40 years old, with diminished control of bodily functions to prove it as he’s not ashamed to tell you himself, Irishman Jason Byrne’s Aotearoa debut is a frenetic, hilarious shambles. 

A recorded high-energy introduction begins with the most ominously massive music ever written, Strauss’s ‘Also Spracht Zarathustra’, as the strapping ginger protagonist appears, strung marionette-style to large sticks manipulated by giant puppet hands controlled from offstage, which he casts off Pinocchio-like to launch into a lusty Irish dance to a pop-rock power-jig.  This carries on until just after I begin to wonder if this is going to be the whole show.

Sweating and out of breath Byrne hits the ground raving, a few light exclamations of excited dismay foreboding the more extreme levels of incredulity to come. His ornate black and red jacket and imposing frame, slightly stooped as if ready to brawl at the bat of an eye, gives the impression of a very tall gothic leprechaun.

Explaining it’s his first time in New Zealand, Jason describes some of his own first impressions with a gush of bewilderment.  He learns about Kiwi culture on the hop by expertly carousing with audience members in the first couple of rows, such as the brazen lass who asks for some of his drink (allegedly another career first), or the fellow Irishman who’s pants and footwear get a minute of laughter simply out of Byrne’s reaction to them.

He claims he’s trying to cram four shows into an hour, but by this stage his selected audience scapegoats are doing half the show for him.  Given the creatively technical intro, I expected more sophisticated sorts of games and tricks, but the most high-tech it gets its when he finally gets around to his first showpiece, playing the xylophone classic ‘Popcorn’ with the courageous assistance of three tall lads, whose own remarks – e.g. that one plans to get his name in the bible – returns spades of comedy fodder for the remainder of the show.

By the end of an extended hour of continual mirth there’s a sense that, if this is four shows rolled into one, we must have missed a fair chunk of the planned activities to make way for Byrne’s protracted eruptions of masterful incredulity.  Or perhaps that’s the ultimate trick, conjuring the illusion that there was meant to be more than this, we just ran out of time. 

The resultant feeling of the crowd is not that we were ripped off though; more like we’ve had a good laugh and witnessed a genuinely unique performance that won’t be the same tomorrow night or any other. 

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