Hamell On Trial – Brudenell Social Club, Leeds, 15th January 2013

by billielolasorcha | January 18, 2013 at 03:46 pm

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It is a very fine line between fact and fiction for Ed Hamell and one which becomes even more blurred when he assumes the mantle of his stage persona, one-man band and possible alter ego, Hamell On Trial. After spending another ninety minutes in his company, the question you may well end up asking yourself is where does the man end and the myth begin? His show is an amalgam of humour, music and wry social observation; an hour and a half maelstrom of incessant motor-mouth stand-up comedy and commentary viewed from the perspective of an outsider, all interspersed by a barrage of manically verbose punk tunes blasted out Gatling-gun style on his battered old ’37 Gibson acoustic.

Ed Hamell’s is a world populated by the disenfranchised; a raft of whores, junkies and thieves are the only people that he trusts. With eloquent profanity he speaks and sings about sex and drugs and rock and roll in this demi-monde he inhabits on the very margins of society, capturing it with sharp insight, wit, and an often unlikely compassion. He may well embroil his characters in outlandish scenes involving dentures, drugs, ripped scrotums and copious amounts of anal sex, but he respects people for being just who they want to be and still has time enough to spare to condemn hate crime (on the poignant “Hail”) and the all American way. If you think of a bald, more rotund John Cooper-Clarke from Syracuse, high on speed (or far too many energy drinks), well versed in the works of Lenny Bruce, Bill Hicks and Richard Pryor and who can also belt out a few tunes on his guitar then you are probably more than half way to imagining Hamell On Trial.

Tonight, though, the Hamell machine is misfiring, albeit only slightly. But for a man whose performance is all about velocity, impeccable timing and a quite relentless momentum such small margins are hugely significant. He speaks of jet lag and having a head full of coffee and assorted pharmaceuticals, which could account for him screwing up the middle section of “Choochtown” (or, to give it its full title, “Go Fuck Yourself, Choochtown”). He has three stabs at re-igniting the song, failing each time. It throws him off his stride; though it is one that he does get back into by the time of the appositely named audience participation number “Fuck It” and a rousing, valedictory paean to Bill Hicks himself. This may not go down as his best ever performance and by the end of it you will be no nearer to knowing what in Ed Hamell’s world is true or false, but time at a Hamell On Trial show is still time very well spent.

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