Geraldine Quinn’s act is notoriously hard to pin down. There is definitely and proudly a cabaret edge to what she does – that’s kinda how her show is marketed, after all – but there is also a kind of bombastic rock and roll edge that fits in with her ’70s David Bowie-worshiping ways, even when her sense of theatricality veers a little more to the side of scoring laughs than Mr Bowie’s more Brechtian, thought-provoking leanings.
Quinn’s tenth-anniversary Melbourne International Comedy Festival show is a retrospective that reworks and re-examines some of her previous material in the context of a full band (drums, piano, bass, and Quinn rocking a short-scale 12-string acoustic guitar). Opener Audience set the pace for a show that seemed to alternate between the sentimental and the outrageous: a giant light-up sign spelling a Victorian-era naughty word, a hilarious ‘leap off the stage’ routine, a trio of bogan-themed songs that hit a little too close to the nerve. They’re all offset against a poignant song about those fragile little moments of connection, or a sniffle-worthy passing reference to Mr. Bowie. Tying it all together is Quinn’s powerful, expressive vocals and her self-deprecating manner.
Ultimately though, I found myself wishing the show was one or two songs longer. It’s always good to leave ’em wanting more, but Quinn’s vocal range, songwriting talents and onstage persona are all so endearingly versatile that it’d be nice to dwell in the more serious moments a little longer and let the funnier moments breathe a little more.
BY PETER HODGSON.
