Skip to main content

Dear Billy

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Four stars


Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but without Billy Connolly, Scotland’s culture would be a very different place. Just ask Gary McNair, who performs this 90-minute homage to the Big Yin, the twinkly-eyed raconteur who stumbled out of the Glasgow shipyards and into the folk clubs before becoming an international treasure. Even as Connolly’s patter went global, he gave voice to Scotland’s working class in a way that was funny, smart and unashamedly, scurrilously rude. 

Beginning with the premise that everyone has a story about Billy Connolly - and this writer unintentionally proved the point during a pre-show chat while attempting to claim the opposite – McNair has gathered up a series of interviews conducted with anyone and everyone with an opinion on Connolly. Knitted together in Joe Douglas’s National Theatre of Scotland production, McNair’s verbatim vox-pop collage is part stand-up, part oral history project, and part act of collective hero worship.  

As he moves between neon styled totems of Connolly’s back catalogue that includes a banana boots chair forming part of Claire Halleran’s set, McNair fires off a stream of bite-size anecdotes in a multitude of voices honed during happy hours in spit and sawdust pub snugs. These move between the comic to the out and out absurd, occasionally alighting on more fragile real life territory. In this way, Connolly becomes something of a potty-mouthed messiah, who crosses social boundaries in a way that at one point literally saves lives. 

Accompanied by composer Simon Liddell’s gently insistent folksy score, played live by Liddell with multi instrumentalist Jill O’Sullivan on Halleran’s social club carpet, McNair eventually comes clean with his own brief encounter with Connolly. It’s a memoir as delightfully unreliable as any other on show here in a surprisingly thoughtful love letter to McNair’s inspiration that becomes a rallying cry for the collective power of the common touch, rude words included. 


The Herald, May 22nd 2023

ends

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Losing Touch With My Mind - Psychedelia in Britain 1986-1990

DISC 1 1. THE STONE ROSES   -  Don’t Stop 2. SPACEMEN 3   -  Losing Touch With My Mind (Demo) 3. THE MODERN ART   -  Mind Train 4. 14 ICED BEARS   -  Mother Sleep 5. RED CHAIR FADEAWAY  -  Myra 6. BIFF BANG POW!   -  Five Minutes In The Life Of Greenwood Goulding 7. THE STAIRS  -  I Remember A Day 8. THE PRISONERS  -  In From The Cold 9. THE TELESCOPES   -  Everso 10. THE SEERS   -  Psych Out 11. MAGIC MUSHROOM BAND  -  You Can Be My L-S-D 12. THE HONEY SMUGGLERS  - Smokey Ice-Cream 13. THE MOONFLOWERS  -  We Dig Your Earth 14. THE SUGAR BATTLE   -  Colliding Minds 15. GOL GAPPAS   -  Albert Parker 16. PAUL ROLAND  -  In The Opium Den 17. THE THANES  -  Days Go Slowly By 18. THEE HYPNOTICS   -  Justice In Freedom (12" Version) ...

Edinburgh Rocks – The Capital's Music Scene in the 1950s and Early 1960s

Edinburgh has always been a vintage city. Yet, for youngsters growing up in the shadow of World War Two as well as a pervading air of tight-lipped Calvinism, they were dreich times indeed. The founding of the Edinburgh International Festival in 1947 and the subsequent Fringe it spawned may have livened up the city for a couple of weeks in August as long as you were fans of theatre, opera and classical music, but the pubs still shut early, and on Sundays weren't open at all. But Edinburgh too has always had a flipside beyond such official channels, and, in a twitch-hipped expression of the sort of cultural duality Robert Louis Stevenson recognised in his novel, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, a vibrant dance-hall scene grew up across the city. Audiences flocked to emporiums such as the Cavendish in Tollcross, the Eldorado in Leith, The Plaza in Morningside and, most glamorous of all due to its revolving stage, the Palais in Fountainbridge. Here the likes of Joe Loss and Ted Heath broug...

Carla Lane – The Liver Birds, Mersey Beat and Counter Cultural Performance Poetry

Last week's sad passing of TV sit-com writer Carla Lane aged 87 marks another nail in the coffin of what many regard as a golden era of TV comedy. It was an era rooted in overly-bright living room sets where everyday plays for today were acted out in front of a live audience in a way that happens differently today. If Lane had been starting out now, chances are that the middlebrow melancholy of Butterflies, in which over four series between 1978 and 1983, Wendy Craig's suburban housewife Ria flirted with the idea of committing adultery with successful businessman Leonard, would have been filmed without a laughter track and billed as a dramady. Lane's finest half-hour highlighted a confused, quietly desperate and utterly British response to the new freedoms afforded women over the previous decade as they trickled down the class system in the most genteel of ways. This may have been drawn from Lane's own not-quite free-spirited quest for adventure as she moved through h...