Category: 2015 – Adelaide Fringe Festival

[2015114] Gillian Cosgriff: Whelmed.

[2015114] Gillian Cosgriff: Whelmed.

Gillian Cosgriff @ Garden of Unearthly Delights – The Spare Room

7:00pm, Thu 5 Mar 2015

I first encountered Gillian Cosgriff at a Cabaret Festival launch event a few years back; her stage presence and hilarious piano-and-vocals comedy song had her Shortlisted immediately. But whilst her show at that Cabaret Festival showed charm and promise, it wasn’t the knock-out hit I’d expected, and I remember leaving it… well, a little disappointed. Underwhelmed, if you will. But I wasn’t too put off, and I resolved to investigate her work further, given the chance.

But I wish that My Chance didn’t involve The Spare Room, which is rapidly becoming my most hated venue ever. Damn its tiny, tightly-packed, arse-numbing seats! But after a bubbly pre-show announcement, Cosgriff enters the sweltering ‘Room and sits at her keyboard, leaping into a musical comedy act which is genuinely entertaining… but also ephemeral.

Cosgriff has no qualms talking about up her abilities in the fields of comedy, singing, and piano, but – possibly as a result of her self-described high-achiever traits – she’s also viciously self-deprecating. She labels herself a “procrastachiever” (someone who elects to become exceptionally good at their distractions), though her idea of procrastination pales in comparison to mine (hey – I’m writing about a show I saw over nine months ago)… but her derision is also directed at social media-philes that feel compelled to tell us how happy they are, and she saves a loving bit of scorn for her Mum… and the Ugliest Bag in the World. And man, is that thing fugly.

Despite her light and airy demeanour, she dips into heavier topics – there’s positive references to mental health issues – and she also seemed quite literate (the analogy associated with the title of the show being one such example). But whilst the occasional references to her own star quality amuse, and there are a ton of fun little factoids that amuse in the moment, it’s all quite disparate… nothing really seemed to stick (especially when you submit, as I do, to a nightly deluge of ideas). It’s only a handful of notes that I made whilst running to my next show that conjure up a distinct memory of Whelmed.

And that, sadly, is how I felt after my first full Gillian Cosgriff show. So, despite the presentation and delivery and chortles at the time, I’m not really left with much: just a sense of musically charming jokes of no lasting impact.

[2015113] Disney Guy

[2015113] Disney Guy

Mark Trenwith @ Garden of Unearthly Delights – Cupola

6:00pm, Thu 5 Mar 2015

Sometimes, even I question how shows make it onto my Shortlist… because it’s not until I’m standing in the queue that I notice Mark Trenwith’s name on the ticket.

Not that the presence of his name is a bad thing; I quite like his comedy… in small doses. Doing a five- or ten-minute spot at an ensemble show, he’s fantastic, and his “postcards” in the yearly Eurowision events are pretty bloody awesome. But his solo shows? Not so much.

But Disney Guy provided a much more cohesive framework for Trenwith to work around, as he presents photographic evidence of his obsession with all things Disney (especially Mickey Mouse) during his childhood. And, far from being a potentially zany – and self-deprecating – subjective review of his younger years, the show actually comes across as a little therapeutic.

Trenwith paints his childhood as ostensibly lonely: through primary school, he tells us, his overt fascination with Disney branded him an outsider. But he then details how, desperate for social acceptance, he buried that love in order to up his cool-factor… and, in turn, tried to find a new identity in other schooling clichés (teacher’s pet, unruly trouble-maker, etc). But repressed personality traits have a habit of bubbling through the surface, and in the end he decides to stay true to himself and own his passion as the Disney Guy.

Because of the overriding theme of repression, Disney Guy wound up being far more downbeat than I would have imagined… there were plenty of laughs to be had, but some of them were more pitying and nervous-understanding than driven by the humour. And Trenwith’s trademark energy as he presented his material seemed almost dissonant compared to his content; having said that, the AV components of his show were perfectly balanced, and it was a genuinely enjoyable way to compare (and contemplate) my own issues (vis-à-vis my current obsession with pop music).

[2015112] Grabbin’ a piece

[2015112] Grabbin’ a piece

Mega-Choice @ Producers Warehouse

9:55pm, Wed 4 Mar 2015

Over-ambitious scheduling sees me trying to get from Gluttony to Producers Hotel… in one minute. A piece of piss to run, but in my haste I wind up bumping into someone leaving Producers, with the resulting tumble smashing my pedometer.

(Yeah, I wear a pedometer. Two, actually. Wii Fit U doesn’t play itself, you know. Did you know that unlocking all the outfits requires you to walk over fifteen thousand kilometres?)

So – I enter Producers Warehouse and wait for the short-sprint sweat to start rolling off me, wanting to not sit near the front for that reason. But it’s an uncomfortably single-digit crowd, so I perch myself in the second row, but on the aisle.

Matthew Barker – oft seen performing in early Gravity Boots performances – plays the Devil, resplendent in deep red facepaint and a ferociously tight leotard. The Devil wants to make it big on Broadway, but he’s dismayed by the fact that he’s only a double-threat: his singing is great, he can act just fine, but his dancing is… well, if his stage directions don’t include movement, then he might be able to avoid an incident.

And that’s the core of Grabbin’ a piece – we’re dealing with a emotionally fragile, campily-voiced Devil who has stars in his eyes & fame on his mind, but a deep-seated insecurity… despite still yielding the power of his Lord of Darkness day-job.

Written by James Lloyd-Smith (one of the mighty Gravity Boots), Matthew Barker absolutely nails the balance between insecurity and malevolence of his Devil, and belts out the numerous songs in this mini-musical piece with gusto. It’s a bizarre, camp, and funny performance that manages to provide many genuinely eyebrow-raising WTF moments, whist still delivering a coherent storyline. The only problem: the lack of audience… a fuller house would have seen Barker’s Devil surfing a wave of laughter all the way to Broadway.

[2015111] Boris & Sergey’s Vaudevillian Adventure

[2015111] Boris & Sergey’s Vaudevillian Adventure

Flabbergast Theatre @ Gluttony – The Bally

8:45pm, Wed 4 Mar 2015

Last year’s Boris & Sergey experience was a genuine eye-opener: brilliant puppetry, a hugely entertaining script, and wonderful audience interaction made it a highlight of the year. And, having seen their kids’ show earlier this year, I was well-and-truly looking forward to seeing Boris & Sergey in all their filthy-mouthed, adult-themed glory once again.

The show was, essentially, identical to last year’s: all the stock content was still in place, including the amazing chase sequence, Boris’ Wuthering Heights performance, audience face-fucking, and the meta-puppetry references. The audience participation bits (absent from the children’s version) were still there, too, and the volunteers this evening – Liz and Simon – provided perfect material for the puppeteers from Flabbergast to work with, with hazy drunken half-understandings leading to bouts of hilarity.

And that’s pretty much all there is to say. Boris and Sergey are still the best puppetry under the Fringe banner, and present some of the best comedy, too.

[2015110] Marathon

[2015110] Marathon

TJ Dawe @ Bakehouse Theatre – Main Stage

7:30pm, Wed 4 Mar 2015

After the wonderful Medicine earlier this year, TJ Dawe has three-from-three in my eyes… so there was no arm-twisting required for me to slot Marathon into The Schedule.

As with his other shows, there’s no real staging to speak of: it’s just Dawe, spot-lit, standing on an empty stage. And whilst his monologues all tend to be personal, Marathon feels a little bit more intimate… because Dawe digs deep into his childhood and teenage years to investigate his own personality traits, with references to larger psychological concepts.

That sounds pretty dry… but, as usual, Dawe brings it to life in creative and unusual ways.

The central narrative thread is based around Dawe’s high school track involvement, which (in turn) yielded a humorous and astute analysis of walking as a competitive sport; the detour into steeplechase – and a formidable opponent – leads to a hilarious denouement that challenges the nice-guys-finish-last stereotype… but only for awhile.

Marathon continued TJ Dawe’s perfect hit-rate with me: it proved to be yet another wonderfully entertaining monologue. There’s literally no down-side to his performances: they’re funny, they’re thoughtful, and his blending of scientific fact and stranger-than-fiction personal stories yield brilliantly engaging theatre.

[2015109] 2 States of Lauren Bok and Bridget Fahey

[2015109] 2 States of Lauren Bok and Bridget Fahey

Lauren Bok & Bridget Fahey @ Producers Cranny

6:15pm, Wed 4 Mar 2015

I’m a big fan of Lauren Bok, but I’d only seen Bridget Fahey do the odd spot at non-Fringe-season comedy nights… but Bok’s dual-headlining show with Claire Sullivan had been such a success that I had no qualms slotting this show in.

But – as was unfortunately common this year – there was a very light crowd in for this performance: Gordon Southern (who was unusually quiet), his wife, and myself. As we entered the Cranny, Bok and Fahey were scatting with big Cheshire-cat grins on their faces; they seemed utterly delighted to have this audience, which was nice.

The girls co-operatively opened the show, cracking each other up as they did so (and continued to amuse each other during the performance); after tinkering with some gigglish accents and improvised bits, we – the audience – are given the mike to introduce them before they started the show proper. Needless to say, my intro was complete shit compared to Southern’s off-the-cuff work of art.

Thereafter, Bok and Fahey alternate between solo and duo spots; Fahey’s stories included the awesome description of “coming out” as a vegetarian (her grandmother being her biggest obstacle). Bok regaled us with tales of the office life of temp workers and boyfriend dilemmas, with cheekily creative – but thinly-veiled – sex references.

The closer is an absolute belter, with a ukulele (Fahey) and kazoo (Bok) combination (plus maracas-in-the-bra) musical conglomeration, merging the works of Survivor and Journey for a messy overlapped-vocal delight.

These 2 States were lots of fun this evening… but, as usual, I find myself wondering how much better – or just different – the show would have been with a bigger crowd. As it was, Bok and Fahey worked their minuscule crowd just fine, and the three of us had a great – and very personalised – time, but I wanted much more for the girls on stage.

[2015107] Joke Thieves

[2015107] Joke Thieves

Will Mars (with Luisa Omielan, Wilfredo, Vladimir McTavish, & Sarah Bennetto) @ Austral Hotel – The Bunka

10:30pm, Tue 3 Mar 2015

Like Set List, Joke Thieves is a concept that I’m surprised I’ve not seen before: it essentially pits comics against each other in a competition to see who can best tell the other person’s joke. Each comic tells their own joke, in their own style, before they swap content… and are then judged by the audience. It’s a brilliant idea, and it raises a lot of strategic questions: does the comic use the material that they know absolutely kills, and risk their opposition leveraging the same strong jokes? Or do they use less-strong material, hoping that they’ll outperform the opposition? Or do they leverage material which would be wholly unsuitable for the opposition to perform?

This evening’s Joke Thieves had plenty of opportunities for the latter option, with two female-versus-male battles. Luisa Omielan (who I’d not seen before, but had an enjoyable stage presence) kicked off the show with some reasonable jokes, but Wilfredo’s set absolutely baffled: a mumbly, clownish mess, he’s much more suited to character comedy than standup. Omielan adapted his material with apparent ease, casting her own spin on things… Wilfredo could barely remember her set. Winner: Omielan, by several lengths.

The second battle was a bit more evenly matched: Sarah Bennetto’s usual gentle story-based comedy was torn apart and rebuilt with brutal hilarity by Vladimir McTavish, whose own (weaker) material was tweaked by Bennetto (and her copious notes)… but without really changing in any way. Winner: McTavish, with extra points for the creativity of his adaptation.

Joke Thieves is a bloody interesting concept that, with the right comedians (and a carefree attitude toward their material), could produce an absolutely storming night of comedy. But with only half-a-dozen paying punters in the audience (and a handful of other comics), and some defensive play from contestants, this evening’s performance was a little more sedate. Entertaining, to be sure, but one suspects other shows may have been better (or worse!).

[2015106] The Ronin

[2015106] The Ronin

Lliam Amor @ Grace Emily Hotel

9:00pm, Tue 3 Mar 2015

In my usual bumble-around-the-Fringe semi-planned chaos, I didn’t realise that The Ronin was part of the Adelaide Improv Festival – a series of over thirty shows spread over eleven days in the middle of the Fringe. But most of the other punters here most certainly did know that, because they appeared to be improv regulars… they were well settled into the Grace Emily, and my arrival (and selection of empty seat) raised a curious eyebrow or two.

I’d previously encountered Lliam Amor (alongside Dave Bloustien) in 2011, but it’s always interesting to see how performers react in an improv situation; Amor kicked off proceedings with a few rounds of “Show Us Your Ditties,” where snippets of random tunes are used to inspire short pieces. This struck me as a pretty cool – though high-pressured way – to go about improv scene selection; Amor’s resultant pieces were entertaining enough, though they often hit a brick wall once the initial inspiration dried up.

The more traditional improv route of garnering fragments from the audience sprang a surprise… the chap in the audience (another improvver, naturally) had an uncannily familiar background: an engineer with computer science background (and currently working with 3D models), he offered up “tennis” and “monocle” as inspiration.

Lliam Amor is fine as an improv artist… but let’s be honest, here: I’m not a massive fan of the improv form. I’d much rather see something well-scripted, thankyouverymuch. But it was super interesting to see how much Amor relied on contrived (and often hilariously over-cooked) accents and ridiculous character names to set the scene; if nothing else, that was a great improv lesson for me.

As for the Adelaide Improv Festival… who knew?

[2015105] Darkle

[2015105] Darkle

Lazy Saturday Productions @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

7:30pm, Tue 3 Mar 2015

A nigh-on nonsensical tirade of interwoven dialogue greets the audience at the beginning of Darkle; three (presumed) teenagers are sprawled around a scruffy shared apartment when the lights come up, and their babble (in which the name of the play is dropped like a hand-grenade) is almost free-form in nature. It does, however, paint them with a blasé brush: they believe that they are invincible.

The introduction of their landlord, Mr Stringer, adds a bit of a creepy vibe to proceedings… but it’s not until the three hoodlums decide to kidnap (and, later, kill) his dog Max that things feel dark. Really dark. And, somewhat surprisingly, political.

And confusing.

The female characters show remorse over the dead dog, but undercut that tangible response with effervescent giggle fits. And the denouement of the play – with Stringer gathering the dog-murdering, landlord-torturing kids around him – is baffling: he’s adopting them as family.

And I’ve no idea why.

Very little of Darkle makes sense. The plot makes no sense. The motivations and actions of the characters make no sense. And my enjoyment of this inexplicable play makes no sense. And I certainly did enjoy it – it was performed with an impressive commitment and unflappable enthusiasm, and its content certainly commanded my attention. The only problem is that I have no idea what its intent was.

[2015104] Anna Robi and the House of Dogs

[2015104] Anna Robi and the House of Dogs

Gobsmacked Theatre Company @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

6:00pm, Tue 3 Mar 2015

So I’m out at Holden Street and, as usual for my first-show-of-the-day, I’m early. I pop out to the ticket office to have a chat – how have crowds been, what are the big shows, the usual thing. While I’m there, a group of women buy their tickets for Anna Robi and the House of Dogs, and as they walk away I hear one lament that they didn’t bring their kids along. “I think they’d have really liked this,” she said.

But after the ridiculously filthy, profane, and perhaps physically impossible phone sex call that played at the opening of the show, I reckon the women may have thought otherwise.

Anna is at one end of the phone line, desperately trying to build a relationship with Roger on the other… but they’ve connected via a phone sex chat line, and whilst Anna is seeking romance, Roger is masturbating furiously (to apparently great results) to her gentle platitudes.

Sharing the room with Anna is her Mother – a crude, bitter, cantankerous hoarder who refuses to allow Anna any autonomy. As Anna shares her dream of meeting a man – maybe even losing her virginity – Mother objects in the strongest (and wrongest) way possible: by demonstrating the “joy” of sex with one of her many dogs.

Yep, it’s that kind of show.

Anna builds up an idea in her mind that Roger is her White Knight… but the reality is far seedier, and made even more problematic when Mother decides that she wants a piece of Roger, too. Anna’s attempts to get Mother out of the bedroom (so that she can consummate her misguided relationship with Roger) are hilarious; Mother’s ensnaring of the joyous man offers some of the best lines in the show. Roger’s dialogue is magnificently vulgar and Australian: “I brought the frangers!” he exclaims with glee, before concerned surprise fills his voice as he observes that “Real gash looks different.”

The stage is covered in newspaper – to assist with the dog waste, of course, evidence of which is scattered throughout – and the grimy bed at its centre is surrounded by boxes of shopping catalogues… it’s a suitably squalid setting. The cast are uniformly excellent – Anna is played relatively straight by Hannah Nicholson, whereas Mother’s lines are milked for every filth-encrusted smirk by Emily Branford. The dual envisionings of Roger are wonderfully brought to life by Phil Harker-Smith.

Anna Robi and the House of Dogs is utterly vulgar… it’s sheer filth. But behind the almost overwhelming coarseness, there’s a hint of honest truth… and it is also stupidly good fun, and exactly the type of theatre that I want to see around Fringe-time: experimental, raucous, enthusiastic.

[2015103] Jenny Collier: Love in the Time of Collier

[2015103] Jenny Collier: Love in the Time of Collier

Jenny Collier @ Austral Hotel – The Bunka

10:30pm, Mon 2 Mar 2015

I didn’t really know what to expect from Jenny Collier… and not many others were keen to investigate, either. With a crowd that would have struggled to hit double-digits – two small clumps of drunken punters, plus me – Collier swishes onto the stage like a breath of fresh air.

A lot of Collier’s material is familiar ground for a female comic – relationship hassles, tales of singledom, societal pressures to have children – but it’s her delivery that sets her apart. If you only knew her act by the text of the jokes – taking away her gorgeous voice and appearance – you’d imagine that she was a filthy-mouthed school class clown. And she owns her crudity, too, as she describes how she scares men away with her unladylike speech (“Where’s the shitter?… Sorry, where’s the ladies shitter?”), and the fact that she’s usually the first person to drop the C-Bomb (…at a wedding).

There’s more laughs to be had at her Welsh heritage, the dissonance between her age and young appearance (“Is your mummy home?”), and some fantastic jokes gleaned from her work in a fertility clinic. And Collier’s methods for introducing farting into a new relationship? Fantastic.

Jenny Collier was a real surprise packet. She has a ferocious wit, a wonderfully cunning way with words, and an utterly brutal self-deprecation mechanism. And, better yet, she didn’t outstay her welcome, with a perfectly timed and weighted set.

[2015102] This Is Not A Love Song

[2015102] This Is Not A Love Song

Greg Fleet, Shane Adamczak, Tegan Mulvaney, Mick Moriarty [music] @ Tuxedo Cat – Perske Pavilion

8:30pm, Mon 2 Mar 2015

I’ve always maintained that Greg Fleet can write, but his solo standup shows have mostly been a bit patchy for me. But a piece of theatre, that has to be fleshed out and delivered as a team by a cast of differing viewpoints? That would have be ensure more consistent & balanced writing, right?

But early signs did not look good. Fleet acts as a narrator, looking back in time at a defining relationship between his younger self (Jimmy, played by Shane Adamczak) and Sophie (Tegan Mulvaney, who also directs, and sounded – in voice and text – like my Significant Other). Initially, there’s some awkward elements of Fleet’s standup on display, and the interactions between Jimmy and Sophie are stiff; there’s still some great moments (the pawing through of record collections elicits a joyful familiarity), but something still feels… not quite right.

The moment where Fleet’s narrative invades his memory – when Sophie can actually see his future self in her present – is where the show starts to truly shine. At that stage, the conflict (and love) between all three characters comes alive, and the rest of the performance is a delight.

The short excerpts of period pop songs – set to Mick Moriarty’s live guitar – were performed well by the cast… even with Fleet’s gruff vocals. Having said that, most of the snippets are short enough not to matter, meaning that the occasional off-note (and odd harmonies) didn’t impact the performance. There were some really neat bits, however: the vocal lines in Mr. Blue Sky were pretty cool.

After a bit of a clunky start, This Is Not A Love Song grew into a pearler of a relationship breakdown memoir. I was prompted by a lot of familiar moments of my own relationships akin to Jimmy & Sophie’s, leading to a personal connection to the play; if only the front end had been stronger, this would have been unmissable.

[2015101] A Four-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy

[2015101] A Four-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy

Rowena Hutson @ Tuxedo Cat – Rivers Studio

7:15pm, Mon 2 Mar 2015

Rowena Hutson’s previous show was a thoughtful, challenging affair that was unique in its whimsical presentation; this carried through to A Four-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy. Hutson plays an enthusiastic junior astronomer, dubiously named “Buzz Lightyear”; broken-hearted, she dreams of travelling to the stars with her equally-broken sausage dog, Sputnik 2. Her mode of travel: a lo-fi cardboard space ship.

Buzz appears in her spacesuit (astronomy-themed pyjamas), with Sputnik 2 strapped to her chest; as she plots and engages in her travel, she addresses the audience with beautifully lyrical poetic text. But there’s also a sweet childish naïvety to her speech, too, which adds elements of humour to proceedings; lo-fi props, in conjunction with some cheerful audience interaction, created an ethereal sense of space at a low cost.

The script is both charmingly simplistic and coherently detailed; it’s the perfect story for anyone who has ever dreamt of going to space. But the recurring themes of loneliness create a pessimistic aftertaste which contrasts the quirky humour found elsewhere in the script; Hutson somehow creates a sweet atmosphere that makes you smile one moment, and feel impossibly sad – and yet hopelessly optimistic – the next.

A Four-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy was a deceptively deep piece of lo-fi theatre. Emotionally complex, and alternating between scientific fact and implausibility, it’s another compelling production from Hutson, and firmly entrenches her on the Must-See List.

[2015100] Who Is Dani Cabs?

[2015100] Who Is Dani Cabs?

Dani Cabs @ Tuxedo Cat – Cusack Theatre

6:00pm, Mon 2 Mar 2015

The simple answer to the question posed by the title is: Dani Cabs is a first-generation Australian of Uruguayan descent, with a penchant for “orange”, a passion for making videos and slideshows, and with deep-rooted issues of acceptance within his family.

There. Glibly easy.

But Dani answers the question himself with around an hour of mixed performances: there’s some straight standup, there’s some well-intentioned audience interactions, there’s more solemn theatrical soliloquies, and there’s a plethora of pre-recorded “ads” which do nothing other than constantly reinforce Dani’s inexplicable fixation on orange – whether it be the fruit, or plastic ponchos (leading to the eyebrow-raising repetition of “poncho orange”).

Dani likes poking fun at himself, whether it be through his slideshows or his comedy – his brief exploration into the Latin American passion for football is well worth a chuckle, and he mines the pressures of masculinity for a few moments of self-deprecation – but when he starts talking about his love of making movies, and showing us some of the snippets of video that bring him joy… well, I started feeling a little lost.

Whilst he has plenty of energy onstage, and clearly wants to be honest and transparent (as befitting the title), a lot of Dani’s material feels a little half-baked and… well, indulgent. A lot of his short stories seemed utterly disconnected from any other thread in the show, and of interest only to the people who were present at the time. His audience interaction was awkward, and – far from making him appear to be the wacky guy he clearly wanted to project – he just came across as a little bit desperate… the attempts to add weight through more serious topics felt like an attempt to balance his character.

And then I’m called up onstage to act as a focal point for Dani: I’m supposed to be his brother, respond as his brother. And suddenly it doesn’t feel like undulating comical theatre any more… it feels like a therapy session. It feels like I am part of Dani’s therapy.

And that’s too much to ask of an audience member.

It was difficult to get enthused about Who Is Dani Cabs? after being onstage: I felt like I’d been part of a super-self-indulgent piece of theatre, and in no way did it feel like Dani had earned the right to be so bold. The changes in tone – from almost madcap zaniness to morbid look-at-my-problems – also killed any goodwill in the show… which is a shame, because Dani was always an awesome guy to talk to off-stage.

[2015098] Smile Practice

[2015098] Smile Practice

Anith Mukherjee & Blake Mitchell @ Gluttony – Pigtails

10:50pm, Sun 1 Mar 2015

It’s the final show for Smile Practice, and the final night of Clipsal – the Cold Chisel concert has wrapped up, and sun-soaked & sozzled drunks are streaming past – and through – Gluttony on their way (hopefully) home. As I walk into Pigtails, I realise that there’s only three people in the audience – two women and myself. I sit in the front row, trying to offer the artists some support, and I try to coax the women to sit a little closer to the front, too – they refuse.

Good call on their part.

On stage, Anith Mukherjee is sitting on Blake Mitchell’s shoulders; they’re covered in a cloth. The show (nominally) starts, and the man-mountain gives noisy birth to a series of plush dolls. I laugh at the absurdity of the image; the women aren’t so sure.

Mukherjee whips off the cloth, and the two men see the light audience: they run outside, and we can hear a commotion. They return, dragging wobbly and confused people in Cold Chisel t-shirts back in with them… and straight onstage. The two men they’ve abducted jump off straight away and sit in the front row, leaving two women onstage… one is somewhat lucid and scared, the other one is blind drunk and barely solid. Mukherjee and Mitchell attempt to interact with them, but – after the women can’t follow their intent – they banish them off the stage.

I’m summoned onstage, and have to read a bedtime story to the hefty Mitchell, who had donned a bonnet and pacifier. “Once upon a time I had sex with my sister and she stuck her finger up my bum and I liked it. The end.” The Cold Chisel fans were gobsmacked, and started WTF-ing amongst themselves with wide eyes. The repetitions of “Who likes chicken? I like chicken!” didn’t assuage their concerns.

Mukherjee pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and starts reading a list of petty grievances; Mitchell spots more Cold Chisel t-shirts peering into the Pigtails tent and rushes out to coerce them into sitting down inside. The rabble from the growing audience grows louder; Mukherjee grabs their attention by dropping his pants, revealing his genitals… which were covered in purple glitter.

There’s more exclamations and head shaking. The super-drunk woman climbs up onstage to talk to Mukherjee; he jumps off the stage – far too nimble for her, even with his pants around his ankles – and sits between me and one of the other men. The other man immediately shuffles away from him; the drunk woman onstage is slurring to her friends and cracking herself up. Mukherjee turns to me: “What is this show?” he asks. “Some drunk woman cackling,” I reply.

Mitchell returns to the stage, and the drunk woman starts slurring at him. At the goading of her friends, she starts drunkedly sleazing onto him; she latches onto him with a slobbery open-mouthed kiss, before calling him a “dirty fucker” and getting up to leave, wobbling dangerously as she did so.

I turned to Mukherjee, still sitting next to me: “Do you guys have liability insurance?” He looks at me, determined that I was only half-joking, and – as if to underline my question – the drunk woman slides down two steps from the stage on her arse. “We walked twenty people last night,” he proudly grinned, his nether regions still sparkling purple flashes.

Eventually Mukherjee stands up again, and Mitchell hands out party poppers. They proceed to count us in for the popping: “One, two, three… …four, five, six,” They continued all the way to a triumphant “Seventeen!” until they celebrated the end of the show; Mukherjee stood by the exit, still exposing his sparkling purple junk, with a hat, asking for donations from the freeloaders. I gave them another twenty dollars.

Smile Practice was quite spectacular in the most WTF way possible. I mean, I had one of the performers sitting naked (well, with his pants around his ankles) next to me for most of the show. His genitals were covered in purple glitter. On stage, a super-drunk freeloader was kissing the other performer before stumbling down the stairs and heckling incoherently. It was creative anarchy that could have gone terribly wrong, but – in my mind – was oh-so-right.