Russell Brand: Scandalous
The O2 arena
3/5
"Russell Brand goes for the jugular and the undergarment with the same sense of glint-eyed, orgiastic devilment."
– Russell Brand is a bright man and narcissistic. So his comedy is naturally the by-product of self-absorption. He doesn't disown his screw-ups. He embraces them as the external proof of the myth of himself that plays out in his head 24/7.
In his quest to mine his own darkness for comedy - and, to be frank, that is the only comedic ground that Brand exploits with any degree of authenticity - he told his audience many truths about himself.
One stood out for those, like me, looking for a neat algorithm to explain his motives and allure.
He was referring to his calamitous debut on the American stage as the presenter of the MTV VMA awards and how his schtick - lucid and lurid - crashed and burned in front of a US audience, leading to death threats and (to his delight) his presence in the top 10 worldwide Google searches. Who is this guy, thought the United States, coming over here and disrespecting our ways.
Fame
And that is why he bombed across the pond, he said. "My personality don't work without fame."
And there it is. The reason why Russell Brand courts disaster, relishes mischief, embroils himself in the scrapes and adventures that feed the tabloids.
It is why he is a populist crowd surfer. Without the crowd, he's just some weird guy with a God complex, wriggling on the floor of an empty, echoing hall shouting for an elevation that will never come.
Fame gives him form and purpose. Without fame, Brand would be just a lairy ex-addict pub bore full of barely-credible tales of sexual conquest and "I'm mad, me" peacock prancing.
With fame he gets all this - the sell-out O2 audience at his feet, women at his zipper, cameras on his doorstep.
He can talk disparagingly - cruelly - about how his "fame wand", can turn a "slut into a celebrity overnight" and still have a certain demographic screaming to be the next in line for the transformation.
This is his life. On a tightrope. Not looking down. And if he doubts his existence for a second, he can switch on TV or pick up the Daily Mail.
As he admits, he always thought the nightly news should have been about him, and suddenly, by dint of Andrew Sachs, it was. The dream realised.
Only he didn't mean no 'arm.
And this is the source of his charisma. His unashamed self-love coupled with his naughty boy, winking disavowal of the vice.
He has an impish air. A roguish, innocent, coy boy charm which he uses to outline his many failings and faux-pas before passing the blame squarely on to his "mental illness".
His entire life splits into two - the uncontrolled dirty deeds themselves and the considered retelling of them.
Whether it be inadvertently pressing his pants on (fake queen) Helen Mirren or imagining de-robing the (actual) Queen in a Variety Show line-up, you sense the adventure is barely complete before the anecdote begins to take shape.
Hypocrisy
Live on stage, he is less leftfield, dandyish and erudite than in his books or TV shows. He is bolder and more direct. He goes for the jugular and the undergarment with the same sense of glint-eyed, orgiastic devilment.
He has no great gags, no great comedic insight. Instead he feasts on his notoriety.
And no-one is better placed to point out the hypocrisy of a media which simultaneously holds him in contempt yet craves his next folly to fill their columns and airwaves with their splenetic disapproval.
This is perfect for Brand. He's going to do this stuff anyway. As he told the audience, he does things worse than Sachsgate every day of the year.
Only, instead of being that annoying shouty bloke that no-one particularly regards, he is the celebrated totem of the age.
"Don't tell the Daily Mail," he implores the audience, disingenuously. And we're suddenly part of his gang. On his side. Egging him on.
So everybody's happy: the audience; the hungry hippo media; Russell himself; and Russell's madman in the attic doing his c-r-a-z-y, destructive antics for our enjoyment.
Oops, says wide-eyed Russell, by way of an apology. And we all laugh.
So that's alright then.
– First published at wharf.co.uk on April 19, 2009
