“You know it’s not comedy right?” When I was arranging tickets for this double bill the promoter warned me that it was not a comedy show. OK, it’s not going to be on Live at the Apollo any time soon, but this twin-pronged delight, currently touring seaside venues, north Wales and Oxford and London, contains plenty in it to appeal to comedy fans.
The main attraction for me was John Osborne, who wrote the acclaimed ode to radio, John Peel’s Shed. Osborne got the ultimate accolade when a critic favourably compared his whimsical, gentle storytelling technique and subject matter to Daniel Kitson. Praise doesn’t come much higher than that.
The self-effacing, baggy-jumpered Osborne is the warm-up act, which is fair enough as his story is a simple, short tale of a day spent wandering on the sand in Weymouth. It might seem unadventurous, but it skilfully evokes the British at play at the seaside, making the most of those rare days when the sun shines and it isn’t “windscreen wiper weather”.
The imagery is familiar and instantly recognisable. Osborne glances at office workers skiving off with a bottle of lunchtime wine, kids playing, tartan picnic rugs being spread out and dwells on the fact that life can sometimes be wonderful when the sun shines, the sky is blue and the sea glistens. There is an exquisite anecdote about Rod Temperton - a man who was born in Cleethorpes and ended up writing Thriller for Michael Jackson. When you grow up by the sea, it seems, dreams can come true.
Osborne’s ambitions are more modest than writing for a moonwalking superstar. He thinks about chucking in his temporary teaching job and skiving off himself. He tells his story beautifully. There are no fireworks, just carefully chosen words, backed occasionally by nostalgic seaside images on film. It is a show that makes you want to run out, roll your trousers up and go for a paddle.
The headline set, The Islanders, sticks to a similar sandy theme. Amy Mason and Eddie Argos (lead singer of Art Brut) were teenage lovers. Now in the thirties and ex-lovers, they have come together for a piece about adolescent pangs and passion. Mason does most of the storytelling, recalling her teenage yearnings for the slightly older, moodily enigmatic, preposterously cool Eddie, the first boy on their block to move into his own bedsit.
Mason’s monologue will pretty much strike a chord with anyone who has ever been a teenager. Arguments with mum, obsessiveness, classroom defiance, those first attempts at independence, badly paid jobs, eating the wrong food and discovering you have to pay water bills (who knew?). Argos, meanwhile provides musical interludes, backed by guitarist Jim Moray. He says that he dreamt of being Jarvis Cocker and there’s certainly a Pulp influence in his angular suburban lyrics, but also a distinctive, idiosyncratic, dandy streak of his own.
Eventually the young Amy and Eddie decide to decamp to the Isle of Wight for their big adventure. They are lured by the romance of the island and life starts off dreamily, but things are never quite what they seem. Reality gets in the way of the picture postcards. Good lord, there isn’t even a decent record store on the island, though Smiths-fan Eddie dreams of opening one called Frankly Mr Shanklin.
With its mix of songs and story, The Islanders is somewhere between an indie-pop opera and concept album. Don’t go along expecting Mamma Mia or We Will Rock You. This is more We Will Seaside Rock You. Maybe not out-and-out comedy, but it will certainly make you smile.
Tour dates here.
