Chris Martin does himself no favours by drawing comparisons between his name and that of the Coldplay frontman. His second full show at the Fringe does much to dispel the notion that he is that Chris Martin; he lacks all the necessary superstar qualities.
Saying this, Martin’s delivery and timing are confident and slick and he comes across as likeable. He is also a natural storyteller and has some of the physicality of Russell Howard which he uses to great effect when impersonating a biscuit.
However, as a guy who does very little - something he draws attention to throughout the show - he offers up mundane, unoriginal material. His comedy is middle class and the mildest form of observational; it may be alright amongst friends in the pub but is certainly not worthy of a public platform. He touches upon embarrassing friends and texting mishaps, and is self-referential to a frustrating degree, opening with the story of writing his fringe show. Martin avoids the pitfalls of repeating last year’s material by not telling any Coldplay gags, although this just begs the question: why bother with the title at all?
The show has a good structure, with intermittent readings from his dad’s food diary, although the transitions from anecdote into reading are incredibly clumsy. Stranger still is his half-hearted attempt to justify the entire show with a ‘and the moral is’ moment, where he says that life is meaningless and we should just have a laugh. That message may have more impact in a show where the audience does actually experience laughter.
This show is inoffensive and mild, and Martin needs to push things a lot further before his comedy has any lasting impact. The subject matter is uninspiring and unoriginal and it will take a much better show to make you endure Teviot’s stuffiest room.
