Jacksons Lane, London
The expectation is rising. This is the comeback gig to end all comeback gigs – although there is something a tad tawdry about the stage, and the crowd is more than a little sparse. The deadpan roadie has checked the microphone. All that we are waiting for now is for the frontman to appear.
But when he does, fashionably late, he is a she, a pint-sized figure who looks vulnerable in her short, spangly costume. She lipsynchs to Elvis's Heartbreak Hotel. We are, of course, the best audience ever. She trashes the instruments, although the instruments are tambourines, which makes the act absurd. She wraps the microphone lead around her neck. Dying on stage begins to take on new meaning.
There is something going on between her and the roadie, whose lack of interest feels passive-aggressive. He is as compulsively watchable as she is, even though she does everything and he appears to do nothing. The absence of a band makes her seem so alone. But the show will go on. She will hog the light, even when she is breaking down, and continue making a spectacle of herself because without the light she is nothing. She doesn't exist.
Frontman is the third part of an "accidental" trilogy from Action Hero's Gemma Pantin and James Stenhouse, preceded by two fabulous pieces: the cowboy inspired A Western and the Evel Knievel-influenced Watch Me Fall. Like those shows this dissects mythologies and the showman mentality; but, unlike those shows, it doesn't quite soar. It's entertaining, but it leaks energy, and the dynamic between star and roadie is under-investigated. It is a piece that's content to be an illustration of its themes, not a manifestation.