Eddie Pepitone's Bloodbath
High-energy, self-heckling anti-comedy from New York
This article is from 2012.
Allow yourself to imagine, if you dare, Ed Aczel having his levels of energy cranked up by, say, 716% and being forced to talk in an even-paced New York accent. You’re now sort-of on the way to getting a sense of a night out with Eddie Pepitone. Or to use comparisons from his compatriots, he shifts between the primal screaming of the early 80s Hicks-Leary monster and the urbane hush of a Todd Barry.
In the same tight bunker that Edinburgh was introduced to Doug Stanhope and Hans Teeuwen, we welcome the imposing figure of Eddie Pepitone and proceed to luxuriate in his Bloodbath. He won’t be the only comedian in August talking about the Olympics or social media or detergent advertising (maybe), but there’s no way any of them will be coming at the subject from his perspective. And all those lame impersonators should cop a load of his lounge-singer-having-war-flashbacks sequence.
Nothing appears to properly faze Pepitone and when a front-row table strategically walks out one-by-one in four-minute intervals, he eventually exacts a roundabout revenge by taking his own spot in the crowd and heckling his now invisible self on stage with a series of probably revelatory outbursts.
To drag in a final reference point, Pepitone displays the kind of anti-comedy bravado and convention-trashing anarchy that Johnny Vegas pulled off at the start of his Fringe career. And while we soon discovered that Vegas was a total construct who kept his audience permanently on the edge of their nerves, we feel as though somehow we should be able to get to know this jovial New Yorker. But the true mystery of Eddie Pepitone lingers long after he has chuckled his last giggle and yelled his final self-deprecating insult.
The Tron, 556 5375, until 26 Aug (not 14), 11.40pm, £8--£10.