It's quaint to see Adam Hills being edgy. This is a standup whose name is a byword for good-natured bonhomie; an Aussie who has established himself as one of comedy's biggest hitters (he was nominated for the old Perrier award three times) without rocking a boat or ruffling a solitary feather.
Until this new show, the prospect of Hills joking about sick sex and bestiality seemed as likely as Val Doonican singing death metal. In Hills's hands, though, the anecdote in question (supplied by a recent audience member who had come into professional contact with both) is as cuddly as his jokes about balloons or healing Middle East strife with Bon Jovi songs. Sex with cows, or corpses, becomes another means of bringing the audience together, in a giddy revulsion that serves to reinforce our cosy fraternity.
Nothing is allowed to threaten the jolly atmosphere. When Hills mistakes a woman in the audience for a man, he bends so far backwards to apologise he becomes practically circular. One might wish for something with sharper edges, and the concluding homily Hills delivers to his imaginary son about living a generous life is a bit saccharine.
But engendering a party atmosphere is no mean skill in itself, and Hills is expert at it. He is always bent on including us, speaking for all of us, and certainly speaks for me with a terrific rant about the awfulness of Jim Morrison's posthumous co-option by Starbucks. Yes, the blows are glancing, and Hills soon skips on by. You won't get hard-hitting here, but what is guaranteed, and welcome, is a disposition so upbeat that even Hills's necrophilia material radiates sunbeams.
