What's new, pussycat? Nah, Tom Jones was days ago. Meow Meow is a very different kinda kitten, with teeth and claws, which put her at the cutting-edge of what might be called alternative, or indie, cabaret. Avant garde; punk. Such sensibilities aren't a million miles from whatever the hell it is, exactly, that MM does on-stage. Even the stage can move into the audience: in fact, I almost need chiropractic intervention, from looking steeply up, star-ward, to the diva on our table. Multilingual, a shameless snatcher of other peoples' drinks and snacks, Ms Meow is a bold, brassy performer, who attracts an eclectic audience; o so was the case on a Tuesday, mid-evening, in The Studio, at Jorn's place.Crisis is Born: Again is the witty pseudo-pun that names this Broadway hit Christmas show, winner of the Sydney Theatre cabaret award last year, which has been, apparently, slow to freight back to Sydney-town.
Even her publicity is funny: 'back, by her own demand'. Indeed, narcissism is part of her act. To begin with, she decides the crowd reaction simply isn't big or adoring enough, so she storms offstage, to her band's feigned bewilderment. When one, ah, patron throws a red rose, she bemoans, 'they usually all throw flowers', and with that disappears, only to return, muttering, under cover of darkness, while handing out roses from a huge bouquet, in order to orchestrate an over-the-top floral tribute not even the second coming of Diana would warrant.
Crowned by a ridiculous wig resembling a well-groomed Pekingese, eye adornment that'd make Priscilla cringe, and seen in various states of fantastical and undress, the divine Miss M knows nothing succeeds like excess. And don't think you're gonna get away with being a mere observer: many and various were recruited, in no uncertain terms, to jobs as performers, prop assistants, and so on. I was allowed no time to contemplate the terror of linking arms with several others in doing our damnedest can-can. At last, I can say I've entertained an audience at the Sydney Opera House. That'll look good on the cv. Crowd-surfing isn't above her, either; no, we find her above us, on more than one occasion. She even juggles a whisky glass while aloft.
Her alleged determination to distract us from global terrors was fully-realised, albeit with some savage, incisive asides pointing to them. And even in the deeper moments, one can hardly take her wholly seriously; not while holding two lit cigarettes. She's been hailed by practically every journal that's any journal, whether it be at the humble, homey end (The Australian), or those bombs of sophistication, The Times (London), or Time Out (NY). In fact, to take but one, she made the latter's top ten of cabaret. Full-stop. Yet I found the show uneven; patchy; flawed; a dissipation of the genius that obviously lurks in the persona and her creator. Mind you, the wholesale enthusiasm of the audience tends, very much, to cast me, not as a threat to the 'bad' name of the Moulin Rouge, but as the odd man out.
There were moments, quite a few, of shimmering brilliance: one-liners so sharp they could pop a balloon at ten paces; well-chosen, sublimely enigmatic songs that entranced. Meow also has a lusty voice, for all I know capable of causing all the bathroom tiles Araldited to the shapely sails of the Bennelong bewdy to spill into the harbour.
In going with the flow, allowing plenty of space for spontaneity and in adopting a brave, experimental approach, Meow runs the risk of setting her own trap, which she fell into here-and-there, inasmuch as surrendering to just a little too much farting around. The result is not everything is that intensely or consistently amusing. I could feel the veil of tedium settling upon me, from time-to-time. But this, granted, is the price to pay, and a mercifully small one, for affording Meow so much latitude, which is, on the whole, met with rich rewards.
The key aggravation on the night was inexcusably (since The Studio is legend for outstanding acoustics) muddy, indistinct audio, which seemed to improve during the course of the evening, but not enough. And it seriously compromised the show and might well have been the primary cause for my reservations, expressed above, since much of what Meow was saying and singing was lost.
Enough complaining already! Beyond the take-the-pithy wisecracks, the core of her act, for mine, are die lieder. Whether it's the tortured soulfulness of Brecht or the post-modern panache of Laurie Anderson, Meow has an unparallelled gift for judicious, timely selection and interpretation. She unwittingly, it seems, fuses the parts of Dietrich, Minnelli and Piaf that really matter, to produce something breathtakingly unto itself. The depth of feeling and empathy with which she imbues the composer's work must, surely, astonish even them. A bit like Ira Gershwin said of Ella: 'I'd no idea I was such a good writer'. The spellbinding quality of these moments, in which time stands still, throws the comic elements into stark relief. To me, they tend to pale somewhat. It's a question of balance. Perhaps, tonight, or tomorrow, and depending on the audience and Ms Meow's mood, it might be altogether different. But, all in all, the melancholy overpowers the mockery. So, while the device of dragging waifs on stage to sing Silent Night, or My Favorite Things, makes for biting satire ('you don't need to go to Malawi to steal children'), a little too much time is invested in it, at the expense of the more substantive fare. Regardless, the audience seemed to be not only in awe, but in fear of Meow's notorious unpredictability. It must be invigorating to hold an audience, not in the palm of your hand, but with thumb poised menacingly above.
Meow Meow, in a surprisingly candid interview, gives way the keys to her queendom: ‘It’s more than just fluff. And, if it’s done well, there’s a good chance that, while some are eyeing up my boobs, someone in the audience might tear away a bit of the glitz and have a real think about it.’ Hear, hear, it's what's going on behind the curtain, the tension beyond the veneer of humour, that's most valid, interesting, dynamic and compelling. Examples are her poignant reading of Fiona Apple's Not About Love & the heightened intensity and dark disturbation she brings to Dresden Dolls' Missed Me.
She who dares, wins and, for the most part, Meow Meow's daring is winning.
Meow to the World: Crisis is Born. Again
Venue: The Studio | Sydney Opera House
Dates/Times: Tuesday 2 to Saturday 6 March at 9.30pm. Tuesday 9 to Friday 12 March at 7.30pm. Sunday 14 March at 7pm.
Tickets: From $45 or $38 concession
Bookings: 02 9250 7777 | sydneyoperahouse.com
