★★★★★Philip Contini & His Be Happy Band deliver a fabulous 70-minute celebration of Broadway and musical theatre in an intimate Edinburgh Fringe setting.
The room may be small, and the stage compact, but the production makes excellent use of every available inch. That intimacy works in the show’s favour, bringing the audience close to the performers and creating a wonderfully warm atmosphere.
For the performance I attended, every seat was taken. The full house helped generate a real sense of occasion before the music had even begun, and that atmosphere continued throughout the show.
Contini is appearing at the Edinburgh Fringe for the 34th time, and that wealth of experience shows. Joined by his six-piece Be Happy Band, he presents a programme built around memorable songs from some of musical theatre’s best-loved productions.
The repertoire includes material associated with shows such as Anything Goes, Babes in Arms, Hello, Dolly!, Les Misérables, The Music Man, South Pacific and West Side Story.
What makes the show particularly enjoyable is its uncomplicated celebration of musical theatre. It is performed with warmth and enthusiasm, with the live band bringing the Broadway melodies vividly to life.
Despite the restricted stage space, the performers never appear constrained by it. Instead, they use the intimate surroundings to create a close connection with the audience.
At £18 for a 70-minute performance, Broadway Melodies – The Joy of Musical Theatre offers an entertaining and uplifting Fringe experience, particularly for anyone with a love of classic musicals and live music.
The combination of a full house, great atmosphere, accomplished musicianship and Contini’s easy rapport with the audience made this one of those Fringe performances that simply leaves you feeling good.
Philip Contini is also appearing with pianist Anne Evans in Appassionato – Romantic Songs of Italy, a 60-minute programme celebrating classical, popular Neapolitan and Italian songs through music and storytelling.
Many of our readers know that Counter Culture has always been as interested in musical history as in the music itself. The two are inseparable: every song carries a lineage, every band emerges from a scene, and every scene grows out of a cultural moment.
This week’s list reflects that. We’ve been thinking a lot about UK fanzines, papers and magazines — the lifeblood of grassroots music culture. Before social media, these publications were how fans discovered new bands, argued about genres, and built entire subcultures.
We’ve already noted the big national titles — Melody Maker, New Musical Express and Sounds — plus the legendary punk fanzine Sniffin’ Glue and Other Rock ’N’ Roll Habits. But we know there were dozens more: regional punk sheets, goth newsletters, metal quarterlies, folk journals, indie zines, and everything in between. If anyone can help expand this list, we’d be delighted.
With that in mind, here’s this week’s selection — moving freely between punk, country folk, disco‑turned‑alt‑rock, glam, industrial, black metal and more. As always, the joy is in the contrasts.
Ad Hominem – Totalitarian Black Metal
Ad Hominem emerged in the early 2000s as part of the second wave of European black metal, a movement defined by raw production, ideological provocation and a deliberate rejection of mainstream metal aesthetics. The project is largely the work of Kaiser, a French multi‑instrumentalist who favours harsh, martial rhythms and deliberately confrontational themes. Totalitarian Black Metal is one of his signature tracks: cold, repetitive, and intentionally abrasive. It sits firmly within the lineage of bands like Marduk, Darkthrone and Gorgoroth, but with a distinctly French sense of nihilism. For listeners trying to understand black metal, this track shows the genre’s fascination with extremity — musically, aesthetically and philosophically.
Oliver Anthony – Take Me Home, Country Roads
John Denver’s 1971 original is one of the most recognisable American folk‑country songs ever written — a nostalgic hymn to rural life that became an unofficial anthem for West Virginia. Oliver Anthony’s version slows the tempo dramatically, stripping away Denver’s bright optimism and replacing it with something more weathered, intimate and emotionally heavy. Anthony rose to prominence through viral recordings made in rural settings, often accompanied only by his resonator guitar. His reading of Country Roads feels closer to Appalachian porch music than Nashville polish — a reminder that great songs can be reinterpreted as personal statements rather than museum pieces.
Cake – I Will Survive
Gloria Gaynor’s 1978 disco classic is one of the great empowerment anthems — bold, brassy and defiantly upbeat. Cake’s 1996 cover turns the entire concept on its head. Where Gaynor belts, Cake mutters. Where disco strings soar, Cake inserts dry trumpet lines, clipped guitar and a funk‑rock shuffle. The band, formed in Sacramento in the early 90s, became known for their deadpan delivery and minimalist arrangements. Their version of I Will Survive is almost anti‑heroic — a slacker’s survival anthem — and it became one of their most recognisable tracks. It’s a perfect example of how 90s alternative bands loved to deconstruct the pop canon.
Chelsea – Twelve Men
Chelsea were part of the first wave of British punk, forming in London in 1976. Frontman Gene October was a key figure in the early scene, helping establish the punk club The Roxy and giving the movement a physical home. The original lineup included Billy Idol (then William Broad) on guitar, Tony James on bass and John Towe on drums — three musicians who would soon leave to form Generation X, one of the most commercially successful punk bands of the late 70s. Twelve Men captures Chelsea’s raw, street‑level sound: fast, jagged and unvarnished. It’s a reminder that punk wasn’t just a musical style — it was a network of people who moved between bands, clubs and fanzines, shaping a cultural moment that still resonates.
Death In Rome – Love Will Tear Us Apart
Death In Rome specialise in neofolk reinterpretations of famous pop and rock songs, often transforming them into dark, melancholic acoustic pieces. Their cover of Joy Division’s 1980 classic is one of their most striking. Where the original is icy, post‑punk and emotionally fractured, Death In Rome’s version leans into European dark folk traditions — minor‑key guitar, martial percussion and a sense of ritualistic solemnity. It’s not a parody; it’s a reframing. Joy Division’s despair becomes something older, almost mythic, as though the song has been unearthed from a forgotten folk tradition rather than Manchester’s Factory Records.
Riley Green – Think As You Drunk
Riley Green is part of the modern neo‑traditional country movement — artists who blend contemporary Nashville production with the storytelling sensibilities of 80s and 90s country. Think As You Drunk fits neatly into that lineage: conversational lyrics, a touch of humour, and a melody that feels instantly familiar. Green’s work often explores small‑town life, personal flaws and emotional honesty, and this track continues that tradition with a wink and a nod.
Paul Heaton – Favourite Kind Of Idiot
Paul Heaton has one of the most distinctive careers in British pop: first with The Housemartins, then with The Beautiful South, and later as a solo artist. His songwriting blends sharp social observation with dry humour and a melodic sensibility rooted in classic British pop. Favourite Kind Of Idiot showcases Heaton’s trademark lyrical wit — affectionate, exasperated and politically aware without ever becoming preachy. Musically, it continues his long tradition of pairing upbeat arrangements with bittersweet themes.
Little Mix & David Guetta – Heartbreak Anthem
Released in 2021, Heartbreak Anthem is a collaboration between Little Mix, French DJ David Guetta, and Swedish producer Galantis. It arrived during a transitional moment for Little Mix, shortly after Jesy Nelson’s departure, and became one of their biggest late‑career hits. The track blends Euro‑dance production, polished vocal harmonies and a message of resilience — not wallowing in heartbreak but acknowledging it and moving forward. It’s a reminder of how seamlessly modern pop can merge UK vocal groups with continental dance producers.
The Monochrome Set – Jacob’s Ladder
Formed in 1978, The Monochrome Set were part of the post‑punk and art‑pop landscape that grew out of the collapse of punk’s first wave. Their music was witty, literate and stylistically eclectic — closer to the Velvet Underground or early Television than to the more abrasive post‑punk acts. Jacob’s Ladder shows their flair for angular guitar lines, arch lyricism and a kind of detached elegance. They never achieved major commercial success, but their influence on indie pop — especially the C86 generation — is substantial.
Nimrod – Night Of The Witches
Nimrod were a short‑lived but intriguing British hard rock outfit active in the late 70s. Their sound sits somewhere between proto‑metal, occult rock and the theatrical edge of early NWOBHM. Night Of The Witches is a cult favourite: riff‑driven, melodramatic and steeped in the era’s fascination with supernatural imagery. Bands like Nimrod helped bridge the gap between 70s hard rock and the heavier, faster metal that would explode in the early 80s.
Sweet – The Ballroom Blitz
Sweet were one of the defining bands of British glam rock, though they’re still underrated compared to contemporaries like Slade or T. Rex. Released in 1973, The Ballroom Blitz is based on a real incident: the band were bottled offstage during a gig in Scotland. Rather than sulk, they turned the chaos into a theatrical, high‑energy anthem. The harmonies are extraordinary — especially the soaring high notes — and the track’s mix of bubblegum pop, hard rock and camp theatrics became a blueprint for glam’s entire aesthetic. It remains one of the great live‑wire singles of the era.
Throbbing Gristle – Don’t Do As You’re Told, Do As You Think
Throbbing Gristle were pioneers of industrial music, forming in 1975 out of the performance art collective COUM Transmissions. Their work challenged every convention of rock: noise over melody, provocation over comfort, experimentation over accessibility. Don’t Do As You’re Told, Do As You Think encapsulates their ethos — anti‑authoritarian, confrontational and sonically abrasive. TG’s influence on later industrial, electronic and experimental artists is immeasurable. They didn’t just create a genre; they created a philosophy.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Some Fringe shows just entertain, and then there are shows that educate while they entertain, pulling you into a world you thought you already understood. Musical Soulmates: Songs of Billie Holiday and Lester Young sits firmly in the latter category. It’s not simply a tribute to Billie Holiday and Lester Young; it’s a guided excavation of their lives, their music, and the brutal social machinery that shaped both.
Christine Adams anchors the evening with soul‑stirring vocals—rich, grainy, emotionally alert. She wisely avoids imitation. There’s no attempt to mimic Holiday’s timbre or phrasing; instead, she leans into tonal homage, letting the ache behind the songs rise naturally. Adams understands Holiday’s sly humour, her armour of wit, her habit of letting pain sit quietly in the corner until it couldn’t be ignored. Songs like God Bless the Child aren’t just performed—they’re contextualised, illuminated, allowed to breathe.
One of the pleasures of the evening was the mix of familiar and unfamiliar material. There were plenty of songs I hadn’t heard before but liked immediately — including A Sailboat in the Moonlight, a gently romantic 1937 number Holiday made her own. It drifts along on the fantasy of two people escaping their troubles by imagining themselves gliding across moonlit water, a kind of soft-focus daydream set to music. And then there were the more familiar pieces, like These Foolish Things, which landed with a different kind of emotional weight. My mother played a lot of jazz when I was growing up, so those melodies carried me straight back to childhood — an unexpected trip down memory lane that added another layer to an already rich show.
Dick Lee’s saxophone and clarinet provide the show’s emotional counterweight. Ebullient, warm, and conversational, his playing feels like a dialogue with Adams rather than accompaniment. Holiday and Young’s musical compatibility famously verged on telepathy; Lee and Adams recreate that sense of intuitive exchange. Lee’s lines curl around Adams’ phrasing, sometimes shadowing it, sometimes nudging it forward, sometimes breaking away entirely to offer a commentary of their own. It’s a partnership built on trust, and it shows.
Phil Adams on guitar and Jerry Forde on bass complete the quartet with understated finesse. Adams’ guitar work is clean and spacious, never crowding the vocals, while Forde’s bass provides the steady heartbeat the show depends on. Together, they create arrangements that are respectful without being museum pieces—alive, responsive, and shaped by the room.
The narration threads through the performance with conversational ease. One moment, we’re hearing about Holiday and Young’s early camaraderie—his nickname for her “Lady Day,” her “Pres” for him —and the next, we’re plunged into the silence of their three‑year estrangement. The show doesn’t sensationalise the rupture. Instead, it treats it as part of the larger tapestry of two artists navigating fame, addiction, racism, and the relentless grind of touring in segregated America.
And that’s where the Jim Crow material lands with force. The narrator doesn’t lecture; they illuminate. Jim Crow wasn’t an abstract policy—it was a daily logistical nightmare for Black musicians. Holiday and Young were barred from hotels, forced into back entrances, denied basic dignity. When Adams sings after these explanations, the songs carry a different weight. You feel the context pressing in.
The legal troubles are handled with similar nuance. Holiday’s arrests—mainly tied to drugs, always weaponised against her—are framed not as moral failings but as symptoms of trauma and exploitation. Young’s imprisonment, via military court‑martial for marijuana and alcohol possession, becomes another example of how Black artists were punished more harshly than their white counterparts.
Structurally, the production moves with confident rhythm. Short stretches of storytelling give way to bursts of song. A quiet anecdote is followed by a musical punch. Paragraphs of history dissolve into a single held note.
By the end, what stays with you isn’t just the music, or the biography, or the historical detail. It’s the sense of two artists—Holiday and Young—trying to carve out space for themselves in a world determined to shrink them. The show honours that struggle without romanticising it. It’s a reminder that the past isn’t past. It’s still singing.
Musical Soulmates is a production that deserves to be seen—not because it’s nostalgic, but because it’s honest. It celebrates two friends whose musical and spiritual compatibility bordered on the miraculous, and it does so with intelligence, warmth, and emotional clarity. Adams, Lee, Adams, and Forde deliver a show that feels both intimate and expansive, rooted in history yet alive in the present.
★★★★★ There’s something instantly appealing about a show that decides to take on the baffling, shape‑shifting world of HR — or whatever rebrand it’s hiding behind this week — and this New Zealand trio do it with a grin, a raised eyebrow, and a surprising amount of musical bite.
What unfolds is a brisk, knowingly absurd tour through the corporate labyrinth. We start with the coded niceties of the classic HR email — those soft‑focus euphemisms that somehow manage to say everything and nothing at once — before meeting Dick, the magnificently un-woke CEO whose opinions feel like they’ve been preserved in amber since 1993. From there, the show barrels into a series of increasingly deranged hire‑and‑fire scenarios: interviews conducted mid‑childbirth, performance reviews held at funerals, and a general sense that HR has finally slipped its moorings and floated off into pure theatre.
It’s all delivered with tight choreography, bright vocals, and a willingness to lean into the ridiculous. There’s even a rap battle between AI and a human employee, which lands with the kind of knowing silliness that makes you wonder how long it’ll be before your own workplace tries something similar in earnest.
The charm of the piece lies in its relatability. No matter where you work — office, shop floor, charity, gig economy — there’s a moment here that will feel uncomfortably familiar. HR The Musical doesn’t pretend to diagnose the modern workplace; it simply holds up the mirror and lets you laugh at the reflection.
★★★★★ A decade on from their first Fringe triumph, Night Owl Shows unveil Material Girl: Madonna The Icon — a world‑premiere production tracing Madonna’s evolution from breakout star to boundary‑pushing legend, led by “Voice of the Fringe 2025” winner Maia Elsey and the award‑winning Night Owl band.
This production taps into the pulse of Madonna’s life rather than simply replaying the hits. Material Girl – The Madonna Story sits firmly under an hour, but it’s astonishing how much they manage to fit into it without the thing feeling rushed or overstuffed.
The show opens with a burst of high‑energy dance music — the Madonna most people think of first — but it quickly becomes clear that the creative team are interested in more than sequins and nostalgia. One of the most striking moments comes early on, when a quote appears on the screen behind the performers: Madonna rejecting the idea that she “reinvents” herself, insisting instead that she simply reveals different layers of who she already is. It’s a line that lands harder than you expect. It reframes not only her career, but the whole idea of artistic evolution. We often say Bowie reinvented himself, but perhaps he too was peeling back layers rather than constructing personas. That thought stayed with me throughout the show.
A performance rooted in interpretation, not imitation.
What impressed me most was the attention given to Madonna’s early life — her childhood, her dance training, the discipline that shaped her long before the fame arrived. I knew some of it, but not all, and the show makes a point of grounding her later flamboyance in those formative years. It’s a smart choice: it gives the spectacle a spine.
The musical selections are mostly the high‑octane numbers you’d expect, delivered with real verve by Maia Elsey — a strong singer, a confident dancer, and an all‑rounder who knows how to work a room. But the show’s emotional peaks come from the quieter moments. Frozen from the Ray of Light album is handled with care, and the shift in tone is welcome. And then there’s Don’t Cry for Me Argentina. As someone who’s long been fascinated by Evita — both the musical and the political history behind Eva Perón — I found this section genuinely affecting. I remember wondering, back when the film came out, whether Madonna could carry the role. She did, and the show acknowledges that turning point with the weight it deserves.
One omission surprised me: Desperately Seeking Susan (1985). For many people, myself included, that film was the moment Madonna first registered as a cultural force outside of music. DesperatelySeeking Susan wasn’t just a quirky mid‑80s caper; it was the moment Madonna’s off‑stage persona crystallised into something mythic. The film caught her at the exact point where fashion, attitude, and pop culture collided, and leaving it out slightly blunts the story of how she became a generational touchstone. That absence aside, the production’s musical backbone deserves its own moment in the spotlight.The musicians deserve their own praise. One of the guitarists delivers variations on Madonna themes that are genuinely inventive — miniature interpretations in their own right. The audience responded to him with the same enthusiasm they gave the main performer, Maia Elsey, which tells you everything.
Elsey drives the show with crisp energy and control.
And speaking of the audience: this was one of those Fringe shows where people don’t wait for permission. They were up dancing, clapping, singing along. The atmosphere was warm, communal, and frankly joyous. It’s a feel‑good show in the best sense — not shallow, not saccharine, but celebratory.
Material Girl – The Madonna Story succeeds because it recognises that Madonna’s career isn’t just a string of hits; it’s a story of layers. The show captures those layers — the dancer, the provocateur, the actress, the spiritual seeker, the pop architect — and does so with energy, affection, and a surprising amount of insight for a one‑hour production.
A vibrant, generous interpretation of Madonna’s life and music. And a reminder of just how many lives Madonna has lived without ever ceasing to be herself.
★★★★★ This Little Thing of Ours throws us straight into a mafia family on the brink of change. Frankie Coglione comes from a long line of mobsters cursed with terrible luck, but he’s determined to be the one who finally turns things around. Backed by his iron‑willed Nonna, he seems ready to take the top spot — until an unexpected death creates a power vacuum. Suddenly Frankie is forced into a musical turf war with Tony, a silk‑suited street boss with killer instincts. In this world, you don’t just whack someone — you give them a closing number. It’s mafia melodrama with musical theatre swagger.
I had a great time with This Little Thing of Ours. It’s exactly the sort of late‑night Fringe musical that thrives on energy, ensemble chemistry, and a willingness to lean fully into its own ridiculousness. The show promises gangster glamour, fast-paced comedy, and a live soundtrack, and that’s very much what the company delivers: loud, playful, and driven by performers who clearly enjoy being in this heightened criminal world.
It’s an ensemble‑driven piece — Dorian Todd (Frankie), Kevin Parr (Tony), Meredith Rey (Nonna), James O’Neill (Don Lorenzo), Fraser Wood (Uncle Chicky), Arland O’Hara (Irish Mickey), Megan Wright (Butch), and Joan Smith (Giuda) all contribute to the entertainment, adding value. And you genuinely feel all of them working together. It’s one of those shows where the group dynamic is the engine; nobody is trying to outshine anyone else, and that makes the comedy, music and drama land better.
Having said that, I have my favourites! I particularly enjoyed Joan Smith’s performance as Giuda, the crew’s hitman. She has a sharp, expressive physicality that makes her both funny and genuinely intimidating. She’s one of those performers who can shift the tone of a scene just by how she stands or moves, and it gives the show a nice edge. Her dancing fits the character perfectly — controlled chaos, a bit dangerous, a bit silly, and always entertaining.
Kevin Parr’s Tony is another standout. Tony is a silk‑suited street boss with killer instincts, and Parr leans into that contrast with real confidence. He’s powerful, charismatic, and very well acted — the sort of performer who knows exactly how to play the heightened theatricality of a mafia musical without tipping into cartoonishness. His dancing has that same swagger: confident, funny, and very much part of Tony’s persona.
The dancing across the whole ensemble is worth mentioning. It’s goofy in places, deliberately so, but choreographed with enough precision that it becomes part of the humour rather than a distraction. It’s blend of silliness and commitment makes the audience warm to the performers. Here, it works beautifully. The live band adds to that atmosphere, giving the whole thing a lively, immediate feel.
James Bruce’s writing is quick and playful, and Alice Humphries’ direction keeps everything moving at a brisk pace. The musical numbers slide in and out of the action cleanly, and Michael Mackay’s original score gives the show a distinctive identity. It’s not trying to be profound; it’s trying to be fun. And it succeeds.
I always judge how much I liked a musical by whether I’m humming one of the tunes on the way out the door – and with this I was (Family business).
The audience were fully on board — laughing, reacting, enjoying the ride. It’s the kind of show where the rawness is part of the charm. You don’t want it polished; you want it alive.
This Little Thing of Ours is a lively, confident, ensemble‑driven mafia musical with standout turns from Joan Smith and Kevin Parr, strong music, and dancing that’s both funny and surprisingly characterful. For a 22:30 slot, it hits exactly the right tone: expressive, entertaining, and full of personality and energy.
David Bowie didn’t just bend culture; he detonated it and then calmly walked through the smoke wearing something nobody had seen before. The Bowie Story promises to trace that volatility — the reinventions, the provocations, the sheer audacity of a man who treated identity as raw material. At the centre of Night Owl’s world‑premiere production is Peter Marchant, whose performance has already been described as “electric”.
In conversation, Marchant is thoughtful, curious, and disarmingly funny — but onstage he steps into Bowie’s slipstream, chasing the imagination that made him a lodestar for misfits, futurists, and anyone who ever felt the world might be bigger than the version they were handed.
This interview digs into the mythology, the music, the queerness, the chaos, and the craft behind The Bowie Story — and why Marchant believes Bowie’s relevance isn’t historical, but ongoing.
When you step onstage for The Bowie Story, are you channelling Bowie the icon, Bowie the innovator, or Bowie the cultural disruptor — and which of those feels most dangerous to inhabit.
A bit of all three I’d say, though if I had to pick one I’d say the cultural disruptor. I’m fascinated by what’s next in popular culture and Bowie wasn’t just interested in what was coming next, he created it. That’s a big focus in the story we tell.
Night Owl Shows thrive on narrative‑driven music experiences. What story about Bowie did you feel compelled to tell that other tributes always seem to miss.
I think the first few years of his career (before he was calling himself Bowie) was a topic I found quite interesting to research and I open up the show talking about this period. He tried various bands and pseudonyms during his teens but didn’t really achieve any success for years, which is crazy when you look at how legendary and influential he became.
Your performance is described as “electric” — what’s the current behind that charge: the music, the mythology, or the responsibility of carrying someone who reshaped the cultural landscape.
Again, probably a bit of all three. Above all it’s the passion for the artist. When the artist holds such a big place in my heart the energy I feel singing their songs comes from somewhere ‘not of this world’.
Bowie reinvented himself so often he almost made authenticity irrelevant. When you perform these songs, which version of him do you think audiences are really searching for.
The unshakable qualities of the man himself were always present in every one of Bowie’s different personas, that’s what I’m reaching for. The man behind the mask whose imagination and vision gave life to his characters.
Space Oddity, Life on Mars, Heroes, Let’s Dance — these tracks are cultural artefacts now. How do you stop them becoming museum pieces and make them feel volatile again.
So long as artists continue to talk about these songs and apply their messages to the world we live in today, they’ll stay relevant. Bowie perfectly predicted the future when talking about the Internet in his interview with Paxman in 1999 and I think that ability to predict the future helped him write songs that would hold eternal relevance.
Bowie blurred the line between persona and performance. Do you ever feel that same tension when leading an all‑star band through his catalogue.
The ways in which Bowie presented his different personas on each album was not just in how he dressed but was also in how he moved and even how he pronounced words — he puts on a bit of a New York twang in Rebel Rebel for example. That’s something I like to try and reflect when portraying his different personas and our band do a great job of showing how his use of sound and production techniques evolved over the years.
The show promises audiences a rediscovery of their favourite songs. What’s the one Bowie track that surprised you most once you started digging into its origins.
I was quite surprised when I found out that Young Americans was released less than a year after the Diamond Dogs album, where Bowie was still putting out a glam‑rock kind of persona. To go from that to his ‘plastic soul’ in such a short space of time is a pretty drastic and rapid transformation.
Bowie shaped pop culture by refusing to play by its rules. What’s the most rebellious choice you’ve made in crafting this show.
Refusing to wear boring trousers.
Night Owl Shows impose narrative clarity — but Bowie thrived on chaos. How do you create a coherent story around someone who resisted being pinned down.
It definitely wasn’t an easy task. Although within each phase of his career there was a lot of consistency — organised chaos you might say. I think when you go year by year and look at the context behind his creative decisions (i.e. his move from LA to Berlin to escape drug addiction and working with Eno and Visconti) the drastic changes he went through seem to make more sense.
Bowie was a trailblazer for sexual freedom, queerness, and self‑invention. When you embody his work, how consciously do you engage with that legacy — and what does it mean to perform songs that once helped people feel seen for the first time.
I speak about this a little bit when talking about his Ziggy years, making the character androgynous and gender‑fluid. But I think much of how I embody that comes from how I dress and move on stage (I do a lot of ass shaking on stage in my glittery trousers and sequin lightning bolt jacket). Hearing lyrics like “you got your mother in a whirl, she can’t tell if you’re a boy or a girl, hey babe your hair’s alright, hey babe let’s go out tonight” must have been very liberating and validating for queer people to hear for the first time.
Apologies for the late appearance of this week’s list. In the hectic, slightly delirious chaos of the Edinburgh Fringe — three of us darting between venues, scribbling notes in cafés, and trying to keep our heads above the tidal wave of shows — this one slipped past us. August always feels like running a marathon with a notebook, but we’re here now, and the music is worth the wait. And, in our defence the list was put up in timely fashion on Facebook and we did a Fringe special inspired by the great, foot-stomping Rockbeth.
Last week we joked about shops quietly replacing summer stock with woolly jumpers. Since then, Home Bargains has gone one better and unveiled a full aisle of autumn decorations. At this rate, Christmas might appear before we’ve even finished reviewing the Fringe. Place your bets.
A long‑time reader also reminded us that the 22nd of last month marked the 80th anniversary of the bombing of the King David Hotel in Jerusalem — a grim, complicated moment in the history of the British Mandate. Ninety‑one people were killed, dozens more injured, and the man behind the attack, Menachem Begin, would later become Prime Minister of Israel. History rarely behaves the way you expect it to.
Enough darkness. Time for the music to lift the mood — and this week’s selection is a proper mixed bag.
Ambrose Slade – “Wild Winds Are Blowing”
Before Slade became the glitter‑soaked giants of Glam, they were Ambrose Slade: a sharp, skinhead‑leaning outfit with a raw edge. “Wild Winds Are Blowing” came out in October 1969, written by Bob Saker and Jack Winsley. It didn’t chart, but it’s a fascinating glimpse of the band before fame reshaped them.
Artillery – “In Your Mind”
From early English skinheads to Danish thrash metal. Artillery formed in the early ’80s and have refused to slow down. “In Your Mind,” from their 2021 album X, shows exactly why they’ve endured — tight riffs, muscular rhythm, and a band still hungry after four decades.
The Casuals – “Jesamine”
A complete change of pace. “Jesamine” is one of those late‑’60s pop gems that seems to float rather than play — wistful, melodic, and beautifully arranged. It’s the sort of song that reminds you how much craft went into the era’s quieter hits.
Ella Langley – “Hungover”
A modern slice of country with a smoky, lived‑in feel. Ella Langley has a knack for making heartbreak sound conversational rather than theatrical, and “Hungover” is one of her strongest examples.
Kelly Llorenna – “Tell It To My Heart”
Kelly Llorenna’s take on the Taylor Dayne classic is pure ’90s/early‑2000s dancefloor nostalgia — bright, bold, and built to get people moving.
M People – “Search for the Hero”
A song that’s become part of Britain’s cultural wallpaper. Heather Small’s voice carries the whole thing with that unmistakable warmth and determination.
Sarah McLachlan – “Answer”
McLachlan specialises in quiet emotional devastation, and “Answer” is one of her most delicate pieces — introspective, steady, and beautifully phrased.
Peter & The Test Tube Babies – “The Jynx ” (Live)
Back to England and into punk. Peter & The Test Tube Babies were fixtures of the late ’70s scene, known for humour, chaos, and a refusal to take themselves too seriously. “The Jynx” live is exactly what you’d expect: scruffy, energetic, and oddly charming.
Olivia Rodrigo – “Drop Dead”
Rodrigo’s knack for blending pop hooks with punkish bite is on full display here. “Drop Dead” is sharp, theatrical, and full of the emotional whiplash she’s built her career on.
Retaliator – “Green, Green Grass of Home”
An Oi‑infused take on a classic. Retaliator’s version is loud, proud, and guaranteed to get a crowd roaring along.
Sandie Shaw – “Sympathy For The Devil”
A fascinating cover — Shaw’s voice brings a different kind of cool detachment to the Stones’ classic. It’s always interesting hearing a familiar song refracted through a completely different performer.
Sweet – “Blockbuster”
A Glam anthem from the early ’70s, complete with its famous siren. Sweet were masters of theatrical pop, and “Blockbuster” remains one of their most recognisable hits.
We’ll be taking a short break next week — Fringe duties are relentless — so if all goes well, the next list will appear on Wednesday the 19th.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Sometimes the best fringe experiences are the quietest ones, and that’s exactly what Kat Brooks offers here. She opens with Édith Piaf’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien setting a tone that is confident and authentic. Later, she gives us La Vie en Rose, offered with warmth and restraint rather than bombast. She doesn’t imitate Piaf. She channels the song with affection and clarity.
Kat’s choice to perform “Dance Me to the End of Love” was a quietly striking moment. It’s a Leonard Cohen song, not a French chanson, yet the way she delivered it made it feel completely at home in the set. Her phrasing softened the edges of Cohen’s writing and let the song drift into the same smoky, late‑night emotional space as the Piaf and Trenet numbers. It worked because the show isn’t really about strict national borders in music; it’s about mood, intimacy and the timeless pull of torch songs. In her hands, Cohen’s piece became another thread in that tapestry, surprising but entirely fitting.
Kat also performs one of my favourite songs, the French chanson Moulin Rouge (the Georges Van Parys / Jean Renoir song, later covered by Rufus Wainwright). It is a romantic and sensual cabaret-style song sometimes described as sexually suggestive (at least in the French version). The lyrics describe:a woman’s allure, the intoxication of desire, physical closeness, the feverish, overwhelming feeling of attraction and the atmosphere of Parisian nightlifeIt’s suggestive, but in the classic French chanson way — poetic, metaphorical, and intimate rather than explicit.
Between numbers, Brooks reflects on the challenge of singing in French, and why she believes the translations soften or distort that meaning. It’s a fascinating aside that becomes part of the show’s charm. She’s joined by John on guitar and piano, and Steve on sax. Both from Edinburgh’s Tenement Jazz Band. Their playing is tasteful and understated, giving Brooks room to breathe, but adding colour and swing where it counts.
The rapport between the three feels easy and unforced, like friends making music rather than clocking in. The Jazz Bar is part of the appeal. That intimate basement space with good seats and a proper bar makes the whole thing feel more like stumbling across a neighbourhood jazz club than being jostled on the Royal Mile. With a glass in hand, it’s hard not to relax into it.
If you want an hour of thoughtfully chosen chansons, relaxed storytelling, and really good jazz playing, this is a lovely, civilized way to spend a Fringe afternoon.
★★★★★ There’s a particular hush that falls over a room when someone steps into a role and refuses to let it be a costume. Stevie Nicks – The Gypsy That I Was does that. Maddi Fraser — the solo performer who carries the hour — doesn’t mimic Stevie Nicks so much as she invites Stevie’s spirit to sit beside her It’s intimate, it’s affectionate, and it’s quietly theatrical.
Maddi performs in role for the whole show. No band to hide behind, no chorus to share the road. Just voice, presence, and a handful of well‑chosen songs that trace the arc of a life lived on stages and in the press. That decision gives the evening a stripped‑back honesty. When she sings, you’re listening to someone who has chosen to live inside a character rather than impersonate a star.
The humour was a highlight. Jokes about exes land with a knowing smile — not vicious, not salacious, just human. They break the glamour in the best way, remind you that the woman behind the myth had messy, funny, ordinary moments. Maddi plays those lines like a friend telling you a story over wine; the audience laughs, relaxes, and leans in.
Vocally, she finds the right balance. There are smoky, breathy moments that nod to Stevie’s trademark tone, and brighter, clearer phrases that let the songs breathe. It’s not a note‑for‑note recreation, and that’s a strength. The performance honours the songs without turning them into museum pieces. They live again, in a smaller room, with a different kind of urgency.
The show’s pacing is gentle. It’s not a greatest‑hits sprint; it’s a series of vignettes stitched together with anecdotes and mood. That suits the material. Stevie’s catalogue is as much about atmosphere as it is about melody, and Maddi leans into that. The result is a relaxed, late‑night vibe — the sort of set you’d hear in a tucked‑away club rather than an arena.
There are moments of real tenderness. When the storytelling softens and the voice follows, you feel the weight of the life being sung about — the loves, the losses, the small triumphs. Those are the parts that linger. They’re the reason tribute shows matter when they’re done well: they remind you why the songs mattered in the first place.
The vibe in the room is the show’s secret weapon. People came in ready to be entertained and left feeling they’d been confided in. That’s rarer than you’d think at the Fringe, where spectacle often drowns intimacy. Here, intimacy wins.
