This show is beautifully filthy, dripping with salty, sweaty sex. It is by far the most intoxicating hour I have had at Fringe this year. Enter, if you dare, a nightclub-like cave and prepare for an unrelenting hour of electronica songs about anal sex, burly half-naked men throwing cabbage leaves at the audience, and enthralling monologues drawled out by a Texan drag queen that doesn’t feel too far from the Mighty Boosh’s terrifying Old’ Gregg.
It starts with Christeene being carried into the room by her Boyz, smoke oozing through the room, ululating gutturally and writhing, two balloons bobbing along behind them, attached, as we discover, to strings pushed up her anus. And that almost encapsulates the experience; it is dark and strange, with a twisted sense of humour, beauty, and sex.
Because Christeene, in her way, is preaching a sermon on preconceptions as she stalks around the stage, begging us not to be lemony afraid, but to embrace the ponies living in our bellies, to remember the time in the woods when we were children. Her metaphors may be strange, but somehow her hypnotic delivery means that by the end, you know exactly what she means.
Words: Georgia Jones
Christeene: The Christeene Machine, Underbelly Cowgate, 31 Jul – 23 Aug (not 10, 17), 22:10