Trophy Nigga
Reginald D. Hunter, or RDH as the blood-red letters behind him read, is as suave and effortless as comedians come, and this, his sixth Edinburgh show, has the cadence and rhythm of a Bill Withers concert (whose voice his resembles). One can almost imagine a drummer percussing every four beats throughout the set, as during the spoken parts of Withers' 'I Can't Write Left-Handed'. But, as with Arj Barker, this is a show of occasional brilliance and ultimate mild dissatisfaction, one that coasts when it should soar.
Hunter begins by lamenting his position, in the eyes of BBC producers, as some sort of spokesperson for black people, one he would only accept if introduced as 'Reginald, King of the Blacks'. He reflects on race, racism, English conservatism and his childhood in Georgia with characteristic eloquence and verve, but perhaps his subtlest observations and quips are the funniest. His description of a too-good-to-be true train carriage with lots of leg room ('crucial for a cat like myself'), his fondness for English TV on US channel PBS ('Rumpole of the motherfucking Bailey') and, in particular, his discovery of sarcasm, an advanced state of being which would sift the clever from the stupid, are real highlights. Some of his punchlines are a bit predictable (on people's problems with a word in his title and on paying compliments to women, for instance), but he finishes strongly with a subversive defense of Tiger Woods and the best farewell line I've seen at Edinburgh this year.
This is a wide-ranging, highly intelligent, surprisingly political routine and Hunter has an irresistible verbal and physical allure, but some of the stuff on men and women is rather old hat, the sections on race could go even further and the entire set would be richer for those blink-and-you'll-miss-'em observational pearls that shimmer and fade like shooting stars. A master of the musicality of humour, Hunter can and will do better shows than this.
Hunter begins by lamenting his position, in the eyes of BBC producers, as some sort of spokesperson for black people, one he would only accept if introduced as 'Reginald, King of the Blacks'. He reflects on race, racism, English conservatism and his childhood in Georgia with characteristic eloquence and verve, but perhaps his subtlest observations and quips are the funniest. His description of a too-good-to-be true train carriage with lots of leg room ('crucial for a cat like myself'), his fondness for English TV on US channel PBS ('Rumpole of the motherfucking Bailey') and, in particular, his discovery of sarcasm, an advanced state of being which would sift the clever from the stupid, are real highlights. Some of his punchlines are a bit predictable (on people's problems with a word in his title and on paying compliments to women, for instance), but he finishes strongly with a subversive defense of Tiger Woods and the best farewell line I've seen at Edinburgh this year.
This is a wide-ranging, highly intelligent, surprisingly political routine and Hunter has an irresistible verbal and physical allure, but some of the stuff on men and women is rather old hat, the sections on race could go even further and the entire set would be richer for those blink-and-you'll-miss-'em observational pearls that shimmer and fade like shooting stars. A master of the musicality of humour, Hunter can and will do better shows than this.
This review was originally written for the Broadway Baby on August 13th 2010.
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