If you’re craving a hearty dose of silliness, vocal prowess, and pirate-themed pandemonium, Pirates of the Aca-ribbean delivers a treasure chest of joy. Presented by Acadepitch, this a cappella supergroup of fewer than twenty performers sails through slapstick comedy, energetic choreography, and vocal acrobatics with infectious enthusiasm.
The plot—pirates versus army, with plenty of comic chaos—is pure Fringe fun. It’s not about narrative nuance; it’s about laughter, and the audience, spanning all ages, responded with delight. From groan-worthy puns to physical gags, the humour is broad and buoyant, anchored by strong soloists and tight ensemble harmonies.
What sets this show apart is its vocal versatility. The cast shifts effortlessly between group numbers and standout solos, blending musical theatre flair with pop-infused arrangements. Their choreography adds sparkle without overshadowing the vocals, and the cast’s chemistry radiates joy.
This is not highbrow satire—it’s a rollicking, family-friendly romp that knows exactly what it’s doing. If you missed it at the Fringe, keep an eye on Acadepitch’s Facebook page for future performances and updates. A must-see for anyone who wants to laugh, sing along, and maybe shout “Arrr!” with abandon.
Jasmine Alice channels the spirit, sound, and spectacle of Celine Dion with uncanny precision in this heartfelt tribute that had audiences singing, swaying, and shedding the occasional tear. From the opening bars of “My Heart Will Go On” to the soaring finale of “L’Hymne à L’Amour,” Jasmine doesn’t just impersonate—she embodies.
The setlist is a greatest-hits parade: “Power of Love,” “Think Twice,” and other fan favourites land with emotional weight and vocal power. But it’s the staging that elevates the experience. A slide projector chronicles Dion’s life—moments of triumph and heartbreak—culminating in a stirring visual of her singing from the Eiffel Tower at the 2024 Paris Olympics, mirrored live by Jasmine’s own rendition. It’s a clever, moving touch that deepens the tribute beyond mere mimicry.
Audience reactions speak volumes: clapping, dancing, and visible emotion throughout. Jasmine’s vocal control and stage presence make her a convincing stand-in, but it’s her sincerity that wins hearts. This isn’t just a tribute—it’s a celebration of resilience, artistry, and the joy of shared memory.
For die-hard Dion devotees and casual fans alike, Celine Dion Experience is a must-see. It’s not just nostalgia—it’s reverence, delivered with grace and gusto.
You can explore Jasmine Alice’s upcoming shows via her official site, and dive deeper into Celine Dion’s discography on CelineDion.com.
For me, Queen has never just been a band. Their music was part of the fabric of my upbringing, something I shared with my late mother, who loved them as much as I do. So when The Legend of Queen was announced for this year’s Fringe, I knew I had to be there. It wasn’t simply about nostalgia—it was about measuring whether this show could capture even a fraction of what made Queen so extraordinary. My favourite track, Killer Queen, sums up their appeal: clever, witty lyrics, bound to a melody that still sparkles fifty years on. But behind that style was Freddie Mercury, a frontman whose vocal range and theatricality were unmatched. He sang like an opera star, commanding power one moment and tenderness the next. Any tribute, to succeed, has to reckon with that legacy.
Peter Marchant radiated charisma
Peter Marchant, leading the Night Owl Band, stepped into that daunting role and didn’t disappoint. His voice carried the weight of expectation and delivered—clear, strong, flexible enough to soar and twist across the songs without ever straining. But just as important, he radiated charisma. Freddie was never only about technique; he was about presence, energy, and generosity to his audience. Marchant channelled that same generosity. He didn’t mimic Mercury so much as embody a spirit of joy in performance. The Night Owl Band were tight and versatile, taking us on a journey through Queen’s different musical phases—from the raw power of early rock, through their disco-inflected experiments, to the anthems that can still fill a stadium.
What struck me most was the atmosphere in the room. I’ve attended other Night Owl shows at the Fringe and enjoyed them, but the crowd here was far more alive. It was as if Queen’s music unlocked something in everyone. People were singing at the top of their lungs, clapping in time, stomping their feet, and before long the floor was shaking with dancing. I joined in too—I couldn’t help it. It was infectious. Looking around, I noticed the mix of people: older fans reliving their youth, teenagers discovering the music as if it were brand new, families sharing a common soundtrack. That, to me, is Queen’s true legacy. They never belonged to a single time or generation. Their songs still speak across age and background, uniting people in pure, unguarded enjoyment.
There’s also something to be said about Queen’s cultural role. At a time when rock was often macho and narrow, Freddie Mercury embodied flamboyance and theatricality. He brought camp, opera, and drama into the mainstream, unapologetically. Songs like Radio Gaga or Bohemian Rhapsody didn’t just push musical boundaries; they expanded ideas of what performance could be. Seeing a tribute show in 2025 that can still spark such joy suggests that Queen’s boldness remains relevant. In a festival full of new writing and experimental theatre, The Legend of Queen reminds us that art also survives by being passed on, reinterpreted, and celebrated anew.
By the end of the night, I felt both exhilarated and oddly moved. I had gone in with scepticism—could anyone really take on Mercury’s voice?—and left convinced that while no one can ever replace Freddie, the spirit of his music can still be shared in ways that feel vital and alive. Marchant and his band offered not just a tribute, but a communal act of remembrance and renewal. My mother would have loved it. And I walked out into the Edinburgh night with our favourite songs in my head, grateful that some legends never fade.
Angus Munro brings real energy and warmth to The Billy Joel Story at theSpace @ Symposium Hall. From the moment he sits at the piano, you know you’re in for something special. He doesn’t just sing the songs; he lives them, and the outstanding musicians around him give the music a full, rich life on stage.
The show is more than a tribute concert. It tells Joel’s story, weaving together music, slides, and anecdotes in a way that makes you feel close to the man behind the songs. We see glimpses of his early days in piano bars, the rise to fame, and the personal stories that inspired classics like “Piano Man,” “Just the Way You Are,” and “Uptown Girl.” These touches make the evening both entertaining and informative, giving the audience the sense of a journey as well as a performance.
The musicianship is outstanding. Every note feels sharp and alive. The drums drive the beat, the guitars add colour, and the piano riffs drop you right into Joel’s world. Angus Munro proves himself to be not just a singer but a gifted all-round performer. His piano and saxophone solos echo the originals yet have his own style. There is humour and warmth in his storytelling, and his voice has both the power and tenderness needed to carry songs that millions know by heart.
What makes the show so enjoyable is its atmosphere. The audience can’t help but sing along, tapping feet and smiling as hit after hit rolls out. It’s joyful, uplifting, and full of life. By the end you feel lighter, happier, carried along by the music and the story. It’s a reminder of how much Billy Joel’s work still means to people and why his songs have stood the test of time.
This is not a show to miss. If you want to feel happy, uplifted, joyful, then The Billy Joel Story will give you just that.
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.
Performed by a diverse, Berlin-based ensemble, the production uses costume changes to signal character shifts, with four actors portraying a wide range of roles. This fluidity reflects the transient nature of club culture, though it occasionally leaves the audience grasping for narrative clarity. Breakout monologues punctuate the action, offering glimpses into personal histories and emotional stakes, but the lack of a strong throughline can make the piece feel fragmented. Still, the staging and lighting are evocative, capturing the neon-soaked intensity of Berlin’s nightlife with flair.
Berlin Open Theatre’s Fun at Parties is a kinetic, emotionally charged exploration of the city’s legendary club scene, where the pursuit of euphoria collides with the realities of burnout, legacy, and cultural preservation. Set in the underbelly of Berlin nightlife, the play follows a rotating cast of organisers and partygoers—some chasing transcendence on the dancefloor, others fighting to keep the dream alive for future generations. The show’s premise is clear: while the music thunders and bodies move, the real drama unfolds behind the scenes, where community, identity, and exhaustion intertwine.
What makes Fun at Parties compelling is its refusal to romanticise the scene. Instead, it interrogates the emotional labour of those who build and sustain spaces of joy. The all-female cast brings depth and nuance to a world often flattened into cliché, portraying friendship, vulnerability, and resilience with raw honesty. This is not just a celebration of club culture—it’s a reckoning with its costs and its legacy.
For anyone who’s ever danced till dawn or wondered what it takes to keep the music playing, Fun at Parties is a must-see. It’s a love letter to the scene, written in sweat, light, and longing.
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
Echoes of Nüwa: The Last Human Project theSpace Triplex (Studio), 10:00 daily until 23 August 50 mins | Devised storytelling | Muddy Lolos (Chia-Yi Chan, Jinyu Dan, Qianyi Wang) 442 words, 2 minutes read time.
When the Chinese Goddess Nüwa first shaped humanity from clay, she believed joy and harmony would flow forever. Armed with five-coloured stones, she repaired the shattered sky and staved off the great Catastrophe—certain her work was done. Yet millennia later, humanity’s own greed and rage led to its undoing, and Nüwa never returned. Instead, she left behind her three devoted minions, the Muddy Lolos, to reclaim her promise and refashion humankind from mud and memory.
In this subtle retelling, Chan, Dan and Wang become both sculptors and chroniclers. Each human prototype is born in their hands—first infused with desire, then anger, then imagination—only to reveal that every gift carries its shadow. Desire blooms into jealousy and unrest; anger ignites cycles of violence; imagination births both wonder and illusion. With each experiment, the question deepens: how do we build leaders who serve rather than subjugate?
The power of Echoes of Nüwa lies in its deliberate sparseness. A handful of stones, a swath of earth-coloured fabric, and three bodies in communion are all that’s needed. Through delicately calibrated movement, the performers summon entire courts of tyrants and trenches of rebellion. Their faces speak volumes—eyes widening in hope, brows furrowing in dread, lips parting in hesitant resolve—reminding us that emotion is the raw material of history.
War and greed pulse at the piece’s core, manifesting in sudden bursts of choreography that crackle with tension. A raised fist and a sharp pivot can conjure battle lines; a hesitant hand reaching for more clay summons the glimmer of avarice. Yet the Muddy Lolos never slip into didacticism. Instead, they hold a mirror to our own impulses, inviting us to witness how the lust for power fractures community and how cycles of violence echo across time.
By the final tableau, the studio feels sacred—a space both mournful and expectant. The Muddy Lolos stand among scattered mud figures, their shoulders heavy with the weight of failure and possibility. Nüwa’s absent voice resonates in the silence: can we undo our worst instincts and craft a future worthy of repair?
This is more than a show; it’s an elegy and a challenge. With minimal artifice and maximal heart, Echoes of Nüwa asks us to confront our compulsion toward greed and tyranny—and dares us to imagine another way.
Would you like a capsule version for listings or social media? I can distil these ideas while preserving their emotional core.
Sauna Boy at the Edinburgh Fringe 2025: 391 words, 2 minutes read time.
Dan Ireland-Reeves’s Sauna Boy plunges us into a world most audiences will never see – the UK’s most successful (and infamous) gay sauna – and does so with a blend of humour, tenderness, and hard truths. The setting isn’t just a backdrop for risqué laughs; it’s a place of work, a community hub, and a stage for both human warmth and ruthless exploitation. Ireland-Reeves, a multi-award-winning writer and performer, draws on his own experience to guide us through this hidden world. The result is a semi-autobiographical 70-minute show that pulses with the same frenetic energy as its soundtrack, while never losing sight of the characters’ humanity.
As “Danny Boy,” he begins in the lowest-paid roles – cleaner, receptionist – before rising to manager. Along the way, we meet the staff and regulars, each rendered with quick, knowing sketches and pitch-perfect impressions. There’s “Mother,” the manipulative and somewhat callous sauna owner, ruling with a mix of faux-care and quiet menace. There’s Chase, a colleague and friend, whose fate provides one of the show’s most painful moments when Danny is told to fire him. And there’s a cast of clients, from the likeable and desireable to the obnoxious, each forming part of the sauna’s shared history and strange camaraderie. Ireland-Reeves’s knack for switching between voices and physicalities is so deft that you feel you’ve met these people yourself.
For all the comedy – and there’s plenty, from awkward encounters to laugh-out-loud “behind-the-scenes” stories – Sauna Boy has a political undercurrent. Low pay, long hours, and emotional manipulation are never far from the surface. The sauna is a place of desire and escape, but also a workplace where staff are under pressure, often exploited, and where intimacy coexists with power imbalances. The eight-question FAQ section, rattled off at speed, is a highlight, packing in wry humour with unexpected education. If anything, the piece could benefit from sharper editing – trimming ten minutes would keep the energy at full steam – but as it stands, this is an engaging and sometimes sobering hour. Sponsored by Steamworks, Edinburgh’s own gay sauna, it played to an audience that seemed to be largely gay couples, who responded warmly. Sauna Boy is more than titillation – it’s an affectionate but unflinching portrait of a scene rarely shown so honestly on stage.
