Anna Soden: No bum notes to her songs or scatalogical subject matter
I HAVE in my hand a piece of paper. Or, more precisely, a piece of loo roll, handed out by our jocund hostess for It Comes Out Your Bum, comedian and actress Anna Soden, last seen on the York stage as a talking, trumpet-tooting pantomime cow In Jack And The Beanstalk.
On the sheet, she had written “Believe you can and you’re halfway there.” Not as momentous as Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s Peace In Our Time document, waved at Heston Aerodrome on September 30 1938: a bum deal when it turned out we were rather more than “halfway there” to the Second World War.
Anna, in party dress and party mood, swished among the tables at York Theatre Royal Studio , re-booted in Old Paint Shop livery for October’s cabaret season of comedy, burlesque and live music. She had penned a loo-roll bon-mot for each of us, a strip of positivity to be shared.
Now based in Brighton, but still bearing her York roots in her frank comedic manner, she had planned a grand entry, but in the absence of a stage curtain, there could be no element of surprise, no hiding place for the pair of buttocks, designed by York puppeteer and fellow comedian Freddie “Does Puppets” Hayes, through which Anna would announce her arrival.
What a bummer? No, she played on the absurdity of it all, having already broken down theatre’s fourth wall by explaining what should have been the ideal opening, establishing her facility for putting the cheeky into the butt cheek.
Poking her trumpet through the backside, she would soon emerge on the front side for an hour of “talking out of my ass”. And yes, Anna, not to put too fine a word on it, did talk s**t, whether bodily functions of celebrities; stools colour; being caught short (like Paula Ratcliffe, when winning the 2005 London Marathon, she recalled).
She even imagined if we were to excrete flowers instead. Would that be poo-pourri, your reviewer ponders.
On a roll : Anna Soden’s bon-mot handed out to CharlesHutchPress
Not that Anna poo-pooed other subjects. Far from it. She turned herself into a string of sausages for five increasingly surreal minutes; she issued a tongue-deep-in-cheek apology to Andrew Lloyd Webber for dissing his musicals in her comedy videos that went viral on TikTok and YouTube.
Earlier she had made rather shorter shrift of putting down Boris Johnson with a pictorial one-liner and delivered a longer tongue-lashing to the propensity for actors from posh schools to do best, at the expense of state-school talents such as herself.
Albeit with a self-deprecating wink, she bragged of her prowess at slam poetry, duly delivering a fusillade of stream-of-conscious wham-bam-slam raps from audience suggestions. “Planes,” said one. Planes promptly soared and crashed. Next? “Ships,” chipped in another. “No,” said Anna, sensing one mode of transport was enough. That ship had sailed.
She used the audience regularly, whether asking communal questions for hands-in-the-air answers or inviting individuals to read from her “script” for a “serious” play she was writing. Here is when the show went off-script, impromptu, unpredictable, Anna at her freest to respond how she saw fit. Using the audience, yes, but never going quite as far as abusing the assembled bums on seats.
The pace was snappy, the tone was chatty, the humour batty, peppered with bursts of satirical songs, each preceded by an exhortation for the tech desk to “Hit it”.
And hit the mark, she did. On a night of the scatological, Anna scattered logical thoughts from her playful “brain-bum” about the “been-there-done-that” universality of her subject matter; so much so, she should give herself a PooHD for her “toilet humour”. And there wasn’t a party pooper in the house.
Review by Charles Hutchinson
