Charles Quarterman is quite the raconteur. As the title suggests, his show lasts precisely 60 minutes and is full of absurd but strangely stirring short stories and short pithy poetry. Each piece is ended with the jingle of a cowbell, tied unceremoniously to a twig.
He begins by suggesting that he doesn’t tell jokes and, in a way, besides the odd rhyming pun, he doesn’t. Reading from a red A4 notebook, stuffed with seemingly random sheets of paper, he never cracks a smile, putting one in mind of Joe Wilkinson’s hilarious sketch about the RNL on Amazon Prime’s Last One Laughing.
Accentuating every syllable ( he pronounces “local” and “global” very strangely), he recites his work like an American poet, replete with pregnant, earnest pauses. Each piece concludes suddenly as if laden with meaning.
The first story (which we hear twice) is from, he says, his second autobiography called The Garden Smells of Pamphlets. It takes us back to his childhood, where doctors suggest that he eat chicken for his health. His father tells him that the skin is the best part of the chicken. Young Quarterman disagrees and proclaims the best part is its soul.
The most engaging tale of the hour is one concerned with a clockmaker who perhaps tells tall stories about how he lost his foot. Another finely judged anecdote involves Quarterman being picked up by an older woman when hitchhiking. It takes a while for a car to stop for him because he can’t get the thumb gesture right. She’s on her way to sell enamel animals at county fetes, but no one buys her ornaments as they are all of ugly creatures like manatees.
Admittedly, the show lacks variation, each yarn as absurd as the other, but there is a gentleness and generosity to Quarterman that implies that there are great truths to be learnt from his stories. There probably isn’t, but that doesn’t stop the audience from attempting to find hidden meanings.
Without the bizarre details, there’s a sense that Quarterman could be a kind of David Sedaris, who finds strangeness and humour in everyday life. Sometimes Quarterman’s stories are just too out there, but he’s an indisputably fine wordsmith.
Reviewed on 3 August 2025
Camden Fringe runs until 24 August 2025
1 Comment
An honest review, yes. But I challenge one point. Each yarn is not as absurd as the other, but rather, increasingly absurd until we arrive at minute 40-something of Quarterman’s promised hour. Then, his poetry leaves behind the English language and our journey arrives at Jabberwocky-esque nonsense in true and steady verse. It’s the funniest salad of sounds that softens his audience such that when the opening reading is repeated, it becomes both comprehensible and comfortable. Our threshold for the absurd has reached a higher level.
Charles Quarterman takes us on a true American adventure.—PVG