But that’s not what these things sound like at all. I tell you now: they sound like a Concrete Heartbeat.
Twenty-four hours, eight stories, one city. Any city. Writer/performer Mark Haslam weaves a beat poetic tapestry of urban lives against a multimedia backdrop of film, still images, light and music. And milk crates. Lots of milk crates.
Arranged in a wall eight high and three wide, they become the building blocks for a projected image of elevator doors opening and closing. Next to this, two more stacked crates hold the image of a water cooler. It’s surprisingly effective and a little bit eerie. We’re in an office, any office, Haslam’s expressive voice drawing us into one casual clothing day of low productivity, unrequited love and LOLcats. That’s the story of the ‘Office Worker’. Oh, but wait until you get to ‘The Artist’…
Here’s the thing: critics tend to live and die by their mastery of analogies. To be a critic is to lose your innocence because nothing can be new. It’s always like something else. So I’m thinking: what’s Concrete Heartbeat like? The title reminds me of film noir, as do its multimedia backdrops, which as I say have that eerie, surreal quality, like the scenery rolling behind a car on an ‘old Hollywood’ sound stage. But then there are those milk crates, which make me think of the modern, minimalistic filmmaking of Von Trier’s Dogville. ‘Concrete Heartbeat is like cinema old and new?’ And, suddenly, I think I might be ‘dying’.
Let’s try again: if you don’t like the sound of beat poetry, it’s hip hop. If hip hop puts you off, it’s beat poetry. Another confession: I didn’t quite take in all the stories, lulled as I was by the tone and rhythm of Haslam’s voice. At times, I found myself hypnotised. This isn’t a poetry reading; it’s a performance. The words, the verses in all their enjambment, end-stopping and caesura (see? It’s starting to come together) dance and sing. Imagine, if you will, the popular perception of William Shatner’s punctuated acting delivery, take out the absurdity and replace it with a sense of wonder. ‘Concrete Heartbeat is William Shatner as deeply moving narrative art?’ Damn it, Jim, I just checked this review and I’m not getting a pulse…
So when all else fails, there’s the other ‘like’: I really liked this show. Actually, I adored it. Haslam is a spell-binding writer and performer, whose skills are raised even further by the impressive collaborative efforts of Melvin Montalban (visuals), Tania Lambert (cinematography) and Toby Paramore (music). For once, I can’t think of a single criticism to balance things out. Nothing to stem the flood of gushing fandom. Plainly and simply: it’s wonderful.
No. I can do better. I know what it is: Concrete Heartbeat took me back to when I was a kid, listening to my father tell me bedtime stories. Last night, for an hour at least, in the somewhat aberrant surroundings of the Old Fitz, I sat enthralled, innocent. Without embarrassment, I’d say it was magical.
Unreservedly recommended.
Concrete Heartbeat
By Mark Haslam
Old Fitzroy Theatre, Woolloomooloo
March 15 – April 3
What the Other Critics Said
Sydney Morning Herald: “Brief (less than an hour) and insightful, Concrete Heartbeat is a polished gem of a show speaking eloquently of our love-hate relationship with the cities we make and live in.”
