Cabaret Whore: Review

‘What is cabaret without pain?’ implored the knife-wielding French diva 'La Poule Plombee', one of three characters portrayed in Sarah-Louise Young’s 'Cabaret Whore'. A fitting closing statement for a performance which parodied the conventions of the genre with style, if not substance. A cocktail of anecdotal storytelling, music and dance which at times borders on the burlesque, cabaret is enjoying something of a rennaissance in comedy circles. Before travelling to the Edinburgh Free Fringe, the Camden Head was treated to a preview performance.


A foul-mouthed redneck porn star, a snooty librarian who idolises Jordan and an embittered Piaf-a-like paraded their loneliness, regrets and traumas through jovial song, before collapsing in tears under the weight of their pains. Young has a powerful voice capable of carrying her character's idiosyncracies; but whilst you couldn't fault the ability or indeed the effort, there was a feeling that 'the show' sometimes overshadowed the humour. Attempts at audience participation were met with uncomfortable silence. Social observation wasn't as clever as it thought. Though pain was the central premise of Young's charicatures, it was far from a painful experience. More an amusing spectacle that promised much but failed to deliver where it really mattered.

First published in Camden Fringe Voyeur

Attempts to publish the unpublishable.

I took Imogen Thomas to an urban dance party, but it turned out to be a country barn dance #LYINGJIGS

Imogen Thomas and I went to buy a car from Sarah Palin's son. As far as this transaction goes, we're BUYING TRIG'S.

Imogen Thomas and I want to make a wood shack a la Ray Mears, so we're in the forest CARRYING TWIGS.

Imogen Thomas and I travelled back in time to the 19^th Century, and tried buying our way into Parliament. The Tories weren't keen, so we're BRIBING WHIGS.

Imogen Thomas usually eats ready meals from the co-op, but I think she should broaden her palette. So tonight, we're TRYING FIGS.

Driving past the slaughterhouse in an afternoon haze, Imogen Thomas suddenly shrieked “what's that awful noise?”. “That, my dear,” I replied, “is the sound of DYING PIGS”.

In an absurd alternate reality, Imogen Thomas witnessed a love story between two offshore oil platforms. I don't know where to begin explaining this, but it looks like she's MARRYING RIGS

Imogen Thomas was reading the compendium of Ancient South American archeology, entitled MAYAN DIGS.

Debating what colour apparel would be most suitable for her friend's baby, Imogen Thomas decided the child looked nicest in CYAN BIBS.

Imogen Thomas understood that MTV had pandered in recent months to the Jewish market, as she watched ZION CRIBS.

There's no accounting for taste, but Imogen Thomas had stayed up all night on Ebay bidding for tickets to those Celine DION GIGS.

Business at the costume shop that Imogen Thomas and I have been running in Soho seems to be going well but perhaps worryingly, we're selling a lot of ARYAN WIGS.

She'd dropped her smokes in the bath, and it was a whole week til her Giro- so Imogen Thomas found herself, somewhat pitifully, DRYING CIGS.

“It's not a question of freedom of speech,” Imogen Thomas began. “Rather that people shouldn't be interested in this stuff. It's banal” “Yes”, I sighed “...But you'll sooner see FLYING PIGS”