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 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.
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.
Jo Kelen’s Achilles, Death of the Gods is a work of stripped-back theatre that puts one performer centre stage and demands our full attention. She commands it from the first moment. Through voice and gesture alone she conjures a whole world of war, love and grief. It is difficult to take your eyes off her. Each shift in tone or movement brings a new character into the space, whether Achilles raging in battle, Patroclus offering tenderness, or Briseis speaking of the horrors endured by women in war. Without props or spectacle, Kelen holds the audience in the palm of her hand.
The story is well known, but here it becomes something more than myth. At its heart lies the question of choice. Achilles chooses to seek vengeance and it leads to desecration and destruction. Later he chooses to relent, and that moment too has consequences. Every action reverberates, reshaping lives and altering destinies. Kelen makes this theme clear without ever lecturing us. Instead, it emerges naturally in the flow of storytelling, as we watch each decision tighten the knot of tragedy.
This is not an easy piece, nor is it meant to be. The language is lyrical and often brutal, with images of violence and violation that are hard to hear. Yet within this darkness lies a kind of honesty, a reminder that actions carry weight and that power unchecked corrodes the soul. By the end, we are left with more than a retelling of Homer. We are left reflecting on our own lives, our own choices, and the shadows they cast. It is powerful spoken-word theatre, delivered with an intensity that lingers long after you leave the snug confines of Paradise in Augustines.
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.
One moment Joanna Weinberg could be self-mocking, and the next she could deliver a line that stopped the laughter and made you think about the cost of choices, the scars left by experience, and the compromises that shape a life. That balance between lightness and depth gave the performance its emotional weight. It was not simply entertainment but a sharing of hard-won wisdom dressed in humour and music.
Joanna Weinberg
The underwear metaphor, which I didn’t fully grasp at first, grew on me as the evening went on. At first glance it seemed a quirky frame, but it gradually revealed itself as a clever device. The underwear drawer is where we keep the most personal and often least glamorous aspects of ourselves, tucked away and rarely shown. By taking us through her drawer, Weinberg was offering us not a glossy public image but the hidden fabric of her life: the practical, the frayed, the intimate, and the cherished. It gave the piece both structure and honesty, a way of signalling that nothing here was going to be airbrushed.
By the end of Brief Tales I felt that I wanted to know more about her, not so much because she had left things unsaid but because she came across as someone who has lived deeply and reflected carefully. Although I am curious as to why her parent’s wouldn’t let her have Barbie dolls!
Joanna is not only a versatile performer but also a thinker, using her craft to make sense of life’s absurdities and challenges. I’ve already resolved to watch her film The Goddess and to keep an eye out for her future shows. Weinberg has that rare quality of leaving you curious for more, which is perhaps the best recommendation any performer can earn. Brief Tales was warm, frank, funny and moving—a small show with big resonance.
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.
Iago Speaks is a riotous, resonant post-Othello two-hander that gives voice to one of Shakespeare’s perpetual shadows: the jailer. A stock figure who lingers at the edges of tragedy—arriving too late, speaking too little—he’s reimagined here as a philosophical clown, a reluctant midwife to Iago’s final confession. Daniel Macdonald’s script is both homage and critique: it honours the Bard’s architecture while gleefully dismantling its hierarchies.
Joshua Beaudry’s Jailer is the soul of the piece. He stumbles, cajoles, philosophizes, and—at one point—professes love to a bewildered audience member, a moment that had me laughing out loud. His register shifts are dazzling: Shakespearean gravitas one moment, crude vernacular the next, always with a glint of mischief. He’s one of “the others” in Shakespeare—the unnamed, the unacknowledged—and his growing awareness of this status gives the play its emotional charge. He’s not just comic relief; he’s a someone developing an understanding of power in society.
Skye Brandon’s Iago is true to form: a master manipulator whose weapon is language. In Othello, he engineers tragedy through insinuation and rhetorical sleight of hand—planting the handkerchief, whispering doubts, and coaxing Othello into murderous certainty. Here, he remains coiled and calculating, his silence broken not by remorse but by provocation. Brandon plays him with snake-like charm—amiable on the surface, but always circling the truth with menace.
The language play is exquisite. Macdonald’s script gallops through slapstick, existential dread, and dramatic irony, never losing its rhythm. It’s a world where words are weapons, lifelines, and punchlines—and the audience is invited to wield them too.
Whether you’re a Shakespeare devotee or a Fringe wanderer, Iago Speaks is a must-see. It’s funny, philosophical, and fiercely original—a celebration of the overlooked, the absurd, and the power of words and their danger.
