More Fringe stand-up
. . . while I'm still a little bit emboozled, because God knows I won't remember much of this in the morning.
First of all, from last week before man-flu the plague a mild cold took me out of commission for the weekend, An Evening with Style and Panache. This is the kind of sketch show which is difficult to stuff up completely, if only because a bad sketch will end quickly. The obligatory "improv" with random words from the audience did not go so well, but the Shakespearean football hooligans worked brilliantly, the gentlemen's club sketch was appropriately vicious, and Mr Style's accent stopped grating surprisingly quickly.
Next, this past evening . . . going to an event advertised as a "comedy pub crawl" was perhaps not the smartest move for my liver, but after having to set foot on a university campus during O'Week it seemed unthinkable not to go on at least one.
Alan Anderson was a terrific emcee and a hoot even when he wasn't talking about booze, an accomplished heckler-dealer-wither (I'm sure I'll come up with a better word for that in the morning), though I don't know about an entire show about whiskey. Also, once he had a few in him and the audience on side, he started approaching Frankie Boyle levels of offensiveness, which may not seem quite so hilarious in the cold, hung-over light of day.
I had previously seen Janey Godley at a Rhino Room late show performing similar material, which pointed out a problem that wouldn't have otherwise been obvious: your enjoyment of the show will not depend on how well you can understand her (fairly thick Glasgow) accent, but rather on how well the rest of the audience can. When the audience gets into it, she's brilliant. When they don't . . . well, she kicks arse at dealing with hecklers, at least.
Marcel Lucont had better material last year than what he saw fit to bestow on us tonight, but the faux-franglais was still authentic-sounding, the timing perfect, and the attitude appropriately arrogant. If you're interested in the gigs at the link, check the posters at the Tuxedo Cat to see who his “guests” will be; I'm not sure how well he'll deal with having to improvise so much.
Ben Darsow, IIRC the only local to be seen, was best described as mediocre. One punchline in two was good. If he pesters you for audience participation, do try and give him something to riff off of because if not the gig's up shit creek.
Markus Birdman had the best facial hair of the evening and some opening gags about booze that would probably have been funnier if we hadn't been hearing stuff in a similar vein all night. Then he moved onto stuff that wasn't quite racist but, well, by the time he had half the audience goose-stepping around the pub I decided that then would be a good time to excuse myself and order a Polish vodka.
First of all, from last week before man-flu the plague a mild cold took me out of commission for the weekend, An Evening with Style and Panache. This is the kind of sketch show which is difficult to stuff up completely, if only because a bad sketch will end quickly. The obligatory "improv" with random words from the audience did not go so well, but the Shakespearean football hooligans worked brilliantly, the gentlemen's club sketch was appropriately vicious, and Mr Style's accent stopped grating surprisingly quickly.
Next, this past evening . . . going to an event advertised as a "comedy pub crawl" was perhaps not the smartest move for my liver, but after having to set foot on a university campus during O'Week it seemed unthinkable not to go on at least one.
Alan Anderson was a terrific emcee and a hoot even when he wasn't talking about booze, an accomplished heckler-dealer-wither (I'm sure I'll come up with a better word for that in the morning), though I don't know about an entire show about whiskey. Also, once he had a few in him and the audience on side, he started approaching Frankie Boyle levels of offensiveness, which may not seem quite so hilarious in the cold, hung-over light of day.
I had previously seen Janey Godley at a Rhino Room late show performing similar material, which pointed out a problem that wouldn't have otherwise been obvious: your enjoyment of the show will not depend on how well you can understand her (fairly thick Glasgow) accent, but rather on how well the rest of the audience can. When the audience gets into it, she's brilliant. When they don't . . . well, she kicks arse at dealing with hecklers, at least.
Marcel Lucont had better material last year than what he saw fit to bestow on us tonight, but the faux-franglais was still authentic-sounding, the timing perfect, and the attitude appropriately arrogant. If you're interested in the gigs at the link, check the posters at the Tuxedo Cat to see who his “guests” will be; I'm not sure how well he'll deal with having to improvise so much.
Ben Darsow, IIRC the only local to be seen, was best described as mediocre. One punchline in two was good. If he pesters you for audience participation, do try and give him something to riff off of because if not the gig's up shit creek.
Markus Birdman had the best facial hair of the evening and some opening gags about booze that would probably have been funnier if we hadn't been hearing stuff in a similar vein all night. Then he moved onto stuff that wasn't quite racist but, well, by the time he had half the audience goose-stepping around the pub I decided that then would be a good time to excuse myself and order a Polish vodka.