Review by Naomi Cardwell
Daves abound this Friday night, in a little downstairs pocket of the Butterfly Club’s rabbit warren of theatres. We’re assembled before a trapezoidal stage, seated on old Church pews in the narrow space next to a staircase. As the show unfolds, Dave Houston’s Still here becomes as special as Sunday services ought to be, if only Church could get over all the bullshit.
There are false starts and red herrings galore as the depression comedy unfolds around a performer who can’t bear to face his audience again. Scuffles frequently break out behind the curtains, and musical numbers are offered with plastic smiles and threadbare razzle-dazzle as Dave, out the back, whimpers that he can’t keep doing this.
Except, Still Here is a one-man show.
It’s at times unbearable, seeing the writer/performer shout at himself in the guise of a toxically masculine character to harden the fuck up and get on with the show. Or to see him proffer complex, multi-syllabic diagnoses as a pompous Freudian therapist he recalls from his twenties, a man he thanks weakly as he pays his $750 bill and sinks further into despair.
Sometimes, he says, all we need is someone to lie on the floor with us during the worst of it when we can’t get up.
It’s hard to criticise a piece that’s built around a performer’s agony over his flaws and insecurities. Sure, there are thin moments where I’d rather be almost anywhere else. In one memorable piece of slapstick, a toupeed character dances in a sequinned jacket with a cane - which he drops, taking out a microphone stand too as he tries to recover. As the lights glare down, and a solitary bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, he sheepishly offers a shuffling dance step into the gaping silence. I want to leap from my seat and hurl myself up the stairs to the bar to avoid the second-hand embarrassment. I get the feeling Dave knows this. I get the feeling that’s the point.
There are elements I’d like to see Houston take further. A hilarious anthem which gets the whole room singing along deserves a little more time and space. His chops on the electric guitar are good, but the sound setup is thin at times and needs more crunch and growl to punch through. The haunting, melancholy bits with the whammy bar are a highlight of the show, but with only Davo for a roadie, they inevitably take their toll on the guitar’s tuning.
On the other hand, a wall of amps and a stand full of sparkling stratocasters would spoil the show’s intimacy and canny humour. Bemoaning his budget for mullet wigs and substituting an esky for an alter, money is a frequent source of mirth for Houston, whose VCA education and easy allusions to Shakespeare, the Collingwood Magpies and the Greek tragedians reveal his fluency in the great Australian art of Irony. Houston is a master of the yarn, and the yarn must go on.
Most surprising is his ability to so quickly draw out his audience, developing a sense of safety and intimacy in the brief hour-long show. The arresting, anomalous experience of reaching out with Houston’s encouragement to touch a stranger’s hand feels revolutionary in this post-Covid context. During the very special ending - which I won’t spoil for you, because you should go and experience it for yourself - I find tears escaping despite my best efforts. I’m not the only one.
The bugger got to us, a commenter on his website declares, and they’re absolutely right. Poignant, unpretentious and uplifting, Still Here is a little show with a whole heap of heart. Do yourself a favour and catch it while it’s on.
Image Supplied