The Chaser Goes Live

Sun Herald

Sunday May 4, 2008

By Dominic Knight

Technical glitches, off-key vocals, politically incorrect satire... Forget the War, during preparations for their new variety comedy show, The Chaser discovered the real meaning of terror.

It was June 2007 and The Chaser team was crammed into a tiny meeting room at the ABC, trying to decide on our next project.

We had just finished 13 gruelling weeks of The War On Everything and were booked in for another 13-week series in a month's time. But the team was exhausted, and worried - after all, there are only so many times you can walk up to John Howard with a novelty oversized prop, and we had a whole election campaign ahead of us.

It was Julian Morrow who suggested we do a stage show - and it wasn't exactly a tough sell. We'd only have to write one show for three months, instead

of grinding out a whole new one every week. And it would take us to places other than the ABC canteen.

Chris Taylor opted out to write a new TV series but the rest of the War team would perform. And, though purely a writer for the TV show, so would I. That's because I know how to fix a laptop when it crashes during a PowerPoint presentation, which gives me a certain negotiating power.

We called it The Chaser's Age Of Terror Variety Hour and over a few months put together a schedule. It seemed hugely ambitious - we were booked for

70 performances in 17 cities across all eight states and territories. It'd be great if the show was up to scratch. Otherwise, we stood to lose a fortune.

Still, that was October and we had six months to write a mere 90 minutes of material. For a team that was used to churning out 26 minutes a week, it should have been a walk in the park. It wasn't.

Day 1

Six weeks before opening night

We have a little problem. We haven't actually managed to meet. Even for a team that specialises in delivering things at the last possible minute - we call it "maximising topicality" - we are in trouble.

So today is the start of the Official Age Of Terror Writing Retreat, sitting around a table in Exeter, a village in NSW's Southern Highlands. We're working in a post office that, since it's the only store in town, also doubles as a supermarket and cafe. So we chow down on turkey burgers, too.

When we eventually stop teasing the weight-obsessed Chas Licciardello for holding the cheese, we start by brainstorming ideas, which I type into my BlackBerry. The locals seem unimpressed. So am I, because there isn't any mobile phone reception.

Next we head to the site of the retreat - my parents' house. People assume we sit around in seedy pubs late at night, knocking back hard liquor as we choose which much-loved, recently deceased celebrity we want to mock next. But the reality is far less glamorous. And healthier. Our trip to the country will involve spending hours sitting in a small room, trying to ignore the sunshine and banging each other's heads against the wall. The rule is simple: if the majority of the group like the idea, it gets up; otherwise, it dies. However, if the idea involves someone who's died, it will also probably get up.

We rendezvous in the lounge room to report on what we've done so far. Chas has been replying to spam emails from lovelorn Russian women but although he's received plenty of marriage proposals, he doesn't think much is funny. We think the idea of him receiving marriage proposals is funny ... but then remember he's married.

Craig has had more luck with what he assures us is "a sophisticated analysis of modern marketing techniques". We are worried that it might be a little highbrow. He tells us the product he's pitching is "my bare arse". So then we worry it's a little lowbrow. His plan is to get his arse onto the internet and maybe even television. We tell him to go ahead.

Jules is looking for annoying ringtones but can't find anything crappy enough. Chas is pretending to research online poker for the show but, in fact, just wants to play online poker. "I'm doing well," he says. "I spent all summer playing and I'm only $20 behind." We mock him. Crushing Chas's spirit is a job we all take on with relish but, unfortunately, it's impossible.

The sleeping arrangements are tight, with the five of us stuffed into two tiny bedrooms. Jules, Andrew Hansen and Craig Reucassel cram into the smaller room like Guantanamo Bay inmates. I score my parents' double bed but pay the price - sharing a room with the frequently smelly Chas, who is incapable of not talking about the US election or AFL for longer than five minutes. I know I have some long conversations about the awesome Bulldogs and the evil Hillary Clinton ahead of me.

Day 2

Craig has been up since dawn and already has the papers, while Andrew's been working on a song for the opening number. We resume our brainstorming but as usual, some of our ideas are a little dodgy, such as a song for the opening ceremony of another event to be held in Beijing this year: "Amigos Paralympics".

Julian is appalled. "That's really wrong, it'll turn the audience against us," he says. "And imagine if there is a disabled person in the audience?" I say that we need to make sure we target patronising attitudes toward the disabled, rather than making fun of people in wheelchairs. It's the age-old argument satirists

use to run offensive material - that they are satirising attitudes, rather than just replicating them. Andrew and Chas agree and Craig offers to work on some lyrics. I'm usually the mawkish, politically correct one but this time, Jules is outvoted.

Craig grew up in Bowral, so we drop in on his mother and scab chocolate. Craig offers us a special treat and escorts us to his parents' bedroom, where an incredibly bad photograph of the teenaged Craig is on display. He was pimply, with slicked-back hair that looked like an ice-cream wafer. We almost suffocate with laughter and work out a way to include the picture in the show.

Day 3

The rural serenity of our writing retreat is rudely interrupted by the Wingecarribee Shire Council, which has decided to spend the day woodchipping outside the front door. We vote to head home.

We've settled on several segments, including a ?musical about Australia's shortest-serving prime minister, Frank Forde, who spent only eight days in The Lodge. With 10 minutes in the can and a mere 80 to go, we drive back to Sydney.

11 days before opening night

Ambitiously, we have decided to dance in our opening and closing numbers. That means calling in Deborah Ryan, who choreographed the If Life Were A Musical segments in The War On Everything. So we spend the day in Sydney's Seymour Centre rehearsal studio, mastering advanced moves such as marching on the spot and kicking our legs, cancan style.

To be fair, Chas is quite good, having taken the odd ballroom class in a misguided attempt to meet women, while Jules and Craig are mediocre. But I'm terrible. As I can only barely avoid falling over, I'm clearly letting even this lacklustre team down. Deb is patient, and keeps telling me she knows I'll get it.

1 week to go

We have cancelled our Easter breaks. I was planning to spend Good Friday at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, stealing ideas from more talented performers, but instead I make PowerPoint slides - we need 280 for the show and I've done fewer than half. So it's not a good Friday at all.

3 days to go

To trial our new material, we've booked a night in a Sydney comedy pub - the Harold Park Hotel in Glebe. It's a stone's throw from where we started our original newspaper in 1999 and we hope a home crowd might be friendly.

People tell me it's important to clear your head and focus before you perform. But I am still mucking around with PowerPoint slides, even after the MC has introduced us. The audience is made up of mostly British backpackers, which doesn't bode well for the political material, and afterwards we cut a lot of it.

I have written a song for the show about being a hairy man and tonight is my first time playing guitar and singing outside of my bedroom. Unfortunately, the guitar is inaudible, so the audience hears my voice a cappella, which isn't a great experience for any of us. I wish the ground would swallow me up - especially since, during the course of the sketch, it's already swallowed up most of my clothing.

Fortunately, my second time ever singing in public is more of a success. The crowd loves our finale about the Paralympics.

Cut-price preview night

We set out for Wollongong, as we're doing a half-price preview performance. We arrive mid-morning but I'm still trying to pull together our 280 slides. And then, a mere five hours before the start of the show, PowerPoint flatly refuses to save the enormous file, presumably on grounds of taste.

At least every five minutes, Craig and Andrew distract me from panicking by walking in to check how I'm going. "Any luck?" Craig continually asks.

I freak out and have to go for a walk to stop myself from smashing the laptop. It doesn't relax me at all.

When the audience shows up, my PowerPoint file works. We pull the show together in time - all two hours of it.

The day before opening

We gather around a plastic table outside Wollongong McDonald's to cut the show to 90 minutes - the maximum time you can hold an audience, apparently, before they hate you. A piece on the Liberal-National merger bites the dust, much like the merger itself.

Tragically, we axe our beloved Paralympics item. Both Wollongong audiences hated it and Andrew refuses to perform it again. I try to convince Chas to take over but he won't. "The song will offend everybody just because of my singing," he argues.

Opening night

Tonight we finally open the show in Canberra. Audiences in the nation's capital have always been kind to us, partly because the bar for live entertainment is fairly low in a town that pays attention to Question Time.

Well before we are ready for them, the audience arrives. The lights go up and Andrew walks out to his keyboard to begin the show. I'm incredibly nervous

- it's a full house and, because of the technical stuff-ups, I still don't know my lines. I gingerly edge my way onto the stage for the opening number. "It's The Chaser's Age Of Terror Variety Hour," we sing, not entirely in tune. "If you don't like awful dancing, then you'll leave here pretty sour."

Miraculously, the theatre is packed with awful-dancing aficionados and the show goes down pretty well. Better still, the guitar works for my song and people seem to like it. I start to imagine myself giving this comedy thing away and becoming the next Bryan Adams.

Afterwards, we celebrate at a bar called The Phoenix - appropriately, since we've somehow wrested something from the ashes. We are a little tired and emotional and at 3am, find ourselves at McDonald's. The attendant gives us free McFlurries because Jules is on TV. Ah, fame. A plastic carton of soft-serve filled with chunks of Oreo has never tasted so good. Because, without wanting to jinx any future court cases, in terms of our stage show at least, The Chaser team has gotten out of jail.

The Chaser's Age Of Terror Variety Hour is at the Enmore Theatre in Sydney, May 6-11, and the Athenaeum in Melbourne, June 3-7 and 12-14. Visit Chaser.com.au for more details.

© 2008 Sun Herald

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