His comic cliché of an opening line was instantly picked apart and dismissed, this is the essence of Lee’s comedy and it’s quite unsettling. Throughout his two hour routine, we’re never entirely sure if an anecdote or observation is genuine (and therefore funny in its own right) or a parody of a comic approach laid bare for ridicule in few moments time.
But Lee never invites us to settle back with our drinks, comfortable in the knowledge we’re embarking on ninety minutes of gut-busting, gag-filled fun. Indeed, Lee confesses the show will include only three jokes and we’ll spot them because he’ll lean forward when he cracks them. In the event, two of the jokes are the same with a single word changed. No, Stewart wants us on the edge of our seats, unsure where we’re being taken. Or why. And he succeeds.
The first half is almost entirely consumed by a circuitous and surreal exploration of his grandfather’s love of crisps, which Lee explains he steals from charity events. But behind this Booshian stream of consciousness there’s some fairly savage distaste for the competition between comics to perform at the most fee-free benefit shows.
I suppose Lee isn’t unique in taking shots at more traditional or more careerist stand ups, but where he does have the edge is his fearlessness in naming them. He’s running down popular ‘modern’ comics like Andy Parsons and Frankie Boyle who may well have fans in his crowd. But for Lee this is merely another discomforting and provocative thrust to trap us in his headlights or prod us off our seat backs.
Using fuzzy logic he reveals Mock The Week’s Russell Howard to be better value as a charity cyclist than a comic – he doesn’t really mean it, but he does mean the wider, sceptical point.
Surprisingly, Lee does comedy songs too. Who knew? He certainly didn’t use them in his recent (and superb) ‘Comedy Vehicle’ TV run. For me, they aren’t a highlight, but they are another channel through which his contempt for showbiz gag merchants and panel show prattle can bubble. And a lyric which paints a picture of P-Diddy rapping in a jungle clearing at Russell Brand’s wedding while David Baddiel applauds can’t be entirely without merit.
So far, so post modern. What was completely unanticipated was the physical comedy which opened the second half. Clearly Lee wasn’t about to launch into a Lee Evans style pratfall extravaganza – instead he turned twenty minutes of guitar tuning into a masterclass of understated, perfectly timed and expertly executed visual (and aural) comedy. For a performer noted for his sarcasm and misanthropic monologues, it was quite a revelation to find his talent apparent in a routine of extended twanging and silences. It is most impressive and very, very amusing.
I won’t divulge the payoff to the lengthy, political memory which absorbs the final furlong of the show, but it does confirm my suspicion that, to this performer, predictability is the greatest failure of all.
Stewart Lee is a comedian but he is on a mission to distance himself from his mainstream colleagues and share his dismay with his audience. So much so that his bemusement oozes from every pore of his act. His revenge is to undermine the sleight of hand and button pushing other comics deploy to raise laughs. Lee is the magician who breaks the code and points out the smoke and mirrors.
He is the anti-comic but what’s impressive, is he makes his disdain and cynicism so compelling and so funny.
Magnus Shaw, October 2010
