The duo, Louise Mothersole and Rebecca Biscuit are having their turn to folk moment. Things are a bit shit right now, and when the world goes mad it is common in the past to turn to folk music as a way to ground oneself in the chaos. It’s steadying to think of all those who have come before us and sang these songs and lived full lives like us. My particular manifestation of this is researching and listening to a lot of waulking songs. I also spend way to much time thinking about kintsugi.
The cracks make Sh!t Theatre more radiant
They are dressed as peasants, with a series of extravagant, weird, both horrible and wonderful headdresses. The barrels dotting the stage; dark wood pub bench; and the tryptic of wood cut inspired portraits make up our performance space. There is a real attention to details, from the tankards, to the gleaming halos of twisted wood and light spread out over the heads of the audience.
This was my introduction to the anarchic fringe icons Sh!t Theatre, whilst I knew of them I didn’t have any expectations for what the show would become: I had no idea what sword of damocles I was sitting under. The show is theoretically about folk music, but as it goes on, and Biscuit and Mothersole leave little crumbs of information, you start to think it might be about something else. A lot of folk songs are about death.
There is light audience participation in the form of singing along with the songs, and a demonstration of wassailing complete with drinking song. With an extremely funny moment as when offered the bowl of mixed booze an enterprising hand shoots up, only for the bowl to be handed to and the last stops of drink shared out among a school group. Some things never change.
Mothersole and Biscuit’s stage presence, friendship and bond is palpable, and it is the thread that pulls through the show. Don’t be fooled by the name, both are highly skilled singers, and charming hosts. I adored the harmonies. The content of the evening included introducing the audience to the idea of a sing around, attending a folk festival on acid, and their visit to a famous folk pub in Yorkshire, before it was fire bombed and destroyed. The pair revel in the beauty alongside the imperfection. The impressions of the people at the folk night were perfection itself. I did not expect to be so touched by the tales of these passionate people behind pub doors, of course there is always a revival, and that is wondrous in itself.
By the time you are able to put the pieces together everything suddenly falls into place. My heart is hit like a train and I spend a lot of time sobbing to The Parting Glass. Biscuit and Mothersole let the emotion pour out of both of them, you cannot tear your eyes away.
This is my first Sh!t Theatre show, and much of the show is mediating on if they can still go on in this different state, with no white face paint, and little projection. For this audience member this strongly feels like Sh!t Theatre, a step on its long journey. It’s a surprisingly optimistic conclusion. I offer a musical paraphrase to avoid spoilers: Lenord Choen ‘Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack, a crack in everything / That's how the light gets in’. The cracks make Sh!t Theatre more radiant.
There is a sing along in the bar at Summerhall afterwards, which I would have loved to attend to help ease off the water works, but I was sadly on the move again to see another show. Don’t make my mistakes.
