The weaver of dreams hits top form again
This article is from 2009.
Alun Cochrane came to the Fringe only a few years ago as a fully-fledged comedy concern. His debut show was the complete package – insightful, endearing, and bloody funny – and after a few visits back trying (and not quite managing) to recapture that momentum, he’s taken his own wandering mind and general lack of ambition, and spun it into glorious comedy gold once again. Cochrane is, by his own admission, a daydreamer, out of place in the cut and thrust 21st century. This is no problem though, as he’s completely comfortable in own skin. Far from being a slacker, Cochrane crams the most he can into his 60 effortless minutes. Assured and flowing, he paints a picture – in somewhat self-deprecating terms – of how he has come to terms with his place in the world. He acknowledges his compulsion to prevaricate, to literally waste days pondering the state of the world, on everything from evolution’s seeming need for a septum or the benefit of a levy on the homeless; simple enough observations, maybe, yet they are very, very funny indeed.
When he picks up on a subject, no matter how obvious or tame, Cochrane resists the cynical route. And those moments when he sets off on occasional surreal Ross Noble-like tangents might suggest chaos, but this is tightly rehearsed stuff; there’s no scattergun, loquacious improv here. His set is controlled but never contrived, a testament to his exquisite timing and filled with prime laugh-out-loud stupid moments, delivered with deadpan surety which only a scathing Glasgow-born, Yorkshire-bred man could. Dreamy.