My Car Plays Tapes - John Osborne
It is with some trepidation that I mention that John Osborne’s main claim to fame is John Peel’s Shed, given the ambivalence towards that show revealed in this one. He must find it hugely frustrating that everything ever written about him starts out that way, as if he’s been cryogenically frozen ever since. Osborne has, of course, continued to produce work since his time in the sun, and tacked on to the end of the main show he shared a selection of his poems.
There’s no denying, however, that his laconic tale about a box of records struck a nerve, and that his uncanny ability to weave spell-binding narratives from the stuff of life marks him out as an original talent. Whether pouring over annotated old copies of the Radio Times, tackling the challenges of mental illness, or lamenting Glastonburys gone by, Osborne has an uncanny ability to reveal universal truths through personal experience.
I can think of very few other people doing this sort of thing. Fellow East Anglians Luke Wright and Molly Naylor have been known to tell tales, and further afield, the work of Mark Thomas, Matt Panesh and Jonas Muller spring to mind, but there’s no denying the uniqueness of an Osborne performance. Self-effacing and diffident, I suppose he can't be as shy as he looks - he is on stage, after all - but I got no sense there is anything affected in his shambling gait or his hesitant delivery. On the contrary, as he states at a pivotal point in the show, he looks exactly the sort of person who would keep his old tapes.
What follows is a labyrinthine tale of broken down cars, care work, and village halls. And if that sounds a little disconnected it's only because I don't want to give away how cleverly he knits together these disparate themes. The starting premise is a stranger that stops to check whether Osborne needs help when his car breaks down, a jumping off point that leads to a trail of the kindness of strangers. We learn of his move into care work, his perennial touring of a show he’s performed two hundred times, and of coming to terms with the fleeting nature of notoriety. So this is, fundamentally, a self-examination, yet it manages to avoid self-indulgence. On the contrary, he invites the audience to reflect, literally, as he holds up a mirror to that which could easily trouble us all – what is the point of me?
It would be easy to mistake this show for something warm, comfortable and nostalgic, and there is certainly warmth in it. He’s such a likeable chap that it would be easy to see this as a cosy reminiscence – who wouldn’t want to listen to John Osborne telling you things - but I think I detect something altogether steelier in this account. He may dwell over the mix tape an old girlfriend gave him, but he's canny enough to see that its emotional heft has evaporated. He speaks fondly of the village hall custodians but is wryly humorous of the treadmill his Radio hit has placed him on.
This isn't a show about success or failure as alternatives – it is an examination of how you define either. There is a valedictory tone throughout, as Osborne reflects on what he has done, who he is, and what he should do next. If it’s any consolation, I can't wait to find out.
