Barry Humphries - Live Review

Dame Edna hasn’t performed Last Night Of The Poms for 28 years. It may be churlish to say so, but maybe there’s a good reason for that.

For dress it up how you may, at the core of this show is a 40 minutes of a man with a sparkly frock and terrible singing voice screeching his way through some simplistic, not-especially-funny lyrics in tribute to his native Australia. That might make a funny 30 seconds on Britain’s Got Talent, but, strewth, is it soul sapping in the flesh.

And dress it up, Barry Humphries certainly has. This is a phenomenal production, with the full might of the Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra, conducted by the piece’s co-creator Carl Davis, and backed with a choir that must feature 120 voices.

It’s an awesome display of musical talent, wasted on this cod cantata which follows an entirely predictable trot though Australian history, from convicts via goldrush to an unembellished list of Aussie celebrities from Hugh Jackman to Peter Andre. The lyrical highlights go no further than the couplet ‘It’s my idea of heaven/and the Prime Miniser’s called Kevin’ and racially dubious ‘[Cpt Cook] perished poor chap, in an Abo attack’.

The whole endeavour smacks of a vanity project that’s spiralled way out of control, when money or scale have ceased to be an obstacle. But then no one does vanity with quite the same style as the housewife gigastar (inflation seems to be in force with the prefix that quantifies her fame). When she’s posturing away trying to fake sympathy for the paupers in the upper-circle cheap seats, or boasting of her glamorous life with friends like Elton John and the Duchess of Cornwall forever on the phone, she’s on glitteringly bitchy form, with banter as slick, and as gloriously condescending, as it ever was – even though Humphries is 75 years old.

But such pointed badinage is strictly limited to make way for the musical centrepiece, which singularly fails to raise the same rousing spirits of its Proms near-namesake, despite one patriotic punter bringing an Australian flag into the auditorium. Indeed a small, but noticeable, number of punters start drifting away from their £65 seats before the show’s end. Maybe it’s to catch trains to suburban homes, as the night is long, but maybe because the show is getting just too self-indulgent and under-funny.

In support, Humphries’s cultural attaché Sir Les Patterson suffers the same problems. His musical piece is Peter And The Shark, an Australianised version of the Prokofiev piece, with various instruments illustrating various characters drawn from antipodean fauna in a tedious gag-light story, slowed to a wearying pace by the soloists’ interludes.

Yet again, when he’s left to his own devices, Patterson’s a delight. Sure, a lot of the comedy comes from Strine slang such as ‘budgie smugglers’ for Speedos or other cheap innuendo, but he does it excellently, with all the exaggerated flair of a pantomime grotesque.

But mostly, he’s funny for no more sophisticated reason that the arching waterfalls of phlegm that spew from his mouth and over the audience every time he hits a plosive ‘p’ sound, which seems to occur with undue frequency. If the front row had dipped into the Royal Albert Hall merely to avoid the downpour outside, they would have found themselves more drenched inside the building than out.

They would not be the only people disappointed with a show that seemed to trade too much on Humphries’s weaknesses and not enough on his strengths. Had he decided to save himself £40,000 or so and dispense with the massed musicians, and relied solely on his considerable wit to entertain the audience, we would all have been happier. For as it is, this revival is very much like Australia itself – with huge expanses of tedious nothingness between isolated centres of no-nonsense fun.

Doc Brown - Live Review

It must be every performer’s dream to play the Royal Albert Hall. And now a lot more will fulfil that ambition… albeit with the words Elgar Room in parenthesis.

The iconic venue has converted one of its restaurants into a comedy venue for a short series of monthly gigs, which inevitably come imbued with a touch of class that your average room-above-a-pub or municipal arts centre cannot hope to match. The audience mingles with classical concert-goers amid elegant Victorian architecture before the show – and even inside you can never quite forget where you are.

‘What do you do for a living?’ support act Naz Osmanoglu asked the big bloke at the front table. ‘I’m a butler.’ You don’t get that often. The servant concerned, Adam was his name, inevitably became a prominent feature of the ensuing banter, exerting a fascination the young comic couldn’t quite resist. But he judged it right, the audience were as rapt as he was by this upstairs, downstairs world.

Osmanoglu fluidly incorporated the chat with his prepared material, which often revolve around the ideas of masculinity. His memorable gags about the ruggedness of survival expert Bear Grylls form a signature routine, while he is robustly entertaining in describing his Turkish father’s precise and inflexible ideals of manliness. Possession of a beard is nine-tenths of it.

The material is delivered with rambunctious energy and bold, exaggerated moves. Such powerhouse performance skills are undoubtedly what makes the set, but there’s decent material behind it, too.

A routine about a visit to the dentist is a solid piece of observational comedy, supercharged by the animated approach; while an anecdote about a trip to Amsterdam is as sordid as you might expect, but defanged by his reluctance to participate in the incident he describes, making it strangely endearing. Still a relative newcomer, Osmanoglu’s already been much-tipped as one to watch – and tonight’s performance only underlined that potential.

Headliner Doc Brown has already supped at the teat of fame, but as a rapper. His autobiographical full-length show Unfamous (pronounced to rhyme with ‘infamous’) which he performed tonight, explains how that happened.

Describing himself as a ‘washed-up rapper with a social studies degree acquired from the University Of Norwich’ sets the tone for the hour. The middle-class bloke incorporating hip-hop ironically into their shtick is almost a cliché of stand-up, but Brown is the real deal – and that certainly sets him apart.

He’s happy to show his skills in set pieces guaranteed to entertain. However, the rap here is no prop or gimmick, but an integral part a life story told with eloquence and an unfailing wit. The language and tricks of his former trade are demonstrated with a light touch, and while he once was part of the underground urban music scene, it’s clear that today’s more well-to-do Royal Albert Hall demographic is closer to where his life is now

It was while running an open-mic rap night in Soho that Brown – whose real name is the markedly less showbiz Ben Smith – started mixing with future megastars such as the Black Eyed Peas and Mark Ronson, He wound up on tour with the latter, ‘jumping around lie a hip-hop Bez’.

It led to a lot of drug-taking, which, in his own words, turned him into a 24-carat wanker, and eventually he walked off the tour in an arrogant strop. But old rappers never die, they just become deadbeats; and Brown – by now a father – turned into a waster; until, that is, comedy saved him.

This story is recounted with an engaging self-deprecating touch, and the charismatic Brown has put the command of language and rhythm that stood him in such good stead as a rapper to equally effective use as a stand-up. He’s disarmingly charming, and can pull the rug away from the occasionally serious tone of his story with a deft touch, ensuring you’re never far form a laugh.

The redemptive ending gives an upbeat climax, and the ups and downs of the story keep you interested. But these narrative treats are secondary to the comedy, as Brown incorporates more obvious stand-up segments – such as his admiration of Richard Attenborough’s communication skills or him screwing up a schoolboy appearance on TV – into his show.

It is an slick, assured and funny debut. Totally nang, in the language he once spoke.

Naz Osmanoglu - Live Review

It must be every performer’s dream to play the Royal Albert Hall. And now a lot more will fulfil that ambition… albeit with the words Elgar Room in parenthesis.

The iconic venue has converted one of its restaurants into a comedy venue for a short series of monthly gigs, which inevitably come imbued with a touch of class that your average room-above-a-pub or municipal arts centre cannot hope to match. The audience mingles with classical concert-goers amid elegant Victorian architecture before the show – and even inside you can never quite forget where you are.

‘What do you do for a living?’ support act Naz Osmanoglu asked the big bloke at the front table. ‘I’m a butler.’ You don’t get that often. The servant concerned, Adam was his name, inevitably became a prominent feature of the ensuing banter, exerting a fascination the young comic couldn’t quite resist. But he judged it right, the audience were as rapt as he was by this upstairs, downstairs world.

Osmanoglu fluidly incorporated the chat with his prepared material, which often revolve around the ideas of masculinity. His memorable gags about the ruggedness of survival expert Bear Grylls form a signature routine, while he is robustly entertaining in describing his Turkish father’s precise and inflexible ideals of manliness. Possession of a beard is nine-tenths of it.

The material is delivered with rambunctious energy and bold, exaggerated moves. Such powerhouse performance skills are undoubtedly what makes the set, but there’s decent material behind it, too.

A routine about a visit to the dentist is a solid piece of observational comedy, supercharged by the animated approach; while an anecdote about a trip to Amsterdam is as sordid as you might expect, but defanged by his reluctance to participate in the incident he describes, making it strangely endearing. Still a relative newcomer, Osmanoglu’s already been much-tipped as one to watch – and tonight’s performance only underlined that potential.

Headliner Doc Brown has already supped at the teat of fame, but as a rapper. His autobiographical full-length show Unfamous (pronounced to rhyme with ‘infamous’) which he performed tonight, explains how that happened.

Describing himself as a ‘washed-up rapper with a social studies degree acquired from the University Of Norwich’ sets the tone for the hour. The middle-class bloke incorporating hip-hop ironically into their shtick is almost a cliché of stand-up, but Brown is the real deal – and that certainly sets him apart.

He’s happy to show his skills in set pieces guaranteed to entertain. However, the rap here is no prop or gimmick, but an integral part a life story told with eloquence and an unfailing wit. The language and tricks of his former trade are demonstrated with a light touch, and while he once was part of the underground urban music scene, it’s clear that today’s more well-to-do Royal Albert Hall demographic is closer to where his life is now

It was while running an open-mic rap night in Soho that Brown – whose real name is the markedly less showbiz Ben Smith – started mixing with future megastars such as the Black Eyed Peas and Mark Ronson, He wound up on tour with the latter, ‘jumping around lie a hip-hop Bez’.

It led to a lot of drug-taking, which, in his own words, turned him into a 24-carat wanker, and eventually he walked off the tour in an arrogant strop. But old rappers never die, they just become deadbeats; and Brown – by now a father – turned into a waster; until, that is, comedy saved him.

This story is recounted with an engaging self-deprecating touch, and the charismatic Brown has put the command of language and rhythm that stood him in such good stead as a rapper to equally effective use as a stand-up. He’s disarmingly charming, and can pull the rug away from the occasionally serious tone of his story with a deft touch, ensuring you’re never far form a laugh.

The redemptive ending gives an upbeat climax, and the ups and downs of the story keep you interested. But these narrative treats are secondary to the comedy, as Brown incorporates more obvious stand-up segments – such as his admiration of Richard Attenborough’s communication skills or him screwing up a schoolboy appearance on TV – into his show.

It is an slick, assured and funny debut. Totally nang, in the language he once spoke.