Isy Suttie, George Ryegold, Tim Key, Dave Gorman, Tom Basden, MC Carl Donnelly

The Tabernacle, an imposing 19th Century hall in swanky Notting Hill, is an impressive venue for comedy. But big spaces need big performances, which tonight’s low-key line-up didn’t generally provide. All of the acts had their delights, but since they all largely shunned tight punchlines for mild whimsy, the mood remained sluggish – not helped by an evening that ran to nearly three and a half hours, including intervals. It seems promoters Knock2Bag chose this bill as badly as they chose their own ridiculous name.

Compere Carl Donnelly did his best to inject some liveliness into proceedings, but on his first time out struggled to elevate any of the banter above the polite exchange of basic information. But in later links he stuck more closely to his playful material, centred largely on his own immaturity, which paid better dividends.

First up, Isy Suttie who, despite her cult Peep Show fame can’t avoid comparisons with Victoria Wood; but then there just aren’t that many musically gifted female comedians with soft Northern accents. As a singer, Suttie has quite some vocal range, plus a couple of nifty tricks down her trachea, best demonstrated in her ice-breaker: an echoey impression of Amy Winehouse trapped down a well.

Her songs make sweet, compelling listening but the stand-up is more wavering. She was the first – but not the last – comic of the night to lose her way in a convoluted, but ultimately unrewarding tale, hers involving the neighbour’s cat. And when she read a letter from her naïve mother, it elicited wry smiles rather than hearty chuckles; although this routine turned out to be the groundwork for some later fun and games with Google’s automatic translator, rather than a standalone piece.

Suttie exudes a snug charm that’s guaranteed to warm your every cockle, even if she lack’s a headliner’s punch. So the audience were left happy, if in a mellow way.

Hotly-tipped newcomer George Ryegold has an exquisite way with words – even when what he’s describing is far from delightful. When it comes to delivering these deliciously wrong bon mots, his brusque timing is spot-on – although the surrounding monologue can be unnecessarily long-winded.

His shtick is that he’s a doctor, and so talks graphically about ailments and orifices with an over-blunt candour. The milieu is a little unedifying; these are basically knob and fanny gags, with gratuitous mentions of rape – but give him his due, they are knob gags with a college education and fancy clothes, providing graphic images that will stay with you forever.

Part two kicked off with the anti-comedy of Tim Key, with three words to strike dread into an audience’s heart: ‘Yes, it’s poetry’. Looking shambolically louche, he pronounces his disjointed sentences to dubious backing tracks, requiring weary dialogue with the unseen, unheard sound technician.

Anyone expecting poems that rhyme, scan or even finish properly might be disappointed, the device mainly exists to give him reason to put awkward pauses and notebook-shuffling into the distracted, hesitant act, adding to the haphazard feeling. The subjects of his verses are suitably obtuse: one, for example, being little more than a list of animals he thinks he can fit into.

It’s an act that’s deliberately unsettling, sporadically very funny, thanks to some sly, smart gags, and sporadically very odd. It’s an antidote to slick stand-ups. If only there had been slick stand-ups on the bill for contrast.

Dave Gorman, running in some material ahead of his official return to stand-up this autumn, could have been, as he’s got some whip-smart one-liners here – I’d defy anyone not to love his 77-degrees gag. But that’s not really the sort of comedian he is. Though he’s leaving behind his epic odysseys that redefined the ambition of solo comedy shows, the storytelling style still remains.

His cliché-free tale of drunkenly arriving in Las Vegas is a gem, with a lovely payoff, although the entire yarn about his incident with a post box bears much less fruit, and trying to joke about how futile the whole episode – and routine – is, only highlights the lack of meat in the segment, rather than compensating for it. He can certainly hold a room, though, even when there’s no gold at the end of the rainbow.

Closing act Tom Basden undoubtedly suffered from the lateness of the hour and the unenergised audience. But he battled valiantly on, with some fine comic songs that are, more often than not, proper, funny jokes that just happen to be set to music. There’s no feeling here that the guitar is a prop.

He’s a smart cookie and a master of misdirection, pulling in punchline lyrics from unexpected directions. He feigns a slightly aloof disinterest in entertaining the crowd, but with material this fine, he can afford to be. If the audience had any oomph left, he would probably have stormed it; instead he just did good.

Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
July 2009

Published: 9 Jul 2009