You expect comedians’ stories to mount in intensity, laugh piling on laugh, absurdity on absurdity. But that’s not how the US standup Nick Thune’s pan out. I suspect it’s deliberate that, rather than accumulating potency, his anecdotes pootle along, innocent of structure or climax. It makes his comedy feel a little underpowered – or it did at this second night of his week-long London run. But it establishes the frayed, offbeat charm of the man, and that he’s too cool, perhaps, to bother with anything as hack as a punchline.
The first instance is the weakest, as Thune meanders through a druggy dog story in which his pooch accidentally guzzles a weed brownie. The tale’s length is out of proportion to its dramatic interest, and its picture of a stoned man-child (that’s Thune) and his angry wife edges towards lad cliche. A later tale about divining the gender of his unborn child trades similarly on the gulf between Thune’s immature behaviour and his mighty self-regard. More fruitfully this time: Thune’s satisfaction when his intuition outflanks the doctor’s expertise is very drolly played.
In previous shows, one-liners and a strummed guitar have formed part of Thune’s shtick. Here, he’s instrument free; just a tall, beardy man at a mic, channelling pretend arrogance and inappropriateness into tales of touring life, impending fatherhood and his time at community college. Sometimes he strains to be odd or off-colour, as when unable to resist photographing a suicide attempt on a bridge in Portland, Oregon. It’s better when the idiosyncrasy draws less attention to itself: the delight here is often in the detail, or in throwaway asides like his by-the-by remark that: “we all learned when we were younger to never say no to drugs.”
It’s a ragged and low-octane hour, then, but not without its craft and charm.
- At Soho theatre, London, until 6 February. Box office: 020-7478 0100.
