Review: Eddie Perfect, Misanthropology

Eddie Perfect puts humanity under the microscope… and sees a virus.

Misanthropology
Starring: Eddie Perfect
Appearing at: Spiegeltent, for the Melbourne International Comedy Festival

Eddie Perfect is one of those artists whose reputation precedes him. I’d seen him perform the odd song here and there and heard a lot about his jaundiced take on contemporary culture. Dan was very impressed with Shane Warne The Musical, Perfect’s “rollicking piss-take” that “simply works.” But Misanthropology was actually the first time I’d seen a full-length Perfect vehicle.

It was actually not as balls-out offensive as I was expecting. Perhaps mainstream success and fatherhood have made Perfect mellower than the Angry Eddie who urged us to Drink Pepsi, Bitch! But not by very much.

The targets of his excoriating songs are not especially unexpected or subversive, especially from a performer known for political critique. Rather than finding Perfect shocking, I found myself pleasantly agreeing with his often obscene skewerings of rich eco-tourists, bourgie cyclists, Kerri-Anne Kennerley’s support of rapey footballers, and the pomposities of avant-garde theatre. In particular, anyone who didn’t enjoy the contentious Tomorrow, In A Year at last year’s MIAF will find the latter hilariously spot-on. I guffawed heartily during the “Barry Otto monologue”.

Perfect is clearly at the top of his game. His catchy tunes, clever wordplay and bombastic characterisations are thoroughly enjoyable… and at times made me laugh uncontrollably. The show debuted in January, and my immediate impression was of an incredibly polished performance. The lighting was theatrical and deftly cued, Perfect’s three-piece band made all the right noises, and pace and tone were nicely controlled.

After an enjoyably portentous opening voiceover detailing the recent degradation of human civilisation (which contains an excellent cheap shot at Richard Branson), Perfect made his entry wearing a silver suit and space helmet. While his between-song patter veered into his personal experiences, as stand-up comedy it still wasn’t too shabby. Far more impressively, his singing was as tight as the costume he dons for his final number. That’s no mean feat in this intimate space, where no stumble goes unnoticed.

The show’s high point is an increasingly riotous knees-up inspired by one of Perfect’s friends, who was given breast enlargement surgery for her 22nd birthday… by her father. ‘Daddy’s Tits’, performed in the persona of a louche, hardscrabble tycoon (think Kerry Packer or Richard Pratt), is deliriously, unashamedly wrong, and consequently is Perfect’s finest hour.

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