ff2014, Day 5

So this was a nice way to ease into the Fringe: a gentle six shows in the day, rounded off with a Fringe Club investigation (which yielded a bunch of non-Artsy people – or, as Fez Faanana would call them, “boring bogan c#nts”).

  1. The Bunker Trilogy: Morgana
  2. WOODCOURT: Animorphed
  3. NOB HAPPY SOCK
  4. Claire Ford: ConsciousMess
  5. Chris Radburn – Breaking Rad
  6. Rainbow Rabbits with Rabies

It was a cracking set of shows today, with only one or two lesser lights. Despite its oddball name (and presence in the “Comedy” section of the Guide), Nob Happy Sock is my first sure-fire winner of this year’s Fringe: whilst it is funny, it’s also poignant and sweet and meaningful.

ff2014, Day 4

The “official” opening of the Fringe has been and gone; it’s time to get down to business.

  1. We’re Kind Of A Big Deal
  2. 36 Hours
  3. Ro Campbell: You take the High Ro, I’ll take the Low Ro.

The fully-opened Garden of Unearthly Delights? The Garden of Sandbanked Barkchips, more like. I imagine Gluttony would be a mudbowl by now; the ground was so sodden that my toe-shoes were sinking about an inch into the soil (and, hence, filling with water). The Austral Red Room is still a hotbox. And the Producers Bar Beer Garden looks like a fantastic late-night hangout spot – especially if The BottleRockets are playing.

ff2014, Day 3

So – that’s work done for another four-and-a-half weeks. All plain sailing from here!

  1. Musical Skeletons in my Closet
  2. Rhys Nicholson – ‘Eurgh’

Wandered through the slightly sodden Garden earlier this evening, too. Unimpressed – it may be wise to stay away from there for the next couple of days, lest it turn into a mudbowl. Love the new FringeTIX office on Rymill Park, though – there’s shade for all the people queuing for tickets!

ff2014, Day 2

Last night was get-re-acquainted-with-Holden-Street night; tonight was La Bohème’s turn. Their mojitos certainly took the edge off the weather, and the pinot noir they have at the moment is a delight (after a bit of air).

  1. Rachel Collis – Naked Dream
  2. New Cabal

You know “work”? The stuff that I do the other eleven months of the year? The stuff that finances my little ff-expeditions? I’m pretty bloody glad that my last of it for nearly five weeks is tomorrow.

ff2014, Day 1

Despite the opening ceremony (of sorts) last week, I’m nominating this as the first day of my ff2014 Campaign. And it’s off to a good start: two impressive shows out at the slightly re-jigged Holden Street, with pretty good crowds in for preview shows.

  1. Albert Einstein: Relativitively Speaking
  2. Bitch Boxer

It’s so easy to settle back into The Groove, isn’t it? I had all the best intentions of writing and researching and Getting Stuff Done, but instead I wind up chatting away with Peter and Martha and Shelley and Nicole… and I wouldn’t change a thing.

[2014001] Kaurna Dawn Ceremony

[2014001] Kaurna Dawn Ceremony

Custodians of the Kaurna Nation @ Tarntantangga / Victoria Square

6:15pm, Fri 7 Feb 2014

After all these years, I’m still learning something new about the lesser-known machinations of the Fringe: apparently, every Fringe for the last seven years is kicked off with a Dawn Ceremony, one week before the official opening night. Initially a quiet event for Fringe staff (and – presumably – sponsors) only, this year it was opened to the public, and mentioned in the Fringe Guide; I spotted it, and figured it was a good way to kick off my own little campaign.

One problem, though: it was a Dawn Ceremony. So it took place at, like, dawn.

And that’s pretty early in the morning, as it turns out.

Still, I’m all for adversity if it’s going to result in An Experience, so I dragged myself from bed to the northern corner of Tarntantangga at about 6:05am. A large circle of people, two deep in parts, surrounded a small fire around which four custodians of the Kaurna Nation were wandering; Karl Telfer, the elder amongst them (though hardly in middle age himself) was explaining some of the symbolism to the assembled crowd.

As I took my place in the circle, a friendly and familiar face in a Fringe staff t-shirt (who I always see running around during the season, but whose name I don’t know) handed me a sprig of eucalyptus leaves; soon thereafter, Karl grabbed a microphone and – after a quick dance around the fire with the other custodians and bit of cheery banter – introduced Greg Clarke. After a few words about the significance of the occasion, the mike was then handed around to a handful of other staff for short speeches: some spiritual, some almost uncomfortably pandering to the sponsors present.

When Karl gets the microphone back, he introduces the younger lads around the fire – their introductory speeches, casual and unabashed, were utterly charming. The aboriginal peoples in the crowd were then ushered forward to drop their leaves into the fire, followed by the rest of us; soon, a thick plume of grey smoke rose from the matching grey paving of Victoria Square. As it cleared, Karl pointed us in the direction of the breakfast van near the Wakefield Street corner; a quiet applause (which didn’t feel quite right) from the crowd signalled that this low-key event was over.

I wondered long and hard (well… for three days, anyway) as to whether I’d write about this ceremony for this blog; whether this would be my first “event” for 2014. In the end, I decided that (a) it was something of significance that I wanted to remember, and (2) I got up at 5:45am to see it. And, as I wandered home at 6:40am – still earlier than my usual waking hour – I figured that it was kinda fair enough; though it was a relatively quiet event, and far from the ebullient affair that usually accompanies launches, it kinda felt right to start a Fringe like this: the calm before the storm, so to speak.

And an appropriate way to recognise the traditional keepers of this, my home.

[2013118.5] A Young Man Dressed As A Gorilla Dressed As An Old Man…

Here’s an extra bonus piece of crap writing (and crapper recollection): an impromptu show held at TuxCat late on March 9 (or early on March 10).

The full title feels like a joke: A Young Man Dressed As A Gorilla Dressed As An Old Man Sits Rocking In A Rocking Chair For Fifty-Six Minutes And Then Leaves, While On The Other Side Of The Planet Another Young Man Dressed As A Gorilla Dressed As An Old Man Sits Rocking In A Rocking Chair For Fifty-Six Minutes And Then Leaves.

But that’s pretty much exactly what happened.

In front of an audience of familiar Fringe faces – artists, mostly, but also venue staff and regulars – it becomes obvious pretty quickly that Gorilla / Gorilla is an opportunity to let off steam; a chance for the people who make the Fringe to sit back, cheer on an absurd “event”, make lame jokes without fear of judgement, and generally just unwind.

As for the Gorillas: they just sat and rocked. Adelaide Gorilla’s rocking chair had a gradual forward motion, and a ramp was quickly found (I’m assuming in an attempt to see if Adelaide Gorilla could perform a spectacular jump). On the screen behind him, we saw the feed of Other Gorilla, who saw no such action (but had some interesting passers-by peek in through the window that Other Gorilla rocked beside).

Although, at one point, Other Gorilla changed which direction he was facing. The crowd erupted.

But there was one other great moment during Gorilla / Gorilla: a drunk punter off the street had stood at the back of the crowd, muttering to himself. Every minute or so – usually in response to some cheering from the audience (a stranger walking past Other Gorilla, perhaps) – he would raise his voice: “I don’t get it.” Later: “What are you people laughing at?” Later still, and clearly more agitated (with his voice creating a sense of discomfort for those around him), he boomed: “Someone explain it to me.”

To which (the awesome) Tomás Ford turned around and called back “It’s not for you.”

The guy left. The Artists won.

Art won.

[2013156] Of Dysentery and Madness: A Trapper’s Tale

[2013156] Of Dysentery and Madness: A Trapper’s Tale

Tiprat Theatre @ The Tuxedo Cat – Green Room

7:15pm, Sun 17 Mar 2013

As my arse thuds into the familiar Green Room seats one last time, I clearly remember feeling a sense of relief. This is it, I tell myself: the last show of the year. The last time you have to make your brain sponge-like so you can write stuff about it (much, much) later. But also the last time (for a month or two) that you’ll see someone Create in front of you… and that’s a little bit sad.

I’m here because of Will Greenway, one half of The Lounge Room Confabulators: I’ll happily see anything those lads are in. And this tale that he has written is, as with the Confabulators, charmingly absurd… and tinged with sadness.

Trapper is in the Antarctic; the rest of his party (Vic and Jemima) have disappeared. Isolated in his snow-swept hut, he drifts in and out of consciousness; he has visions of Vic and Jemima returning, but he also has repeat visitors to his mind… most notably, Caryn the Penguin.

Flip-flopping between Trapper’s tenuous mental states, Of Dysentery and Madness is a thoroughly odd experience: Trapper may physically torture himself, then flashback to a chat with Vic and Jemima, they’ll sing a quiet folky song, then Caryn will appear and mock Trapper. It’s all remarkably gentle and charming… and confusing. But in a good way.

I leave with a smile on my face… sure, some of that comes from the sense of relief, now tangibly physical. But a lot of it is because Of Dysentery and Madness was genuinely entertaining: quirky, funny, and engaging. A great book-end for the year.

[2013155] Nosferatu

[2013155] Nosferatu

TR Warszawa and Teatr Narodowy @ Dunstan Playhouse

5:00pm, Sun 17 Mar 2013

And so it came to this: my final Festival show (of twenty-one) of 2013. The last Festival ticket that I bought this season, too – for some reason my interest in the work didn’t come until the first reviews were out. They mentioned the sombre mood of the piece, and that was enough to get me onboard.

But there’s sombre, and there’s torpor. And with little else onstage to attract – or distract – me, Nosferatu definitely exercised into the latter.

So let’s first focus on the positives: I wound up sitting next to new Festival Friend Helen (and her friend) in a freakish bit of Adelaideia. They were lovely to chat with. And our seats were pretty good, but it’s not like we were compelled to stick to our allocation: the Playhouse was probably only a quarter full. And the set was lovely – a wonderfully detailed house interior, dining and drawing room in one, with a few small sections used to indicate the outside world. The sound design was arrestingly moody. And the surtitles were spot-on, projected on surfaces within the set and remaining coherent and engaging.

As for the performance… “Inspired by Bram Stoker’s Dracula” claims the playbill, and I guess there’s hints of the themes we know and love in there. A clutch of brash youngsters bring their hedonism to a more serene (but still ostentatious) environment; beautiful girl gets nibbled and, after a period of near death, returns to life with a lascivious attitude. Everyone else slowly wanders around in a state of worry as tensions rise (mainly due to the brooding score).

But imagine that being delivered with blank faces and minimal movement… it’s an exercise in muscle minimalism. And, suffice to say, I found it terribly dull. I’ve had time to have had a good hard think about whether it was my typical malaise – after all, this was my hundred-and-fifty-fifth show in a month – or whether it was just genuinely slow, and my memory assures me that Nosferatu was, indeed, theatrical treacle.

[2013154] Water Child

[2013154] Water Child

Newcastle Theatre Company @ Nexus Cabaret

2:00pm, Sun 17 Mar 2013

Despite my advancing years, I’ve never felt the need to procreate – the idea of having children hasn’t really tickled me for a couple of decades now. But I’m not naïve enough to discount the fact that I may actually change my mind on that in the future… so the promise of a play that discusses procreation and fertility in more mature couple lures me to Water Child.

The problem is that it was incredibly difficult to sympathise with any of the characters on display.

Jeannie and husband Mark open the play just prior to her twelve-week ultrasound; bridging their forties, the couple have experienced multiple miscarriages at the eight-week mark previously, so there’s a cautious optimism heading into the checkup. The test reveals bad news, however, causing Jeannie to sink into tearful sadness, whilst Mark over-drowns his sorrows at the pub.

But then Jeannie’s mother (Denise) and sister (Katie) enter the mix. Denise’s rip-off-the-bandaid approach to overcoming grief feels ludicrously cruel, and Katie’s self-centred proselytising (from her experience as a mother-of-three) is brash and obscene. Mark’s obsession over his desire to have children makes him appear like a complete fucking wanker, especially when Jeannie starts contemplating that the physical and emotional stress over their failed pregnancies may have taken their toll.

In fact, the only character that I even vaguely liked is Jeannie’s friend Angela… but I’m not convinced that it was because I could identify with her lack of interest in children. She’s simply the least reprehensible person on the stage; the only character for whom dialogue rings true, and traits appear multidimensional. Jeannie has her moments of contrast – she gets some wonderfully glib one-liners, and she lights up with biting anger when Mark becomes a selfish arsehole – but much of the play (understandably) sees her wallowing around in grief.

Water Child (the title comes from mizuko, the Japanese term for a dead – typically miscarried or stillborn – foetus) was painful. Approaching two hours in length, it wallowed in misery with characters that didn’t do anything but become more and more unlikeable… and, hence, unidentifiable. I can understand (in theory, anyway) the grief that dominates the lives of the principle couple, but that’s about all; with the aforementioned exception of Angela, every other character was completely foreign to me.

And the conclusion? Well… the nicest thing I can say about that is that it felt offensive to me. When I checked the programme after the fact and discovered that the play was written by a woman, I was gobsmacked – it felt like a ode to patriarchy, in a play in which The Man was portrayed as the morally and emotionally weakest character present. Maybe it’s a bit much to expect a hint of feminism in the script, but I walked away from Water Child genuinely angry.

[2013153] An Audience With Tomás Ford

[2013153] An Audience With Tomás Ford

Tomás Ford @ The Tuxedo Cat – Red Room

9:45pm, Sat 16 Mar 2013

As I wait downstairs from the Red Room, I can’t help but chuckle to myself when looking at the other punters turning up: bizarrely, my head pigeonholes them all as conservatives, covering all ends of the spectrum: late teens with button-down shirts. Greyed parents with their adult children. Bald musclemen. Greasy clubbers.

But all of them were there to see Tomás Ford… and, having seen him twice before (in 2006 and 2011) with a total crowd of four (that includes me, twice), I was absolutely thrilled to have a crowd there with me.

Ford’s gear seems to have expanded – it looks like he’s creating his tunes with a raft (or at least multiple screens) of computers now – but his act is pretty much the same: raucous electronic cabaret. Correction: glorious raucous electronic cabaret. He manically roams the crowd, straddling seats to serenade and rest his sweaty form upon giggling members of his audience, encouraging them to move and groove with him… but it’s not until he decides to start crowdsurfing that they really get involved. And whilst some of them tried to dodge the implicit commitment to keep Ford aloft, he managed to corral us all into a single, sweaty mess, with everyone dancing (such as we could) and grinning like idiots… musclemen and silvertops alike.

And this was a completely new experience for me… I mean, I’ve always loved Ford’s musical creations – their harmonies and catchy pop sensibilities buried underneath a wall of dirty electronica – and his singing and sashaying presentation is exactly what I want from modern cabaret. But this is the first time I’ve experienced Ford with a crowd… and his management of us was sublime.

All told, Tomás Ford cemented his place in my list of must-see artists… the artists with whom I feel a genuine rapport. Because, quirky aesthetics aside, his work is Stuff I Want To Experience. That he shows so much commitment to the bit makes me feel confident that I’ll get to see it many, many more times in the future… and that makes me super-happy.

[2013152] Geraldine Quinn – You’re the Voice: Songs for the Ordinary by an Anthemaniac

[2013152] Geraldine Quinn – You’re the Voice: Songs for the Ordinary by an Anthemaniac

Geraldine Quinn @ La Bohème

8:00pm, Sat 16 Mar 2013

I love Geraldine Quinn. Love her love her love her. I think she’s got an awesome singing voice, an even more awesome wit, and I’m dead jealous of her hair. Why she isn’t a mainstay in Adelaide during Cabaret season is beyond me – she’d be a perfect fit for the major CabFest, I reckon, and would sell out a CabFringe season easily – as demonstrated by the sell-out crowd tonight.

But she’s had the odd patchy show in the past… sure, the trademark Quinnisms have always been present (except for, maybe, The Divine Cabaret), but occasionally her shows haven’t quite gelled. So, when she strutted out wearing an Australian flag, buffeted by a wall of music, I was thrilled by the opening… but a little voice in the back of my head wondered whether she could keep it up.

Short answer: yes.

Based on her love of the classic anthems of the eighties – of course You’re The Voice was a driving force! – Quinn belted out an hour of rock anthems which were a continuous, glorious ascension. Epic ballads, excursions into glam, and a magnificent eight-minute rock-opera all impressed musically, but they were all coupled with lyrics that celebrated the ordinary – ordinary people, ordinary events. Stuff we can all identify with.

And so we wind up with songs about drinking, cross-country road trips, sleazy pickup merchants, growing up in the country, and teenage backyard parties. And Festival Rhapsodical, the aforementioned rock opera that covers a plethora of musical styles… and every part of the artist’s Fringe Festival experience.

I’m struggling to recall a dud moment in the entire show, I really am. Her songs are still wonderfully entertaining – catchy tunes, sweet melodies, and harmonies with her backing tracks (only a few wide-eyed, fierce nods to her tech tonight!) – and if anyone was born to sing rock anthems, it’s Quinn. Seriously, she would have outshone Meat Loaf on Bat Out Of Hell. Even the slower songs in her set compensated for their pace by doubling down on the humour.

So… yeah. I still love the Quinner. And this show was just brilliant.

[2013151] Tommy Dassalo – Spread

[2013151] Tommy Dassalo – Spread

Tommy Dassalo @ Rhino Room – Beer Garden

6:30pm, Sat 16 Mar 2013

I’d seen Tommy Dassalo a couple of times in the past and, whilst I’d been entertained by what I’d seen, I didn’t feel compelled to put him on my Shortlist. But after he put in some sterling work on a FACTY FACT panel, and followed that up with a quality five in a Rhino Room Late Show, I figured he was in pretty good form, and well worth another look.

The central narrative in Spread relates to Fred Walker – Dassalo’s great-grandfather – who essentially “discovered” Vegemite. Now, one would imagine that it’s pretty sweet to have that sort of thing in the family, but we all know that the Australian way is to eschew any kind of plaudits and just get on with not profiting from the breakthrough. And so it is with Walker (who Dassalo comically mimics with his old-man voice, a charmingly silly thing to hear from one who looks so young).

But that thread is used as a launching pad for Dassalo’s other jokes, which remain centred on the everyday: his family, his relationships, his own wellbeing, and even some familiar jokes from previous years reared their heads. And it’s all quite funny stuff, even if the Vegemitey narrative is very loosely managed… but then, some of the threadbare segues were funny in themselves.

There’s no doubting that Dassalo can write a good joke, and he’s clearly improved his pacing markedly since I first saw him; that this show also had a very sincere familial aspect to it also helped things along. But Spread felt like more of a yarn-spinning session than a standup show; it’ll be interesting to see which of those two directions Dassalo continues exploring, because I reckon he could excel at either. It’s just that this show was a little light-on in persistent laughs, and lacked a bit of cohesion in structure.

[2013150] 2880 Minutes Late

[2013150] 2880 Minutes Late

Painted Tree @ The Soul Box

4:30pm, Sat 16 Mar 2013

“An intimate performance blending slam poetry and physical theatre,” said the Guide, and I was onboard.

But I’m not sure the production actually lived up to the précis… or, rather, what my imagination created from the précis.

Opening with a curious seated movement piece, performers Eleanor Stankiewicz and Benjamin Winckle start out sitting back-to-back in matching white t-shirts and denim jeans; there’s a plainness in their initial presentation that completely belies the complexity of the dialogue that follows. It’s certainly lyrically dense, with the content focusing on… well, I’m not really sure. I reckon there’s a fair few relationship metaphors in there, along with a treatise on infidelity, but then there was a protracted piece about the city, and chunks of the dialogue were done as verbal exchanges whilst other bits were rhymes and occasionally something approaching a song appears…

Whether it was a general tiredness, an end-of-Festival malaise, or simply because my brain was not firing on all four, I did not click with 2880 Minutes Late at all. I didn’t even figure out what the title was all about! And, whilst I could appreciate a few pieces of nice stage direction in the interactions of Stankiewicz and Winckle, and I giggled with glee when the dialogue would burst into fragments of verse, it just didn’t work for me. In the end, I just left The Soul Box a little disappointed that the idea in my mind didn’t match the production… but that’s entirely my fault, because what was on display was pretty polished.

[2013149] Mindfulmess

[2013149] Mindfulmess

Rich Batsford @ Higher Ground East – Art Base

3:00pm, Sat 16 Mar 2013

When skating through the Guide prior to the Fringe, something about the précis for Mindfulmess caught my eye; I think it was the use of the word “meditative”. And, spying a late-Fringe matinée timeslot, I started pondering whether it could help with the Great Fringe Wind-Down… the fact that Rich Batsford contacted me via Facebook to personally invite me to the show pretty much sealed the deal.

So after dashing across the humid city from Cor to make the 3pm start, I scuttled into a seat at the back of the narrow Art Base in Higher Ground; it’s really dark room, and I immediately suspect that the lack of light, coupled with anything close to meditative, may send me snoozing.

But when Rich Batsford comes out to perform his solo piano material, it soon becomes apparent that “meditative” wasn’t supposed to mean “slow”… more like thoughtful or introspective. Playing a mixture of originals and covers, instrumentals and sentiment-laden vocal tracks, Batsford’s piano – like his vocals – are clean and precise, and at times lack warmth.

But when Batsford hammers the lower keys, things get a little ragged and emphatic… and that’s a good thing. And if there’s one thing he absolutely nails, it’s the ends of his songs – and I don’t mean that in a snide way. I mean that he’ll include variations of the song’s melody, reworking it – speeding up, slowing down – before consistently coming to a great finish.

Whilst The Beach Boys’ God Only Knows was the most notable cover, it’s Batsford’s original instrumentals (such as Cello Song) that impress the most: they’re typically long, well constructed pieces. When Rich has to sing, it’s almost as if he’s afraid to let the song drag on too long – those tracks tend to be over before they’ve had the opportunity to begin.

But his lyrics tend to be very reflective – and he’s not adverse to baring his soul for all to see, and he doesn’t tend to use much in the way of metaphor… with his partner in the audience, you almost feel like you’re watching a couple make up after a fight. But there’s a charm to his raw honesty, and that – combined with his chilled choice of music – makes Mindfulmess a pleasant diversion.