[2013103] Internal

[2013103] Internal

Ontroerend Goed @ State Theatre Company Rehearsal Room

2:00pm, Thu 7 Mar 2013

I’m super early for my Internal session, and I’m excited: I know absolutely nothing about the work, and the Festival staff I chat to beforehand are giving little away… and the few snippets they do reveal intrigue me no end. “I hope everyone turns up,” one of them says; “there must be five in the audience, and yesterday there were no-shows.”

But they clam up with details thereafter, so we chat about the periphery of managing theatre-goers: about the presumed entitlement of latecomers, about people taking photos in the audience, and about how the ushers (almost always thanklessly) shut them down (including hanging around to ensure the photos/movies have been deleted).

Luckily, all five of the audience have turned up: two women, a younger couple (in their thirties?), and myself. We go downstairs, wind our way through the corridors until we reach a space with five white crosses on the floor. “Stand on them,” we’re told by our accompaniment, “and face the curtain.” We do so, giggling: the proximity of the crosses to the curtain has our noses almost touching the cloth. I’m at the far left.

The curtain lifts, and there’s five other people a foot away from us. Directly across from us. Staring at us. The eye contact is hard to break, to look down the line at the performers. After a few (tense, almost uncomfortable) moments, the performers start changing positions one-at-a-time; the tall bearded man I was originally facing is replaced by an even taller, unspeakably gorgeous woman. We look into each other’s eyes, but She’s so tall that I can’t see Her through my glasses – more over them.

She ever-so-gently slides her hand into the small of my back and guides me away from the rest of the group; on the other side of the rehearsal space are five small booths, dimly lit within but fronted by translucent black curtains. She guides me into the middle of these booths, and gestures for me to sit at the small table within; She sits opposite, Her every movement elegant and considered. Refined. We look into each others eyes, and I feel compelled to quietly say “Hello”; She just smiles back.

On the table is a small lamp, a bottle of Cointreau, and two small glasses; She pours two measures of the drink (a personal favourite), pushes one glass towards me. I pick it up, we clink glasses in a silent toast, we drink. I’m starting to hear burbles of conversation from the other booths; I feel like we should be talking, that I’m missing a cue for this interaction. “It’s much smoother on ice,” I say to Her, motioning to the drink; She just looks back at me, faint smile and those deep brown eyes.

I’m gulping, She’s sipping considerately; I finish the drink, put my glass down, then return my gaze to Her. “I’m feeling a bit lost,” I say, “Should I be… doing… something?”

She smiles, and very quietly – but firmly – says “There’s no need to talk.” Her eyes soften; She reaches for my hand and starts slowly squeezing it with Hers, running Her thumb over the back of my hand.

We stare at each other a moment, and something in her eyes changes; something flashes into my mind: we’re breaking up. This can’t work. But then She uses Her other hand to flatten mine out, and explores its shape with Her fingertips; the hand then moves up. She lightly touches my face, my hair, my neck; I’m a sucker for neck contact, so I find myself craning to allow her all the access to my neck She wants. She grabs both my hands, and we stare – deeply? – into each others eyes for a moment, before She lifts my right hand to Her face.

I trace Her jawline, Her ear, gently touch Her hair; it feels somehow wrong to be doing this, but there’s an intimacy within the space that is really blurring the lines between the performance I want to give, and the performance I think I should give. But, with our eyes still locked together, I trace Her jaw line one more time and return my hand on top of Hers; She smiles softly, encourages me from my seat, and we leave the booth.

There’s now a circle of chairs in the middle of the room, and She seats me in one of the chairs that faces all the booths; I see all the other “couples” talking, giggling; it all looks completely foreign to the experience I just had, silent and potent and tactile and a little bit uncomfortable. I feel a little jealous of them in their chatty enclaves. One by one the other couples come out and sit down; once all ten of us are seated, the performers go around the circle introducing their “dates”. I’m last in the cycle, and I realise my “date” wouldn’t know my name; Her turn comes to speak, and She smokily looks at me: “I don’t need to know his name.”

Around the circle again, the actors talk about the other’s positives: “We touched each other… in a dark place,” She says. The words look smutty on the screen as I type this, but She had imbued them with a tenderness.

Around the circle again, negatives this time: “There is nothing bad to say about him.”

Once more around… how do the performers rate their dates out of ten? Would we see them again? There’s a few scores, cheeky giggles at the discrepancies. One couple kiss; the male audient’s partner squealed in horror. One couple is shy, and they take turns whispering their thoughts to us with their opposite out of earshot; then comes my date.

She turns to face me. She flicks her hair back behind Her shoulders, reaches behind her neck; one woman on the other side of the circle gasps “oh my god” as she sees my date undo her dress. The dress is folded down, revealing Her (glorious, it must be said) bare breasts; “Is this what you wanted to see?” She said.

Confusion; I can’t look straight at them. I can’t.

But I’m honest, always honest. “Not really,” I say. The words come out quiet, nervous, probably unconvincing. Strangely enough (and, in retrospect, bucking the stereotype) all I wanted to do is look into those brown eyes again.

The dress is back on, and She takes my hand, gets me to stand; soft music starts playing, and She puts one hand on my shoulder and takes my hand in the other. I grab her waist, and we start dancing – I think I hear quiet giggles and gasps from the other four audience members, but I can’t really tell as we dance slowly and I want to pull Her in closer to me but I don’t know what my role is and She’s so tall that if I hugged her I’d be burying my face in those breasts that had recently been exposed to me and sweet jesus this feels good. Warm, comforting. I realise that the others are being encouraged to dance too; soon they’re all up, we’re all dancing. She leans down and whispers to me – “I’d like to send you something. Can I have your address?” “Sure,” I say, half intoxicated by the emotions of the experience, and I scrawl out my address without even considering what the result may be.

Eventually, the audience – the guests – are encouraged to return to the white crosses, and we face each other one last time. Three kisses on the cheek. “Goodbye.” “…Thank you.”

And the curtain drops.

We look at each other in disbelief for a moment, before the laughter begins.

As we were guided up the stairs, one of the staff members asked who my date had been; I stammered in my attempt to describe the experience. “Oh, you got the silent booth,” she grinned, and it took all the self-control I had not to blurt the secrets of Internal out in front of the next group waiting for this… almost unbelievable experience.

And then, a week later, some mail arrived.

[2013102] Wolf Creek: The Musical

[2013102] Wolf Creek: The Musical

SPUR @ Format

10:30pm, Wed 6 Mar 2013

I really loved Wolf Creek, despite the creepy guy in the near-empty cinema shifting seats directly behind me and my ex every five minutes throughout the tense parts of the movie… though I have to admit, that bloke made the nervous tension all-the-more heightened.

But a spoof of Wolf Creek, in the style of a musical? Written and performed by a bunch of Adelaide’s younger comics? That’s got to be a bit of a joke, right?

Thankfully, yes… and, even better, it’s a joke that never got old throughout the show.

Written by local comedians Demi Lardner and James McCann, the plot of the movie is somewhat adhered to, with Kel Balnaves dominating in his portrayal of backpacker-hunting Mick; he almost outshines John Jarratt’s original, with a looming physical presence and glassy-eyed intensity that never fails to amuse in its over-the-top-ness.

A lot of the humour comes from the deliberate contrasts in casting; whilst Balnaves plays it (relatively) straight, Demi Lardner’s role as the leading man (was her beard drawn on with charcoal?) is so awkwardly stilted that her portrayal of Ben as a horny Greek adonis becomes a comical highlight. But she’s fighting for that title against Chris Knights, who – in another gender-bending twist – plays a female backpacker, his bright blonde wig catching on his (most definitely real) beard.

It’s a show that celebrates its lo-fi-ness – the cardboard car (with number plates reading “W3R3FKD”) being a glorious example, along with the constant references to the clam-shilling sponsor of the show. Angus Hodge’s constant re-use for minor characters (and even inanimate objects) is well managed, and McCann’s songs are peppy numbers contrasted with vicious lyrics (especially the rape dungeon song), sung with off-key gusto by the cast, and they just work.

Wolf Creek: The Musical was a bloody brilliant bit of comic theatre, and – perversely – almost the very opposite of the show I’d seen beforehand. But, in some strange way, the thread of commonality between the two shows helped me appreciate them both even more; it was a brilliant pairing, and one of the best Happy Scheduling Accidents I’ve ever made during Mad March.

[2013101] Murder

[2013101] Murder

Erth @ Queen’s Theatre

9:00pm, Wed 6 Mar 2013

I’m not a massive Nick Cave fan, though that’s not because I dislike his work; I just haven’t been exposed to much of his music (and none of his writings). But what I have heard – stuff like The Mercy Seat and Red Right Hand – has left me with the impression that the man is capable of dark, brooding creations like no other. So when Murder was announced, insisting that it was dark-themed puppetry inspired by Cave’s Murder Ballads, I was sold; as with clowns, I’ve always imagined puppets to have a twisted existence hiding behind their public personae.

Led by a human narrator who was seeking human intimacy – but prone to violent outbursts – scenes from his imagination (or memory?) were played out with puppets. Erth’s puppets are dirty, seedy, almost grotesque characters who engage in dirty, seedy, and violent acts… because Murder is very much about Death. And Sex. And, curiously, Sex And Death, with one scene in particular turning from a vivid piece of puppet pornography into something far more vicious.

The puppetry itself was excellent, with the characters given real emotion and weight by their black-clad handlers – sometimes a simple, considered turn-of-the-head can speak volumes, and the arching of backs during the sex scene was delicious. And the selection of Cave’s music to propel the piece proved to be superb, with only occasional use of song lyrics as literal narrative devices.

The only mis-step in the production was (what felt like) a protracted video game sequence, where the sole (human) actor Graeme Rhodes engaged in cold, violent shooting with a series of projected enemies. As a gamer, this felt like a horribly hackneyed reference to the violence that can be found within the medium… the intent was good, but the implementation heavy-handed.

But the rest of the performance is spot-on, from the contrast between human and puppet actors (including a nice moment when Rhodes himself is controlled by the puppeteers), to the twist in the tale of the hitch-hiker, to the more subtly handled observances of society’s acceptance of (and obsession with) violence and murder. It was an incredibly imaginative and beautifully realised production that, whilst still a little clunky in places, was immensely satisfying to watch.

[2013100] Children / A Few Minutes of Lock

[2013100] Children / A Few Minutes of Lock

Louise Lecavalier @ Space Theatre

7:15pm, Wed 6 Mar 2013

And so show One Hundred for the season rolled around, and I was thrilled that it happened to be a Festival dance piece; as I am prone to saying, I know nothing about dance, but I love to watch it anyway… and with a curated dance piece, there’s always the assurance that someone thinks it’s pretty good, even if I miss the point.

The opening piece, Nigel Charnock’s Children, was completely lost on me… it seemed to be using the physical performance to create an impenetrable series of metaphors for something – perhaps the titular children? – but I was unable to fathom its message or intent. The movements were likewise confusing: at times Louise Lecavalier and Patrick Lamothe would be scuttling around on hands and knees, whereas other moments clearly have a more classical influence. With a mish-mash of musical backing and searing interludes (accompanied by short strobe bursts), and a simple black staging, it was really difficult to get into this piece at all.

A Few Minutes of Lock (a series of short pieces choreographed by Édouard Lock) was much more approachable, however… maybe due to the bite-sized nature of the performances. Lecavalier was joined by Keir Knight (and, later, Lamothe again) for a much more dynamic, physical display that was immediately engaging and thoroughly entertaining.

And then came the encore – a brief snippet where the dancers engaged each other with hand-slaps before the interactivity twisted their bodies into a human knot. A fleeting moment, maybe, but a wonderful highlight.

As with Guillem, Lecavalier’s movements onstage completely belie her age; though clearly less of a balletic frame than the former, Louise was capable of astonishing speed and power, yet still manages to exude a lightness, a soft touch; were it not for the overly dense opening piece, this performance would have been super-satisfying. Instead, I was left to dwell on the thirty minutes of sheer gold, and hope that the other forty minutes were meaningful to one more knowledgable in dance.

[2013099] Echolalia

[2013099] Echolalia

Jen McArthur @ Adelaide College of the Arts – Stables

6:00pm, Wed 6 Mar 2013

After working with autistic children, Jen McArthur was inspired to create Echolalia in response to observing their issues with social engagement. In doing so, she manages to conjure up a character that possesses ticks that are all-too-identifiable to the OCD part of me.

Echo is a woman who – ostensibly – is preparing for a job interview, though some of her tasks and minutiae are mired in everyday chores. The set is her house, with various bits of furniture and props constantly being arranged just so. Occasionally Echo ventures into the audience to offer someone a biscuit – no, that one – but largely we are left to watch her try and get through her daily routine.

There’s tangible fear when the phone rings, and her job agent leaves a message; there’s distracted joy as she primps herself. Though largely a mute performance, there’s also musical and dance interludes that catch Echo’s attention before she forcibly drags herself back into focus; and there’s plenty of giggles for the audience, not at Echo but with her.

And that’s the thing about Echolalia – it’s a quirky and happy physical performance that is generally uplifting for the audience, without necessarily feeling insubstantial… and the fact that Echo’s character traits occasionally mirrored my own gave it an extra little bit of impact.

[2013098] One Man, Two Guvnors

[2013098] One Man, Two Guvnors

National Theatre Great Britain @ Her Majesty’s Theatre

2:00pm, Wed 6 Mar 2013

Let it never be said that I didn’t absolutely love the first half of One Man, Two Guvnors – it was a masterful display of laugh-a-second slapstick comedy. But the problem is that this reworking of commedia dell’arte exemplum Servant of Two Masters is, at its heart, a deceitful production that takes advantage of the audience’s goodwill… and whilst there were many, many, many audience members who loved this presentation, it managed to rub me completely the wrong way.

Presented almost in a vaudevillian style, with skiffle band The Craze performing live during set changes, One Man, Two Guvnors really milks laughs through outlandish delivery, “mistakes” that remind me of Sound and Fury‘s stock trade, and plenty of fourth-wall-breaking asides to the audience. And whilst the early dalliances with the audience felt gloriously spontaneous – I’m thinking of the hummus sandwich incident, here – I started to get a little annoyed with the constant references back to the crowd: lead performer Owain Arthur’s fits of laughter at audience “responses” didn’t quite sell me – they felt loud, hammy… fake.

But the end of the first Act was a highlight for me, because it’s where everything went so right – and so seriously wrong – for the show. After “encouraging” the impeccably dressed audience member Caroline Patterson onstage, she was banished to a part of the stage where she could see nothing… and was, initially, ignored. The rest of the cast then engaged in a slapstick masterclass within a restaurant setting, with aged and infirm waiter Alfie providing guffaws of physical humour, before Patterson’s presence was exposed and she was messily caught in the crossfire of a food-fight.

Dress ruined, you could see the shock on her face as she was led into the wings at the closing of the Act.

I went to the interval thinking that they’d genuinely crossed the line. I retrospectively felt ashamed at myself for laughing so heartily at the performance; the considerable goodwill that the performance had earned was forgotten, and instead the production started the second act from within a deep, dark hole in my mind… and it was unable to claw its way out. By the end of the show, I was still feeling incredibly negative towards the show; seeing “Caroline Patterson” in the curtain call, bowing and singing the closing number, felt like a slap in the face. You’ve been cheated, my cheeks throbbed. And I don’t like that.

Talking to other people who had seen – and loved – the show confirmed that the hummus sandwich gag, as well as Ms Patterson, were indeed plants. And yes, I had some hearty laughs, and was thoroughly entertained for stretches… but that dishonesty cheapens the ordeal in retrospect, and leaves me incredibly disappointed.

[2013097] Künt and the Gang

[2013097] Künt and the Gang

Künt and the Gang @ Austral Hotel – Red Room

11:00pm, Tue 5 Mar 2013

For all my fancy talk and wordiness, I love a bit of puerile humour… but only when it’s delivered with a sense of conviction. When the artist is utterly committed to the bit.

And there’s no doubting that Künt, with his bright yellow jumpsuit, goofy grin, and goofier dance moves, is committed to his character… and he’s apparently built up a cult following via YouTube.

Playing backing tracks off his mobile phone, Künt sang his dirty little songs – you can get a pretty good idea of the content with titles like Chips and Tits, I Sucked Off A Bloke, and Wank Fantasy – and danced little jigs to the slightly embarrassed delight of the ten people in the Red Room; he’s genuinely engaging, filthily funny, and – with the addition of his puppet doppelgänger Little Künt – supremely entertaining.

Even better, though, was the fact that Künt’s infamy was evident in one of the guys in the audience; he was singing (and dancing!) along to all the songs, and clearly was ultra-excited that Künt was in Adelaide. That kind of fandom doesn’t come for free, and – after chatting with Künt a couple of times – I was left impressed by his clarity of vision.

11:00pm, Sun 17 Mar 2013

It’s a bit of bedlam in the Fringe Club after the Fringe Awards, and my Fringe Buddy still wants to see Künt, so off we trundle for the last show of the Fringe season. And there’s only half-a-dozen in attendance, so Künt announces that it’ll be a bit of a shorter show. And whilst that announcement raised a little disappointment, that didn’t stop anyone – especially the drunk girls in the front row – from thoroughly enjoying themselves.

It was a mostly familiar set, though the addition of the gloriously rude Let’s Send Nan To Dignitas was certainly a high-point. More Chips and Tits with Little Künt was also a big win.

Künt and the Gang was a real surprise packet; it’s a delightfully puerile act, with catchy pop backing tracks and creatively filthy lyrics from a tremendously entertaining individual… and his even more offensive puppet sidekick.

[2013096] Nik Coppin is Not Racist

[2013096] Nik Coppin is Not Racist

Nik Coppin @ Austral Hotel – Red Room

9:45pm, Tue 5 Mar 2013

I’d like to consider Nik Coppin a mate; we’ve certainly shared more daytime-street-chats and late-night pizzas at San Giorgio’s than any other artist. And, despite the amount of alcohol that may have tainted those late-night sessions, I’d like to think that I’ve got a pretty good idea about who he is… about what he is.

And one thing that Nik Coppin is not is racist… despite what Peter Goers may think.

During a Fringe-related promo interview in 2012, Coppin appeared on Goers’ ABC Radio show and, in the course of conversation, mentioned a second-hand anecdote related to racism within the AFL; the banter that followed led to Goers throwing him out of the studio and labelling him a “racist”.

Which seems a little odd, since Coppin’s own experience in growing up “half-black” (half-Jamaican, half-caucasian English) resulted in being the subject of racism himself. You’d imagine that Nik would be a little… well, sensitive to the issue; indeed, racism (as well as class distinctions et al) have been a staple of his act for a few years now.

Still: at least Goers’ accusations provided the basis for this show.

Coppin uses the incident – and the subsequent legal pursuance for an apology – as the central theme for the performance, and it works pretty bloody well. He drops into material familiar from other gigs, but the constant theme of race leaves the show feeling tighter than a duck’s chuff – I was certainly never thinking that there was any filler.

With a chatty, affable style, he’s immediately likeable – not a bad effort for a purported racist. And the closing couple of minutes is some of the sweetest, most heartfelt comedy about racism that I’ve ever heard… which may sound like a backhanded compliment, but it really is quite a lovely closer.

In short, Nik Coppin is Not Racist is the most cohesive set that I’ve seen Coppin perform… it’s just a shame that he had to be defamed to create it.

[2013095] Michael Hing – Occupy White People

[2013095] Michael Hing – Occupy White People

Michael Hing @ The Tuxedo Cat – Green Room

8:30pm, Tue 5 Mar 2013

Short-run comedy shows in the Fringe always intrigue me – I wind up imagining that there’s something ballsy about the comic that thinks “Yeah – I’ll give this Fringe thing a go. I’ll just do a couple of nights, should be fine.”

And that’s exactly what drew me to Michael Hing’s show. Well… that, and the fact that he plasters a positive quote from Jamie Kilstein (from the fantastic Citizen Radio) on his flyer; the Fringe Guide blurb mentioning “racism, inequality, and dick jokes” sealed the deal.

The small crowd – less than a dozen – immediately made me wonder whether this was a worthwhile exercise for the Australian-Chinese Hing, especially given this was the last of his four shows. But he has an immediately friendly and approachable style, and he gently eases into some of his personal experiences with racism, culminating in a story about how an Asian ex-girlfriend dumped him for being too Asian.

Hing’s material tends to focus on personal anecdotes, with comedic analysis: tales from his working life pepper the set, as do recollections of schoolyard bullying. And that material is fine, especially given his innocent appearance and non-confrontational delivery; but when he veers into more risqué material – like the dick-in-the-popcorn cinema trick – it seems incongruous.

Maybe that’s a result of his obvious nervousness onstage; regardless, there was enough variety within the audience that there weren’t any dead patches throughout the show. Hing may not be a gut-busting comedian, nor is he a sharp satirist… but he did have a collection of amusing anecdotes that entertained me for an hour. But in the expanse of the Fringe, there’s many other comics I’d be recommending before Michael Hing’s name comes up.

[2013094] Homage to Uncertainty

[2013094] Homage to Uncertainty

Emma Beech @ The Tuxedo Cat – Yellow Room

7:00pm, Tue 5 Mar 2013

Emma Beech has always seemed to be the recipient of oodles of respect from the local artists that I occasionally hang out with, but – prior to this performance – I’d only ever seen her perform as the burqa-clad straight-woman to Steve Sheehan’s surrealist character, Stevl Shefn. In that role, it’s all about the eyes and the shoulders… with which Beech has managed to be so wonderfully expressive. But apart from that, and the adorable little card that acts as a flyer for Homage to Uncertainty, I am woefully ignorant of Emma’s work.

Homage starts with a bit of a stutter – Beech apologetically bumbles in, explaining how she watches people. What they do, what happens – and what doesn’t happen – as a result. She notes, with dry curiosity, the insignificant minutia that we all partake in: how we eat, how we stare at our phones, and how we waste time. Raw observation is peppered with considered insights, as short vignettes are delivered with an almost minimalist balletic physicality.

But there’s two more substantial stories that stick with me: Beech’s description of her Dad’s nervous breakdown struck a somewhat familiar chord, with her sharp analysis of the contributory causes juxtaposed with some gentle and heartfelt humour. There’s also the bittersweet tale of her brother’s friend, the Kramer to his Seinfeld, who strikes it rich with a speculative Internet venture whilst the hardworking brother sees no such reward.

Those two stories pretty much sum up Homage to Uncertainty – observation, objectivity, musings, mild heartbreak, light humour. And whilst Beech’s presentation certainly held my attention, the ending – such as it was – felt almost obscenely abrupt; it was almost as if the script was missing a page in the denouement. But that’s a small criticism for an otherwise engagingly quirky show.

[2013093] No Moral Compass

[2013093] No Moral Compass

Stuart Black @ Austral Hotel – The Bunka

5:45pm, Tue 5 Mar 2013

I like talking to people about the shows they’ve seen at Fringe time; long gone are the days where I’d purchase 95% of my Fringe tickets before the season starts. Nowadays, my scheduling is pretty loose, and I’m usually only buying tickets the day before the show, at the earliest… and that means that, when my Event Buddy spoke highly of No Moral Compass, I happily squeezed it in.

A shame, then, that more people didn’t do the same – there were less than a dozen people in the audience, and there were a bunch of artist comps in that lot. And there was a hint of wearied disappointment in Stuart Black’s eyes when he took to the stage… but that didn’t seem to affect his performance.

His style is relatively gentle: long, ambling stories sprout from the germs of some clever ideas. Black admits to a range of substance abuse, garners a few laughs, then shifts gears to talk about a deceased friend (to whom the show was dedicated). Then, as if determining that the tonal shift was a leap too far, Black focussed on his own depression…

…or, rather, his periods of misanthropic depression. And I start giggling uncontrollably – the flaws that he is using as the basis of his material are all-too-familiar to me, and Black’s insights are pretty sharp… and his not-overly-profane choice of phrasing is endearing. The pièce de résistance, however, is his story involving the services of a Polish prostitute: it’s a hilarious (and occasionally painful) tale that twists and turns before settling in for a glorious denouement. That joke alone is worth every cent of the minuscule ticket price.

I really enjoyed Stuart Black’s performance, and I’m certainly glad I saw him do a full set – I don’t think a tight five- or ten-minutes as part of an ensemble would suit his style. Some curious ideas, some lovely wordplay, and a relatively gentle presentation: what’s not to love?

[2013092] Thursday

[2013092] Thursday

Brink Productions & English Touring Theatre @ Norwood Concert Hall

11:00am, Tue 5 Mar 2013

The story of Gill Hicks is both tragic and inspiring: the Adelaide-born woman was the last living survivor rescued from the 7/7 bombings in London, with both her legs being amputated below the knee (and even then, she was not expected to survive her injuries). Bryony Lavery’s script is based on Hicks’ life both before and after the event; in fact, the bombing itself is almost downplayed. Far from being an blunt treatise on terrorism, Thursday is a very human story.

A contemplative opening sees us introduced to a plethora of characters and their morning routines: love and frustration and anger, all mired in domesticity. But the play twists sharply after a terrorist attack, and the characters’ lives become entwined within the confines of a hospital; motions and emotions blur, with relief and anguish and anger all on display. Rose – the character inspired by Hicks – quickly becomes central to the lives of others, as her common thread allows access to doctors and nurses and victims and the bereaved.

There’s no doubting that Thursday packs a powerful punch: Lavery’s script is chock full of believable interactions between believable characters, and even when Rose is left alone onstage there’s an ongoing battle with herself. Performances are universally wonderful (with most performers in multiple roles), and the set is a creative gem: two or three scenettes can occur simultaneously, providing the audience with everyday minutia… and, later, a barrage of grief and panic.

But the thing that I most remember now is the aural atmosphere; music was sparse and effective, but the moment of the bombing itself – rather than being a monstrous cacophony of light and sound, as one might expect – was almost muted: one moment there’s the mild discomfort of packed commuters on a train, then a blackout preceded the revelation of a pile of bodies. But that absence of sound sticks with me still, and remains a remarkable decision amongst Chris Drummond’s sterling direction.

I loved (or, rather, was left feeling like I’d seen something special in) Thursday – unsurprising, really, since Brink really knows how to connect with me. That this production couples such a powerful story (full of sensitivity and humanity both familiar and foreign) with superb performances (Kate Mulvany’s central role is absolutely wonderful) is a real work of art.

[2013091] Sam Marzden’s History of Rock’n’Roll (1962-1989)

[2013091] Sam Marzden’s History of Rock’n’Roll (1962-1989)

Sam Marzden @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

10:30pm, Mon 4 Mar 2013

Sure, I may be in the middle of a K-pop midlife crisis (new blog coming soon! …maybe), but I used to adore me some rock and metal. Even better is the almost infallible combination of rock’n’roll and comedy – sure, everyone knows of bands like Spinal Tap, but there’s also the far superior Bad News and comedians in the vein of Steve Hughes. So when Sam Marzden promised to reveal the sordid details behind the lives of some of rock’s greatest musicians, I was instantly onboard.

Marzden appears as quite the rock tragic: he carries himself with a confident swagger, and takes regular swigs from a litre-bottle of vodka throughout the show. He introduces himself as someone who hates rock stars… though, he freely admits, that hatred is mostly driven by jealousy. And he demonstrates that jealousy by opening with the story of one of the gigs where Keith Moon collapsed; that someone could be so talented and so irresponsibly self-destructive clearly irks Marzden.

Performed largely as stand-up rockumentary, History of Rock’n’Roll has an amazingly flab-free script; it’s effectively built around two Top Five lists that, whilst appearing depressing, were a goldmine of facts and comedic material. His Top Five Worst Gigs included the Rolling Stones headline performance at Altamont, a fantastic GG Allin sidetrack, and The Beatles at Shea Stadium… but that was just a warmup for his Top Five Worst Rock-Related Deaths.

Not only were the usual suspects mentioned – Black Sabbath’s Suicide Solution and Judas Priest’s Better By You, Better Than Me (and their corresponding court cases) – but there was a wealth of information that I hadn’t encountered before: the story behind Marvin Gaye’s death was fascinating (in a macabre way), and the Paul Is Dead conspiracy was discussed at enjoyable length.

Marzden is brilliant throughout: he knows his material well, and delivers it with the conviction of a true fan. The writing is immaculate – there’s a really lovely torrent of alliteration in the middle of the show that was a joy to behold – and I left the show convinced that I’d seen one of the highlights of the Fringe.

But…

There’s a downside. Sure, Monday nights are usually pretty quiet, and the Bakehouse’s Studio is a small room, but there was only seven people at this performance. Worse still, those seven people consisted of two (rudely officious) media pass holders and one judge, their complimentary plus-ones, and myself. So I was the solitary paying punter in the house that night… and that saddens me no end, because this show deserved so much better.

[2013090] Kronos Quartet

[2013090] Kronos Quartet

Kronos Quartet + Bryce Dessner & Zephyr Quartet + JG Thirwell @ Thebarton Theatre

7:00pm, Mon 4 Mar 2013

As mentioned before, Kronos Quartet were most certainly the reason I bought this ticket early; but I’m rapidly (rabidly?) becoming a Zephyr Quartet fanboy, and the opportunity to see JG Thirwell (the man behind industrial stalwart Foetus, and responsible for one of my favourite Nine Inch Nails remixes) was also a pretty big drawcard… needless to say I was pretty excited heading into Thebby.

My neighbours, on the other hand, were most certainly not thrilled to be there… nor were they pleased that the average age of the audience tended towards the mid-thirties. It’s fair to say that they had a traditionalist approach to string quartets that they’d formed many decades ago; faces frozen in a perpetual scowl, any attempt to make conversation was instantly scotched with a glare. I note that their mood lightened briefly when Festival Director David Sefton walked towards us; the scowl returned when he and I chatted for a minute or so. He was a row closer to the stage than I; “take my seat after the interval,” he offered, “I’ve got to go back into town to see Sylvie.”

“Come on, man,” I retorted, “it’s pretty easy to schedule all this stuff.” He laughed, shook my hand, and took his seat; the Mayor and Mayoress of FunTown next to me huffed audibly.

The lights dropped, and Zephyr Quartet took to the stage with JG Thirwell. And, without mincing words, their performance was absolutely the kind of thing I live for: ominous notes, unsettling chords, a brooding sense of uncertain terror in every moment, it was like listening to an Edgar Allan Poe poem in musical form. With Thirwell supporting the Quartet on keys and percussion, the pace and tension of some of their pieces (in particular, their third work) was utterly invigorating.

Again, let me be quite clear: Zephyr + Thirwell was awesome, and stoked the Zephyr fanboy flames ever-higher.

My grumpy neighbours left during the subsequent interval, never to return: this was not Their Kind Of Quartet (but they are, most certainly, my kind of quartet). A quick chat with Sefton – “that was fucking awesome” sounds like something I’d say – and I availed myself of the opportunity to steal his seat, inching closer to Kronos.

Despite my mild disappointment I experienced after their previous performance, the first piece that Kronos performed won me over: engaging and thoughtful, it was a beautiful introduction. The second piece was a quirky number, seeing the quartet adopt a number of other instruments – an electric zither, a portable record player – and I was starting to grin madly.

But then I detected some noise in the background – was that a backing track? I listened harder, and couldn’t shake the idea that they were performing atop a pre-recorded backdrop – instantly, a good chunk of the mystery and magic disappeared. I was still enjoying myself, but the second-guessing of what was “real” and what was pre-recorded lessened the thrill noticeably.

JG Thirwell’s composition Eremikophobia (a fear of sand or deserts) was a drawn out monster, with a seemingly endless denouement that felt perfectly weighted – proper hold-your-breath-waiting-for-the-last-note-to-fade stuff. Finally, Bryce Dessner joined Kronos onstage; that piece threatened to dissolve into polyrhythmic art rock-wank, but was luckily saved by the rock power of Dessner’s guitar.

As I headed back into the city, I couldn’t help but think the scheduling of that performance was all wrong: as much as I enjoyed the musical content of Kronos’ set, it was tarnished by the backing track second-guessing… and the fact that Zephyr’s set blew them off the stage. Imagine walking into the warm evening having just been unsettled by those notes – the very thought gives me goosebumps.

[2013089] Festival Fishbowl

[2013089] Festival Fishbowl

Jason Chong and guests @ Rhino Room – Beer Garden

4:30pm, Mon 4 Mar 2013

Last year’s Festival Fishbowl experience exposed me to another quirky ensemble option, and so – on an otherwise quiet Monday – I wandered down to Rhino for a peek. It’s horribly humid, and the Beer Garden is uncomfortably sticky… and I’m the only punter there.

Other people are present, to be sure – besides host Jason Chong and his tech, Maz, their collection of guests meant that they weren’t just performing to the Internet and an empty room. Dave Warneke was first up, explaining his ensemble quiz show FACTY FACT – and showing off an obscenely gangly life-sized cardboard cutout of himself (which later graced the Tuxedo Cat).

Mark Trenwith and Chong chatted briefly about living together in Melbourne (and Trenwith’s deaf housemate), and Ben Mellor & Dan Steele (performers of the wonderful Anthropoetry) spoke about their travels to Kangaroo Island on their week off, and followed up with Head State. Finally, visual artist Janicke Johansen discussed her exhibition Waste-Land and showed off one of her pieces.

Throughout, Chong keeps energy levels high (a tough ask in the humidity), and engages each of the guests in short games. But maybe I should just stop typing – after all, I’ve still got another 67 shows to write up after this one – and give you a bunch of YouTube links to watch it yourself. Here y’go: Intro, Dave Warneke, Mark Trenwith, Anthropoetry, Janicke Johansen.

So – if you can watch the whole thing online, why will I persist in going to these Fishbowls (schedule and sleep permitting, of course)? Well, I get to fling a couple of dollars Chong’s way, of course – I like the fact that he produces a show like this amidst the hubbub of the Fringe. But it’s mainly to find the shows I might’ve otherwise missed, and to talk to more artists; not only did I get the chance to thank Mellor and Steel (once again) for their fantastic show, but my conversation with Warneke cemented my intention to see FACTY FACT, and I wound up seeing Johansen’s work during the last of my ArtWalks (I just snuck in before her work was packed up on March 30… does it surprise anyone that I have a list of all the Visual Art events I attended?). So in that regard, Festival Fishbowl works like a charm for me.