Those fossils old enough to remember the cabaret heyday of Reg Livermore are likely to find a resonant nostalgia in Tommy Bradson. But while Reg played an unbelievably solid eight-month season at the Balmain Bijou in 1975, with Bradson it's a case of 'where've you been all our theatrical lives?' We like to think of ourselves, I suppose, as increasingly sophisticated and permissive, yet Reg was rockin' 'n' shockin' the mainstream in a way that's rarely possible today. So, in short, we're bloody lucky to have Bradson and Sweet Sixteen (or The Birthday Party Massacre).
It's a typical outer suburban scene. Or what once was. Garry's getting progressively pissed. Actually, he's pissed already, which probably explains why the pig roasting on the spit turns out 'as black as a Townsville Abo'. That's right. If you're uncomfortable with gross political incorrectness, this may not be the show for you. Then again, if you don't understand that when it's pushed to and past the limit, it's ironic, you shouldn't be there in any event.
June, Garry's wife, is practicing her 'surprise!'s, anxiously rushing around, making sure all the loose ends aren't. She flies into a panic when she realises there's no fairy bread. I mean, what's a party, without fairy bread? (Though I'm a bit surprised she wasn't more concerned about little boys.) Realising there's no bread, or fairies, she charges off to the shops. Which affords time for us to meet the rest of the family, many of which have been recruited from the audience, including the critic from the SMH, who's more or less pressed into drinking cask wine. Still, he needs it, 'cause his wife just ran off with a wog.' Well, not him. But the character foist upon him. The cultural milieu, I s'pose, must've come some way, after all: back in the day, the SMH refused to send a critic to Betty Blokk Buster, saying 'we don't review drag shows'. Like Betty, June and family cultivate some colourful language.
The party's in honour of (Be Bop A) Lula, a come-of-age, corkscrew-curled, bottle blonde who wears way too much makeup, but precious little self-esteem. By the time she arrives, it's all gone horribly wrong. Everything one dreads and delights in is all laid out on the trestle table. There are the whoop-whoop whistles, balloons and party hats. Importantly, there are chips. And the cubed cheese June's rescued from a spill all over the floor. And there's Johnny, Lula's BF; a kind of tragic, ghostly, Jimmy Dean character.
There's a live three piece (Alon Ilsar, drums; Mick Stuart, guitar; Sean Hennessy-Brose, piano). They immerse us in golden oldies that, if you're one yourself, will bring to mind Elvis Presley, Gene Vincent, Wanda Jackson, The Coasters. Even James Brown. The band's playing as we enter. Unfortunately, when Bradson follows, his mic is dead. Stuart has a crack at restoring it. Bradson careens up the aisle to enter the box. He makes do with another mic until, finally, someone emerges from the box with the original, now working. If this sounds awkward and tedious, imagine what it did to the momentum of performer and show. There were one or two 'take it from the top' moments before it really got started.
Bradson should've been better prepared for such an eventuality. By better prepared, I mean he needs to learn to keep calm & carry on, like the t-shirt says. Improvise. Or do a song. Still, it's testament to the man's talent that he moved past his disappointment and annoyance and, as a result, we were able to also. But there's another issue. He pushes through his lines at such a pace his diction can't, or doesn't, keep up and, I suspect, many of his best lines are obscured. Frustrating. So we must rely on the gist and pick up what we can.
Having had that little spit, let me affirm that TB's characterisations (or caricatures, really) are redolent of the kinds of people I knew growing up and who are still around, here and there. And while his voice can stray a little far from the key now and again, his rock 'n' roll singing is the real deal, with a raw, raunchy aesthetic that recalls, say, Little Richard, or Chubby Checker; on a local level, Johnny O'Keefe, or Thorpey.
What works here is the script (the parts I was able to decipher), the characters, the scenario and, for the most part, the songs. But speaking of saliva, there's room for a bit of spit and polish. A promising show could become a great show. Dare I say, a blockbuster?
Oh, the cupcakes June proffered as we left the theatre went down a treat, too.
~
Sydney Fringe presents
Sweet Sixteen (or The Birthday Party Massacre)
Written and performed by Tommy Bradson
Venue: Reginald Theatre, Seymour Centre
Dates: 28 - 29 September 2012.
More info: 2012.sydneyfringe.com
