Remember When? Nor Do I.

A pair of female Sloans eulogise working-class pastimes, a couple of dumb presenters sell increasingly useless products and bursts of radio urge the purchase of mundane items to the lowest common denominator: all performed with vigour but made wearisome by repetition.
Godliman and Lane are competent comedy actors, interspersing their show with video and audio clips and persistently attacking mindless television, manipulative advertising and patronising media personalities. If their targets are easy and caricatured, rather than closely observed and original, they still maintain energy and a rapid pace.

The most imaginative sketch is the self-referential finale, a video of celebrities endorsing their show, but too often Godliman and Lane exaggerate their satire, expanding solid ideas into absurdity until they lose their bite, or repeating a theme into predictability. A pair of female sloans eulogise working-class pastimes, a couple of dumb presenters sell increasingly useless products, and bursts of radio urge the purchase of mundane items to the lowest common denominator: all are performed with vigour but made wearisome by repetition.

There are plenty of belly-laughs and concise individual sketches. However, over an hour, the material is spread thin and only the variety of formats holds the attention. Godliman and Lane are promising, but this show feels like an audition rather than a fully-realised act, despite the savagery and bitterness beneath the amiable surface.

Braving a spontaneous show, he reveals quick wit and confidence: he builds an easy rapport,

supported by the crowd's enthusiasm.

Hampered by technical mishaps, Carey Marx cannot present his usual show, but he relies on a classic strategy: getting drunk and improvising. He serenades the audience, uses props and recycles gags, all the while commenting on his Edinburgh experiences and his own comedy processes.

His material is self-consciously shocking, attacking everyone from albinos to the disabled, carrying off outrageous jokes with wry charm. He discusses the challenges of being offensive- the biggest laughs in Scotland, he notes, clear a room in Canada- while his self-effacing warmth redeems his obnoxious observations. Braving a spontaneous show, he reveals quick wit and confidence: he builds an easy rapport, supported by the crowd's enthusiasm.

He is a masterful stylist, gracefully switching from surrealism to sardonic irony. His relaxed delivery avoids gratuitous nastiness, although his improvisations lurch between subjects and the set is fragmented. Rambling rants about 'political correctness' and the power of swearing are predictably dated, and the broken projector forces him to rely on old material: yet he holds attention for a genial hour. Marx's presence and imagination suggest that his full show could be outstanding.

He never adds anything to the essentials.

Covering three films in an hour, The One Man Star Ways Trilogy monologue is long on exposition but short on wit. A virtuoso performance and a remarkable feat of memory, it fails to connect emotionally.

Charlie Ross tears through the trilogy at break-neck pace, reducing the heroes into repeated gestures. With so much plot, there are few opportunities for humour beyond the obvious jokes about the subsequent movies or Darth Vader's racial identity. Confused scenes of flapping arms and kitsch posturing are never more than mildly amusing. Luke Skywalker, recast as a petulant teenager, provides a rare running gag, but most laughs come from Ross' physical interpretations of non-human characters.

Relying on the audience's knowledge of the films, the interpretation lacks imagination: the most charming sequences happen when he stops acting and reveals sweet enthusiasm. By 'Return of the Jedi', he loosens up and considers absurdities and the movies' context, yet he never adds anything to the essentials.

The crowd are delighted by the energy and grateful for the humour: the successes are due more to Star Wars' popularity than any creativity or poignancy.

When I was all about music, kind of...

At times, a great band bursts out from the warm soft rock: overall, they play safe and do not build on the fiery interludes.
In spite of their name, Breaks Co-Op's live set is not hip-hop. Fleshing out the sparse sound with drummer, bassist and two guitarists, they trade on exquisite pastoral harmonies and anthemic rocking out. They create an atmospheric grandeur, yet fail to capture a consistent majesty or passion.

Their use of turntables and samples is unimaginative; many of their songs slip into a mid-tempo apathy. Hamish Clark's intermittent raps are pedestrian, distracting from the mellow cheerfulness of Andy Lovegrove's falsetto. On rockers like Question of Freedom they threaten and cajole convincingly as duelling guitars introduce urgency and tension. Their folky encores return the band to the middle of the road and send the audience away content but uninspired.

Before the start of the show, Beats Co-Op DJed their favourite tunes, challenging the audience to be impressed. They admitted that this is a dangerous strategy, and the subsequent performance did not surpass the excitement of the recorded selection. At times, a great band bursts out from the warm soft rock: overall, they play safe and do not build on the fiery interludes.

Fans of percussive rumba will enjoy the rhythms and the theatricality is stunning 

The 'Buena Vista Social Club' haunts this production: a cheer erupts when the nightclub is mentioned and the enthusiasm for Cuban music that made 'Havana Rumba' a sell-out stems from the film. This slick shows lacks the movie's personality: instead of legends performing signature songs, there is a proficient, anonymous band, supple dancers and a linking narrative.

The rambling narrative revolves around the life of a Barrio postman. His memories, and the letters he delivers, become introductions to passionate performances. The dancers upstage the musicians with sensuous acrobatics, choreographing the dramas hidden in the lyrics. The band are relegated to the rear, rarely given space to shine, letting loose only in the finale. The sound is murky, the solos perfunctory, the impact muted: the seated audience have no room to dance. This lively culture is reduced to spectacle.

There is little for the unconverted: fans of percussive rumba will enjoy the rhythms and the theatricality is stunning. In spite of the happy atmosphere generated by the persistent beat, 'Havana Rumba' is too polished and constrained by the venue.


St George's West, Until 28 (not 19), 20.45, Prices Vary

This is easy listening folk, smoothed and tamed, dealing in generalisation and rarely evoking

poignancy

Eric Bogle is a folk veteran: his songs have been covered and made famous by bands as diverse as the Furies, the Pogues and forgotten punks the Angelic Upstarts. Tony Blair cites Bogle as his favourite anti-war poet, an irony that is not wasted in Bogle's introduction to 'The Green Fields of France'.

Ably accompanied by fellow Scottish exile John Munroe, Bogle works his way through a series of undemanding, sentimental tunes: his song writing is neither flashy nor original and his guitar lines are solid. He ruminates on growing old, political activism and- the subject that he is known for- the First World War, without achieving much passion. His rhymes are functional: this is easy listening folk, smoothed and tamed, dealing in generalisation and rarely evoking poignancy.

Bogle takes his life's experiences and polishes them into serviceable numbers, but his songs feel too vague and calm. His politics and musical structures are rooted in the 1970s, and even his newest pieces lack immediacy and depth. He delivers on his audience's expectations but does little to inspire the unconverted.