The low-hanging ceilings of Suburbia’s basement conjure the ghosts of blackout nights past, but tonight, Troubadette imbues the space with a cosmic charm. The concept of a musical comedian could appear overly earnest, even saccharine, but Troubadette strikes a perfect balance between sincere and sarcastic in the award-winning SPACE HOLE.

The crowd is modest but thoroughly engaged, cackling—dare I say even guffawing—uproariously throughout and even joining in for a sing-a-long. Troubadette presents a colorful kindergarten teacher aura, besequined in a galactic purple dress and starry crown. Her voice is a sweet soprano, accompanied by the gentle strumming of her acoustic guitar, but the audience quickly learns that her comedy is wonderfully weird, risqué, and even a little dark.

In her songs, she opines about the likes of first kisses (and dismemberment), advertising (and shaving your hoo-ha), and fanfiction (and minotaur erotica). Troubadette’s comedy shines because of this eternal juxtaposition between the kitschy and bawdy. She lulls her audience into a false sense of security with her rhyming couplets and evocations of the twelfth-century troubadour tradition before springing a punch line about industrial cum buckets.

She intersperses more typical spoken stand-up comedy interludes between each song, creating a good balance so the musical element doesn’t become cliché. Every once in a while, the titular space hole interrupts—a delightfully absurd enunciation of the evilest impulses of Troubadette’s inner monologue. At first, I wasn’t sure whether the conceit was necessary, but the Oasis-loving cosmic void won me over in the end.

Non-pearl-clutching audiences will enjoy an evening of nonstop laughs, but best to leave the kids at home unless they’re ready to learn about tentacle porn.

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