage door.) It has knowing
self-satirisation on the conventions of putting on a show. (Um, there’s a
peanut used as a silent stand-in for his missing tape-player.) And it has a
fine Womble (Wimble) chase scene, the likes of which are rarely seen outside of
‘Scooby Doo’.
On the night we saw him,
the set also featured my favourite audience-self-hole-digging of the festival;
a young man of seventeen, trying to ward Dan off picking on his father ‘because
he’s a prison officer’ (to which comes the retort – ‘yeah… but he has no
jurisdiction here’) and ignoring his father’s shushing looks, digs himself in
deeper by warning the one man carrot-metronome (um, Dan) not to bend over. As
you know just what could happen… (This still tickles. My funny bone. Usually,
threats involving parents are of the ‘beat you up’ – not ‘off’ – variety…)
But what most people will
remember of the show is the open-door conversations with his video-screen
friends. The dancing homeless man, serenaded from onstage. The floundering Lee
Mack gig, perked up by Dan. The lazy-questions journalist (“where d’you get all
your ker-azy ideas from?”), referred to as weasel. The desperately unhappy
Simon Day, rubbing his wig in despair. And the schoolgirl-flanked Frank
Skinner, beaming with the nubile fruits of his success. Like ‘The Muppet
Babies’… operating under contract with the Paramount Comedy Channel… Do you see what a glorious life stand-up can
be? Then his work here is done…
Another Festival Conclusion engendered by reading of much PR
hype is that too many people are still being described as either:
‘The New XXXX’, where XXXX is either an 
older comedian, or the colour black
or…
‘Like XXXX on YYYY’, where XXXX is an older comedian and YYYY is
a drug.
Both are examples of fiendishly lazy journalism (particularly
the former – most people would probably rather be judged on their own terms),
and I believe ripe for satire all of their own. In which context, naturally, I
will be bringing them into this review… Lee & Herring’s TMWRNJ rampaging
rant against the ‘XXXX on YYYY’ form of description – of which my absolute
favourite is ‘Bill Bailey: Like the Hobbit on speed’ – still stands true. For
if we were to ACTUALLY imagine the Hobbit on speed, we’d find a skinny hairy
dwarf who suddenly gave up the questing life for the chance to dance like an
epileptic for six-hours at a time. Bill Bailey onstage is none of that. (He
doesn’t even have a whistle.) And unless there’s a point in Andrew Clover’s set
where he ACTUALLY starts describing Headingley Cricket Ground melting into the
streets as elephants circle it from above, in a frightened Yorkshire whine,
then The Guardian should be ashamed of itself for describing him as ‘Alan
Bennet on acid’.
(Though some would say that Alan Bennet on acid was just an
audio-tape of his reading ‘Winnie The Pooh’, Tiggers & detachable-tail
talking donkeys & honey-drowning floods being a sure indication of drugs…)
Stop it, y’all. Ya hear?
Alan Davies
Assembly Rooms
22:00-23:20
Alan Davies is a very
funny man. I’m particularly enamoured with the way he says ‘flfl’. I have been for
some time. Naturally, then, I’m going to believe any show of his to be nothing
short of ball-bouncingly funny. (As this was.) I didn’t need to see him here to
be converted. But. Being a fan doesn’t mean he can do no wrong… more that I
have an advantage in spotting his reliance on using swathes of old material.
So. The following rambling
tirade – masquerading as a review – can therefore be condensed down into these
sentiments; All Of It Was Good, Too Much Of It I’d Heard Before (Shame On You
Alan, Shame).
When I left the building,
maybe cos the last 20 minutes had just been old material, I was left
with the feeling that the majority of the set had been a regurgitation… and
even if the repeat material had been of corking quality, it was still exasperatingly
old.
But.
Days later, I’m still hearing keywords, and being reminded of new
bits of the set. ‘Skiing’, for example, a sport at which his nephew can only
veer left. Or ‘rollercoasters’, of which he is not enamoured, mostly for the
clunking pain factor. 
Then I start remembering the on-the-spot
segments that had me leaning forward into my seat, just to be closer to him as
the ideas came flying out. How he used the presence of a stag-party in his
audience to his own comedy ends (rather’n simply be the permed reason they’re
being so raucous). The way he was resolutely not upstaged by the Lighten Up
posters which flank the stage, and are happy to move up and down (seemingly of
their own accord) through the night. Or his being swift to draw attention to the
alarming shade of green the Assembly Rooms staff have to wear. I start grinning
as I type this, and vacillate on whether (or not) I’m being too harsh. I
suppose we did know what we were letting ourselves in for – the programme
forewarned of the chances of ‘mortgage advice and some old material’. The
requisite Abbey National moment did appear – happily, everyone in the room came
to the same agreement (‘pack it in’) on his continuing to do the ads. But of
the heard-it-before material, despite a forewarning, to make the set ½ & ½
new & old was a tad annoying/lazy/rude. Particularly as he’d tried to be
cunning about it, take it from the older the two live videos, hope no-one’d
notice. I don’t want a greatest hits comedy set. Especially if its done with
exactly the same wording & intonation as on the live recordings. (It makes
him seem like a pre-programmable wind-up toy…) We’ll know there’s a need for
such a thing when you start getting Tribute Comedians, sun-bleached TV’s doing
cats-with-drills meanderings, shiny-suited bespectacled moles ranting
(anachronistically?) against Thatcher… But I think each audience want to feel
they’re getting something unique. A ‘you had to be there’ session. Which is
somewhat diminished if you know the words… By the end of the set, he’d actually
started taking requests for slabs of comedy material. Cats & Pigeon
excitement, the Dating Rules, the Dad Pants. All of which is cracking stuff.
But… to rely on it so heavily, well, it just don’t seem right boy.
Just to reiterate then (have
you heard this line before, wondering why you’re still here, only entertaining
1st time round…?): All Of It Was Good, Too Much Of It I’d Heard
Before (Shame On You Alan, Shame).
Sweetly, Alan did check
before he ran over where the audience were going next. It seemed it was just us
two who had active lives, a schedule to keep to, busybusybusy.
Elly (to me) – “What are we doing next?”
Me (to her) – “Rich Hall.”
Elly (to him) – “Rich Hall.”
Alan – “When’s he on?”
Me (to her) – “Later.”
Elly – “After you.”
Alan – “Ah, he won’t mind if you’re a bit late…”
Or, as it happened, if you are, sir. For five/ten minutes into
the Rich-Hall-Gang set, Elly had pointed out Alan Davies sneaking into the room
– recognisable from the silhouette of his hair. The second he and his lady
friend knew it was over, they scarpered back through the same doors (doors
which we, as general public, were no longer permitted to use). I’m still unsure
as to whether this (in&out sneaking) was eminently sensible, faintly rock
and roll, or quietly arrogant.
(Irritatingly, for us, it wasn’t the only fast exit of the night
– an hour or so later, Elly had her wallet stolen from the Assembly Rooms bar.
Evidently tying it to your bag with string isn’t a recommended security move…)
Rich Hall & Dave
Fulton ‘Terry Dullum Appeal’
Assembly Rooms
23:45-00:45
You know how it is. You
work damn hard for your comedy career, win the Perrier Award for entertaining
the masses under the bandanna’d guise of your trailer-trash uncle, and then
decide to only reprise that character for a week at 
the end of the following year’s Festival
so as you have the rest of your time free to mess around onstage with your
buddies, in order to raise money for a lobster-handed boy with Tourette’s.
Maybe with a bit of dressing up as skinny-fit wrestlers in sequined fighting
masks, and a public reading of Jewel’s poetry. Perhaps getting Dave Fulton out
to entertain with tales of love & woe & circumcision, before he
re-imagines-for-a-new-audience one of your own jokes with a new setting of
Norfolk (‘so flat you can watch your dog run away for two days’). Or maybe with
a song – a satirical song, a wishful thinking song, not in any way an
instructive song – about killing George W. Bush. It’s the least you can do, after that post-Perrier celebratory
6-month tour of bottling plants. Hurrah for Rich Hall, and all who sail with
him (or ‘ride on his coat tails’). The very thing to accompany late-night
drinking. The work of Jewel in particular becomes ever more entertaining under
such conditions. Especially if there are fighting masks involved…
We left happy, after
that. Sat, happy, in the bar for an hour or so. Drinking. Carousing. Wondering
if Mark Little’s head has actually shrunk (or if it just looks that way through
lack of hair). Until Elly realised her wallet had gone missing.
Urk.
Later, cards-cancelled
and police-informed, I accosted an amenable John Hegley as feel-good
distraction, and had him channel her pain into the written word. That almost
worked. But I think it was the kilted public-school fellows we met at a
cross-roads, on the walk back, who really served as diversion… or rather, their
very visible lack of underwear did…
Last revised: 15/08/01