Why is tim minchin not funny

If I had opened the poem and described her as having black skin — I would never have done that. You should meet my mum and my sisters and my wife. At the time, she was working to support him as he tried to make it as a comedian: since he became successful she has given up her job to follow him around the world. He feels vaguely guilty about this, but his devotion to her is clear — they have been together, on and off, since their teens and have been married since Tracy King, who has become a friend since collaborating with Minchin on Storm , is keen to defend him from the charge of sexism.

Throughout our interview, Minchin worries about getting himself in trouble. This does not stop him from saying the kinds of things that might get him in trouble. Religion is the origin of the problem and the way it firms itself up and supports itself. Religion is used to tell kids to kill other people. In religion, Minchin has found the answer to his unique dilemma: that he had run out of upwards to punch.

This rampant offensiveness is part of the conceit — how dare people be more offended by a swear word than by the Catholic Church covering up decades of paedophilic abuse by priests? Not all of his songs about religion are such brickbats. He tells me now that even if the great sceptic bugbears seem vanquished, religion is not.

Because religion is sacred. For that reason, he wants to use his comedy to encourage a rational world-view. That stuff I was told when I was five and very vulnerable about Jesus might not be true. Both he and Minchin are adept at social commentary but decided to leave it out of Matilda. It has to come from your heart. Minchin almost turned the Matilda project down.

Why would I go back to writing, being behind the scenes? I am really hoping you like this. The critic David Benedict tells me that several other people previously turned down the commission: a story in which a man repeatedly relives the same day presents an unusual challenge to a composer because there is a fine line between a satisfying reprise and merely bludgeoning your audience with the same melody over and over again.

When we meet, Minchin has just finished two weeks of workshopping the storyline. Is it significant that Groundhog Day has an uncomplicatedly happy ending? If so, his next chapter might be even more interesting than his last, because he is one of the few artists who can spin happiness into gold. The best moment in Storm comes in the last section, after the self-important theatrics and the demolition of lazy magical thinking, when the narrator makes the case for wonder.

Catch him quickly before he leaves town. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Musical comedy has enjoyed a renaissance recently. This group has a lot in common with their musical ancestors, performers including Victor Borg and Tom Lehrer.

They are all highly accomplished musicians, but stand out for their remarkable verbal dexterity and the ability to fit the surprisingly complex requirements of comedy into the rigours of musical convention. In a short space of time Tim Minchin has established himself as one of the best. He intuitively understands what makes funny funny, so every second line of his brilliant compositions is a laugh-out-loud punchline.

The set up for each song is quite simple, but the ideas are mined sensationally for comic effect. There are few things funnier in the world than Tim Minchin on a roll. Minchin is as comfortable in front of the microphone as he is at his beloved piano. When he heard the cry of a newborn from the back of the room, Minchin went with the flow and was wonderfully successful: just what was the newborn expected to get out of the show, anyhow?

Though the black trenchcoat, heavy eye makeup and gravity-defying hair might suggest an angry goth, once he opens his mouth Minchin is friendly and engaging. Later this year, Minchin is moving to London, so chances to see this musical genius in action might be limited. Catch him while you can. From the rocking beginning and wondrous cabaret-style virtuosity to the boundary-pushing punchlines with all the subtlety of a sledge-hammer, this mega-talented piano man with an incisive and vast intellect to match hits all the right notes.

From perineums and canvas bags to matters of faith, this is one comedian with a conscience who delivers thought-provoking wit rather than smut. Raw yet accomplished, this is one show not to be missed. He looks like a cross between a concert pianist and Igor, the mad retainer from the Frankenstein movies.

What makes Minchin special is his versatility. The tunes range from pop pastiche and patter-songs through to the most unpleasant love ballad ever, animated by the same savagely satirical spirit. Witty, smart, and unabashedly offensive, the lyrics sound as if they were written by Noel Coward with his head in a microwave.

He mixes a kind of psychological frailty with a streak of barely suppressed rage against whatever he chooses to poke fun at, from corporate rock posturing to the pop psychology industry.

Well as it turns out, yes — there is. As a songwriter, his strength lies in inventive detail and witty wordplay. He also does a good line in mocking the music biz, religion and moneyed lefties. His delightful upbeat ditty, Anthem for Palestine, has lyrics to make you gasp. The hilariously egocentric Canvas Bags sees a rapping Minchin revel, arms outstretched, among disco lights and pre-recorded harmonies.

His playing is energetic, his between-song patter fun, low-key and brief. He even works a guitar and poetry into the show. In fact, he only took up comedy back home in Melbourne a couple of years ago. His sheer power and versatility as a pianist and singer are astounding. Minchin has lines that can bring tears to the eyes, although he undercuts even the faintest hint of sentimentality.

This material is far too raw for mainstream television. But Minchin could take the show straight into the West End. On piano, he has the fast-fingered grace of a prodigy. He brings his audience on-side within two shakes of his hairspray-saturated mane because he offsets musical assurance against an appealingly self-doubting persona, signalled in a wild-eyed look that is as scared as it is scary.

Issuing hesitant, between-songs banter, this keyboard wizard looks most at ease when he retreats to his grand piano to hammer out dexterous ditties that alternate flippancy with deep feeling. Other songs broach the interminable nature of married life, offer a solution for the Arab-Israeli conflict, and issue an eco-rallying cry against plastic bags. Which is to say there were some outstanding jokes about fingering.

But that night, everything changed: the odd weirdos perched on bar stools and chaises longues laughed. A lot. Seven short years later, I was playing arenas. My tour involved a piece symphony orchestra and dozens of crew, grand pianos and scissor lifts, massive light shows, tour buses, bouncers, booze, fans with my lyrics or my face tattooed on their legs; in my silliest dreams, I never imagined a life like it.

The shows were joyous and complex and fun and challenging. The rewards were huge. I was flying. So I stopped. The reasons I stopped are not particularly dramatic. The reason I stopped was temperance … or so I like to claim. By temperance, I mean that I saw dangers ahead. I am married to my childhood sweetheart Sarah, and we had kids relatively young. I like my kids, and I like Sarah. I like peace and quiet. I love running and eating reasonably. I like playing piano by myself and I like being able to walk to the shops without being stopped.

I like my liver. But do you know what else I like? Like, really fucking like? I really like wine. I really like tour buses with cheese platters at midnight, and nice hotels and someone to sort my washing. I like 10, people leaping to their feet to applaud me. I like heads turning when I walk into a bar, and being stopped in Boots for photos.

I like hanging with smart, funny people and getting papped on the way out of the Groucho.