At some point in life, a little self-reflection is required. Usually administered quite severely, this hundred thousand kilometre service generally helps us to gain a little perspective and right some of the unpalatable habits we may have picked up along the way, like truly believing that living off Coles oven chips and dim sims is acceptable. If you’re Jon Brooks, it also gives you plenty of time to work out what needs to be taken down a peg or three.
Around the end of 2014, Brooks took some time off from his burgeoning comedy career, had a kid, dried out, and like Bruce Willis in everyone’s favourite Christmas film, he’s back… and now he’s got a machine gun. Nothing is safe, and everything that he’s decided needs a swift kick to the slats gets one, and sometimes one more for good measure. The patriarchy, toxic masculinity, horror films, dad jokes, the crushing realisation of mortality and ageing, fatherhood, mushrooms, politics, and the occasional dick joke all feature on the track listing, punctuated with Brooks’ withering observations. You can see that straight away it’s like he never left, Brooks has an easy, calm stage presence, and lets rip like the drunk dude in KFC at 3am.
If it sounds like I’m gushing a bit, well, I am. The whole show was just so fucking funny. It was a crude, weird, profanity-laden ride into the ether of stupidity, Modern Life is Rubbish delivered by a self-described forty-something single dad with shit on his liver. Long angry rants are a staple of the show.
Brooks does weave about a bit, but he’s a bit like an old hippy sherpa-ing you through an acid trip: you’ll wake up on the living room floor with him next to you, offering you a calming spliff. That’s not to say that there aren’t a few misfires here and there, but they’re intermittent and don’t derail the momentum too much.
Yeah, it’s foul, and some people aren’t going to like a beast of this nature at all, but I thought it was bloody riot.
The Evil Dad winds up on the last Sunday of the Fringe. You can purchase tickets here.