Hickey strutted assuredly on stage and did a little victory lap that granted her the immediate likability that people either possess or don’t possess.

She was wearing a jacket that was so tasteless in its design it was captivating, and she amusingly capitalised on this by sarcastically muttering to the crowd, “look, I know you guys are jealous of this jacket, okay. But my face is up here, alright.” Although, not without some bright spots, I wish her set was as awe inspiring as that jacket was.

Hickey’s comedy style was played as a dead behind the eyes, droll woman who was simultaneously stumped and fascinated by the various absurdities of life. She would recount the minutia of  having a near fatal incident with bad ice cream when she was five years old, as she would with being disgruntled that the beer had run out at a party. Her tone was flat throughout both the vastly different stories because: no beer, nearly choking on a cheap piece of gummy ball–one’s the same as the other. Not surprisingly, these two stories were the best; they were punchy and hilariously dark.

Unfortunately, the rest of the set was problematic. Hickey’s monotonous tone didn’t mesh well  with the material. For example, the latter half of her set involved stories that would spiral off into tangents, and there were tangents within those tangents. Hickey was recounting an incident where she had a tense standoff with a lunatic at a bar, and the punchline of that story wasn’t reached until ten to fifteen minutes in, as Hickey went off many digressions. I was beginning to wonder whether she had just abandoned the lunatic at a bar story until she muttered the ending of it at the end of her set; an odd choice to be sure. I feel the rambling incoherent style of telling stories gels better with someone who has an unpredictable and manic disposition, and that’s not Hickey’s wheelhouse.

Though for what it’s worth, the crowd was very much into Hickey’s set, even the parts I didn’t like so much. The first half alone is worth a price of admission.

Listen out for the castenets… runs until Sunday the 22nd of February. You can find tickets via the Fringe World guide here.

The jazz performers I’ve been privileged to witness during the Perth Fringe Festival have been technical virtuosos, but none have had the audience lapping up everything from the palm of their hand like the impossibly charismatic Cathrine Summers.

The set consisted of the classics and contemporary numbers, the wistfulness was kept to a minimum, and the breezy and occasionally lascivious atmosphere permeated.

Summers set the tone for the whole night immediately with the 1927 song, ‘The Best Things in Life Are Free’, “or $28.50″, Summers would add under her breath, with a wink. The five man band around her would complement and dance with Summers’ sultry and poppy vocals until one man from the band, be it the drummer or sax player, could no longer contain their energy and would explode with a riveting and soaring solo; for that minute or two during the various solos, Malt Supperclub was theirs.

A personal favourite of mine was Summers’ cover of Edith Piaf’s deceptively cheerful ‘Milord’. She imbued the cover with the right balance of sadness and hopeful longing, proving at that point there was more to her than just pure fun. I only wish more of the songs were sung in French. Not that I speak French, but there is no other language I can think of that’s better suited to pop-jazz music. Personal preferences aside, the Englishwoman Summers sings in French fluently, evoking something quintessentially beautiful.

Less successful were covers of Lana Del Rey’s ‘Young and Beautiful’ and Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’. I couldn’t help but feel as if the songs were mandated by a higher up – being that this was advertised as a Gatsby type event; the energy and charisma wasn’t quite there. Particularly confusing was the joyous inflection, yet very low key vocals she infused ‘Young and Beautiful’ with; it struck me as an odd choice, though certainly it wasn’t unpleasant to hear.

However, this was merely a five minute blip in a three hour set that was by all accounts enjoyable and moving. Summers succeeded not merely as a bravura artist but as one hell of an entertainer.

European Summers Cotton Club ran for one night only, but you can check out the rest of the Fringe World guide here.

Despite this show bearing the bold title of dirty, Dirty Jazz doesn’t rise above the level of suggestive winks and cute double entendres, (at least until the last number; a wonderful cover of Lucille Bogan’s hardcore, ultra-filthy ‘Shave ‘Em Dry’). The song in question was so beautifully performed and the lyrics so utterly obscene, that I wish the rest of Gordon’s set were more like it.

As it stands, Gordon’s session was mostly thrilling, if occasionally stilted. The crowd was well lubricated (with alcohol) and uninhibited enough to hoot at the many sexual innuendos and bare faced come-ons, and marvel at the technical skill of Gordon’s singing. To put it bluntly, that woman has a nice set of pipes and the best part of the show was her singing voice. It’s a testament to her talents that she can make the obligatory cover of ‘Fever’ feel resonant and modern. Her crooning evoked Nina Simone through a grunge filter; she wasn’t so much a woman after your heart as she was after your guts – the effect was both startling and thrilling.

I feel churlish to add a negative but it’s something that must be said if I’m going to be honest; Jessie Gordon likes to talk a lot. That in and of itself doesn’t sound like a bad thing but when one is attending a theatrical show, you don’t really want to hear the performer stop the show to explain the origins of what dirty means or why this song from this era is actually full of innuendo; as if we couldn’t piece it together ourselves that this song about a dentist filling a patient’s cavity contains… wait for it… double entendres. During these interludes of explaining things I was tapping my foot out of impatience when I would really loved to have been tapping it to a bawdy tune. It might be just a personal quirk, but I feel that someone continually talking at me about why this means that takes away from what is otherwise an immersive theatre performance.

Although, that really is the only negative thing I have to say. Talk is cheap but everything else about Jessie Gordon is luminous and opulent. Go see her, she’s brilliant.

Dirty Jazz ran for one night only, but you can check out the rest of the Fringe World Guide here. 

It’s fitting that Starman, a one man show that attempts to communicate to us the fundamental mystery of the universe, is a glorious mess.

Ken Fanning isn’t so much an identifiable personality as he is an avatar for conflicting ideas and emotions; multiple personality disorder, illustrated with flesh and blood vitality and immediacy. Given that he had painfully limited resources, his act was nobly ambitious. Fortunately, Fanning pulled off this potentially disastrous performance with aplomb.

The first of the aforementioned multiple personalities Fanning inhabits with reckless abandon is that of the archetypal sad clown, Pagliacci. The act consisted of a sobbing man in clown makeup, attempting to amuse with the various gadgets and toys at a clown’s disposal, but only clumsily self harming in the process, adding to the continued sobs an occasional pathetic yelp of pain. During his pitiful endeavours, an electronic voice droned continuously on a loop, “I give much of my time to people who don’t care whether I’m alive or dead.” I’ll leave it to you to figure out the statements Fanning is making of artistry; it was as subtle as a cartoon mallet to be sure, but there’s no denying this act twisted some primordial nerve: Fanning wanted us to empathise with the plight of the struggling artist.

Not ten minutes later, Fanning became the egoist who was tired of being given the “piddly shit” to play with in front of meagre crowds; he’s an artiste, goddammit – he’s performed at a bunch of shows you’ve never heard of. It was all played for laughs, obviously, but I found it interesting that this satire of the artist followed very closely the sad clown act. It was as if Fanning was continually keeping us on our toes, always reminding us that if he contradicts himself, very well then.

The physical parts of the act, the acrobatics and faux clumsy physical comedy, were part of the throrough line of contradiction that ran through this show. He’s playing the part of the hapless and clumsy fool, but only a person of tremendous athletic grace could pull off these feats without injuring themselves, and Fanning didn’t injure himself.

If you’re prepared to be challenged emotionally and intellectually by a man who ends his performance by spouting existentialism while parading in a giant cardboard star, I can’t recommend Starman enough.

Starman runs from Thursday the 12th of February to Sunday the 15th. Tickets are available via the Fringe World Guide here.

Even the sound check for JAZZ HANDS was such an unexpected delight that I feared the actual set would reek of anti climax. As if reading my thoughts, Pete Saunders muttered dryly, “Hmm, s’pose I should’ve just started with something a bit rubbish…” Thankfully, for myself and the few that attended, there was not one moment of rubbish in JAZZ HANDS.

Saunders didn’t merely begin by “performing” as such but rather gently invited us through a session that was by turns melancholic and whimsical, and occasionally both at the same time. “It feels a bit like a boozy night, doesn’t it? Let’s start with something a little slow.” He then hit a succession of notes on the piano that, in my state of awe, I could only describe as quintessential cool. It was apparent that this guy was in tune with the unique atmosphere that could only be a combination of midnight and freely flowing booze; though the setting and the mood were hazy, we were all utterly compelled throughout his first song.

The brilliance of this guy is that when you think he’ll zig, he’ll zag, and so the second song, rather than hitting the same admittedly delightfully cool note, was a hilarious and cute number, ‘Everybody Wants to Be a Cat’, a cover of the Sherman Brothers’ piece. He brought the same conviction and soul to a silly cat song as he did for his next original number about a relationship falling apart. The whole set flowed seamlessly.

The music itself was an example of wonderful contrasts; though he hits the piano notes with expert precision and speed, his voice was as raw and strained as a latter day Bob Dylan. It was as if the fingers remained eternally vigorous but the voice was marred by time, cigarettes and alcohol. It sure didn’t sound polished, but he conveyed a kind of dignified weariness that I’m not sure the most polished voice could achieve.

He concluded with a song conveying his yearning for performing at places far beyond dingy little jazz clubs. It was both humorous and soulful, but if he were to leave behind the dingy little jazz clubs, we’d all lose something.

JAZZ HANDS runs Monday February 9 and Tuesday February 10. You can find tickets via the Fringe World guide here.

Picture an immaculately groomed, dapper little man in a suit, simulating masturbation on stage as if it were something mechanical and awkward. If that doesn’t amuse you, or even pique your interest, it’s best to skip Rhys Nicholson’s show and this review. For the rest of us who can take joy in laughing at the uncomfortable and vile, Rhys Nicholson delivers the goods and then some.

There is no topic, whether it be death, religion, sex, bad drugs or llamas, that is safe from Nicholson’s maniacal, yet genuinely curious gaze. Nicholson imbued near every musing or story with innuendo and self deprecation; a workmanlike routine to be sure, but he injected life into the material with his strangled voice and curious tics. His tics never felt like shallow affectation, however; he really does seem to be an offbeat man. Like many stand ups, he mines his own pain for comedy ore, and it’s because of his talent that the more painful parts never felt uncomfortable but rather poignant and affecting; his routine was never too poignant as to be saccharine as the tension was always almost immediately deflated by, say, a musing on dicks.

I fear that perhaps the wrong crowd was there to watch him, as some of his more blunt material on his homosexuality and religion elicited only silence and even a couple of disapproving mutters. However, some talk about a horse tranquilizer he ingested that nearly devolved into what can only be described as sleazecore, was met with riotous laughter. The crowd’s reactions were interestingly all over the place and telling of how polarizing Nicholson is. Yet, he managed to turn the fickle audience problem into comedy gold by making his befuddlement about what they found “acceptable” or “not acceptable” a running gag.

If there’s anything that didn’t work it was Nicholson’s musings on Tony Abbott — a topic that by now is akin to shooting fish in a barrel. I felt his preceding material proved he could be far edgier, and cleverer, than that. He ended by serenading the audience whilst stroking a blow up llama. I’m not sure it was his funniest bit, but it sure was theatrical and surreal, and that’s enough to stick a landing. Four stars.

Rhys Nicholson – Eurgh ran for one night only. You can check out the rest of the Fringe World guide here.

Though Scott Dooley’s act didn’t elicit much from me than a few chuckles and the occasional appreciative grin, I wouldn’t discourage anyone from seeing his act. The venue was crowded yet was intimate as any campfire–if he bombed, we all would’ve felt that, and to his credit, Dooley kept his act going at a brisk pace with rapid fire jokes, managing to wring something new and clever from the most tired of topics: a feat in itself. He covered the darker side of life, touching on loneliness, drugs, breakups and dating, but often, he skirted uncomfortably skirted close to a pit of sadness. Thankfully, he usually didn’t linger on one thing for too long.

Playing the part of the neurotic guy flailing through various amusing misadventures involving drugs or sex (or both), earning enough affability that you found yourself hoping his next joke would do something more for you than his previous joke. Dooley always entertaining to watch as he gestures wildly, seeming either utterly bewildered or delighted.

However, ‘wring’ is the key word here, it’s Dooley’s best and worst feature. Despite the aforementioned finding new facets in old subject matter, he would, more often than not, run a fairly pedestrian observation into the ground until there was nary a cricket reacting. One example that springs to mind was when he was recounting how a female friend, who wrote a piece on rape culture, was hit on by a guy who boasted that he “never raped anybody.” The punchline never arrived and he stuck with this topic for about two minutes; unfortunately it felt more like a rant than anything and that’s a shame, because it can’t be too hard to find a great joke at the expense of a dipshit who would brag about never raping anyone.

At the end of his set he mused about his long distance relationship and dutifully plugged his new DVD. I get that he’s happy he found someone and the guy’s gotta eat–but leave ‘em wanting more next time.  Two and a half stars.

Eva runs from the 26th to the 29th of January. Tickets here.