The Carole King and James Taylor Story is a joyous ride through music and friendship.
Hannah Richards sings Carole King with warmth and clarity. Will Sharp brings calm, soulful energy as James Taylor. Their voices blend but stay true to their characters. The song choices are inspired. King’s “I Feel the Earth Move,” “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” and “You’ve Got a Friend” sit perfectly alongside Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” and “Sweet Baby James.” Each one is introduced with a story or an image, so you feel the life behind the lyric. The slide projector adds to this, showing moments from their journeys that make the songs hit even harder.
The audience can’t help but join in. There’s clapping, humming, singing. The atmosphere is easy and warm, more like a gathering than a concert. It isn’t just a set list—it’s a journey through memory and melody. You leave with a smile, a heart full of joy, and one of those timeless songs echoing in your head. This is a must-see at the Fringe.
RadioOctave’s A Cappella: Around the World at theSpace @ Surgeons’ Hall is a high-flying treat. A large group of young singers burst into song with energy you can’t ignore. Their smiles are wide, their harmony tight, and the stage feels electric. They move, they sway, they act—it’s more than a singing show, it’s a journey.
The songs span the globe. You land gently in touching ballads, then jet off into bold, modern anthems. The mix stretches across ages and styles. There’s something for everyone. And the choreography? It’s not flashy, but it keeps your eyes busy and your heart happy.
Fifty-five minutes slip by too fast. If you’ve got the time, this is the show that makes you feel lighter. You walk out humming and grinning.
Caledonia is a warm rush of Scottish air. theSpace @ Surgeons’ Hall suits it. The room feels close. The music fills it. Elsa Jean McTaggart is mesmerising. She sings with poise. She moves between violin and pipes with ease. It’s beautiful to hear and to watch. Gary Lister’s vocals blend well. His playing gives the songs weight and swing. You feel the ceilidh spirit in the room. Old tunes meet fresh arrangements. Stories stitch it all together. Footage of the islands deepens the mood. You can almost smell the peat smoke.
This is folk as living culture, not museum piece. The set is tight. The pace is kind. You leave lighter, and a little prouder of Scotland’s songbook. Forty-five minutes pass in a blink.
The Rise of the Eagles is one of those shows that sneaks up on you and leaves you richer for the experience. I went in knowing the music, of course, and the band’s reputation for partying hard, but not much more than that. At the end, I felt I had travelled with them, understood a little of their story, and seen why they remain such an enduring presence in rock.
Alex Beharrell and the Night Owl Band
The Night Owl Band bring enormous respect to the material. Their playing is tight, their harmonies strong, and there’s a real work ethic behind what they do. Nothing is casual here, and that professionalism shines through every note. They balance storytelling with performance so that the songs are not just strung together but woven into the arc of The Eagles’ rise.
Alex Beharrell takes on the central male vocals with confidence and range. His voice has that slightly raw edge which suits the material perfectly, but he can also find the softer notes when the song calls for it. He doesn’t try to copy Don Henley or Glenn Frey. Instead, he makes the songs his own, while still keeping them recognisable. He also proves himself an excellent guitarist, handling the intricate leads and rhythm parts with ease. His playing drives the songs forward, sometimes soaring, sometimes understated, but always spot on. At one point I leaned over to a friend and whispered, “that white guy can play guitar,” and I meant it.
A highlight for me was Sara Leane’s performance of Desperado. It was delivered with a clarity and emotional weight that gave the song fresh life. Her voice carried the sadness and yearning at the heart of it, and it was one of those moments where the whole audience seemed to pause and lean in. The band supported her beautifully, letting the song breathe.
Sara Leane sings Desperado
Another standout was the harmony performance Seven Bridges Road, with its Southern mysticism. It caught the room in a moment of stillness. The blend of voices was tight and resonant, and the emotional pull of the song came through clearly. It was one of those rare moments where the audience seemed to hold its breath.
The song itself has a history worth knowing. It was written by Steve Young in 1969, inspired by a real road in Montgomery, Alabama — a winding stretch with seven bridges and moss-draped trees that felt almost otherworldly. The Eagles recorded their version in 1980 for their Eagles Live album, turning it into a showcase for their signature five-part harmonies. They often used it to open their concerts, and you can see why. The lyrics — “There are stars in the southern sky / Southward as you go / There is moonlight and moss in the trees / Down the Seven Bridges Road” — evoke a kind of longing that’s hard to shake.
What struck me most was how much more I came to appreciate the craft and complexity behind The Eagles’ music. The arrangements, the interplay of voices and instruments, and the sense of striving for something beyond the ordinary. I also began to realise just how many different styles and genres The Eagles could master — from country rock and folk ballads to full-throttle guitar-driven anthems. They didn’t just dabble; they owned each sound with conviction.
This wasn’t just a trip down memory lane. It was an education in what made the band great and a reminder of why the music endures. The show has the polish of a tribute but the spirit of something deeper. It leaves you with a renewed respect for the songs, for the musicianship of those performing them, and for the legacy of The Eagles themselves. It’s a fine piece of work, and The Night Owl team deserve all the credit for making it feel both fresh and true.
Hebridean Fire is a show that carries you away to the Outer Hebrides. Elsa Jean McTaggart shines brightly on stage with a presence that is both warm and commanding. Her voice is strong and expressive, and she moves easily between guitar, mandolin, fiddle, melodeon and whistle. Each instrument seems like an extension of her. Gary Lister adds depth and rhythm on piano, accordion synth, bass and stomp. Together they create music that is rich, layered and full of life.
The audience are treated to reels, jigs, Gaelic songs and tunes that stretch back through the generations. There are also songs born of more recent times. The mix of past and present feels seamless. Stories about their cottage on the Isle of Lewis add to the atmosphere, grounding the music in real lives and places. Images projected on screen show the landscapes that shaped these sounds. It all combines to create a powerful sense of place.
The show is informal and intimate, but it is also polished. Elsa commands attention through her voice and gestures. It is difficult to take your eyes off her. She can lift the energy of the room with a fast reel, or hush it with a haunting Gaelic melody. Gary balances her perfectly, steady and playful, a partner in both music and life. The effect is joyful and deeply moving.
This is a reminder of roots, of choices and of the power of tradition carried forward. The duo offer a glimpse of a living culture, one that feels immediate and personal. At times it feels like being in a village hall on Lewis, at other times it feels ready for a Las Vegas stage. Elsa has the presence of a one-of-a-kind superstar, and this show makes that clear.
The show 1966 at the Edinburgh Fringe captures more than a year; it captures a mood. This was the summer when England won the World Cup, The Beatles were spinning on the wireless, and a sense of possibility seemed to hang in the air. The production draws us into that world through a group of teenagers whose friendships and frustrations feel instantly recognisable, even across the decades. It is not a dry history lesson but a living memory, refracted through music, humour, and character.
The musical choices give the play much of its force. “Sunny Afternoon” by The Kinks brings with it a feeling of lazy decline while “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” adds tenderness and doubt. What makes the renditions memorable is that the cast play lightly with the words, adjusting them to fit the unfolding story. These small variations are witty and revealing, giving the songs a freshness that made the audience laugh and nod in recognition. Timothy’s version of “Only The Lonely” was a nicely judged moment, sung with feeling and restraint, adding a reflective note to the performance.
The young cast as a whole were impressive. Each performer combined solid acting ability with strong vocals, and together they created a believable sense of camaraderie. Yet within the laughter and music, there were serious undercurrents. Several of the female characters spoke of feeling trapped in East London, dreaming of a way out. Nearly all of them voiced a frustration that men didn’t take their ambitions seriously, brushing aside their hopes with a shrug. These themes of gender and class, woven into the banter and the songs, gave the show weight beneath its surface sparkle. Terry, playing the part of a cheeky cockney geezer, provided comic relief—his timing was excellent, and he showed a natural flair for comedy that kept the audience engaged.
By the end, I felt I’d been immersed not only in the joy of a legendary year but in its contradictions too: the optimism of youth set against the limits of social expectation. 1966 succeeds because it entertains and makes you think, reminding us that the past was never as simple as the golden glow of nostalgia suggests.
The Elton John Story is another triumph from the Night Owl stable, a show that manages to combine top-class musicianship with warmth and fun. Angus Munro and the Night Owl Band don’t attempt to impersonate Elton (although I was pleased to see some sequins and glasses!) —what they do instead is far more effective. They let the songs speak for themselves, and in doing so, they remind us why Elton John is one of the greats.
From the opening number, the audience is swept along by a setlist that covers both the barnstorming anthems and the tender ballads. For me, there was a personal moment of joy when the band launched into Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. That album was my entry point into Elton’s world (though not on it’s release in 1973!), and the title track remains one of my favourite songs. Hearing it live here, handled with such respect and energy, felt like coming full circle.
The show doesn’t shy away from telling the story behind the songs either, and rightly gives space to Elton’s long-time songwriting partner, Bernie Taupin. Their partnership is one of the most remarkable in music. Bernie’s words and Elton’s melodies have been fused together for over half a century, producing classics like Rocket Man, Your Song, and Tiny Dancer. It’s a reminder that even the brightest star doesn’t shine alone—behind Elton’s showmanship has always been Bernie’s lyrical craft.
Angus Munro fronts the band with a mixture of power and charisma, his vocals soaring where they need to and softening at just the right moments. His piano playing gives the performance its heartbeat, and the Night Owl Band back him with energy and precision. There is plenty of humour in the delivery too—this is not a show weighed down with solemnity, but a celebration that often feels like a shared party.
One of the things I noticed as the show drew towards its finale was the atmosphere in the room. People were itching to dance—you could feel it. But British reserve, that old restraint, held most of us back. I’ll admit, I was tempted to start it off myself. Maybe next time I’ll be the one to break the ice, because I’m certain once one person gets up, the whole place will follow. A nudge from the stage might help too. After all, this is music meant to move us, body as well as soul.
The storytelling thread in the show also touches on Elton’s charity work, particularly the Elton John AIDS Foundation. It’s to the credit of the performers that this part is included. Elton’s legacy isn’t only measured in record sales and sold-out stadiums, but also in the lives he has touched and changed through his philanthropy. The Foundation has raised hundreds of millions to fight AIDS worldwide, a cause Elton has championed with tireless energy. That side of his story deserves just as much applause as his music, and I respect him greatly for it.
In the end, The Elton John Story works because it doesn’t treat the songs as relics of nostalgia but as living, breathing works that still connect. The audience laughed, sang along, and for a moment or two you could feel the whole room leaning forward, carried by the force of the music. It’s the kind of show that leaves you humming on the way out and smiling for hours afterwards.
Elton John once said that “music has healing power.” This show proves the point. It’s not an imitation—it’s a celebration. Next time, I’ll be ready to start the dancing.
This is a smart, heartfelt hour that does more than run through the hits. It asks what we hear when we really listen to Dylan, and why those songs still matter. The show is not about nostalgia — the big issues Dylan sang about are still tragically with us. Racism, war, and social injustice remain as urgent as ever, and the performance never lets you forget that. A clever use of a video screen mixes images from the past and present, reinforcing how the struggles of the 1960s and 1970s continue to echo in our own time.
Kiah Spurle
What surprised me first was the front-person: Kiah, just 18, walking on alone with a guitar and two compact openers. Not a gimmick — a statement of intent. The voice is the draw: clear, expressive, with a warm grain that can swell into power without ever turning harsh. She has presence, too: relaxed, alert to the room, and unafraid to sit in the quiet. Then the Night Owl band join her and the show blooms — rhythm kicks in, the arrangements breathe, and we move from fireside intimacy to rolling folk-rock with purpose. It’s a neat dramatic arc that mirrors Dylan’s own journey from solo troubadour to electric icon.
Night Owl’s concept is part concert, part guided tour. The set pivots through eras and influences, giving you context without drowning the songs. Familiar titles land with fresh edges — “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Don’t Think Twice,” “Like a Rolling Stone” — but the point isn’t museum-piece reverence. The band’s reimagined approach keeps faith with the spirit while letting new colours in; it’s storytelling through arrangement, and it works because Kiah sings like she believes every line. Dylan himself once said, when asked why he didn’t do his own songs more back in the day, that he liked to think he made them his own. Kiah certainly makes Dylan’s songs her own.
Kiah’s age becomes an asset rather than an obstacle. There’s a lightness in how she frames the material — a wink here, a plain-spoken aside there — that sidesteps piety and finds the thread between 1960s protest, later self-invention, and now. Opening alone, then inviting the band in, makes the history legible without a lecture. By the time the fuller sound is roaring, you feel the continuity: how one voice with a guitar grew into a catalogue that could arm a whole room. The result is a show that’s accessible to casual listeners and rewarding for die-hards — the kind that leaves you humming the chorus but also thinking about the words.
As for the practicalities: this is the Night Owl machine in full swing — tight band, clean transitions, and a house style that’s won them loyal audiences across their Fringe slate. If you’ve seen their Carole King/James Taylor or Elton John offerings, you’ll recognise the craft; if not, this is a fine place to start. And yes, it really is Kiah Spurle leading the charge — she looks set to be one of the quiet success stories of this year’s music strand.
Bottom line: a genuinely thoughtful Dylan show with heart and muscle. Kiah’s voice is beautiful — bright, powerful, and emotionally tuned — and the band lift her without ever crowding her. I went in curious; I left convinced.
The Anti-Yogi reviewed 510 words, 3 minutes read time.
Mayuri Bhandari’s latest performance is part rallying cry, part spiritual challenge, and wholly engaging theatre. It does far more than showcase yoga as a physical practice—it digs deep into its philosophical roots, confronting the audience with uncomfortable but necessary questions. Bhandari places the principles of truthfulness and non-violence at the centre, not as abstract ideals but as urgent, living demands. She challenges us to consider whether these tenets survive intact in their Western incarnations, or whether they have been compromised, commodified, and stripped of their original depth. Her presence on stage radiates conviction, making it impossible to leave without questioning our own relationship to authenticity.
From the opening moments, it is clear that physicality is at the heart of this work. Bhandari moves with an astonishing blend of grace and power—one moment her gestures are fluid, almost meditative; the next, they are sharp, deliberate, and charged with the energy of Kali herself. Her dance is not simply a visual accompaniment to her words but an extension of them, embodying themes of resistance, destruction, and renewal. She engages the audience not just with what she says but with what she shows us through her body—every pose, turn, and gaze is deliberate, rooted in centuries-old traditions yet alive with contemporary urgency.
The live percussion from Neel Agrawal gives the performance an additional pulse—sometimes steady and grounding, sometimes urgent and insistent. His drumming doesn’t dominate; it listens and responds. There’s a visible and unspoken rapport between him and Bhandari, each reading the other’s energy in real time. This connection creates a sense of ritual unfolding before our eyes, where sound and movement merge into a single, living language. The rhythms carry the audience through the performance’s shifting emotional landscapes, from moments of fierce defiance to quiet, reflective stillness.
Traditional Indian elements are woven throughout, not as decorative tokens but as integral to the narrative. Reflections on Kali’s role in social justice give the work both gravitas and edge, allowing Bhandari to explore the goddess’s dual nature as destroyer and liberator. She uses this to confront the contradictions in how yoga is practised and sold in the West—how a tradition that calls for selflessness can become a lifestyle brand; how a path to liberation can be packaged in Lululemon bags. Humour cuts through the intensity at just the right moments, never diluting the message but reminding us that joy and resistance can coexist.
By the final moments, the audience has not only been entertained but invited into a process of reflection—about cultural appropriation, decolonisation, and the kinds of communities we wish to build. Bhandari’s performance is both a call to action and an act of preservation, reclaiming yoga’s ethos from the grip of commercialism and returning it to a place of depth, integrity, and connection. It’s a reminder that yoga’s truest form is less about the mat beneath your feet and more about how you move through the world once you step away from it.
Reviewed by Pat Harrington
You can find more information and buy tickets here
Ringing Out the Changes 334 words, 2 minutes read time.
Accompanied by Susannah, Eli and Geoffrey on handbells, the playwright Jo Clifford, (author of the controversial The Gospel according to Jesus, Queen of Heaven), reflects on the role of bells in the cycle of our lives. Each of the handbells has a name: Justice, Courage, Humility, Faithfulness, Continence, Patience, Reverence, Loyalty, Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love. It’s all in the bells. Let’s live our lives in justice, have courage to make it happen, keep hoping, walk in peace, walk in joy, and live in love. To the sound of various sets played by the three bell ringers, Jo gives a fascinating account of the use of bells in history. Bells conjured up unhappy school memories for Jo. Some of her audience might have similar miserable recollections.
Bells often ring out to signify changes, good and bad. Church bells celebrated Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee and the bloody triumphs of Empire. Bells – specifically the bells of St Mary’s Cathedral in Edinburgh – tolled for the thousands of young men butchered in the trenches of the world wars. Bells rang out to celebrate victory in those wars. Bells rang to mourn Queen Elizabeth’s death and to celebrate the coronation of Charles III. Bells were controversial in the early conflicts between Christianity and Islam and later around the Reformation. John Knox wasn’t a fan, but things moved on. Bells eventually found a place in the Protestant churches. Jo tells the story of St Mary’s Cathedral, a testimony to two powerful women, Barbara and Mary Walker who led a quiet revolution. They inherited their father’s business and used the money to build the West End of the New Town. They set aside money to build a cathedral in their late mother’s name. They knew that there was more to life than just making money. They never lived to see the magnificent gothic revival cathedral take shape, but they had the vision to see it through. Who knew that bells could be so interesting?
