Daniel Kitson – Live : Comedy Review

Clifford J Alverado has been lucky enough to have seen multi-award winning UK comedian Daniel Kitson perform quite a few times in his life, here he recounts his memories of Daniel Kitson, who is in town for his new show 66a Church Road.

I have seen Kitson seemingly close to an all-out break-down on stage after the collapse of a recent  relationship. I have seen Kitson dedicating nearly an entire show to firing back at a seething street press review that called him misogynistic. I have seen Kitson hold his audience hostage for hours after the official ending time of a show, where parents arriving at the designated time to pick up their kids had extra seats hastily brought in for them for the undetermined remainder of the show. I have seen Kitson transcend the boundaries between comedian and artist with his poignantly scripted shows about perfect childhood memories and exploring the complicated relationship one has with their own home, and I have seen Kitson again and again weave in occasional tales of heartbreak and pathos between the silly easy laughs and semi-ironic blue outbursts that he chides the audience for debasing themselves to enjoy, while at the same time, clearly reveling in it himself. And now, I have had the pleasure of seeing Kitson… play online scrabble. And paid for the privilege. Well, kind of. More of that later.

Kitson is in town primarily for his new show 66a Church Road (subtitle: A Lament Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases), which is, to be glib, about his love affair with an apartment, and is playing at the Fairfax Studios in The Art Centre over the next few weeks.

Sitting on a dimly lit stage surrounded by suitcases there is no pre-game banter here, as he enters accompanied by the twangs of whimsy folk rock. He launches straight into the story he is here to present – a story of the exuberance of finding his ideal flat, the heady days of falling in love with it, and the heartbreak that came with having to leave it. Yes, the tale is a rose-tinted ode to a love lost, and follows the formula of so many other love stories – there’s even the moment where he gets to see his ex later on, only to find the place has undergone the apartment equivalent of stacking on 20 kilos and letting itself go – but the show is far from a gimmick in this regard and Kitson avoids plundering this analogy for cheap laughs.

The main tale is broken up by pre-recorded vignettes where we are treated to little ’slices of life’ from his time at 66a Church Road, while some of the suitcases adorning the stage light up revealing their insides to contain a tiny model of one of its rooms. It’s a cute touch, and explains the $50 price tag (his excess luggage fees must have been a bitch) however those not in the first 3 rows directly in front will be lucky to make out the finer details of the models at all. Worry not, you’ll get a chance to check them out at the end.

Don’t be prepared for a total laugh-fest. It’s certainly steadily funny, but you’re more likely to leave with a smile reminiscing nostalgically about something in your own past than quoting some knee-slapping zingers. On the other hand, don’t expect to walk out learning any major life lessons, as the sentiment that ‘home is where the heart is’ – not a place where you store your crap – is the stuff of twee clichés. But that’s hardly the point of a Kitson show. It’s how he delivers the story, in his inimitable ridiculously eloquent – yet completely relatable – way, and playful use of language that leaves you not only hanging on every word, but savouring most of them, such is their magnificence. It will be a damn shame if the man never releases a book, or a DVD at least, because his words are so wonderfully crafted they really require repeat listening. They’re great in his stand up when reeled off the top of his head with typical aplomb, but the stuff he has obviously laboured over a little more, like this, has a whole new level of brilliance to it.

I left 66a Church Road commenting to a friend that I would probably pay to see Kitson read out the phone book, so sure was I that the man could make anything funny. This was soon put to the test when I realised that as well as hitting repeat on his finely crafted show most nights for the next couple of weeks, he is backing it up with late-night stand-up at the tiny and intimate Blackbox theatre, again within The Arts Centre confines.

The existence of this show was a fact that was largely unbeknownst to Kitson himself until the day before they started, if you believe the tale he tells early on the night. The lack of awareness might explain the nonexistence of any direction or theme, but this would be discrediting Kitson somewhat. Without sounding too much like a first year arts student essaying an assignment on post-modernism, the lack of structure is in itself is obviously his game here, and he revels in it. This is apparent from the start, where he spends a few minutes trying to throw his hat on a microphone stand a few metres away while the audience nervously laughs, unsure if this is a bit, or an act of OCD where the performer can’t proceed with the actual show until he gets it right. (It takes him 3 goes, for the record). We are then quickly bounced through his take on idiot thugs at sport events, his beloved football club, to his insightful love of sports at its very essence; which to him is a pursuit of that pure and perfect moment where you witness something unbelievable happening (much like, I imagine, the moment where Buddy Franklin kicked the winning goal just before the siren in the 2007 first elimination final between The Hawks and Adelaide. Youtube it and recall the glory, friends).

Kitson then links up his laptop with a projector screen and has the idea of getting our help to take on a friend in online Scrabble. Since the screen serves no other purpose, it seems this is a premeditated plan, and I’m not sure how it worked the night before, but he quickly pulls the plug after a single word is played. Asking us never to speak of this moment again, he reads a few amusing short stories, or rather, the introduction to a few short amusing stories, before bringing on a local muso mate to break up the enjoyable debacle with some soothing tunes.

Kitson then informs us, perhaps on the back of the aborted Scrabble experiment, that the $20 we paid to see him – which many would think a bargain to see an international comedian – was too much. To compensate he takes the whole audience next door to a bar and shouts us all a drink at interval. Yes, that’s beer, wine, or spirits. (Other comedians please take note: if your show is going bad, this is a sure fire way to get the audience automatically onside.) On top of this act of generosity, the bulk of the rest of the show is dedicated to Kitson giving select audience members the chance to win their $20 back, either by way of Trivial Pursuit questions, or by competing in a ‘physical challenge’ where we see his competitive nature flair up in playful, if hardly compelling, games of paper/rock/scissors and a good old-fashioned stare-off.

In both shows many of the crowd seem to be Kitson acolytes, who understand when you walk in the door to see one of his shows that you might get a brilliant and poignant rumination of the simple joys of life, or a brilliant ramshackle mess of comedic dissection and lightning quick audience put-downs, or both. These are fans he has carefully cultivated over years through word-of-mouth with minimal advertising, doing late night shows that perhaps are not an option of the casual comedy festival goers who want dinner and a show and be home in time for a 11pm shag, and until recently, by not doing shows on Friday or Saturday nights – apparently spitting in the face of these conventions for the one purpose: to keep the c–ts out.

The plan seems to have worked, as the audience seemed largely c–t free and easy going, as you would hope for a comedy show…although with all the numskulls around town lighting flares and cracking skulls you never can be sure where they will appear. I wonder, however, if Kitson shares my view of the night, as when the show ends a guy in the front row cheekily tries to take a memento home from the stage, one of the pages of his short stories Kitson shared with us, only to be met with a loud, harsh, serious, bark from the man himself from the darkened wings of the theatre, prompting his followers to throw some ‘tsks’ the culprit’s way. Kitson’s reputation is of someone used to controlling every move of his career and protective of every skirret of his work, possibly to a fault at times. This may have been one of those times.

Regardless of this little incident, and it could be the fact that I was one of the lucky ones that won my $20 back (plus with the free pint added in, actually came out on top – score!)  this scattered show was one of the most enjoyable comedy experiences I’ve had of recent times, and with his aversion to TV, the closest thing to ‘The Daniel Kitson Variety Hour/s’ you’ll probably ever get to see. Strongly recommended, and a perfect night out for those hypnotised to boredom by a ball shooting up and down the screen pong style that happens at this time of year.