Three Nights Out

John Xintavelonis

We normally sit square-eyed in front of the box of an evening, but last week we had THREE night’s entertainment out, in a row.

We kicked off last Thursday with the regular comedy revue night at the Grand Poobah in Liverpool Street, hosted by Joyce (the very droll Matt Stolp, a vision in geriatric drag) and her gormless 40-year old spinster daughter, Markeesh (the equally lovely and talented Cathy Allen).

There was live music, courtesy of a talented young lass by the name of Emma Howard and the obligatory amateur stand-up performer, James, who was, well, interesting – in a scratch your head sort of way. But the star turns of the evening were the bingo games and the dual personalities of comedian Rose Ottavi Kokkoris.

It was bingo like you’ve never seen it before – the prizes were an ancient clock radio, a retractable metal rake and a used tin of bright pink paint – and as the numbers were being called, the wheelchair-bound Joyce regaled the crowd with stories of lustful assignations on the seashore with a well-endowed dolphin. Apparently, Markeesh was the product of one such inter-species coupling. Disturbingly, I still have the picture in my head.

Ms Ottavi Kikkoris maintained the very un-PC tone of the evening with her frequent open dressing gown flashes, in character as the lovely Iced Vo-Vo. The flash revealed what looked to be, at first glance, her totally naked body, but was, in fact, an anatomically correct body suit – complete with a luxuriant ‘map of Tassie’. Later in the evening, Rose reappeared as Mama Rosa – an unnaturally hirsute Italian matron with a massive rack and a talent for ‘reading’ pasta, as well as a fabulous singing voice.

The evening was well-worth the $10 entry fee – heaps of bad language, double entendre, and outright rude stuff, along with genuine ‘retro’ décor, a bar and a really sticky concrete floor.

Friday night brought our long-awaited date at Wrest Point with two iconic musical performers – Mr Boz Scaggs and his opening act, Mr Russell Morris. Both men were in faultless form. Despite their years – or perhaps because of them – their performances were the sort of polished, assured perfection younger artists can only dream of. Russell’s newer, blues-style material was an ideal progression from the dreamy, atmospheric music of his youth. And we weren’t denied a reminder of those heady days – we were treated to classic renditions of The Real Thing, Wings of an Eagle and Sweet, Sweet, Love. The voice might have toughened a little, but the clear, bell-like notes of Mr Morris’ younger days were still there.

And, what can I say about Boz Scaggs? A quietly-spoken, unassuming man with an infallible ear for melody, and a voice as clear, and unique as we remembered. There was new material, and old favourites, and a mesmerising version of Tony Joe White’s Rainy Night In Georgia. Boz finished the set with a nostalgic tribute to his early blue-eyed soul days – the amazing Loan Me A Dime, in which he paid tribute to the guitar-picking talents of the legendary Duane Allman.

Fabulous stuff!

Thinking ourselves quite the culture vultures we ventured out AGAIN on Saturday night to the Theatre Royal where the Jonathan Biggins comedy, The State of the Tasmanian Economy, was playing – unfortunately for the last time. Blue Cow Productions marketing person, and one of the satire’s four cast members, John Xintavelonis, took the curtain calls and then reminded the audience to tell their friends what they’d missed.

Friends, you missed a laugh-out loud, exquisitely insightful, intelligently presented analysis of everything that’s wrong with Tasmania.

Two Tassie public servants (Xintavelonis and Scott Farrow) are engaged by a high-powered government lady from Canberra to spend four weeks finding a fix for Tasmania’a problems. Their only qualification for such a monumental responsibility is the fact that they are the only two public servants to have never been considered for inclusion on a panel, or committee or focus group, or any other device designed to alleviate the state’s numerous woes. They have ‘fresh eyes’, apparently.

The jokes are too many to detail. Suffice it to say that the hapless low-level bureaucrats seek a little outside help, and the ideas range from heritage pumpkins, to interpretative convict artists on every street corner, to body replacement part grown to order for AFL footballers, to turning the state into a giant private prison – after all, that’s how we started – and more. It’s clearly satire, and out-and-out hilarious, but there’s an uncomfortable resonance.

Maybe we are just a little too comfortable on our pretty little island – we pretend we want to be like the big kids, but in reality it’s all to hard, so nothing really changes. The whimsical denouement has Max, the younger of the two protagonists, extolling the cosy virtues of his isolated home, and we’re left wondering if THAT is the real folly of Tasmanians.

The cast strikes a perfect balance between realism and over-the-top parody, with the desk jockey and field officer characters played straight and the various ‘ideas’ people a smorgasbord of outrageous caricature, thanks mostly to Guy Hooper, who plays several nutty male parts, and Jane Longhurst, who looks after the female bits.

The State of the Tasmanian Economy had a very limited run. Hopefully, it will get another outing some time soon.

We could happily do it all again next week, and we’ll most certainly be keeping an eye out for the next Grand Poobah comedy revue.
Bronwyn Williams