Imagine our surprise when we were kind enough to go along to the first night of Megan Mullally and the Supreme Music Program (they really do have to change that name! It scientifically resists memorisation!) in their show at the Vaudeville down on the Strand.
Now we love Megan so hard we would pay good money (or beg free tickets at the very least) just to see her lick a yogurt top but even we were not ready for the sheer brava of the show. No sparkles, just some jeans and some specs and a stripey shirt. No dancers, just some grizzled musicians who turned out to know their way around all sorts of musical instruments (and men’s penises, if our gaydar wasn’t deceiving us). And no showtunes, just some very clever and well-selected songs – Tom Waits, Randy Newman, PJ Harvey! – erring heavily (in Megan’s own words) on the side of murder ballads.
We laughed at her patter, we swooned at her voice, we cheered, we standing ovated, we went to the party, drank her wine and then went home and downloaded the album.
If you find yourself at a loose end (or NOT at a loose end as the case may be: the odd loose end can be funs), get yourself down there. You will thank us. Hell, you might even send flowers.