Paperjam

Stewart Lee, drone rock comedian

Gigs // Jim // 27th February 2008

Bought the tickets following a strangely serendipitous text message from Jess. Nick and I had been talking about going to see him just the day before, plus I had promised Clare that I would take her to see another comedian a mere ten years after the last time I took her for an amusing night out.
It’s a sick note from Jess, so Chrissie joins Nick, Clare and I in my bijou sloping lounge/kitchen. Sort of like being on a ship that is just starting to sink, but with a dodgy orange sofa involved.

Over to Warwick Arts Centre as I tell everyone how I recently saw Mr Lee outside the roundhouse before a Morrissey gig and was taken with his vague resemblance to St Steven. I am roundly derided, but only mildly by Clare who is having fun sorting out how to park in the Arts Centre multi storey which I suspect to have been designed by someone who owns a local company specialising in automotive bodywork repairs.

All being old and sensible we go to the toilet before heading into the Theatre, we have seats almost exactly where I once had to contemplate sneaking out of a John Hegley, ahem, performance if it hadn’t been for a thoroughly welcome intermission. I’m not expecting such covert tactics to be required this evening, besides which the place is pretty much full.

The warm up act is Greg Fleet, an Australian actor who apparently killed Daphne in Neighbours. No, I don’t know either.

Greg starts with a really terrible joke about “Cycle path” sounding a bit like “Psychopath” and I am trying to work out how I can clamber over the twenty people between me and the door without attracting too much attention. Fortunately this is an aberration and the rest of his short set is pretty fucking funny, especially the bits about getting abused by passing motorists, the overheard “Wow” conversation and a sign he once saw that read “Warning! This door opens without warning”.

Dive out for the interval and another incredibly sensible precautionary piss that I really don’t need. Everyone else in the gents has had the same idea, there are a lot of blokes stood at the urinals but not much splashing or shaking going on. I suppose the fear of being abused by a comedian outweighs the normal male worry about standing with your cock in your hand, sandwiched between strangers and not having a slash.

Clare isn’t really hungry, but thinks we might go for a curry afterwards, we get some miniature tubs of ice cream to stave off her non-existent hunger while waiting for the main part of the show to start.

Stewart Lee takes to the stage following a strangely incongruous fanfare and flashing light introduction. He is already into a trademark flow of slightly sullen, sarcastic banter denigrating his support act and the fact that he still doesn’t get to play the main hall at the Warwick Arts Centre.

He introduces his show 41st Best Stand Up Ever, with a discussion of the alternative ideas he had, his impression of Morgan Freeman talking about ducks fucking dead ducks in their dead duck asses “in a dance as old as time itself” has me laughing uncontrollably, which doesn’t happen very often.

Then he says that he has been described recently as a squashed Albert Finney and a scruffy Morrissey. I turn triumphantly to my companions, they collectively give me a glance which says, “Yes, ok, calm down”.

The show is a combination of a bitter appraisal of the state of his career as well as an attack on other comedians seeming deemed less worthy. There are some anecdotes and ruminations on associated themes and about ten minutes of microphone tapping theatrics.

That may not sound all that thrilling, but large swathes of it are absolutely hilarious, the segment in which he evokes both sides of a conversation with his mother just through her repetitive exhortations as to the comic genius of Tom O’Connor is absolutely blinding.

At one point he drops the mic and saunters into the crowd to really have a good moan about his stagnant career, flopping down in an empty seat he moans: “The bloke in front can’t even be bothered to turn round, he’d rather look at an empty stage”. It is just bitter and upset enough to be very funny indeed.He uses a lot of heavily repetitive phrases and motifs, slightly twisting things each time for comic impact. For some synaesthetic reason the style of the gig reminds me of the indie drone-rock of The American Analog Set, really, have a look/listen and you might get what I mean. Then again…

He’s just spent a good ten minutes tapping the microphone stand in order to call Richard Littlejohn a cunt. I can’t help but agree, but as he is balancing a toy on his head as some sort of Dadaist farewell, kind of wish he hadn’t spent so long on that and we could have got a bit more of something else in.

So it was great and I will definitely go and see him again, even if he isn’t in the big hall. Back to Leamington and I go for a curry with Clare, the waiter wonders over for a chat, “Is he always in here with some woman or other then?” she asks him. “Err, is he ok? is he having some sort of turn?”, she asks me as the waiter doubles over in uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming down his face. He recovers enough to let us finish in peace, but is still giggling when he brings the bill and complimentary brandy as some sort of apology.

I fancy the pub, but Clare makes some unlikely sounding excuse involving a child, a husband and a job to go to in the morning. Lightweight.

Links that want to be in a bigger venue...

Stewart Lee Website

His official site, all sorts

The UK Synaesthesia Association

No, I didn't just make the word up.