There is a category of performance which seems to sit between genres: it might have a flavour of stand-up, a touch of live art, even a sprinkling of dance but, because it is most concerned with communicating an idea, a message or even an autobiography, is probably best understood as a lecture performance. Sometimes it feels like the outline for a TV show, the bridging narrative between interviews which illustrate the main them (Ramala Ding Dong by Roshi Naseshi); Co-Existence My Arse presents itself as stand-up comedy but if Noam Shuster Eliassi changed the name of her show to The Giraffe, got a space at Summerhall instead of the Free Fringe, dropped the jokes (but not the funny stories) it would fit in nicely alongside Oommoo and Rmalama which grapple with serious issues of identity and belonging. Why English spins in some contemporary choreography while questioning the post-colonial history of language and Pilot is a very dense solo that takes in mythology, race, comic books and games. At an extreme, Fool’s Gold is clearly bouffon, deconstructing its own creation after presenting an interesting angle on the nature of wealth.
That this kind of show are so common at the Fringe doesn’t deny their striving for an originality of format and expression. They don’t haver a settled formula and can come from artists more familiar with other media. Oommoo’s Lulu Mebrahtu is a musician who takes advantage of cutting-edge modern technology to dissect her dual identities (Habesha and British): Roshi Naseshi is a Welsh Iranian electronic folk musician. There is often an interest in the complexities of identity, especially racial, as if dealing with an unresolved sense of heritage finds sympathy in a genre that easily so easily described or defined.
Fool’s Gold may be the easiest starting point to investigate the genre, since it has the most obvious genre: from Saskia Solomon’s costume, a gold version of the polymorphous suit worn by Red Bastard to the relentless self-mockery, it wavers between clown and bouffon. Saskia slips between multiple personae, all reflecting part of herself from the stage-frightened to the cynical, and makes a fair stab at explaining economic inequality before interrupting herself and deconstructing her creative process until it becomes a posh kid messing about with political theatre, in her own words. There is a huge split in the show, which is never quite reconciled between what seems to be guilt at having the financial security to come to the Fringe and a sincere desire to explore the injustice of contemporary capitalism. I did learn that I am in the bottom one per cent and wonder whether she might consider supporting a critic next year to assuage her sense of privilege.
The most fascinating aspect of the production is the vacillation between giving a serious message and wanting to undermine the seriousness. This breaks down the usual relationship between clown and audience, becoming a more introverted and at times scathing search of her soul. And this is in stark contrast to Oommoo. Here, Lulu Mebrahtu finds beauty and self-love, and a symbiosis with her technology which she regards as collaborators. Elsewhere, in Please Love Me, a similar use of apparent autobiography meshes live art provocation with a rowdy late night theatre atmosphere to land in that same sweet spot of acceptance and self-love.
This suggests that another element of this genre can be noted: the audience is invited on a journey with the performer as they search for something. They are the work of Margin Walkers, artists who explore the edges between identity, between emotions, revelling in complexity whether it is theatrical, emotional, or intellectual. They include a form of audience participation that is invisible, demanding thought and refusing an ultimate answer, even when they end, like Please Love Me, with a clarion call.
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