My assumption is that it was The Stand’s decision to blast Method Man out of the speakers as the audience took their seats rather than Simon Munnery’s, but it is a credit to a show exhibiting a master craftsman of the unexpected that I’m still not sure. In the past he has described his stand-up as reaching towards the condition of ‘shit art’ – and the sheer variety of styles he covers in one hour, as well as the amount of thought he manages to condense into single jokes or ideas that twist in multiple directions at once, show that it is an art form of which he is in bewitching control. The show ostensibly revolves around Munnery’s attempt to perform an ‘impossible’ punk-rock musical charting the R101 airship disaster of 1930. With a mind this restlessly creative, it seems impossible to predict exactly what direction the musical will take across the month – but this preview’s musical excerpts include thrillingly bizarre fusions of discordant guitar bursts and wistful notions on the naivety of doomed airship pilots. Even though at this early stage it only comprises a small portion of the show, it is clear how while a lesser comic would buckle under the weight of such a bizarre premise, Munnery takes it in his stride and ushers the audience into his unique worldview. The remainder of the show consists of routines as diverse as a dialogue between two microphones, the semantic ambiguities of car horns as a form of communication, and a poem from the perspective of the city of London. Even a skit on the Daily Mail, well-trodden ground for most, becomes in his hands a platform for exploring the futility of throwing scorn on an inanimate object. The breathless invention of his material is belied only by how easy he makes it look. The honing of this show’s ideas can only unfold thrillingly as the Fringe progresses – and the only person who knows where they will go is Simon Munnery.
