Review by Steve Bennett

Poet Murray Lachlan Young first came to prominence as a hip youngster in 1997, when he was signed to EMI for a mere £1million. There’s an element of luck involved in landing that sort of deal, but listening to Young, it’s not difficult to see why they invested in him, each word that spills from his mouth feels like it has been individually rounded, polished and sent off to do its stuff – it’s as good poetry should be.

Ten years on Young is still looking the part of the dapper young performance poet with just a hint of crow’s feet to add character. He announces he’s just won an award, a signed plastic glass from the front-of-house staff for the best dressed comic, a jokey plaudit but it’s easy to see why he won: with his foppish mop of curly hair and trimmed beard, suit jacket teamed with black jeans and vibrant shirt peeking out, he cuts quite a dash. In fact he’s bought another shirt, an orange Hawaiian number that he’s keen to show us. No doubt he’ll sport that one with aplomb too.

But it is the well-presented words that we had come to hear. He begins with a plea to Keith Richards to consider his fans when choosing his method of death – and that it should not be falling from a coconut tree. The Stones are a familiar theme in Young’s verse; some things remain consistent.

Employing repetition and alliteration, rhythm and rhyme, vivid yet whimsical pictures of Penzance trawlermen, a tumbleweed toupee or the day the Taliban came to tea are created. Young’s deep, rich voice with just a hint of gravel is perfect for his poetry and this precious instrument is kept oiled by regular intakes of whisky. The banter between poems flows just as easily.

It’s tempting to wonder why Young hasn’t yet been appointed Poet Laureate, but perhaps the Queen wouldn’t appreciate an interactive folk song about dogging – which has nothing to do with corgis.

Reviewed by: Marissa Burgess

Review date: 1 Jan 2007
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett