| ⭐⭐⭐⭐ |
There are two things that are absolutely certain in this life: death… and theatre!
Approaching death as a subject in a show, especially a live show, seems to be as confronting as the actual idea of death itself. It happens to all of us, whether it’s you or me, or someone we know and care about. Seldom do we ever see it coming, it more often lands in our laps like a stick of dynamite. Suddenly, ready to destroy our entire worlds. You can be speaking to someone, say “see ya round”, leave, wake up the next day, and that animated lifeform is no longer animated. They died? I just saw them though, surely not… In other cases, diagnoses become mortal reminders of the impending finish we all face. You know that there isn’t long, so you’re suspended in this limbo between hoping to high heaven that they’ll turn around, or needing to accept that there’s no turning back.
Jack Francis West can speak to the latter. The title of their darkly comedic cabaret tells you everything you need to know going in. Their mum passed away tragically from liver cancer when they were just 19. Since then, they’ve been trying to rebuild themself and adjust to life without their main parental figure. Perhaps the most important manner in which they’ve gone about doing so is to turn to the stage. As Midsumma kicks on, West has been taking to the stage each night to deliver a hilariously self-deprecating, beautifully mournful tribute to their mother and their relationship together. It’s a tough balance to strike, and requires a particularly innate sense of timing; which West seems to be in hefty possession of.
‘Dead Mum”s conversational disposition certainly lends itself to a more personal experience. The whole thing is set up as if you were in a funeral home, anticipating the waterworks. The front row got some beautiful urn pictures with Jack (myself included: see attached above), and even some audience participation (they somehow chose me, the drummer, to play spoons…)! So as you may have already guessed, it was not your *average* funeral. Jack as an MC of sorts begins with a barrage of incredibly off-colour deflections of their own grief. There are highly inappropriate mic-drops, musical theatre numbers, and Italian brainrot props. Yet cutting through all of this silliness is that slightly uncomfortable presence of loss. A lovely childhood photo of them and their mother sits on a stand, decorated with bouquets. We know what this is all about, and Jack teases the audience with the inevitable, the mask coming off. Each time, they progress a little further, just a little more comfortable lingering in the blue overheads. They have to confront that fateful day, and when they eventually do, the show becomes a gorgeous memento to a life fully lived; yet cut way too short.
It’s not painted as an injustice. Jack doesn’t scream to the skies “why me?”. They understand fully that there isn’t really an answer. Life can be cruel, and is ultimately finite. What makes this show so admirable is that Jack has managed to find a way to cut through the despair and the emptiness of loss. They have managed to turn such a negative experience into a genuinely thoughtful, reflective work of art. They fully grasp the concept of humour and tragedy co-existing, and that makes these seemingly polar opposites so attractive next to each other. They don’t have to cancel each other out, they can instead be used to accentuate, and to function in tandem. To tackle a personal death in such a bold fashion is courageous, and will leave Dead Mum sticking with me for long after it’s said and done. The only way to bring colour back into your life is to be colourful.
Dan Will Review 