In a tiny venue that holds an audience of twenty, it feels at times like being trapped in a corporate boardroom listening to an intern make a pitch using every bell and whistle available. Power-point clicker in hand, keyboard and microphone ever present.
Half a dozen or so songs are delivered with amplification that often drowns out the lyrics. The musical element seems poised to sugarcoat a relentless outpouring of self-doubt and dissatisfaction. This is a solid forty-five minutes of white cig-gendered mansplaining desperately seeking forgiveness for being the guy who says very little of value in a world of people easily (and regularly) obfuscated for doing exactly the same thing.
The delivery is mostly wry, and often very close to amusing, but the self-referential focus seems to be anti-humour; there are moments of audience participation that quickly turn nasty. The name of an audience member coincidentally is the same name of a person who stole Emerson’s lunch from the fridge at work. He collects verbal sounds from people to add to a loop he is creating for his next song, but after building it, he dumps it and uses something he prepared earlier because, “it’s better”.
At the end of the show Emerson bids, we all have opinions, that we avoid sitting in the fence, that we rage against the machine.
His wry charm and wit deserve five sugary stars.
Emerson Brophy is Saccharine is on at Cubby House at Arthur Arthouse until Sunday, 23 March. Get tickets here.
