By Peter Maddern
As the Fringe circus evolves, there seems to be less and less of a market and maybe appetite for the likes of Englishman Andrew Silverwood, the critic defined self-absorbed twat. Not that there was much to complain about; his routine was enjoyable, suitably wired, his material diverse (if not overly imaginative) and for someone prone to get restless the hour went without feeling an uncontrollable urge to check my phone.
But just why anyone would choose to go see him with a spare wad of cash in the wallet and a Friday evening at hand is not clear and the paltry audience count of seven on a sublime Mad March night perhaps makes the point. (It should be pointed out with some haste, this is a function of how the Fringe has come to me, not necessarily about Mr Silverwood.)
Maybe Jamie Mykaela’s opening ballad on the ukulele and his rap song at the end would make it all worthwhile.
Kryztoff Rating 2.5K
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