Gig review by Jay Richardson at the Usher Hall, Edinburgh

Over the course of its 100 years, Edinburgh's Usher Hall has memorably hosted appearances by the likes of The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Winston Churchill, Herbert Henry Asquith, Nye Bevan and the fascist leader Oswald Mosley, the latter at an event protested by almost 6,000 people.

So it has considerable history, as compere Arthur Smith gamely strove to impart at this Gilded Balloon-curated event for the venue's centenary celebrations, asking Stephen Frost to share local gig-goers' poetic remembrances of treasured concerts and Mick Jagger's crotch.

Quite what the over-excited young ladies here for a rare live appearance by Greg McHugh as Gary: Tank Commander made of these yesteryear mentions is open to conjecture, though there were shades of Stones-worship for his self-introduction as 'Gurrry', the camp shifting of weight from one foot to another and the desire for his beloved 'cheesy pasta'.

Interestingly, the cheerful squaddie's entertainingly idiosyncratic appreciation of geo-political events, reflecting on US incitement of China as an invitation for a 'square go' and calling out Vladimir Putin as a 'pure radge', afforded a topicality to the night that was otherwise largely absent.

The absence of Doon Mackichan due to filming commitments was also a shame, because it left the show dominated by a bill of older white men, irrespective of the fact that they are all established Edinburgh Fringe fixtures.

Phill Juptitus put it best when he joked about sitting backstage in 'death's waiting room', noting that any show featuring Barry Cryer has a 'will-he-won't he' survive frisson. Yet it was the warmly engaging Smith who set the tone, lolloping on in his guise of Leonard Cohen for a delightfully crumpled rendition of I'm Your Man, extolling the virtues of Radio 4 and sharing some of the hoariest doctor gags ever told.

Cryer and his long-time musical collaborator, Ronnie Golden, proved arguably the slow-burn hit of the night, the former's own tried and tested lines about his advancing years only improved by their creakiness, while the pair's Zimmer Frame Blues maintained commendable commitment to one recurring gag in particular.

Given the pair's self-mocking stage presence, it's easy to overlook the extent of Golden's talent. Cryer's translation of his friend's tragic ballad, howled in Spanish was beat-perfect, right through to the punned final punchline. Yet it chiefly stood out for Golden's shrieking high notes. Later on, their tremendous encore to the night rewarded all who remained long enough to realise it wasn't just a pat plea for understanding the aged.

Jupitus also craved indulgence for his years. As a 52-year-old man, he struggles to deal with a lesbian daughter sharing his appreciation of attractive actresses and his other daughter losing her virginity to her long-term boyfriend under his roof, albeit with his begrudging consent.

Ably and amusingly conveying the mixed emotions of a right-on parent empathising with horny teenagers yet horrified to find himself related to one, it went down considerably better than his routine about Welsh porn star Sophie Dee.

Notwithstanding that the honesty of his masturbatory habits perceptibly discomforted some in the room, it shared with his fantasy of Ian Paisley's bedroom activities a mixture of smut and crowd-pleasing caricature that felt hack. Regardless, his poet's heart beat strong enough to acknowledge the occasion by finishing on a heartfelt rendition of Robert Burns's Ae Fond Kiss.

After Smith shared his reservations about over-enthusiastic Americans, Rich Hall emerged, out of character, as precisely that. But it was a charade that the gruffly sardonic comic could sustain for only 30 seconds.

Interrogating couples in the front rows, he retains some wonderfully cynical ideas on dating and marriage that he improvises effortlessly around, culminating in a hilarious love song, The Rose of Hawick, dedicated to those women from Scottish towns with single syllable, guttural or wretchedly misleading Gaelic spellings that resist easy rhyming.

Apart from the joy in hearing the grumbling Hall curse and twist his tongue around ever more elaborate imagery of his own self-devising, there's a real sweetness to the tune, conveying the idea that love overcomes all obstacles.

Elsewhere, his evisceration of Brits caught unawares by the horsemeat lasagne scandal is a masterclass in building to an incredulous head of steam and sarcasm, justifying him defrosting the routine after so long. Likewise, the notion that you could keep homosexuality out of the Winter Olympics was dispatched with a barked economy and cantankerous finality.

Ending the first half, indie folk-rockers Withered Hand were eager to stress they weren't a comedy act, despite dedicating a song to Charlie Chaplin and singer Dan Willson revealing that his weedy spoken voice is no affection.

Still, the shy, unassuming frontman got significant laughs from the incongruity of his soft vocal on the acoustic number Cornflake with the lyric 'I'll do anything to get my dick inside her'.

Post-interval, McHugh appeared in civvies to the music of Usher, chicken-necking to the beat as Corporal Gary McLintoch in what he confusedly imagined was a tribute to the venue's founder.

In between the perversity of Gary's ill-thought out folk wisdom are pearls of insight into such phenomenon as Greggs the bakers and the second Gulf War starting because of Saddam Hussein insulting George W. Bush's dad.

Little short of a local hero and fully realised as a character, slickly fielding the adulation from the crowd, Gary seems bulletproof to the accusation that an idiot soldier wouldn't have any occasion addressing such an audience.

In this era of reality shows, such a larger-than-life character, thoughts tumbling out of his mouth at a steady clip, makes absolute sense – he'd feel perfectly entitled to his moment in the spotlight.

Besides, there's something satirically arch in hearing a working-class class type, voiceless in much of the media, reveal he was delighted by postings in Iraq and Afghanistan rather than Colchester because of the superior tan he's acquired.

Apparently sharing every single thought in his head, the set possibly went on too long. But not before McHugh flirted with breaking character, revealing himself as a chippy Scot. Touching on BBC Three's current woes, he played to the gallery by suggesting that Bluestone 42, its current soldier comedy enjoying significantly more promotion on the channel, is 'a pile of shite' which they should have sought his advice on. And that the floods in the south of England are probably God's way of telling the English to 'tone down the attitude a bit'.

Dylan Moran also gave short thrift to the English. Or at least the threats of the 'No' campaign against Scottish independence, with blustering predictions of withheld biscuits. Yet he feels the same about Alex Salmond and his food-based menaces. And in truth, it's the news and by extension, the whole world, that the Irishman perceives as the real enemy.

Any Moran set has the appearance of being a wild, cascading litany of bellowed ideas, plucked from the wine-soaked recesses of his lyrical brain. Yet returning to stand-up for the first time in several months, this was even more haphazard than usual.

He can elicit huge laughs simply by telling Game of Thrones' fantasy characters to fuck off and get a job, aware of his own status as someone whose sole experience of an office is Hollywood-informed imaginings of barking clichés at hypothetical co-workers.

Several of his work-in-progress routines didn't really cohere but the stumbling journey up the garden path or cul-de-sac was invariably enjoyable enough. When he did rely on established material, such as his deranged Fifty Shades of Grey sequel, the sheer inventiveness of the imagery, deceptively precise wordplay and the blurted delivery, lifted it way beyond most male, middle-aged comics approaches to the S & M bestseller.

Similarly, the cunning way in which he finds a way to be conservative about gay marriage and yet retain the audience's approval is a lovely leap of imagination.

Review date: 8 Mar 2014
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett