Review by Steve Bennett

Carey Marx is impotent.

Comedically speaking, at least. He’s been offering up ideas to change the world for a decade or so, but, he admits: ‘No one is really listening to me.’

He can’t even get the audience he deserves – this was a particularly lairy weekend crowd, with a bunch of lads in the front row letting rip with a Pavlovian ‘way-hey!’ when Marx says, with no intention of double entendre: ‘My wife came into the bedroom.’ Never mind the clever theories and smart punchlines, with which Marx is well-endowed, comedy is merely saying the word ‘come’, apparently.

It certainly made for an odd dynamic. Much of Marx’s material is aimed at exploding some hack comedy myths: how crap in bed must you be to not be able to find a clitoris, for example. Only problem is, our laddy lads clap the tired myths as if it was comedy gold, not interested in the deconstruction. But after something of an awkward battle of wills, Marx pulled the gig back to his agenda; those years served on the circuit coal-face doing him proud.

Once he was finally allowed to deliver his intended material, Marx demonstrated his usual flair for giving uncomfortable subjects a cheeky twist. He can be quite brutal, in a darkly comic Quentin Tarantino kind of way, as his routine on ‘rabbi rape’ clearly proves. But generally the tone is playful – whether it’s on testicles floating in the bath or , erm, slapping women. Not acceptable, but surprisingly playful.

Fat people come in for some particular stick; he hates the way they seem to stop dead in the street, and the anecdote about a fat schoolgirl on a bus is hilarious – and far from the usual complaints about tinny mobile phone music.

There’s no astounding high concept to this show, just a few themes to link otherwise disparate chunks of stand-up. But he’s a bright operator, with a smart – even smartarse – flair to much of his writing that guarantees a solid cascade of laughs.

Review date: 14 Aug 2011
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett