The Bohman Brothers + Milkweed
The evening had a narrative trajectory I'd not previously witnessed. Not that this should be confused in any way with coherence - never let it be said that what they do makes any sense. Rather, there is a jubilant, cathartic rejoicing of the absurd as springs are sprung, light bulbs caressed, horns are tooted and watches are synchronised.
To misquote that age old saying, you wait forty years for the Bohman Brothers to perform in East Anglia, and then they all come at once. This is the third year in a row that the eponymous siblings have visited the region, on each occasion performing in a typically untypical location. Two years ago they shared a stage with Richard Crow in an ersatz performance space carved out of the Undercroft Gallery, tucked away under the Memorial Gardens in front of City Hall. Last year they performed as two thirds of Secluded Bronte on an industrial estate in Rendlesham forest, the UK's prosaic version of Area 51. On this occasion they were here in their purest form - undiluted Bohman - and in the heart of Central Norwich. Nonetheless, they still managed to set out their stall in a venue many will be unaware exists.
In a county that his famously flat, Norwich is notoriously anything but, with contrasting street levels that in places rival labyrinthine Edinburgh. Quite why St Benedicts is so much higher than the adjacent, and unremarkable, Westwick Street is a mystery, but consequently the former is lined with buildings with eccentric topographies that can only be guessed at. The puzzle is further compounded by a series of largely unnecessary steps leading from one to the other, serving no real purpose. I'm therefore going to forgive myself for being unaware that half way down St Lawrence's steps, tucked under, and sideways onto, the sadly defunct Cookes, is a shop front I was unaware existed.
Accessed only by the steps, and facing St Lawrence's Church, it has a magical charm reminiscent of the shop Mr Benn used to frequent. I can only wonder what purpose it previously served. I can report, however, that it has recently reopened as a delightful bookshop and venue, selling all manner of esoteric publications that seem to focus on folklore, mystery and imagination. The Holloway is a welcome throwback to the sort of independent outlets that used to thrive in Norfolk, and I could have happily browsed its wares for an age, but the intermittent noises coming from downstairs beckoned, as preparations were being made for the evening's performance deep in the bowels of this intriguing building.
A careful descent down a precipitous staircase revealed a space no bigger than a generously proportioned living room, crammed to bursting with the expectant hum of folk squeezed into tightly packed rows of chairs, squatting on the stairs, hunkered down on the floor, and standing shoulder to shoulder at the back. Those I spoke to seemed to have little idea what to expect, surely a testament to both their spirit of adventure and the rapidly garnered reputation of the venue as a place to see something interesting.
As previous reviews reveal, I'm probably more familiar with the Bohman's than most, but Milkweed were entirely unknown to me so it was with equal measures of intrigue and puzzlement that I settled in to experience this duos captivating performance. They are an elusive pair to get a grip on - subsequent investigation revealed they go by the initials G and R – and a post-gig grilling of R extracted little more than this was a Brit/Canadian duo that obviously prefer to let the performance do the talking. Using as their starting point, texts of Celtic origin, or Irish origin, or something like that (I’m not sure the specifics matter) were manipulated into something that was truly weird, but compelling nonetheless. Performed with an earnest intensity that bordered on the uncomfortable, they evoked an unnerving emotional response exacerbated by the audience’s proximity, offering up exactly the sort of exhilarating experience that makes sense of the bravery involved in setting up a venue based on the belief that build it and they will come.
Earnestness is not a word I would readily apply to the Bohmans, but bravery is when it comes to the uninitiated taking a punt on a Bohman Brothers show. Just how much to say about their performance is moot - I can think of no greater pleasure than happening upon their genuinely unique brand of lunatic genius without prior knowledge, so it's with caution I reveal too much here. I will say that the evening had a narrative trajectory I'd not previously witnessed. Not that this should be confused in any way with coherence - never let it be said that what they do makes any sense. Rather, there is a jubilant, cathartic rejoicing of the absurd as springs are sprung, light bulbs caressed, horns are tooted and watches are synchronised. As seems to be the way, Adam focused on noises, while Jonathan handled the worrying news that giant woodlice were taking over Saxmundham - something those living in metropolitan areas appear blissfully ignorant of. The Bohmans have always injected wit into their performances - however bonkers things get, you laugh with, not at, them. Nevertheless, this was an overtly comedic turn from Jonathan, drawing howls of appreciative laughter from a crowd reeling from the madness unfolding. Interweaved with what I imagine was cut up texts, perhaps from the low-fi multimedia introduction of a woodlice textbook - I promise I'm not making this up - one got the sense that for all the discordant goings-on this was a tightly choreographed experience that gained weight from a meaning that was impenetrable, and yet there.
The Bohmans concluded with a brief thank you, tipping off the audience it was all over, after which they were rewarded with hearty applause. They had held our attention throughout, without explicit audience reaction, and in that sense at least, shared common ground with Milkweed. They too performed unpunctuated by applause - such was the spell they cast. In both sets, texts were mangled beyond recognition but which nonetheless informed the performance. They nibbled away at the edge of the listener’s patience – our thoughts wrestling with what all this means, if indeed it means anything. The effect was, both during and after, like a dream that you know you’ve had, and suspect must have made sense at the time, but is now beyond the grasp of your memory.
If this is the sort of double bill The Holloway intends to host, one can only hope the venue thrives. It certainly, in its unapologetic uniqueness, deserves to.
