Review

Through their heckles will you know them. So the festival-goer who challenged Stephen K Amos’s routine about the dangerous mercury in his fillings couldn’t have summed up the erudite atmosphere of Latitude better, when he piped up: ‘It’s only poisonous in ionic form.’ You don’t get many heckles based on molecular chemistry at Portsmouth Jongleurs.

Latitude is the festival you get when you do everything right. It’s a manageable size, in a glorious wooded location around a picturesque lake, and everything from the good cheer of the security staff to the zeal to recycle everything – leading to a near litter-free site – makes the whole experience a joy, A better class of festival attracts a better class of punter, too; there may be a touch of Guardianista smugness to it all, but that’s a small price to pray for the very low drunken twat index.

Compared to the Glastonbury behemoth, capacity, and therefore income, is limited, so there’s not the huge emphasis on big, expensive bands, leading to a more diverse artistic line-up. Healthy crowds of the curious throng around poetry, literature, theatre and cabaret tents as keenly as they do around obscure bands.

Comedy’s one of the biggest draws; with a massive tent that’s packed for most the day, starting at 11am with Marcus Brigstocke and Andre Vincent’s Early Edition. Even thought the marquee holds 800 people or more, it’s still not big enough, and scores more watch it on two giant screens outside, weather permitting.

In keeping with the feel of the entire weekends, the crowds are docile and appreciative. Matt Kirshen is given the, erm, latitude to embark on a slow-paced yarn about misadventures on a teenage backpacking trip to France that’s more storytelling than comedy, and the audience stick with him. ‘You’re so fucking sweet, thank you for letting me get through that,’ he acknowledges at the end, before rewarding the patience with a couple of smart, provocative one-liners as a closer.

Compere Dan Atkinson is largely ignored, which is the audience’s loss since he combines an off-kilter wit with his crowd-control skills. But the gaps between the acts involve so much movement in and out of the tent, that his job is merely to keep talking until the crowd is reset and refocused; and drum up interest street-entertainer style after the half-hour breaks after every two or three acts.

It’s a strong line-up, too, mostly comprising acts who could fill a mid-sized theatre on the strength of their own name. The aforementioned Amos showcased a greatest hits compilation, largely concerning racist things that have been said to him, from ignorant Australian radio hosts to those in line to the throne. He singled out a poor teenager called Tom to serenade with Seventies advertising jingles; bemusing to the youngster but offering a warm-hearted nostalgia trip for the older generation. Amos ended his set, as his his wont, with a homily about laughter brining us all together – more than a touch trite, but yielding an appreciative applause break. Told you they were a nice crowd here.

After a break that unfortunately decimated the audience, Zoe Lyons continued to appeal to middle-class sensibilities, with observational shtick about British politeness or the indignities of flying Ryanair. There are some good jokes here, and she’s a likeable, upbeat deliverer of them, even if the comedy vocabulary she uses is often familiar.

More greatest hits from Phil Nichol, whose manically high-wattage parody of dumb American rednecks, achieved by pulling his T-shirt over his head and abandoning all decorum, went down a storm. It’s not just intellectually vigorous comedy and sharp political insight this crowd want – enthusiastic no-brain clowning is warmly received, too. Nichol put so much energy into his performance he snapped a guitar string and almost destroyed the jack socket; but it was all in a good cause. And that was well before he got to his ever-popular showstopper about a solitary homosexual Innuit.

A change of pace, if not of seriousness, for Tim Vine who battered the audience with his usual unstoppable onslaught of wordplay. Like sushi, one gag alone might not fill you up – but they are all exquisitely crafted, and the cumulative effect certainly leaves you satisfied. He mixed gags old and new from his gargantuan repertoire, even if his cheesy enthusiasm seemed more subdued than normal, not helped by the temperamental radio mic swallowing some of his punchlines – perhaps suffering from the abuses Nichol had subjected it to. Some of Vine’s gags are universally brilliant, while others just appeal to the tastes of peculiar sections of the audience. But there’s always someone laughing, that’s a guarantee.

Robin Ince is perhaps the quintessential Latitude act, with his mixture of enlightenment, pedantry, rationality, intelligence and liberal tolerance of everything, except, of course, the irrational and intolerant. He combined all these in a scattergun set, strangely fixated with Natasha Kaplinsky, in which almost every sentence could have been prefaced by an resigned but angry: ‘And another thing…’ He should probably stop reading the conservative press – it does seem to anger him so.

Headliner Mark Thomas produced an almost full-length version of his current show, which seeks to put together a manifesto from the ideas of his audiences. Campaigns already launched include introducing a maximum wage, invading Jersey, reintroducing the death penalty – but only for anyone who has called for it – and producing a league table of MPs. ‘That will happen,’ he says of the last point, with a conviction that draws a rousing ovation. Unlike the actual politicians, he seems determined to get at least some things done, and he has no lack of drive to do so even if the suggestion of Latitude-goer Bridget, nine, might be harder to pull of: make clothes out of cheese. Even the adults’ ideas mixed the sublime and the ridiculous, but Thomas is a perfect conduit for passion, and by the end of the extended set he could surely have led us to revolution – had it not been time to see Squeeze in the next tent.

The comedy arena winds up around 7.30pm – to make way for a Guilty Pleasures disco later at night – but there’s plenty more wit to be devoured if you wander the site after dark, flitting from tent to tent: Pappy’s Fun Club rattling through their childish sketch, a trio of chanteuses singing Specials songs in the manner of Forties do-wop; Robin Ince hosting a book club in which musicians led by Robyn Hancock attempted to improvise an opus based on bad horror literature, with mixed results; PVC-clad sword swallower Miss Behave; Gary Le Strange delivering a baffling surreal, and frankly unfunny, new age track about maggots; a witty New York beat poet.

Quirky diversity is the order of the night, and that’s just what the Latitude massive ordered.

DAY TWO
Bruce Dessau

It seems as if you can't have a comedy show without a competition these days, and the Latitude Festival is no different. This year they launched their very own new act contest, which must win a prize for the earliest comedy competition in the world. The contestants all deserved gongs just for turning up to an 11am gig, never mind getting the already full tent to laugh.

And like most stand-up competitions the quality was consistently high. Talent show regulars Imran Yusuf and Doc Brown were strong contenders but were beaten to the first two places by Joe Lycett, whose slightly off-kilter student persona worked well with the brainy crowd and earned him second place. Paul McCaffrey clearly deserved first prize. There was nothing stunningly original about his observational material about allergies and cash machines, but he has charm, charisma and success written all over him.

As the comedy proper kicked off I was caught in one of the weekend's frequent downpours and took shelter in the cabaret tent. A good decision as I made a discovery. New Art Club must be the first act to mix contemporary dance with knockabout double-act banter. Imagine Morecambe and Wise at Sadler’s Wells. Their show, This Is Now, complete with Duran Duran/Heaven 17 soundtrack, is Edinburgh-bound and well worth a punt, particularly for anyone who grew up on a diet of Eighties pop. 

Back at the comedy tent, the bearded Sean Hughes pitched up. The former Perrier winner has reached a delicate junction in his career. How to avoid being a grumpy old man like most other fortysomething stand-ups, when frustration has always been his default setting? His routines about giving up smoking, masturbation and his perennial bachelor status were all finely honed. He may look a little paunchy these days but his material was perfectly lean.

If Hughes didn't always hit home that might have been due to the distraction of the music from another nearby stage. Next year's challenge for the promoters is sorting out the problem of listening to delicately crafted stories while a sub-grunge band mashes up your eardrums. 

And now the really bad news. The most eagerly anticipated set of the day – for me anyway – was spiky US satirist Janeane Garofalo, a cult icon from her appearances as the sulky, sarcastic booker on The Larry Sanders Show. Garofalo came onstage a little early and did a couple of hack Brit-pleasing gags about HobNob biscuits and Dr Who which fell fairly flat. By the time I'd got to my patch of grass she had done a couple of gags about CSI which had died a death too. ‘Do you get CSI here?’ she asked. Yes we do, but gags about setting it somewhere unlikely like Suffolk are positively old hat. 

By the time I'd got my notebook out Garofalo was telling the audience that it wasn't working and she might as well leave the stage. Then one of the funniest, most painful things I've ever seen happened. Someone from the side of the stage said she had to stay on – apparently compere Carl Donnelly was still in the toilet. There then followed an excruciating two minutes when Garofalo did the old ‘isn't it absurd that they have a 'have you ever been in the Nazi Party?' question on immigration forms’  routine before quitting. I don't know what it is about American female stand-ups, but Garofalo’s ten-minute turn made Sarah Silverman's legendary 40-minute Hammersmith set seem like a gig of epic proportions. 

After this, Ed Byrne's breezy, extended stand-up turn was a breath of fresh air and things soon got back on course. John Gordillo delivered a persuasive set which was, by his own admission, therapy for him as much as stand-up for us. He spent a good chunk of his allotted time moaning about his girlfriend's surly teenage daughter, which was lost of the twentysomethings, but very funny for anyone with teenagers – and there were a heck of a lot of parents like that at Latitude.

Dave Gorman's upbeat stand-up also slipped down nicely. Another routine that touched a middle-class nerve was his anecdote about silencing a disaffected youth on a tube train, which got the biggest roar of ‘we've all wanted to do that’ support of the Latitude weekend. 

Of, as Russell Kane put it, ‘Latte-tude’. His quickfire routine in front of the Fairtrade coffee-drinking masses was simply terrific. He is a little too obsessed about class and his racist right-wing dad and sweary nan, but he riffs and rattles on so well I could listen to him all day. He has a great way with language, describing the way that the British primp and preen themselves as ‘dressage’. It was a tribute to his skill that the laughs almost drowned out the raucous racket of White Lies coming from the nearby music stage.

The Comedy Tent closed with an Adam Hills set. Well, I call it a set, but he had only done a couple of gags when he saw two giant pink poodles on each side of the stage and ripped his script up. Instead he got a couple of kids to ride the props before deciding to crowdsurf them to the back of the tent and back. He wanted to do it to the kids too, but the security guys stopped him for health and safety reasons. They probably had a point – one of the poodles split in two in the manic process. 

If last year's comedy highlight here was Ross Noble's mass conga to the vegetarian sausage stall, this ran it a close second. It was a little bit Butlins, a little bit Ibiza rave, but after the downer of Garofalo it was just what the audience wanted. And then they got more. Hills himself was crowd-surfed from the stage to the back and back again. Not quite being carried around the room like a god, but maybe the comedy equivalent. Brilliantly stupid stuff and an unforgettable climax to a day that – after the Garofalo debacle – threatened to be unforgettable for very different reasons.

DAY THREE
Bruce Dessau

After the incredible highs and equally incredible lows of Saturday's show, Sunday in the comedy tent was always going to find it hard to compete – even though the line-up had fared well so far, considering it boasted no superstar names like Ross Noble, Russell Howard, Bill Bailey or Dylan Moran, as it had in the past.

In fact talking of being frank, I headed to the literary tent to get my first comedy hit of the day, listening to Frank Skinner discussing his recent book and anything else that grabbed his fancy, including Thom Yorke, whose acoustic whining could be heard during occasional lulls in the laughter. Skinner did a great Yorke impression. At times it sounded more like whale song, but I think that was the idea.

It was a shame Skinner did not do a full stand-up set, but in this seated conversational incarnation he was well worth a listen, as he admitted that he had returned to stand-up because a) he loves it b) the TV work had dried up and c) his millions were in an Icelandic bank. He is a natural storyteller and while most of his stories were about sex and not necessarily suitable for Sunday lunchtime, he was essential listening.

The children in the audience certainly got an education about non-stop one-night stands with groupies in the old days. Although as Skinner admitted, compared to Russell Brand he was a positive gent. Brand asks for volunteers for threesomes at his gigs, Skinner didn't: ‘Although I might have asked for help if I was stuck in the mud.

By a frustrating piece of scheduling bad luck, Skinner overlapped with Sean Lock in the comedy tent. Lock is a sublime clown who has made it big by a combination of stealth, dogged persistence and appearances on endless panel shows. Catching his tail-end here he was particularly good on Sachsgate, suggesting that the BBC should have made their complaints line a premium rate number. Also on his television rant he asked why it was only chefs who were allowed to swear. You never get Kevin McCloud on Grand Designs using expletives when the roofers are running late.

Torrential rain made more of an impact than some of the comedians after Lock, but things picked up with a bedraggled Glenn Wool raging about the credit crunch. A potentially tired topic perhaps, but he put so much anger into it that it felt fresh again as he berated people for treating bankers differently to criminals just because they wear suits.

A couple of years ago at Latitude Michael McIntyre was the rising star down the bill. This year that spot went to Jon Richardson. The moody, prematurely grumpy stand-up somehow succeeds in hitting a wonderfully distinctive note, even though all he does is moan. About trains, passengers on trains, the cost of things and humanity in general. Maybe the reason it works is because with Richardson it really feels true. When he says his ideal first date would be watching a DVD at home so that if it doesn't work out he hasn't wasted much money you truly believe he means it. One thing worries me though. If he is this cheesed off in his twenties heaven help us – and him – when he hits his forties. 

I'd heard very good things about American Tom Stade earlier this year but could not quite see what the fuss was about. He is technically great, verbally muscular and efficiently angry, but it takes more than a lot of expletive-packed, bile-filled shouting about shopping to make a great stand-up. And like a lot of comedians over the weekend there was a little too much about the problems of keeping romance alive in a relationship. Maybe if he'd been on during Friday afternoon this would have felt laser-sharp, but by Sunday night it felt a little blunt. Maybe it was more my fault than his. 

Likewise headliner Jo Brand lost marks for trotting out material about Trinny and Susannah and Ann Widdecombe that simply felt too familiar. If you've never seen Brand before though, her self-mocking and feckless-hubby-mocking shtick is very effective. She can certainly deliver a gag with plenty of deadpan panache, even when you can see the punchlines coming a mile off.

It was an unexpectedly short closing set though and some of it was frittered away when Brand tried to get the audience to sit, not realising that just before she had come on hard-working compere Charlie Baker has got everyone to stand to make room for more people in the tent. It was a slightly downbeat finish to he comedy tent though. If only she had emulated Adam Hills and crowd-surfed to the back of the tent, that would have left the audience with some phenomenal memories. And maybe a few hernias.

• Bruce Dessau is the comedy critic for the London Evening Standard; Steve Bennett is editor of Chortle

Published: 19 Jul 2009