It is a struggle to recall what Sandra Bernhard is actually famous for. Being an outspoken bisexual, perhaps? For her desultory, miscast appearances in Roseanne? For getting all touchy-feely with Madonna? Now you're talking. Her preferred stage medium of tangents and tunes has left little imprint on the collective consciousness.
Lolloping around the stage in big pants and sheer fringed shift, more M&S stork than superwaif slick, the newly mellowed new mother offers as much baby talk as backchat. She is confident in her niche, and conscientiously aware of her fan base. Describing her recent labour in gory detail ("Most women don't even get to see their mucus plug. Mine was swimming about in my panties"), she pauses to apologise to the green queens up front. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I forgot that half the audience were gay men."
We are here for a gossip and a bitch. There is something reassuringly magpie-ish about the neatly executed musical moments, half send-up, half karaoke wannabe. She is sharp, rapping and rolling around with cabaret favourites in flawless big band vocals. Here is a woman who craves Pat Benatar in a world of Alanis Morisettes, and who would argue with that? This is achingly referential comedy, and you have to get the joke to get the joke - it requires a basic level of Hello! literacy before the humour can engage.
That said, she is funniest on the universals, bemoaning telephone technology so passionately that the words tangle as they leave her mouth: "Caller ID for the ultimate in passive aggressive behaviour. I can't wait for caller IQ." Engaging and exhausting in equal helpings, she never quite pierces the skein of remembrance. The entertainment equivalent of sweet and sour pork, she works on immediate satiation, but an hour after the show I can't recall a word she said.
