The North Wall, in theatre configuration, with the wraparound balconies and glittering disco ball, seemed almost built for a cabaret. The audience and staff were doubtless glad of the bench seating, but Camille O’Sullivan’s style and sound would have made perfect sense with table service and flappers hanging from the rafters. This was my first experience of the ‘Queen of the Fringe’, so it’s hard to know how much of the beautiful chaos was truly early-tour jitters, and how much was built-in to the plot of the show. Attempts at demure coolness were never on the cards as the stage was set with poodle- and cat-headed mannequins draped in potential costume changes. Amid the smoke and contrast of the limelight, and the sci-fi intro track, they could have been ominous and edgy, but once the opening gag of the night passes, it becomes clear the direction the evening is heading in.
O’Sullivan has an ocean in her throat. From the first bars, you are surrounded, with no land in sight. Over a decade of sellout Edinburgh shows indicates that it was ever thus. In this latest offering, though, Camille allows her crackedness to show, and in doing so, crafts a ship that she can share with the audience, letting us all ride the ripples and waves together.
She slowly eases us into the madness with a set of piano and gravel numbers, holding vibrato low notes like a more urgent Rufus Wainwright, but by the time ‘Act 2’ rolls around, she’s a hula-hooping Roger Daltrey, knocking over glasses and blabbering to the audience about life in a way that’s simultaneously otherworldly and accessible. Tributes to artists past are poignant, but the most haunting part of the piece is surely her rendition of “Munchausen” by Friedrich Hollander, a true lament penned as the last vestiges of Wiemar Berlin’s cabaret scene was tumbling down. It should be on the radio, daily, these days.
She’s ably accompanied by her long-suffering pianist pal Fergal, and the ease they both have with each other is one part of what makes this show hard to pin down. I can believe that last night was the unpolished beginnings of what will become an entirely different beast once it makes it to Scotland in the summer. I can believe that next year, she’ll look like the poster, and return to the North Wall a supremely confident, aloof songstress, as she kept promising. But I’m not sure I want that to happen. I much, much prefer the idea that this unvarnishedness is the point of the show, because it works so well. She needs no fixing. But, maybe a drinks table that’s not at hula height? When she speaks, she’s all of us. When she sings, she’s ethereal. Go get yourself some liminality.