Monday night saw us back in the Tap Social to another packed house, which is saying something given that the heavens really decided to open for business that evening. It’s no surprise, though - between Huge Davies’ rise as one of the most in-demand musical comics on the stand-up circuit and the cult status Rob Auton’s one-topic shows have gleaned at the Fringe and beyond, there’s bound to be a loyal following trekking to Botley with blown-out umbrellas.
Huge Davies had, to put it mildly, a lot to contend with; a broken keyboard, thunderous rain, our audience’s appalling lack of rhythm. He apologised at the act’s closer for not being as polished as he could have been, and I won’t pretend there weren’t a few stumbles here and there - lyrical flubs, technical hitches and the like. But honestly without that disclaimer, I wouldn’t have thought twice.
The gag throughout is that Davies is going to regale us with his life story, which invariably ends up actually being a riff on a beloved pop culture IP (he grew up in a shack, only has cabbage soup to eat, his four grandparents shared one bed - wait a second.). Playing on these moments of dawning realisation works well, but sometimes the musical arrangement isn’t enough to distract from the fact that a few of these observations are a little stale in the year of our Lord 2024. Maybe I’m outing myself as chronically online here, but the possibility that Batman might not actually be a stand-up guy, the practices of Pokemon trainers are probably less than ethical, and Charlie Bucket’s Grandpa Joe was probably a bit of a scumbag, have been part of the internet’s wallpaper for quite some time now. There were moments throughout the set, in fact, where a ping of recognition would go off in my brain as I recalled the tweet or Tumblr post that got there first - see also Davies’ song about using yoghurt in a mayonnaise jar to fend off potential seat mates on public transport.
It’s when he uses those starting points as a springboard into truly original high silliness that the gags really start landing in earnest. The mayo jar song ends up going in a direction I would never have seen coming, an out-of-nowhere tangent that had the audience in stitches. Davies also rides the tension beautifully in the ‘love song’ allegedly composed to Davies’ grandma by her wartime lover, which culminates in him forcing the audience, via unblinking eye contact, to sing “Pearl Harbour, Pearl Harbour, what could go wrong?”. The Gary Numan-esque arrangement and bizarre escalation of a voice note from his mum’s attempt to buy green beans is also a standout. When Davies’ material goes full batshit, his deadpan delivery treating it as seriously as a heart attack, it’s a joy to behold.
While I was already familiar with Davies’ work, Rob Auton was a new one on me, and after last night you are reading the words of a convert - an Auton-aton, if you will. Where Davies finds the humour in convincing his audience to get on board, Auton’s approach is a little gentler, sailing down his stream of consciousness and trusting you to find the same current. In researching Auton after the show, I learned that he is also a poet, which didn’t come as a shock - even as someone completely unfamiliar with Auton’s work, his lyrical delivery makes his poetic sensibilities apparent even in a bit as silly as which words never appear on gravestones. This is a man that relishes the taste and texture of words and wants to share it with you.
Is it possible for a comedian to be Imagist? Auton is so adept at visualising the strange visions his mind conjures. An alternate universe that’s exactly the same as ours, except blinking is audible. The steel workers of the Empire State Building perched along the bar of your collarbone. It’s hard not to be swept along for the ride. Auton cites a review that described him as “an underprepared best man”, and I won’t pretend there isn’t a flavour of that. But there’s also a hint of the guy in the corner of the pub that’s gotten just tipsy enough to achieve a higher plane of consciousness.
And there’s something weirdly comforting about that presence. Auton jokingly makes full eye contact with every single member of the audience to open the show in an effort to make us “feel seen” (“Kylie couldn’t do that - she plays whole stadiums, it’d take forever”). But by the show’s end, we’re all happily looking through the same peculiar lens, closing with a short verse about embracing the absurdities of existence that’s as life-affirming as it is endearingly odd.