THEATRE: Alexander Sudheim reviews Durban Poison –
WHEN, in the 1950s, Lenny Bruce walked up to the microphone in an LA club and asked, ever so innocently: “Are there any niggers here tonight?” the concept of stand-up comedy was revolutionised. At first there was a deafening silence from the audience. Then Sammy Davis Junior, sitting in the front row, burst into peals of uncontained laughter.
It was at this point that Bruce began to be referred to as “a social satirist in the tradition of Swift, Rabelais and Twain” and stand-up comedy became accepted as the turbulent arena for the uncompromising deconstruction of social hypocrisy. It was granted the space to be a manic chuckling through clenched teeth.
Durban Poison, a committed trio (see pic) of stand- up comedians possess this blend of cynicism and social suss, yet are equally influenced by the absurdist school of British comedy.
John Vlismas, a brilliantly kinetic physical and vocal performer, has a good laugh at political correctness and takes pot-shots at absolutely anything within range. His routine is marked by moments of spontaneous genius: when a car alarm suddenly goes off in the parking lot outside, he stops in mid-sentence and asks the audience to stand for our new national anthem. “Only joking,” he corrects himself, “actually, it’s Amichand Rajbansi’s pacemaker in the boot of a stolen car.”
The seductive lure of the microphone stand and single spotlight lies, it would appear, in the thrilling knowledge that you can quite literally say whatever the hell you like, utterly unbound by the fetters of prevailing social mores.
Verbally opening the raincoat and exposing yourself, flaunting everything that is cheap, nasty, dirty and, occasionally, transcendently brilliant.
Vlismas wears a dark three-piece suit because “they said the only way I could perform here tonight was if I was 90% black.” Like Lenny Bruce, Vlismas has a fine antenna for the racial and social stereotyping that happens but is taboo to mention in public.
He describes himself as “Afro-Grecian; half Afrikaans and half Greek. First I’ll tell you where to live and then I’ll open a tea-room there.” At times he gets swept up in his own demented energy and when a train rumbles by outside he shrieks in mock horror: “My god! There’s two massive gay guys having sex outside! Its the clash of the tight ones!”
At other times, especially when parodying the stoned Capetonian trendy, he perfects a spaced-out soporific daze: “Like, hey, man; like we don’t need four years to plan the Olympics, man; we’ll, like, have it next Thursday…”
Shaun Griggs, on the other hand, has that supremely deadpan face that induces laughter just by looking at him. It’s like it’s all one big joke that he’s not letting you in on. Griggs’s material is less concerned with the dark humour of socio-political phenomena; his approach is more personal and offbeat, and he lazily recounts all the quirky little odds and ends that make the planet a weird place to be. “You know, there’s only three things in life you can count on,” he informs the audience, “one – the world is round; two – we’ll all die, and three – vegetarians fart a lot.” This is a world where lemonade is artificial and floor-polish contains real lemons.
Patrick Kenny comes on last, positively bristling with energy in contrast to the sardonic Griggs. His shtick is more scatological and visceral, ranging from the hypocrisy of white suburban liberals when confronted with sonny’s black girlfriend to brutally offensive cracks about Winnie Mandela’s bottom and the inhibitions of Christian girls.
Although Durban Poison are gaining in stature and scored critical success in Grahamstown this year, the bar next door is still three times as full as the theatre where they perform. Still, stand-up is a relatively new art in our country.
In years to come and with a few more zealous torchbearers, its grubby paws will surely be indecently assaulting the limelight in a dark alleyway behind the trashcans with ever burgeoning vigour.