This place is reminiscent of somewhere, although I haven’t the faintest notion where. Without further warning, I’m quite suddenly plunged into a disorientating time warp. It’s nineteen-sixty something and I’m surrounded by Levi-clad, rather earnest young men, (hair fastidiously coiffed and blacked) applauding and digging the hip-swivelling sex god on stage. In an inkling, these impeccable hipsters storm past, tearing up the seats and looking flushed, in what was most certainly their first act of rock n’ roll disquiet. CRASH! BANG! WALLOP! Back to the future; I’ve just paid ten pounds fifty to witness a piece of Ye Olde England, a piece of the capital, in form of the infamous folk/comedy duo Chas 'n' Dave, inside what is probably the most ornate, stylish ‘venue’ I’ve ever stepped foot into. Oh... and apart from my fellow Lowestoftian friends, I’m (at a glance) the youngest person in the theatre by around 80 years. Turn Off The Bright Lights.

Part One

Unannounced, three rather questionably attired, err, hobos shamble on to the stage and take seats in a move straight out of Dylan’s ‘Magic Bus’ tour. I’m getting Enfield in a (green glass) bottle, I’m getting mazy tales of ‘me dear olde marm’ (a quite ingenious woman on all accounts) and I’m soaking up those postman blues. I’m sneaking these naughty winks at Miss Charlington, the bakers daughter and I’m being serenaded from the deepest, frothiest pint in all of Piccadilly.
Matter of fact, I have these two salts in front of me (and a frail, silent old percussionist, ten gallon hat, looks like he could pass away at any minute) raving on at the wonders of Lonnie Donnegan and talking of a ‘wink-wink-let-me-pinch-your-cheek-you-scurvy-rascal’ London past as if they were The Lovable Urchin Himself. These grain-of-the-earth characters address the audience and each other incoherently, drunkenly, and then, on the spur of the moment, lurch into some frenetic, caffienated folk cover-version of ‘a little number’ they most likely debuted on Brighton Pier about a century ago.
This is Chas 'n' Dave, and it’s entertainment in the most unpredictably, captivating, charismatic, and vitally (for folk-heroes) - story-telling sense of the word.

The Interval

Yes, a frigging interval. Turn On The Bright Lights. We’re ushered out of the theatre, and with the other one hundred and twenty ‘out for the day’ pensioners, we waltz upstairs to the bar to collect our pre-ordered drinks. Maybe one day all ‘gigs’ will flow this smoothly, although hopefully a little less like the glorified bingo calling that this is all uncannily reminiscent of.

Part Two

Beardy-weirdy Chas is hunched over a magnificent black piano, hollering like a manic Elton, with all his own hair and stuff. Its prime time for those terrace-chants; the background music of a thousand stompin’ milkman’s daydreams. They ram-raid through a set of Chas 'n' Dave classics, nearly all of which I’m too young and too un-cool to recognise. ‘Snooker Loopy’, an ungainly, lurching ‘Pot Black’ anthem for leery bartenders, bored with draining, sexless lives since 1978, sets the gait for the rest. We can’t get too hung-up on those working-class hardships though, hell... this is the very reason that some of the working-class used to crawl out of bed in the morning. It’s all ‘appy dayz ('London Girls', 'The Sideboard Song') with searing rockabilly, occasional banjo and, in places (the new single!), an operatic, Sinatra-esque balladeering.
A Chas 'n' Dave show wouldn’t be as fulfilling without the veritable ‘Parklife’ for the ‘holidayz in heyday Blackpool’ generation; 'Rabbit'. Are they about to party-poop the show? Are they heck. The gibbering, lunatic chorus ‘wabbit, wabbit, wabbit etc..’ bursts out like the sparkle in Frank Black's mother's eye, and some of the more adventurous old dearies take up a quite enthusiastic Mexican wave.

Before we can holler ‘Tottenham Hotspur are a load of wank’, it’s all over. Job done. The truth is, Chas 'n' Dave are technically very talented musicians (they damn well should be after all these years), who have a story to tell and approach performance like a pair of inebriated construction workers. We give 'em it large, a standing ovation. Well… the members of the audience that don’t require some kind of walking aid, that is.