taking fire

A week of hangovers and not learning to stop drinking. Here follows some talk about pre-Edinburgh festival shows.

Lowdown at the Albany

Nice pub, Albany. Downstairs in the cellar bar (hence, “Lowdown”) is the classic setup, 70 people sweating in a tiny basement bar. A stage in the corner is big enough to swing a squirrel through maybe 270 degrees.

I’m fully expecting Daniel Kitson to go through his new show, It’s the Fireworks Talking. After the poignancy-bomb of Stories for the Wobbly Hearted last year, I am excited.

I am rapidly disillusioned. Kitson has perfected that particular piece and has no need to polish off any rough edges on us expectant four-pound-paying plebs. He admits as much – “I thought I would be working on a show… this is the gig I didn’t want”. So he keeps the gold for Edinburgh and we get a ragbag of natter instead.

For the first 45 minutes he rambles and rails about minutiae, chiefly around what he last made for his tea. He fucks about with random objects. He fucks about with the PA. The air conditioning. Something in his eye.

Amazingly it’s still worthwhile. The delivery is confident and relaxed, though it seems his stutter is magnified when he’s not delivering prepared monologues. He gives us well over an hour, perhaps to make up for the lack of structure. The audience are involved and leave happy.

The rule still applies – always go and see Daniel Kitson.

Old Coffee House

It’s an odd transition. From the super-cool Soho street (just around the corner from Carnaby) you squeeze up the OCH’s narrow stairs to emerge in your Gran’s spare room. Old pictures, prehistoric wallpaper and just 24 rickety chairs, packed in three rows so that the front row actually have their knees touching the performer. Every Tuesday they run a warmup for Edinburgh shows.

Josie Long is charming. Her beaming chat is infectious, matey; your talented best pal spinning anecdotes and weaving a theme together. Now and again glimpses of the real theatrical talent and clever wordsmithing. You want to pick up her mannerisms and use them. Exemplary deployment of swearing.

Paul Foot is a walking apoplexy. Picture Edmund Blackadder (between series 1 and 2), give him a Parkinson’s judder and you’re just about there. The precise, affected speech of an Edwardian city gent. Somewhat eccentric, seemingly free of self doubt, some naivety. A very long section on being gay – I wonder if this his first ‘out’ routine. Again the crowd leave happy, buoyed by his ceaseless, random movement and energy.