Category: ff2013

[2013052] Marcel Lucont’s Cabaret Fantastique

Marcel Lucont, Barry Morgan, Trixie & Monkey, Sammy J @ The Garden of Unearthly Delights – Le Cascadeur

11:30pm, Sat 23 Feb 2013

Alexis Dubus’ absolutely wonderful misanthropic Frenchman acts as the front-man for yet another late-night line-up show, and thankfully makes it a less risky proposition by publishing the evening’s guest performers well in advance; thus, I was able to kill two birds with one stone by fronting up this evening… to fling some of my money at Alexis, and to evaluate two acts for future Schedule inclusion/exclusion.

Marcel Lucont, resplendent in his glorious white evening suit, was his usual dismissive, acerbic, and charming self: I’ve heard some of his banter upwards of five times now, but it’s evergreen comedy that still conjures up hearty laughs. His first guest, however, was Barry Morgan… whose shows always seem to make my Shortlist, but never actually get any love. And, after tonight, any guilt associated with those avoidances evaporated; I didn’t find any of his 70s retro schtick to be amusing in the slightest, and the audience interaction pieces (trying to get two random people to operate an arcane and aged card-operated organ) were like pulling teeth. I’m sure thousands would love the Barry Morgan experience, as he always seems to be getting decent audiences… but I’ll not be in any of them in the future. Not my cup of tea at all.

Lucont’s second act was the mysterious Trixie and Monkey, a cabaret act apparently doing a very short run as part of the Bus Stop project. The gypsy-esque Trixie portrayed herself as a fortune teller, and dragged someone from the audience for a “sexual prediction”, which resulted in the audience member having both Trixie and her hairy (bear-y?) chimpish offsider, Monkey, wrapping clamping their thighs around his face and/or wodging their faces into his genitals. Sure, I might have giggled once or twice, but I actually got a little angry at doing so; upon reflection, this felt like a smutty little act that relied on shock value and little else.

Finally, though, came Sammy J… and bloody hell he’s good value. Even though his spot was comparatively brief (oh how I wish I could’ve reallocated the minutes of this show!), he demonstrated his lingual dexterity with two fantastically funny songs – You Held My Hand and Keep It Clean. But that raises a bit of an issue I have with Sammy J: in a line-up show, or a twenty-minute spot, he’s an amazing presence… but whenever I see his full-length shows, they always wind up being a bit too much Sammy J.

But, truth be told, if this show had been just Sammy J and Marcel Lucont, I would’ve been perfectly happy; that it also resulted in the Shortlist being shortened was a bonus.

[2013051] Alan Sharp: Careful What You Wish For

Alan Sharp @ Gluttony – The Piglet

10:30pm, Sat 23 Feb 2013

Alan Sharp’s précis claims that he “spent the first half of his adult life as a model citizen and part of the corporate machine. Then, ten years ago, something happened which changed his life.” And, even though I knew nothing about Sharp, I felt compelled to find out what changed his life… if only for selfish reasons. Because, Festival Season excepted, I wouldn’t mind a life changing event to occur to me.

My first encounter with Sharp was as I scurried into Gluttony to see his show; the long-haired, mopey hobbit of a man was spruiking at the bottlenecked entrance, and when I assured him that I was indeed seeing his show, his eyes lit up briefly in happiness; then I mentioned that I was a pre-sale, and the sparkle died down a little. Regardless, there was a reasonable crowd in to see him that evening – The Piglet was maybe half full, which I’d have thought was reasonable for a relatively unknown UK comic.

When he takes to the stage, his manner is somewhat at odds with his presentation: with the black jeans and metal t-shirt and long hair, you’d expect someone a bit gruff… a bit harsh. But he comes across as quite gentle, and even at his most irritable there’s a sense of empathy in his observations; even with the darkest story, he manages to find the sweetness and light.

And that fits in well with his material, which spends a large amount of time dwelling on Sharp’s relatively conventional Scottish / English / Welsh upbringing, before moving on to his relatively conventional adult life. And it’s here that he hooks me: his path somewhat mirrored my own (though with much more success, I hasten to add) as he almost fell into a technical job – right place, right time – and progressed easily in his career. The expected life-changing twist isn’t really delivered with any real punch, however, and so the majority of the performance felt like more of an autobiographical recount of Sharp’s life so far, peppered with an occasional witticism that he’d encountered on the journey .

As a comedian, Alan Sharp lacks the high-octane rapid-fire laughs that others may provide; but as a raconteur, he’s a delight, with a friendly and open delivery. I found Careful What You Wish For to be a surprisingly uplifting and positive performance, and it kept me mightily entertained for its duration.

[2013050] Zephyr Quartet CD Launch – A Rain From The Shadows

Zephyr Quartet @ The Wheatsheaf Hotel

8:00pm, Sat 23 Feb 2013

One of two performances at The Wheatsheaf to celebrate the launch of their just-released CD, A Rain From The Shadows, I’d based the day’s scheduling around this show very early on; after encountering Zephyr Quartet at a Festival Angel Christmas party last year (oooh, fancy!), I was committed to seeing them more often.

After this show, however, I’m seriously contemplating becoming a full-on professional groupie.

But first, the journey: I’d only given myself a scant twenty-five minutes to walk from Holden Street to The Wheaty, on the basis that there was that neato footbridge shortcut behind the brewery; I’d queried Google Maps prior to booking the tickets, but it had suggested that the bridge wasn’t accessible to pedestrians anymore. Pffft, I had scoffed at Google, I know better than you.

It turns out that Google was right (who’d have thunk it?): the bridge has apparently been closed for years now; no real biggie, I thought, it’s only a couple of hundred metres down to Port Road. But that made the twenty-five minute changeover a little – well, a lot – tight, and as a result I’d scurried in the hot and muggy evening, arriving at the Wheaty at 7:59pm (minute-perfect!) and ready to unleash a flood of sweat. I stopped off at the bar for a (cunningly cross-promoted) Zephyr beer, then head in: I bump into the Quartet’s lovely manager, Jennifer, at the door – we’d been tweeting a little bit leading up to this evening, and when I told her that this was my fiftieth show she insisted that I receive a copy of the new CD gratis. That’s not my style, of course, and I still wound up feeling a bit guilty when I received A Rain From The Shadows and Cult Classics at a five-dollar discount – I owe someone a drink or two, I think.

In a split set (with a much needed drinks break in the middle), Zephyr played every track on the new CD, occasionally joined by the poets whose work either inspired (or was inspired by) the music; the CD also contains the text from the poetic siblings to the music. And despite the hot and sticky conditions out the back of The Wheaty, the capacity crowd was deeply appreciative (not even grumbling when the fans were shut off for the performance of the unnerving and delicate Air). Sure, there was the odd airplane flying overhead, but hey – that’s part of The Wheaty’s charm.

Extraneous noises aside, Zephyr (who also introduced new violist Jason Thomas) sounded amazing; the heavy air was alive with wonderful textures and gorgeous, brooding melodies. And, best of all, I somehow found myself in a perfect position to watch Hilary Kleinig play her cello… and that, given my undying adoration for the instrument, just made a milestone fiftieth show just so much sweeter.

I loved this performance so much: stunning music, a beautiful and attentive and friendly crowd (jovial seat guarding and shoe chats!), some great beers, on a balmy evening. Sometimes everything comes together, and it just feels perfect.

[2013049] Life in Miniature

Anything Is Valid Dance Theatre @ Holden Street Theatres – The Caravan

7:00pm, Sat 23 Feb 2013

“Set and performed inside a caravan to an intimate audience of 5 people at a time” promises the précis, and I’m hooked; I love the idea of ultra-intimate performances (of which I attended many this Festival season). That Life In Miniature was also listed as a dance piece had me booking tickets as early as I could schedule; but I must admit, knowing the caravan had been sitting in the Holden Street carpark during this week of sticky weather, that I was full of trepidation when heading out for my allotted timeslot – that tin-can was going to be hot.

I elect to wait in the bar, where a small group of people are also waiting – three women and one man, all happily chatting whilst one of the women tended to an infant. One of the Holden Street crew recognised me and approached – they’re the other people in your group, she indicated; are you OK if they bring the baby in with them? It was hardly a fair question – what was I going to do, say no? – and it only made me more anxious.

We ventured out into the sunlight, and are greeted at the door of the caravan by half of AIVDT, Quindell Orton; one of the women asks whether there’s a fan inside. There’s a knowing smile in response – we’re doing our best, we are assured. And then we’re ushered into the caravan, and… well, it’s a caravan. Nothing fancy: the table and bedding area is typical of all the caravans I’ve had the opportunity to stay in. The three women (and child) sat in a row at the front of the van, with myself and the other guy sitting along the side of the van behind the table; there’s friendly banter between our usher and the group as she seats us (and points out the fan which struggles away throughout), before closing the door.

But suddenly Serena Chalker’s face appears from behind the bedding partition; our usher falls silent, and takes a seat at the table. The new person joins her, and soon they’re engaged in a mute game of angular mimicry of limbs on the tabletop. There’s something alluring about the rapid flurry of arms as they follow each other, something mysterious about the eyes that challenge each other whilst encapsulating smiles… but then the two women stand up and start moving around the very confined space.

They play hide and seek either side of the bedroom partition; they perform the washing-up in a most physically elegant (yet angular) way. They never speak a word, but hint at volumes: are they sisters or besties? Friends or foe? Their faces and actions shift the mood of their interactions between tension and joy; they (literally) climb the walls, they stretch and pose.

It’s a really intoxicating – and quirky – performance, with a curious moment of respite in the middle when they pass the biscuit tin around with a nod and a smile. And, at the end of the performance (when the caravan door was flung open, and we discovered in horror that the outside temperature wasn’t really all that much cooler than inside the caravan), my head was buzzing with a series of questions for the performers – I wanted to know who their characters were, because I felt like I’d just encountered them whilst we were all on weird tween family holidays in a Renmark caravan park. And that sense of nostalgia (for something that I’d never experienced) was, most definitely, a Good – if curious – Thing.

[2013048] Miss Conlin Confesses

Carla Conlin @ The Promethean

5:00pm, Sat 23 Feb 2013

Another visit to The Promethean on a hot and sticky day could only mean one thing: more mojitos, the presentation of which proved to be a talking point amongst the group of women with whom I wound up sitting. The Prom was pretty chockers, with a really upbeat buzz amongst the audience, and I got the distinct impression that a lot of people present (for this, the first show in Miss Conlin’s short run) were friends, family, or returning fans.

When Carla Conlin takes to the stage, she explains her predicament: by day, she teaches English to boisterous high school students in her prim-and-proper schoolteacher attire; but by night, she transforms herself into a burlesque enchantress, with all the glitter and heels and accentuated curves that the art-form permits. She’s really struggling with these contrasting aspects of her life: not only are the dress-codes at risk of crossing over (with demonstrably amusing results), but the late nights and early mornings are simply incompatible.

As she explores the perils of her double-life (ably assisted by Matthew Carey on piano and her “stage kitten” helping out as needed), there’s plenty of great, humour-laced songs (her dyslexia-induced spelling error demonstration, in particular, was brilliant, with Respect and W.O.M.A.N. getting hilariously mangled), but there’s also an abundance of costume changes (behind – sadly – her onstage folding screen). And Conlin’s costumes are spectacular – gorgeous dresses, insane sparkly heels, and slinky full-length gloves. And bugger me if she doesn’t know how to accentuate every curve; it really was a feast for my eyes.

And whilst there may have been the odd flat note on key changes, and the teaching / burlesque linkage may have become pretty tenuous towards the end, by the time Conlin belted through A Hard Day’s Night to close the show – and then followed up with a Too Darn Hot encore – I was convinced: Miss Conlin (and her curvey curves) could confess pretty much anything to me. This was an immensely enjoyable piece of cabaret, with tongue planted firmly in cheek, and curves clearly on display.

[2013047] The Dead Ones

Margie Fischer @ Migration Museum

2:00pm, Sat 23 Feb 2013

I seem to be mentioning my parents more and more on this blog, and the fact of the matter is that they’re old (hell, I am old). They’re both in their eighties, Mum has Alzheimer’s, and Dad appears to be using his lifelong hoarding habits to collect different forms of lymphoma (though, thankfully, he’s only managed two so far). Which is to say that, as much as I’d love for it not to be so, there’s a little bit of my mind that is steeling itself for their deaths.

Which made Margie Fischer’s autobiographical account of the period following her mother’s death – leaving her the last living member of her family – a little bit… well, challenging, emotionally.

Margie reads from notes and journal entries she made in the aftermath of her mother’s death, making The Dead Ones feel like a lecture (or, more literally, a book reading). The text is raw as her cleanup process causes her to encounter objects in the house, sparking memories and their associated tales – the escape of her Jewish parents from Nazi-occupied Austria. Her father’s work in China prior to their eventual migration to Australia. The death of her younger brother. But, in equal measure, some of the less morbid moments of family life are also revisited – dinners shared, habits mocked.

Whilst the mood of the piece never descended into abject misery, Fischer’s attempts to lighten things with an occasional wry comical reflection didn’t always work; and whilst the collection of photos projected throughout the readings never really dipped into overt sentimentality, the closing sequence – the lighting of a series of candles at an almost glacial pace – clearly did make a lunging attempt to clutch at the heart-strings. Fischer’s readings, however, almost introduced a distance from the words themselves; far from becoming absorbed in the readings, she appears to keep them at an emotional arm’s-length – perhaps necessarily so. There’s also a very noticeable repetition of memories, as different objects triggered recollections that led to the same destination.

The Dead Ones seemed to focus on the material things that are left behind by lost loved ones, and considered what those things mean in life, death, and memory. And as Fischer cleared out the cupboards of her past, a somewhat raw nerve was struck within me – because sometime (hopefully not-too-) soon, I’m going to have to face the same process – sorting through the articles that meant so much to my family, and trying to reconcile what they still mean to me. And, with my Dad having hoarded all manner of junk for well over forty years now, that’s going to be a long and painful job.

[2013046] Jack Gow in Tragicomic

Jack Gow @ Gluttony – The Runt

11:30pm, Fri 22 Feb 2013

I’d chatted to Jack Gow a few times prior to this show: he and Nick Fischer are friends from the Sydney comedy scene, and were working as a mutually-supportive team as they tackled the Adelaide Fringe. Having a friendly chat with one in the Fringe Club soon led to a discussion involving both, and a combination of Gow’s use of language and his somewhat shy demeanour – and, it must be said, a late and conflict-friendly timeslot – saw me at Gluttony on a pulsing Friday night.

I arrived early and – as is my wont when seeing shows solo – I hung around the venue waiting for the doors to open. I’m soon chatting with Fischer – he’d just performed his last show earlier that evening, and he appeared to be equal parts exhausted and delighted. Gow stopped by – there was barely enough time for me to say break-a-leg (what is the correct good-luck term for comedians?), but plenty of time to notice that he was really nervous… it was only after he left that Fischer told me that (a) it was Gow’s opening night, and (2) his Mum was going to be in the audience.

The Runt is about half-full when Gow bounds in and exuberantly starts the show; he’s several notches livelier onstage than off. With only the barest recognition of the audience, he opened with a tale of how his girlfriend of five years dumped him… for one of his friends. Who suffered from erectile dysfunction. The level of self-flagellation that followed was indicative of the rest of Gow’s material: he always seems to be beating himself up for events that befall him.

Of course, sometimes he utterly deserves the grief that he suffers: his attempts to consume mountains of hash that he’d inadvertently bought whilst in China (an exchange rate mental malfunction) had utterly bizarre results (and, I have to admit, I was genuinely shocked at many facets of that story coming from one so young… but that’s just my age talking). But Gow makes a point of always trying to find a silver lining in his stories; even his time spent in a Sydney Uni residential college, surrounded by sport nuts who treated him with contemptuous suspicion, had a wonderfully satisfying conclusion.

But that pattern was forgotten for the closing piece: a story of friends gone awry which continues to get more bleak, more depressing. The sudden end of Gow’s show, when he announces it, left me confused: there’s most certainly no silver lining there, and I’m left wondering whether Gow is either insanely brave – or hopelessly misguided – in closing the show like that. On the strength of the rest of his material, I’ve settled on the former; at the very least, he deserves another viewing to help me decide.

[2013045] Joel Creasey in The Drama Captain

Joel Creasey @ Rhino Room – Howling Owl

10:00pm, Fri 22 Feb 2013

A frantic dash through the (previously unknown to me) Friday-night markets sees me scurrying into the Howling Owl just as Joel Creasey was launching into his opening song; as I crouched under the spotlight, I couldn’t help but notice Creasey’s stereotypical nasal, campy singing style. I found an unoccupied chaise lounge at the back of the room, and spent the first couple of minutes of the show sweating from the changeover.

Creasey – clad in his old school uniform (well… his blazer, at least) – spends the first half of his show discussing his role as the eponymous Drama Captain: the leader of the tiny Drama group in his school, led by a disinterested teacher and featuring some even more disinterested students. His heartbreak at not getting the leading role in the big school production leads to a second half which deals with the love and loss of his most recent boyfriend – and that’s equal parts lovely and heartwarming and backhanded snark.

The comparison – and contrast – between the two halves of the show demonstrate a remarkable maturity in Creasey’s writing… but that’s not to say that he ignores his role as comedian. He revels in the stereotype of the bitchy camp: his school days, in particular, are full of humorous spite; after mentioning that Ben Cousins and Buddy Franklin both went to his school, his disdain was obvious, and Creasey seemingly has no issues with painting a picture of Franklin as a disabled-taunting bully. The second half seemed to alternate between heartfelt tenderness and out-and-out cattiness… but there’s still some brilliant asides to his desperate jaunt to a local store upon the release of his first DVD (his disappointment is amusingly palpable), and there’s a hilarious reference to Amol misuse (and the second reference to that muscle relaxant that I’d heard within a couple of days… I’m guessing it must be A Thing now).

The Drama Captain felt like a brutally honest (and henceforth personal) show, peppered with little nuggets of raw truth from Creasey’s emotional travails. That he also manages to make his tales funny – at times uproariously so – is a credit to his writing skills; it really was a high-quality hour of stand-up, delivered with confidence by a truly skilful comic.

[2013044] Aggressively Helpful

Alice Fraser, Justine Rogers, Alex Wasiel @ The Producers Garden

8:30pm, Fri 22 Feb 2013

After the three Aggressively Helpful women impressed at the Rhino Room earlier in the week, I was looking forward to a more focussed ensemble performance; given the name and précis of the show, I figured there was a huge opportunity for some humorous interaction between the trio.

But before heading out to the beer garden, I thought I might grab a beverage – fair enough, you’d think. Into the front bar I wander, and I notice that there’s only two people in front of me in the bar queue – with five minutes up my sleeve, that should be no problem, even taking into account the fact that there was only one bar-guy. You’d think. But then the woman at the head of the queue orders three beers… then two wines… then five Jägermeister shots, all as different transactions. Which left the hipster chap in front of me getting quite irate… but then he ordered a large and complex batch of beverages too. People, eh?

The woman with the multiple drink orders – and her friends, who had arrived in time for the shots – entered the beer garden just ahead of me and parked themselves in the front row, immediately livening the place up… a good thing, too, because with the lack of music playing, the feeling out there was bordering on funereal. And that’s an odd feeling prefacing a comedy show: despite the fact that most of the seats in the beer garden were occupied, there was an expectant hush over the crowd – no music, no conversation.

Alex Wasiel, Justine Rogers, and Alice Fraser take to the stage, each armed with their own microphone. Their initial banter is… well, stiff. Awkward, even. And whilst the women promise to offer helpful advice to all who need it – including each other – there’s precious little forthcoming; as each comedienne performs her solo set (between twenty to thirty minutes each), the other two sit at an onstage table in near silence, only very occasionally murmuring an interjecting retort to the soloist’s comments.

Wasiel is first up, and her material comes from her past life as a lawyer (and especially her travels in the outback); there’s some oddball wall-hair stories in amongst jokes familiar from her Rhino Room set. She’s got a bright-eyed and very approachable style, and her writing is wonderfully verbose and lyrical, but the jokes unfortunately don’t really work as well the second time around.

Justine Rogers was the second soloist and, if anything, managed to create an even greater contrast between her pure-and-innocent appearance and gloriously filthy mouth. Unicyclist opinions turn into instructions on brother-wrestling, which were interrupted by (delicious!) cupcakes for audience, before she veered into a hyper-graphic face-fucking routine which… well, again, the contrast was quite incredible, but also says something (somewhat shameful) about my expectations. Alice Fraser wrapped things up reprising her Best Stalker in the Land song on banjo, as well as dipping into surreal staple-cat jokes.

I really wanted to like Aggressively Helpful more than I did… but whilst the three women provided a wide variety of material, its quality varied too much to build up any momentum during the performance. And any momentum that was built up was dissipated by the inexplicable positioning of the two non-performers onstage – it always felt like two of the women were in silent judgement of the performer at all times. Of course, I’d heard maybe a third of the material a few days beforehand, and the crowd was a particularly sullen bunch… but, after the show had run fifteen minutes long, I had no qualms turning my back and scooting out just as Fraser was wrapping up her set (and I normally hate leaving shows early). Having said that, I’d happily see all three of these women perform in lineup shows again… but I’m not convinced that their longer sets can maintain a decent quality yet.

[2013043] Nick Capper 45 minutes of…

Nick Capper @ The Crown and Anchor Hotel

7:30pm, Fri 22 Feb 2013

After being mightily impressed with Nick Capper’s performance during a ten-minute spot at the Rhino Room earlier in the week, I was really, really looking forward to seeing his full show at the CrAnchor… and became even keener when I saw a ton of people milling around the CrAnchor as I approached. A big room would be awesome, I thought.

Alas, I soon discovered that the crowds were in the vicinity for Little Miss Mexico, the fashionable pop-up du jour. In fact, there were precious few people inside the CrAnchor itself… and even fewer of them were interested in attending a comedy show by a virtually unknown Sydney-sider… not that the door staff were providing much encouragement.

And so it was that there were a mere five people in the audience, with none of the other attendees willing to venture forward to provide any support for the man on stage. As a result, Capper looked very uncomfortable directing the bulk of his material to the only audience he could see – that is, me – and I spent much of the performance trying to project my appreciation.

And I did appreciate his work, I really did. Sure, all of his material from the Rhino Room gig was repeated, but that was fine – it’s solid work, and stands up even though I knew where the stories were going. The bulk of Capper’s material sits on the side of quirky risqué, but it’s his delivery that impresses the most: he’s unafraid to use elongated pauses to heighten tension, and the dryness of his delivery – coupled with the sense of distance he seems to create between himself and the audience – makes for a bizarre experience.

But it’s really hard watching a comedian – even a good comedian – perform to a tiny audience, and Capper’s style doesn’t make it any easier. I could sense there’s an incredible performance hidden under that mop of hair – I’d seen some of it earlier that week – but a small room is not where you’ll experience it. I really hope that Capper returns to Adelaide and gets bigger audiences – hey, I’d be first in line – but, on the basis of this audience (and after hearing about his reluctance to tour), I’m not expecting him back soon. Which is a massive shame.

[2013042] Joel Bryant is ‘Running from Public Office’

Joel Bryant, Scott Black @ Ambassadors Hotel – Ambar Lounge

6:00pm, Fri 22 Feb 2013

After the Bull & Bear (which has apparently since closed, in perhaps a demonstration of karma) turned its back on the Fringe events to which it had been committed, Ambassadors offered the displaced performers a home; of course, that didn’t help those acts that had printed flyers or were relying on the Fringe Guide to target walk-ins. So it’s understandable that a lot of the performers had been struggling a bit with audience numbers; and, as I rolled up for Joel Bryant’s last show in Adelaide for the Fringe, I encountered him chatting solemnly with fellow comedian Scott Black atop the stairs leading to the Ambar Lounge.

I mentioned how impressed I was with Bryant’s ranting at the Rhino Room earlier in the week, and how that compelled me to squeeze him into my Schedule; he smiled, but I sensed a bit of a weariness. I brought up the Bull & Bear fiasco, and the guys just rolled their eyes and laughed; I asked whether they thought it had butchered their crowds, and the weariness returned… though Bryant said, with a genuine sparkle of honesty in his eye, that “we’re happy to perform to any audience.”

And that’s just as well, because there were a frugal four of us who were there for the start of the show; an older couple who seemed totally switched on (seriously – their engagement with the comedians was fantastic), myself, and another chap whose only audible contribution to the evening was when we were asked if we played video games. But Scott Black opened up with a solid fifteen-minute set regardless, dealing with the oddities of modern life: rewriting Shakespeare for the Twitter-literate and bogans provided some solid laughs.

Joel Bryant took to the stage, and it was clear from the outset that the man belongs in front of a big crowd. Where his Rhino Room set had seen him verbally battering the audience with political observations (and accusations), with just four people in front of him Bryant appeared almost timid and unsure of himself. It’s a lovely gesture to thank the audience for coming out to see a live show, but there’s no need to do it three times; more uncomfortable still was the fact that Bryant would often directly address me and apologise for repeating material he’d done at the Rhino Room earlier in the week.

Again, it’s a lovely human touch, but unnecessary.

But after about twenty minutes of his set, three couples descended the stairs, early for the next show; they’re a bubbly lot, and they readily accepted Bryant’s offer to sit in on the rest of his performance. And, even though the audience was still small (now only just breaking double-digits), the complexion of Bryant’s delivery changed markedly: the volume increased, the language became more pointed, his eyes lit up, and I could see him take risks.

And that’s a good thing, because apart a short story about getting into comedy via a diving-board erection, the bulk of Bryant’s material is political in nature, and hence potentially divisive. But the audience were all on his side as he amped up his rants about the homogeneity of the Australian political landscape and the frustration of bureaucracy; rather than focusing on right versus left comparisons, he appealed to common sense… and that makes his comedy very rewarding.

I really liked Joel Bryant’s material, and look forward to seeing him in a crowded room again soon… hell, that Rhino Room spot was so good I’d consider going interstate to see a gig like that. But with a tiny audience, he unfortunately loses the courage of his convictions… which is understandable, given the disastrous impact of a walk-out in a small room, but when the fire returned with the larger crowd he was a genuinely thoughtful – and bloody funny – joy to behold.

[2013041] Sage

Chloé Eckert [writer, director] @ Century Theatre Immanuel College

12:00pm, Fri 22 Feb 2013

It had been at least twenty years since I’d last been at my alma mater – I’d attended Immanuel College for a couple of years in my high school career – and I took in the changes to the campus with mixed feelings; the wide open spaces shared with the neighbouring primary school were lovely, as was the new sporting centre, but the old boarding house lawns were now cramped and enclosed by the Performing Arts Centre – my destination for today.

Writer / director Chloé Eckert is performing triple duty, acting as front-of-house, and we have a lovely chat prior to the crowds (a smattering of adults and Fringe-goers, but mostly student groups) turning up; the Century Theatre is a pretty impressive space, with a guesstimated capacity of around 350, and there was a pretty decent audience this afternoon. The set is presented as a large elevated platform – a cliff – nearly three metres tall; disheveled photos form a collage on the face of the platform.

A girl, Grace, walks gingerly to the edge of the cliff; there’s no mistaking the fact that there’s darkness in her thoughts, and that leaping off that cliff was very much on the cards. As she trembles at the edge, Charlie saunters past; spying her, and sensing her plight, he sits down next to her and begins to talk. Whilst Grace responds with trepidation at first, as his queries become more pointed and challenging she responds in kind; Charlie, too, had a reason to be on this cliff-top, and as the two needle each other the audience are taken on a tour of the events – physical and mental – that led them here.

The only time that attention is dragged away from the two central characters is during an odd flashback sequence, performed adjacent to the cliff-face; it’s a jarring (but thankfully short) scene that manages to conjure a surreal dream-like quality, but it almost felt like it showed too much of the past; I was happier not knowing what it described. That (and some of Grace’s shrill notes that triggered my tinnitus) aside, I found the text of the play to be really engaging… but I am a sucker for pseudo-psycho-babble, and the references to Plath‘s poetry – coupled with the sense of suicide in the air – was a thoughtful piece of symbolism.

The Q&A session that followed was a fair bit of fun, with students posing some insightful questions about the creative process – both on the writing and performance front. Nic Cutts (Charlie) revealed he was afraid of heights (necessitating a careful rehearsal process), Eckert described her writing and envisioning process, and the entire cast discussed the minutiae that helped contribute to filling out the characters. My question about the prevalence of Plath was side-stepped, but – upon reflection – I’m happy that it was; it’s almost as if the uncertainty makes my memory of the piece more enjoyable.

And I did really enjoy the trip out to my old school to see Sage; it was a suitably weighty piece, with thin threads of humour permeating a dark subject, well performed and produced. And, more importantly for me, it highlighted Chloé Eckert as a writer to keep an eye on in the future.

[2013040] Squidboy

Theatre Beating @ The Tuxedo Cat – Green Room

9:45pm, Thu 21 Feb 2013

It breaks my heart that, despite frequent appearances at the Fringe Caravan in the ‘Mall (and the respect and love of the Fringe Crew that manage the caravan), there’s precious few people present to watch this performance of Squidboy – in fact, there’s only two attendees: myself and Insomnia Cat writer Fleur Kilpatrick. But I sincerely believe that, between the two of us, we managed to shower Squidboy’s stage with love and appreciation equal to a Green Room at capacity.

Because Trygve Wakenshaw’s performance is brilliantly bonkers.

It’s similar in concept and execution, of course, to last year’s version of the show, though there was a noticeable trimming of fat; this is, most certainly, a leaner, more efficient Squidboy. The broad strokes of the plot remain the same – animal greetings, meeting Pooch the dog, then the crisp cut to the squid-fearing fisherman; the road-trip to Mexico whilst being chased by gladiators is still intact, too. A slightly truncated ending – bereft of the meta-theatrical denouement of 2012’s show – was the most noticeable edit.

The similarity of the material leads me to several conclusions. The first is that Squidboy is, without a doubt, tightly scripted; something that Trygve verified when Fleur and I chatted with him after the show, in a most wonderfully private Q&A session. After my previous doubts – I’d written “it wouldn’t surprise me if [it] was just a couple of checkpoints and a sixty-minute finish-line” – I was genuinely surprised to see the script again, because it clearly means that Wakenshaw has a glorious screw loose. But I was still surprised by the variation in the delivery… whilst it would be charitable to call an audience of two “intimate”, Squidboy played to us, tweaking the performance to suit (and, on occasion, informing us what we may have missed due to the refined performance).

Yes, I lamented the missing “Ink!” blackouts, but in the grand scheme of things they don’t matter that much – the script now feels much more cohesive. Squidboy was still an immensely enjoyable blend of wackiness, whimsy, and – weirdly – genuinely touching moments. Wakenshaw has a wonderful presence onstage, and I wish him ginormous crowds in the future… because he really deserves them.

[2013039] Confessions of a Control Freak

Belinda Raisin @ The Tuxedo Cat – Red Room

8:30pm, Thu 21 Feb 2013

As grammatically incorrect as it is, common usage allows me to state that I’m a little bit OCD. Which is probably like being a little bit pregnant, I’m guessing, but without the physical impact. The point is that I manage my little issue with lists. Lots and lots of lists. Lovely, organisational lists with checkboxes and their associated statistics.

So Belinda Raisin’s alter ego, Frances, was immediately identifiable to me. In attempting to gain control over her seemingly unruly life, Frances thrust herself into all the usual life-changing forays – time micro-management, better eating, more stringent exercise regimes – and co-ordinates using those oh-so-familiar Lists.

Of course, micro-management and procrastination (spurred on by copious amounts of alcohol, it would seem) are not comfortable bedfellows, and all of Frances’ planning soon spiralled out of control; it’s entertaining to see someone else’s disorder play out so comically, and Raisin’s monologue plays with the chaotic desperation that all List-Followers feel when they realise that their obsessions are drifting out of control. The wonderful climax of the performance – leaving Frances tentatively accepting that, try as she might, she cannot exert complete control over everything (and that’s okay!) – is at once heart-warming and slightly nerve-wracking… and familiar.

Raisin certainly has a wonderful stage presence: her dialogue and connection to the audience is really nice, and for the most part her singing (yes, there’s a collection of control-freaky songs peppered throughout) is lovely; it’s only when the songs require some bass notes that her limitations are revealed, as there’s no real projection behind the lower frequencies. Her piano accompanist, James Teh, was fascinating to watch; blind since birth, his stage demeanour showed absolute concentration, and his timing was impeccable.

Bass notes aside, Confessions of a Control Freak was an enjoyable way for me to experience the ludicrous nature of my own obsessions; this was one performance where my familiarity with the topic greatly assisted my appreciation. Once again, however, I’m left a little heartbroken as Frances repeatedly referred to her husband throughout the performance; she could have write my Lists anytime.

[2013038] Dorian Mode – Boganville

Dorian Mode @ The Garden of Unearthly Delights – Paradiso

7:00pm, Thu 21 Feb 2013

It’s fair to say that I had absolutely no idea about what to expect from Boganville – I’d never heard of Dorian Mode, but I was certainly attracted to the idea of story and song combining to form a comprehensive coverage of boganity; the fact that Mode had apparently won awards for both story- and song-writing bode well.

But when Mode takes to the stage, he almost looks… well, nerd-ish. Tropical tourist nerdish. And as he perches behind his keyboard, there’s something distinctly cheesy about the set, which focussed more on plastic flamingos and flowers than the expected trappings of the began. Mode’s offsider, Andrew Wilkie (responsible for the musical content of Tap Dogs), was also bereft of bogan-ness as he provided musical support on the vibraphone.

I mean… a vibraphone. Surely the bogan percussive accompaniment should have been a bunch of empty West End bottles?

Their speech was very… well, soft. Gentle. Free of the angular ockerisms that I’d expect. And the music? Smooth, soft jazz.

What I’m trying to get at is that, at face value, Boganville was anything but boganic.

But the content of the performance was gold.

Dorian Mode’s stories of their central-coast began lifestyle were absolutely compelling; whilst it was almost impossible to reconcile their visual presentation with tales of their trips to the RSL, the local fishing club, or the bogan economy, the contrast provided an endless supply of humour. Mode talks at length about Bacon Busters magazine (the premier source for pig-shooters, complete with centrefolds), sings an ode to the vodka-swilling Sandy, creates a love song underpinned by the Cronulla roots, and there’s an oddly sweet song of heartbreak between bogan-boy and bogan-girl.

Best of all, though, was the Bogan Song Cycle – comical one- or two-liners made in the spaces afforded by a series of eight-bar jazz breaks.

The music is sublimely smooth, and Mode’s lyrics wry and descriptive – though not without a hint of compassion. The two men are clearly happy with their bogan lifestyles – even if outward looks deceive – and that results in a bizarrely contrasting experience.

And that’s the key word to associate with Boganville – contrast. Bogans and soft jazz blending together to produce a wonderfully entertaining experience… who’d have thunk it?