Comparison Is Violence: The London Times Review Taylor Mac at the Soho Theatre, London W1 With scattershot brilliance Mac uses his many talents to get us to think and feel. The effect is heartening, vital and liberating and close to being a cultural manifesto Donald Hutera Taylor Mac is gloriously larger than life on stage, and at times almost scary in his voracious fabulousness. But like Justin Bond, his compatriot on the New York gender-bending cabaret scene, Mac comes on strong in an attempt to take us to new, mind-blowing places. With scattershot brilliance he uses his many talents to get us to listen, think and feel. The effect is heartening, vital and liberating. This new show was fashioned primarily in response to repeated comments in the media casting Mac as a cross between David Bowie’s iconic Ziggy Stardust and Tiny Tim. No, not the Dickens character but rather the eccentric American novelty singer who shot to fame in the 1960s for singing falsetto while strumming his ukulele. Mac, too, plays the ukulele, though here he’s also accompanied by the pianist Lance Horne. His impressive vocals stretch from sweet, high-pitched delicacy to a harsh rock bellow. The range is amply demonstrated as Mac puts a unique spin on the entire Ziggy Stardust album, supplemented with bits of Tiny Tim’s more obscure oeuvre (such as the priceless I’ve Never Seen a Straight Banana) and his own compositions. But this is more than just an intimate concert entertainment. In its blend of full-blown glam aesthetics and socio-political savvy it’s close to a cultural manifesto. “I will not rest until every single human being on this planet has a little leftover drag on them,” Mac announces. This outrageously camp, bald theatrical scamp has plenty to spare. Clad in glittering green, pink and orange, and with his face made up like a Venetian mask, he sparkles like an incandescent butterfly. To borrow a Bowie song title, he is a Starman. Wickedly funny but never malicious, he literally bounces light — and enlightenment — out into the audience. The show’s loose structure suits Mac’s dazzling, impulsive style. Using the Mayan calendar’s warning that the world will end in 2012, he reduces Bowie’s Five Years to two and peppers his rendition with ironic commentary. He quotes D. H. Lawrence, reads aloud some hilarious e-mail exchanges (including one from the hard-drinking, gun-toting Texan uncle he’s never met) and dives into Suffragette City and Rock’n’Roll Suicide with a mixture of splenetic energy and thoughtfulness. The evening ends with a beautifully tender, off-mike take on Heroes. By then Mac has earned the right to stray away from Ziggy.

Taylor Mac at the Soho Theatre, London W1

With scattershot brilliance Mac uses his many talents to get us to think and feel. The effect is heartening, vital and liberating and close to being a cultural manifesto

Donald Hutera

Taylor Mac is gloriously larger than life on stage, and at times almost scary in his voracious fabulousness. But like Justin Bond, his compatriot on the New York gender-bending cabaret scene, Mac comes on strong in an attempt to take us to new, mind-blowing places. With scattershot brilliance he uses his many talents to get us to listen, think and feel. The effect is heartening, vital and liberating.

This new show was fashioned primarily in response to repeated comments in the media casting Mac as a cross between David Bowie’s iconic Ziggy Stardust and Tiny Tim. No, not the Dickens character but rather the eccentric American novelty singer who shot to fame in the 1960s for singing falsetto while strumming his ukulele.

Mac, too, plays the ukulele, though here he’s also accompanied by the pianist Lance Horne. His impressive vocals stretch from sweet, high-pitched delicacy to a harsh rock bellow. The range is amply demonstrated as Mac puts a unique spin on the entire Ziggy Stardust album, supplemented with bits of Tiny Tim’s more obscure oeuvre (such as the priceless I’ve Never Seen a Straight Banana) and his own compositions.

But this is more than just an intimate concert entertainment. In its blend of full-blown glam aesthetics and socio-political savvy it’s close to a cultural manifesto. “I will not rest until every single human being on this planet has a little leftover drag on them,” Mac announces. This outrageously camp, bald theatrical scamp has plenty to spare. Clad in glittering green, pink and orange, and with his face made up like a Venetian mask, he sparkles like an incandescent butterfly. To borrow a Bowie song title, he is a Starman. Wickedly funny but never malicious, he literally bounces light — and enlightenment — out into the audience.

The show’s loose structure suits Mac’s dazzling, impulsive style. Using the Mayan calendar’s warning that the world will end in 2012, he reduces Bowie’s Five Years to two and peppers his rendition with ironic commentary. He quotes D. H. Lawrence, reads aloud some hilarious e-mail exchanges (including one from the hard-drinking, gun-toting Texan uncle he’s never met) and dives into Suffragette City and Rock’n’Roll Suicide with a mixture of splenetic energy and thoughtfulness. The evening ends with a beautifully tender, off-mike take on Heroes. By then Mac has earned the right to stray away from Ziggy.