We like to think life was simpler in the ’70s, when the earth was still cool and space seemed like a giant projection of possibilities for the future. Of course, it really wasn’t; they were as enmeshed in war, as despondent about the political class, and as hung up about the fragility of the environment as we are. Sarah Ward, who has made a name as one of this country’s leading cabaret talents with her Yana Alana persona, spreads her wings with a new character that taps into all the angst and wonder of ’70s futurism – an immortal godlike being who is part-ape, part-rock formation.
The show doesn’t open with Ward but with the fabulous Asphyxia, an Auslan interpreter who appears via a massive video screen and who breaks the mould of all interpreters who’ve come before her. She plays the role of Motherboard, the kind of communications matrix that we’ve learnt to mistrust ever since HAL took over in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Although here she’s rather more maternal than murderous, and she sets the tone of inclusion and joyful silliness that underpins the whole piece.
When Queen Kong does show up, in a dazzling sequinned gold bodysuit with a generous white fluffy crotch, and the band – under the expert musical direction of Bec Matthews, who’s also on drums and vocals – kicks into gear, the show instantly opens out and upwards. We get a hilarious backstory about an ape whose fossil fuses with a rock, and a crazy taxi ride on a meteor, all communicated via a banana phone and some intergalactic customer service surveys. As a genesis myth, it’s utterly ludicrous, but then try listening to someone explain the holy trinity. Ward’s point is explicit and hard to argue against: all religious dogma is insane, all of it written by men, so why not believe in a fabulous non-binary rock mammal instead.
All of which would be funny and diverting enough, but what gives The Legend of Queen Kong its potency is Ward’s extraordinary talent and the show’s sophisticated approach to the music. All the musical numbers function as both gentle satire and warm homage to ’70s musical developments such as prog rock, psychedelia and electro-pop. They brilliantly illuminate the kind of wide-eyed optimism and the seedy cynicism that seemed to exist side by side in that era, and they build a bridge between that faded, jaded world and our own. Ward’s jaw-dropping voice, capable of otherworldly flights into the top register but also perfectly comfortable in the depths of the lower register, ranges all over the material, from operatic to classic rock, with consummate ease.
The show’s dramaturgy, under the keen eye of Anni Davey, is deceptively focussed for a show that pretends to be so unwieldy that Ward jokes in one scene about the point of the show and the fact that, whatever the price of the tickets, “the money is gone”. The major theme is not just of inclusion, but the boundless potential of humanity and its great capacity for change; the presence of a live Auslan interpreter on stage, as well as an access consultant in the credits, proves that this isn’t merely lip service, that the creative team are walking the walk.
Ward has already established herself as one of our greatest cabaret performers, but it’s not hard to see why a new character like Queen Kong would appeal to her. Yana Alana is a superstar of her own making, but Kong is a genuine goddess, outside the realms of the possible and therefore free to comment on the entire range of human and non-human experience. And The Legend of Queen Kong understands something about space that artists like Bowie and Pink Floyd and even Elton John knew, and that we may have forgotten: it’s an existential wonderland as much as a void, as comforting as it is alienating. It’s difficult to imagine a more charming guide through its vast and starry planes.
