Tornado and Snowflake: Stewart Lee

Here’s a fun experiment that Stewart Lee fans can try out at home, the morning after an evening in his company. Try sharing with your partner Lee's thoughts on retail business rates, masturbating male strippers or 16th century eating habits, and see how that goes. Much like explaining that weird dream you had last night, the tumbleweed blows through the room, as the skill with which he weaves his odd stories – skill you don’t have – quickly becomes apparent.
 
It's been a while since Lee last assaulted his audience in the masterful Content Provider, a coruscating examination of Brexit and Trump which, back in the day, felt like the things we should be worrying about. This time around he offered two bite sized shows for the price of one, Tornado and Snowflake, and while neither quite matched the scale and ambition of his last outing, when aggregated together they still offered one of the most engaging and thought-provoking evenings you could hope to have at the theatre. It also had more than enough belly laughs and downright silliness to crack the stoniest face, even those hell-bent on perpetuating the myth that Stewart Lee provides an echo chamber for self-righteous, chin-stroking, loony-lefties. Those of us worshipping in his temple are, of course, all of those things but it doesn't mean that we can't have a chuckle at Dave Chappelle basting his girlfriend in chicken fat (I did say his comedy didn't travel).
 
I'm guessing a comedian as acerbic as Lee must have thought long and hard about how to address the issues surrounding nigh on two years of living with a pandemic. He shared with us how much of his original set had to be discarded as a consequence. It's undoubtedly taken his toll, not least on the man himself, who opened with the meme busting comment that “Stewart Lee has let himself go”. Proclaiming himself old, deaf and fat his routine was all about the creeping consequences of age, be that the fragile vehicle we walk around in or consternation at the behaviour of the young. Sidestepping the pandemic shaped elephant in the room, he instead focused on, of all things, the description of his show on Netflix - a device that allowed him to slip into flights of fancy packed with faux indignation at the success of less able comedians.  He managed fearless pot shots at everyone from Alan Bennett to Josh Widdicombe – repeatedly reminding us that he was the Times’s choice as the UKs top stand-up.
 
The brilliant conclusion to Tornado (not least the logistics and extravagance of its blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sight gag) was still on my mind when Snowflake took to the stage. Surely the strangest of pejorative descriptions to level at someone, this was Lee reclaiming the word and, broadly speaking, was a defence of political correctness. Typically, to do this, Lee cast his forensic gaze over a throwaway remark from polemicist Tony Parsons. The joyous absurdity of getting quite so upset by the largely redundant views of turncoat Parsons is something Lee is well aware of, and a willingness to go with him on this was perhaps the best litmus test yet of whether you were on side with his maniacal ranting, or (as he put it) a friend that came along with a proper fan.
 
It also opened up what felt like a looser and warmer part of the show. Lee Mack famously, and rather stupidly, criticised Lee for his inability to extemporise, entirely missing the point that it's not what he does. Nevertheless, when contrasting our country ways up here in rural Norfolk with the ignorance of London's liberal elite, it did at least feel like he was doing that bit for us. Comedians are notorious for sprinkling local references in a set, and I know how much work Lee puts into creating the illusion of spontaneity (I can't recommend his book on the subject highly enough). Nevertheless, when name checking the cesspits of Diss, Bungay, and Cromer, all the while demonstrating his cess-levelling hand gesture (I did say you had to be there) he seemed just as tickled as the crowd.
 
Snowflake closed on a snow-sprinkled song that had been signalled for so long that it was the last thing I was expecting, and I remain unsure whether his inexpert guitar playing was something I was supposed to admire or mock. Either way, it was yet another reminder that you’re never quite sure where you stand with him. I can think of only a handful of comedians working today that take this sort of risk – Simon Munnery, Ed Aczel and Lewis Schaffer spring to mind - but what really defines them, and defines Lee, is their uniqueness. I was once told off by Lee – very politely, it should be said – for looking bored while in the front row of a work in progress show. I was bored, and didn’t think the routine was working, yet when I later saw the finished product it was hilarious, despite me failing to work out what had changed. Whether you find his willingness to walk such a fine line thrilling or wearisome, there’s surely no denying his mastery of a form of comedy he has made his own.
 
Stewart Lee’s routines work because he rarely let the mask slip. When he did, thanking the audience for turning up and showing genuine appreciation for being allowed back on stage, it proved perhaps the most disconcerting moment of the show. As he so aptly put it, it was like your Dad saying that he loves you. Nonetheless, it was an intriguing peek behind the wizard’s curtain, revealing the sweet-natured, lovely bloke I strongly suspect he is.