Duvel Montgage + Russell Walker + Rebecca Mahay +Jackie Montague
The thing about the Bohmans is that there is usually the backbone of meaning to their performance, albeit a meaning that is purposely impenetrable.
Fans of John Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13 will no doubt recall how Lieutenant Ethan Bishop, led a skeleton crew, holed up in the basement, as the Street Thunder gang marauded outside. I can say with confidence that attendees of the Wild Paths Festival meant us no harm, but sandwiched between the pop-up venues of St Lawrence's Church and the Bicycle Shop, it did feel - should you have dared to venture out in the milling crowds - that the Holloway was under a benevolent siege. I was surprised that the Holloway wasn't part of the festivities, but on reflection the venue has, since its inception, remained furiously independent, hosting all manner of weird and wonderful events that wouldn't fit in anywhere else. It doesn't get nearly enough attention, or credit, for its brave programming - not least, I'll admit shame-faced, from Outline. The city's cultural tapestry would be immeasurably poorer in its absence and it's, frankly, a little miracle it's been able to plough its own furrow.
A case in point is an evening spent in the company of the Bohman Brothers and their pals, offering up an oasis of eccentric individuality. The first leg of a mini East Anglian tour - more about its triangulation later - they were joined on this occasion by Sophie Sleigh-Johnson, the trio trading under the name Duvel Mortgage. Before we got that far, however, we were treated to a selection of poems from Ipswich based Jackie Montague. I say poems, for want of a better word, but the labyrinthine linguistic journey she took her listeners on was more an exploration of ideas. Monologue doesn't really do the experience justice either, and nor does storytelling. If I say that her set included the revelatory emotional core of the theme music to Neighbours and the dark subtext of Middle of the Road's Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep (both sung with unapologetic gusto) you'll perhaps get a sense of her cultural references. Much of what followed was also best appreciated by those of us who are of an age. Hattie Jaques, Joan Simms, Mind Your Language and It Ain't Half Hot Mum all got a nod. After Playaway I gave up counting and just sat back and enjoyed a genuinely unique performer, picturing that Lancaster bomber flying over the seaside in its uniquely special way.
Russell Walker & Rebecca Mahay offered up what was in many ways the most elusive set of the evening. Walker performed a largely uninterrupted monologue, seemingly culled from disparate sheaves of paper, his lips pressed close to the microphone as he mordantly pronounced. Mahay would only occasionally interject, be that with bell, recorder or words of her own. All the while, the disquieting rumble of other voices seeped into the consciousness of the listener (audience doesn't seem quite the right word), questioning what was said, and why. I confess I ended up in something akin to a dreamstate, as all conventional notions of narrative trajectory slipped away. I'm guessing that perhaps that was exactly their intention.
The evening closed with a tabletop presentation from Duvel Mortgage. Having seen the Bohman Brothers collaborate with various like minded souls, I would say this is the closest to hardcore Bohman with added special guest. So what does that amount to? The thing about the Bohmans is that there is usually the backbone of meaning to their performance, albeit a meaning that is purposely impenetrable. This is partly a game they play - they're not above self aware impish fun, but also it's about a performance buttressed by ground rules and structure. If it really was disconnected nonsense it wouldn't work.
By conforming to rules and regulations, albeit hidden from the audience, the show is kept on the road and in a direction that perhaps even the audience subconsciously detect. On this occasion, the matter in hand was triangulation - a series of meta-shows about the shows. At the centre of the three venues in question - in a literal geographical sense - is Brome (pronounced Broom, as Jonathan was quick to point out), a map having been produced should proof be needed. Quite why this mattered was unclear. The three of them talked distractedly, speaking words without meaning, as the theme (the equivalent of the Eastender drumroll) of a '70s TV show cut across the babble. Coathangers were caressed, coats were changed, and six trees are involved. Anglia TV popped up, as did M.R. James, name dropped from a great height.
It's something to do with Thriller, I say afterwards, rather pleased with myself. But which episode, replies Jonathan, deflating my balloon. Well, I'm now plumping for "Won't Write Home Mom, I'm Dead", but for all I know Oliver Tobias was a misdirect.
Because you never quite know where you are with these slippery fellows. When Jonathan plugs Adam in and tells him to repeat everything he hears, was this a genuine tech assist, or stage craft? Was Sophie's words drowned out by the other two a statement on masculine toxicity, or was her microphone not working? Who was on the phone and what did the oven gloves mean?
Perhaps the biggest question of all is whether we want the answer to any of these questions - I think that might be akin to peeping behind the wizard's curtain.
