The Smirking Sequin at The Phoenix

The Smirking Sequin at The Phoenix

12 October, 2009
by: Evolmike

Ah, basement comedy. Is there any other kind? Tonight's showcase-in-aid-of-a-showcase is compered by Luke Toulson, a cheeky little monkey to say the least. He comes on, points out the struggling theatrical folks in the audience who are trying to raise money from the gig, and he immediately begins the lampooning. He calls it banter, but whatever it is, it's clearly his strength. No one within five metres of the stage is safe. It makes you wonder why easily humiliated people choose to sit in the front row in the first place. Still, hilarious when it's happening to someone else.

Next, Will Andrews lollops onstage. He opens with the nervous eccentricity gambit and eases into his surreal observations, mostly on the convergence of the dark and the cheesy, punctuated by the occasional musical saunter down memory lane. A tad reminiscent of Lee Evans (though more dark than cheesy) but it's always remarkable to get so many confounding yet ecstatic laughs without applying any actual jokes, or at least building around them rather than on them. In the modern comedy scene there's an almost universally accepted rule that gags are lame, and that the trick is to be as reluctant as possible to do them, or in Will's case, terrified.

Tom Rosenthal is a disconcertingly bright eyed and bushy tailed youngster, making no apologies for his misunderstood status as a philosophy student. He does well to avoid the stereotype though, bypassing any attempt at deep philosophy and giving his smiley, irreverent take on student life. He may be young and fresh faced but he's just too gosh darn adorable for you to hate him for it.

Audacity Chutzpah (the enigmatic stage name of an equally mysterious and anonymous quick change mistress) wakes us up with a touch of the burlesque, stripping and facially contorting her way through a hundred years of feminist history, silently to a musical soundtrack. Comedy is tricky when costume is your only medium, but she ah... pulls it off well.

Then Luke returns with comedy comrade Stephen Harvey to add to the teetering discomfort of the luckless front row. Some flamenco, a bit of faux improv, more banter, and a cockle-warming song about that most agreeable of British pastimes - the detailed and unapologetic hatred of Justin Lee Collins. I do not know a soul with a pulse who is not now on their side.

Finally Andrew O'Neill closes the show. An obviously accomplished comic, his confidence tints both the best and worst elements of his act. He's very slick and well-timed, with a persona that dips into many niches but falls into none (A metal head transvestite with a deep voice and no patience for trendies - he's bound to have a few stories.) The speed and glaze of his tenor is certainly captivating but gives the impression of a man all too familiar with his routine. He almost sounds like a teacher, one of the cool ones who you could swear at and argue with about geriatric rock bands, but a teacher nevertheless. Knows what he's talking about but slightly less excited as a result. No shortage of laughs or inspiring points, but it does leave you all the more appreciative of the hands-on fluidity of some of the other acts, particularly our tenacious host.

A pleasingly symmetrical selection of acts, all very engaging and without much unnecessary fluff. Nice intimate venue too. Small, moderately quiet and cosy. You can shout at each other across the whole room if you want. Of course, you'll become part of the show if you do...

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Evolmike