Marc Burrows borrows from the 90s genre of Britpop all he needs to know about sex and girls. Unhelpful words of advice from his parents caused him to go in search of sexual enlightenment through the words, personas and predilections of a diverse group of famous indie rock stars. Their alternative approach to sowing their seed seemed to strike a resonant chord with a young man who by his own confession is not so much a frustrated rock star, but ‘frustrated not to be a rock star.’
Indie pop would certainly be his specialist subject in a round of Mastermind but when given his one chance to shine with guitar and combine comedy and chords, he unfortunately hit a B minor. His breadth of knowledge was substantial, his ability to apply music tastes to sexual preferences was amusing and original, but the one thing you felt he wanted to be best at, he wasn’t. His content was great but his delivery let him down. It seemed he had a lot to say and too little time to say it in; Burrows would gallop off on some 90’s related tangent with the audience hanging on for dear life, before suddenly coming to a standstill and watching as we all flew dazed or bemused past him. He’d neglected to fasten a steering device that kept us and him in time.
On another day, in another room, with more control and fewer pun-stopping moments this could have been a four star show that might have been worth the £10-15 he claimed his show would cost if put on at the Pleasance. At least being free, it guaranteed a full house.
